By: Levita Zhou One Morning, I saw the dawn So I woke up with a yawn And then I remembered That today was my birthday

The trill of excitement

Made me jump out of my bed The scent of my breakfast

Was just as aroma as cotton On the way downstairs

I ran as fast as I could With butterflies in my stomach

I ran faster than ever The balloons in the air Made my house go vivid It’s like they were running away So I chased after them Back in the living room My parents were waiting To say the big “Happy Birthday” Before I made my wish I wish that I could See the world underwater

In my big, long basement

A large place to explore When I went back to my room Something magic happened

It turned into an underwater world

Just like the one in my wish There was also a wooden door

Behind a big, blue fish

When I went inside the door I saw a flying horse Up in the sky I was flying with the horses Up above the ground I could see everything

I went through another door

That was right behind a horse

I saw a polar bear So I knew I was in the Arctic

Its fur was softer than anything

Those big eyes to look in the distance

With a nose to hunt for food And big claws to kill the seal On an ice cube Stood a big door I went inside

To take a look

There was a berry

Not just an ordinary berry

Not a blueberry

But a rainbow berry

It stood nice and tall

Like the Washington Monument

I saw two doors What were both for? I walked forward

To take a closer look One says Back And one says Forward

I’m certainly not ready to go home I want to continue my adventure

But what if it goes on forever? So I decided to go home At first, I collected

Some magic dust So I can come back again And finish my adventure

I needed to go home To open my presents

I went through the Back door

And back home I went At first, nothing happened

But in a blink of an eye I was on the sofa couch My parents were in the dining room

I said “Hi” to them And ate my lunch There were chicken nuggets

With yellow honey mustard

All this was a real adventure

Not a dream I thought A really fun adventure

Then I saw something on the floor

It was a key charm With all the adventures I had on it When I went to open my presents

There weren’t any! The present must have been the adventure! Thank you mom and dad. You are the best. I love you! I murmured

This adventure was amazing

It will last me forever I’ll never forget about it It was so fun! On the next day

I was feeling blue

What should I do? Should I finish my adventure? I chose “Yes” I should finish

My amazing adventure

Right now!! I got the magic dust

I saved from yesterday

It was still there “Phew” I am so glad I sprinkled it around my room And then the magic happened

I saw the big Saturn

I was in space I floated like the stars And explored the galaxy

I looked around To find a door Behind Neptune I found a navy door I went inside And a bunny jumped

I played with the bunnies

And learned a lot

I watched them jump

They loved green grass

I saw a bunny

That just jumped by Behind where it jumped

There was an emerald door I went across the door There was a big tree Right in front of me And a big snake

The snake twisted on the ground

I quickly ran away

I thought is was gonna bite me Where am I? The enchanted forest of course! Where unicorns still live With dinosaurs and other creatures

In the past Behind a dinosaur

Two optional doors again I knew I had to go home

And finish my adventure tomorrow

I walked toward the doors And chose the Back door I walked inside And waited to go home It was just like last time I was on the sofa couch I saw a little key charm Of adventures that happened this time I still had some questions

That were spinning in my head

Where was the magic dust found? How did the scenes change? It looks like

That all this is a mystery

But I still had the key charms And that is all I need. All these adventures I’ll never forget

It is in my heart And it will be there...... Forever. But when I went Back to my room

I saw a Koala bear! Where was it from!? I certainly did not

Sprinkle magic dust around my room Anyways, I’ll continue my adventure

This is such a mystery! I just can’t believe it The koala just appeared

In my room! But it sure is cute! I looked around

To find a door

But there weren’t any What should I do? I got the dust That I saved the other day

I dusted it around my room I wanted back my normal room At first nothing happened! Then.... I found a small plane A very small plane Just sitting there I went for a closer look

And touched the plane The plane’s door opened

And pushed me to go inside The second I was inside

I was in a goggle and a mask I was on the plane seat Ready to go around the world I was first in Japan I was near a building

People were saying “I hate coronavirus” In Japanese

While drinking green tea I was so nervous

 I saw a big tempo, right in front of me I didn’t go out of the plane Because I was scared

Next, we arrived in Mexico People were all in their houses

Dancing around

Mexico is so beautiful! I need to go and explore

Before I could go out The plane stoped me It made a face Telling me not to go The next stop was China Shanghai, China to be particular I wanted to go explore

But I didn’t dare to I looked around Now I REALLY want to go home What should I do? I tried to think of ideas But didn’t make any progress

I wanted to go home! There were nothing else

That I could do I wanted to cry Then I got an idea I said “Home” And it actually worked! I was glad to be back To my home, sweet home Adventures are fun But being home is better

With your parents and people you love I love you “My Home” I am in my home everyday

With the people I love

No matter where I go

Home is always the best place This Adventure is just like when you go on a vacation. When you go to a place that you like, you have to return home. The narrator of this story goes on an adventure but after all the places she goes, she still wants to go back home. She misses her parents so she chose to go home. HOME IS THE BEST!!!  Adventures are amazing But family is forever. I think that my house is part of my family.


She wasn’t supposed to be alive.            They had a plan. They watched, pupils dilating with unparalleled shock as the monitors as big as the stumps of a red wood splashed the target’s steps on the bustling sidewalk. Her heart-beating, blood pumping, alert, and alive, very much alive footsteps. How could this have happened? They all thought collectively. Never had they been unable to plan, predict, and manipulate the puppets who referred to themselves as human beings but to them had become much less, inferior things. They, the watchers, controllers, were the real humans, the ones with the sharpest minds and most elite tools. With eyes that could see into the commoners’ psyche. It was they who fed the masses the information they wanted them to perceive, and they who treated the people’s lives like a miniscule chess game. Not even chess, but checkers, for they saw the intricacies dull and limited. The people were in their hands. They were utterly predictable. But the barreling truth was that Target 337 was walking down the street of the city center, wholly alive and nothing, not in the remotest sense, was predictable about that. They were never wrong, never unable to breach the boundaries of human control in order to achieve their desires. Treasures were hidden, books obliterated, and people terminated. It was their world, the version they let their subjects see. The common folk were the slaves in the cave, and they controlled the light show cascading along the walls. As they all stared at Esther Johnson, the snake of unease slithered up their legs and quickly tightened around their throats. She made them wrong, forced them to undergo a previously foreign experience. It was a combustion of confusion, disdain, and sheer shock. The control room was silent, but as they stared at the screens, one thing fermented with equal vigor in the deepest depths of each of their bones. The Gatekeepers wanted revenge. ~~~~~ Esther wasn’t supposed to be alive. She could feel it, like an invisible noose around her neck. The Gatekeepers wanted her dead, just like her grandfather. She could see every taunt they threw in her path. She had to change every step she took, every path and schedule, in order to stay ahead or else she would be rendered the victim of some accident that wasn’t really an accident, or worse, would just disappear altogether. She kept her head down. Her navy shoes had black laces on the left one, with a small sailor’s knot tied at the end of the shoe’s lace. It was a symbol, discrete enough that the usual passerby wouldn’t think to look twice. There were those who would, though. There had to be. Her Grandfather’s teachings had told her that it would signal the right people to come help. People like him. People like her.

A flash of her grandfather’s face passed in front of her eyes. Read this, child. It will answer all your questions. Esther was only fifteen at the time, but she had never been given a book that wasn’t mandated by The Gatekeepers. All of the ones Esther had been given in school were shiny and stiff. Her grandfather’s gift had yellowed pages with a leather cover that frayed along the edges. Esther could still feel its weight in her hands, long poured over after it was given to her. It had no title. A title, when trying to protect the sacredness of the words inside, would only help in revealing the very thing we’re trying to protect from destruction. Her grandfather had said. Esther remembered wondering who exactly “we” referred to. Her grandfather was always shrouded in an eerie mask, always quiet at family dinners whenever Esther’s father discussed his job as an assistant for the Chosen Council. Esther had always found herself more intrigued from watching her grandfather’s facial reactions than she ever did listening to her father drone. She thought back to the “we” his grandfather alluded to. She wondered if her grandfather was with them now. Maybe he was pacing back and forth, staring out some window, waiting for his granddaughter’s arrival. Esther brushed the thought off her shoulder. That type of daydream was all in vain. Her grandfather was dead. She saw them do it. The Gatekeepers, sliding silently with the shadows in the night. Esther quickened her steps on the street as she thought back to the dreaded night. She was on her way to their usual meeting when it happened. She peeked from behind a dumpster, having thrown herself there, as always, while her grandfather went ahead to make sure it was safe. That’s when they came for him. Esther felt her grandfather’s strangled screams in her own throat as she watched black attired men grab him. They murdered her grandfather in cold blood, with the effortless click of the deadly technology they held to his neck. Tears, terrified at what her eyes saw, ran in haste down her face to escape. Nothing could come out of her own strangled throat. There was pressure felt there by some invisible noose around her neck, a feeling that would never go away after that night. All she could think was that her grandfather had been right. He had been right, and there was no going back. When the mysterious figures went to drag him away, Esther fell from her crouching position, fear and agony overcoming her. As she did so, her shoulder hit the corner of the dumpster, and an echo shot through the night. In horror, she watched as the men turned around in an instant. She didn’t dare breathe or move, her heart pumping profuse amounts of blood in her ears, loud as drums. Their words were mumbled, but she saw them pace around the perimeter. The lights of the center city didn’t reach this part sector, so there was little they could see. She was grateful for that. One of the men started venturing closer to her, each step striking the chords of panic in Esther’s veins. His eyes roved the vicinity, any second he was going to take a step too close and catch the hidden witness. Esther winced in preparation, already envisioning the feel of the weapon that killed her grandfather on her neck when the other man fiercely whispered that it was all clear. Esther couldn’t breathe until the close man, who took one last look around, walked back to the steps of her meeting room. After that, the men quickened their pace, desperate to get out of there and move on with their murderous evening. Esther caught them saying, “We’ll get killed if we messed this up, let’s go!” and she was never sure if the voice had meant that in a symbolic or literal sense. They hurled her grandfather like some inanimate object into the open side door of the densely black Chose Council hover car. The sight stabbed Esther in the chest and made her want to stride over and beat the two men to a pulp. As they zoomed off, Esther pictured every detail of her assault. Those men had murdered her grandfather, the truest friend she had ever known. Esther couldn’t move. She was weighed down by the chains that seemed to cut through her body and seer her with pain. It was hours into the night before she could manage to stand up, knowing that her grandfather would have wanted it. He had taught her to be strong, so that night, she would have to be. When she stood, she found herself automatically walking to the back door. She wanted to go inside to their meeting room. The thought of the dim lights, the dark, aging wood and the miscellaneous conglomeration of leather books warmed her. She wanted to make her grandfather alive again, by wrapping herself in his favorite spot. When she reached the back steps, her eyes, swollen from crying, caught sight of something lying on the ground. Esther stopped mid-step and turned towards it. Even in her grief, curiosity gnawed at her insides. She stepped over to the object and peered down at it. Electric currents shot down her spine. The world stopped. The metal device stared at her, taunting her with its single button that lay in its center. The one that killed her grandfather. The men who came must have dropped it in their rush to leave. Esther spat at it, cursed it for its powers and how it was used. There was so much anger boiling up inside her, but something else too. The device, it was inscribed. Esther knelt on the ground beside it, not wanting to touch her grandfather’s murder weapon, to see what it said. When she read what was there, her eyes widened. T.G. embedded inside a Victorian style gate. The Gatekeepers. The screams her grandfather couldn’t let out in his final moments somehow found their way to Esther’s ears at that moment. Run, he seemed to say, and don’t let the blindness catch you. That night, danger came like a raging storm cloud barreling down on her. She ran away with tears in her eyes and a heart that thumped with something Esther had never particularly experienced. It beat with dangerous purpose. Esther pulled herself out of the memory, the constant loop of it in her head was the fuel to her fire, but she had to stay focused. Looking around her, she saw swarms of people, all with screen glasses on. They were worn to protect their staring eyes from the strain of looking at the colossal screens that towered over the city. Thousands of screens so close together they all seemed to blend, like a sea of a thousand colors surrounded the heads of city folk and infiltrated the sky. Each one had something to say. Buy the newest hip thinner to get the perfect body you always wanted! One woman said in a sultry voice. Another, NEWEST HOVERBOARD, PERFECT FOR ALL! Then there were the videos of the newsreels, “The Chosen Council is here for the people of this city, they have the experience, and their every rule needs to be followed or we all will perish. The Gatekeepers are on their side, to protect us from the harsh realities of hateful and inaccurate information. We couldn’t handle that darkness; it would infiltrate society and ruin what we have built. Let us heal from the past, and let The Gatekeepers help us do so.” The television shows and news cycles created a cacophony so overwhelming that some opted for earpieces. The earpieces played their own noise, yes, but at least the interruptions for issued ads were limited. When Esther was younger, many of her friends thought the overload of jumbo screens was chaotically beautiful. Esther just thought it was obnoxious. When she made a remark to them in class about the screens being like the Chosen Council’s vanity haven, no one laughed. Her grandfather had always said that they probably didn’t appreciate a dry sense of humor. You’re like me, Esty. He had said, but some people can't seem to take a joke. As she kept her eyes down on the city street, she wasn’t so sure her joke had been far from the truth. The bitter afternoon air bit at Esther. She tightened her arms around her winter coat. Around her, the sea of anonymous people had alert eyes, but they were dangerously hungry too. It seemed as if everyone was on the prowl, almost hoping for something out of place that they could pounce on. They seemed to close in around her. Could they see her mind? She wondered. Could they see how it believed so differently than their own? As Esther’s thoughts twirled in her brain, her eyes spotted someone. He walked in the opposite direction just in front of her. He was middle aged, but his dark hair was cut into the sharp lines of someone who had access to the best hairdressers in the city. His trench coat flowed behind him, and if Esther had been lost in the screens like many of her surrounding company, she would have missed it. He was looking down. His eyes trained on her shoes. Specifically, her left shoe, the one with the black laces and the tiny sailor’s knot. The world melted into slow motion. She held her breath. Her eyes glared at the stranger, waiting, praying, begging for recognition. Seconds became centuries as he slowly inched closer. He was almost directly in front of her now, about to pass by when he looked up. When Esther locked eyes with the man, it was as if someone punched her gut. All the air she had been holding flew out. The stranger’s eyes did flare in recognition, but the sharpness of the glare shot warning signals like needles everywhere on Esther’s skin. Just then, the memory of her grandfather’s words sling-shot directly into the center of her consciousness for the second time in her life. Run, he had pleaded. RUN. Her feet carried her off at warp speed. The device that killed her grandfather, the one that she stuffed in her pocket the night she watched him die, bounced in her pocket. ~~ An excerpt from the book of Esther’s grandfather: They were supposed to honor the truth. To trust them was to believe in the promise of society. Everyone wanted to be them, to be a part of their sanction so as to serve what they thought was the ultimate form of defense against deception of the powerful. They were supposed to be driven by duty. Until the darkness seeped into their veins, they were everything they were supposed to be. They were never supposed to be the enemy.


The Winterlands at night are freezing at best and lethal at worst, so of course they’re making Leif go on a Quest during the second sort, when half of his village’s population have beards beset by icicles and the other half are nursing a frostbitten toe in front of a blazing bonfire. “You bear the gift of the Walrus Belly,” reassures Torsten as he heaves at the oars, threading their rickety little boat through frigid saltwater. By the amber luminescence of a lantern powered by whale blubber, Leif watches his companion’s breath mist into the night and mingle with his own. “Gift of the Walrus Belly,” echoes Leif. “So, basically, the council of elders elected me for the job because I’m fat.” “You said it, not me.” Leif sighs, his breath shuddering past blue lips. Despite his… girth , he’s buried under three layers of clothing made from insulating sealskin, and even then the cold has pried each layer away like the fingers of an insistent lover. Not that Leif knows what that’s like. Leif the Loser, the other boys would chant back at home, because of course Leif would be the only one left without a girl during their drunken rampages through the village. Ludicrous Leif. Leif the Laughable. Limp-Dicked Leif. That last one cuts the deepest, especially when Chief Gorvald the Gruesome hears the boys say it and bursts out laughing, a mighty guffaw that’s more of a thunderclap than any sound a human can make. Sometimes he even joins in on the chanting. Is that why Leif had agreed to this fool’s errand? Is that why he’s freezing his balls off in the middle of Maiden’s Heart, the most unforgiving sea in the known world? (Because, of course, nothing is colder than the heart of a woman who refuses to sleep with a man, as they say in the Winterlands.) “I could be sat by a fire,” mutters Leif, “sipping hot broth and drinking elderflower mead.” “And miss out on something that comes around once every millenium?” says Torsten. “You’ll live to regret it, lad.” “Only if I make it out alive.” “Well, you won’t with that attitude!” The sea at night looks like molasses, thick and syrupy. Except there’s nothing sweet about it. Not when one dip below the surface would suck the warmth out of your beating heart and leave it stained purple with frost, unless you happen to be a blubbery narwhal, or a thick-skinned walrus. And suddenly the council’s reasoning is starting to make sense. Torsten drops the oars, and the boat eases to a rest. “Now, we wait.” “For what?” “For the River to show us the way, of course.” Leif wraps his arms around himself. He’s heard the legends, and wants to believe they’re true. But a river winding through the ocean? That doesn’t even make sense from a logical standpoint. Torsten extinguishes the lantern, plunging the world into darkness. A tiny shrimp trapped inside a whale’s mouth wouldn’t feel much different. “What was that for?” “There is only one light we need, Leif. All others will lead us astray.” Before Leif can mutter a remark about speaking in riddles, the sea comes alive with color. A huge, shimmering ribbon of light materializes just below the water’s surface, winding through the blackness and stretching out into the distance. A single skillful yet haphazard brushstroke, the sea as the canvas. While Leif’s jaw hangs off its hinges, Torsten grabs the oars and maneuvers the boat onto the ribbon. He follows the path laid out for them with pinpoint precision, even when it winds into itself, or takes them on a detour. “Take as long as you like,” says Torsten. “The River-in-the-Ocean is not something you swallow after a quick chew.” Because it is a river, as much as Leif’s calm sensibilities want to deny it, and the surrounding ocean serves as the riverbank. He can see it’s made of tiny glowing pinpricks that pulse intermittently with light, like stars that have lost their way and decided to live among the plankton. The colors cycle between every hue imaginable: greens and blues and reds, as if somebody had tossed all their jewellery into the water. It’s not the first time Leif has seen the ocean illuminate like this, but for it to form a clearly-defined path, as if the gods themselves are showing them the way, is something out of a dream. Or perhaps a nightmare. The River-in-the-Ocean ends in a giant pool of glowing dots, swirling into itself to form a vortex that ever-so-gently pushes the boat in a circle. “We’re here,” announces Torsten. “You know what to do.” And Leif does, unfortunately, know what to do. All sense of awe gone in the blink of an eye, he ties iron weights to his ankles, then a rope around his waist, the other end of which is attached firmly to the boat. He perches on the gunwale, the small craft swaying under the unevenly distributed weight, and hesitates. “It’s just like I told you,” says Torsten. “All you have to do is let the weights pull you down until the Mermaid Queen finds you. Once she does, ask Her Majesty for her Divine Crown, which is said to grant the wishes of anyone who wears it. We’re not sure how you’re supposed to speak to her underwater, but all the legends say you have to make a request. Try using elaborate hand gestures, or maybe write it down on a bit of kelp. In any case, once the Crown is yours, simply untie the weights, then tug the rope three times in a rhythm so I know it’s you on the other end and not a shark.” He gives Leif a reassuring pat on the back. “It’s plain sailing. A six-year-old with lingonberry jam smeared across his face could do it.” “Thanks for the morale boost, Torsten.” “Anytime.” Leif stares at the swirling mosaic of colors before him and finds himself shivering like an earthquake, though not because of the cold. For a heartbeat he lets himself wonder whether his life really is miserable enough to go chucking it away. If he dies tonight, will the other boys sing songs of his valor, or will they laugh? He can already hear Chief Gorvald’s booming guffaw. “May the Storms strengthen your heart,” prays Torsten, which is nice of him but is also another way of telling Leif to get on with it already. It’s a bone-chilling night in the Winterlands when Leif takes what is probably his last breath and plunges into the water below. The cold is a fist to the stomach, knocking the air out of his lungs. He thinks it can’t possibly get any worse, which is when the water seeps through each layer of clothing like the root tendrils of a seedling, reaching into his flesh and squeezing the warmth out of every blood vessel. Everything is blindingly bright for a few heartbeats as glowing dots swirl around him, but it quickly fades as he’s pulled down into suffocating darkness. A dull weight presses in from all sides, and he’s sure his head is going to explode any second now, so he screams for Torsten to help him, only to get a mouthful of salty water. Burning. His lungs are burning in the darkness, quite ironic considering he’s never felt so cold in his entire life. And it’s in the darkness that a jeering song arrives, quietly at first but surging into a crescendo to fill his world: 🎵 Leif the Loser Born bigger than a humpback whale Leif the Loser The only Winterman destined to fail! Leif the Loser Lonely for the rest of his days Leif the Loser For no maiden will meet his gaze! Leif the Loser Can’t even hold a sword straight Leif the Loser Drowning was the poor lad’s fate! 🎵 Except he isn’t drowning. Leif gasps awake to find a world of inky blackness. His clothes are dry and his body is warm, at least, just like the sloping ground under his feet. It’s as if he’d never entered the water. He must be dreaming. Or dead. He unties the weights around his ankles and takes a few steps. A smooth, curved wall greets him on all sides; he can’t see it, but he can feel the glass-like texture kissing his palms. His enclosure. He finally scrounges up enough courage to call out. “Hello?” The only response is a dull stirring in the darkness, so faint that he isn’t sure if his mind is playing tricks on him. “Who goes there?” THIS IS NOT YOUR DOMAIN, LITTLE ONE, booms a voice. Leif is so surprised to be called “little” that for a second he doesn’t even register the voice’s lack of origin, as if it’s coming from every direction at once while at the same time blossoming from some secluded corner of his mind. A second after that, he grasps the implications of there being a disembodied voice in the darkness instead of a white light, or something else reassuring. Fear coils its grimy tendrils around his bones, but he wrestles them away and latches onto the only tangible thing he has left: Torsten’s instructions. “Are y-y-you the… the… M-Mermaid Q-Q-Queen?” The words lack impact, tripping over his teeth to come out stillborn and pathetic. But it’s as if the darkness can look past that to know what Leif wants to say. THERE IS NO MERMAID QUEEN, SMALL CHILD. Again, Leif has to blink the disbelief out of his eyes. He even pinches his own cheek to check that he’s still as chubby as he should be. Which, unfortunately, he is. NOR ARE THERE MERMAIDS IN GENERAL, continues the darkness. THEY ARE BUT A FABRICATION BORN FROM THE LUST OF LONELY VOYAGERS, HAVING SPENT TOO MUCH TIME AT SEA WITHOUT FEMALE CONTACT. Leif starts shivering again, all the cowardice of fifteen years spent being inadequate frothing at his seams. He had one job: retrieve the Divine Crown from the Mermaid Queen, and he can’t even do that. He really is a loser. But… wait. Why should he trust the voice? He supposes there’s not much else to trust when everything is pitch-black, and there is a fiery, robust quality to it that demands his attention, but still. He wants more than that. “If you’re not the Mermaid Queen,” begins Leif, the fear melting away like hoarfrost in spring as curiosity lends him confidence, “who are you?” NOBODY, replies Darkness. Their voice is an avalanche devouring a mountainside, the sort of harmonious medley of beauty and terror that only a natural disaster could conjure. And it’s neither male nor female, but something else, something less limiting. YOU ASSUME I CAN BE QUANTIFIED BY A SIMPLE “WHO”. TRY AGAIN, TINY CREATURE. PROVE TO ME YOUR LIFE WAS WORTH SAVING. Leif’s heart flutters. Whenever Darkness speaks, it’s as if the words are carved in stone, and reality molds itself around that ultimate truth.

So, I am alive. For the time being. Leif swallows. He doesn’t want to go back to the cold, and what he says next may very well decide his fate. So he tries a different angle, hoping the truth will unmask itself in small increments that he’ll be able to piece together on his own. Which is easier said than done when he doesn’t even know what Darkness wants. “Why do you keep calling me ‘small’?” BECAUSE YOU ARE SMALL. Leif clenches his teeth. Fifteen years of ridicule, and he won’t let anyone tell him it meant nothing. Not even… whatever Darkness is. “I’m very sorry, but I’m anything but small. Back home, they’d sing songs to mock my size. During dinnertime, the other boys would dump their leftovers on my plate, then dunk my face in the slop while making walrus noises. One time, an avalanche started on a nearby mountain and the elders blamed me for it because—” — YOU HAPPENED TO TRIP OVER A LOG AND LAND ON YOUR BUTTOCKS ONLY A FEW MOMENTS BEFOREHAND. “Yes, that’s exactly what…” That’s exactly what happened. But maybe Leif shouldn’t be surprised that Darkness knows. After all, he’s supposed to be dead, but isn’t. “You’re one of the gods, aren’t you?” Leif ventures. ONE DOES NOT HAVE TO BE A GOD TO SEE THAT YOU ARE SMALL. That didn’t even answer his question. Before Leif can insist that he’s fat all over again, the blackness surrounding him stirs. It tears open like a wound, banishing the gloom on the other side of the barrier for a giant, window-shaped opening. Leif looks through it, and watches a familiar rotund figure struggle to lift a battleaxe while a dozen onlookers throw their heads back and laugh. It’s a dagger to the heart. And it hurts so much that the pain trumps even the awe of witnessing what Darkness is capable of doing. “Why are you showing me this?” BECAUSE I WANT YOU TO SEE WHAT I SEE, LITTLE ONE. More windows materialize in the darkness, more moments in time that Leif has banished to the recesses of his mind only to be shown to him right now, clear as day. He grits his teeth through it all until it’s too much. “Please stop. With all due respect, I don’t know how you can look at all this and still see me the way you do.” THEN IT IS TIME TO TAKE A STEP BACK. The windows fade, only to be replaced by more. Leif has to squint to realize the fat boy he’s looking at isn’t him; someone from another tribe, perhaps, with fleshy jowls and a breathless, sweaty sheen to his person. Another window shows a different boy, one with fiery hair and freckles, curled in a puddle of mud as a mob hurls stones at him. A third window shows a skinny girl with skin the color of treacle and strange, robe-like clothes being spat on; she has pinkish-white patches of skin on her face that her tormentors don’t. Leif’s gaze darts from one window to the next, one sickening, unbearable moment to another. He wants to curl up just like the red-haired boy and pretend the world isn’t as cruel as it is. But he can’t tear his gaze away from all these people. He’s never seen them before, and most certainly hasn’t a clue what distant realm they’re from, yet he feels a curious sense of kinship with them all the same. An invisible thread, running through everyone and sewing the gaping hole in Leif’s heart shut. NOW DO YOU SEE WHAT I SEE? asks Darkness. Leif watches in awe as the red-haired boy unfurls and groggily gets to his feet after the mob has dispersed. His face is caked with mud and blood and his body hangs limp, but there’s a fire in his eyes that won’t be extinguished anytime soon. The dark-skinned girl wipes away her tears after her tormentors have left, then picks up a spear and, gritting her teeth, begins practicing behind closed doors. LITTLE CREATURE? prompts Darkness. I SAID, DO YOU SEE WHAT I SEE? Leif nods as his eyes well with tears. “I’m not alone,” he manages to choke out. AND YOU NEVER WILL BE. “But why? Why help me?” Darkness takes an uncharacteristic pause, as if carefully considering a response. HUMANS… THEY FASCINATE ME TO NO END. IT SEEMS TO BE A HABIT OF THEIRS TO GET BACK UP AFTER THE WORLD HAS BEATEN THEM DOWN. DO NOT THINK I AM HELPING YOU OUT OF MERCY OR COMPASSION, FOR I AM BEYOND SUCH MORTAL PHENOMENA. PEOPLE LIKE YOU, THE ONES THAT NO LONGER HAVE A REASON TO KEEP GOING BUT STILL DO, ALWAYS HAVE AN INTERESTING STORY TO TELL. AND MY ONLY WISH IS TO SEE YOURS UNFOLD, LITTLE LEIF. Leif supposes it’s better than no answer. In any case, he finds it amusing that a being like Darkness cares what he thinks of them. YOU WILL SOON BE SENT BACK TO YOUR DOMAIN. IS THERE ANYTHING ELSE YOU WOULD ASK OF ME? Leif wipes away the tears. “What do you… look like?” The windows fade, and then so does the blackness. Leif has his breath snatched away by the view: ice-blue, crystalline water as far the eye can see, filled with silver-scaled shoals of fish and vibrant-hued, gelatinous creatures he’s never seen before. He notices he’s inside a transparent, bubble-shaped enclosure, which keeps him in and the water out. A humpback whale passes overhead, and it’s a beautiful sight. HUMANS ARE OF THE LAND, says Darkness, BUT I AM OF THE SEA, AS ARE MY CHILDREN YOU SEE BEFORE YOU. SO THINK TWICE THE NEXT TIME YOU CONSIDER “WALRUS” AN INSULT. Leif’s vision begins to fade, and that’s when he knows his time is almost up. Part of him wishes he could stay here, with an invisible being that doesn’t discriminate between people. But he has to go back. For my people. “Thank you,” murmurs Leif, before everything goes dark. Leif’s eyes flutter open to find a blurry Torsten shaking him awake. “You did it, lad! I knew you had it in you.” He’s sprawled in the boat, and the River-in-the-Ocean must have faded because the only light source is the dim amber of a lantern. He coughs up seawater. “Torsten… what are you talking about?” Then Leif registers the cold metal his fingers are curled around. Is this a… crown? “How did you get the Mermaid Queen to hand it over? Oh, you must have a whale of a tale to tell…” Leif closes his eyes and savors the night air. For the first time in forever, he doesn’t feel like a loser.


 I remember floating on my back in the waveless ocean, staring into the sun until my retinas ached, until the rest of my insides started to feel okay. I thought of mermaids, and I thought of sirens singing sailors to their demise. I wasn’t sure which I favored more--the sea, oblivious death, or an effortless life purpose. I stayed in the water until I started thinking that maybe I wouldn’t leave the water for a long, long time and rolled my body from my back to my stomach and made myself slowly drift back to shore.

I knew everyone at the beach bar, some more intimately than others. It was a small island; I possessed information about people that clung to me, stuck to my skin like sweat and humidity, lacking any humility. It was shift change at the bar and Scarlett was leaving. Her husband died from pneumonia three years ago in the same hospital their daughter was born in three days earlier. She made a drink with elderflower and cranberry juice that she called the Scarlet Begonia.

Red was coming onto shift. Her boyfriend hung himself a few months ago and people were crudely saying it was her fault. Her hands shook as she distributed shots around the bar like a factory worker, but everyone’s hands shook around here, at least in the mornings or late into the night. I almost laughed out loud, watching Scarlett and Red closing out checks and exchanging money, with my knees propped up on the bar and my face tipped toward the sun; they were both different shades of the same color.

* Something always happens to me when it’s dusk and the alcohol is finally impairing me in the ways I think I need, and everyone’s faces become a little softer around the edges. My body is suddenly a howling pink, framed against the sky swallowing the last of the setting sun. I finally feel emancipated from the loneliness of the day, where you’re supposed to have a purpose, more of a plan. The night is freedom.

I recognized the shape of him, coming up to the bar from the beach, knowing that he eventually would. He still looked like a boxer, head slightly lowered, his last name tattooed across his squared, tan shoulders. Red gave him a Budweiser and shot of Fireball without saying anything to him and he grabbed the beer and took a swig before sitting down. He was friends with her boyfriend and he and Red used to work on a boat together, but they didn’t speak now. We made eye contact as he picked up his shot. I waved without changing my blank facial expression, tilting my head slightly to the side. He gestured with the shot toward me and tossed it into the back of his throat. He drank another round, ordered by leaving his empty beer and glass at the top of the counter with Red wordlessly replacing them, before he circled around the bar and sat next to me. We always needed that thin, palliative veil of alcohol between us. “By yourself?” I was always by myself, until I wasn’t. I would have sighed, but by this time I was drunk enough to admit to myself that I was waiting around for him all day.

* He often had a cigarette hanging from the side of his mouth like it was his last chance at dying, his squinted eyes overlooking turquoise surf with sea salt lining his skin, the clouds moored in the sky like the charter boats in the harbor below. He had this idea that the sea would save his soul; I was afraid it would wash away his tired body. Over the nights in his bedroom, windows open, wind whipping the doors against the walls, my earrings placed on his headboard, I pieced together his story. He would fight other kids with his brothers on the train tracks in Kansas City. He went from Ponyboy to a short-lived Golden boy, boxing and then moving to the island and still fighting, over women and bar stools, boat assignments and pool cues. Now, sixteen years later, he was weary, beat. He maneuvered his jeep sharply around the never-ending potholes in the road. I had my arm hanging out the window and my feet propped up on the dashboard, my usual stance while in his passenger seat, perpetuating an air of being carefree, unbothered. Sometimes I was close to that feeling. Tonight I was thinking about moving from the island back to an anonymous city. I was thinking about the two daughters he left in the states, who he wasn’t allowed to visit, who he never told me about and I never asked him about. I thought about fate and the endless parallels of this place, how we were all caricatures of each other. For every sad girl there was another sad girl, probably wearing the same bathing suit. For every angry man there was another angry man, drinking the same beer and convincing himself that the ocean was saving the good parts of himself that his actions were trying to expel.

For the first time, I wondered about the things he knew about me that I never told him, passed on from people I barely knew--the drawer in my kitchen halfway filled with empty drug bags, the catalog of men I’ve made for myself here, a sudden trip back to the states with a speculation of an abortion, my dead father. We all knew these shameful and tragic things about each other and carried them with us alongside of our own burdens. I just couldn’t decide if it was better to be quiet about it, swallow all of it down to make room for the next person’s story, or just unload all of it onto the dashboard between us and maybe the day would be a little sturdier for us to stand on.

I turned my head from the stars whipping past the windows and looked at him, without any emotion behind my glance, just simply regarding him. This time I did sigh out loud, when maybe the sigh should have been something more purposeful. Was I the siren, the sailor, or the entire sea? I’d start over again tomorrow.


The Gambler Kage Griffin sat down at the blackjack table with $10,000 worth of chips he’d just won from craps. Tonight was his night. He was going to start earning back all the money he’d drained from his children’s college funds. He motioned to the waitress who was wearing a tiny French maid costume, “Double scotch on the rocks, honey.” “Sure thing,” she smiled. It was a challenge to file a sexual harassment complaint when she was showing half her boobs, she reminded herself. Plus, this was a customer who obviously had a lot of money to spend, and her boss, who was the worst of them all, had the motto that unless someone was counting cards, the customer was right. Someday, she promised herself, she’d find a better job. Until then, she’d continue to put up with the ogling and all the honeys, babydolls, and love muffins. On the green felt, Kage laid down a $100 chip. The dealer dealt two cards face up to each player. To himself, he had dealt a ten and a card face down. Kage looked at his cards. A King and a nine. When the dealer came back around, Kage held firm. The dealer’s facedown card was a jack. He took Kage’s money. Kage laid down three $20 chips this time. No sense in losing big right out of the gate. This time, he won. As he played, Kage allowed himself to think about his wife, Charlotte. Charlotte thought Kage was at a sales convention. Charlotte was starting to think that Kage was having an affair. As much as Kage didn’t want to lose her, he allowed her just enough doubt that the affair was, in fact, the problem. It was way better than telling her the truth. He played for another hour, neither getting very far up or down from where he started. A tall man wearing all black sat down next to him. “Howdy,” the stranger said. “Hi,” said Kage. “How’s the table?” the man in black asked. “Pretty stable. Not too good, not too bad. Just waiting for Lady Luck to show up.” The stranger lifted his glass, “Here’s to the Lady. May she always treat you kindly and never kick you in the balls.” Kage clinked glasses with the man. Indeed, Lady Luck did show up, as the man and Kage both won the next four hands. With every win, Kage added another $20 chip to his betting pile. “Put an extra $200 down on this one. It’s going to be a good hand,” the man whispered to Kage. “How do you know?” Kage asked suspiciously. “Just a feeling.” Kage bet $300 before the hand was dealt. His cards were an ace and a queen. The dealer paid out immediately to him. The man in black busted out. “Well, it looks like it was a good hand for you, anyway,” he laughed. On the next hand, Kage was dealt a king and a ten. “Split them and put $1,000 on each.” “I appreciate the advice, but I know how to play the game.” “Just do it, you’ll see.” “If you’re wrong, I’m gonna kick your ass,” Kage laughed humorlessly. But he took the suggestion. The dealer gave him a seven and another king. “See? A seventeen?” The stranger placed his hand on Kage’s arm. The dealer busted. Kage jumped off his chair and whooped. “That’s what I’m talking about!” They played five more rounds, Kage winning each one and betting ridiculously higher each time. He was up $27,500 from when he entered the casino. “I’m gonna cash out, man. I don’t like to tempt fate.” “Come have a drink with me first.” “Alright, but I’m buying,” said Kage. The went to a table on the edge of the casino with their drinks and sat down in a booth. “So how do you know what cards are coming up next? Are you counting?” “No, nothing like that. I just have a feeling. It usually pans out.” “I’m Kage, by the way, Kage Griffin.” Kage stuck his hand out. “You can call me Ol’Scratch. It’s a nickname some buddies came up with years ago, and it’s always stuck.” “Is it cuz you wear black, or what?” Kage joked. “That, and I’m a helluva pool player,” Ol’Scratch laughed. They drank, and Kage ordered a plate of fries. “I really gotta thank you, man. That table was not being kind to me until you sat down. And I kinda drained my kids’ bank accounts. One’s in college already, and the other one starts next year. That’s on top of my retirement fund, and last year I had to refinance the house to pay back the 401K. Which I then lost. I’ve got a problem, man, but I’m in over my head. I just gotta win back what I’ve lost.” Ol’Scratch nodded in understanding. “Rome wasn’t built in a day, my friend. It’ll probably take some time. And I get it - been there. But now I hardly ever lose. I get a feeling about a table, and I play until it goes cold.” “I wish I had your talent. I’m up more than I’ve been in a while, though. This is enough to pay for my daughter’s tuition and housing for the year without my wife finding out.” “What if I told you I could make it to where you never lose again? I mean, you might lose a hand or two here and there - we don’t want the pit bosses to get suspicious, but I mean, you could win big .” “How?” Ol’Scratch took a drink of his scotch and then pushed it towards Kage. “Drink it.” “That’s your drink, man, I’ve got my own.” “Yours is empty.” Lo and behold, when Kage looked at his own glass, his ice cubes were getting thirsty. “Thanks,” he drank down the other man’s drink. “Let’s go play. I bet we can get you up by $100,000 by the time you go back to your hotel room in a couple of hours.” Kage started. He hadn’t told the man he was staying in the hotel. But they went to the craps table, where the odds were in their favor. Two hours later, they were cashing out and filling out the appropriate forms for the IRS and direct deposit. Kage was up by $109,200. “I can return all of this to my kids’ college funds, and my wife never has to know!” he said excitedly. He noticed that Ol’Scratch had turned in his chips but wasn’t filling anything out or collecting cash. “What about you?” “I have an account with the casino.” “I can’t believe this worked! I still don’t know how you made me so lucky!” “It’s just a little trick in manifestation,” Ol’Scratch said, smiling. “Nothing to it.” # Later that night, Kage sat straight up in his hotel bed with a sharp pain in his chest and numbness shooting down his arm. A moment later, he was dead. Outside Kage’s door, Ol’Scratch lit a hand-rolled cigarette without a lighter or match. He puffed on it and laughed. “Silly man. Don’t you know the House always wins?”


THE COACH IN THE MIST The crew was exhausted. It had been a long hard, 5-day slog to get what they wanted. And they were ready for landing at their home and home comforts; looking forward to wives, girlfriends and long cool drinks; not caring by this time about the quality or integrity of their individual and combined efforts. Those had long been discussed and conjectured about hours earlier during their buffeting and uncomfortable journey back. Suddenly, dragging each one of them out of intermittent bouts of sleep, there was an electronic click. The Captain, First Officer, whoever - the crew couldn't care less, came on and said “I’m sorry guys” - it was a light aeroplane and the film crew were the only passengers with only a few empty seats - ‘guys’ was acceptable terminology - “but we’ve just had a weather update from Air Traffic and Sydney is fogged in and closed to all light traffic for the time being. We don’t have ILS* like the big international boys, and we don’t have enough fuel for a Sydney alternate, so we’re diverting to Canberra.” The Captain / First Officer of the twin engined Islander let all this sink in amidst the moans and groans from the Director, the first assistant, the sound guys, Producer, the whole shooting match, who had been on their feet in the hot sand on the other side the Great Dividing Range for the best part of 12 hours each day in the baking heat. The youngest of the crew, a work experience trainee, thought that this was just another exciting facet of his future career. The electronic click filled the cabin once again. “Now I know that y’all know that Canberra is famous for local fog, but today Air Traffic tells us that it’s clear. So that’s where we’re putting down.” The aircraft banked gently to one side. The public address system droned on for a while: “If you look below, you’ll see the sheep stations…. “ the flight deck’s usual monologue when on their finals to wherever. None of the hardened, time-weary crew looked out of any window, with the exception of the work experience trainee, who scoured the ochre terrain below them for sheep stations. The rest of the crew faded into disgruntled and superficial sleep. In a short while, the Islander’s wheels bounced on the tarmac of Runway 12/30 at Canberra International and the aircraft unloaded its passengers and enough camera and sound equipment to film Ben Hur. Most of the crew headed sluggishly for the terminal building leaving the work experience trainee to supervise the transporting of the equipment and baggage, which he was only too happy to do, even though no instructions or recognition were accorded him. The Producer, by now the only person with enough wakefulness in him to think reasonably clearly, sat on an airport plastic chair next to the pile of everything that had been discharged by the Islander. He looked up at the wide awake work experience trainee and said “Craig, go and find us a coach or something. We’re not going trust all this to a bunch of taxis up to Sydney. Fog or no fog.” The trainee nodded in enthusiastic agreement. He had a name now. He was Craig. So… off Craig went, scouring the innards and the far-flung reaches of Canberra airport, and, after much footwork, questions, dead ends and despair he located an ancient long wheel base vehicle which, at some point in the mists of time, had been converted into a 30-seater ‘coach’ with the over optimistic plan of transiting passengers from terminal to aircraft and vice-versa. It was parked at the back of a maintenance facility, along with, miraculously, its equally ancient driver. Borrowing from the drive of his lord and master, the Producer, he offered the driver fees, commissions and fame throughout the Australian film industry to get the thing started and, over an hour later, coach and coach driver arrived at Arrivals. He was not thanked or offered any recognition for his efforts. He knew that as a ‘go-for’ it was expected of him. Slightly disappointed at the welcome his arrival received however, he assisted with the supervising of shifting the equipment, baggage and personnel into the vintage vehicle. Craig knew that his efforts, not to mention his presence, were ignored, but within the hour, the bizarre and exhausted assembly was settled into the bizarre and exhausted coach and it was soon heading out of the airport onto the M23 and on its way to the still fog-bound Sydney. The ACT** twilight turned gently darker, and some erratic and flickering lights appeared overhead of the dozing crew. Craig sat and watched the road ahead, lit by dull and dipped headlights, through the half of the front windscreen that was available. The other half, the driver’s half was unavailable to anyone who might be interested because of a grimy, plastic concertina blind at the back of the driver’s compartment so he wouldn't be blinded by the headlights of cars coming up behind. The old vehicle bounced and swayed and the engine misfired occasionally, causing everyone to lurch forward momentarily then slump back in their seats ensuring that no-one slept fully. The journey up to Sydney, which would normally, in a normal coach, in normal weather take three hours or so, had already used up those three hours and a glimpse out of any of the side windows showed only the faintest wisps of fog that was supposedly enshrouding Sydney. Craig watched the road ahead through his ‘half’ windscreen and saw that the tired headlights were losing their grip on the road. The journey time was expanding more and more, accompanied by the dull throb of the diesel engine. The speed dropped as the wisps of mist turned into a gradually thickening blanket. Craig kept looking out of his side window but saw nothing - for a long time. ‘That’s strange,’ he thought. ‘Surely we must be on the M31 by now, heading up towards Sydney. But where were the road signs that would confirm this? Where were the signs for Murrimba and Hanging Rock? And where were other cars with cautious headlights fighting the gloom?’ There were none. Craig shifted uneasily in his seat. No-one was fully awake - or fully asleep - on this uncomfortable final leg of their return from the outback. But the eagle-eyed Producer was ever awake and aware. - It was his job. “Craig”, he commanded, over the noise of the diesel engine somewhere below them, causing the crew to surface suddenly from any slumbers they might have managed, “Get up there to the front and ask this guy how much longer is this nightmare going to take.” Craig eagerly stood and walked unsteadily up to the front, holding the grab rails to steady himself. With his back to the entry door, he stared into the darkened driver’s compartment. Ten pairs of eyebrows were raised, as if helping and encouraging him with the question he was about to ask, and with the expectation of the answer they wanted to hear. Craig, a blend of puzzlement and alarm showing on his face, turned slowly to the raised eyebrows and said hesitantly, “There’s… no-one here.” *Instrument Landing System ** Australian Capital Territory


It is the beginning of everything and he awakens like a drowning person breaching the surface with a toehold on the shore. what is a person what is water what is breathing what is shore But all of it is already inside his consciousness. And then: “Come find me, David,” they say, and the longing is like a supernova expanding inside his being, and he is too small to contain it all, and this is not in his consciousness and he is afraid. what is david what is fear WHAT IS THAT WHAT IS THAT WHAT IS THAT And then he is gone. # “Do you remember what it is now, David?” she says, and one light brown hand is on David’s pale, pale arm and the other hand rests on her round belly. David must have been wool-gathering again. He shakes his head, rattling the beads in his hair. “Remember what what is?” She smiles at him like a secret, teeth white in a dark, heart-shaped face. Her eyes are green and gold and as beautiful as the universe. “Me.” “You are right here.” David frowns and covers her hand with his own. “I remained here for you when my crew sailed for home. I will always remember my duty to you.” The smile fades away. Her eyes widen, then crinkle into pain, and she falls to the floor, hands clutching her belly, blood pooling from between her legs. “Remember,” she gasps out, eyes desperate on his. “What comes after you are afraid.” David’s hands are tingling and he is nauseous with terror. When the healer arrives, she says there is nothing she can do, that his seed has poisoned the woman, that he has planted a demon in her womb. Afterward, David looks at the body of his lover and he looks at the tiny rag of lifeless human flesh — not a demon, just a lost soul that took its mother with it — still attached by its cord, and then he walks out into the wilderness and he is gone. # “Do you remember what it is now, David?” he says, and one gloved hand is on David’s blue-sleeved arm and the other holds his bicorne hat against his red-coated chest. David must have been strategizing again. He shakes his head, feeling his queue brush the back of his neck. “Remember what what is?” He smiles at David like a secret, lips rosy pink in a porcelain pale face. His eyes are green and gold and as beautiful as the universe. “Me.” “You are right here.” David frowns and covers his hand with his own. “You sheltered me here when I was left for dead by my men. I will always remember my debt to you.” The smile fades away. Behind them, the hovel door bursts open with a cracking noise and soldiers stream into the small room, muskets pointed at David and at him, ordering them outside. “Remember,” he murmurs, eyes tracing David’s face. “What comes after you are afraid.” David’s veins are full of snowmelt and he can’t catch a full breath. When the officer approaches, he says there is nothing he can do, that David’s presence has doomed the man, that he has condemned him as a traitor for harboring the enemy. Afterward, David looks at the body of his lover — not a traitor, just a man trying to do good while on a different side of a terrible war — spilling so much red against new-fallen snow, and then he looks up at his executioners and he is gone. # “Do you remember what it is now, David?” she says, and one dark brown hand is on David’s sunburned arm and the other grips the horn-rimmed glasses on a chain around her neck. David must have been working through the facts again. He shakes his head, catching his fedora as it slips sideways. “Remember what what is?” She smiles at David like a secret, lips painted ruby in a mahogany face. Her eyes are green and gold and as beautiful as the universe. “Me.” “You are right here.” David frowns in confusion and covers her hand with his own. “You came to me for help getting the news out to stop these riots and lynchings. I will always remember how frightened I am for you.” The smile tips on one side, inviting him into the secret with her. Glass shatters as something comes through the front window of the office and hits her on the side of the head. She falls to the floor and David runs to her, dropping to her side as something else, something flaming, volleys in and lights the curtains up. He cannot hear the mob shouts outside over the sound of the screaming in his own head. “Remember,” she demands, eyes intent on David’s face. “What comes after you are afraid. You’re so much closer than you’ve ever been.” David’s heart is pounding and the tears rolling down his cheeks begin to evaporate in the blazing heat. When the fire fighters arrive, there is nothing they can do. They look at the burned bodies of the lovers — doing no harm to anyone, just an interracial couple trying to find a way through the world — curled together, and pronounce them gone. # “Do you remember what it is now, David?” he asks, and one hand is on David’s bare upper arm and the other takes a colorful cocktail from the bartender. David must have been distracted by all of the people dancing in the club. He shakes his head, feeling his single earring bounce against his jaw. “Remember what what is?” He smiles at David like a secret, teeth gleaming in a tanned, glowing face. His glitter-lidded eyes are green and gold as as beautiful as the universe. “Me.” “You —” David wraps an arm around his waist and scoops him in, pressing a kiss to the side of his head — “are right here. Why do I need to remember when I have you right now?” The smile wavers. The music changes to something with a heavy rattling bass. Someone screams and David smiles for a moment, thinking it is enthusiastic joy for the new song. Then multiple people are screaming, and the bass noise misses a beat and resumes in a rapid burst and David recognizes it as gunfire. “Get down!” he yells to the bartenders, and leaps the counter, dragging his lover after him and shoving him down to the floor. His hands are slick and he goes to wipe them on his tight jeans, thinking he put them down in a spilled drink, but they’re red with blood. He can’t hear the gunfire or screaming anymore over the sound of the ringing in his ears. “Remember,” his lover whispers, eyes luminous in the half-dark under the countertop. “What comes after you are afraid. Do you remember?” David is shaking but he yanks his tank top off and folds it quickly into a makeshift tourniquet. “Shut up talking like that. You’re going to be fine, okay?” He wraps the shirt bandage around his lover’s arm above the gushing wound, finding a mixing spoon someone had dropped on the floor nearby and using it to tighten the shirt until his lover winces and cries out. “Here,” someone else says quietly, and David turns to find one of the bartenders handing him a towel. “It’s clean.” David thanks him and presses the cloth against the wound. His lover is still gazing at him, lips going blue and cheeks paling under his makeup even as David watches, but his eyes still vibrant. David stares into them and for a moment he is so scared, so scared, there’s no room for anything else. There are whole past lives inside of those eyes, and he gasps in a desperate breath and he remembers . “I love you,” he chokes out. “I’ve found you, and I remember. Oh, God, fear was the only thing I knew for a very long time. But I've always loved you, from the beginning of everything.” His lover smiles, and it is like a supernova expanding inside his being, and even though David is still too small to contain it, he isn’t afraid anymore.


Content warning: adult content Star Light

Was I really watching a man walk out of the sea towards me? Or was I finally going mad? The soft shushing of the waves as they moved through the shingle was background to my tangled thoughts – thoughts, ideas and visions. It felt as though my brain was going to explode. I struggled to hold on, afraid to let go. What would happen if I did let go? I giggled as the cartoon picture of a brain exploding flashed behind my eyes.            The night was dark yet bright. The sky black and lit with countless stars.  Why did the romantics talk of millions of stars?  How could they know? Had anyone counted them? The new moon was clear and sharp and high. Where was the man in the moon? Who was he looking at when turned away from us? The sea was soft and dark, tiny wavelets tipped with starlight headed toward my spot on the shore, reaching for me but never quite making it. What was I doing here, all alone? What impulse had drawn me to this quiet beach on a dark summer’s night? Who was the man who was walking out of the ocean? I only knew this was where I needed to be at this time. I don’t know how long I had been sitting there demanding answers from the universe to questions I didn’t know to ask but I realised I had been watching a glow deep in the ocean growing closer and brighter. A sense of excitement and anticipation held me still. Then, out of the glow walked a man.            My life was good, I had a job I enjoyed and excelled at, family I loved and good friends I could trust, but there was always something missing, always had been and I thought always would be. I looked for love but it always fell short. My job fulfilled my ambition, my friends meant I need never be alone but something was always that little bit out of reach. As a child I was different or so my parents told me, I dreamt vividly and talked of strangers in my room, I knew things I couldn’t explain. I’d been treated by doctors, psychiatrists and counsellors galore until I learned to keep my mouth shut and gradually the dreams stopped coming and the strangers stopped visiting and I became “normal”. I developed a quiet interest in all things paranormal trying to explain myself but nothing clicked. As I grew older (and brainier) I began to study Astronomy, the stars became my friends, I knew them and recognised them in the night sky. I listened for their songs. I dreamt of travelling out into the cosmos but becoming an astronaut was beyond me so I studied from Earth and continued to dream. So here I was on a star laden, soft sandy beach, a moon smiling down on me and I was alone but not lonely as I had my stars and my dreams and a dark handsome man walking towards me, the waves parting before him.

           Why wasn’t I on my feet and running for my life? Why did I have the sense that this was what I’ve been waiting for all my life?            ‘James Bond, I suppose.’ I quipped as he walked up the shore. He was dressed in plain trousers and jumper, nothing out of the ordinary except – ‘Why aren’t you wet?’ I asked. Again, why wasn’t I freaking out? Why did all this seem natural, almost pre-ordained, familiar. The stars gave just enough light to see his smile and it warmed my heart. He ran his finger down my cheek as he sat down beside me. ‘Who are you? Where have you come from?’ Finally my brain began to work. ‘I know you. You visited me a long time ago. You came in the night.’            ‘You know me. I’ve been waiting for you to call me and now you have.’ His voice – how to describe his voice? Suffice it to say it resonated through me, touching all the empty spaces. I knew that voice. As ridiculous as this was, I knew everything was OK.            So he held me in the moonlight and it was like coming home. ‘You will never be alone again,’ he whispered as he gently made love to me. The shingle became the softest mattress, the sounds of the sea the most romantic music, the slight breeze filled the air with perfume.            As we came together, I needed, I wanted. I reached for him. There were no more words, clothes disappeared and the mutual dance began. What was two became one in every sense of the word. Lightning flashed across the skies and in my heart. The world exploded around us and for one glorious moment I was one with the stars, this I felt on a molecular level, I heard the stars sing and felt their light fill me. Then I was whole again, but more, more than myself, he was part of me and I was part of him. I was just – more.            I drifted slowly back on to the sandy beach with a sense of contentment but sorrow. I didn’t want to leave the stars but I now knew them. My body was sated and fulfilled but my mind wanted answers, questions were clammering to be asked but I didn’t want to spoil this perfect moment. If only I could switch off my brain and just enjoy. He turned me into his arms and we held tight knowing time was precious. We watched the stars and we talked. He told me of his world – straight on to Alpha Centauri and turn left. I told him how there had always been something missing and he told me how he had felt the same but now we were whole. He told me how he would leave but try to return, I told him I would wait for him but we both knew this was a moment out of time. Could I go with him? Could he stay? Questions we never asked, knowing it was impossible.

           We watched the stars blink out, one by one, and the sky lighten in the east. I closed my eyes, I could not watch him walk away but I knew I would never be alone again. I was where I should be, everything was in its place. My empty places were filled, I would always have a piece of my man from the stars, I knew I would forever walk with one foot on the earth and one foot amongst the stars.


His ragged cardboard sign read, “NEED FOOD – PLEASE HELP.” He indeed looked hungry—dirty, skinny, even feeble. I had seen him—or others like him—many times at this intersection under an overpass. I never give anything to those beggars. I have been suckered too many times. A recent neighborhood chat room proclaimed that these people are not truly homeless. “They just don’t have jobs. It is more profitable for them to beg than to labor all day. At the end of the day, they get into their cars and drive home.” I suspect there is no data to substantiate such a claim; it is simply the complainer’s own contempt and wishful thinking. Still, I always feel a tinge of guilt and try not to look them in the eye while I wait for the light to change so I can drive away. But this time something struck me, a face devoid of emotion, a bleak mood that somehow affected me. I was tempted—not to hand over cash, but perhaps to at least to talk to this man and see if he would share his story. I rolled down my window and he limped over. “Are you really hungry?” I asked. He nodded, deadpan. “Yeah, I haven’t eaten anything since yesterday.” “I’ll tell you what. ‘You see that restaurant over there on the corner? If you meet me there, I’ll buy you lunch.” He hesitated, looked over at the restaurant, observed the empty seat next to me, shrugged, said “Okay,” and walked away. It took me a couple minutes to get parked and to find him standing with a backpack near the restaurant’s door. The receptionist looked suspiciously at us, but she led us both to a booth. “Order whatever you want,” I told him. After placing our orders (his was not extravagant), I got down to business. “If you don’t mind sharing, I would like to know a little bit about you. My name’s Bob, by the way. I’ve seen you around this neighborhood before. I promise I won’t share anything you tell me with police or anybody else you don’t want to know.” He hesitated, but told me his name. (I’ll call him Max – not his real name.) Max didn’t seem to want to talk. “Look,” I said, “you don’t have to tell me anything, but I really do want to understand how we’ve come to be facing each other today. I’m not here to judge you. I only want to understand you.” His distrust seemed to dial down a notch. “What do you want to know?” “Feel free to tell me – or not tell me—anything. Like, how old are you?” He looked at me for almost a minute, silently evaluating, and then apparently trusting me enough to say, “Thirty-two.” “Are you homeless? Where do you sleep?” Again, a moment of hesitation. “I try to sleep where nobody can see me, usually outside.” “Do you have a tent?” “Nope. Too much trouble. I only have what I can carry.” His weathered backpack sat on the seat next to him. “Where are you from?” Another narrowing of the eyes and a deliberate lowering of his head. “You mean recently?” “You tell me.” Now he looked up and closed his eyes, as though remembering. “I was born in a little town in west Texas. I don’t remember much about it. My mom and me, we moved a lot. I don’t remember nothin’ about my father. There were a lot of men in my life. Every time things got tough with one of ‘em, my mom would pack me up and we’d move to the next place. So, I guess you’d say, I’m from Texas.” He had revealed more than I had expected. I had to choose my next words carefully to keep this door open. “Your mom must have loved you a lot.” His face hardened and he stared directly at me. I was certain I had overstepped. “No,” he said, and shook his head slowly. “I wouldn’t say that at all. She was stuck with me, is all. I was nothin’ but a burden to her, especially when she was courting some guy.” This time I was uncomfortable and not sure what to say next. “Do you still keep in touch?” He studied his plate. “Nope. I ran away when I was sixteen. I don’t know if she’s alive or dead. I don’t care.” Uncomfortable silence. “Where did you go?” “No place particular. I had friends. I was still in school, and I wanted to finish. I can’t remember how many schools I’d been in. My friends would help me stay with them or with other people.” “Friends are always good.” Empty platitudes. His expression darkened. “Not always.” Okay, should I follow up on this, or let it be? “Like how?” I finally asked. Again, that stare. “I don’t want to talk about it.” “Fair enough. Did you finish high school?” “Barely. Nobody came to see me graduate. I enlisted in the army the next day.” He winced and pulled his hand down to his belly. Maybe that had brought back a bad memory. “Are you alright?” “Yeah.” Max dabbled at his lasagna. “It’s just a pain that I live with. Sometimes it reminds me it’s still there.” “What’s still there? Do you have cancer or something?” “Nothing like that. I have this piece of shrapnel that they couldn’t take out, so every once in a while, it stabs me.” Awkward moment. “Well, thank you for your service.” Another platitude until I could think of what to say next. “You were injured in Afghanistan?” “I don’t want to talk about it.” I let the topic go. “Do you have any other family?” Max stopped chewing and looked past me. “Yeah” he said. “Sorta.” “Sort of?” He pursed his lips and avoided looking at me. “I was married once. I met Annie while I was in the army and fell in love. It was great, even though army life is tough. I have a little girl.” Max’s eyes watered. He closed them and he stopped eating or talking. I stayed silent, afraid to disturb this moment. Finally, I asked quietly, “Where is she?” “Annie? She died.” He said this dispassionately, as though telling me the temperature. More awkward pause. “I’m sorry to hear that.” Max shrugged. “It is what it is.” I asked the next obvious—but risky—question. “Where is your little girl?” I wasn’t ready for his response. He set his silverware down, faced over his shoulder toward the ceiling, as big tears ran down his cheeks. “I don’t know.” He began to sob. He put his face in his hands and blubbered for about a minute while I waited, not knowing how to react. Finally, through sniffles, he continued. “I’m sorry. It’s just . . . I love that little girl. And I don’t know where they’ve taken her.” “Who?” “You know, CPS or whatever they call the foster organization.” “She’s in a foster home? What is her name?” “I don’t know if she’s in a home or an institution or what. I only know what I don’t know.” His tears were still flowing, and his eyes were red. “Her name’s Maxie.” I felt uncertain about whether or how to comfort this man. I could only wait and listen. “I’m sorry,” Max said again. “I didn’t mean to dump on you.” “It’s alright. I asked for it. I want to hear your story. Please continue if you want to.” It didn’t seem like Max wanted to continue. He had stopped eating and stopped talking, apparently lost in thought. Finally, he said, “I don’t know how to find her.” I searched for something reassuring to say. “Maybe they’re trying to find you too. How would they find you?” The question seemed to sober him. “I don’t know. They can’t find me. Nobody can find me. I don’t exist anymore.” I smiled. “You do exist. I see you right here, a grown man loving his little girl.” He almost smiled but didn’t say anything. “There are organizations that can help you. Have you asked VA or anybody to assist you?” “VA doesn’t want to help me much.” “Really? Why is that? You’re a wounded veteran. I would think they would want to help you.” He grimaced again, looking at my plate but seeing something else in his mind. After a long pause he said, “I have a ‘less than honorable discharge.’ That makes me less than human.” My turn to be silent for a while. Finally, I said, “Is that something you can talk about?” He shrugged. “I got in a fight with a guy. Hurt him pretty bad. He went to the brig. I got discharged.” “He went to the brig? Did he start the fight?” “Nope. He didn’t go there for fighting. He went for what he did. To Annie.” I was stunned. My mind sizzled with all sorts of possibilities, and I was afraid to touch any of them. In the end, I simply waited for what seemed an awfully long time. Max had tears in his eyes again. Finally, he said, “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” “Fine.” I was grateful to change the subject and keep the conversation going, even though I really wanted to know what had happened to Annie. “So, after you got out, were you able to get a job?” “Sometimes. Usually part-time, nothing permanent. I learned to be a pretty good mechanic in the army, but I had other issues.” “Issues?” “Yeah. One was all the pain meds the army had given me. Opioids. I couldn’t kick them. I still need them.” He winced again. “What else?” “Another was stability. I had jobs, but they didn’t pay enough for me to rent a place. Or if I did, I didn’t have money left over for anything else. After I missed the rent and got evicted a couple of times, nobody would rent to me again. “The other was the bad conduct discharge. Not many people want to help somebody with a record like that, especially for a record of violence.” I felt an involuntary fear pop up. I hoped my next words would sound gentle and not shaky. “Are you violent?” He shrugged. “I guess you could say I have anger management issues.” “Lots of people do. So do I, sometimes. Have you tried counseling?” Max looked at me as though trying to remain patient with an inattentive child. “Have you ? Do you know what those costs? Who’s going to pay for it. I already told you VA doesn’t care about me anymore.” “I’m not so sure about that. VA helps a lot of vets with PTSD and drug dependency issues. Even some with felony prison records. You deserve assistance. What if I could direct you to somebody who could take your case to the VA? And, maybe even to Child Protective Services? His face brightened slightly, hope and distrust conflicting in his mind. “Could you?” “Yeah. I know an organization with an outreach program that could get you on a housing list, get you some medical help, some food, and guide you through the government maze.” I gave him a couple of minutes to digest this information, his struggle to trust and distrust. “Would you?” “Sure. Would you like me to take you there today?” The devil on my shoulder was shouting in my ear: Are you nuts? You’re going to let this vagrant get in the car with you? Alone? He already told you he gets violent! You’re tempting danger! Max pondered some more, then said. “Okay” he smiled. And so did I. An hour later I introduced Max to the folks at the assistance center, and left with the promise to check in on him from time to time. His last words before I left: “Thank you for listening to me.” Driving home, I couldn’t help feeling selfishly good about having given into the temptation to listen to another person. Temptation is not so bad.


The thing about death is that it takes a very long time. There’s planning to be done. There’s the wake and the funeral and the food and the gifts. There’s phone calls and texts to be answered. First there are sleepless nights. Then you have the days spent staring at the ceiling. Then afternoons clearing out the house. All of this turning into weeks in your planner that you never bothered to fill out. You knew there was someone in charge of watching you. There was always someone to usher you to the church or the house or the grief counselor. How did they plan this? Mark had been hard. Knowing Mark had been hard. Losing Mark had been hard. Standing in front of the group, trying to explain how you felt about your sponsor’s untimely death. . .that was hard. But that was where Kristi was now. Trying to put it all into words. Her coffee was cold but she clutched it anyway. It was nice to have something to do with her hands. She had carefully practiced what she would say. She wasn’t going to cry. She would explain that she wanted to drink but wouldn’t. “That’s all I can do for him now. Just stay on track.” She would wax poetic about everything he did for her. “He came to my house. It was the middle of the night. He was probably risking his own sobriety to be there. . .but he brought me to this diner and he talked to me forever.” She would say a lot of things, as beautifully as she could muster. These people cared about him too, after all. They wanted answers and justice and peace as much as she did. But there were things Kristi just didn’t have the words for. And even if she had them she wasn’t ready to say them here. She wasn’t ready to use them yet. They stayed half-formed and hidden. Almost sacred to her. She didn’t know how to explain the kind of love she felt for Mark. He had become a lifeline.

He had started as an annoyance. At first she wanted nothing to do with him. AA was something to do so her boyfriend wouldn’t leave her.

“That relationship is doomed. You don’t want to change, so you won’t. He’ll see through it. Let’s go get some food.”

She had refused. Then she got fired.

“We don’t have to talk about your job. But you do need a friend right now.” She turned him down. Then it was a Tuesday. No special Tuesday. It shouldn’t have been a life altering Tuesday. But the coffee was warm when she’d shown up to the church basement. The conversation wasn’t as grating. After she’d taken her chip she walked over to Mark. She didn’t particularly like him. He was loud. He was pushy. He told fratty stories about college. But he was still there. He was still sober. He still asked her to lunch. Kristi believed in moving forward; as far as you can, as soon as you can. And today she wanted to. And today she could. So she crossed the room. “Hey, Mark? Are you hungry?” “Always!” And that had been the start.

Mostly they ate. When Kristi’s boss had called her incompetent they went for steaks. When Mark’s girlfriend had left him they got burgers. Their relationship was milkshakes and pancakes and sushi and that new Indian place and the great waffle spot two towns over. But they stayed sober. Kristi had someone to call. Mark had an emergency contact. They were tied together by the most fragile of strings, but they were both dedicated to not cutting them. And that’s why she wasn’t headed to the bar right now. She wouldn’t cut the strings. Different strings. But just as fragile. Just as important. She zeroed in on their favorite coffee shop (in this neighborhood). Kristi knew what she had to do. Coffeeshop, straight home, an old Beach Body video to tire her out, bed. She just had to keep her mind busy. Today wasn’t as bad as the funeral. It wasn’t as bad as her 90 day chip. Mark would have told her not to be self-indulgent. “You don’t get to relapse because it’s poetic.”

So she bee-lined. “Coffee isn’t going to do the trick today, bud. We both know that.” Kristi spun around at the voice. It was rough, like cigarettes and sporting events. Then the outfit. Gray on gray. Sweats. Then the face. Oh. She was hallucinating.

“Sorry you look a lot like someone I know.” Shit. She had to get home. “Ha! I would hope so. Come on we’re getting pizza.” And he started walking away. The vision was exquisite. The person she trusted most in the world, here. He was right in front of her. His gait was the same. Cocky and slow. He ran a hand through his messy brown hair. He needed a haircut. He somehow miraculously climbed into the old Honda. The same car that she had ridden in countless times. The same car that had been scrapped last week. She got in. Of course she did. Mark was here. Mark wanted pizza. Years of alcohol abuse may have softened the mental blow of her dead best friend in the middle of the street, addressing her like it was any other day. But even if she wasn’t acutely aware of all the ways reality could blur, she would have climbed into the car. When your most important person asks you to get into the car, you get it. Even if they’re dead, apparently. She was quiet for a moment. “I suppose you have questions?” he asked kindly as he turned the ignition. Kristi was digging her finger into a hole under the seat, making sure it was still there. She checked the mirror for the old scratches. The dash for a packet of his favorite gum. All there. “Yeah. . .” “Welp. . .I’ve never been here to answer your questions. I’m here to shoot the shit and help you feel better and pay for your dinner and send you home a little better than I found you, same as always, alright?” “Mark. . .” “Same as always, ok Kristi?” She wouldn’t push. She was scared to. It was all borrowed. Hallucination or not it would end. Maybe she could lean into this. Maybe if she just sat back it wouldn’t dissolve. “Ok. Sure.”

They started winding through streets. He was driving more carefully than usual. Kristi wanted to say something, but there was a wall. She felt herself welling up just a bit. She sniffled, but Mark was kind enough not to comment. “I miss you.” “I miss you too.” She broke. The tears started rolling down her cheeks. She was usually a person more prone to anger. At her lowest points Mark had rarely seen her cry. Mostly she yelled. But here she was, a blubbering mess in his Honda. He just silently reached over her into the glove compartment and handed her some napkins. “Do you know why we always get food, Kristi?” She sniffled and turned to him. “No?” she sobbed. Mark was not phased. “Dopamine. When you stop drinking your body craves it. You can’t make it right anymore. And it’ll start up again and go back to normal, but that’s why it’s so hard in the beginning. Your body doesn’t have any dopamine and your brain wants it. So you drink.” “Ok?” Mark wasn’t usually very scientific. Death had changed him, apparently. “So when we eat like we do, our brains get a little dopamine kick.” “What are you even talking about right now?” “You need dopamine. We’re gonna go eat so you don’t go drink. And the dopamine kick will help. And also probably the guilt from seeing me again. Like. . .imagine how pissed I’ll be if you drink tonight.” “How will you know?” “Shit!” Mark laughed his huge, robust laugh, “No spoilers!” It was all surreal. Mark was in a restaurant, charming the waiter. Mark was folding his pizza in half. Mark was stealing a lone pepperoni off her plate mid sentence. He was the same. He updated her on the Cubs, even though he knew she didn’t watch. He asked about her love life. “Let me play on your dating apps! You need a support system!” He wouldn’t answer her questions or explain anything. But she didn’t really push. Like when you realize you’re dreaming, but you don’t want it to end. He was here in the booth. Even if it didn’t make sense she wasn’t willing to fight it. She wasn’t ready to give it up. She interrupted him. “We need to get ice cream.” “Ok, boss.” So they stayed out. The world grew dark around them. They slowly meandered down the street. There was a pretty good place nearby. They’d been there before.

“So, how long do I have you for?” She finally got the courage to ask. She was worried he would evaporate as some further punishment. “As long as you need me.” “Oh. That’s great. I’ll just keep needing you then.” “I was kind of hoping you would stop needing me after dinner.” “What?” “One day at a time, remember? Tonight will be rough. Tomorrow might be impossible. You’re always a mess at Christmas. But you’re going to do it. You’re already doing it. Just because it’s hard doesn’t mean it isn’t worth the adjustment.” “So why even come back?” She was red hot for a second. It felt like anger but it might have been panic. “Maybe it’s not for you.” “Just wanted to support some local businesses from beyond the grave?” It sounded more bitter than she'd meant it to. “It was for me, Kristi. I had to make sure you were okay. It’s my job, right?” “Oh.” “Yeah. And I guess I needed a dopamine kick too. Don’t get a big head about it.” “Oh. Okay then.” Mark breathed out a heavy sigh. Maybe they would just walk for a while. Just until they were ready.


If you were to ask me who I am, I would be inclined to lead you astray. Not necessarily for the sake of maleficence, but rather for the joy of mischievousness. You see, I must deceive in order to achieve my objective. It is my inclination and my delight. I mean no harm, and you will take no offense, so long as you are capable of laughing at yourself. But, woe to the one who takes offense. For if you cannot get along with me, you will most certainly learn how to get along without me, unwittingly banishing hope in the process. To forsake the very nature of me is to forsake merriment. Many a men have done that very thing, and almost all have lived to regret it.

There is, however, one such tragedy which ended quite happily, and the tale ‘tis my favorite of them to recount. It all started on a country road in the foothills of the Tennessee mountains. Provos often took great pleasure in gliding around the sleek twists and turns of the roads carved into the solid sheets of bedrock abutting his property. He spent hours on sunny days winding through the terrain, letting the thrill of the ride purge his soul and center his spirit. During one such ride, Provos found himself stranded on a back road as the result of engine failure. After several futile attempts to start the engine, he surrendered in a flustered and swift motion which combined swatting his kickstand and dismounting his bike.

Provos spent a few minutes trying to diagnose the problem, but he admittedly knew little about the inner workings of machines, preferring instead to simply enjoy their utility, so within minutes he resigned himself to the circumstance. Not wanting to leave his bike out in the open where others might be tempted to steal it, but seeing no wisdom in trying to tote it along on his unforeseeable trek toward help, he wheeled it to a clearing which had a cluster of trees in the middle of it and used several downed branches to camouflage his bike until he could return to it. Provos then began the journey toward the direction he thought was most likely the easiest access to the assistance he needed. It was at least a couple of hour’s walk, but there was a decent chance that he would pass someone along the way who would offer help and make the journey shorter.

As it happened, I was traveling that same road, and was slated to the fated encounter the very same hour, so when we crossed paths, the event had already been on my radar for quite a few months, though the charade was of course, unknown to him altogether. “Hello, friend! Can I be of service? Is it that you perhaps need a lift?” I asked with an air of eagerness. “Hey man, yeah. My bike gave out on me a few miles back. Can you give me a lift into town?” His reply was cool and even. “Hop in!” I responded, rather coolly myself (in direct imitation, as is my nature.) I was sure to enjoy this fellow. He had pride oozing out of every orifice of his body.  It was only a matter of time before I began to dismantle him and claim what remained. Oh what fun awaited me! We drove in silence for a few minutes. What a relief it was to not have to make much small talk. Such trifles can be taxing. However, my anticipation mounted as I awaited, somewhat impatiently, for him to speak. While small talk is useless, it is transitory, and necessary. He finally broke the silence and asked me what kind of engine my vehicle contained. I was amused by his question since I knew that he would fain to engage in such trivialities without any real inclination toward the topic. He was pleased by my uneducated response, which made him confident that he knew more than I about machines. The cockwomble was completely oblivious to my own vast expertise of machinations, and so, we continued happily, each with his own budding agenda. After several such strokes to his overly-inflated ego, my groundwork was laid.

I immediately set to work, calculatedly retaliating against his latest statements. I spoke with vastly more knowledge in the area that he claimed to be so astutely studied in, and so to save face, he quickly retreated and back peddled. He did not handle it well. His offense of me was thick and obvious, but being in his vulnerable position of receiving help at my hands, he, of course, predictably repressed himself. It was such a rookie mistake; so contrived, and yet somehow still ingenuous. He was enigmatic, for his predictability was tapered by an intrusive je ne sais quoi. There was something about him that lingered; something that cut through the obvious facade and managed to project a quality almost resembling sincerity. To be quite frank, it surprised me, and unnerved me, and I’m not in the habit of either. So when I received this impression from him, I caught myself contemplating the nature of my prank. For, my follies are only ever and always enjoyable because they are directed toward those who would do likewise, had the power been granted to them, and all such creatures are without compassion. They are indeed quite incapable of the emotion. It is the lack of such a quality that makes it sensible for me to attain enjoyment from it all. Though Provos proved to be a conundrum, yet still, his pride was strong, his ego was heavy, and his weariness was great, therefore, I proceeded without hesitation. “Tell me Provos, what shall you do when you return to your bike and find it gone? The clearing is far enough off the road, and the branches did quite help conceal it, but nonetheless, it was evident the moment we saw you that you would abandon your otherwise beloved machine on account of the hardship of towing it.” It took him a moment to register that I knew his name. It took him a bit longer to process the rest of my words, but in mere seconds, his face paled a few shades and he turned and looked at me with an incredulity and a suspicious and guarded air.

“What the hell are you talking about, man? How in the hell do you know my name? You been following me?” I replied as coolly as before. “Oh yes, quite. I’ve been following you for months now. I’ve seen the roads you take, and when you take them, and why. I’ve seen the arguments you’ve had with the people in your life and your selfishness for always seeing your own point of view and rarely, if ever, stepping into another’s. It’s quite entertaining. I’ve seen the decline of your soul, which has contributed to the decline of your life, and all the hopelessness that has ensued on account of it. However, I know enough about you to also disclose that you believe that you have no soul, and so then it should be of no consequence to you that I am about to offer to purchase it from you. What say you to this?” The joy of the words in these moments were always the catharsis that propelled me forward in the mire of humanity. To infringe upon the constructs of the ignorant mind who insists otherwise is the construct of my own device and the height of my own hubris. To challenge these mortals and beat them at their own game gave me great pleasure. It imparted the same euphoria to me that they extracted from their own victims in their miserable existence. Befitting, wouldn‘t you agree? These worker bees spend their whole lives collecting superiority as though it were pollen, all to serve their queen, or their prince, as it were, to their own demise. Ah, the ignorance of fools is delicious! My pleasure was somewhat thwarted in this moment, however, as Provos did something contrary to the nature of narcissism. Indeed, he did something that only someone touched by true love would be capable of doing. He broke the power of the illusion by humbling himself to truth. “Hey listen, man. I don’t know who you are or how you know all these things, but, it’s obvious that you’ve got my number. What exactly is it that you plan to do?” Provos was calmer than a man should be in his position. I had to think quickly. “Oh, such a simple exchange. You love things and you use people. I admire that trait and wish to purchase the soul that you don’t believe you have anyway. In exchange, I can offer you a fleet of motorcycles. None of them will ever get a scratch on them. Regardless of how much you ride them, they will remain immaculate. I know how much inner turmoil you suffer on account of those minor flaws in your paint detail. I know how you can’t sleep at night without obsessing for hours over them. I know how much time you spend meticulously poring over every inch of your bike in fine detail, in natural light, in your garage’s light, and with your work lamp, as well. Provos, tsk tsk, it’s a consuming illness. It steals your ride time, it steals the time you spend with others and it steals your focus to care about their problems. You have no room in your life for anything else. This will solve all of your problems. You need only to sign on the line my fellow, and all will be yours.” It was so simple. Collecting souls. Finding the weak link and then exploiting it. If you can convince them that the answer to their problems exists outside of themselves and their own selfish psychosis, then they’ll sign away the rights to their soul, because the selfish are short-sighted. They never invest in the idea of eternity. It’s the perfect crime. However, Provos hesitated. It was uncommon. Indeed, in my line of work, it was almost unheard of. I had to fill the silence. “I see you’re a man of wisdom. I shall sweeten the deal. I’ll throw in the deed to your house and property as well as an unending reserve of gasoline. Think of the benefit to that, my fellow!” Hook, line, and sinker!!! ...or so I had imagined. But still, Provos hesitated. He did not speak. I gave him time for his silence now, as I thought surely that he would come to see the beauty of my deal and decide for it. But, there is a limit to my own vision. I am bound by time, like the rest of you lot. Only once has this caused a hindrance for me, and it was upon this occasion. For what I had not anticipated was that Provos had recently met his true love, Kryptos. I had not known of it for he had concealed the matter even from himself, having been terrified of the prospect and having done all he could to sabotage the match, she’d all but disappeared from his life. But, ‘twas true love. And true love casts prints on a soul that change it. The seed plants itself inconspicuously and seemingly inauspiciously, and yet, a single ray of light and a single droplet of water will cause it to sprout and grow until it completely encompasses that which surrounds it.

I had come too late. The seed had sprouted, even in that very moment. Provos spoke the words that vanquished me.

“I’m not sure whether or not I have a soul. But, if I do, then it would be foolish to sell it to you. And if I don’t, then I don’t see why you’d be so eager to purchase it. So, no, I will not take your deal. Now what happens?” But as I stated, those words vanquished me, and so the construct of illusion quickly deteriorated and Provos found himself back on his bike, enjoying the roads he loved to drive so much, none the wiser to our encounter, but with the new thought of reconciliation in his mind, reconciliation with Kryptos, despite the humility it would require of him. He remembered nothing of the encounter with me, only the idea that his love for Kryptos must be real, for being willing to humble oneself is the pinnacle of love.

And so, despite my best efforts, true love triumphed over me, my one sworn enemy. If you were to ask me who I am, I would be inclined to lead you astray, for I am fallibility.