This was supposed to be the happiest day of their lives. A vacation before college, before they say goodbye. Nora and Alexa were twins. Very close twins, the kind of twins that wore the same clothes for way too long. Alexa was set to go to MIT. She was always the overachieving sister, Nora decided to start her own business and she was ready to move 1 block away in an apartment building near her local community college. Nora wanted to get out of the house, but she never held onto anything for long, her mother worried she would switch her majors so many times she would get kicked out of college. Alexa just said that Nora was too good to be tied down by any decisions. Small or large.

Alexa and Nora had never spent time apart. 2 weeks before Alexa had to leave they decided to go on a trip. Alexa packed everything they needed, while Nora picked locations. Then Alexa got to pick where they actually went.

“One week, we have one-week, maybe even less” Alexa started to laugh as she talked to Nora “And?” Nora questioned, letting a small smile curl from her right cheek.

“We can’t make it to Egypt and back in one week” Alexa explained

“Well then I guess we will just have to stay forever,” Nora responded.

They decided to go camping. A 2-hour drive, and some light packing. Nora insisted they find something Egyptian. Alexa explained that there would be nothing Egyptian in northern Illinois.

As they headed out onto the road Nora started to talk about her future. She was going to be a marine biologist who wrote poetry and taught kindergarten. Alexa laughed once more before her smile turned downward. “What do you really want to do?” she asked

“I don’t know, no need to look that far into the future,” Nora responded “It’s 2 weeks away, what do you mean?” Alexa asked, with concern in her eyes “I’ve never made a decision that far in advance” Nora replied, she knew that wasn’t true, but she wasn’t ready for Alexa to know yet, she was never ready.

30 minutes into the car ride and they sat silent, then a song came on. Their favorite song since birth (or so they say). “Cat’s in the Cradle” blared from the car speakers, but their pitchy screams still sounded louder.

1 hour and 30 minutes into the car ride and they couldn’t stop laughing. Between the giggles and gasps for air, Nora began to speak “I love this”

“I love it too” Alexa responded as her laughter died down.

They finally arrived at the camping ground. Nora ran into the trees to find the perfect campfire wood, Alexa attempted to pitch a tent. For a soon to be MIT student she lost that fight badly. When Nora came back to the camping ground she found Alexa sitting on the ground, two metal camping rods in her hands. The look of defeat plastered on her face. Nora ran to her side and started to build a tent. “Huh,” Nora said as she put the tent together.

“Engineer,” Nora said, “I’m gonna be an engineer!” Alexa smiled as she adjusted the tent once more. They sat at the campfire and talked about life. Nora seemed aloof. As if she never worried about the future. As Nora stared at the flickering embers she stood up. She took a large breath and then walked to the tent. Alexa put the fire out then followed Nora. When she walked into the tent she saw Nora searching through her back. Like a battle with her backpack, Nora violently shuffled through the bag until she found the object of her desire. A small stuffed animal. Alexa knew exactly what it was. Nora looked at Alexa. “Take it,” she said softly.

“I can’t just take it” Alexa responded “You said nobody could even touch Buttons except for you.” “I know, I know” Nora responded “But listen, you are leaving and you need something to remember me,” Nora said as she pushed the stuffed animal closer and closer to Alexa. Finally, Alexa took the small stuffed animal and held it close. She could see the bittersweet relief in Nora’s eyes.

They sat there for a while. Until they eventually went to sleep. When Alexa woke up in the morning, she began to pack. Nora didn’t know that she was leaving for college in a day, not 2 weeks. She was almost done packing by the time Nora was awake, only the tent was left. They finished packing up the car and left, Nora was confused about leaving early. Alexa was never one to explain when she knew it would make Nora so sad.

As they drove back home, the misty air seemed to clog their throats. They didn’t speak. Alexa could see small drops of tears fall down Nora’s face, she didn’t want to talk about it. Alexa never wanted to admit it, but she never wanted to talk when Nora was crying. She never knew what to say, she never knew how to stop Nora from…

They finally got home, Alexa took her pre-packed moving bags and was getting ready to leave. She looked at Nora, sleeping on the couch. Unaware that Alexa was leaving. Alexa shed a single tear as she closed the living room door. With a painful heart, she started the car engine and drove away.

When Nora awoke she looked for Alexa. If she didn’t have Alexa, she didn’t have anyone.

Halfway through the drive, Alexareceived a call. Singing along to T-Swift she answered the phone. She stopped, her body paralyzed she forgot how to drive. After 2 seconds, she collected her head enough to drive. She turned the car and sped home as fast as she possibly could. Turning her 30-minute drive into 20. She knew she couldn’t save Nora, but she had to. She had to get to Nora. She had to say goodbye before it was too late.

When she finally got home she saw the ambulance parked outside her house. She ran up to the truck. “Please miss, take a seat, the best thing for you to do is let the EMT’s work,” The ambulance driver said to her. She sat outside on the porch, waiting for anyone to come walking out of the house.

With all of the thoughts pounding through her head, one thought wouldn’t stop ringing inside her brain. Why was this the only decision Nora could ever make? She watched as the EMT ran out of the house with Nora on the stretcher, Is she breathing? The EMT paused, he stopped moving the stretcher, he felt her pulse, he looked away. No. Not Nora. Alexa couldn’t control her tears. The tarp came out. She didn’t want to accept that by then it was too late.


(Set your story in a gothic manor house) I suppose there isn’t a kid alive in Great Britain who hasn’t been dragged along on a school

outing to a castle ruin or a moldy, old albeit elegant,

manor house.

Today our group is touring the Gaggafield Moated Manor,

complete with a late lunch on the extensive estate grounds.

The fields and forests , fox hunting and all of the games horse people like to play in their leisure.

If I sound a bit sarcastic it is because this is beyond a “yawner”.

The manor house is a yawner anyway, but the grounds are quite spectacular, the moat and formal gardens, hedge mazes.

All of

lord's demesne is lovely with fountains and fish ponds and beyond are the lands rented to tenants. The gardens and estate lands are complete with fresh air and sunshine as opposed to musty drapes and dust covered tapestries of the manor,

heaven forbid someone should sneeze,

we could all be buried alive in dust particles. Today I am paired up, by choice,

with a school chum who wears a teeshirt announcing “I’m a Geek’s Geek!”

He likes being a geek so no use trying to tease him, he wears the name like his armor.

He is proud of it and

I admire that for some reason. We tend to lag behind the group of classmates as Geek stops to consult his online diagram or floor plan of the manor he researched over the weekend, probably while I was out throwing mud balls at a brick wall somewhere.

Geek is following along on his lighted display as we wind our way through the great hall, the library, music room and master’s private study seen only from the doorway, no admittance to the actual room.

We stop briefly while Geek looks for a better screen resolution or some such thing, to show our progression through the house tour and record of our path.

We are shown by GPS, I think, as two flashing red lights.

Slouching, I lean back on one of the wooden panels and it suddenly gives way, I’m falling into a dark space.

Geek grabs for the edge of the panel as it is quickly closing, he barely gets his fingertips on the panel edge slowing it enough for him to squeeze through.

We stand there in the dusty dark with just the glow of his tablet screen for light.

Slowly our eyes become more accustomed to the near dark. Our two red dots are flashing on the display.

Looking around, there are steps leading up to our right and a long dark passage to our left which is the direction our group was heading. Geek follows the passage we are standing in with his finger

and it basically parallels the main rooms the group will pass through.

Moving his finger along the likely route of our group, he sees that three chambers ahead is the ancestral memorial vault where old coffins and caskets and effigies are on display to show the grandeur of style afforded to their ancestors upon expiration. I quickly grab Geek by the sleeve….”Come on, hurry, this should be fun!” We hurry along the passageway with Geek mumbling something about trouble and

how close we already are to being expelled.

We step up onto a raised platform along the passage when we see a sliver of light so obvious in the dark wall.

There a small square of wood covers a hole.

By moving the wood piece we can look out and spy on our group or anyone else in the room.

I can imagine the Lord of the Manor or his appointed snoop watching guests and family,

or even to watch the servants , how gross really! I note we have plenty of time to see if my idea will work.

We hurry ahead until we are alongside the memorial vault.

Now to find the way to open the panel into this room.

As we feel along the dark unfinished wood, it becomes apparent from the smooth worn grooves in the rough wood that this door has been used many times. Opening the panel, I step out and pull Geek from the passage by his shirt,

he drags his foot over the threshold and tries to hold open the panel.

He is not sure what I’m up to but he is sure it means trouble.

He wedges in a small piece of wood so the panel doesn’t close completely and can be easily opened again if he needs to escape. “Come on, get over here!”

I whisper.

“Do you want to be in the casket or coffin?

Or would you rather just hide behind the statuary?” Geek’s eyes are round as saucers as he realizes what I am up to.

“No Way!”

He utters.

I quietly pry open the covering of the coffin.

It is tapered at the shoulder line and has a removable lid.

It is being displayed on an ornate steel filigree stand that allows it to be raised on one end, the head high.

I step in and lay against the musty fabric.

“Close me up!” I hiss at the Geek. In the distance we hear the murmured sound of a lector’s voice droning on and the background muttering of classmates. Geek lays the cover over the coffin opening and then he ducks back into the shadows of the statuary in the room. NOW I WAIT! The minutes tick by and the Geek knows this is really bad stuff, no denying negative vibes.

He leaves his hiding place and opens the panel and hides in the passageway.

He is sure somehow he will need to escape without detection.

He cannot be expelled from yet another school. Inside the coffin, I am trying to get my arm high enough to rub my itching and twitching nose.

I feel a huge sneeze is very close, the dust is still swirling about and in this coffin space there is dust everywhere. AND I WAIT! I hear the guide telling some outlandish facts about burial practices in early times, the voice loud now, just in front of the coffin.

I’m not even sure now what I was going to do,

how I was going to manage the coffin lid, or  just jump out, or?

Well I really hadn’t thought it through!

But before I had to decide, the sneeze attack began… ONE!..... AHCHOO, TWO!.....AHCHOO THREE!.....AHCHOO THREE VERY LOUD SNEEZES! The coffin top appears to be lifting up!!

The group scatters like a crazy flock of sheep being chased by a wolf.

Bumping into one another, knocking the papers from the hands of the guide and spinning him around twice.

Kids running this way and that way!

It was Mausoleum Madness! I quickly slipped out of the coffin and looked around for the Geek.

I spotted Geek waving from the passage way.

I slipped in and the door banged shut.

We were running back the way we had come from, looking for the way out again.

Geek stopped so suddenly I crashed into his back.

We both lay in the dust while the red light on the display, indicating us,

blinked on and off, on and off.

We had gone too far and almost ran into the steps going up.

Now we pried open the door where we had originally entered the passage and hurried out into the Great Room.

Geek smiles, one of the few times I’ve ever seen him smile and he says, “This will work to our advantage, they can’t blame this on us if we are lagging behind and missed all the excitement.

Just play

dumb, you should be a natural at playing dumb!” We brush each other off and casually head for the sound of excited voices and total pandemonium.

Nothing like a bunch of excited schoolboys with overactive imaginations to make a racket easy enough to follow. Above the din we could clearly hear words like, ghost, demons, evil spirits and it was hard not to laugh.

One kid insisting he saw the ghost clearly, all transparent and other worldly, just like a smoke like form with glowing red eyes!

Another describes what he saw as more of a skeleton in a black robe carrying a Medieval executioners ax.

The Geek just moved to the edge of the group and tried to blend in. Soon they had us all gathered together again and as we made our way back to the Great Hall, I casually looked up to the life size family portraits that hung along the walls,

I swear the eyes of one of them moved.

Maybe someone else knew our secret.

But who?


Can we talk? Hey, thanks for stopping by. Didn’t want to say this in front of others. You know how people will take things the wrong way, right? And I do appreciate if you wouldn’t blab it about. No, it won’t take long, but have a seat, anyway. Coffee? No? Yeah, right. Get to it. Well, how do I start? Just jump in, right? No, no. You did nothing wrong. I have certain powers. No, hear me out. I didn’t believe it either. But I can’t ignore it any longer. At first, I thought it was just, you know, plain luck, coincidence, you know. I’d pray for a green light and got it. And when I’d pray for a red light, so I could look in the glove compartment - does anyone keep gloves in there - for a tissue, for instance, I got that too. And wishing someone would call me, or the dentist office would cancel my appointment. All that stuff happened. I have coupons for everything I buy. Crazy right? Really? You have coupons for every single item you buy? No, I don’t go coupon hunting, they just appear on my member card. That’s not coincidence anymore. I don’t know what to call it, but … And then really strange stuff started to happen. The weather, for instance. I’d look out the window at the rain and say that I needed it to stop in 20 minutes because I planned to go to the store. Sure enough, it stopped on time and when I’d get home, I’d say, okay, you may resume if you wish, and it would. Sure, good timing, serendipity, I get it. And I laughed it off the first time. I was flabbergasted when it happened again. But by the third time, I was more than a bit spooked, I tell you. I think I diverted a tornado the other night. (sigh), I know, I know it’s crazy. But I did. Sent it to a rural area. It only took two cows and a barn, instead of a whole street. No, don’t be silly. I can’t stop hurricanes, or earthquakes. Yes, I’ve tried. Or floods. I mean, all that water has to go somewhere. No, I can’t stop lightning. Do you have any idea how many times lightning happens around the world each day? That would be more than a full-time job. (Deep breath) I can read people’s thoughts. I know what you are thinking. Hah, yes, I know, that’s easy. You think I’m crazy and need to be locked up. Pumped full of good solid, old-fashioned anti-psychotics. But I'm not making this up. You know me as being rational, right? You want that coffee now? Or maybe wine? I have whisky, yes? A double. Sure. No, I don’t go around listening in, but I hear stuff. Oh, it’s pretty mundane. Worries about money, the kids, will he call, will she say yes. Did they look like a fool when … fil in the blank. Promotions, dates, sexual fantasies. That’s a biggie. Especially women. You’d be surprised how many women of all ages walk through Kroger fantasizing about sex. You know, no wonder they’re a little short with the kids, when they get interrupted. Men will lust after someone for a minute, but when the lust object is out of sight, those guys will latch on to the next one. In between they’ll think about a sport, any sport. And the crazy thing is, 99% of them will never act on their fantasies. The women will just read trashy novels and hope that hubby is quick about it, tonight, so they can go back to fantasizing. Crazy, right? Weight is another biggie and the oh so dreaded having to up a size. Not that most of them will stay out of the snacks aisle or use that gym membership they paid an arm and leg for. And here’s a newsflash, with the exception of the ‘fashion police’, most people do not pay the least attention to what other people are wearing. That’s why you can walk into Walmart in your pj’s, and nobody looks twice. But wrap a pink boa around those pj’s and you should hear the comments. It seems you can walk around in a leopard print hooded onesie and nobody blinks but add a zebra print purse and they’re ready to call the men in the white coats. You’ve watched cop shows, right? You know that eyewitnesses are unreliable. Because most of us go around life on auto pilot. We go to work, on the way home we swing by the store, grab something from the freezer for dinner, watch the same shows on tv every night. Rinse and repeat. It’s not until we run into a roadblock or detour or that pink boa that we sit up and look around. Actually, it’s one reason, I’ve been staying home more. It’s just too exhausting hearing everybody whining about how their feet hurt. I mean, really! Buy shoes that are comfortable. You want your calves to look good? Get on a bike. Sometimes I just want to remind people that once they’ve caught someone’s eye for real with those shapely gams, those shoes will come off and he’ll run for hills when he sees those bleeding, misshapen toes and bunions. I’m just saying. You want another drink, right? Sure, no problem. Here’s the bottle. Help yourself. The other day I was in Kroger. It was early, nine something. Mostly seniors. You know how grandmothers smile and say everything is fine. Well, underneath that smile, they constantly think about their aches and pains and the fact that their kids never come to visit, how everything is so expensive, and the doctor won’t let them eat this or that anymore. Well, I hadn’t slept well the night before and was a bit cranky. So, I … I know, it wasn’t nice, but in my mind I just screamed: “SHUT UP ALREAY!” And they did. I know, right? So, I continued. “Thank you” I thought. “Tell your kids you miss them and that you are happy they have a life of their own. Then go meet your own friends. Suck up your aches and pains and be honest with your doctor.” I figured that was enough for one day. So, I cleared my thoughts and went to the check out. I was the only one moving in the store. I get my groceries delivered now. And I’ve turned off the tv. I knew what they were going to say, before they said it. If it was a life show, people would look a little surprised when they said what I thought they were going to say. So, did I put words in their mouths? I have no business being that powerful, do I? No, I can’t cure the sick. At least, I haven’t tried. And no, I haven’t played the lottery, that would be cheating. Yeah, I could go to Washington and sit in the visitor’s gallery. But just because I think something should happen doesn’t mean it’s the right course, you know. After all, I have been wrong on occasion. And there is such a thing as free will. No, don’t be silly. I can’t raise the dead, who do you think I am, God?


It was his favorite part, twisting the knob, the small rush of air bordering on a whistle as the gas began to escape. Then the anticipation of the flame. The scrape of the matchstick against the box, and the fire crackling to life, a whoosh when the stovetop burner caught. It reminded him of the beginning of Mission: Impossible . Except this was better because it was real. And he knew what was coming.

“When do I get to light it?” Walter asked, settling into the kitchen stool.

“When you’re a little bit bigger,” his grandmother Midge answered. “I’m almost as big as you are,” Walter protested. It was true. At 4’11” Walter’s Grandma Midge wasn’t even three inches taller than her 10-year-old grandson. She compensated by having step stools strategically positioned around her kitchen. One in front of the stove, one at the sink, and a three-step model in her pantry.

“When you’re older then”, Grandma Midge said with a nod and the confidence of a long retired elementary school teacher, firm but gentle. And that was the end of any further discussion. Walter understood it. He didn’t like it. But he understood. “Now what you can do,” Grandma Midge said, scooping a dollop of Crisco into the cast iron pan she slid atop the burner, “Go into the pantry and bring me the flour.” Walter hopped down off the stool. In three steps, the kitchen small like everything in his grandparents’ house, he was in the pantry, which compared to the general size of things, was really quite large. The flour container was on the third shelf. He needed the stool to reach it. Just like his grandmother. The flour container sat next to its matching sugar counterpart. A foot tall and half-a-foot deep, Walter’s distorted reflection shimmered in the chrome of the art deco containers. His grandmother had received them as a gift when she and his grandfather had “set up housekeeping” as it was referred to long ago, shortly after they were married in 1932. No one remembered exactly who had given them the containers. Grandma Midge thought it was one of her husband’s, sisters. Heddy probably. Grandpa Wil thought it was Midge’s sister Mae. No one ever took credit. Or blame depending on the point of view. The mystery remained unsolved. What was agreed upon was that they were useful for as much as Midge baked. For as much as Midge baked, they could have even been larger, but they didn’t make larger sizes and Midge thought they were ideal, regardless. Walter wrapped his arms around the flour container, and with a grunt and careful footing, worked down the step. He lost his balance on the last one, but only slightly, and managed to catch himself on the pantry door frame without spilling. He sighed deeply. Relieved.

Early on, a year and four inches before, he’d tried the same maneuver and lost half the flour across the linoleum floor. He felt a certain sense of pride that offset the definite sense of the previous year’s shame, when he delivered the flour container unmolested to his grandmother. “Thank you,” Grandma Midge said, carefully measuring out the the flour and whisking it into the pan. Walter loved the sound of the spoon on the cast iron, the sizzle of the Crisco, the scraping of the pan across the stovetop. The sounds, he’d come to learn at an early age, portended even more rewarding senses. The next was the scent. The aroma. Delicate, at first. The crumble being formed. A tease before the spices. Nutmeg, allspice and cinnamon. Intertwined in the dough. Still roughly subtle. Until the apples. Like the matches, Walter was still forbidden from slicing the apples, peeling them. He sat on the kitchen stool, watching his grandmother patiently coax the skin off each of the six with the skill of a surgeon, coring the seeds away and slicing the rest in almost identical pieces.

Another sprinkle of cinnamon on the apples, and they went into the mix. Along with four slices of cold unsalted butter.

The butter was one of the most important ingredients, by Grandma Midge’s reckoning. She would use only one brand. Ashcombe Farms. Twenty minutes outside Harrisburg by most reckoning. Thirty-five by Grandma Midge’s driving. Walter didn’t mind. He enjoyed riding with her. The Pennsylvania countryside just outside Harrisburg seemed timeless. From an early age, Walter could sense the history. It wouldn’t have surprised him to see Union cavalry ride out of the hickories along the single lane highway . “Nothing around here ever changes,” he said to no one in particular. Just a thought he felt strongly enough to share. “Now what’s the one thing we need still?” Grandma Midge asked, her teaching instincts still guiding her even in her relationship with her grandson long after her retirement. Ask rather than tell. Teach to fish rather than give a fish.

Walter knew the answer straight away. “Sugar,” he said, bordering on shouting. Confidence but not arrogance. That wouldn’t be proper. “What was that?” someone shouted in from the other room. Walter ignored it. “Good,” Grandma Midge said. “Go get that for me, please.” Walter was in the pantry before he recognized he was in the pantry. “Sugar,” he said to himself. “Third shelf.” And then he noticed something wasn’t quite right. Where was the step stool? He looked left and right and then into the doorway behind him. It was a big pantry but not that big. Not big enough to hide a step stool. The stool was definitely gone. And equally perplexing, the stool was unnecessary. The sugar container was on the shelf directly in front of him. It had just been there on the shelf next to the flour. He had just seen it. It didn’t make sense. Grandma Midge was a creature of habit. Pennsylvania Dutch. She ran things neatly. Methodically. Everything in her house arranged just so. Everything had its place. Nothing ever changed. Walter found it comforting. As things changed around the rest of his life, his Grandmother’s house remained the same. Until now. “Why did you move the sugar here?” Walter shouted. “It’s supposed to be up on the third shelf.” “Walter,” someone called from the living room just outside the kitchen. “Please come back and join us.” The voice was familiar. But it wasn’t Grandma Midge’s. “Do you need the sugar still?” Walter called back. Somebody might have said something but he didn’t quite hear it and didn’t quite care that he didn’t. He leaned close to the sugar container. He’d retrieved it for his grandmother as many times as he could remember. It was as familiar to him as she was. As his own reflection. A reflection he saw distorted now in the chrome of the sugar container. Distorted like in the mirrors of the funhouses from the boardwalk in Ocean City. He raised his head up and down, watching his forehead stretch, his eyes widen, his nose grow as he leaned in. His brow crease and wrinkle. His hair recede and gray. His eyes cloud. If he didn’t know the reflection was him, he never would have guessed it was. “Walter, please come out,” the voice called again.

Then the pantry door widened, and a graying-haired woman who was familiar but wasn’t his Grandma Midge smiled and extended her hand. “Come on now, darling,” she said. “I was getting the sugar for Grandma,” he said . The woman nodded and smiled, but the smile didn’t extend to her eyes. “She’s making apple crisp,” he said. “I’m helping.” “I know, Walter,” the woman said, taking Walter by the hand and leading him back into the living room. Back to his chair. Lowering him into it. She pulled an afghan up over him. “Grandma needs the sugar,” Walter said. “Someone moved it.” “I know,” the woman said, patting his hand gently, handing him the remote control for the television set. “Why don’t you rest here a bit first. I’ll get it for her.” “Okay,” he said, his eyelids growing heavy. “You stay here and enjoy your program,” she said, turning up the volume. “We’ll be done soon and all have some apple crisp together.” “Okay,”Walter said again. The familiar theme music began again and the lit match and the twentieth time Walter had seen this episode of the original Mission: Impossible series began again. But it was all new to Walter.


When Jared Hayes was born on an early February morning in 2003 - Alex Hayes became a brother. His first thought about Jared – and babies as a whole population, was that they looked weird, and too squishy to be real.

Second, he decided Jared should never feel alone in the dark, at least not on his watch.

….

When Jared was 8, Alex made him take the training wheels off his bike. He wanted to teach him how to ride like a teenager, a pro. After a few false starts, Jared made enough progress to carve nebulous, timid paths into the blacktop with his bike wheels - and promptly crashed.

Pieces of gravel embedded into his palms and knees, bloodied and stinging in the heat. Jared sat on the curb, Alex on the pavement below him. He let Jared cry. He picked the gravel out of Jared’s wounds one by one. He rinsed the old blood away with warm Dasani water they had been sharing, and the pair walked home. Alex didn’t close his eyes when their dad prayed over dinner that night or say his own before the boys slept.

Jared’s palms scarred.

Years later, when the brothers were in high school, (Alex a senior, Jared bringing up the rear as a freshman) Alex stopped attending church with the rest of the family. The argument between Alex and their father was inevitable, a foregone conclusion that had been brewing for a long time.

“Why can’t you just put on a face until you leave home? I don’t give a shit what you believe – but go for your mother’s sanity, Alex, come on.”

“I’m not going, Dad. I’m not a praying kind of guy.” “I’m not asking you to pray. I’m asking you to save face until you move out.”

“No, Dad. I can’t. I don’t have a big enough vocabulary to lie that well, and I’m not sorry.”

Jared thought that Alex was the best of their family. He was the most well-spoken and honest of all of them, to a fault. At church that morning, the congregation took communion. Jared held the wine and bread in his hands, noticing his scarred palms for the first time in a while. He wondered what Alex was doing at home.

Soon after, Jared started noticing a cloying and musky smell coating Alex’s clothes and hair, accompanied by a far-off glaze over red eyes. He was still Alex, though, smart and capable. He was making a 4.0 - he was just high all the time. Alex and his new habit graduated high school as salutatorian and started attending Boston College for computer science.

The first time that Jared smoked weed, he marveled at his brother’s capability to do it regularly, and still be a functioning and successful member of society.

Ha. his hands looked funny. His scars made them 2 different colors. Could he control each finger separately?

Jared’s palms were still scarred when he started college. It didn’t bother him; he’d grown used to the slight discoloration and firm texture of the tissue. Besides, when he looked at them, he didn’t see a disfiguration or a flaw. It made him think of his brother, and they hardly ever saw each other anymore. It was nice to carry a memory of him, albeit a fading one.

One night during Jared’s freshman year of college, he used his fake I.D. for the first time. The place his friends picked was a dive bar if you gave it a generous approximation, and a shithole if you were being honest with yourself.

(that’s how they knew the fake I.D.s would work)

Every college kid in their city had the same idea that night. Jared suspected that the 2$ shots from 9-10 pm, and the singular pinball machine drew in a nice crowd of underage hopefuls. Jared drank cheap beers that tasted like piss, waited too long for the pool table, and set his stack of quarters on the ledge of the pinball machine to claim his place in line. He smoked a cigarette with the old, sun-spotted bikers outside. He had seen his future, and oh god, was it bright.

He’d been faithfully nursing another drink inside and talking to a pretty girl. The beer didn’t taste as bad as the first few had – and Jared concluded that absolutely nothing could taste bad after a Marlboro red, followed by the anticipation of getting a girl’s number. And maybe a kiss.

Then she scratched the shit out of his arm. Her friend had yanked her away to their ride home, disrupting their conversation before they exchanged any information. She’d left him with a red, glistening mark tracking about 3 inches down his shoulder. Maybe it was the piss beer, but it didn’t hurt.

He called Alex on his walk back to his dorm – to tell him about the girl and his neutral stance on PBR. His plans to buy a Harley and spend his summers out of college driving across the country with no sunscreen (crucial) to achieve the rough, honeyed skin of the bikers.

The line rang twice, before Alex picked up. “Alex, hey, I’m sorry to call you so late. Did I wake you up? “No, kiddo, Carter and I are just watching a movie. Are you oka—?” Alex hadn’t called him “Kiddo” since he was 10. He could probably hear the intoxication in Jared’s voice. Frustration jumped inside of him, he was tired of Alex’s overprotective nature, he was almost 19, not a kid.

“Jesus, I told you not to call me that, Alex.” Jared interjected.

“Sorry man. You just sound like you’re in rare form, that’s all. I miss you. Tell me about your night?” Alex sounded hurt. “Nah that’s okay, call you tomorrow.”

Jared hung the up the phone, Alex mid-protest. He dumped himself into his twin XL bed, careful not to wake his roommate, and fell asleep rubbing the rough skin of his right palm.

The scratch stopped bleeding. It scabbed, it itched, it grew red around the borders. Jared worried about infection & venereal disease from the girl and her sharp fingernails. He worried about his exams and his brother. So, he picked at the scab. And picked. And picked. He always felt better after he’d pulled it clean off. There were about 3 seconds where the skin below the laceration was soft and pink before it began to bleed again. He found peace in those 3 seconds. Unsurprisingly, the ritual of picking/healing/picking left a thin, pink scar down his arm.

Jared didn’t have many scars besides the ones on his palms from years ago, on the bike with his brother. It was a strange and sobering feeling to carry the mark of someone he didn’t have a name, or any defining characteristics besides pretty brown eyes to pair it with. He’d bear the girl from the shitty dive bar with him forever, he guessed. Every time he looked at it, he thought of her, just like he thought of his brother when he looked at his hands.

The next time Jared and Alex saw each other was Christmastime. Alex brought his boyfriend, Carter, who was working on a PhD in British Literature. He was the poetic and eccentric artist type, and Jared thought that he balanced out Alex’s discerning and systematic mind very nicely. It was the first time the couple was visiting their parents, too. Alex came out when he was across the country in college, because he’d expected their religious parents to receive the news poorly.

Mr. and Mrs. Hayes had taken the news with gritted teeth, and continually hoped that Alex’s bisexuality would open the door for a nice, smart girl to marry him. Jared hoped he married Carter.

On Christmas Eve, around the time when the kids waiting up for Santa were falling asleep, Jared was wide awake and staring at his ceiling. He needed some cold air.

Stepping onto the porch, he found Alex sitting on the steps, smoking a joint.

“That’s a nasty habit, y'know. Mom doesn't like you smoking here” Jared said, disrupting the silence. “Pfft... she doesn’t like that I’m dating a man either, this is nothing in comparison” Alex responded, holding the joint towards Jared.

He took it between his fingers, and sat down next to his brother, the smoke drifting upwards in soft tendrils. He wanted to say that it didn’t matter what their mom thought that Carter was wonderful, and he wouldn’t be half bad as a brother-in-law. He wanted to say that Alex would still be his brother no matter who he decided to be with, or how much weed he smoked. That he loved him. That he felt lucky to share a last name, and resemblance with him.

Those words were stuck in his throat, so he took a long drag instead, drawing the smoke into his lungs. He punctuated the silence with belly-heaving coughs soon after – he was not a smoker.

“Bro, I don’t know how you do that so easily. It’s impressive, really” Admired Jared, with a laugh. “Lots and lots of practice” , replied Alex, somberly. After a few moments, he asked “Did I ever apologize for making you take the training wheels off your bike so soon? Jared was surprised he remembered that. “Nah. but I needed to do it anyways” he responded.

They sat quietly while Alex finished the joint, snuffing out the end on the porch.

Alex said goodnight as he headed inside, Jared responded with a nod. Christmas morning passed with minimal tension, Alex and Carter went back to Boston. Jared went back to school, and life got busy again.

Jared was 20 when Alex died, in a car accident. The other driver was intoxicated. It was quick and he didn’t feel any pain, the doctors said. What about the pain he left behind? Thought Jared. Would he ever feel okay about all the things he didn’t say to his older brother? He wondered if he could still call himself a brother anymore. He tried to decide whether to use the past or present tense when speaking about Alex to others. He felt more grateful for his scars in the weeks following Alex’s death than ever. For his wonderful older brother. His scars screamed

“I AM HERE. I EXISTED. I AM ALIVE IN THIS MEMORY.” When he spoke about his brother at his funeral, Jared said

“I’m not a praying kinda guy, but I can tell you about the time Alex taught me to ride a bike.”


Fairness and Freedom Trigger Warning: Contains acts of war. We both stand in the clearing, staring at each other. I'm struck motionless by the suddenness of seeing him in front of me. His fear-stricken eyes mirror my shock. We recognize each other immediately—not the person, but the uniform. Neither of us has our guns at the ready. I hold mine by the stock, pointing it to the ground. He grasps his, white-knuckled, pointing it to his left, his fingers nowhere near the trigger. The slightest movement by one would send the other swinging the gun to a shooting position. The lack of movement on both our parts allows me to listen, listening for any of his fellow soldiers that may be in the forest with him or for mine trying to save me. But I hear nothing. No rustling leaves from behind him and nothing from behind me. We are both alone, facing our enemy with no reinforcement. Time seems to stop, and sound becomes a foreign concept. Not even a fly buzzes, and the birds are silent. It's as if the world is waiting with bated breath for the outcome of this chance encounter. This moment feels staged, executed for the twisted pleasure of some higher power watching two struggling individuals to see who would survive. Everybody knows that life isn’t fair, but to which of us was it being unfair—him or me? *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  * I patiently lead my eight-man combat team around the ruins of a brick building at the edge of a small, seemingly deserted village surrounded by trees. We know it's not deserted; all our intel has told us this village serves as a command post, but not a single soldier or civilian is in sight. At this late stage in the war, though, anything is possible. The countries involved are hesitant to call it a win or a loss. There are too many casualties on both sides for any government to be happy with the outcome. That tension, coupled with the intense heat and nearly 100% humidity, makes this part of the war unpredictable. This ‘tame war’ that was predicted to last only months is now in its third year. Governments, civilians, and especially soldiers are far past war-weariness. They want an end regardless of the methods used and are willing to turn a blind eye just to be done with it. I'm already stressed and tortured from my first tour at the beginning of this war, but my government decided it needed me out from behind my comfortable desk and sent me back to the frontline only two weeks after my son was born. Two weeks. Apparently, fighting in the war is more important to them than bringing people into the world. I was given a guarantee that the end was near, only a few more weeks. When I complained about it not being fair, they assured me a three-month stint overseas was a reasonable request (it wasn’t a request), and I would be home to my wife and son soon. Plus, an officer with my experience from my first tour is exactly what they needed to quicken the end. Realizing I would never get my commander to budge, I saluted him. Sometimes a salute is a sign of respect, and other times it's a soldier’s way of politely flipping off a superior. I turned from him and faced my assignment: lead an eight-man team behind enemy lines and take out an enemy command post. We position ourselves in the shadows of the first vacant building we come to in this small hamlet tucked away in the woods. This town is the last of our assignment, and when we clear it, we can call the rest of our team to occupy it. The American involvement in this war was not originally supposed to be direct contact, but over time, we did what we had to do. For every command post we took out, it made it that much easier for the others to come in and fight their own war. As team leader, I'm on point, so I'm in front of my team. I inch along the wall where the entrance waits just around the corner. I’m to scout the side of the building facing the rest of the town and ensure there’s no enemies inside. Once inside the tall building, we can have an aerial view and strategize a plan to sweep all the buildings. Their uniforms mirror our own jungle-warfare gear. Brown, green, black, and grey are hard to spot in the lush green surroundings. The uniforms allow us to blend in slightly with the vegetation, but when death is on the line, slightly invisible is better than nothing. I reach the corner of the building and slowly pull a mirror out of my backpack with practiced motion. It's a one-by-two-inch mirror attached to the end of a telescoping metal rod that I painted green. I telescope the rod out and extend it so the mirror barely crosses the plane of the corner of the building. If somebody were looking this way, even if they knew I was here, they would have trouble seeing the small device I held. Looking through the mirror, I see the coast is clear and give the hand signal to my team to advance to my position. With a trained ear, I hear all seven of my men approach behind me as I replace the mirror back into my pack and raise my rifle once again. I hear my team stop, and I feel the hand of my second-in-command gently tap my shoulder. I give them the signal to wait while I advance. I quietly make my way around the corner—separated once again from my team. When I'm assured there is no movement nor sound from any enemy inside, I signal to the next two members of my team, who are now looking around the corner at me. A Sergeant First Class and a Private, whom I’ve just met a couple of months ago, serve as cover for me. With the two men on guard, silent and frozen like two gargoyles protecting a skyscraper, I edge my way to the door. I lower my weapon and remove the mirror again. This time, instead of sticking it around a corner, I cautiously place it under the door until I can see in the room beyond. There are no enemies in the room, and I adjust it to look at the inside of the door. I scan the edges and the handle of the door, looking for any type of wire that could trigger a bomb. Seeing nothing, I turn to the men behind me to signal them to bring the rest of the group up to me. As I lift my right hand to signal, a loud explosion comes from around the corner where my team is waiting. Chaos ensues as we hear gunfire and bullets racing through the air around us, all the while feeling the blast of heat and pressure that came from the explosion. Without any cover, we sprawl on the ground and return fire at the bursts of light we see coming from the ends of our enemies’ guns in the forest and from the buildings around us that we had not cleared. They must have known we were coming, waiting until they could be assured we were contained in one area. My second in command, to my right, lets out a sickly groan just after I hear the whiz of the bullet and the ‘thump’ of the bullet slamming into his forehead. He's dead immediately. I scramble over him to regroup with the Private as we turn the corner to assess the rest of the combat team. At my nod, we dart around the corner and see that there is now a hole in the side of the building, probably from a mortar deep in the woods. Chunks of brick and wood are smoldering and scattered all over the ground. Not a single one of the five men is moving. Two of the men had been blown away from the blast, and their mangled bodies lay twenty to thirty feet from their original location. The other three are buried under the rubble, their bodies bloody and unmoving. I stare at what remains of the five men and then to the fallen man behind us. I look from lifeless man to lifeless man. Their bodies now belong to the war. They are reduced to memories that will only be cherished by loved ones and to the statistics that historians will quote for years. I’ve failed these men. The Private, the only remaining man on my team, shouts at me to get down and find cover, but I don’t. Not for a few moments anyway. I continue staring. I continue staring at the death that I had sworn to keep at bay from my men. I did my tour once and had a comfortable desk job. Had we known I would have to come out here again to risk my life, then Genevieve and I would have waited to have our baby boy. My mind races with thoughts of unfairness. It’s unfair that our eight-man team has just been sliced down to two. It is unfair that a father is fighting for his life as his innocent and helpless child waits at home. I took too many lives on the first tour and tried to amend that by having my own children. My therapy team, which stretched over the last year, agreed that I was ready to get back to living, not traumatized and resigned anymore. At the military-ripened age of twenty-six, I started my family. My reverie is cut short as I hear a familiar sound coming from the woods amidst the flurry of bullets. It's a soft yet distinct ‘thwomp.’ A mortar shell is heading our way. Statistically, the first mortar shell rarely hits its mark, but the location would be noted, and different angles factored into the next shell. The next one would be considerably closer, if not completely on target. The shell explodes the door in front of the building where I had just been standing a few minutes before. There's no time for anything but to run. I shout to the Private to follow me to the woods. I look over my shoulder and see him running in the opposite direction. He must not have heard my directive and fled to what he thought was the best position. Before he even reaches the safety of the building, his head jerks backward as his arms fly outward into the air. His forward momentum carries his body another five feet, where he lands face-first. After his feet kick up behind him in an awkward see-saw motion, he finally comes to a rest. That’s it. I am finished trying to figure out fair and unfair. My entire combat team is gone, all dead within ten minutes. I am the lone survivor, and I need to get myself out of here. I hurdle toppled stone pieces of the building strewn all around. The combat radio is still strapped to one of the dead Privates behind me, so I cannot call for air support or even an extraction. I’m truly on my own, deep in enemy territory. I plunge into the woods behind the building as gunfire continues. I hold my rifle vertically across my face to block tree limbs as I race through the trees. As I put distance from my attackers, the barrage of gunfire stops, only shouting remains. They’re most likely following me. I run in erratic patterns instead of a straight line. My careless sprint through the trees is most likely lengthening the gap between us. I can’t hesitate even for a second. The trees get denser the further I get into them. After running for a few minutes, the trees thin out, and I quickly glance behind me. I don’t see or hear anyone, so I slow to a trot to scan for a brief hiding spot. I see a thick tree, almost two feet wide, and I duck behind it, listening. After a few minutes of listening, I continue, slower and more methodical this time. I alter my route from the line where I was running earlier to throw off their tracking. I hope they have pulled back and stopped searching, but they could still be pressing on. They could be on top of me at any moment. I’ll need to orient myself to head to familiar, friendly territory. After another fifteen minutes of running, I stop and take in my surroundings. I look to the sky and find the burning sun. I know a sliver of the moon in the east is visible in the late afternoon during this time of year, but I can’t see it through the trees. I see two large, half-sunken boulders a few yards off. There is moss on one side of them, and I can generally assume that direction is north. Calculating approximately how far I’ve traveled, I quickly orientate where I am in this seemingly never-ending forest. I adjust my course and head north to where I will eventually find my unit. I must travel quickly but quietly. The trees get dense again, which slows me down, not a full-on run like before. Some rocks crop up in a denser part of the woods, and I carefully place my feet so not to twist an ankle. Alone and broken out here in the deep woods would be deadly. I slow to a walk and guide my feet warily between the rocks. As I come out on the other side, I see the trees open into a clearing. As I step into the clearing, I notice movement, and that is when I see him. He sees me. His eyes are full of fear, he is shaking. I see a young man and if he’s over eighteen, it’s not by much. After what seems like an eternity, I decide that something must be done. The first person who moves may be the first person shot, but I’ve got to do something. He may have other soldiers behind him. I lift my right foot, and his hands quickly raise his gun as a wet spot spreads over his crotch. My heart breaks for him. “No, no, no,” I say in a soft voice. I drop my weapon to hang in front of me, and slowly lift my hands. After a couple more moments of staring at each other, he also lets his rifle go limp. In broken words, he whispers, “I gir-freen home. I wan’ no die.” I reply, “I have a wife and baby at home. I don’t wanna die, either.” After a few more awkward moments, I continue, “My home is that way.” I point behind him. “I go there,” he says, pointing over my shoulder. I still have my hands in front of me, and he mirrors me. I slowly lift my foot again and sidestep to my right as he does the same. We continue like that until we’ve circled and reversed our positions. We look at each other, both seeing something different than when we first saw each other. I no longer see an enemy. I see another human. A human being with a life and loved ones. I look at his face. I can tell he is trying to grow a beard to look grown-up, but barely any hair grows. I imagine him returning to his once beautiful house that now has chunks missing from the cement casing, exposing the brick. I envision his girlfriend running to him when he returns and wrapping her arms around him as she sobs from the fear of bombs being dropped randomly around their village. I see that he is me, and I am him. Whatever our differences, we are the same. I remember the peaceful look of my son’s sleeping face when I left. He didn’t have a care in the world because he didn’t know yet what he’d been born into. Is our meaning to be peaceful like the sleeping baby or barbaric and ferocious like the wars we like to incite? Just as we have the power to bring people into this world, we also can allow others to live. We can save another’s life as easily as we can save our own. The meek shall inherit the earth. Isn’t this what meekness is? Having strength and not using it. Having the ability to take a life and consciously deciding not to. There would be fewer wars and fewer killings if everyone understood this. Why do people automatically think meek means weak? I slowly turn around and walk away. Before I start running again, I wait until I am a safe distance from him. I get a few feet, and I hear a loud ‘crack’ coming from behind me. The familiarity of the sound sends me to the ground as I cover my head. After a few moments, I get up on my hands and knees as I check my body for blood. I hear movement behind me, and I pivot on one knee and slowly turn around. I see movement, and I’m sure that I’ve been caught by the rest of his men. They have tracked me after all, but then I notice the movement is coming from men in my own uniform. And then I see three more soldiers emerge from their concealment. My team found me. The first man I saw walks to a lump on the ground, his rifle still smoking. He reaches down and grabs a handful of black hair, lifting the head of the ‘enemy’ slightly off the ground as the others give a too-loud hoot. The man I just let live is now dead. Fuck them all. Fuck fair. I'm going home.


An innocent invention gone right, or a step toward a one-world currency? That's the question many ask as bitcoin floods every country's market, enticing people to invest in digital currency. Who created bitcoin? What was their intention, and why did they suddenly disappear? I asked those questions as I opened the investigation into bitcoin and Satoshi Nakamoto. No one knew who this person was, but I was sure I would find out. And I did. It was February 1, 2021, when I was sitting at a small cafe called Two Chicks in New Orleans, Louisiana. My eyes peeked over the top of the newspaper, watching. Observing. Waiting for her to make a move. Any move would be nice, really. It was exactly one year to the date, and it'd been a long and frustrating. I laid the paper down. Even though I'd been sitting for hours, I hadn't read a single word. No story in the papers would entertain me more than exposing Nakamoto. I stood; the chair made a slight noise as it slid across the hard floor. No one seemed to notice, including her. Slowly, I made my way over to the small, two-seater table where she sat. Long dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail others only ever dreamed of creating on their own heads. Round dark glasses sat on her nose, and a frilly pink dress hugged her thin body. Long smooth legs were crossed below, and heels that matched her ensemble rested on the floor. Her attention was glued to her laptop, and she didn't notice me until I sat down. Her eyes flicked up toward me, confused. She didn't know who I was, but I knew her. "Can I help you?" She said cautiously. My small hand crept toward a piece of fruit on her plate. It was a strawberry, perfectly ripened and red. I knew it would be sweet as soon as it hit my mouth, just like the words that came out of it next. "I know who you are," I said before putting the strawberry in my mouth. The look on her face didn't waver as she stared blankly at me. However, there was something below the surface that glazed over her expression. Was it fear, or could it have been playfulness? Whatever it was faded almost as instantly as it had appeared. "You heard what I said," I said. Then, I leaned closer to conceal the next word to come out of my mouth. The one word that would change the conversation and both of our lives. Forever. I opened my mouth and said, "Nakamoto." Her eyes widened, and she looked back at her computer before closing it and standing. "I don't know what gave you that idea, but whatever it is, I want you to forget that that name ever existed." She stated before adding, "And my face." I stood and caught her pale arm in my hand. "You aren't going to leave." Her gaze turned to meet mine. It was definitely fear that I saw. "I've been looking for you for a year." Nakamoto relaxed in my grip slightly, but I could tell she was still on edge. I knew she wanted to ensure she was ready to run if she had to. "Sit back down," I said, letting go of her arm. I didn't want to lose my only connection to keeping her here, but I also wanted to be the first to show trust. Maybe then, she'd relax and trust me a little. Nakamoto slowly sat back down on the chair, probably a little cold now that she hadn't been sitting in it anymore. She leaned close once she was completely seated. "How did you find me?" The arrogance I was known to have, according to my colleagues, surfaced. "A little of this, a little of that." I shrugged with a small smile and then got more serious. "Basically, excellent detective work and a whole lotta dedication." Nakamoto didn't look amused. I rolled my eyes and continued. "At first, it was difficult because I didn't know where to start. All I had was a name: Satoshi Nakamoto. That could've been one person or a group of people, and just because it sounded Asian doesn't mean whoever I was looking for was. And that's obvious now that we're face to face. You're as American as the flag hanging outside of the white house. "Then I hired on a computer nerd, an absolute genius. He got involved with bitcoin and shared with me everything he found, like how it's an entirely open book. Everyone can see every transaction, so there's no way to cheat the system. Even if someone managed to do it, the miners could just form a new blockchain, and the cheater would have nothing. It'd be a total waste of time. We knew whoever created it started from Block 0 and is a miner. We also learned that the creator would be taking every precaution to remain anonymous. Through communication with other bitcoins investors over the years, we backtracked all the transactions until the first blockchain was created in 2009. It took time and a lot of hoops. "You see, those people do not like giving up information. I understand bitcoin isn't the most legal. So, to say there were a lot of hoops is an understatement. But we did it, which led me to a college senior from the South Dakota School of Mines and Technology scheduled to graduate in the spring of 2009 with a bachelor's in computer programming. Of course, that kid wouldn't be in college anymore. They would be rich out of their minds, and of course, they would feel the need to hide their wealth. So, I asked myself what I would do if it were me. Would I flee to another country and live off the radar, or would I stay exactly where I am and pretend I don't have any wealth?" Nakamoto leaned back in the chair as she listened to my story. Her arms were folded across her chest, and a slight smirk rested on her face. I figured it must've been entertaining to hear how she got caught by a random nobody. When I paused after that last question, she placed her finger on her chin as if contemplating the question herself. "And what conclusion did you come to?" She asked. "At first, I thought you would've left the country. Found a nice, secluded spot and maybe even faked your death just to get there." I answered. Her eyes widened, mocking a shocked expression as if I'd figured her out. I did say mocking, though. She knew I wasn't done. I gave her a small smile before saying, "But that's only half true. While you live here in New Orleans, you're not from here. You're from a small town called Milton, Florida. You're a genius with an IQ of 148. You went to the School of Mines and Technology. Shortly after graduation, you faked your death by staging a scuba diving accident. "The problem is that not only did they never find you, but they also never found anything linking you to your disappearance. You left tanks on the water's edge, and you even left some belongings at the entrance to the cave. But you never left anything else indicating you went deeper into the cave. No evidence that you actually disappeared." "But if they never found evidence of a disappearance, how do they know it didn't occur?" Nakamoto asked, her gaze became more playful with every explanation I gave. "Because you were spotted two years later on a security camera in Washington D.C," I answered. When she didn't respond, I continued my story. "I'm sure you're wondering how I made all of these connections. Let me explain. I figured whoever Satoshi Nakamoto would have faked their death and made it look like an accident. So, I had my computer analyst look up every disappearance in the United States and cross-referenced them with all the unsolved cases. Then we went deeper and looked at every case with little to no evidence or evidence that didn't match what seemed to have happened. "Then my analyst took to the internet. Usually, when devastating disappearances occur, people keep on the lookout for those they care about. They'll find footage of those that disappear and report it to the public. And what popped up was security footage of a girl that was said to be mysteriously missing for two years. So, we got the name of the girl and looked into her past. This girl had grown up in Milton, Florida. A town with nothing special about it and seems like no one ever makes it out. She didn't fit in with anyone because of her genius IQ, so her life already seemed very lonely. She graduated high school and attended the South Dakota School of Mines and Technology, where she pursued a degree in computer programming. An excellent school for someone of her nature, as well as a perfect background of knowledge that would aid in creating a digital currency. "Then this girl graduated, and shortly after, she disappeared. She went scuba diving into a nearby cave alone, even though she had never been diving before a day in her life. Two years later, she's caught on camera. I would have thought it was a conspiracy, but then I found some information. Are you ready for it?" Nakamoto didn't look playful anymore, just focused on my words and somewhat concerned. Obviously, she was worried about the information I found out that would lead to me verifying it was her. She moved her hand as if to gesture for me to continue. A small smile formed on her face as if to tell me I'd already figured her out. "I found out that right after you graduated, and before the disappearance, bitcoin had been released. And on the day you were caught on camera in Washington D.C., that was the same day that the hacker group, Anonymous, infiltrated national security and mined 37 new blockchains in the bitcoin industry. I saw this connection and knew this girl had to be Satoshi Nakamoto. That this girl was you." "That's an interesting story," She finally said. Then she leaned in and asked, "I'm still confused about how you found me." That made me smile big. "I ran the face from the security footage in our database and created a program to flag your face if it ever popped up again. The girl that disappeared had short blonde hair and didn't wear glasses. But no matter how much you change superficial things like hair color and accessories, you can't change your face. And I didn't think you would because it would be easy to trace plastic surgery. You've done a great job changing your style to accommodate your new life. However, you did pop up again. This time looking much more like this. So, I found out who the girl in this security video was, and then I came to this cafe to speak with you." She stayed leaning in. Her face had a slight smirk plastered onto it, unwavering like she was a real-life image on a poster on some horny teenager's wall. Her eyes were glazed over to hide the innermost thoughts, insecurities, and anxieties she was feeling at that present moment. "You still haven't told me how you know Satoshi Nakamoto is me..." She said, officially defeated. "I didn't," I replied. She looked confused, so I answered the question painted on her face in hues of pink and orange. "You just did." She rolled her eyes and put her face in her palm. At this point, she knew I was a government official, and she just gave herself away. For something like the creation of bitcoin, she could go away for a long time. Perhaps the rest of her life. Her entire world would be turned inside out. On the upside, an unsolved disappearance would be solved, and answers would be available. The closure could be given to her family, which they deserved. It's what every family deserves, and I chose a career path as a Behavioral Analyst. “I told you,” I said, cutting the silence. “I know who you are.” Nakamoto peeked through her fingers at me and spoke again. "What puzzling me is how you knew to look into Americans. How did you know I was American?" She asked and added, "Satoshi Nakamoto doesn't sound like an American at all." I smiled before opening my mouth to explain once again. "In my line of work, I am one of the best profilers in the office. Sometimes I'm able to profile details that don't make sense. When I asked myself what I would do if I was Satoshi Nakamoto, the answers I gave became my own profile. So, I asked, who would create something borderline illegal, fake their death, and then not leave their country even though it's insanely risky to stay? "An American. Anyone in this country can say what they want, but no one actually wants to live the rest of their lives in a country that isn't America. People literally risk dying to come over here for a better life. And Americans are very comfortable with their way of living. So I knew whoever it was had to be American." Her chin rested on her interlocked fingers. Her expression was blank and somewhat cold. I added, "I guess you can say I had a hunch." This made her chuckle. "Okay, well," She started. "I've confessed that I am Satoshi Nakamoto, and you have me here right now. Are you going to arrest me?" "No," I said. "I'm not going to arrest you." Nakamoto looked confused. She looked utterly flabbergasted. I could see the wheels turning in her head. She questioned my motives more quicker than a victim asking their serial killer why they are doing this. "Then what do you want?" She asked. The smile that crept onto my face was slow and snake-like. My eyes glistened with excitement and playfulness as I leaned closer to her. This entire time, Satoshi Nakamoto thought I was here to put her away for life. She never suspected that this was my interview. After a brief pause, I shrugged and opened my mouth to give my final answer. "I know who you are."


“Have you seen the librarian?” Isaiah asked a fellow visitor in the library. After a brief inspection, the other guest shook his head indicating he agreed that the librarian was M.I.A. That was until a blur was seen running across the back of the library. “Wait, I think I see her,” Isaiah said as he started his way toward the anomaly. “Excuse me, are you the librarian?” he asks to the lady standing in the corner. She turns and flashes Isaiah a brilliant smile. “Why yes I am. You can call me Ana. How are you today?” “I’m great. I was wondering if I could get a suggestion on a new book. I finished this one and I needed a new adventure.” “A new adventure?” Her elevated excitement could be seen from ear to ear. “Well, this is the place to find one! What was your last adventure like?” Isaiah looked at the book in his hand to remember all the details of the book. “I know it was historical fiction. But I really loved the meticulous backgrounds of the characters.” He then hands the librarian the book. She glances it over and then places it down on the table. “I loved that one too. Follow me. I have a few you may like.” Isaiah smiled and started walking behind the librarian. The library wasn’t too excessive, but it wasn’t minuscule either. There were two rooms in the back for private studying or meetings. Then there was one giant-sized conference room that ran along the west wall. In the middle where Isaiah and his new library friend were there was a circulation desk that only held one librarian. Or, it was supposed to hold one librarian, but she was leading Isaiah threw an aisle on the east side of the library. A slight sensation of guilt entered Isaiah's mind as he kept the solo librarian from doing her duties. “Alright we are almost there,” she says as she slows down to what appears to be her destination. “This is it! You have to check this epic section out,” the librarian said as her eyes lit up at the multitude of books. Isaiah chuckles at her excitement. “I’m sorry. I just love getting lost in a good book,” she says as she blushes in embarrassment “No, no. Don’t apologize. I want to experience the same type of excitement.” “Really?” she says as she bends down to retrieve a book. ”Well I believe this is the best story to start with.” “It’s kind of long don’t you think?” “It looks that way. But once you start reading it, I guarantee you will blow through it and be back here within a day. I’ll make a guarantee. If you don’t like it, or if you find yourself reading this longer than a few days, I’ll buy you coffee,” she says with a smile. “Ok. And if I do read it, I’ll buy you coffee,” Isaiah said as he shoots his shot. “Deal. I guess we are having coffee one way or another.” They both enjoy a mirroring smile as they shake hands. When Isaiah returned home, he placed the book on the table. He did desire to take the cute librarian out for coffee, but it wasn’t a high priority right now. The new season of his favorite show just came out and he wanted to check out a few episodes on his day off. But, after a disappointing 30 minutes, he decided to maybe flip through a couple of pages. He did promise himself that he would strive to read more, and there was no time like the present. “Let’s see,” he says to himself as he looks at the table of contents with the intent to skip to a chapter that sounded exciting. He finally settled for the beginning since he probably needed to understand the first chapter if he was going to be talking about it on his date. At least that was his initial plan. Soon he found himself captivated by the waves of the words that detailed the thrashing sea as the boat battled the ocean and its inhabitants within. Though he had planned an engaging day, it had dissipated as he completed three-quarters of the book, only stopping for a quick snack and the bathroom. As the words started to be buried in the dark shadows, the illumination of a clock knocked at his eyelids so they could inform him of the disappearing seconds. “Oh, crap. It’s late. I’ll just finish this tomorrow,” he said as he placed the book on the table and went to bed. After he finally relaxed enough to close the windows of his soul, he was awakened by the intense shout of the lighting that slammed outside of his door. “What the hell?” he says as he runs to the door to inspect the damage on his rented house. “What the hell?” he yells as he repeats the same phrase but with more fear as there was no rental house behind the door. Only a few wooden planks on what was perceived as a swaying boat lay in front of his door. The upset lightning provided spurts of illumination to the scene as raindrops reacted as chandeliers before shattering on the wood. His breath was snatched by the singing wind that dashed over the darkened boat and into the sea. Before Isaiah could lose his mind, it concluded that the scene had to be a dream. But the brief acceptance of the scene being unreal was heaved overboard as a silhouette was spotted at the bow of the ship. Isaiah quickly slammed the door, because even though it was a dream, nightmares are still not worth living in. He ran back to his bed like a toddler to hide under his covers. “It’s just a dream, it’s just a dream,” he said to himself as a knock came upon his door. “It’s just a dream. It’s just a dream!” he yells louder as the knock alters into a creaking door. The howling wind enters first, followed by the screaming lighting. Isaiah tries to comfort himself with his assuring sentence, but nothing was allowed from his mouth as the screams and howls proved too much for any voice, real or unreal. He closes his eyes and attempts to scream himself awake as he feels his cover disengage. A quick coolness flows over his body, followed by complete silence. He opens his eyes and sees the legs of the silhouette standing by his bed. “I can’t believe you didn’t finish the book yet.” Isaiah quickly looks up to view a familiar smile as the dream transitions into the fog that is blown away by reality. The raindrops were not in this version of reality, but Isaiah’s bed was still soaked with a form of water. His breath slowly returned as he viewed his room, bed, and door. Yes, he may be a grown man, but this night he decided he should sleep with the light on if he was going to sleep at all. As he sat staring at the rotating ceiling fan, he thought about the book. He had read books before, but never had they given him such vivid dreams. Maybe if he read the rest of the book he could at least calm his imagination on what could happen. After an internal vote, he decided to just read until he fall asleep. After locking his room door for some added fabricated security, he walked to his desk to pick up the book before laying back down.

As he came upon the last chapter of the book, he started comparing the scene of his dream to the scene in the book. It wasn’t too different. There was a crazy storm with destructive winds and booming lighting. And there was also a silhouette on the bow that the captain saw that made him go crazy and kill his entire crew. But then, in the end, the silhouette was just a blind spot he had developed on the sea. Isaiah thought it was all crazy, but it was a really good ending. It was good enough to allow him to attempt to sleep. As he closed his eyes, he anticipated a possible storm brewing on the other side, but it was only sweet darkness through the night. The library smelled like coffee as the door dinged indicating a returning patron. “I knew you would be back!” The librarian yelled once she saw Isaiah enter the room. “Aren’t libraries supposed to be quiet?” Isaiah asked while chuckling at the excited, but cute, librarian. “Maybe, but it’s just me and you this afternoon, so we're good to yell and scream all we want. And I made coffee.” “You made coffee? But I thought I’m supposed to take you to coffee if I came back?” She laughs and walks around the desk toward Isaiah with two cups in her hand. “Yeah, I know. But I rather stay indoors and go through some books.” “I guess we can do that. But next time I’m taking you out.” She hands him a cup. “I’ll consider it.” Isaiah looks at the cup. “So did you put your finger in it?” “Eww, why?” She asks. “Because I need some sweetness in it.” The librarian rolls her eyes and walks off while sipping on her drink. “I’m just playing,” Isaiah says as he follows behind her. “And if I wiped my butt before, what then?” Isaiah stopped to inspect the cup. The librarian pauses and shakes her head. “Just sit down here silly. I have to go get this book for you,” she says as she continues to walk down the aisle.

Isaiah sat down and took the risk of drinking the coffee. It was surprisingly delectable to his tastebuds. Usually, he has to repair his concoction, but this one was perfect as is. “This coffee is pretty good,” he yells. “I know it is because it has all the right juices,” she yells back. “Umm, ok. So how come the library is so empty today?” he asks as he continues to risk it all with the coffee. She returns with two books in her hand. “I’m not sure. I usually have it all to myself. Which is fine by me because I can go on a journey through all the books without any distractions.” “That sounds like a wonderful time.” “Yep. it sure is. So tell me, what did you think about this book?” She points at the book Isaiah read the previous night. “It was actually really good. To be honest, I had a crazy dream about it, but it kind of motivated me to finish it early this morning. So it was all good.” “Crazy dream?” “Yeah. Honestly, I swear you were in it.” She smiles. “Well, a good book should stimulate your brain so much that it spawns a vivid simulation amongst every one of your senses.” “What?” Ana chuckles as she picks up one of the books. “Here, take this one tonight.” “It isn’t going to give me nightmares again is it?” “Naw. But just read it all.” “And this time, if I do, I’m taking you out.” “We’ll see,” she chuckles. When Isaiah returned home, he was kind of excited to read the new book Ana suggested. This book was set in a dystopian future. Isaiah hadn’t read many science fiction books, but the excerpt of this one seemed fascinating. And since Ana’s last suggestion was pretty good, this one had to be at least decent. And as the pages flipped back to back, he had to acknowledge Ana knew her books. This one was filled with multiple twists that had Isaiah constantly guessing and debating. He didn’t stop until the last page was turned. “Wow,” he said as he stood up and walked to his bed pondering on the lesson of the book. He couldn’t wait to discuss this book with Ana. There was plenty to debate. Maybe he could debate it over coffee. As he closed his eyes, he wondered if he would be transported to another world like the previous night. But he did finish this one, so maybe he wouldn’t. But as his eyes re-opened, he received his answer. “Aw, crap.” He was in his room, but the wall with his window was not present. He could see across the war-torn landscape. “I guess I can’t hide this time. But it’s just a dream.” “Yes. Just a dream.” The sound of another person behind him startled him greater than the armageddon in front. He tried to turn and look, but his body did not respond like in reality. A blurred figure entered his peripheral as they both stared at the destruction. “What a crazy thing your senses have simulated.” “Ana?” The sound that he heard was familiar, but without being able to turn his head, the identity couldn’t be confirmed. “Ana? Tell me that is you.” The figure walked forward where Isaiah could at least make out an intricate figure of a lady. “Or, is it just time in the middle of a ripple effect, and we just happen to be in the perfect spot to see a refraction of the future.” “What is happening?” Isaiah yells. Ana turns around. “Exactly!”

Isaiah sat up in his bed, once again dripping in sweat. His sheets weren’t wet this time, but they did discharge a scent of smoke. “What the hell?” The next day, Isaiah was supposed to head to work, but he needed answers for the second vivid dream. As he entered the library, he noticed a different person at the desk. He started to walk toward it until he heard someone trying to get his attention down one of the aisles. “Ana?” he asked as she ushered him to her. “What are doing?” “Sorry? I can’t talk too much this morning because my co-worker likes to snitch.” “I have to ask you about these books you keep giving me. That’s twice I had an extremely vivid dream. And I swear you were in both of them.” “That’s crazy,” she whispers. “But take this one, and we can talk about both of them tomorrow.” She takes the book Isaiah brought and hands him another. “Is this about to be another?” “I promise we’ll talk,” she says as she walks to the back of the library. Isaiah, who had already called in sick, goes back to his house with the new book. He contemplates if he should really read it, or just ignore it. He sighs as he picks up the book and opens it. This setting was in ancient Egypt. The descriptions of the city are what really stood out to Isaiah. He would have absolutely loved to see it in all its glory. He closes the book and wonders if maybe he could. He closes his eyes, and just like the day before, he was transferred to a different place. “I have to see the city before this turns crazy.” He says to himself as he opens the door to the splendor of ancient Memphis. “Wow. Amazing!” Isaiah said as he stood in awe. “It really is.” The same figure from the previous dreams said. But this time, Ana’s beauty stood clearly in front of Isaiah. She was dressed like she was from the time period, but it was her. “So are you really here, or are you a figment of my imagination?” Isaiah asks as he was allowed to view her this time. She smiles. “I’ll let you figure that out. But how about we just explore before you determine that.” She offers her hand to Isaiah. He smiles. “Okay. I did say I would take you out.” After what seemed like a few days of exploring, Isaiah woke up. It was a few hours later, but he was still in his house, sitting in the same chair. He had to know if Ana was somehow playing tricks on him, or if books could be that powerful. So he traveled back to the library. When he arrived, he couldn’t find Ana anywhere, but the librarian he saw earlier was still sitting at the desk. “Excuse me, I was wondering if Ana was in?” She looked over her glasses. “Who?” “Ana? She was working earlier.” The lady shook her head. “Oh, Anansi. I thought I saw her walking around here again.” She then looked at the book in Isaiah’s hand. “It looks like you already found her.”


*Trigger Warning: Cancer, Suspenseful* “Breathe, Harley! Breathe!” He begged. She gasped for air as he wrapped his arms around her gently, his body tense and his mind racing with questions that needed answers. It felt as if the taxi driver didn’t care that his best friend was dying. “Breathe, damnit!” He pleaded, rubbing her back as they flew past the walking pedestrians and the wait signs. He had paid the taxi driver extra to hurry and get them to the hospital. “Just relax, we’re almost there.” He told her. Her small frame was tense and she was shaking like jello, practically gasping for air as she inhales, pierced her lungs with the pain of a thousand needles. “Breathe, Harley,” He told her. He couldn’t lose her, they had been through everything together. School, awkward socializing, panic attacks, family divorces, rehab. Everything he had ever gone through, she was right by his side. They were pals to the end, yet this truly felt as if it was the end. As the screeching tires of the Taxi pulled into the drop off lane of the hospital, He got out first, then picked Harley up bridal style as he hurriedly carried her inside, out of the rain. He ran up to the front desk. “We need a doctor, now! She can’t breathe!” He demanded, his voice more shaky and aggressive than he had ever used it before. The front desk lady nodded and called for a stretcher. While waiting, all he could do was hold her close and whisper that everything was gonna be ok. “You’re gonna be fine, Harley, I promise, just breathe…” He directed her. She gripped his wet jacket tightly, her weak body begging for air. A group of nurses, a doctor, and a stretcher came running into the waiting room. He laid her down as the nurses put an oxygen mask over her nose and mouth. She reached out longingly for him. A male nurse held him back as they took her away. “No! She needs me! I need her! Let me go with her!” He begged. As the stretcher was quickly rolled away, all she could do was reach out for him, her hand shaking with pain and dizziness. All she could say before losing consciousness was… “Carter…” ~1 Hour Ago~ “Wait, are you serious?” Harley asked with a giggle. Carter laughed and nodded. Harley flopped down on her bed, holding her phone up enough to where her best friend could see her face. Thank god for facetime. Besides, she liked knowing Carter was safe as he walked to her house. It was a long walk and, knowing him and his luck, something bad would happen to him. “How did you hear that? Is she really pregnant?”

“Yep! She’s 19 weeks pregnant. She posted it on her Instapic account,” Carter explained. “Arg! I hate the rain! Why does it always have to be rainy in the fall?” Harley could only smile a response to her friend. “Hey, did your chest ever stop hurting? You told me it was Costochondritis, but I’m still worried about you.” He asked her. Harley shrugged. “It’s a little worse today than it has been, but it’s really nothing bad,” Harley replied as she fiddled with a lock of her slightly wavy, red hair. She was a redhead with blue eyes and tan skin, though lately, Carter had noticed that she was getting paler and more tired. “I told you not to worry about me. It’s fine.” She snapped in a silly tone. Carter chuckled and looked around before glancing back down at his phone. “Yeah, yeah, I know, I know,” He chuckled through his sentence. Harley cleared her throat and sighed. “Hey, is your front door unlocked? I’m almost there.” He asked. Harley nodded and coughed slightly. She inhaled slightly before coughing again. “Hey, are you ok?” Carter asked, turning his full attention to the girl on his screen. “Hey, answer me,” He demanded in a gentle voice. Harley nodded and coughed, the cough growing harsher and harsher. “Hey, what’s wrong? Can you even breathe, dude?” Carter asked with a nervous chuckle leaving his lips. Harley shook her head and coughed, sitting up from her bed. “I-i can’t… I can’t breathe!” She told him as she coughed again. Carter could feel his face go pale as he began sprinting as hard as he could toward her house. He didn’t know what was going on, but whatever it was, it was bad. He listened to her cough get worse and worse as he got closer and closer to her house. “C-carter, I can’t breathe…” Harley repeated as she gasped for air. Carter ran up to the front door of her house and jiggled the doorknob.

"You said your door was unlocked!" Carter criticized. There was no response from Harley. He ran to the side of the house and climbed over the fence, running for the back door. He slid the door open and ran through the house, down the hall, and barging into Harley's room. "Harley!" ~The Present Moment~ Harley slowly opened her eyes as the beep of the heart monitor woke her. She felt sick and dizzy. She could feel her heartbeat in her chest. Harley could smell hand sanitizer, cloth linen, and lavender Scentsy light. She couldn’t help but yawn, though she just woke up. Harley slowly sat up, looking around at her surroundings. She could feel an oxygen tube wrapped around her neck and attached to her nose, but she wasn’t complaining. It definitely was helping her breathe. She looked toward the door when she heard the knock, yet couldn’t make out words to invite them in. As the door opened, Harley could see that it was her friend, Carter, with a small bouquet of flowers and a get well card. He smiled when he saw her as he walked over to her bedside. “How are you doing?” He asked her, his tone soft and gentle. She could barely remember anything that had happened. Last she remembered she was talking to Carter on the phone… or… fighting with her parents… “Where am I?” She asked him, completely sitting up and taking a deep, pained breath. Carter sighed softly as he put the flowers next to her bed, then sat in a chair by the foot of the bed.

“You're in the hospital,” Carter replied. Harley flinched as she finally understood why her bedroom decor changed. “Two days ago you had trouble breathing. I rushed you here. The doctors took x-rays and…” He trailed off. Harley looked at him. She could see that he had been crying about something. He sighed deeply before continuing. “The doctors diagnosed you with Stage 3 Lung Cancer.” Carter finally explained. Harley just seemed to… freeze. This couldn’t be happening to her. She was only 15, turning 16 in a few weeks. She just got a scholarship from one of the best Colleges in her state. She just became the head photographer for her school yearbook club. Stage 3 Lung Cancer… this couldn’t be happening… “Did anyone tell my parents?” She asked, her voice now soft. Carter shook his head and looked down. “I tried calling both of them but… no answer.” He told her. Harley nodded. Her relationship with her parents was always rocky, having its ups and downs, never really looking right from the left. It was her stepmom's fault. Harley always knew that she wasn’t the right woman for her daddy. She sniffed and looked at the flowers on the bedside table, right next to all the tubes and wires and the heart monitor machine. Harley took another deep breath before nodding and looking at Carter.

“Then, I guess I’ll start Chemo and they can pay for it later.” She confirmed. Carter looked at her and smiled, nodding in agreement. “After all, how hard could it be?” ~1 Year Later~ It was hard. Really, really hard. The first week of Chemo wasn’t the worst, it was the weeks following that really rocked Harley off. She’d get sick all the time, lose energy, and miss school days because of chemo sessions. Her 16th birthday was spent at home with Carter, staying up late and watching movies with popcorn. They both ended up falling asleep by 10:30, Harley’s head resting on Carter's lap as Carter fell asleep listening to Harley breathe.

Due to missing so much school, Harley had to give up her position as head photographer for the school yearbook. That really devastated her, so Carter decided to throw an “at home fashion show”, so Harley could experience the high school crazy outfits. It helped Harley a little bit, but it wasn’t the real thing. Carter started staying long weekends at Harley's house. It wasn’t like her parents cared, all they were doing was paying for the Chemo and grumbling about how much it cost them. It helped Harley’s mental state for Carter to be there for her every day, all day. Carter adjusted his classes at school that way he could have the same schedule as Harley. He was always safe with Harley at school. If there was someone with a cold, Carter would make Harley stay as far away from them as possible. Needless to say that during the flu and cold season, they ate lunch in a Teacher Conference room once they got permission. There were good and bad days, some being a lot worse than others. The days that Harley struggled, Carter was always right by her side, getting water or holding her hair back as she threw up or simply just reading to her until she fell asleep when her medications kicked in. He hated that this was happening to her. He missed going out and walking around the mall or ice skating or looking at cute boys and girls downtown as they walked past. But there was nothing, nothing that could compare to his worry for Harley. All he wanted was for her to get better, to be healthy… She was like a baby sister to him… It was at the doctor's office that they found out it had spread. Leukemia was added to the picture. Carter held Harley’s hand through the entire doctor's visit. More medications were prescribed, heavier Chemo was administered, and worst of all: The doctor told Harley that she had to stop going to school. With the flu and cold season this year being so severe, he didn’t want Harley to risk getting worse. Harley agreed, of course, but cried the entire way home. Carter couldn’t say anything. He was so afraid of losing his baby sister, his best friend, his one companion. Nothing could compare to the fear he had. Harley started sleeping a lot more, getting much more tired easier, and betting dizzy after standing for long periods of time. “Carter?” Harley asked one night as they sat in her room, Carter reading “Great Expectations” to her in a soft tone. He looked down at her and smiled. “Yeah?”

“If I don’t get better,” She started. “Now stop,” He interrupted. Harley stared up at him. “You’re gonna get better. Everything’s gonna turn out ok, sis. I promise,” Carter reassured, though he couldn’t really reassure himself. It was hard always smiling and saying that it would be ok when it was simply only getting worse. “You're my baby sister, I can’t lose you.” He told her as he held her close, the beanie on her shiny head slowly sliding off. Harley nodded as she closed her eyes. “Thanks, bro…” Carter chuckled softly as he closed the book in his hands and set it on the floor, turning off the lamp on her bedside table. “No problem sis.” January 1, 2021. Carter stared down at the large, blackish tombstone, umbrella over his head protecting him from the rain. He stared down at the flowers planted at the grave, knowing that this isn’t how this should’ve ended. He sighed softly as several tears rolled down his reddened cheeks. She had so much more fight in her, yet she stopped. Her body was too tired to go on, yet her mind was prepared for anything. Carter closed his eyes, remembering all the things that he was told before she passed. “Love you, bro!” “Happy birthday Bro!” “Stop crying. It’ll be ok, bro.” “Wait, bro, say hi to the teachers for me!” He opened his eyes when he felt the cold hand on his shoulder. His mother smiled warmly down at him. Carter sighed softly as he read her grave one more time before turning away.

Harley Rayne Johnson 16 and a Half July 4th, 2005 - December 25th, 2020 Beloved Daughter, Best Friend, and Sister. Carter swallowed as he mumbled softly, “See you on the other side, sis…” *A/N: This short story is based on real life. On January 1st, my sister passed away of Stage 4 Cancer in the blood, lungs, and brain. In this story, I used a different name, yet it’ll always be dedicated to the same person. Enjoy!*


Three different people had felt the need to tell me that their honeymoons had had hiccups and that I shouldn’t put too much pressure on the trip, so I really shouldn’t have been surprised when things went wrong. The wind caught my best friend’s beach umbrella in the Caribbean and blew it into her new husband’s face. He and his new black eye chased it into the ocean, where a jellyfish stung him; but the rogue beach umbrella did eventually make it home with them. My other friend and her husband crashed their rental car on their way to return it. Their insurance covered everything; and no one was seriously hurt, but they nearly missed their flight home. My aunt and uncle had their first fight when they were stocking the kitchen in their cottage. They still joke about it 35 years later. Some of my husband’s buddies shared similar tales of woe with him, so he was prepared for some surprises along the way. His brother overlooked a suitcase while loading the car and paid an exorbitant price to ship it to the hotel. His best friend since kindergarten ran out of gas on the side of the highway, causing another friend to spend a personal day off work ferrying jerry cans to him. His co-worker and his new wife misread their plane tickets, packed in a panic, and showed up to the airport eight hours early. They fell asleep waiting for their flight, didn’t hear the announcement of their gate change, and almost missed their plane anyway. Rumour says that they named their first child after the airline employee who woke them up and rushed them to the new gate. With this information, we expected to come home with one or two comical incidents, but we certainly were not worried. Everything had worked out for all our friends and family members, after all. Confident in our ability to solve any problems and sure that whatever happened would be adorable, we set off for adventure with our matching luggage and smug smiles. We really should have seen it coming. My sister is an ecologist. Robby’s brother works in a garden center. Our grandmothers have grown gardens the size of public swimming pools and can talk about microbiomes all day. We went to college. We’re educated people. We KNOW THINGS. We landed on the island and pranced through customs. “Anything to declare?” No, sir. Of course, we’re not smuggling weapons or drugs or small animals that will eat your native insects. The rental agency had our car ready to go. We made it through the local grocery store without fighting over croissants. The cottage was gorgeous. Everything was working perfectly. HOW did we not see it coming? We slept well on a king-sized bed with wonderful satin sheets and a dozen colourful pillows. The weather the next day was perfect. The beach was stunning. The restaurant was sublime. We returned to our lovely cottage. You know when you enter a room and just know that something is wrong? Your parents are arguing, or your siblings are bickering, or a co-worker has misspoken terribly? That was the feeling when we opened the door. Something was off. Everything looked normal, but Robby and I both sensed something strange. We looked through the whole house for signs of intruders or theft, but we found nothing suspicious. The feeling of strangeness only grew, however. We heard it first. Robby and I love reptiles. We met in a pet store buying crickets for our respective snakes. The store had only two containers left but was getting a shipment in the next day. Robby gallantly offered to let me buy one of the containers instead of taking both even though he was there first. We showed up at the same time the next day, started talking, and that was that. Crickets. That was how we met. That was how we bonded. That was how we had to pay an exterminator to clear out our honeymoon cottage. You can order crickets online. They come sealed in a convenient box. You can buy as many as you want to leave behind for the pet sitter. You can also mistake one of these boxes for a newly ordered tacklebox. In this case, you might think your husband had forgotten to pack his new tacklebox. You might pack the box, expecting to be the hero when he thinks his tacklebox is at home, but turning out to be the villain who flooded your cottage with crickets. The owners were shockingly forgiving as we grovelled and promised to pay for any exterminator that they chose. They graciously gave us a discount when they moved us to one of their other properties, where we stayed until the original cottage was safe for human habitation again. Our scheduled activities went well in the meantime. Surfing lessons were a blast. I performed better than Robby, just as his friends had predicted. Ziplining was thrilling. Robby spent 10 minutes talking me into actually stepping off the platform, just as my friends had predicted. The zoo was unreal. We spent two whole days ensuring that we saw every gecko, salamander, and snake, just as our families had predicted. We did get to finish our vacation at our first cottage, but we thoroughly searched each closet and still spent the first night back hearing phantom crickets. When we returned the rental car, the line was much longer than when we picked it up, but there were no problems. The shuttle was crowded, but the other passengers were friendly. The flight was delayed by half an hour, but it went smoothly after we boarded. When we staggered out of the airport to our friends who were picking us up, our luggage still matched, but our cockiness was gone. “How was it?” Aurora gushed. “Did you find all the boxes of crickets for Roxy and Smith?” I asked. “I found eleven, but I couldn’t find the twelfth…oh. Oh, no.” “Oh, yes.”