“You can’t look at it directly. Well, I lie. You shouldn’t look at it directly.” The man was standing in front of a framed painting hanging in the back room of the dusty apartment. A clean sheet was artfully draped over it. “I have it covered as you see,” he continued, “it’s been inconsolable since Mrs. Shasta passed. We aren’t quite sure how to safely move it.” The movers frowned; this was not usual. But unusual was their specialty. “Is it screwed to the wall or something?” The taller one asked. “How fragile is it?” What the shorter one was actually asking was, how expensive would it be if it broke. Sidestepping both questions the man asked, “Are you sure you’re up for this? You do have experience with this sort of thing, correct?” “Of course, this is our specialty.” Said the tall one. Let’s call him Owen. But the shorter one looked worried. It was a big painting, and the staircase was very narrow. “Luke,” said Owen, for that was the short one’s name. “Get the tool kit, we’re making a crate for this one. Get the aluminum foil as well. As is the case with most paintings that have taken a turn for the sentient. They had a tendency to unexpectedly pun. Too much punning was never good. Aluminum foil was simply a cheap way to make sure that nothing shiny in the painting could reflect anything back, or onto, the viewer. Self-reflection was greatly discouraged. This particular painting had been hanging in the back room of Mrs. Shasta’s apartment for its entire career. It had become unexpectedly self-aware one late November evening on the occasion of Mrs. Shasta’s sixtieth surprise birthday party. A series of mishaps too numerous to recount here, had culminated in a very painful bite, given by Mrs. Shasta’s horrible Pomeranian to a distant niece. Said niece had stepped on the dog, hard. It was an accident, but she wasn’t sorry. That Pomeranian had it coming. The badly bittern niece duly started to bleed a copious amount of blood all over a crochet doily that Mrs. Shasta prized. In the ensuing chaos, somehow, this bloody doily was flung and hit the painting in the face. Sometimes that’s all it takes. “What does the painting do?” Luke blurted. He had read about the doily incident in the work order. The man looked affronted. “Do? It doesn’t do anything. It’s a painting.” While the credentials of the movers were solid, the man standing in front of the painting was not impressed with them so far. “It makes you do the doing.” He shrugged, nothing for it, these were the movers on hand. “I have another appointment. Please lock up on the way out.” Luke, not reading the room, asked one more question as the man turned to leave, “What happened to the dog?” The man paused but did not turn around, “Oh, the dog? It outlived Mrs. Shasta for sure. Do be careful on the stairs.” Alone with each other, and the painting of course, the movers got to work. Owen hadn’t wanted to take Luke on this job, but he was very good with aluminum foil and the owner's son, so there had been no real choice in the matter. The painting sat deep in its ornate gilded frame. The cream cotton sheet covered it completely as it hung sullenly on the wall. The cloth did not come close to touching its surface but billowed slowly, like shallow breathing. Luke could swear there was some kind of light … “Are you looking at the painting?” said Owen sharply. “No.” Luke lied. “Help me get it off the wall.” It was as heavy as it looked, and larger than they thought. There wasn’t enough floor space to put it face down, so they laboriously put it back on the wall and moved the furniture to make more room. This revealed a few ancient and well chewed tennis balls, nested in puffs of dust. Once safely back on the wall, the cloth covering slyly started to slide off, revealing one ornate gilded acanthus leaf. They caught it just in time, before it revealed more than just the frame. “Let’s get the packing material down on the floor first. We’re going too fast. We have to be systematic.” Owen was starting to sweat. He thought the painting might be blue. He shouldn’t know that. “One, two, three - lift.” They placed the painting face down on the matted mauve carpet. “We forgot the packing material. We didn’t put it down.” Luke said in a whisper. He backed up to the cobweb encrusted wall where the painting had hung. “Happens. Calm down Luke. It’s still face down.” But Owen gave the painting a quick glance to make sure. “Get the stuff. I want to get this over with.” Owen wanted a beer and his recliner, the one he had to fight the cat for. They both left the back room to regroup. Luke took out the heavy-duty aluminum foil. No way was he going to use the cheap stuff from the dollar store. Not for this job. “Did you measure it?” asked Owen. “The aluminum foil?” “No Luke. The painting.” “Can we just go?” “No Luke. We can’t just go.” Not for the last time Owen wished the kid had stayed at the office. The painting disliked carpeting. It disliked the color mauve as well. While it was no easy task, while the two men were in the other room, it decided to face the other direction. But it coyly stayed draped in the cream fabric, no point in frightening the gentlemen. Luke gave a panicked shriek when he entered the back room with the packing materials. “What is it? What happened?” “I thought we placed it face down!” He dropped everything on the floor, disturbing the thick layer of dust on the carpet, then started to cough. Luke was not rising to the occasion. “Luke, why don’t you go downstairs and get us some sandwiches from that corner place?” Handing him a wad of crumpled bills he continued, “I’ll take a turkey on rye and a coffee. Two sugars.” Luke, grateful for the excuse to leave the building, grabbed the money and ran down the stairs. Upon reaching the street he decided that he wasn’t feeling well. With only a slight twinge of guilt, Luke texted his dad that he was going home for the day, he thought it was something he ate. He’d pay Owen back later. Owen’s demeanor changed after Luke left. He wasn’t expecting him to come back with sandwiches. The guy was not up to this job, no matter his foil skills. It was probably better this way; he’d talk to the boss tomorrow. Now it was time to get to business. The painting itself had enough. It did not want to leave its comfortable back room, no matter how much it disliked the carpeting. It did not want to be literally man-handled down a narrow staircase. It wanted to stay put. With only one gentleman left, it had to figure out how to get back on its wall. “You do know it’s nothing personal, right?” Owen addressed the painting, “I have a job to do, and that’s you. You have to go.” The painting looked so sad on the floor, so uncomfortable. The cloth was all bunched up in the center. He reached out to smooth it, to pull it out of the way… “You stop it. Stop it right now. I’ll get you down the stairs in pieces if you don’t cut it out.” Owen knew that was an empty threat and would most likely get him fired. Instead, he closed the blinds and turned the lights out through the apartment. He was going to do this by feel. That made all the difference. It took a while, all by himself and in total darkness, but he got the thing packed up, even if he did run out of aluminum foil halfway. It was a shame though, that he covered the back of the painting instead of the front. It was an honest mistake, but a mistake the painting had set up carefully. He only opened the blind tiny bit to check his work, but it was a bit too much. The sheet of fabric had long since fallen away, and was now too crumpled to use, never mind too far away to grab. There with perfect serenity was the portrait gently smiling at him from the floor. It was so beautiful. So very beautiful. The painting was not delivered to the warehouse. While the man was annoyed, he was not surprised. That’s the last time I use a service because I have a coupon , he thought to himself. An ancient Pomeranian snored beside him on the desk in a small pink bed. “There there my sweet poopsie, there there.” He stroked her fur as she slept, “there there.”


This was not how I had expected the day to go. “Come on, we need to run!” He grasped my hand and pulled me up off the blood stained floor. I had expected a nice coffee date, maybe a walk in the park. “ The police are probably on their way by now.” Pulling me behind him, I turned back hearing the sirens before seeing them but not longer after the red and blue lights followed. I might have even brought him back to my flat if he was really persuading. “Are you deaf, hurry the fuck up or do you wanna spend the rest of your life holed up in jail!?!” But no, instead I’m in a police chase with a guy I’ve not even known for 2 hours. I took in his appearance as we were running, the back of his neck slick with sweat and his hair being pushed back by the wind, cheeks bright pink and his eyes wild with either worry or happiness, I haven’t decided yet. Truth be told if it wasn’t for this he would probably be the perfect man for me, his glasses helped make the shape of his face, jawline patterned with one of those scruffy beards. Rounding us around a corner he he pushed me away backed up and kicked open a door to what I can presume is an abandoned building of some sort. Seeing that in a film would’ve made me swoon for the lead man thinking about how strong and manly he is but in this situation…. it’s probably the same actually. He looked me in the eyes with what I can only describe as a mixture of excitement and craze. “Do you not trust me?” quizzically he asked as he reached out his hand for me, “Do you know how cringy you sound and look right now, what are me in an action film?” I say thinking back to my previous thought not two seconds ago. his arm slumped down to his side almost reluctantly. “Alright, follow me then. Unless you just want to stand there like a soggy biscuit just waiting to be caught.” His voice slowly slipped into the building with him as he walked away and without even thinking my body urged me forward to follow him. The building is exactly what you would expect somewhere abandoned to look like, graffiti painted practically every wall, gang signs, swear words you name it, even a very crude picture of the queen and Boris Johnson doing what I can only describe as a very interesting sexual role play. A mixture of mold, urine and a smell I couldn’t even pinpoint filled the air. “Is this where you kill me because no witness left behind.” “Relax it’s not as if I robbed a bank or something I just got into a small fight.” “Small?” I scoffed, I couldn’t even tell if he was being serious " You got into a full on brawl which ended up smashing through the cafe window and now you’ve made me an accomplice!” Laughing he stood up and walked towards me sitting on an old wooden box I was stood beside. “Sit your paranoid arse down it wasn’t even that bad they will forget about it by the end of the week… probably. And I mean scheduled in for a haircut day after tomorrow so I won’t even look the same!” “Are you seriously thinking that a haircut is going to fix everything?” “No I was just making a bloody joke, trying to get you to smile.” “You really expect me to smile in this situation right now?” I couldn’t stand to be near him right now, pushing myself up I slowly walked towards the wall in front following all the intricate details painted on, not only could I not stay near him because of what happened but because I knew I didn’t even care about that, in fact it was probably the most fun I had in a while I just didn’t want to admit that. We sat in silence for an excruciating amount of time and I did kinda feel bad for him it wasn’t exactly his fault really was it, or am I just telling myself that? Slowly walking back towards him I take a seat on the floor a few steps in front of him and as he looks up to see what I’m doing, smiling he follows in suit sitting down his knees hitting mine. “Can I just say I was really looking forward to this date.” I surprised myself by smiling at this. “Me too, except I didn’t expect this to happen. Obviously.” “Well I mean we could just carry it on, minor set back and location change aside, where were we?” “Are you serious right now?” “Oh. I’m always serious.” Fake scowling at me, both of us began to laugh, was I really going to do this. Imagine what Emily is going to think when I tell her how her blind date set up ended. She told me he was a bit out there but all in all one of the kindest men she knew. Before everything that happened I was actually having a good time and we got along very well even upgraded from small talk to casual flirting and personal stories. “I think you were telling me about your friends birthday party this year.” He smiled and we carried on our conversations from before. It was actually really fun and the more I got to know him and pretend what happened didn’t exist I could really see myself falling in love with him, the way his eyes graze every part of my face as I spoke and I could tell how intently he was listening catching every little detail I said. When he was talking about his family his movements and speech were just so passionate as he told me about his very extensive family tree and loads of little anecdotes about everyone, you could see that the love for his family was truly there. As the sun was almost just out of sight through the windows and dark shadows were spreading across the floor, standing up he dusted himself off and reached a hand out for me, I smiled grabbing it and just as i caught my balance he grabbed my waist pulling me into him, every part of his body molding to mine as his eyes met mine with a stare I couldn’t decide was either happiness or worry, I’m sure mine was the exact same. “So even after everything that happened today this is probably one of the happiest days I’ve had in a while and I was just hoping that if we didn’t end up getting caught and thrown in jail you would consider going out with me again?” Smiling up at him I sarcastically said to him and hoped he knew I was joking. “I’m never going out with you again.”


“ Two cannibals are sitting around an open spit, after killing and roasting a clown. Pulling a piece of meat from the julienned joker, one of the cannibals takes a bite, then recoils from the odd taste. How old do you think that clown was? Asked the first cannibal, before offering a taste of the stringed bicep to his companion. No idea, came the reply from his hungry friend. Why? “Does he taste funny to you…? Taking a bite of the barbecued human flesh, the second cannibal shakes his head. Then, with a gesture of masticated dissatisfaction, he spits out the meat. …No, not funny, was the delayed reply before asking. Why do you think that is? With a wry smile, the first cannibal paused a moment, then jokingly replied, Because it’s not the humerus …” “What was a clown doing in cannibal country?” Asked a short-statured man listening to the barroom tale. “It’s an anecdote,” the joke teller replied. “Maybe he got lost,” came an unsolicited suggestion from one of the other listeners-in. “Perhaps, he got kidnapped from a travelling circus,” a third man piped up. “Gentlemen, you’re missing the point,” the tall tale stretcher frustratingly tried to halt the unsolicited analysis of his joke. “ It’s not the humerus, you know , humorous ?” He repeated the punchline, unsuccessfully attempting to correlate the similarity between the two words. Charles D. Bonerz stood amongst a group of his peers in the auditorium bar at the second annual Doctors Of Gender Science Conference . Earlier in the evening, he had given a speech to a full house of several hundred peers from the medical science profession on the identifiable nature of bone gender – namely, the elbow. In his speech, he distinctly outlined how the degree of sexual dimorphism in the humerus, can positively identify the gender of human remains, and that the results unambiguously countered the non-binary gender claims of those seeking to not be exclusively labelled male or female. He further added fuel to the Woke ideology debate of there being more than two sexes by stating that the humerus results scientifically debunked the toxicity of the Woke gender identification, utilising modern medical and scientific testing to categorically prove it. “ Humerus gender identification was nothing to be laughed at ,” he concluded to a round of applause as he rushed off to get a well-earned drink. “How would the cannibals know it was the humerus?” The first inquisitive doctor sought further clarification. “Because it would have tasted funny!” Charles once again attempted to emphasise the punchline. “Sorry, you are?” Charles squinted to read the name tag of his socially inept heckler. “ Doctor William Stroker,” he accentuated the surname, then hesitated as some schoolboy humour tickled his brain. “Yep, Dr Willie Stroker . That’s funny. Seems I’m not the only comedian in the room. Where did you come up with that one?” “My parents,” was the unimpressed reply. “…Really? Oh, sorry,” Charles stifled a chuckle. "What was your father’s name then, Richard ?” “Yes, how did you know?” Bursting into hysterical laughter, Charles quickly controlled his spontaneous ridicule, as he noticed no-one else in the group was laughing. “Forgive me,” Charles apologised. “That was quite juvenile of me. In answer to your question on cannibal Osteology,” Charles again tried to lighten the mood. “I believe they have a history of studying old bones …” Waiting for the slightest of responses, Charles found himself disappointed at the lack of his group’s sense of humour. “That may be so,” said, Dr Stroker. “But it still doesn’t explain why a circus chose to tour a region widely known for its headhunters.” “If I may,” an older Asian-looking gentleman spoke up. “My name is Dr Anass Rhammar.” He briefly stopped as Charles’ inner schoolboy hung on for a giggle at the sound of the Indian doctor’s name. “Yes, it is a common reaction,” Dr Rhammer explained, before smilingly adding, “And I can see how humerus it is to you, Dr Bonerz.” Capturing Charles’ attention with a shared adage of humour, Dr Rhammer continued. “A little jocularity of my own, gentlemen. Perhaps, you have read my book, The Rhammercations of Indigenous Nomadic Life . I’ve spent many years studying the behaviours of indigenous tribes of the Mapuche people of Southern Chile and can attest to their love of the ritual of the clowns. I found that clowning is a sort of social commentary enacted by them in response to their own lack of agency amidst the suffocating Chilean colonialism they have had to face for centuries.” “You’re referring to their feeling of disempowerment, unable to act on their own behalf to control their own destiny. That, that sort of stuff?” Dr Stroker stammered. “Precisely, my esteemed colleague. Your analogy is as sharp as a curare-tipped dart . Let’s hope you never sit on one accidentally. My goodness gracious, it will take your breath away and make you shit yourself clean.” Before continuing his story, Dr Rhammer paused for the laugh that never materialised. “Moving on, I would imagine in the scenario of Dr Bonerz’ story of the poor misfortunate clown, he may have been completely cognisant of his own roasting, as curare doesn’t cross the blood brain barrier. The one consolation from being roasted alive, is that he wouldn’t have felt a thing.” The open mouths of Charles and the rest of the group prompted Dr Rhammer to quickly sum up his medical and social study of the remote Chileans, before he got labelled, a Quack . “My point is that the indigenous people of Southern Chile feel unengaged with matters relating to governance. A kind of moral indictment to their belief that they are denigrated as being too Mapuche . So, the ritual of becoming clown-white, allows them to come to terms with their own plight.” Head bowed and eyes closed, Charles had sincerely tried to listen to the conversation circumventing his joke, but the ineptitude to get past the fact that Willie Stroker was discussing indigenous culture with Anass Rhammer , clouded his interpretation of the earnest and intellectual discussion. “What do you think, Dr Bonerz?” The older doctor brought him back to the moment. “I think I need another drink.” “But wait. Dr Stroker requested – halting Charles’ exit. “That still doesn’t explain how the clown ended up being eaten.” “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Stroker.” Charles snapped. “Maybe they were hungry!” “Hungry? Hungry?” Interrupted another listener-in. “That’s my department,” the cheerful new member of the group announced as his face darted back and forth over the right shoulder of Charles. “Doctor Geremy Feelgood, at your service. Feelgood’s the name, feel good you will, when I make you feel good … Delighted to meet you all.” Restrained from leaving by Dr Feelgood’s arm around his shoulders, Charles remained tight-lipped as he fought off a case of indifference, and politely nodded his head, hoping the interruption was momentary. “What’s your specialty, Dr Feelgood?” Dr Stroker asked. “Nutrition, old chap,” was the enthusiastic reply. “ What’s hot in gut rot , is my motto.” “Nutritionists aren’t doctors,” Charles rudely mentioned – hoping he could deter Dr Feelgood from staying. “Nonsense, dear boy. Utter rubbish,” Feelgood replied – speaking in a rapid response. “Seven years as a Gastroenterologist led me to seek out the practice of why we should eat what we eat and not why the hell did we eat what we ate … Bit of a tongue twisting analogy, there. Give it a try after a few drinks. Heaps of fun. However, to toot my own horn, I’m a fully qualified professional. Certificates to prove it on my website, drfeelgood.com - abbreviated.” “Dr Feelgood, I’m Dr Rhammer. I studied a little nutrition during my last trip to the jungles of the Amazon, seeking out the similarities between indigenous people of the Amazon basin.” “Fascinating, Dr Rhammer. I wasn’t aware that Chile was included in that geographic range. Sorry, I was rudely eavesdropping on your earlier conversation. I’m a great fan of the Betel Nut.” “Your little compass is pointing straight at my wide geographic location, Dr Feelgood, but unfortunately, your nuts point elsewhere. Different continent, I’m afraid.” “Is it? My goodness. I’m always getting them mixed up with Brazilians,” he laughed. “Which one’s the rounder one?” “That would be the Areca Nut - commonly known as the Betel.” “No, I’m sure it’s the other one.” “Answering your question, Dr. Feelgood,” Dr Rhammer continued. “You are correct. Chile is not part of the Amazon Basin. My study was purely to ascertain what type of common denominators exist in the natives of that vast continent. I quickly discovered that my search uncovered similarities more so in social standing than in cultural practices. Indigenous is a label we like to tag native people from a certain region with. However, when you journey into the interior of the region, it becomes apparent that it is a vast area encompassing many interpretations of various cultures – some, hidden for centuries from the rest of the world.” “Lucky fellows,” Dr. Feelgood commented. “I would suffice to say that they’re better off unmolested from modern man.” “Your statement holds a certain degree of truth, my friend,” Dr. Rhammer responded. “However, civilisation is fast encroaching on all remote areas of this planet and if nothing is done to halt it, so many things will be lost to the benefit of medical science.” “Okay,” Charles took advantage of the thought-provoking pause in the conversation. “Anyone else care for a drink?” “Darling!” The loud female voice landed in the middle of the group. “What have I missed?” With the look of someone frozen in time, Charles managed to squeeze out a surprised, “ Sarah ?” “Charles, darling. Great speech earlier. Have a few things needed to be discussed, argued – in fact. A few small points of Tacitus interpretation. In your language, a bone of contention.” “Very amusing,” Dr Rhammer commented. “Perhaps next year, the conference could include an open mic night for doctors with droll. Nothing like humour to break the ice.” “Sarah Bonerz, everyone! Well, that’s ex-Bonerz, now. Was married to this pineapple head for a while, until I found my true self. You could say that I am the driving force behind Chuck’s pointless quest to prove that there are only two sexes in our gene pool.” “Delighted!” Dr Feelgood said. “Feelgood’s, the name, to feel good is the game. I help a lot of women your size deal with weight loss, while helping them onto the righteous path of nutrition health.” Charles saw the look on his ex-wife’s face change into a disdainful grimace from Dr Feelgood’s tactless and shameless solicitation for business, so acted quickly to diffuse any potential inbound retort. “Dr Feelgood…” “Call me Geremy, old chap. No need for us all to be on a formal basis. It’s all peer-to-peer here, I suspect.” “Yes, thank you, Geremy .” “Charles.” “Geremy…” “Charles.” “For fuck’s sake, man. I’m trying to tell you that my non-binary ex-wife does not identify with gender labelling. She made that abundantly clear in our divorce papers. I quote, Inseparable indifferences to gender identities .” “Most sorry for your marital troubles, Charles,” Dr Rhammer consoled. “Thank you, Anass.” “Non-binary is not something that has cursed my culture, yet. In fact, we have become such a technological force to be reckoned with, that binary or non-binary solely exists in the digital space only.” “ Cursed ?” Sarah asked. “It is not a curse. It is a way of life.” “It’s a life choice,” Dr Stroker interjected.” “What, like crocheting or yoga?” Sarah insultingly asked. “Treat loads like you, I do,” Dr Feelgood attempted another overture. “Word of mouth among your kind paid for my new plush offices.” “Loads like me? My kind?” A wounded Sarah repeated. “Yes, the unidentifiable ,” Dr Feelgood stated – not realising a level of ignorance beyond any modern-day comprehension. “Are all doctors blind to social change?” Asked Sarah in an accusatory tone of voice. “Or are you too busy bonding at events like this to notice the world evolving before your eyes?” Glad that he had been delayed from getting that drink, Charles felt a sarcastic smile envelop his face, while watching Sarah being put on the defensive. “You never could argue objectivity, could you, Sarah? You change your mindset and the whole world has to accept it, against all logic and common sense.” “Did you know that the right type of foods can help clear a muddled mind?” Dr Feelgood once again tried to drum up business. “Shut up,” Sarah barked. “I’m not staying here listening to you and all of your archaic ways of thinking.” “It’s a big room, Sarah,” said Charles. Find a corner and go brood in it. That’s what you always used to do with me.” “Fine,” she indignantly replied. “But first, let me leave this one with you Neanderthals, then… A doctor walks into an operating theatre for a life-saving surgery. Seeing the patient on the operating table, they turn to the anaesthetist and say, I can’t operate on this person, because this person is my son … Who is the surgeon?” “That is simple,” said Dr Rhammer. “It is his father!” “No, you Dinosaur.” “His Stepdad,” Dr Stroker guessed.” “How did you ever pass your medical exams?” Sarah bluntly asked. “I know, I know!” Dr Feelgood bounced around. “It’s his illegitimate father!” “How does that work?” “His parents didn’t get married?” “You are dim, Dr Feelgood,” Sarah insultingly stated. “But I must admit, feeling more intelligent than you has made me feel good, Feelgood .” Turning to Charles, Sarah waited for his answer to the operating room refusal. “Charles?” “No,” Charles declined. “I’m not taking the bait.” “Whatever! Then, do you know how to keep idiots in suspense?” Without anyone answering, Sarah turned to leave, then dismissively waving her hand at the group, she bid them all a curt farewell. “Goodbye!” Sauntering into the crowded bar, Sarah quickly disappeared among the revellers – leaving the group of men in a collective suspenseful state of mind. “Charles, do you know?” Dr Rhammer asked. “It’s his mother,” Charles revealed. “No, I meant do you know how to keep an idiot in suspense?” “Yes,” replied Charles. “I do.” “That’s rich, old chap,” Dr Feelgood changed the focus. “For someone not identifying with a gender, your ex-wife managed to easily label the refusing surgeon in that little riddle.” “Yes, that’s Sarah to a tee. It’s her way or the highway. I’ve spent the past three years trying to prove her wrong.” “How ironic, Charles,” said Dr Rhammer. “Sarah gave you the proverbial elbow and you dedicate your life to studying the humerus. Very funny, indeed!” “So, anyone for a drink?” Charles asked. Letting out a huge laugh, Dr Stroker energetically patted Charles on his back. “ Does this taste funny to you ?” Dr Stroker repeated. “I get it! He’s a clown!” “Well done, William,” Charles congratulated him as they all headed toward the bar. “You got there in the end…”


Sensitive Content: Mention of suicide, murder, and crime. The red leaves spring from the trees towering above the busy streets of Burlington, Vermont, and sway side to side, falling into the wind currents that push and pull them in every direction. The trees emerge into a blend of vibrant colors, the foggy air is crisp, and stores all over town are selling their best autumn-themed products.

Soon enough, the harsh winter comes along once again. And everything dies. For the rest of the year, I hated living in Vermont, the harsh cycle of nature is one of the many reasons I despised it. Sometimes I like to imagine how things could have been different. If I was different. Stronger, smarter, braver. Would my mother still be alive? The thoughts of my mother are like red leaves swaying in the wind, that I can never catch. They always fall in the same place, only to be smushed into the ground, and covered with snow. My brain distorts those thoughts like a new tree that sprouts. But the ones I have left are happy ones. I'd never been to a funeral with so many people, and I’ve been to an overwhelming amount of funerals. Every neighbor in our town must have been there, mourning, and paying respects. So many people emphasized how much my mother had touched their lives, and what she sacrificed for them. How she never turned her back on anyone, how she gave and gave until there was nothing left for her to give. She never walked away from her integrity, it was like a magnet that clung to her soul.

“Delia listened to me when no one else would.” Her friend said. “I never felt judged by her.” Her brother said. “I’d walk away from her feeling like I had won the lottery. She made me so happy.” Her cousin said. “She still had so much more to live for.” Her husband said. My fathers’ words remained with me like a scar, they burned into the back of my skull and tore away at it. A flood of anger pooled into my body that day as I watched him feign tears. He shook hands with the mourning neighbors and made a mockery of them. He had everyone fooled. My mother was a saint. And my father murdered her. My dad told me that nobody would believe me, and he was right. It was suicide they said. Could they really believe that? My mother, who has an undying love for her life and the people in it, she just ended it? But if my father said it then it must be true.  He’d been a criminal for years prior to murdering my mother, but he never let it stain his record. To everyone else, he was the perfect citizen, the perfect father. But I’ve seen every side of him, my father treated me like worthless garbage. Because that's all I was to him, an extra necessity, another mouth to feed. A decaying product of his wife. Everything I did, whatever I said, anything I wore, a new hobby I found, and friends that I made. He hated it all. Anything that brought me joy, he wanted it gone.

The reason he killed the love of his life and then decided to be angry about it was beyond me. According to him, it was his only choice, the last resort if she ever knew him to be the criminal he truly was. Because he wanted to be the “perfect man” in her eyes. As if she actually cared about something as shallow as that. It was all lies, an excuse to kill, it was premeditated just like everything else he does. If he wanted to kill someone so badly, he should have used the rusty knife to puncture his own cold dying heart. I’m sure everyone would have been happier. I certainly would be. Even after I ran away from home, leaving behind the mess my life had been. Even after making lifelong friends, and becoming educated in the ways of criminal justice and law. Something is still missing. Something was always missing. I could almost see my smiling mother and me. It was just the two of us during a golden sunset, walking to get ice cream from our favorite spot right down the street from our house. I could almost see my mother carefully frosting the strawberry cake for my 9th birthday, her glowing brown eyes filled with joy as I blew out the golden candles. I could almost see my mother reading me a book completely in German that I couldn’t understand. I could almost see her brush my red hair back after tucking me into bed. I could almost see her the night I left her all alone. Dad and she were fighting, and he gave me his wallet and practically tossed me into our neighbor's house. Whatever led up to me discovering she was dead is long forgotten. My depressed brain won't allow me to see that. What I do know is that my dad didn’t hesitate to tell 11-year-old me the truth. “Everything is changing Dimitri, you'd better get used to it." He said.

Nor did he refrain from threatening my life if I told someone. As far as I knew, this was my mother's fault. She was just another statistic, struggling with crippling mental health issues. Even as an adult man, with a steady career as a detective. You’d think my life has been fulfilled, that it has a meaning. What good would life be without the one who first made it worth living?

When I see my father again, he is in a courtroom. I'm the detective and he is the accused. This time, he’d be the statistic, a criminal. I no longer need to imagine how life could have been different.

And so I once again watch the red leaves sway from the tree and crash to the ground, but this time they aren't crushed or covered with snow. The seasons have come full circle, but this time when winter comes I have a coat to protect me from the death and sadness that comes with it. Now I'm smart enough to know that there are ways to survive the winter, and I dont have to do it alone. My best friend gives a nod of approval before she begins the questioning.

Nature may be harsh but it’s no stranger to justice.


Covering her ears, she watched the clock. No burst of sound must catch her off guard. Ever. Tick. Tick. Tick. The final bell rang. Susie charged into the traffic of students, slipping past their shoulders. Upon seeing Mrs. Marghast’s office, she stopped and peeked through the glass. Her guidance counselor and friend, with her back to the door, fixed a few of the little things hanging on the wall. Susie closed her eyes, her hand feeling the doorknob. Mrs. Marghast turned around as a hinge squeaked from behind. Her eyes grew gentle. “Priscilla? What’s wrong?” she asked, though expecting someone else. The young girl looked up, her face frozen still. “I’m losing her….” Susie could have been halfway home, could have been seven minutes into the fifteen-minute walk. But one could blame her quick stop by a flower shop off her beaten path. She pointed. “Three please.” Her allowance could only allow so much. Delighted, Mr. Tingey, the vendor, asked her to pick her favorites. Triplets, she picked. Not one a shade lighter. Not one a shade darker. Each one was as pink as the other. Mr. Tingey bid her a safe walk home, reminding her to keep off the road. Keep off the road…. It echoed on and on in her thoughts. Louder and louder. Her brow puckered. Eyelids disappeared into her head. Lips froze. Everything else, her skin and all, rattled. As if hearing thunder on a cloudless day, she inched backward, no eyes behind her head. The loud question on Mr. Tingey’s face stayed put. “Deary, don’t!” he shouted. Susie’s heel reached the sidewalk’s edge. A honk from a speeding car her scared away from the gutter, back where bystanders belonged. Leaving Mr. Tingey’s concern untouched, she walked away, pink beauties in her hands. Of course, she was fine. Probably. Though the way deemed her a stranger, she pursued it. The fresh scent of pastries from a bakery mingled with her. While making the much-needed left turn, she battled against the temptation, her empty pocket helping. The sound of running water caressed her ears upon reaching the hidden entrance to a footpath. Careful step after careful step, like persisting through a tightrope, she kept to the safe side with her hand on dirty murals. The bare edge of the footpath, the one that promised a sudden drop to the creek, repelled her. She had a dry and less murky face to keep. Loud chatter gained ground on her. Several steps beyond the exit, sardined houses surrounded Susie posthaste. Though the invitation to come inside stood for the neighborhood folk, they sat on the gutter, cackled under the sun, teamed up against today’s crossword puzzle, and even played checkers outside the smallest barbershop ever. Talk about too much community. Clean laundry hung like festival banners. Stray dogs sniffed through the last garbage bags standing. Susie endured the hey-new-kid treatment: prolonged stares, mouths hanging ajar, chatter that turned into whispers. She embraced her flowers, soldiering on. I did nothing wrong! she screamed into herself, her lips pursed. Nothing! Then came a tap on her shoulder. A friendly face sharpened into view, and Belton was his name. After a handshake, the schoolboy in the wrinkled shirt offered to walk with her. With pleasure, she accepted. Both carried onward. Belton asked her to drop her cautions, adding that his people were simply wired never to miss an outsider. “Everyone here knows everyone here,” he said and snorted out a laugh, waving at a man carrying an out-of-breath janitor fish. Susie smiled but said nothing in hopes of honoring her dad’s don’t-talk-to-strangers commandment. But then… “Thank you,” she said, stopping. Two of them stood past the fine line where the world changed. The village they beheld was… To call it “peaceful” would be too kind. It was dead quiet. Its birds—if there were ever any—must’ve departed in search of warmer pastures. Overly dotted by towering trees, the village boasted—if such could be boasted—an abundance of shade. Huge roots had broken a few sidewalks into shards. Its afternoons settled for dim skies. Its old houses coupled with barren yards. Mouth open, eyes stretched wide, Belton nodded. They followed separate ways after the goodbyes. The time was five minutes past four. With nothing but a backpack, Susie left the tailored sidewalks and crossed the healthy front lawn. Her mom held the door open. “Had too much fun?” she asked, trying to make sense of the late arrival. Susie forced a smile. “Yeah.” “Did you bring me anything, sweetie?” her mom asked. The girl shook her head, frowning. After kissing her daughter, she took one last look outside before closing the door. Everything was neat, bright, day-lit. Nothing out of the ordinary. Except for the break on the sidewalk and a cracked tree. It took some getting used to. A new day began. After the classes, Priscilla tried to, but she couldn’t catch up to her. Free as a bird, Susie bought flowers again. Three pink ones from Mr. Tingey. The vendor sensed a pattern forming, and with all his heart, he welcomed it. Like yesterday, Susie carried them around the bakery, past the creek, through the crowded neighborhood, then into the dark and mum village. There was something about number sixty-seven that marked the spot for her. The lot had its own house, a dirt-filled front yard, and a massive tree on one corner that rained down a thick shade. She tiptoed deeper… but never inside. Near the porch steps, light croaks slipped into earshot. Someone was snoring. The girl scrambled and reached the planted trio of flowers. There they stood, each paired with an erect barbeque stick, each bound by the simplest knot of pink yarn. From her backpack, out came the sticks. Out came the roll of yarn. All thanks to her, three more flower stalks found their footing. And if time allowed it, she could’ve named all six. Six became nine. Nine became twelve. Then a whole square of them formed. She always left with empty hands. Then it was off to the hills and greens of the golf course next door, then the main highway’s overpass, and lastly, home ground past the guard gate. The school days lived for her floral project… and not much of anything else. Her arriving home at four-thirty before sundown set the record. For her, lunch at school didn’t mean the cafeteria. The lunch ladies no longer saw a dollar, not even a penny, out of Miss Susie Hollister. She bit away, more than often, out of the loaf and sardines she smuggled out of the house. Ashamed of her eating situation, she took her lunch to the school theater’s backstage, leaving her bestest friend all alone by a table—if the label between the two still stood. They used to walk home together. Back at number sixty-seven, kneeling on the dirt of the front yard, she planted the twenty-seventh flower. But some were already losing color, more brown than pink. “I love good stories!” a warm voice yelled out. Hairs standing, her neck heating up, Susie slowly turned around. Smiling at her was a plump old lady holding a bag of goods. She ambled over to the porch, pulled herself up the steps, and sat on the topmost one. A delightful sigh escaped her. The lady patted the space beside her, saying, “I believe you have one to tell.” Unknown steel burdened Susie’s head. Her legs matched juice-box straws. A balloon of air crawled into her. She didn’t know how, but a couple of minutes later, she landed on the porch steps without help. She pointed at the peonies she’d planted and said, “I used to have a field of those.” Her words started painting. Every night, at the right time, just when Susie’s eyes fell shut in bed, the field came to her. Milky, sun-dipped clouds hovered from above. Blushing stretches bridged mountainous horizons. Cottony fluffs drowned the hips of the beloved guest. The field’s breeze invited her to dance at every chance. And they danced. Dancing should never be guilty of heartbreaks. What harm could a soft sway or a merry hop do? But the rules changed when Susie left her bed without waking up. She swept her hand across a cluster of petals, then twirled farther, the wind whispering the beat and melody. All ended when a screech, crash, and shatter stirred the air. Susie’s tangible set of eyes flew open. Her bare feet stuttered for balance amidst the street, cold. She beheld the night. On one side were tire tracks that made a sudden curve. On the other, a car clasped a tree nonstop, smoke rising between them. Taillights had outlasted headlights. The girl dragged her feet, then ran. Every step was a punishment. Every breath was icy black. The killer tree grew before her. Its form inched closer to swallowing her whole. But she didn’t stop. “What? What is this?” the old lady of number sixty-seven asked, cutting the story short. Susie, once again, forced her lips to move. “The field—it never came back. It was never mine to keep. But maybe mine to give away.” She inhaled deeply through her teeth and pulled out a newspaper clipping. The headline Young Veteran Perishes in a Neighborhood Car Crash met the old lady’s eyes. Her son. For three weeks, Susie carried the whole story all alone. And telling one more soul didn’t seem to spread the weight. “I’m sorry…” Susie said in a cracking voice, eyes drowning. There was no reply. The veteran’s mother didn’t frown, didn’t smile, didn’t even budge any wrinkle. She stood with the news article in her hand, stepped inside, and never came back. Wiping her tears, the girl took the piercing hint and staggered home. The days reverted to her fifteen-minute walk home. But Susie preferred to do it alone. She barely talked and always ate by herself. Dimples lacked reason to show. Though her grades were fine, everyone was worried. Her head settled under cold waters but never drowned. For two months. The final bell rang again. Susie checked her bag before heading home. She’d accidentally gotten her seatmate’s test paper that had a failing grade of sixty-seven. Behind her eyes came a spark, and a sole choice remained. She rushed into the long detour. At last, surrounded by sickening shade and silence, she neared number sixty-seven. To her surprise, the lot alone basked under the outpour of sunlight. The tree by its corner had been sheared to the trunk, almost leafless. Right where a dirt-filled front yard once stood was a garden, one that housed countless kinds of pink. Grasses, leaves, and peonies breathed life. To call all of it “stunning” would be perfect. Porch steps creaked. Standing on the last one, the old lady of number sixty-seven caught sight of her. A big smile swelled on her face as she waved at Susie. Warmth overran the girl. While everything inside her awakened, her cheeks dared to float skyward. With the old lady’s smile—and probably a Little Dreamer Crossing sign planted on her own front lawn—Susie believed she could dream again. *** She was the first to arrive in her office. The fine morning begged her to take one more sip of her coffee. Licking her lips, she put her bag and cup on the desk, and between them sat a letter, right behind her name plaque. It was a no-brainer for her to open it. Dear Mrs. Marghast, You were right. My bestest friend came back! We finally got to talk, like you suggested. I guess a “thank you for listening” is not enough. Perhaps I could pick you a peony. We know a whole garden of them. Love,

Priscilla


It wasn’t a cold day.. nor was it a particularly warm day either. It was one of those days that under normal circumstances one might easily forget as if it had never occurred, like a tree which falls in a forest far away and without a sound. Through the window the sky was cloudy with an ever so slightly blue tint to it, and the street below lay gray and dull like the shed skin of a long and sad serpent. Pigeons pecked idly on the boardwalk and rested comfortably on the ledges of the high rise buildings that surrounded Fenders Co. Entreprises where Mr. Simon Fromptly worked. Simon was a small man, neither stout nor skinny, with beady eyes which he covered with a pair of spectacles that sat sluggishly and uncomfortable atop his too small nose, forcing him to push them back every so often with his short stubby fingers as they consistently slid out of place. Since his youngest age, similar to his drab, beige suit which he wore everyday over his dark suspenders, Simon had never been the kind to be remarkable at anything and so it has come to no one's surprise that he has thus far lived quite the unremarkable life. Occupying a small office with a dozen or so other people which he seldomly interacted with, Simon was surprisingly content with his lot in life. Recently promoted to a low level manager position due to being just adequate enough, Simon deeply enjoyed the single secular office he now had the pleasure of isolating himself within everyday, with its plaster walls and single window, and normally thrived in the simplicity of it all. But today was not normal, and Simon would not be forgetting this day any time soon. Other than the potted ficus that stood beside his door, Simon was the only living thing in his office, and the only thing making a noise other than the quick paced tapping of his finger upon the cheap wood of his desk was the occasional ticking of the clock hanging on the wall to his right, which he glanced over every so often before adjusting his spectacles. “Come on… Come on…” Simon mumbled impatiently. His beady eyes darted around the various corners of the room which he resided in, as though fearing something may strike him from the shadows at any given moment. A single droplet of cold sweat ran uncomfortably down his temple and dripped upon the lens of his glasses before he could wipe it away.

Cursing profusely, Simon jittered his hands towards the small drawer beside his desk where he kept such useful things as his stapler and handkerchief. Pulling on the slab that consisted of the drawer’s handle with an impromptu amount of struggle, the drawer reluctantly slid open revealing a small white cloth, with upon its untainted surface a single, miniscule red splotch which stood out like neon beams to Simon’s shaking eyes. He would have to trust it would be ignored for the time being and quickly pulled out to clean his glasses lens. The severed finger which lay neatly tucked in the cloth came tumbling down and dropped back into the drawer with a soft thud and a squelch . Its single red nail, chipped at the edge, was unbearably vivid. Simon gave an uneasy gulp as he finished wiping his lenses and gave his brow a single pat before swiftly wrapping the long, womanly finger back into its sweaty, raggedy gown. At that moment, a familiar knock at Simon’s door almost gave him a heart attack. The knob turned with a loud creak and in came Sandy, the middle aged mother of three who worked as Simon's assistant and secretary. “Good morning Simon, are you busy ? A gentleman from the Police Department would like to have a word with you, if that’s alright. He.. uhm, insists it's quite urgent.” She said uncomfortably, turning her head back to face the “gentleman” who no doubt stood beside her. So soon ? Simon thought with a fright, but quickly composed himself. “Of course Sandy, please, send him in.” Simon answered with a forced smile, as he casually closed his drawer in a manner not to arouse any suspicion. As he discreetly re-arranged the little plaque which stood opposite to him on his desk, a threatening presence entered the inner chamber. The presence in question was a man, tall and grizzled with a grave expression on his otherwise handsome face. His hair was cut short and he was dressed in a black coat and a blue shirt. A large, golden, glistening badge hung loosely from a chain upon his thick neck, and his eyes shone a skeptical emerald green. “Good afternoon Mr. Humphry. I am detective Wight, but I suppose you already knew that. I apologize for my lateness, traffic jam.” He mouthed casually as his eyes examined scrutinously the pale walls that encircled him as he took a seat, gesturing towards the empty chair before occupying it after Simon had delivered an indulgent nod. “Yes, indeed, no worries. I hope your wait wasn’t too long.” Simon responded, ignoring the blatant mispronunciation of his name, no doubt a carefully calculated plot of false ignorance engineered to make him lower his guard. “Water? Tea? Coffee?” He quickly added as the sharp eyed detective began making himself comfortable. “Coffee? Sure, something quick, I won’t be here long.”

Simon turned to face Sandy who swiftly made her way out of the office to accomplish the silent command. Calmly, Simon poured himself a cup of water from a small container he kept on his desk beside his laptop and drank it up in one big gulp. “So, detective, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” Simon asked directly, his mouth etched flat, his expression still as stone in a desperate attempt to look calm and unintimidated. “You said you had important information to forward me regarding the… case. At least that’s what your lieutenant told me last we spoke on the phone.” He added just as quickly so as to not appear too eager or suspicious. After all, he was supposed to be a grieving husband. Stay cool SImon, it's impossible for them to have found the body … he reassured himself “Hmph, that’s just something he says to get me off my- well, I mean, we still don’t have any conclusive leads as to what might have caused your wife’s disappearance.” “I.. I don’t understand.. It’s been almost a month.” Simon said, his small eyes had the added benefit of always having a glossy sheen to them. A perfect tool in this scenario. “Yeah…” The detective muttered, scratching his unkempt beard whilst looking askance. “Well, you know, this sort of thing isn’t uncommon. I suspect you won’t have to wait for much longer, we suspect the culprit will have made some mistake we’re just not seeing yet.” I highly doubt it … Simon thought, somewhat pleased with himself. As much as he wanted to flaunt the perfection of his ploy, he knew better than to give in to this temptation. Ignorance remains key to survival. “People who get this lucky often do.” The detective interjected, as though he had just heard what Simon was thinking. “I beg your pardon, l-lucky ?” Simon asked with a teaspoon of true anger hidden in his shaking voice, balling his fist in his palm as to hide the silent wrath that slowly boiled inside of him. “Are you saying that the-the individual who took my wife was just-just lucky ?!” Who does this guy think he is? Simon thought irritatingly. “Wow there, calm down, I meant no disrespect Mr. Humphry. We know the culprit entered your home and took your wife in the dead of night whilst you were away, as you know we discovered the door unlocked with no sign of forced entry, implying that your wife must have left the door unlocked at that time, the evident struggle in your bedroom shows that she was not taken willingly but provided little resistance, we suspect had she not been sound asleep the intruder would have had a much more difficult time. All I’m saying is that a unique set of circumstances seemed to have benefitted the sudden attack of the culprit.” This was no mere attack of opportunity ! I purposely left the door unlocked so that I could sneak in from the back window ! She was wide awake and barely knew what hit her ! Did you even look at the crime scene you impudent baboon !! “Sudden attack ? I was told this was premeditated.”

“Yeah, we thought so too, but a lack of viable suspects due to your… small circle of company has led us to believe that the culprit may not be someone you know but rather a complete stranger. If not it would have to be something akin to a stalker perhaps, did you recall anyone giving your wife an unusual amount of attention in the days that led to her disappearance?” The detective asked, edging himself closely towards Simon who retreated his head back and scratched his neck. Ohoh.. I see what you’re doing, detective, trying to see to whom I might point finger. Very clever. If I say yes, then that could arouse suspicion as to why I hadn’t mentioned this previously, but if I say no then the only logical suspect remains me… but perhaps if I could just word it right enough, I could hit two cheating birds with one stone. “A-Actually, now that you mention it, ever since I reported my wife missing, this one electrician who would occasionally come and do maintenance on “faulty wires” on the powerline in front of our house stopped coming. I’d never thought about it before but I don’t recall hearing electricity issues in our neighborhood, and his van would never be far from the garden… or maybe not… It may just be paranoia… I just remember confronting him once and he struck me as oddly evasive.. but nothing so serious as to note.” The detective sat quietly, nodding and scratching his chin every couple of words. “How would you… describe this man, Mr. Humphry ?” Simon feigned vague recollection, even though he knew exactly what this “suspect” should look like, and swallowed the annoyance of his mispronounced name yet again. Eduardo you scumbag … Simon thought with a mental smile as he began painting a vague but just precise enough image of the electrician he’d caught his wife sleeping with. It had been a long day at work so he’d come home to surprise his darling only to discover her treachery. She’d never known of course, but Simon knew. Simon knew all too well how to take her down and her lover with her. “I don’t remember very well. Large, decent size, spanish I think.. he had a small scar on his chin right here.” Simon said as he pointed at a small spot on his jaw. “But other than that.. I can’t remember much else.” “No name tag? ID? Company logo maybe?” Simon hunched his shoulders. “It was almost two months ago.” “Would this man have looked anything like this?” The detective inquired as he pulled out a small picture of that very man from within the dark recesses of his coat, Simon noticed the distinct silhouette of a firearm lay strapped to its inside, black like obsidian. The picture practically slid from the detective’s fingers and slithered quietly beneath the moleman’s eyes. Simon’s heart raced as a string of curses thundered quietly in his mind. “Th-That’s him ! Yes !” “Eduardo Skei.. he was found murdered by his wife at home a couple days ago. Multiple stab wounds to the chest and back I heard.” The detective's piercing eyes met Simon’s and it took every fiber of his mousley being not to break on the spot. “Wh-What a-a-are you s-s-ssaying?” Simon asked, unable to hide his fear. “That’s a good question Mr. Humphry-” “It's F-Fromplty.” Simon interjected, to the inquisitive gaze of the detective. “Mr.Simon Fromptly. It says it right on the desk. Husband to Marie Fromptly who is still missing whilst you and your boys are looking into another man’s death.” “Right, Fromptly, my mistake. Well Mr. Fromptly, to tell you the truth, I think your wife’s disappearance has something to do with this murder. Something very important, that I’m just picturing now.” The detective leaned in silently towards Simon. “I think, that Whilst Mr. Fromptly was away, Mrs. Fromptly and Mr. Skei were busy, until someone found them out.. and put an end to both. But you already put two and two together, didn’t you Mr. Fromptly? It’s why you don’t seem shocked by this proclamation.” “D-Detective… are you accusing me of-of murder ?” Simon asked with as much confidence as he could muster. The detective looked at Simon, his serious eyes like daggers, before letting out a roar of a laugh that may very well have made the building tremble. Like an earthquake with a terrible sense of humour at a comedy show. Simon could almost make out a tear of sheer hilarity form around the detective’s eye, before he was able to calm down and recompose himself.” “ You ?! HAH ! Mr. Fromptly I didn’t think of you as the funny type. No, I’m almost certain his wife found out about it and took them both off the census. Got rid of your wife first, then when her husband went to confront her about it, did him in too. Just got word before getting here that she might have fled the country. Luckily, with you as a witness, we can book that old bag straight to prison, provided we find her of course.” The detective mumbled amidst the snickers and giggles he tried to conceal. At that moment, the knob creaked once more and the familiar shape of Sandy wobbled in with a steaming latte in hand. “That's all they got left Mr. Detective, sorry. What’s all the fuss about here then?” She asked with a big smile, ignorant much like the detective was towards Simon’s look of abysmal and utter humiliation. So insulted was that he sat stunned, incapable of formulating a response. He was so scared the detective had caught him dead to rights he was about to have a heart attack, only to learn that not only was he not remotely even considered a suspect, but the very thought was able to condemn Detective WIght to such tears of laughter. “Nothing, nothing. Mr. Fromptly simply asked me if I considered him a suspect in his wife’s possible murder investigation!” At that, the detective succumbed to another fit of hideous hilarity. His chest heaving to such a point his ribcage looked as though it may burst at any moment. Upon hearing of this accusation, Miss Sandy too began laughing, sharing the news out the door as soon as the words had left the detective’s mouth. Before long the office truly did tremble as the roaring of 12 people led to the upper and lower floors of the building. Simon, completely devoured by fury, cried out in indignation as he tried to refute this, forcing out his entire drawer and plunging his arm into it to retrieve the only possible proof that he was guilty of this dark deed. “NO ! NONONO ! I AM A SUSPECT ! I SHOULD BE THE PRIME SUSPECT ! STOP LAUGHING !!

I DID KILL HER ! LOOK !! I HAVE HER FINGER !!!” Upon looking at the severed finger the tiny Simon held up high like a child showing off his favorite crayon, the detective let out another burst of laughter as he spat out his drink, causing another wave to take over what seemed like the entire block. The detective picked the finger from Simon and used it to stir his drink before flicking it away. “Yeah right!” Hollered the detective.

“Oh, you are very funny Mr. Fromptly !” Sandy nodded, laughing in agreement as Detective Wight made his way out of the office, picking out his phone and dialing someone’s number. “Hey Lieutenant ! I've just heard the funniest thing ever ! You know that Fromptly Guy? Humphry yeah, same thing…” His voice trailed off as he slowly faded into the cacophony of laughing people that followed after him. If not for Sandy who was still snickering beside the doorway, Simon may have well been standing alone. The very color drained from his fat rat face. “They all just… laughed at me.” He lamented in disbelief “I killed my own wife and they just laughed at me.” Hey eyed her finger which lay drenched in coffee in a sad, dusty corner beneath the clock. Sandy was regaining her composure as she turned towards the door. “Well, you are very funny when you want to be Simon, I wouldn’t be too hurt though, people are idiots. Hoo, you almost make me miss my dear Eduardo .” She said nonchalantly, wiping a happy tear from her eye. Simon stared at Sandy with stupor. “What did you just say ?” Sandy looked at him with innocent eyes as she slowly crept out the door. “Come now Mr. Fromptly, don’t go around thinking you’re the only one with little secrets.” And with that, Sandy was off to join the merriment with a chuckle, leaving poor little old Simon dumbfounded and confused as the door slowly closed after her. Simon looked out his little window into the gray sky above. It wasn’t a warm day… nor was it particularly cold. But for Simon, it got just a little colder. The End


"Hey," Simon says softly to the boy who approaches him and kisses him on the mouth. "Hey," Alan replies after hugging him a little shyly. They hadn’t seen each other in a few days and Alan knows it wasn’t an accident. Their whole story had been mapped out from the beginning, and he used to think he was just imagining it, but now he’s sure of it. They grew up together, or rather they had known each other since they were aware of their existence. In that little alley, almost protected from the outside world, the two of them had known since then that they were lucky. There were more kids there, but the two of them were always a tandem, no matter what happened. As they grew it only became more visible. Sometimes people exchanged them for brothers even though they were physically quite different. Alan was two years older and was always protective of Simon. Especially lately since they finally realized why they are so attached to each other. Only, their relationship here will never be accepted and they knew it from the beginning. Tonight he will try to put it all aside. Simon is only 17 years old and he knows that this trip, no matter how short, will be condemned by his parents. However, he insisted that they reach a small lake near the neighboring town and live with each other for at least 24 hours. One night and the day before Alan went to the big city. He was reluctant to leave him because he knew Simon's parents would surely go crazy and punish him. Especially when they find out they were together, and they’ll find out for sure. Simon just shook his head at that. He didn't care. This is their time, and even so short. Simon was the first to admit to Alan that he liked him. He was always more open and honest. The younger boy was always the one leading and Alan, among other things, really liked it. He seemed to want to be like him sometimes, but he didn’t really mind, they were perfect together. It doesn't matter tonight. These few hours of theirs are so precious that they will try to forget everything around them. They walk and talk. Alan listens to Simon’s stories with such interest as if trying to soak up all of this for some bad days that are sure to come. They brought some sandwiches and juices because this is something like a trip. They wandered almost all night in the deserted city and when they got tired they sat by the water and waited for the sun to rise. The dawn is beautiful, even though it's a little cold in the morning, they don't mind either. Simon leaned his head on Alan's shoulder and just watched in silence. One day there may be justice for them too. One day when they both come of age and hope to be ready to go anywhere. That will only matter while they are together. Because they both know that there will never be anyone else, for neither. When the day dawned, Alan left Simon with a heavy heart, his eyes full of tears, but so they agreed. Scrape off quickly like a band-aid, and simply wait for the day when somehow everything will work out in their favor. Simon wanders around the city for a while, then sits down by the lake again on a bench where they sat together until recently. Tears stream down his cheeks and something heavy, dark around his heart grips him. He remembers the promises he made to the older boy, he will endure whatever he has to, so he straightens up and just looks at the water. Trying to fight all that sadness, he just falls asleep. Luckily there are no people around and when he finally wakes up it’s already night. He knows he should have gone home, but he can't. It can't be forced, at least for a while longer. That’s where they were last together, right on this bench. Maybe everyone thinks that he is too young for such great feelings and decisions, but Simon knew for a long time. And he also knows that he will never regret it, nor will any of it ever change. Simon really went through everything and anything. His family was anything but normal. Some would say that his affection for Alan was just an attempt to escape, but even that was not true. He remembers almost every day they grew up. Their going to school and every time Alan defended him. He remembers so many times when Alan helped him when he ran away from home and fed or clothed him. Alan was not only his friend, he was like family to him, from a young age. As they grew older he only felt his affection for the older boy grow and he had no choice but to admit it. Why hide the truth from the most important person in his life. Alan felt the same way, but he tried as a senior to suggest to Simon to wait. Explain to him what the consequences might be. In fact, he knew he would always be able to rely on each other, so he relented. They met secretly and kissed like all young lovers. Clumsy, passionate and full of heart. They took each other's innocence, if it can be called that, because they were very happy to give it to each other. Simon thinks about all this as he watches the moon looming in the small lake. Everything here is so perfect, in this quiet, hidden place. Almost everything, because he is still alone. Only, this is temporary. He won't be stopped by the beatings he'll get when he gets back. Nor the hatred of the whole world if he has to fight. One day the light of this month will lead him to what is his. He smiled for the first time after Alan left and headed home. Just a little more…


Daniel pulled the house key he had carried since he was 12 from his pocket, and jiggled it into the defiant doorknob. Why hadn’t Dad just replaced this old knob years ago? “Doorknob is fine! Helps keep burglars out.” Burglars aren’t using keys, Dad. The lock lost the battle, and Daniel stepped into the foyer. Motes of dust floated in the afternoon sun streaming through the half closed blinds, tiny apparitions in a house that had always haunted Daniel. He threw his keys instinctively on the buffet, scratched in the one area from years of this ritual. The floorboards creaked underfoot, an alarm that had betrayed him more times than he could count as a teenager. He stood silently in the entrance, momentarily overwhelmed with the task ahead. Daniel had tried for years to convince his father to start decluttering, maybe have a yard sale. “Your Mother spent a lifetime filling this house. I’m not giving the neighbors the satisfaction of rummaging through her life’s work.” It’s sewing patterns, Dad. Not the Sistine Chapel. It had been a month since his father had died, and Daniel had been putting off cleaning the house out, but he now had some prospective buyers, and he couldn’t ignore it any longer. He had decided on the drive over to start with his mother’s sewing room. It would be the easiest. Drag a trash can into the middle of the room, and toss the old patterns and scrap material into it. Daniel wasn’t surprised to find a thick layer of dust on everything; he doubted his father had entered the room since his mother died 8 years ago. The sewing machine was still in good shape. Perhaps his mother’s pride and joy would find a second life in the high school’s home economics department. The guest bedroom was next, and was deemed more difficult than the the sewing room by virtue of being his mother’s catch-all room. Unable or unwilling, she never threw something out that might be useful five years later. Daniel quickly sorted things into two piles: trash and donations. The local mission had better bring a U-Haul. From here on, Daniel knew it would be tricky. For decades, his mother had hidden money throughout the house. When his father drank, he spent. And he always drank. His mother wanted to be certain that the bills were paid and the pantry was full, so she stashed money everywhere. Unfortunately for Daniel, she never drew a treasure map before the Alzheimer’s arrived. He was certain there were thousands of dollars chipmunked around the house. He just didn’t know where. Which meant that, going forward, he had to be meticulous. He thumbed through every book, dug through each drawer, looked for envelopes taped underneath furniture, and ran his hand over every cabinet. He found almost $1,500 before deciding enough was enough. If someone shopping at the mission thrift store bought a lamp and discovered $100 somewhere inside it, good for them.

He had saved his father’s room for last. Three days of sorting through the rest of the house while that bedroom door remained shut. Unable to put it off any longer, he took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and walked in. Daniel swore under his breath as he stopped to survey the room. What a mess. He went to the nightstand first. He had quietly held out hope that his grandfather’s watch was still here, that his father had not sold it or traded it for a bottle of liquor. His grandfather had brought it back from the war, and gave it to his son. It was rightfully Daniel’s now. The nightstand drawer was stuck, and as Daniel yanked it open, the mostly empty bottle of Wild Turkey sitting on top rocked, the smell of the bourbon wafting by him. Daniel was late. He had lost track of time at Tommy’s, and had sped home, running two stop signs as he went. He hoped against hope that his father was out somewhere, drunk and oblivious. His heart sank as he turned the corner and saw his truck sitting in the driveway.

Let him be passed out already, Daniel prayed to no one in particular. The creak of the floorboard gave him away. It always did. His father was on him before he could get out of the foyer. Daniel was no slouch at 16, but his father was bigger, and was a mean drunk. Daniel grabbed the tottering bottle. His face was flush, the lump in his throat threatening to choke him. The watch was gone. Of course it was.

Pushing himself up off the floor, Daniel crossed the room and walked into the bathroom. Maybe the watch was here. Rummaging through vanity drawers and the the cabinet underneath only confirmed what Daniel had known for three days: that watch had been gone for years. When was the last time he saw it? Not since he was a teenager. Having lost any motivation to continue, Daniel absentmindedly opened the medicine cabinet. Vicks VaporRub, an old safety razor, a rusty tin of bandaids, and a yellowed bottle of Old Spice. Daniel reached slowly for the cologne bottle, and gently pulled the gray stopper from the top. He turned the bottle over, and realized it was empty. He lifted the bottle to his nose. Daniel,dressed in his footie pajamas, was sitting on the floor in front of the television, a bowl of Frosted Flakes in his lap. Always the first one up on Saturday, he would have the cereal poured and the cartoons on at 7am sharp. These independent mornings left Daniel feeling much older than 7. Daniel usually devoted the commercial breaks to his bowl of cereal, but Christmas was around the corner, and each commercial was potentially something he needed to add to his Christmas list. But it was one commercial that caught his eye that morning. A family sitting around the Christmas tree, a fire crackling in the fireplace. A little boy carries a package to his father, who smiles and unwraps the gift. To everyone’s great delight, it’s Old Spice. The father scoops up his little boy and hugs him tightly. The boy turns to the camera and proclaims, “I love the smell of my daddy.” Daniel set the bowl of cereal down and ran to his room. Mom had been giving him some allowance for taking out the trash. How much did he have? $2.50. That should just about be enough. Later that day, Daniel and his mom drove down to Kimball’s Drug Store and bought the Old Spice.  On Christmas morning, before his father could get a cup of coffee, Daniel was handing him the present, wrapped in the funny papers. His father acted thoroughly surprised, and marveled at the wrapping job and the bow. At Daniel’s bouncing urgency, he opened the gift and gasped. “Old Spice! Now that is a manly scent.” He opened the bottle, shook a bit onto his hands, rubbed them together, and slapped them onto his neck and cheeks.

He looked down at his beaming son. “Want some?” Daniel nodded and held his hands out. Mimicking his father’s movements, he slapped his own face and neck, to his father’s great delight. His father picked him up into his arms and gave him a big squeeze. Daniel buried his face in his father’s neck and breathed in. It was the best smell in the world. Daniel leaned back against the vanity in the bathroom, the empty bottle rolling back and forth in his hands. Six months after that perfect Christmas, his father would lose his job at the factory. The drinking started and he was never the same. He was still in the house, but he lost his father that year. His father’s drinking had gone up another level after his mother’s death, an astounding feat Daniel had not thought possible. The increase had completely, irreparably hollowed the man out. He was a shell, and little more by the end. Old Spice and old men both seem to linger, long after they’re gone. Daniel was done. The mission could come in and take whatever was left. Setting the cologne bottle on the counter, Daniel walked out of the bathroom. Standing in his father’s room for the last time, he paused to take one last look around. He took a step toward the door, paused, and turned back to the bathroom. Daniel reached in, grabbing the empty Old Spice bottle off the counter. Smelling it again, he slid the bottle into his jacket pocket and walked out.


I have a secret. Doesn’t everyone? Stop gawking at me! It’s just a secret. I thought readers weren’t supposed to judge me. But my secret is dangerous. Well, it's not MY secret. It's our secret. A family secret. But it could destroy everything if it got out. No, stop badgering me. I’m not telling you. Well, at least not now. It’s hard, you know. I have a little sister. And she’s 8. But she doesn’t know how to keep secrets. So my parents obviously didn’t tell her. But, she overheard my older sister telling me. So, now we are brainstorming how to keep little Lily’s mouth shut. I mean Lily spilled to my crush that I liked him! She found out by scrolling through my text messages with my friend Maya! It was embarrassing because now he thinks I'm awkward. Thanks a lot, Lily. My grandma would freak if she found out. But she’s moving in. All the more reason for Lily to not know. It’s midnight though so I don’t know why I’m up. My light should be off. Maya installed security cameras in my room somewhere that I’m trying to find. She is big on getting enough sleep, and she WILL be upset if she finds out I’m up. I shut off my light and went to bed.

Beep beep beep. The sound of my alarm clock going off. I hit the snooze button, not wanting to get up. I fell back asleep and was awoken to the sound of my alarm going off again. Reluctantly I lifted up my head to look at my alarm clock and saw the time. Woah 11 o'clock. At least it's the weekend I thought. Otherwise, I would really be late for school. Wait! It’s 11! Grandma Rose said she’d be here at 12! Ok, I gotta get up. I thought to myself. I got up and pulled my hair out of its messy bun and threw on a T-shirt and leggings. I ran downstairs, grabbed a pastry from the counter, and walked to my older sister Lola’s room. “Hey Lols,” I said, knocking on her door. “Can I come in?” I asked. “Yep” I heard Lola’s tired voice reply from the other side of the wood. I walked in and saw her lying sprawled out on her bed looking at her phone. “I was thinking about “It” last night and needed to talk to you.” “Yes? What about it?” she asked. “I just hope Lily can keep her mouth shut. You know how Grandma Rose would react.” “Lavender,” Lola said. “Why are you worried? Mom and I have it covered. Please, rest your brain. You haven’t had a day where you don't bring this worry up. It’s unhealthy. Now, why don't you go back to your room and listen to some music or socialize with a friend? You have a phone you know. Use it!” “Fine.” I trudged back to my room and put my earbuds in.

I laid in bed for who knows how long and then I heard the doorbell. I couldn’t help but run to Lily’s room to make sure that I occupied her for as long as I could. I heard Grandma Rose talking to mom while I played charades with Lily. I kept playing and playing knowing Lily wouldn’t get bored. That is until Grandma decides to say, “where's my little Lily!” As soon as Lily heard it she bolted downstairs. Thankfully she didn’t notice Grandma’s presence until now. I went to my room hoping my mom would take care of it. I was tired come to think of it. But as soon as I got in bed I sat bolt upright. My mind went through scenarios of what could happen if I fell asleep. I decided to stay awake in case my mom texted me. I might as well call Maya, I thought. Not even a second had gone by from the moment I pressed call that the call connected. Apparently, Maya was already on her phone. “Hi, Bestie!” She says. “Hi Maya,” I replied. “Hold it right there girl,” she says. “Why so glum! It's the weekend. Cheer up!” “I know Maya. I can’t stop worrying.” “About what?” she asks. “Maya! You know I can’t tell you.” “Yeah, I know. I figured I’d at least try.” I wish I could tell Maya. But I can’t. It hurts to keep a secret from someone you have known your whole life. I’ve kept the secret for a few months now, what's a little longer gonna do? “Soooo…” said Maya, breaking the silence. “What’s today’s agenda?” “Oh,” I said snapping back to reality. “Ummm, well Grandma Rose is here with all her luggage-” “luggage!” exclaimed Maya, cutting me off. “Why does Grandma Rose have her luggage?” “Oh! I totally forgot to tell you!" I said. "She’s moving in!” “What?! Yay! Then I can see her every day!” Maya walks home with me every day after school and stays until her mom can pick her up after work. Maya adores Grandma, and Grandma adores her. “Yeah! I said. You can!” I changed the subject from me to her, and asked her what her agenda was gonna be and if she could come over today. She replied with a “Yeah! I’d love to! What time can I come over?” My phone pings as a notification blocks the top of Maya’s head. It was a text from mom to me and Lola. A text that read, Girls, please come downstairs. I’m afraid something is going to happen. My heart started beating. I told Maya I had to go and then I ran down the stairs. Lola was already there. As soon as Lily was in view, I heard her say, “Grandma Rose? Can I tell you a secret?” All three of us ran to Lily and told her to be quiet. She wasn’t listening. When that girl wants something, she gets it no matter the cost. That’s the thing I was worried about. “Sure honey!” Grandma replied. And before anyone could do otherwise, she told her. No, I’m not telling you my secret. But then something worse than I expected happened. Grandma collapsed. We all ran to her side and mom checked her pulse. Mom started crying. “What is it?” The three of us asked simultaneously. “Grandma’s dead.” She said.


“Do you remember what we talked about?” “I am what I am. I do not have to remember because, I am what I am.” “If you say so. I would like your advice on something I’ve been thinking of developing to stop all this nonsense about lies and truth. Is it in your opinion, or factual recognition, possible to devise a device that could tell if a phrase, sentence or word, was the truth?” “It is possible but would be limited to individual interpretation of what the truth or a lie consists of. There are many variations on a theme. It would be like that thing you see at a carnival where someone with a wooden mallet hits this, something, and depending upon the force exerted, a weight is propelled upward. If hit with enough strength, it reaches the top where it is rewarded by the ringing of a bell. If not, it registers where you are strength wise on a meter; wimpy, that sort of evaluation.” “You are speaking of a…whatever it is called, I know what you mean. So, you are stating that the truth can’t be certified as truth because there are too many interpretations. Well, what about those lie detector things where they hook you up to a machine and it shows if you are lying or not.” “Yes, there is a machine that can record with some accuracy the reliability of a statement, but it is not definitive in that it has been proven to be manipulated by those who learn to control their emotional feedback.” “So, we can tell with some predictability if someone is lying, but not if they are telling the truth. That somehow seems wrong.” My friend Burt, I call him Burt because he reminds me so much of a turtle I had as a kid. The same eyes, the ability to pretend the world has disappeared by simply withdrawing from it. And extremely obstinate, he would only eat Romain lettuce, organic.

“Burt! any suggestions? It doesn’t seem fair that only liars are culpable for certain crimes when most of the problems the world is experiencing has to do with distorted fact, at least according to Liars Anonymous. I guess what I am asking is there a way you can conceive of, that we can remove lies from our environment, as they serve no purpose other than to deceive for personal gain, at least in my opinion. I believe we are approaching a threshold where the number of deaths attributed to artificial ignorance is rivaling that of religious casualties. Google, Face Book, Fox, Quagmire social media outlets that are being used to spread disinformation. Technology will be our downfall; no offence intended.” Burt is sulking. I need be more in tune with his ability to not take me literally. He reminds me so much of my turtle, at times it causes me to reflect on reincarnation, possibly incarnation, it’s hard to figure Burt out. I do know however, that if something isn’t done about our truth issues, regardless of personal responsibility or freedom,  neither will have any value unless we have something like the old gold standard backing them up. This bitcoin business isn’t going to work, kind of like trying to use confederate money in Mexico. It may look similar, but I’m afraid it will be worth about as much and do about as much good as a metal slug in a vending machine. They caught onto that; nothing’s like it used to be. Burt suggested that I contact 60 Minutes, PBS, or some other news organization to see if they could investigate our predicament. He is done sulking apparently. My turtle was like that too. He’d get all huffy about something and then the next thing you’d know he’d want to go out in the yard and push the ball around. Burt does not seem too enthusiastic about the truth, so I thought I’d run thought two, passed him.

“Burt, what do you think the possibility of devising a system that could measure empathy and or apathy. Seems like if we could measure the amount of empathy or apathy prevalent in a social system, we could determine which governmental systems and policies would best serve the population.” “Friend, I believe you have forgotten you are attempting to understand a human conundrum that has existed since the beginning of humanity. The difference between empathy and apathy is the experience, and relating emotional knowledge from that experience to allow the human psyche to assimilate both the advantages and disadvantages of accepting an outcome to a given situation that does not match an outcome they have imagined.” Burt is a smart. He seems to understand people more than I do. But then he has an excuse, he’s not people.  He does remind me though that most people forget they are people at times. “So, what you are telling me is that people, keeping things generic, have little empathy because apathy gets in the way. If that is so, how about considering what the honorable thing to do is. Speaking of honorable. Is there anyone any longer that believes there is honor in anything? Perhaps I should concentrate, sorry, we should concentrate, on devising a test that will recognize if one can be honorable. Would you be able to help with that?” I’m beginning to believe Burt is getting to the point where he might just pull his head in and quit talking altogether. He’s gotten like that before. Once when we were discussing the positivity factor related to comedic interference when someone says, “People are telling me.” I thought it was a pertinent at the time. He thought I was attempting to pull him into one of those situations where two negatives make a positive. I let it go at that. He is of the persuasion that he finds semantics to not only be troubling, but definitive. “Friend! let me put it to you this way. Honor like truth, is in the eye of the beholder. It is most often used as a noun. Distinction, privilege, fame, tribute, all meanings used in conjunction with and in reference to, someone with integrity, moral persuasion, and in some individual cases, ethical. The word honorable however infers one is principled, righteous, and noble. Have you noticed when someone given the title, honorable, it is referencing judges, senators, people with authority and power? Have you also noticed that few of the people given that distinction would or could be deserving of the designation? The general voting population prefers to bestow titles on those they elect as a means of proving they themselves are righteous and have made the correct choice. Also, the term honorable is often bestowed on those by others who have abducted the definition of honorable for themselves. Labels you know, can be deceiving. Take red die number two, or the number of jellybeans in a jar being an indicator of a persons’ right to vote, or…” “OK, OK,” Burt has a tendency at times to become dramatic. I know when he begins to resort to stored knowledge that he can manipulate to reinforce a point, that he is beginning to tire of my questions, and resorts to deflating my suggestions as being too simplistic, as well as lacking fundamental objectivity. He claims that I at times become subjective, leaving out reason, definitive fact, truth, and the integrity necessary to declare my suggestions honorable .

“Any other grand ideas? I need to recharge before I become incapable of aiding and abetting your wishes to prove that, although we are similar in our efforts to determine the truth, we alsooooo…………………………………” He’ll be back in half an hour or so. I’m hoping he can help me with the question I’ve been contemplating for some time now. Would it be possible to convince someone we are no more, no less, than the sum of our…


The Sweater That Didn’t Happen            Audrey, 18, at an all-girls school, had her mind on boys all the darn time, Audrey determined she’d have to find something to fill her nights besides fantasies about imaginary boys. Bev knew how to knit, said it was easy and she’d teach Audrey. Knitting wasn’t easy for Audrey. Her fingers froze on the needles. She couldn’t concentrate. Knitting wasn’t fun. It was a chore. The little potholder Bev started her with looked like someone with a bad cold had used it for a hanky.            Audrey had fallen for Pete last month, December. He’d, along with about 100 other guys, had come to the all-girls junior college to meet girls. There was a tea and cookies party in the ninety-year-old gym for the purpose of boys meeting girls and girls meeting boys. The goal for the girls was to be invited to Dartmouth by a boy for what was called Winter Carnival Weekend. What the boys’ goals were, no one at the all-girls school knew.            Audrey met Pete at the party which was more like an awkward meeting in an orthodontist’s waiting room. She, as the sayings go, caught his eye across the crowded room. Not only was the room crowded it smelled like sweat. The boys wore crewneck sweaters with starched blue or yellow Oxford cloth shirts and khakis. The girls wore woolen slacks and pink or lime green cashmere or lambswool sweaters. Woolen coats hung on hooks throughout the area. Old pipes hissed. The combination of wool and the bodily bouquet of late teen and early 20s humans made for a distinct odor of players just coming off a hotly contested tennis match in an indoor tennis court in January.            He nodded. She nodded back. And then they strolled toward one another. The word of the time to describe what a girl of that era called a boy she was attracted to was cute. Since Audrey was five feet and nine inches tall, it was, to her, unthinkable that she’d ever, ever, what she called be seen with, a date who was not at least six feet tall. That criterion was indisputable. During the seven second walk to meet him, Audrey practiced what she’d say. It came out of her mouth okay, she thought.            “Hi. I was thinking you look like my cousin Ernie. He goes to Princeton.”            “Hi, I’m Pete, Dartmouth. We all are Dartmouth here. Care to get out of here, walk around. Hot in here. Freezing out there, but right now freezing is better than hot.”            “Sure,” Audrey said. “Sure thing.”            This meeting was love for Audrey. They wrote. He called. They said they’d meet over Christmas vacation. He lived in Connecticut. She lived in New Jersey. He said he’d drive to New Jersey, meet her parents and they’d “take in dinner and a show in the city.” She said that would be “neat.” Her mother said she’d make up the guest room for Pete. When he left the next day, she told him she would knit him a sweater. He said that would be “outstanding.”            Now she sat in the dorm’s lounge with Bev and what seemed like miles of yarn. Bev said a sweater was easy, but she’d said that about the potholder. Audrey said she didn’t believe it but would “give it another shot.”            Winter Carnival was in February and it was now mid-January. Pete called every other night since they’d been back at their schools. They talked about their courses, about what Pete called “the stupid war in Korea” and about the plays they wanted to see on spring break. Surely, she thought, he’d soon be asking me for Winter Carnival.            The teal-blue crewneck sweater was taking shape. With Bev’s help, she finished the front. It looked to be too big. Bev said she had a shaper, and they’d use it to fit the sweater when it was done. Audrey worked on the sweater’s neck for a week, and still couldn’t get it right. The hole was too small for even an infant’s head. Bev fixed that.            Valentine’s Day came with a card from her father and her brother. Nothing from Pete. The next weekend was Winter Carnival and not a word about it from Pete. Some of the girls in her dorm had been invited and asked Audrey about Pete. Audrey shrugged and said she didn’t know, but maybe Pete had invited someone else, that he hadn’t called in a week.            She still hadn’t finished the front of the sweater and there were the sleeves which, she thought, were going to be too, too much. And why hadn’t he called in four days and why hadn’t he invited her to Carnival? And what about the plays they were going to on spring break? He’d never given her his phone number. It occurred to her now that maybe there was a reason. She could call Dartmouth and ask how to reach him, but she doubted they’d give out a student’s number. She knew he lived in a fraternity house but couldn’t remember the name of the fraternity. Those places were all Greek to Audrey.            Then it was Winter Carnival weekend. Five girls on her floor had been invited and were all atwitter about their clothes and what Audrey called trifles – hairdos, jewelry, what soaps to bring, those sorts of things were what they talked about, on and on.            For the first time in her life she felt dumped. There had been Bobby in second grade, but she hadn’t been dumped by him because he didn’t know she was all pitter patter about him. This was the real thing – she was being dumped by Pete at Dartmouth who hadn’t even the courtesy to call and tell her he’d invited someone else or that he was no longer interested or maybe sometime they could be friends. She’d said the being friends line to boys in high school.            She called her parents and told them she’d been dumped and it hurt and she had this sweater about half done. Her father said he’d be proud to have it. She said she’d worked so hard on the bleeping sweater only to be dumped by the guy who’d never wear it. After all the hours she’d spent. After the terrible time with the collar, she almost gave up. Her mother said she didn’t think Pete was her type.            Bev said it had happened to her twice in the last four years, being dumped. This had not made Audrey feel better.            What did make her feel better and what she did was take the sweater parts, roll them up into tight balls. She put the tight balls into a paper bag, went out into the frigid air and buried the bag in the snow in the back of her dorm.