The Dancer entreats the audience with a blossoming left hand, and although the blazing lights at stage’s edge render invisible the bedazzled masses, She feels the silence, the moment of transit, when observer becomes one with the Dance, believes the doors have opened to a universe of possibilities. With one inviting gesture, The Dancer has become the Conductor of Dreams… Her fingers pause. A double-tap, and a blue nail hovers over the keyboard. It descends, and all begins again… ** “These mitigating circumstances,” Curtis murmured. “Whyn’t you explain them to me?” It was the first time Professor Saanvi Deshpande had met Detective Mead on his own turf. Curtis settled back in his Obama-era Office Depot seat, fingers templed, and mirrored her serenity. “Daria’s intent was entirely self-destructive. The unloaded weapon was newly purchased, from whom she will not disclose, for the express purpose of ending her life. That it fell from her backpack in the middle of a campus rally was an unfortunate accident that no doubt saved her life.” “And why would she want to blow her brains out? Blonde and beautiful, according to you a near-perfect GPA, daughter of some rich Chicago writer.” What Curtis didn’t say hung in volumes between the West Side cop and the Mumbai-born arts department head. “And what’s your interest in all this?” “Daria’s mother, Olivia, was once a faculty colleague, before rising to prominence as a brilliant abstract artist. Her foray into children’s illustration and eventually literature was an attempt, I believe, to connect with Daria.” “That worked out,” Detective Mead opined. “That is the crux of my, ah, mitigation,” Saanvi sighed. “I’m afraid Olivia created the tragic circumstances that have led us here.” “And how is that?” “She showed Daria the future. Her future.” Curtis had learned in Saanvi’s company to suspend a certain level of belief, scissors poised. “You mean that figuratively.” “Materially.” “I’m not sure you understand ‘figuratively.’” “Olivia quite literally created Daria’s future. Have you ever read The Picture of Dorian Gray ?” “Think I dodged that bullet. But yeah, Oscar Wilde, magical painting, some lame-ass moral about vanity and narcissism…” “You have so perfectly captured its essence,” Saanvi nodded. “Would you like to accompany me to a showing?” ** The Dancer catches his eye, or he catches hers, over a display of Galas and Braeburns and Honeycrisps. Her skills are known to a select few, and although excepting a courageous few who approach the apron with an appreciative token they are faceless, She simply knows. The sturdy woman with him glances up from the Bartletts, and she trades a sharp nod and a perfunctory smile even as her husband retreats to the Russets and Vidalias… With a breathy curse, she snags the Kroger bag next to the laptop. The fruit spills to the tiles, one rolling into the darkness beyond the kitchenette. Repeating her curse with strengthened commitment, she plucks the nearest apple with a slight stitch in her side, wipes it furiously with her tee, and snaps an angry chunk from it. She closes the laptop with exaggerated care. It had been a mistake, tonight, and she now can’t focus on the work. Her own mocking laughter is jarring. “Yeah,” she retorts. “ That’s the problem.” ** “Shit,” Curtis exhaled. “A viscerally astute assessment,” Saanvi said, elbow-to-elbow before the painting. “Olivia had quite a talent for expressionist reality.” The lovely young woman was poised in some meadow likely of Olivia’s imaginings, before an easel anchored into the prairie grass, gaze lasered on a fawn poised on the horizon, brush gripped in a raised left hand. The only apparent imperfection were the eyes, unnaturally large and cornflower blue. But as both Detective Mead and Saanvi knew, the portrait’s perfection lie in that single “flaw.” “Creepy,” Curtis amplified. Professor Deshpande understood: The cop had seen those huge, nearly unreal, utterly dead blue orbs in a guarded hospital room, after a cadre of students slammed her instinctively to the rainbow-chalked concrete of Tillson Union Plaza. The Pulse shootings, the recent beat down at Illinois State, the election year polarity that crackled even on academic ground – the cuffs were applied to Daria’s hospital bed and the social media damage done even as the Student LGBTQ Coalition surged forward to vet one of their own. Saanvi had spent a semester under Daria’s silent, sullen, ultimately deferential examination as the teen sized up her mother-appointed mentor. “So,” Curtis continued, scanning the nearly barren campus-adjacent apartment, “Mom thought this would be motivational ? Saw your friend’s stuff in Chicago one time – thought she didn’t do people any more. I mean, this is, like, amazing. Graduation gift?” “Birthday,” Saanvi clarified with a new sobriety. “Well, pre-birthday. Olivia painted this 18 years ago.” “Shit,” Curtis reiterated.  ** “The state’s attorney says you get some court-supervised counseling, she’ll recommend probation on an illegal weapons charge,” Curtis told Daria as the uniform hesitantly removed the cuff from her freckled wrist. The young woman looked to Saanvi, who smiled encouragingly. “Thing is, Ms. Cray, and your mom agrees, the hospital wants to keep you for a few more days.” Daria smirked knowingly, her freed right hand locating the bed control. “So I don’t walk into an Amtrak, right? I’m 18, so I’ll sign whatever you want if you tell her to just stay home. Can I talk to Professor Deshpande before they cart me up to the loony bin? I mean, like alone?” Curtis nodded, and tapped the patrolman’s arm. “Be at the nurse’s station. Looks like they got some Krispy Kremes.” “I figure you probably did that, so thanks,” Daria said, working at a smile. Her large blue eyes were bloodshot, and, to Saanvi’s discerning view, fearful. “For everything. You know I just suck at the art thing, and I’m a royal fuckup. For example, this shit.” “We won’t belabor all the inaccuracies in that evaluation, but I think perhaps this counseling will be of great benefit to you. And your mother is deeply concerned for your wellbeing, though I assured her I’d look after you until you’re ready for her.” “That may be forever. That fucking picture…” The teen turned abruptly to the window. “Daria?” “Look,” Daria said, almost inaudibly. “I didn’t want that cop guy to think I was any crazier than, well, than I fucking am, but last night?” Saanvi placed a hand on her arm, and the cornflower eyes locked with hers. “I could have been dreaming, the shit they gave me, but I don’t think so. I saw her.” “Your mother?” “Me,” Daria snapped. “The other one. Future me.”

** The Radiology waiting room was the emptiest at mid-afternoon, so they reconvened there with two cups of truly institutional brew. “The notion of preternaturally endowed objects is widely held across cultures. Haitian Vodou offers probably the best-known example. A drawing of the subject or the notorious ‘voodoo’ doll is said to possess the power to affect or even control that individual’s health or fortunes or, if we subscribe to B horror movies or poorly written ‘60s situation comedies, inflict pain. “Some indigenous African and American cultures employ masks, statues, sand paintings, or totem carvings with generally more positive, protective intent, and the mandelas and sacred thangka paintings of Tibetan Buddhism are used in meditation and healing rituals.” “Mm,” Det. Mead nodded. “I’m only leading from my particular wheelhouse. But these are longstanding traditions, and for good reasons, be they mystical or merely psychological. Are you familiar with Obeah? Another Caribbean practice, this time intended to manipulate or extort a subject. Certain herbs and plants used in Obeah rituals or potions, like mandrake root and belladonna, have psychoactive effects, and combined with spells, use of a target’s personal belongings or hair or nails, and significant or frightening object placed near the subject’s home instill a sense of unease or terror, making it easier to control decisions or coerce money.” “I’m more accustomed to bullets through windshields or dead cats artfully placed hung on trailer doors,” Curtis noted. “You got anything maybe, I don’t know, just a little less Mulder and Scully?” Saanvi nodded pleasantly. “We could look at this from an alternate perspective, if you’d prefer.” “Believe I would.” “Van Gogh, Edvard Munch, Picasso, Pollock struggled with potentially debilitating depression, addiction, anxiety, hallucinations, psychotic episodes, or bipolar manifestations that instead informed their work. Pollock’s chaotic energy, Munch’s nightmarish ‘The Scream,’ and, well, Picasso’s surreal and shifting artistic phases. Creativity and dysfunction – one might say they go hand-in-glove.” Saanvi’s lips abruptly clamped into a Giaconda smile, and the cop studied her silently for a moment. “So you think your friend Olivia may be a little insane in the membrane?” Professor Deshpande grinned with a waggling finger. “I’m not so certain. Your brilliant young colleague, the forensic virtuoso. Christina? Has she returned to duty yet?” “Call her Chris if you value your life. But yeah, against department orders, under threat of civil action. Restricted to the lab until her utterly futile maternity ‘leave’ is over.” “That’s where I need her expertise,” Saanvi said. “I’d be interested, as well, to learn the findings of any psychological evaluation of Daria.” “You can take on the department easier than you can HIPAA. What’re you hoping to find?” “Not certain. There appear to be two possible sides to this equation – the psychology of the artist, and the psychology and perhaps physiology of the subject. As you can see in Munch and Picasso’s works, psychoses and bipolar disorder can manifest in a number of anomalies. Figures may have unusually large heads, elongated limbs, or disproportionate torsos, or be broken into disjointed pieces, possibly reflecting a fragmented view of reality. Intense, clashing colors can indicate emotional turmoil, where inclusion of surreal or symbolic elements such as eyes in unnatural locations or abstract shapes, might reflect the artist’s inner thoughts and emotions. If certain shapes or motifs are repeated obsessively, the creator may be laboring under a driving fixation or compulsion.” “Welcome to The Night Gallery ,” Curtis intoned in a creditable Rod Serling. “Sorry, got a streaming addiction. So, the first thing grabs me are the eyes. Girl’s just this side of those tacky old paintings of the kids with the creepy big eyes.” “Margaret Keane, often referred to as the ‘Wayne Newton of the art world’ and famously exploited by her husband Walter in the Sixties. Walter purportedly was attracted to Margaret by her own large eyes, so one assumes her work was to some extent reflective. But one wonders what other forces may have been at play. In portraits by artists with bipolar or psychotic tendencies, large, exaggerated eyes, may reflect heightened emotions, paranoia, or simply an intense focus on perception and observation. “Now, there are psychological explanations for the eerily prescient nature of the picture of Daria Cray. Many adolescents today suffer Body Dysmorphic Disorder – obsession with self-perceived flaws in their appearance fueled by social media and bullying. BDD can lead to excessive grooming, eating disorders, even cosmetic surgery. Like extreme epicanthoplasty and eyelid surgery to create the appearance of Barbie- or anime-style eyes. I asked Olivia if Daria has had any such procedure, and she argued she’d never allow such self-mutilation.” “Fucking mom of the year,” Curtis grunted. “Sick enough she’d hang that thing in the girl’s room. What’d she expect might happen?” “Artists often have unorthodox expectations,” Saanvi commented. “But to return to point, there also are organic explanations for Daria’s unusual features. Waardenburg Syndrome is a genetic mutation more prevalent in Northern Europe that can produce wide-set, larger-than-usual eyes. And Waardenburg can manifest in a child of non-Waardenburg parents. “The other genetic possibility is congenital glaucoma, which can make the eyes appear larger due to intraocular pressure. Olivia shows no classic symptoms, and I saw no typical indicators in Daria, either. But I imagine your Chris could address either possibility, possibly with the use of the University’s Biomedicine Department sequencing technology.” “Shit, you sound like her ,” Curtis grinned. “We are rumored to be the future,” Professor Deshpande intimated. She then paused. “Uh oh,” the detective suggested. “Quite possibly,” Saanvi said. ** Saanvi was suspended over the city, near the summit of a round glassed tower jutting dangerously from the East Loop. Here in the stratosphere – or as a colleague had once coined, the statusphere – she kept her eyes locked on her host, but Olivia Cray’s green orbs meandered from Lake Michigan to the Sears Tower to the Lake Shore traffic seemingly a mile below. Anywhere but the small woman sipping oolong under a Pollock original.

“I told a friend yesterday we artists frequently harbor unorthodox expectations,” the professor commented. “Of the world, of ourselves, of those we hold dear and those we simply hold onto.” “You’re an administrator, hardly an artist.” The retort was calm, sullen, Olivia now staring imperiously, framed by the wispy cumuli seemingly within grasp. Saanvi willed herself to maintain the connection. “What were your expectations? Of Daria, that is? Or were they yours?” “I have a reception at the Palmer in three hours. I’m sorry about the cheap shot. I know you’re trying to support Daria. I simply don’t understand how.” “Olivia, my friend has secured DNA results.” The painter gripped the arms of her Roche Bobois. “I didn’t consent to anything like that. And I’m hoping you didn’t broach anything to Daria – she’s experienced enough trauma without...” “The truth? Olivia, you are correct. I am an administrator, an academic, an expert of sorts on what and how and why others create. Pour me a bit more tea, if you would.” Olivia rose and reached for the Michael Aram pot, then froze. “Yes, the right hand. Do you believe I wouldn’t be able to discern that Daria’s portrait was the work of a left-handed artist? The stroke direction and pressure, the slight smudging at points typical of one working left to right. Your signature nonetheless is right-handed. “The few smudges were efficiently but inexpertly repaired, which seem to indicate a skilled but inexperienced artist. Perhaps a student? More importantly, Daria, like you, is a right-hander. And that brings me to the one rational explanation for this precognitive portrait, this vision of the idealized Daria to which your daughter aspired and ultimately surrendered. It is a self-portrait, of a young woman with Daria’s eyes. She must have been very special to you.” Now, Olivia refilled her cup. “Not particularly, but this was the deal.” The artist bolted the searing tea, as if in penance. “I wanted a child, she’d been knocked up, and her parents disowned her when she switched to an arts major. I could solve both her problems and buy her confidence. Using a sophomore student as a surrogate might not have gone over with the administration. And she showed tremendous potential, so I continued to mentor her over a convenient sabbatical. “So we’re in the final trimester, and she’s been working on some project she didn’t want me to see. I come home to it one night, hanging in the new nursery. And she gives me an ultimatum. She’ll surrender rights to Daria, but she wants a ‘presence’ in her life. She’d keep her mouth shut, but it was to stay on Daria’s wall until the day I decided to tell her the truth. She had leverage, so I simply signed it as my own and presented it as Daria’s future – as a happy, beautiful young woman.” Olivia laughed harshly. “The DNA test. The left-handedness. Was that bullshit?” For the first time, Saanvi stared out over the lake shore, at the Navy Pier ferris awaiting beautiful, happy children, and felt only the slightest frisson of vertigo. “Simply a bit of precognitive creativity.” ** The Dancer steps lithely out of the oasis of pink and aqua as if emerging from a luminous sea onto a dark and clattering shore. She dismisses the acclaim, the clamor that follow her offstage and strides briskly past those now returned to the dock. She is the Captain of the... The Siren of … what, the Briny Deep? “Fuck,” The Dancer growls as she shoulders into the tiny room that is hers alone Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. The laptop is still open on the makeup table, its blank white screen taunting her and her abortive metaphors. The tiny woman in the folding chair beyond offers a kind smile, as if in compensation. The intruder doesn’t seem rattled by her nudity, which in this venue should make Carlie wary but somehow reassures her. Carlie nonetheless slips on the outsized terry cloth robe supplied by management. “This thing, whatever it is? No.” The woman, on the handsome side of 45 or 50, Indian or maybe Pakistani, put together with a modest flair, smiles more broadly. She nods toward the Dell. “You are a writer, as well?” “As well as this?” Carlie challenges. “The creative soul finds an outlet,” her guest murmurs. “Whether putting words and experience to paper or pouring athleticism and interpretive prowess into the dance. Or committing heart and soul to canvas.” “Shit,” Carlie whispers. “I know you.” “Professor Deshpande. I once worked with Olivia Cray.” The Dancer drops onto a case of bottom shelf tequila that has aged negligently since the Country Cabana’s third post-COVID reopening . “Probably had you for a class. How is Professor Cray--? Oh, shit. Of course, you know. How is Daria?” “She has suffered the crushing weight of a lifelong delusion, perpetuated by Professor Cray.” “The fuck did Olivia do?” The question is rimed with permafrost. “I shall tell you, if you’d be good enough to walk me to my car,” the professor offers. “And perhaps accompany me back into town. You know how to find St. Mark’s, am I right? Daria’s photo was all over Facebook and Instagram, and you felt compelled to investigate. This time, I think Daria would like to meet you for real. Needs to, I should say.” “Gimme about 15. I’m not really dressed for it.”


Date: Shamash, Ayyāru 1 Time: 5;45:30 Five Days before the eclipse. I have spent my entire adult life mapping and studying the heavens, determined to find out exactly why the moon covers the sun at such precise coordinates and time. The history of my kingdom was established when our ancestors met The Protector and ever since, the eclipse has been an unexplainable phenomenon. When my mother came face to face with The Protector, before I was born, he informed her that one day a natural wonder would occur to mark the beginning of a hundred-year-old prophecy finally coming to pass, and that story set me on a path in learning and discovering everything there is to know about the stars and the moon as well as the sun, and how they relate to our Great Protector. I know that I am close to finding out how things will happen, but that phenomenon has not come to pass, which means I have time to spare to figure out why it occurs. ** Date: Sin, Ayyāru 2 Time: 20;55:45 Four Days before the eclipse. The Eclipse … That is the occurrence that will provide me with the answers that I desperately need and have been searching for. I scoured the ancient texts, and the nation's records for more evidence, and I discovered that other astronomers before me all attempted to figure out when the prophecy would be set into motion, and their research has all pointed to the eclipse! I am unsure why they did not realize sooner, but I am certain that The Protector wanted me to put the pieces together. It is now time for me to chart the rotation of the earth and the cycles of the moon to make a precise prediction on when the Prophecy’s Great Eclipse will transpire, and I tend to do so, even if I lose sleep over it. ** Date: Nergal, Ayyāru 3 Time: 3;35:25 Three Days before the Great Eclipse. The stars have begun to converge since the last time I wrote. This is the first sign of the prophesied eclipse’s appearance, and the celestial bodies will create new constellations due to their movements, which will mark the emergence of this exciting divination. If my calculations are correct, the Great Eclipse will befall us in three days’ time. I have waited for what seems to be a lifetime for this very manifestation. Around the island, odd incidents are revealing themselves as well. The crops have flourished just as it had been stated in the kingdom’s ancestral legends and the tides have become unpredictable more so than ever before. This event and my research have brought us closer to the much-anticipated circumstances of our redemption, and I know that my predecessors would be in awe similar to myself. Times are changing and I am the first one to chart the stars and moon correctly to be able to see it for myself, and I hope to enjoy my predictions and hope for a better future for my people. ** Date: Nabu, Ayyāru 4 Time: 7;15:20 Two Days before the Great Eclipse. I decided to forego my tower for today, having ascertained added information that may explain why the astronomers preceding me could not predict the heavens as accurately as I have. After deep diving into my research, the library offered me extra, original details about the eclipse and I could not resist reading as much as the library allowed. My curious tendencies led me even further into the library than I had ever gone before, and I came upon a hidden room with a plethora of analyses from an astronomer of which I had never heard. Once I had set to work on deciphering his findings, I realized that this man was a witness to the downfall of my nation over one hundred years prior. He even spoke with The Protector himself and was one of the mere few mortals who heard the prophecy firsthand, and it sent him down a path of documenting every single shift of the celestial bodies, trying to pinpoint when the prophecy would be set into effect. The astronomer documented the exact words The Protector spoke in his journal, mentioning that the first signs of the prophecy coming true would be bountiful vegetation and unruly tides, and his recordings were the steppingstone that I forlornly sought to end my lifelong inquiries about the prophecy finally. Now I have a definitive time of when the Great Eclipse will occur, and it shall be a pivotal point for my nation. ** Date: Marduk, Ayyāru 5 Time: 1;10:30 One Day before the Great Eclipse. As I speculated, the Great Eclipse is almost upon us. In my last entry, I briefly stated that the forgotten astronomer recorded that as that eclipse grew near, many unexplainable happenings would reveal themselves, and now the earth has begun to shake. Many buildings have been torn to ruins and were destroyed by the mighty quakes of the island, and we all fear that we will cease to exist with how violent they are, but I pray that it may pass over us and The Protector will allow my kingdom to see another day. My people have begun to worry about their safety, but I am sure nothing will happen to us as long as we continue asking The Protector for preservation. The eclipse is to be the dawn of our redemption and it is time for my kingdom to start having faith in the prophecy that was set in stone all those years ago. My greatest accomplishment is nearly here, only a day away, and I wish to experience it to the fullest because this event shall be the focal point for the reclamation of my beloved nation. ** Date: Ishtar, Ayyāru 6 Time: 10;14:58 Four Hours until the Great Eclipse. It is mere hours until the Great Eclipse, and the moon has begun its convergence. Unfortunately, things have gotten worse on the island, and I am not as hopeful as I was yesterday about our safety. As the moon makes its leisure streak across the sky and towards the sun, tidal waves have occurred around the island, and the vegetation has withered away, as if the salt water has killed every blade of grass out of simple spite. I am unsure if The Protector even cares about my people and me since disaster after disaster has left us with almost nothing to salvage. Maybe if I were not so obsessed with foreseeing our salvation, The Protector would have permitted this to pass over us, but I cannot undo what I have done and all we as a nation can do now is pray for deliverance. Why did I have to be correct with my predictions? Why was I so adamant about figuring out the beginning of our end? Is this truly our end? What have I done? ** Time: 12;25:40 2 Hours before the Great Eclipse. The island has shifted … I am ambivalent to what this means, but I think the moon’s rotation towards the sun has something to do with it, and it has caused havoc in the villages around the kingdom. The moon is even closer to the sun than it was a few hours ago, and the heat has gotten to be unbearable to put it lightly. It is as if we are in the dead of summer, even though we are barely out of the winter season on the island, and this sudden and unexpected heat has caused panic as well as medical emergencies that the physicians cannot keep up with. I fear that even though The Protector promised this would not be the end of us, our doom may be upon us before the Prophesized One has had the opportunity to be our savior and bring this broken kingdom back together, and I have lost hope in my research. Protector, if you are listening to my people’s cries for help, please spare us, I beg of you! ** Time: 2;45;55 The Eclipse has begun … The moon is slowly covering the sun and the rays have become even more intense as one stares directly up at the beautiful sight. Within the last few hours, everything has calmed steadily, the island’s drifting seeming to move as if it were a beating heart, syncing with the convergence of the moon, and I have to be honest and say that this event is the most extraordinary of all of the I have ever had the pleasure of watching. As the moon slides in front of the sun, I have made peace with the fact that if this is our last day on this earth, I can rest peacefully in my watery grave, knowing that I was able to observe such a fantastic affair. ** Time: 3;00:05 The Great Eclipse is upon us. The sky is becoming darker by the second and I can see the brand-new constellations in the sky! Never in my life have I seen something so phenomenal before … Wait, the moon has completely stopped in front of the sun. Something is going on. Everything is so quiet, even the waves have silenced for the Great Eclipse. This, I believe, is the beginning of our salvation. The sun and moon have kissed, and the brilliant lights above have transformed! I do not know whether this journal will be found by my descendants, but if they do, remember that The Protector has given us extraordinary abilities, and do not ever misuse them. Because one day, The Protector may not be as kind as he is today.


‘I quit,’ says April Stanton, leaning on the countertop. She stares vacantly through the window of the truck stop at the heat rippling on the old highway. Her lips smack as she chews a wad of pink bubblegum. ‘This truck stop is as dead as a doornail.’ Andrew Stanton, April’s father, looks at the dilapidated diner directly next to the truck stop. The desert has its own plans if Andrew doesn’t fix up the building soon. ‘The truck stop is not dead, April. It’s just in torpor.’ And what about the diner? April thinks, folding a fresh stick of strawberry satisfaction in half with her tongue and chewing loudly. ‘If you quit, where else are you going to get a job?’ Andrew asks. April’s mouth curls at the edges. ‘Oh, I can get work .’ ‘If you’re referring to what I think you are, internet whoring, or being a cam-girl, is not real work. It’s the farthest thing from it.’ ‘I beg to disagree. Mary Magdalen’s epitaph says: Friend of Jesus, Proud sex worker . I’m not too proud to join her ranks.’ ‘Can anyone be a proud sex worker? I mean, truly?’ Andrew asks. Other than setting tumble weeds alight and watching fireballs roll across the desert by night, provoking her father is April’s only regular source of entertainment. She traces her hips with her hands. ‘Uh, yeah. These curves are monetisable. I just never realised it until now.’ The bell above the shop door rings. Pastor Richards tips his stetson hat in greeting. He walks to the back of the store to pick out a soda. ‘Morning, folks,’ he says, placing his drink on the counter. ‘Dust storm on the way. Hot as hell. What’s the news here?’ April stretches the gum from her mouth and plucks it like a banjo string. ‘Well, Pastor,’ Andrew says, ‘April is considering turning to the oldest profession—by way of the internet—if you catch my meaning. Now, I’m half-sure that this ironic teenage posturing will come to an end soon, but she shouldn't be entertaining the notion in the first place.’ April twirls her gum with her finger and bats her lashes at the pastor. ‘Young lady,’ Pastor Richards says, ‘boredom is not a reason to commit carnal capers on the internet. Don’t let temporary teenage disaffection lead you astray. If you slide into a world of smut that you can’t crawl back out of, and pick up a drug habit, you can say goodbye to redemption.’

April sniggers. ‘What do you suggest I do, then? There’s nothing to keep my idle thumbs busy around here.’ ‘You have to make something of yourself. It’s no good just lying around like it's all gonna happen to you. Do something other than bothering your poor father.’ ‘Yeah? like what?’ ‘Well, think about it. What is this town lacking?’ ‘Uh, everything.’ ‘Ever see those roadside attractions? How’s about killing two birds with one stone and building a landmark? That’ll keep you busy and get people patronising this place again.' ‘Yeah,’ Andrew says, ‘I’ve seen ‘em—Gigantic Lumberjacks and Large Ears of Corn. But what could ours could be?’ April taps her fingers on her chin. ‘Uh, the biggest wad of bubblegum, obviously. Like a big sculpture. A big pile of the stuff.’

Clunk. That sound, dear reader, is the clunk of calcified apathy dislodging from April’s brain. For the first time in her life, she is about to follow an original train of thought instinctively. She starts by going to the storeroom in the back and searching for boxes of bubblegum. As she does, she ponders how different brands, colours, flavours, and malleabilities will have an effect on the resulting sculpture. She decides that a magenta monolith made of her preferred brand of bubblegum—Strawberry Satisfaction—will pique people's ocular curiosity.

Yes , the rude, reddish tone of Strawberry Satisfaction will stand out royally against the golden sands of the desert. And if the community contributes their own used pieces of gum bought here at the truck stop, we’ll have a proud wad in no time! *** Julie surveys the patch of desert that surrounds the diner. She lays down and presses her ear to the ground, intuiting the Earth’s energy field in the form of ley lines. A scorpion scuttles over her shawl. ‘Every business that ever prospered did so because of its location on a ley line,’ she says. ‘A building’s surrounding energy fields are very important.’ Andrew stands with his arms folded. More mystic mumbo-jumbo, he thinks. I’m lucky to have an ex-wife who offers such a valuable service. ‘There’s a line with a high bandwidth of positivity running right under the diner. There are a few obstacles obstructing the flow of the truck stop tributaries, but it's nothing I can’t unblock.’ ‘And how much does a mystic plumber charge for unblocking these days?’ Andrew asks. Julie shakes her head knowingly. ‘Please. I’m an Energy Specialist. And I would never charge my family.’ She turns to her daughter. ‘Let me know when you’d like me to start work, April. I'll see you soon, my darling.' Julie’s dress trails across the sand as she floats over to her Chevy pick-up truck. She traps the hem of her dress in the door of the vehicle, and it flutters in the draft as she drives away. The motor of the pick up backfires, and Andrew jumps. ‘Your mother didn’t even notice I’ve repainted the front of the diner, did she?’ And by the way, April, when are you going to help?’ ‘I’m a big picture kind of gal. I don’t dabble in donkey work.’ Andrew places his hands on his hips. ‘Oh yeah ? Is that right?’ ‘If you let me run this place for a day, it wouldn’t be such a dilapidated dump!’ ‘Alright, if you think you can do better, then have at it!’ April thrusts her chin forward mockingly. 'Maybe I will.’ *** Andrew and Pastor Richards are seated in one of the diner’s shaggy old window booths sipping coffee. ‘Oh, man. It’s nice to take a break. It’s hard work doing everything by yourself,' Andrew says.

‘I’ll bet,’ Pastor Richards says. ‘It’s looking like things are progressing, though.’ ‘All the chrome’s polishing up well,’ Andrew says. ‘As you can see, the seats need reupholstering.’ ‘Is April chipping in at all?’ ‘A little. She’s using her brain now. She’s taken to the food side of things and is coming up with ideas for the menu.’ In the kitchen, April has a eureka moment whilst brainstorming dishes for the diner and eagerly broadcasts it through the service hatch of the kitchen. ’I’ve got it! I’ve got our signature dish.’ ‘Let me guess,’ Pastor Richards says. ‘Bubblegum pie?’ April skips over to her father and the Pastor. ‘How did you know?’ ‘There seems to be a theme emerging here,’ he says. ‘It’s going to be filled with melted pink marshmallows.’ April cups two giant, imaginary marshmallows in her hands. Pastor Richards rubs his nose. ‘And how’s the sculpture coming on?’ Andrew gestures to a concrete pad outside. ‘Well, so far, I’ve built a plinth for it.’ ‘Now all we need is more people to chew gum,’ April says.

‘That’s a heck of a lot of chewing,’ The Pastor says. And he's right. *** Magenta Diner is brimming with customers on opening afternoon. Bubble Gum pies are flying off the racks. Ramekins filled with sticks of Strawberry Satisfaction bubblegum adorn each table. As do napkins printed with the message, ‘Please don’t spit your gum here. Add it to The Wad!’. A group of elderly diners, who have failed to wrap their head around the concept of the sculpture, are asking Josh—the newly hired, acne-ridden busboy—to explain it. ‘If you’d care to participate in the interactive sculpture, all you have to do is place your used gum on the plinth in a fashion you see fit. We’re aiming for the largest wad in the states!’ He gestures to the plinth, upon which the humble beginnings of the magenta monolith can be seen. There are around two hundred pieces, mostly chewed by April and her father.

‘It’s current dimensions are a small fraction of what they’ll become,’ Josh says.

The elderly diners are impressed with Josh’s enthusiasm. ‘Well, isn’t that fun? Sure, we’ll do our part.’ ‘Great! Happy chewing,’ he says. ‘Anything else I can get ya from the menu, though?’ *** One month after opening, The Great Wad has grown to around the size of Julie’s Chevy pick-up truck.

April slides into the faux leather booth next to her father. ‘Want to hear the latest review of the diner?’ ‘Sure,’ he says. ‘But make it quick. I’ve got to empty the grease trap.’ ‘Okay.’ April clears her throat. ‘ “Bubblegum Pie is a diner in the desert where you can dine on dessert. And if your culinary curiosity is not peaked by the eponymous (and delicious) Bubblegum Pie, perhaps you will appreciate the diner’s subversive roadside attraction: a large wad of bubblegum perched on a plinth yards from the establishment. This kind of enterprising attitude could save any backwater establishment from a slow death. While modern life becomes increasingly streamlined by new highways, shopping malls, multiplexes, and chain restaurants, Magenta Diner sends its quaint tractor beam across the desert, engages those hungry for uniqueness, and pulls them toward its epicentre of desert quirk with a gentle, but firm, gravity. Oh, to exude a refreshingly human spirit in an age of machines, and a quintessentially American one at that! Viva Magenta Diner!” ’ April puts down the newspaper. ‘Geez,’ Andrew says.

April beams at her father. ‘Not bad, eh?’ ‘Couldn’t have put it better myself.’ Andrew says. ‘I’m glad we’re fully onboard with this thing together.’ *** Ten months on, and The Great Wad has reached a sizeable stature; precisely four Chevy pick-up trucks, stacked two by two. Not only that—but it has begun to glow.

According to Julie, an intensification of lay line energy has gifted The Great Wad with bioluminescence.

According to Pastor Richards, it’s simply a miracle.

According to Andrew—who now openly poo-poos Julie’s mystic interpretations—the Stantons ought to be consulting a man of science who can offer his opinion on the gum’s bioluminescent properties.

According to April— well, she can’t make up her mind on who to side with. Andrew polishes the chrome countertop. He’s been catching snippets of the conversation regarding the glowing gum between the holy man and the mystic, who sit in the reupholstered window booth. ‘It’s clearly a sign from God,’ Pastor Richards says. ‘Now, I don’t want to take credit for it, but I did roll the snowball from the top of the mountain and spark April's idea, didn’t I? Of course, He has been watching all along and has seen fit to give us a sign that He approves of our activities.’ Julie’s bangles rattle as she clasps her satin-scarfed head in exasperation. ‘Let me assure you, Pastor—this transmission is not divine in origin. There are no deities, Christian or otherwise, who have a monopoly on Earth’s energy fields. This is an act of nature beyond metaphysical comprehension.’ ‘I agree that it is an act of nature,’ Pastor Richards says, ‘in a miraculous sense.’ ‘Let’s leave it at that then, shall we?’ Julie says. Andrew sidles up to the booth with a steaming pot of coffee. ‘Oh, yes please,’ the Pastor says.

Andrew refrains from pouring the coffee for a moment. ‘I’ve sent a sample of The Great Wad to Professor Bubblegum of ChewCorp to analyse its polymers. So we may have a scientific explanation soon enough. But I hope you both know, that the cause of all of this, is that busy little brain in there .’ He points through the service hatch to April who is happily preparing pies. *** ‘I prefer to be addressed as Professor Bubblegum,’ the man in the perfect white lab coat says.

‘That’s your real name?’ Andrew asks. The Professor pinches the knot of his bowtie and nods. ‘What did your analysis reveal?’ April asks.

‘Something that I’ve been suspecting for a long time.’ Professor Bubblegum clears his throat. ‘ChewCorp gum—in large enough masses—is highly absorptive of solar radiation. So, at night, cooler desert temperatures alter its chemical composition, and it releases pent-up solar radiation. I never thought that when I hybridised agar gum polymers in an osmotic chamber with—’ ‘ Lab-coat hogwash .’ Pastor Richards interrupts. ‘Have you not a theological bone in your body, professor?’ ‘Actually, I studied theology at—’ ‘All mass vibrates with energy,’ says Julie. ‘The Wad is just buzzing with good feelings from the Earth, that’s all.’ ‘Well, it’s not exactly—’

‘Didn’t you hear the man?’ Andrew asks. ‘It’s solar radiation!’

‘Anyhow—regardless of the science behind your unique attraction,’ Professor Bubblegum says, 'I’d like to extend a friendly hand from ChewCorp. We’d like to sponsor Magenta Diner and provide you with an unlimited supply of Strawberry Satisfaction, or any flavour of your choosing.’ ‘You’re not going to plaster this quaint little diner with corporate logos, are you?’ Julie asks. ‘We don’t want a big billboard outside with your name on it,’ Pastor Richards says.

Andrew scratches his greying stubble. ‘I appreciate your offer, Professor, but I’m going to have to talk it over with my co-pilot, April.’ Professor Bubblegum scatters several of his polka-dotted-multi-coloured business cards on the table. Then deadly serious, he says, 'Give me a call when you decide.’ *** Whatever celestial body is responsible for The Great Wad's radiance—whether the Sun or the Earth—does not approve of ChewCorp and its dubious environmental policies, and has withdrawn its services from Magenta Diner. The gum no longer glows. Julie’s quest to get to the bottom of things begins with consulting her astrology charts, tarot cards, and dowsing with crystals. Checking the lay lines again confirms that the flow of energy has been cut off altogether. Everything points to ChewCorp. April and Andrew discuss the contract and decide (before Julie comes flapping her wings and preaching not to sign) that they won’t be jumping onboard with the gum giant. *** A great rain is falling in the desert. The Great Wad is sodden. The Great Wad is wilting.

Thrashing rain agitates the sculpture’s structure, leaving it vulnerable to a subsequent sandstorm, which pummels billions of grains into the pink pile of goo. These grains coat the exterior, giving the appearance of breaded tofu. Curious reptiles, arachnids, and avians peck, pinch, and sniff at the sorry pile of confectionary, whose sweet, strawberry petrichor, whose wet effluvium, is momentarily attractive. But then they become embedded in its sticky mass. Glued to its rosy flypaper. Helpless to escape.

*** April and Andrew are spending the morning plucking vultures and their beaks from a smoothed out, sloppy Great Wad. Presumably, the birds became stuck when they sought the juicy tarantulas therein—because, understandably, from a vulture’s perspective, the pile of gum must have looked like one big spider omelette. April and Andrew decide to leave The Great Wad alone—bereft of its former luminescent glory—until they decide what to do with it.

Pastor Richards stops by for his usual coffee, sees the plague of spiders, mistakes them for Biblical horrors, and believes that the sculpture ought to be cleansed. He concocts a rather extreme plan to deal with the devilry. It involves a large container of kerosene and a book of matches. *** April, draped in a thin bedsheet, dreams of the exact moment she refused the sponsorship offer. In the dream, she calls Professor Bubblegum on the diner’s rotary telephone, explains that she isn’t willing to engage in ChewCorp’s capitalistic pageantry, then high fives her mother, father, and Pastor Richards. Then, an overwhelming feeling of dread encompasses everything, which has less to do with regret than the fact that her bedroom in her father’s trailer is becoming unbearably hot. She sits up in a sweat after a roar outside wakes her. She flings the curtains open and sees a mass of black smoke spiralling up from a dome of orange flames. ‘The Great Wad!’ She cries. The wind is flicking flames at the trailer, whose white paint is turning golden brown like a marshmallow before a campfire. As the paint singes, fizzes, bubbles, and melts, the trailer’s metal frame wilts and buckles. April runs to her father’s room to shake him awake.

At a safe distance from the fire, father and daughter (in between coughing fits) ponder the motives of the arsonist. ‘Is this the work of the ChewCorp mafia?’ Andrew asks. ‘Did we refuse an offer that we shouldn’t have?’ ‘I don’t know, but I wish we would have insured The Great Wad,’ April says.

‘Even if we had, they’d probably just think the fire was fraudulent, or some kind of publicity stunt,’ Andrew says. ‘You know what your mother is going to say, don’t you?’ ‘What?’ ‘Something like “It’s a symbolic immolation . It’s a new start . . .” April laughs. ‘What do we do now?’ Andrew asks.

‘Eh, let it burn, I guess. Thank God the diner is still intact,' April says. ‘So I guess we just pick another brand of bubblegum, start again, and build another Great Wad.’ ‘You guess right,’ says April. ‘But which flavour this time?’ And that, dear reader, is the moment we leave April and Andrew to make their important decision. As they stand by the smouldering corpse of The Great Wad, recalling its former brain-like structure, they contemplate the transcendental effervescence it channelled through its soft and varied crenelations. With a little input from April’s tumultuous teenage mind, The Great Wad symbiotically exuded healing and transformational properties that turned a dilapidated diner into a hub of joviality. And these, dear reader, are all the qualities that April hopes to recapture in her next Bubblegum adventure.


          Lois Scratched at the sore spot on her scalp, unable to help herself. She was reading the Leviticus 13 section of her Bible where Christ heals the leper. She thought to herself that her scalp must look like a leper’s underneath her thick, long mane of hair. This pandemic had made her psoriasis act up something awful. She had terrible nightmares every night. Lois couldn’t stand not being able to attend her beloved local parish during quarantine. That church had been her life; her only family. She’d never married, even considered becoming a nun at one point, and had gotten a job in the church thirty years ago. It was her first and only real job after finishing high school at Nathan Hale. Lois had always prided herself in being modest, religious, and right. She was always doing the right thing, she often told herself. She never smoked, drank, or popped a bunch of pills that she shouldn’t. Lois was a rules girl. She ate healthy and bought all of her clothes from St. Vincent’s thrift shop. She only bought organic food and the bare necessities to survive on. Her one-bedroom apartment was minimalistic.            To keep her company, she’d taken to purchasing parakeets. They didn’t live long, and she enjoyed teaching them to whistle and sometimes even to talk. Thankfully, she’d brought home her current bird right before this awful COVID nonsense started. Paul (she named each parakeet after one of the apostles) was now able to whistle the theme to “The Andy Griffith Show,” and the “Jeopardy” theme. He could also squawk, “Jesus love me.” The last one she’d owned (John) had never managed anything beyond “pretty bird.”            Lois walked every day and exercised with sit-ups, pushups, and a small set of free weights. She considered yoga too new-agey, but she stretched to keep limber. She prayed when she got up in the morning, before each meal, and before going to bed at night. Although Lois was grateful for the virtual services her pastor held, they still weren’t the real thing. For one thing, trying to sing along on Zoom was a hot mess with everyone being out of synch. At her church, Lois had been a member of the choir. She’d been on the bake sale committee and helped give out the wine during communion. She was the chief editor of the monthly bulletin, too.            Lois had been raised Catholic and had considered herself a good Christian her whole life. She knew there was much evil in the world and was glad she was not a party to any of it. A true conservative at heart, she had a secret crush on Vice President Mike Pence (he had such perfect hair). She also firmly believed that a liberal way of thinking led to liberal misdeeds. She was on the fence about Trump from a moral standpoint but had voted for him both times anyway. Because she was celibate by choice, she’d never had to worry about the ethical issue of birth control.            Control and discipline were of the utmost importance to someone like Lois. So when all heck broke loose with this pandemic, it was extremely difficult for her to cope. She’d never felt so out of control in her life, and it terrified her. She’d taken to praying mid-morning and midday along with her other regular sessions. She’d become afraid to go outside lest she catch the deadly plague and took to cleaning her dwelling obsessively, sanitizing things sometimes three times. She had her groceries delivered in and wouldn’t open the door until the person outside was on their way back to the car. The she washed all the produce and sanitized their containers.            Lois didn’t mean to be pious or petty, but those qualities did come naturally to her. She had always silently judged the people she worked with, her few friends, other churchgoers, strangers walking their dogs through the neighborhood, people on TV.            As she turned the page in her well-worn King James, she scratched at the spot on her scalp again. This time, a small clump of hair came out in her fingers. Disgusted, Lois marked her place and leapt up out of her armchair, to inspect the spot more closely in the bathroom. She’d read that many women were experiencing hair loss issues with the stress of the pandemic (or was it from being infected by the virus?) and was afraid that she too, could fall victim to this terrible fate.            Lois parted her hair at the spot to peer at it in the bathroom mirror. It was red and irritated for certain, as well as scaly. The spot was on the right side of her upper temple. Did it look like the start of a bald spot? Holding her breath she parted her hair more, to see if there were still strands continuing to grow out of the raw spot. With a sinking sensation, Lois saw that there were none. Even though pride was a sin, Lois had always been quietly proud of her pretty head of hair. She’d taken it completely for granted that she would always have that. Perhaps she could pray about it? The Lord does work in mysterious ways, as they say. She resolved to add this one to her daily litany: “Lord, please let me keep my hair. Don’t let it all go away. Please let this only be temporary. Let my hair return in all its lustrous glory. Amen.” #            Later that week, Lois was reading a particularly disturbing passage in Matthew Chapter 12 of her Bible regarding demons: 43 “When the unclean spirit is gone out of a man, he walketh through dry places, seeking rest, and findeth none. 44 Then he saith, I will return into my house from whence I came out; and when he is come, he findeth it empty, swept, and garnished. 45 Then goeth he, and taketh with himself seven other spirits more wicked than himself, and they enter in and dwell there: and the last state of that man is worse than the first. Even so shall it be also unto this wicked generation.”            Lois absent-mindedly had begun to itch her opposite temple, scratching it raw. Exasperated, she heaved herself out of the chair to check in the bathroom again. Much to her dismay, she saw an identical bald spot forming on the other side of her head. She’d read about this, too. Female alopecia. It could occur in weird patterns and patches, usually around the crown of the head. The condition was often stress related, many times due to hormonal changes. Throw in the pandemic and the COVID crap flying around out there, and you had a perfect mix for hair loss. Sometimes Lois couldn’t stand being a woman. Of course this happened to women more often than men. Women seemed to get stuck with all the rough deals. Since she’d never aspired to marry or bear someone’s children, she didn’t really see why she should have to suffer all the hardships that other people of her sex did.            Lois trotted out to the kitchen to grab a can of organic pumpkin puree off her cupboard shelf. She cracked it open with a hand opener and scooped out big handfuls of the gooey, fragrant fall squash out to lather all over her scalp. She’d read recently in one of her women’s magazines that both sweet potato and pumpkin could help moisturize an irritated scalp and in turn, promote healthy hair growth. She hurried back to her bathroom to yank her plastic shower cap with rubber duckies all over it snugly down on her head and stomped off to the living room to resume her daily scripture reading. Lois was prepared to leave the concoction on all night, if necessary. #            When Lois awoke the next day, she was confused. At first she’d forgotten she’d left the shower cap on her head, and she couldn’t make an immediate association between the pumpkin smell and the present. She hadn’t slept through until Thanksgiving, had she? Last time she checked; it had been August. Then she remembered, chuckling to herself.            Lois put some coffee on and proceeded to run a nice hot shower to wash her hair. Surely this treatment could only help. She closed her eyes, luxuriating in the steam and heat of the water, breathing deep. She’d been sure to put the rubber drain catcher on, so she didn’t end up with a clogged tub. She rinsed the pumpkin out of her hair and proceeded to lather up with a moisturizing coconut shampoo-conditioner combo that should help as well.            After she’d turned off the water and reached for the towel on the wall rack, her eyes were squinted shut to keep from any residual shampoo soap from getting in them. She massaged her head and put the towel up to pat her face. When she took it away, her eyes opened to spot big clumps of her hair mixed in with the globs of wet pumpkin puree piled around the drain catcher. It looked positively disgusting, and Lois was horrified at the amount of hair she was staring at. She felt around her head and gasped.            She almost slipped getting in her hurry to get out of the tub and open up the bathroom door. Normally, she would have left it shut and cleared her dry sinuses by breathing in the steam awhile longer. Now she just wanted to wipe down the mirror to get a better look, even if she was dreading what she might see. As she wiped the last of the steam away from the mirror, Lois almost burst out crying. The bald patches on either side of her temple had indeed gotten noticeably larger. Now it looked like the hair was beginning to thin and recede more in front where she’d once had a nice thick side part of bangs.            Lois parted the hair, rubbing at the remaining strands as if to stretch it out longer or force it to grow. Maybe she should make an appointment with her dermatologist? Wasn’t that something suggested on one of the online forums she’d read, if this condition started to get more aggressive?            Beyond upset, Lois stalked away from the mirror. Now her bottom lip started to quiver, and she was crying. It wasn’t fair! Why? Why her? No other female in the family had ever suffered from this problem! They all had wonderful, full heads of hair all the way to their graves. Lois bit her lip to stop a rare curse word from escaping her lips. She wondered if the dermatologist would be able to see her as an emergency. Usually that doctor was booked two months out. At the rate she was going, Lois might not have any hair left by then!            Lois hunted through her wallet for the dermatologist’s card. She usually just saw him once a year to check for skin cancer. Although the dermatologist had last time recommended some strong, chemical-laden steroid creams to lather on Lois’ head, Lois had politely refused, stubbornly searching for natural remedies to deal with the psoriasis. It was her head after all—what would years of steroids eventually do if it seeped through her pores to her brain?            As she waited for a human voice on the other end of the phone and pressed some buttons to message prompts, she glanced at her wall calendar for reference and tried to resist touching the bald spots on her head. It really made her angry. Bald?!? That was the last thing she should have to worry about in this cursed pandemic.            “Hello, Dr. Deerhorn’s Dermatology, may I help you?”            “Yes! Yes, this is Lois Strand. I’m a patient of Dr. Deerhorn’s.”            “Well hello, Ms. Strand. How are you doing to- ”            “I need to get in to see Dr. Deerhorn as soon as possible. It’s an emergency!” Lois stressed, cutting the annoyingly cheerful secretary off. Couldn’t she see the whole world was going to hell? Lois twisted a longer strand of side hair into a stressed, tight coil.            “Alright, alright. What seems to be the problem, Ms. Strand?” the receptionist inquired politely, although a little less friendly this time.            “My hair! It’s all falling out. I’m going bald almost overnight!” Lois was unable to keep the rising panic and dread shrill out of her voice. The young woman on the other end of the line probably thought she’d gone pandemic paranoid cuckoo.            Instead the incessantly cheery woman laughed. “Oh yes! You’re not the only patient to call and report this. We’ve had quite a few appointments regarding this problem.”

Why did she sound amused? It nearly enraged Lois and she had to take a very deep breath to keep from going full-on Church Lady from SNL on this nincompoop.            “There have? How many? Has it happened to you?” she asked instead, sounding like a wacky conspiracy theorist.            The dreadful, hateful woman who seemed to have no problems of her own had the audacity to laugh giddily again. “Oh no! Thank goodness, I haven’t. But I hear ya’, that would be a major bummer!”

           “It’s more than a bummer! It sounds like an epidemic! Can he get me in today?!!” Lois demanded, not feeling any less like laughing in her life. As the tight coil she’d been unconsciously pulling on snapped right off her head at the root, she stared with abject dread at the long, beautiful lost forever strand of her severed hair now wrapped uselessly around her index finger.            “Well, let’s see. Dr. Deerhorn is mighty booked up right now. Nothing today. Is there a day you’d prefer?”            “Have you not heard anything I’ve been saying? I need to see him as SOON AS POSSIBLE! IT’S AN EMERGENCY!” Lois shouted into the phone.            For an unsettling moment, there was nothing but silence on the other end. Lois was fearful she’d pushed the keeper to Dr. Deerhorn’s appointments too far, and that wasn’t a smart thing to do under these circumstances. Especially when what hair she had left was entirely at their mercy. Surely the young woman knew this on some level. Lois attempted to recover.            “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It’s just—so distressing you see. I’ve never had this problem before, and I don’t know what to do. Please help me.” She closed her eyes and said a silent prayer asking God’s forgiveness, just in case.            After one more never-ending moment of silence the young woman answered curtly. “Let’s see. It looks like Dr. Deerhorn has something next Monday at 1 p.m. Would that work for you?”            “Yes, yes. If that’s the earliest he has,” Lois answered greedily, feeling nauseous. It was only Tuesday. It felt so far away and yet…            “Alright then Ms. Strand. I’ll put you down with a consultation with Dr. Deerhorn next Monday at 1:00.”            “Oh thank you, thank you,” Lois gushed, feeling slightly human again. “I’m sorry I lost my temper. That’s not like me. It’s just this pandemic—it’s so stressful, you know?” Lois tried a forced little chuckle, hoping to better smooth things over with her gatekeeper. Ms. Cheery Pants could always find a reason to forget to add the appointment to the good doctor’s schedule and then feign innocence, of course.            “Of course, Ms. Strand,” the young receptionist replied, tersely, certainly not sounding cheery anymore and not won over. For good measure she added with a hint of sarcasm, “If you’re feeling stressed, you might want to try some mediation. Stress if a major cause of hair loss. You have a good day now.”            Before Lois had a chance to react or come back with a witty retort, she was hung up on. That little bitch! Unable to regain control of her wild, runaway temper, Lois hurled her landline receiver across the room so hard it hit the window pane and fell loudly to the floor, knocking the batteries right out of it. She hoped it would be alright. It was her one means of communication with the outside world left. #            The days that led up to Lois’ appointment seemed to stretch on for miles. She was afraid to wash or even brush her hair, lest more come out. To try and stop herself from touching at it or scratching, she’d taken to wearing her white, spring church gloves all the time. It made turning the pages to the Bible a little tricky, but Lois considered a just punishment in a way. She’d lost her temper and called the young woman a bitch in her head. Now she had to work to read the words of the Lord.

#            The following Monday at Dr. Deerhorn’s office, Lois waited impatiently in the office. The receptionist and nurse had looked at her funny when she declined to remove her knit ski cap or long coat and gloves. It was sort of hot and stuffy. After what seemed like an eternity, Dr. Deerhorn entered the room.            He also did a double take at her appearance. “Well, hello there, Lois. How are we feeling today?” Before waiting for her reply, he checked his chart where she’d filled in some questions. “Something about an itchy scalp.”            “You could say that” said Lois, biting her tongue to keep from bursting out in inappropriate laughter.            “Alright then. Let’s have a look, shall we?” He approached her expectantly, and she kept her mask on but slowly removed her hat.            He jumped back so suddenly he almost fell over. Dr. Dearborn’s clipboard, papers, and pen clattered to the floor. He gasped, unable to censor himself.            Lois asked him with a low growl, “So doctor, do you think you can help me?”                               Lois’ head was completely bald and a bright, angry red hue. Two demon’s horns poked out through the skin of each frontal lobe. She wasn’t sure any doctor could help her now. The Lord certainly couldn’t. At that, Lois did let loose with a decidedly evil cackle. #


"I can't sleep." The private investigator raised a brow at the woman sitting across from her. The office was quaint, a low, flickering light hanging over a sturdy wooden desk. The space looked more like a refurbished living room than a proper office. Floral wallpaper spanned from the floor to the ceiling, hardwood stretched far over the ground. Bookshelves rose high behind the investigator’s desk, various legal documents way above Ginny’s pay grade. Despite what should have been a comforting home, it felt cramped, as if she barely had space to breathe. “That seems more like a concern for your doctor than a PI,” Mrs. Reed said, raising her brows over her glasses. Ginny rubbed her eyes, sighing, “No, no, I—I don’t know how to explain. You deal in more… specialized work? Right? The supernatural and all that?” Mrs. Reed rolled her eyes. Well-manicured fingers reached over to flip through some papers, finally picking up an empty file. “I investigate what people believe is supernatural interference. I assure you, anything paranormal you may have found is guaranteed to have a perfectly benign explanation.” Ginny pursed her lips. She hardly wanted to deal with someone else who thought she was crazy, but this was the closest someone’s gotten to believing her. With how desperate she was, she knew she didn’t have many options. Beggars couldn’t be choosers. “Whenever I try to sleep, I just… can’t,” Ginny blurted out, her hands gripping at the edge of her shirt. “I feel something on me. It curls itself around my head, keeps my eyes open, breathes into my ear. But when I try and look at what it is or bring it into the light, it just… isn’t there.” A hum resonated from Mrs. Reed as she scribbled some notes down, asking, “Have you tried sleeping with the lights on?” “Yes! That, and I’ve slept with a mirror on me, I’ve tried medication, I’ve tried everything. But when I try and look for it, it’s just like it’s gone. But I feel it. I know it’s there.” Sighing, Mrs. Reed took off her glasses, rubbing her tired eyes. Pale, wrinkled skin laid taut on her face as she looked over the woman sitting in the chair before her. Silence filled the clustered room. With the judgmental gaze upon her, Ginny felt herself shrinking in the chair, quickly growing to regret her own presence here. Finally, Mrs. Reed spoke, “What do you do for work, Ginny?” Ginny blinked in surprise, answering, “I—I work retail. Why’s that matter?” “Do you have a degree? Student loans? Car payments?” “Yes? Why does that—” “I think I see where this is coming from,” Mrs. Reed sighed, setting her papers down. “Look, I’m no professional in that mental health stuff you kids love these days, but… have you ever thought it might just be stress? You’ve got a lot on your shoulders, a shitty job, too much debt. Maybe you start seeing things.” Ginny’s nose scrunched up in disgust. The same answer she’s been given, time after time. Doctors and psychologists and shitty forums on the internet all saying the same thing, but nothing’s helped. Gathering her bag, she swiftly stood up, dark brown eyes narrowing with irritation at the investigator in front of her. “Whatever,” she huffed, turning to leave. “’Course it was a waste of time. Have a great fucking day, Mrs. Reed.” “Hey! We haven’t discussed paym—” Mrs. Reed started before Ginny slammed the door behind her. The cool winter breeze hit her as she made her way to her car. Pulling her coat tighter around her hefty body, she shivered, hurrying back to her run-down car. An old Honda from the early 2010s that broke down half the time. Quickly making her way inside, she gently shut the door, shuddering in the cold air settled within the car. She knew she shouldn’t drive in this state. Half the time, she could barely keep her eyes open, nevertheless focus on driving much at all. But she had little choice. Rent had to be paid, and she had to try and at least get some help for this ailment she was facing—even if this led to a dead-end just like the others had. Turning her keys into the ignition, she messed with it a few times before it sputtered to life. Ginny glanced behind her car as she pulled out of the driveway, thankful this street wasn’t too busy at this time of day. It had long-since gotten dark, though it was hardly even past the afternoon. The drive home was a blurry haze, as most days were at this point. She couldn’t even remember the last time she fully slept. During the night, she felt as though she was awake at all hours, tormented by the beast that assailed her. And, at this rate, she was confident that it was a thing that was haunting her, not merely stress or anxiety. Nothing she had found had matched what was happening, the oppressive feeling of being trapped, of something being on her. She knew she had to have fallen asleep at some point, but she could scarcely remember it. All she knew was that she was always, constantly, tired. She could barely think, barely work, but she couldn’t stop. Nothing could stop it. She pulled into her apartment complex’s parking lot. The creaky steps met her as she stepped out of her old car. These old stairs seemed to reach further and further every time she walked on them, endless spirals reaching up into the heavens, far, far, far from her grasp… She stumbled along the steps. Exhaustion was quickly catching up with her. Coffee had become her main meal these past few weeks in her own desperation to stay awake, to keep herself away from the creature who haunted her. But she couldn’t stay up forever. At this rate, she wasn’t sure what to believe. In front of the private investigator, she was so sure of herself. She knew what she had seen, what she had felt. Now, though, as she turned the key and stepped into her home… she wasn’t so sure. It was always so serene when she came home. The old, hand-me-down couch sat in front of the discount TV. Wires were scattered over the floor, hosting old video game consoles she took from home. The kitchen held the remnants of her rushed breakfast with dishes piling up. Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing wrong… Just a quick nap, she told herself. Then she’d get up and try to figure something else out. Maybe she’d have to go out of her insurance for the next doctor. Something. She barely had time to take her shoes off before she flopped into her bed, taking deep, heavy breaths. Her uniform clung to her body awkwardly. Dirty sheets surrounded her form. Yet, with how tired she was… she hardly even noticed. Just a few minutes, that was all she needed. Sleep came quickly as her eyes fluttered shut… Before her eyes were forced open. Something wet and slimy quickly slithered over her face, gripping her tired eyes. Thin, spindly appendages, too small to be anything human. Wrinkled eyelids were pulled to the side as sharp nails dug into the sides of her temples. Something breathed in her ear. In, and out, in, and out, the warmth pressing uncomfortably against her skin. A weight hung over her head, almost like something was there, something was there, something was on her— Ginny tried to tilt her head up, to gaze upon what was upon her… her head was forced back down, staring at the empty ceiling. The dirty nails pressed deeper into her soft, wrinkled skin. A soft whimper pulled itself from her throat. There wouldn’t be anything there. There never was. It could tear at her, rip at her flesh, pull out her hair and scream in her hair… but nothing would be there in the morning. Of course, no one believed her. She could lay here for hours, screaming and crying in agony, and no one would bat an eye. Every doctor would turn her away. She was so young, despite the wrinkles in her face and the bags under her eyes. Friends were tired of her constant complaining, her excuses of exhaustion. Her torture and pain meant nothing, all because they could not see. Tears rose to her eyes, and, in her torment, Ginny began to cry.


Mariposa sat at the small table in the dimly lit diner better known as the Café Bohemia on the dusty road outskirts of Havana, Cuba, patiently awaiting her date's arrival. Havana, though somewhat laid back in nature, was a growing and busy city, and it was possible that Santiago had been detained by unforeseen events at La Tienda de Escritores, or The Shop of Writers, where he worked in the city. The old bus that traveled this way could have also been running late and delayed him. Either way, Mariposa reassured herself he would arrive shortly. He had promised her that tonight would be a very special evening for the two of them. They had known each other for a year but had never been on an actual date until this evening. She was enjoying a glass of Sangria, a relatively new drink in Havana. The wine was rich and velvety with just a hint of aromatic spice, enhanced with various types of fruit. Despite steadily sipping of its’ fruity essence, she could not quell the butterflies that flitted about her stomach in anticipation as she waited. She was looking forward to seeing Santiago and learning what the evening might bring. A bit nervously, she glanced about the room and saw a picture on the wall directly to her right. It was a beautifully illustrated painting of a brave

matador

or bullfighter. The cape draped over the

matador's  arm was vibrant, bright red, seeming to almost sway with motion despite the stillness of the artwork. The artist had captured the anger in the bull’s raging eyes as he poised on the precipice of an attack, his horns thrust forward in anticipation. It was so lifelike that Mariposa shivered and then chose to look elsewhere. She had never much cared for the bullfights despite their popularity and was glad Cuba had banned the sport. She took a deep sip of the Sangria and turned to her left where her attention was drawn to two men who sat talking at a small table in the corner of the dimly lit room as they drank crystal glasses filled with Absinthe. Whatever it was they were discussing, it was obvious that their conversation was heated. One was a handsome, tall, blonde-haired gentleman, and the other, a shorter and stockier man with dark hair and a mustache. Eventually, after becoming angry and frustrated, the stockier gentleman rose hastily from his seat and abruptly left. Surprised by their public disagreement, Mariposa quickly looked toward the door hoping to see Santiago, but such was not the case. When she turned back to look at the remaining gentleman, he gave her a charming smile and shrugged his shoulders. As she smiled somewhat timidly back at him, he picked up his drink and leisurely walked toward her. “May I sit for a bit,

señorita ? I fear my friend has suddenly left me all alone, and I find myself in need of companionship,” he smiled charmingly as he took a seat at her table. Mariposa was a bit startled by the man’s boldness but didn't wish to be rude. “ Sí, ” she said. “But please know my date will be arriving shortly,

señor .” “Lucky man,” the tall, slender man said as he settled himself comfortably in the seat across from her. “I’m Scott,” he said with a beautiful smile that had obviously impressed many women. “ Buenas noches , Scott. I am Mariposa,” she returned his smile. “So, you are waiting for your sweetheart? Your

novio ?” he asked. It was obvious he was American. “Oh, no!” Mariposa blushed and quickly answered as she smiled shyly. “It’s our first date,

señor .” The man nodded and with exerted concentration, he said, “Ah, but  el amor  is so very splendid and beautiful when it’s young. And yet, as time passes, it so often becomes a damning element in our lives.” His glorious smile faded a bit as he continued. “You see, I should know,” he added, holding up his left hand for her to see his ring to indicate he was married. “At best, you can’t live with it, and you can’t live without it.” The handsome smile returned, albeit a bit ruefully, with his last words. Mariposa was uncertain how to respond. Who was this American and why did he have such a sad view of love? And why was he inclined to share it with her? It was obvious that he’d had more than enough to drink. Perhaps this is why he and his friend had argued. Were they arguing about

el amor ? “ Señor ,” she began, but he immediately interrupted her. “Please, I must insist that you call me Scott,” he said, his blue eyes gentle as he appealed to her. “Scott,” she said hesitantly. “Perhaps you’ve had enough to drink tonight. I thought that

this

drink…

this absinthe…es muy mala ,” Mariposa whispered as she pointed at the milky, green drink on the table in front of him. She would never dare to drink the dangerous green drink that so many spoke of. Scott looked down into his glass and smiled. “But my sweet, young

señorita , such intense pleasures are derived from the depths of the dangerous and the forbidden.” Mariposa blushed at his words and quickly changed the subject. “Where is your wife tonight,

señor …Scott?” she quickly corrected herself. The man gave her another rueful smile. “I fear she finds her pleasures in the forbidden as well,” he sighed. “Alas, she has taken off with her friends for more exciting times than intense, heated discussions betwixt my friend and I, as you have just unfortunately witnessed.” “I see,” Mariposa said, genuinely sorry for this man’s current misfortune in life, friendship, and love. “Do you? Do you really see?” Scott asked, intently watching her and awaiting her answer. Unsure how to respond, Mariposa once again attempted to deter the conversation from the question with which he had just presented her. “Are you staying in Havana? Are you working there?” she asked. “Sí, Havana is such a wonderful city and so full of life. I am visiting my closest friend and attempting to work on my latest novel, my dear, at least on good days. On bad days, like today, I drink and argue with my closest friend. And I suppose one could say that I tend to drink - and argue – quite frequently,” he said as he took a large swallow of absinthe. “Oh! You are a writer!

¡Que interesante!  What is your book about?” Mariposa was genuinely interested. Scott smiled his beautiful smile and nonchalantly leaned back in the chair. “Well, let’s see. I mostly write about love. Don’t you find that ironic in consideration of the view of it I’ve just painted for you?” Mariposa did indeed find it ironic. It was odd that a man with such a dismal view of love would choose to write about it. But then again,

el amor  was a wonderful thing, at least for her. “Please allow me to explain my pretty little butterfly,” Scott said as he leaned on his elbow across the table to look intently into her brown eyes. “I write about

el amor , my dear, because I am a hopeless romantic, and I have not yet given up on achieving it in my life.” He relaxed in the chair and drank from his drink again before continuing. “I have a need to know and understand love and to have it fill me to the depths of my being. I

crave

love with an intensity that extends beyond a need for sustenance of any kind.” He picked up his nearly empty glass and waved it in the air. “And believe it or not, I crave

el amor  more than I crave even this poison.” Scott finished his drink and added, “Hope for such things springs eternal, does it not?” Before Mariposa could respond, however, he suddenly rose, declaring it was time for another drink and then headed to the bar. She watched as he ordered another glass of absinthe. As Scott lingered at the bar, Santiago entered the café and immediately found and joined Mariposa at her small table. Mariposa rose and kissed Santiago’s cheek. The smile she gave him assured him that she was very happy to see him. “I am so sorry I am late,

querida ,” he said. “I was detained at work.” Mariposa smiled sweetly. “It is not a problem. I am just so happy to see you, Santiago.” The two were interrupted as Scott meandered by the table and stopped to introduce himself to Mariposa’s date, a fresh drink in hand. “I see your

amigo  has arrived,” Scott said, and smiled at Santiago, extending his hand in greeting. “I fear I was a bit lonely and kept your date company for a short while as she waited for your arrival,” Scott said. “We had a very thorough discussion on the subject of love, and I gave her my most earnest opinion.” As Santiago’s brow rose in surprise, Scott continued. “I informed your sweet Mariposa that I am a hopeless romantic. I think

el amor  will eventually win the day for all of us, don’t you? Ah, and I can see from the way you look at this delicate and beautiful Cuban butterfly, that it may very well be true.” Suddenly Scott grew serious and gave a gracious bow before he added, “I pray

el amor

will triumph for the two of you. I can easily see that it is already a flower nearing a full and beautiful bloom.” And then, as suddenly as he’d appeared, Scott turned on his heel and headed to his former table where he was joined yet again by the gentleman with whom he’d been arguing earlier in the evening. The two hugged, laughed, and patted each other on the back as they began a new and intense conversation. Mariposa nervously eyed Santiago, who was looking at her in wide-eyed amazement. “Santiago,” she began. “I did not know what to say when he approached and began to discuss such serious things like love. I found him to be very sad, always hoping to find love.” Santiago continued to stare at her in disbelief. “Mariposa,” he said. “Do you not know who that gentleman is?” he asked. “No,” she shook her head. “He said his name is Scott, and I know he’s an American, but that’s all.” “ Querida , that is none other than F. Scott Fitzgerald, the famous American novelist. And he’s sitting with Ernest Hemingway, another famous American writer. The two are well known throughout Havana for their carousing ways. They drink nothing but absinthe and champagne – or so the story goes,” Santiago said as he eyed the two men. Mariposa dubiously looked at Santiago. “F. Scott Fitzgerald and Ernest Hemingway? I am not sure I know who they are,” she said. “But Scott did tell me that he writes.” She stared at the two men as they conversed, a new view of Scott taking root in her mind. She would have to buy one of his books just to see how he wrote about that thing called

el amor  for which he continuously searched and hoped. Mariposa looked at her date. “Famous American writer or no, I would much rather be sitting here with you, Santiago, enjoying this beautiful night.” Santiago picked up her slender hand and kissed it. “And I, with you,

querida . But still, not just anyone can say that they met someone like F. Scott Fitzgerald on their first date. Perhaps you should consider picking up the pen and writing a story about this incredulous encounter!” Mariposa shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. I will leave the writing to the two of them,” she said and the couple laughed as they began the first night of many to come for them. Indeed, a lifetime of

el amor  and many long years together would be forthcoming for Mariposa and Santiago. And who can say? Perhaps it was due to the words of F. Scott Fitzgerald, a hopeless romantic, that their love triumphed to an ultimate and beautiful end. Regardless, there is little doubt he would have been immensely pleased, and also a tad bit envious, of the love the two shared during the course of their lives.


The grip on the cold butcher knife in my right hand is firm, calming against my fiery skin. I'm standing under the fluorescent lights looking towards the double doors, taking deep breaths, counting down the seconds in my head and straining my ears, waiting for the telltale noise of steps approaching to jump into action. It's almost time, I can feel the buzz of the anticipation through my body, muscles tensing and senses sharpening. It doesn't matter how many times I went through the same routine already, the feeling doesn't get old; if anything, it gets better. It's dark outside, the streets filled to the brim with people celebrating the beginning of the longest weekend of Summer. Music, horns, laughs, conversations...everything overlapping, the pulse of an unrelent civilization kept away by some inches of concrete walls only. I close my eyes and take a long deep breath, reveling in the brief calm that surrounds me. The others in the room stand absolutely still behind me, well trained in the respect of this daily ritual but unaware of the meaning of this specific evening. I exhale slowly during the last seconds of the countdown and allow myself to feel the light weight and pressure contained into my trouser's left pocket; a lucky charm of sorts, the most cherished object to me and the only way to keep the chaos restrained, because someone must be able to manage chaos at their whim and for still unknown reasons, I got the gig. Nepotism? Maybe. 3, 2, 1... Showtime! The double doors open and suddenly there's no more room for stilness or silence. Everybody knows how to keep their pace in the dance that just started and there's no time for hesitation. Orders are placed, the clanking of pots and pans mixes with the hissing of hot oil and the knifes against cutting boards mark the rhythm of an improvised melody. Music to my ears, nothing as the dull background music that disturbs the ambience each time the doors are opened to bring in a new order. The place isn't big, just a dozen tables situated in a cozy dining hall, warm lighting and fresh flowers giving a romantic vibe not much in my dècor line, honestly. I very much rather a touch a little dramatic, personally, but hey, I'm not the owner, even if that could be arranged in a blink. Literally.

Being not expensive but neither cheap, the clientele is rather eclectic; families celebrating birthdays or graduations, young lovers being engaged, friends catching up after long separations, middle aged couples looking for a spark on their boring settled lives, with or without their relative ones... A colorful palette in which it shouldn't be hard to choose the one who will have the honor to be the recipient of a very special treat tonight, with the best wishes from the Chef itself. A delightful tradition that I've kept alive all around the world without fail for so long I don't have the actual ability to remember when it started, and a very important one. I like to give my customers a personal attention touch, making them feel valued and seen even for just one brief evening before getting back to their usually sad and boring lives. I feel better knowing that I make a difference; a small one, yes, but what are the oceans but small water drops together? And if sometimes the one drop makes the ocean roar, it makes things more interesting, right?

The entrees are being delivered and I don't miss the chance to take a gander at the dining hall every time the doors open, quickly enough to go unnoticed but I don't need more to take notice of the people seated at the room. There's three young women with bright eyes in what looks like an emotional last dinner before going their separate ways on the beginning of their adult lives. On the corner near the bathrooms a pretty little girl is enjoying the company of her grandparents after a day on the beach; I can smell the salt in her hair from here and her sunkissed cheecks are rosy from smiling so much. I like how they'd choose the most practical table for the sake of the child, ignoring the annoying passing of people from and towards the toilets. Other table is occupied by two men in an obvious first date. They are nervous around each other but there's an undeniable attraction and lots of eye contact. I wonder if not for the little girl seated near the door, they would be snogging on the bathroom before desserts... A couple in their thirties have taken the central table in an unfortunate attempt from him to show her off. Their clothes are expensive but her jewelry is fake, same as her allegedly luxury branded purse, and under her carefully applied make up there's a faint purple shadow on her right cheek. She's beautiful and painfully silent in contrast of his obnoxious bravado and her eyes don't look away from her plate, even as she laughs mirthlessly at his jokes.

Before starting the main courses everyone at the dining hall has been scrutinized and catalogued. Now I just need to make a choice based on what I've learned about them not only by their behavior but also their stance, the glint of their eyes, the miriad of subtle details that go unnoticed for the untrained eye but not for me. I've been doing this long enough to recognize the whiff of disguise and the hum of blood running too fast under the skin. It's not an easy task, in fact I would dare to say it is the hardest ever, being the one who makes the choice, but there's no one else. It's lonely too, the need to move around the world in an endless search, never stopping twice in the same place, makes my existence impossible for friendship, love or any kind of long lasting company but I can't complain anyway. Mine is a one day a year job and I'm free to do as I please until next cycle, so I learn and dance and paint and sing and start wars and end them and leave my handprint in fresh cement and write my thoughts in anonymous poems and create pandemics and their remedies and cry and scream and laugh while I roam this world since the beginning of the times, gathering information on these fascinating creatures, studying their flaws and whims, dissecting them as a species in my mind since I can't do it as individuals in a physical way. That's not my job and anyway, they manage to do it themselves without any help. So I slip my left hand in my pocket and grab the small pebble turning it between my fingers, feeling its smooth surface polished by eons of winds and rains, and drop it in a dish, dissolving itself immediately. The choice is made. The people seated at the tables on the dining hall are completely unaware of the fact that one of them in a matter of days will change humankind's trajectory forever, be it for the better or the worse. I hope my choice was the right one today, I really, really hope it because sometimes, not very often fortunately, the chosen one takes a different path than whichever I put in front of them with catastrophic consequences (sorry for the Black Plague, by the way). I'll never understand free will; I would never, ever gave it to them. But when I showed my disagreement to the idea the only thing I got was a kick in the butt and a one way ticket to much warmer realms so I guess now I just can sit, watch and hope for the best. See you next year!