CW: Gun violence and language Not many people walk into the saloon at 10 in the morning. On most days, the dusty room is filled with nothing but the stench of ale and echoes of the previous night’s revels. The air lingers with the ghosts of men who have come and gone, chasing greater purpose than an evening of drinking in a hardly notable hamlet. Passersby pause their journeys for a night’s time to add their story to the symphony of lives painted in the air of the town bar, then leave newfound brothers for a tomorrow somewhere else. In this town, nobody stays for long. Then again, not every day is the same. On this particular day, the sun shines as bright as any other. The sand kicks up periodically in lively dances, then settles back down to its place on the street. In the saloon, the barkeep diligently cleans liquor from tables and blood from the ground. So far, the only words he’s had to say this morning are “goodbye” and “safe travels,” while he watches men whose life stories he had heard the night gather their things and prepare for yet another long and arduous journey to weather. His ears are soothed by the peaceful sweeps of the morning breeze as he goes about his daily chores for the something-thousandth time. Each table gets scrubbed diligently, awaiting its next soiling once the sun goes down. The stink of booze is washed away bit by bit by the soapy concoction, and the house of chaos becomes more and more orderly. Apart from the subtle sounds of dust and tumbleweeds, the world is perfectly silent. However, the empty silence of the town is soon interrupted by the sound of clacking hooves far away. The barkeep is hardly a stranger to this sound, and he lets out a small sigh as he abandons his cleaning in preparation for attending to the new visitor. The traveler’s fanfare crescendos over the next minute before the horse finally delivers its rider before the swinging doors of the barkeep’s sanctuary. Once the dust settles, through the doors walks a middle-aged man wearing a worn-out coat and hat. A six-shooter sits on his hip, completing the look of a man who’s most likely had use for it. “Welcome,” the bartender says with a tired voice. “What can I do for you today?” “I’ll take a whiskey.” The stranger’s voice is rough and gritty, most likely from days of riding with little water and sleep. He takes a seat at the bar, obviously occupied with thought. The barkeep has seen many types of people in his time working the saloon. Because of its role as a resting place for travelers, everyone from rich businessmen to penniless laborers have spent a night in this quaint town. Outlaws have been born from deadly duels just outside the welcoming doors, and world-changing ideas have been concocted over a drink at the bar. However, to the barkeep, the man sitting at the bar right now is an enigma. He wears a classic cowboy’s getup, torn and battered from life in the desert. His face is similarly decrepit, covered in scars and sporting an unkempt beard riddled with grime and dust. Hidden beneath the nest of hair under his destroyed hat, two brown eyes stare into nothing. As his drink is placed before him, he doesn’t seem to acknowledge the existence of either the barkeep or the liqueur. He gazes at the wall with an intense focus, yet somehow seems entirely disconnected at the same time. The same face stares back at him under the word “WANTED,” nailed to the wall. Without moving his eyes, he grabs his drink and takes a sip. “Nice town y’all got here. Nice and quiet. I like it,” he says in a low tone. “Ain’t that so. Not much here; it drives some folks crazy. That’s just what I like ‘bout it.” The barkeep’s voice trails off slightly toward the end. The stranger turns to face the barkeep and looks him dead in the eyes.“Do you know what it’s like to kill a man?” The bartender is taken slightly aback by this but doesn’t show it. He gives a halfhearted reply while shining the glasses behind the bar. “Can’t say I do. Heard plenty ‘bout it though. All types of men been ‘round here.” The stranger chuckles slightly at the barkeep’s lack of fear and leans back a little. “Is that so?” The silence that fills the saloon between each word is louder than the busiest night of the year. The barkeep may have been scared if he was 20 years younger, but as the years left him so did his fear. In this part of the country, men die young from all kinds of maladies, and the barkeep knows his time could be around the corner any day. Outlaws don’t scare him. “You’re probably wondering what I’m doin’ here, huh?” The stranger pokes a little at the barkeep. “Sure, if you’re inclined to humor me,” says the barkeep lazily in response. “We ain’t got no banks ‘round here.” The stranger scoffs playfully. “I ain’t ever robbed a bank. Sounds a good time though.” His face betrays a sense of bittersweet irony. The barkeep gives in to curiosity. “Then why’s your face up on that wall?” His body tightens slightly. The stranger looks at him. The seemingly endless silence is broken by the stranger’s slightly frustrated groan. “Bah. ‘Cause I’m a damned fool, that’s why.” He takes his revolver out of his holster and tosses it on the bar to reveal a dozen notches on the grip. The barkeep still doesn’t show a shred of emotion to the outlaw. “Now, that’s something I’ve never seen before. Even for old-timers like us, that doesn’t happen on accident.” The stranger picks up the gun and begins to fiddle with it. “I haven’t used this in 15 years. You know, after you kill enough people, entire towns start to hide from you and eyes follow you everywhere you go.” He glances at the entrance, where a pair of eyes flash away, and the sound of scampering footsteps soon follows. “If I could take it back, maybe I would,” he says nonchalantly while spinning the gun in his hand. The barkeep takes the bait. “Why maybe?” “If I could go back to the first time I pulled this out of its holster, even now I don’t know if I could stop myself. I had my reasons.” He gazes disjointedly at the revolver as it spins. “Long story.” For the first time, the barkeep gives an intentional answer. “Go ahead.” Curiosity fills his mind, but a shred of empathy guides his tongue. The outlaw, strangely enough, seems remarkably genuine and calm. Though age can soften a man, the barkeep can’t shake the feeling that there’s something he doesn’t know. “Some 20-odd years ago, I lived in a small town, not unlike this one, in Texas. I was staying with a friend of mine, who gave me somewhere to live after the measles got my ma and pa. I was hardly a man, and the only thing I owned was this very same revolver. My pa gave it to me just before he died. “My friend dreamed of starting a business, you see, and sellin’ some kind of new medicine he was comin’ up with. I didn’t know much about it, but he trusted me to help him however I could. Day after day we would wait in the saloon for travelers to stop on by, and try to sell them some of his magic whatever-it-was. He was convinced it would kick the smallpox right out a man’s body, but people didn’t exactly believe him.” The stranger starts chuckling at this point, which slowly escalates into a hearty laugh and a coughing fit. “Damn dust. Anyway, where was I? “Ah, the medicine. Well now, these travelers wasn’t exactly privy on buying what he was sellin’. He got into all kinds of fights with people calling him a swindler, and I got some bad beatings myself backin’ him up. It’s a wonder he lasted as long as he did, with his big ideas and all that… “But eventually some guy got mad. Real mad. He was sayin’ stuff like, ‘I’m sick of your goddamn voice. Get out of here ‘fore I put a bullet in your brain.’ We probably should’ve wised up and got out of there. But before I could say anything, words had already turned to fists. We were doin’ a number on him, and he got scared. He pulled out his gun, and the only man in this world I trusted got a fuckin’ bullet put through the back of his skull.” The outlaw’s voice trails off. His posture tightens slightly as he digs deeper into the story, which has captivated the barkeep. “The whole place exploded into chaos, and before the guy could grab my friend’s money and leave, I ran at him and challenged him to a duel. Now, I wasn’t a violent guy. In fact, I was pretty damn spineless. When my parents died, I shrugged and said ‘Oh well.’ When people would spit at me and beat me up for tryin’ to sell stuff, I would get back up and say ‘Oh well.’ But when my best friend’s body hit the floor, I felt a new pain, a type of pain I didn’t even know existed. I wasn’t thinking about saving myself or avenging him. The only thing on my mind was making that son of a bitch feel the same pain I did.” A bitter look covers the stranger’s face. “To be honest, I thought he would just ignore me and book it, but he accepted. We went into the street, and all I can remember after that is the sound of gunshots and the man’s dead body face down in the dust. “Before I even realized I had just killed somebody, I grabbed my horse and got out as fast as possible. I didn’t know where to, I was just tryin’ to get somewhere else. After a few hours, once I could finally hear my thoughts again, I looked around and saw I was out in fuckin’ nowhere. I had no money, no food, and blood on my hands that would never go away.” The stranger seems entirely entranced during this retelling and only pauses to take sips of his whiskey, which the barkeep continually refills. “At first, I planned to stay on the run. Two days without food got me off that idea quick.” The stranger chuckles. “So soon enough, I rode into some town far away from my last home. I figured no one would notice me, and I could slip through and stay low. Guess I underestimated the speed of news ‘round here. Everybody who saw me gave me some kinda look and whispered about somethin’ or other. ‘What, they never heard of a duel before?’ I thought. Seemed like someone got shot every day back then, so why was everybody watchin’ me? “I figured some grub would quiet my thoughts, so I stumbled into the saloon and ordered somethin’. In fact, I was so hungry I was too busy stuffing my face with food to see a man come right up ‘hind me. I might’ve run, but I was done caring by then. I figured he would’ve shot me and that’d be that, but he offered to cover my bill instead. ‘Ain’t you that fella who done shot that villain down in Texas?’ he said. ‘I ain’t shot no villain.’ ‘I’m sure of it. That fuck was runnin’ people out of all their money and stuffing the law’s pockets for years ‘fore you got him. Matter o’ fact, he was a damn good shooter too. How’d you get him?’ ‘I, uh, shot him before he shot me.’ ‘Ah, you’re a funny guy huh? Well, I’ll say this, somebody had to do it. Law’s definitely on your ass but you did a damn good thing.’ ‘Sure.’” The stranger pauses for a second before continuing. “I didn’t think so. After I had eaten and skipped town again, I took a while to think. I had nowhere to go. I couldn’t go back to a normal life, and my face was plastered everywhere from here to Louisiana. So I decided to embrace it. “Like that fella said, somebody had better do it, right? If the law was gonna call me an outlaw, I was gonna be an outlaw. Out there in the desert, I vowed to find the worst men in the West and take ‘em down with me. And it turned out I was good at that dueling thing. Real good.” The stranger analyzed the notches on his gun as if it was the first time he’d seen them. “Year after year, I’d track down crooked men and challenge ‘em. And sure enough, I’d win. After a few years, as you probably know, the law got stronger. I couldn’t keep jumping between towns, so I had no choice but to set up camp in the desert and hunt for food. I wouldn’t see men for a year or more at a time, and I thought a few times about doing to myself what I did to the rest of the killers. But I couldn’t. “After a decade of holding on to nothing, I was close to my wit’s end. Every day I would hunt for scraps of food, then sit for hours and do nothing but watch the sun fade away. One day, I came back from hunting and saw my camp up in flames. Everything I owned was destroyed, and the only thing I could gather was a note left on the ground. It read, ‘No more hiding,’ and it had the seal of a Territorial Ranger. “Now, I had heard ‘bout these guys. They would track down outlaws ruthlessly and kill us like we would do to each other. I got that note a few months ago, and I been seein’ shadows ‘round me ever since. “I’ve got nothing left, you know. If there’s really a god, this is his retribution on me. Serves me right for tryin’ to do his job. Or maybe there is no god, and I’m just gettin’ what comes around. Who knows.” For the first time since the start of his story, the man goes back to staring at his poorly-drawn portrait on the wall and thinking about nothing in particular. The barkeep can’t help but empathize with the man. He has heard of all types of struggle, and he’s seen the burden killing places on a man. For each life taken, shoulders get heavier and hearts get darker. He’s seen the bravest men he’s known crumble under the weight of a few righteous killings, and the man before him has a greater burden than he’s ever seen before. Yet somehow, visible inside this sullen form is a brightly shining ray of hope. Looking at the forlorn face of the burdened man, the barkeep grasps the opportunity to finally do more than listen. “There’s salvation out there for you, I’m sure of it. The only thing you have left to do is find it and embrace it. No more hidin’, right?” Silence fills the air once again. However, this isn’t the same heavy silence. This is something new. Before either man can fully understand what the silence holds, it’s shattered by the sound of an approaching horse. The ominous steps clack slowly, one after the other. Neither man moves or makes a sound. After a perceived eternity, the man at the bar grabs his gun and starts to get up. “He’s here. Maybe I’ll give this salvation thing a try,” he says as he slowly hobbles towards the old creaky doors of the saloon. The barkeep is unable to react, even in the long time it takes the man to reach the blinding rays of the New Mexico sun. What happens next he is unable to see. The harsh wind now blowing through the town conceals the ensuing conversation, and the barkeep is only able to make out one final sentence from an unknown voice. “Then it’s a duel.” In the town where nobody stays for long, two men prepare for a fatal contest. One, a fabled outlaw, readies his trusty revolver for its final shot. The other, a young ranger, examines his never-used weapon and prepares to deliver his first dose of justice. The world watches and waits to see which side will prevail, but the barkeep and outlaw know there’s only one option. “BA-BANG.” Two gunshots ring out in quick succession, and the echoes reverberate for seconds more. Shortly after, a figure wanders through the doors of the saloon. He wears a classic cowboy’s getup, torn and battered from life in the desert. His face is similarly decrepit, covered in scars and an unkempt beard. However, a different pair of eyes lie hidden beneath the nest of hair under the man’s destroyed hat. They are bright and brown and stare into a world no other man will ever see. The man walks slowly up to the bar and lets out one burdensome sentence in a rough, gritty voice. “I forgot to pay my tab.” He falls face first on the bar, with a hole in his chest where his heart used to be.


Present Day “Tell me the story again.” Cassidy spun away from the console where she had been helping me arrange pictures. As we had worked, she had begged for the story that went along with each photo declaring each one her favorite. Her Mom being born, mine and Carol’s first date, the first photo of me holding Cassidy, vacations, and birthdays. “What story?” I hedged but I knew which one. The one that went with the picture in the middle. Or more accurately the story that resulted in the center photo. Cassidy asked over and over again for me to tell her, her absolute favorite story one more time- calling it one of the most romantic things she had ever heard. “Grandpa!” Cassidy planted her hands on her hips. I pulled the peanut butter out of the cabinet and the grape jelly from the fridge. “Help me with the sandwiches,” I said. Cassidy grabbed a knife and a spoon from the silverware drawer while I grabbed the bread and platter. Cassidy gave me an expectant look as she unscrewed the lid off of the peanut butter jar. “Well?” She asked. I smiled, holding out just a little longer. I smeared peanut butter onto a slice of bread. Cassidy’s eyes narrowed at me and I grinned at her. “It was a hot summer day in nineteen seventy-six…” Summer 1976 All I could think what that maybe I should have worn something nicer. Today was going to be a special occasion- remembered for years to come! And I had chosen to wear my favorite pair of blue jeans and a t-shirt. On the other hand, if I had worn something nicer, like the button down my mother had suggested, I would have made Carol suspicious. As it was, I was having a hard time acting cool and relaxed, as if nothing was out of the ordinary. Carol squeezed my hand and then gave me a smile which sent a zing through me. I loved her smile. “Sooo,” Carol drawled, dipping her head so she could see over the edge of her sunglasses. “Where are we having our picnic?” She eyed the large basket in my free hand that contained not only our lunch but a portable radio and unbeknownst to her a tiny box with a ring in it. Today was the day. I was going to ask Carol to be my wife. “Just over there,” I nodded towards a grassy hill in a shady part of the park. The exact spot where we had had our first date nearly three years ago. Carol smiled and nodded as if my answer was exactly what she had expected. What I hoped she wasn’t expecting was a proposal. I wanted it to be a surprise. I wanted her to know that I had put thought into this and returning to the spot of the first of many dates was to bring us full circle. “You okay?’ Carol asked, giving me a concerned look. I smiled at her. “More than okay.” I was on top of the world. “You?” “I’m good.” She swung our hands gently between us as we made our way to the shaded hill. I kept watching her out of the corner of my eye, trying to imagine her reaction to the proposal. I had run the scenario dozen of times and I had pictured everything from an enthusiastic yes to her bursting into tears and blubbering her answer. My older brother suggested she would say no. Only for a moment had my brain contemplated it before completely rejecting it. Over the last three years we had become best friends, each other’s confidants. Any time something happened, she was the one I wanted to tell first. I knew without a doubt that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with Carol. Under the shade of the tree we spread the picnic blanket that Carol had been carrying and then I began to pull out our meal. It was simple. Some might call it too simple for a pre-proposal meal but it was exactly what we had eaten on our first date. Carol accepted a plate with a diagonally cut peanut butter and grape jelly sandwich with chips on the side. From the thermos, I poured us both a glass of lemonade. She smiled, taking the glass. “You know something?” “I know many things,” I said as I extended the antenna on the portable radio. “Well do you know that is what we ate on our first date?” I smiled to myself as I fiddled with the dial. “Is it?” “Yep.” She popped the ‘p’. “Which of course makes it my favorite.” “Because it’s your favorite meal or because it’s what we had on our first date?” “Both.” She said around a bit of sandwich. I chuckled to myself. I settled in with my own plate as the radio belted out a Beatles song that had been popular the last couple of weeks. Carol and I sang with it in between bites. Music had brought us together in the first place. Friends had introduced us at a party and at first the conversation had been stilted and awkward but then someone had brought up music. The two of us had talked for the rest of the night and every night since. Three years later, and I couldn’t imagine a single day without her. “I hope you brought dessert.” Carol tapped her fingers together in anticipation as I slid our plates back into the basket. “You know I love dessert.” I pretended to think about it. “You know something?” “You forgot the dessert,” Carol guessed, a playful twinkle in her eyes. “I have something better than dessert.” I reached into the basket for the box. “What could be better than dessert?” Keeping the box hidden, I shifted so I was kneeling next to her. Her brow furrowed and I gave a silent prayer of gratitude that she had no idea what was about to happen. Both of our families had managed to keep this a secret from her. “Spending the rest of forever with me.” I pulled the box from behind my back. Her eyes went wide. I opened the box. Nestled inside was a simple gold band with a single diamond. Her eyes bounced between the ring and me. “Carol May Joyce, from the moment you entered my life, I knew that I would never be the same. Every day since we have met has been better than the previous simply because you have been there sharing it with me. I want to spend every day of the rest of forever being by your side, sharing the highs and lows of life. I love you.” Tears were welling up in her eyes. My own eyes were getting a little misty. “Will you marry me?” I asked. “Yes!” She threw her arms around me, nearly knocking me over. I wound an arm around her trying to steady us. “Of course I will.” She kissed my cheek. “I love you too and I want to spend the rest of forever with you.” She straightened up and I pulled the ring out of the box and slid it onto her finger. We grinned at each other. I thought I might explode with happiness. We hugged again and I didn’t want to let go. “Better than dessert?” I asked “A thousand times better than dessert.” Carol’s smile gave the sun competition in that moment as she admired her ring and then looked back at me as if I was the best thing to ever happen to her. “But you did bring dessert right?” I laughed, already pulling out a bag. “Chocolate chip cookies. Your Mom gave me her recipe.” “Oooh.” She grabbed the bag and pulled one out, biting into it. She hummed in pleasure. “You are definitely a keeper.” Present Day Cassidy sighed happily. “I’m glad Grandma kept you.” “Me too,” I laughed. The front door opened. “I’m back,” called my favorite voice in the world. Carol entered the kitchen, carrying bags of food and stopped dead. She looked around- at the table covered in a picnic blanket along with our best dishes. She smiled as she saw the stack of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on a serving platter and the pitcher of lemonade. She looked at the streamers hung over the console table telling our life in photos. “What’s all this?” She asked, her eyes shimmering. “Happy Proposal Anniversary Grandma!” Cassidy threw her arms out wide and spun around. “Do you like it?” Carol sat her bags down and gathered Cassidy into a hug. “I love it.” “Grandpa’s been telling me the story. It’s my favorite. And we made lunch.” She gestured to the table. “And I helped arrange all the photos.” Cassidy dragged her grandmother to the console. “Which is your favorite?” “All of them,” she said, kneeling so she was on the same level with Cassidy. “But I do have a soft spot for this one. She pointed to the one in the center. The one of us standing next to a tiered-cake, ready to slice into it. “It was one of the best days of my life.” She traced the frame of our wedding photo. “Mine too,” I said, kneeling next to my wife. How could it not be? It was the day I got to marry my best friend. “Even better than getting proposed to?” Cassidy asked. “Well there was cake.” Carol said. Cassidy nodded as if this was a valid response. “I certainly hoped you married me because you loved me and not because you just wanted wedding cake.” I grinned at her. “It was really good cake.” She replied and then kissed me softly. I smiled back. “And speaking of dessert…” Carol lifted an eyebrow. The oven timer went off. I returned the raised eyebrow. Perfect timing. Carol laughed and put an arm around Cassidy as I retrieved the cookies from the oven. When I turned back towards them, they were still staring at the wedding photo. “Will you tell me the story Grandma? It’s my favorite.” Cassidy requested as I laughed. “On a clear spring morning in nineteen seventy-seven…”


Carl woke up, his sleep plagued by a terrifying dream. He sat in his bed and shook his head. He looked out of the window. The sky was dark, save for a glowing red halo. His heart started pounding in his chest, as he ran out into the living room of his apartment, calling for his mother. She was sprawled on the sofa. Dead. Carl screamed, running out of his house to fetch help. He reached the door of his next door neighbour, and started ringing the bell urgently. No response. A cold chill crept up Carl’s body, and he stared at the door with wide, fearful eyes. An idea struck him and he ran to his apartment. He returned with a crowbar, and with one sharp blow, he broke the lock on his neighbour’s door. He stormed inside. His neighbour lay on the floor. Dead. Carl put his hands to his mouth, and stumbled backwards. He tripped over the threshold, and landed with a thud on the cold granite floor. His eyes were fixed on the body. What is going on? He staggered up and turned away from the scene of death. He then darted down the stairs, almost missing a step several times. Arriving in the lobby of his building, he called for the watchman. There was no answer. He ran towards the watchman’s cabin, and hesitantly opened the door. The watchman was sitting in his chair. Carl entered the cabin and tapped the watchman on the shoulder. The watchman did not stir. He tried shaking him, and the body of the watchman dropped limply from the chair. Dead. The world spun around Carl, as he stumbled out of the cabin. He rushed out onto the street, and started looking around for help. Everyone around him had fallen dead. The car engines were still running, but the people inside showed no signs of life. Early morning joggers lay on the track, still in their jogging shoes and tracks. All of them were cold and lifeless. Carl’s legs gave way as he flopped on the ground. He had no clue about what was going on. It was only then that he saw the huge, crimson eye in the sky. The memories came flooding back and he held his head between his knees. This can’t be happening. Was that all…true? He took a deep breath and went over his activities of the previous night. He had been reading about ‘The Mirror Game’ last night before sleeping. It was a weird ritual, which involved tapping a mirror for a specific number of times in a particular order of taps. The room should be illuminated only by a single candlelight and if followed correctly, it was said that the person would end up in another dimension. The only way one could know if it had been successful was the presence of a glowing, red eye in the sky, instead of the sun. Carl loved reading scary stuff on the internet, and was a huge fan of mysteries. However, what drew his attention to this particular ritual was a comment by someone named Saira. It was posted below the details of the ritual, three years ago. It read: ‘Attempting this ritual tonight. I’ll tell y’all what happened tomorrow.’ But, tomorrow had never arrived. Saira had never continued the conversation after that, despite several other readers inquiring about her in the thread. She had…disappeared. Carl yanked his phone from his pocket, and tried to visit the website to see the comment. A minute later, his hand shook as his phone dropped to the ground. There was no internet. Carl had thought that like all other hoaxes on the internet, this was also an elaborate prank. He would not shy away from a challenge. So, in the dead of the night, when his mother was sleeping, he lit a candle and tapped on the mirror in the given sequence. After it was over, nothing felt different. He had gone out and in the darkness, seen his mother lying on the sofa. He presumed that she had fallen asleep, so he did not disturb her. If only he had tried waking her up…. Carl uttered a hysteric scream and tore at his hair. The girl walked down the street, surrounded by corpses. Curiously, in the time she had spent there, none of the corpses had shown any signs of rotting. There were no animals and birds around, and all that was left in the sky was the crimson eye. She hated the way it looked, watching her every move, almost mocking her. She defiantly looked up at it. It met her gaze with a cold, almost inhuman stare. There was no concept of day or night in the world she had entered, but sight was never a problem as the eye illuminated the surroundings in a haunting, red light. Everything else seemed to have been painted in shades of grey, as if reflecting the lifeless nature of that world. Luckily, the shops and markets were open, so The girl could take provisions from there. She remembered the first day( could she call it that?) when she had crawled into the shop, her eyes haggard and her throat parched, dreading what she would see. Sure enough, everybody inside had mysteriously died. There was no sign of blood or violence. Just a plain and simple end. Almost like they had fallen dead while doing other activities. She cursed the day she had played the Mirror Game. She hated herself for even risking it. Once in this dimension, she had tried warning the others about this, but there was no internet. She was alone. The girl hoped that anyone who visited that website would be concerned by her continued and sudden absence, and would refrain from trying out the game. At least then, she would have saved others from this cruel, lonely fate. The girl entered a shop, picked some groceries and walked out. The only respite was that all the electrical appliances and cooking equipments, along with the bathroom facilities were working fine. She had often wondered why, but she gradually got used it. After all, nobody was there to answer her. As she walked towards a jogging track, a sound echoed in the dead silence. She nearly dropped her bag in shock. Was that.. a scream? Carl sat on the lawn bordering the jogging track, his face between his knees, and his arms wrapped around them. His face was streaming with tears, but he had given up trying to shout. He had realized that he was alone. There was nobody to help him. It seemed as though everybody’s life had been snuffed out like a light. Painless, sudden and cruel. Leaving him behind in the dark. Carl had already tried to switch his phone off and then on again, in a futile attempt to recover his internet. However, he had given up that as well. His head spun, and he tried to regain his senses by sitting for a while. A thought occurred to him, “What if this was all a dream?” A glint of hope appeared in his eyes as he tried to sleep on the grass, hoping that when he opened his eyes, he would be back in his room in the normal world. It was then that he heard hurried footsteps approaching him. Every hair on his body stood up, as he tried convincing himself that this was just a fantasy. He squeezed his eyes shut, not knowing what awaited him when he would opened them. The girl looked at the boy with unkempt hair on the grass before her, and rubbed her eyes in disbelief. He was sitting on the green lawn bordering the jogging track, his head between his knees. But, what surprised her the most was that he was alive! She walked towards him, but he made no motion. For a moment, she thought that it was all her imagination, and he was dead as well. She sighed, and turned to leave. As she started walking away, she decided to try one last time. She asked aloud, “Who are you?” The boy did not reply, but his body shook slightly. A puzzling sense of relief, that had been trapped in the deepest corners of her heart spread over her. She went up to him and shook him. Carl, for indeed it was he, brushed her hand aside and looked up at her with hunted eyes. He frantically backed away, eyeing the tall girl, who stared at him with beautiful hazel eyes. Her white dress glowed against the grey background, and her shoulder length hair brushed softly against her face in the wind. She spoke sympathetically, “You played the Mirror Game, didn’t you?” Carl was shocked. He had no idea how she could have known that. But, that proved to him that the girl was real. Slowly, he nodded his head. The girl smiled ruefully and sat on the grass beside him. Although Carl was slightly relieved to see someone alive, he kept a safe distance from her. She looked at him, tears welling up in her eyes. “I understand your apprehension. It has been three years since I came here. I have been alone ever since.” Three years?  A bell rung in Carl’s mind, and he asked hesitantly, “What is your name?” The girl spoke in a wistful voice, “My name is Saira, though I do not know whether it means anything now. Since you are here, you must have visited that website too, correct? Why did you play the game? I hoped people would be alerted by my absence, but I guess I was wrong.” The tear trickled from the cusp of her eye and down her cheek. Carl felt sorry for her. “My name is Carl, and yes, I too played the Mirror Game. By any chance, is this a dream? Is there a way in which we can sleep and wake up in our own world?” Saira shook her head, “Not that I know of. You see, in these three years, I have lived a normal, albeit lonely life. I have frantically searched for any signs of life, but until today, everything was lifeless. I tried killing myself, but I would somehow wake up in bed. My hope would be shattered when I would see that crimson eye in the sky. I decided to keep myself busy, and continued speaking to myself, in a feeble attempt to not lose touch with the language. I hoped that one day, when I found someone here, it would help. I had given up long ago, but today, I found you….” She fell silent, and Carl was speechless as well. Above them, the crimson eye loomed menacingly. After what seemed like ages, Carl got up and offered her a hand. Saira stared at his outstretched hand, and looked at his face. Strangely, his face was hard and his eyes were blazing determinedly. “What, Carl?” Carl took a breath before replying, “What about the others who played this game? If I made it here, they would have too!” “But that is not possible Carl! I haven’t found anyone besides you.” “Saira, you are one person. Maybe these people have entered this dimension somewhere far away from here. Maybe like us, they are under the impression that they are the last people on Earth. I don’t know if I can call this Earth, but I don’t want to call it anything else. My point is, there might be a way in which we can meet the others and get out of here.” Saira stared into his eyes. Against the dash of grey in the surroundings, Carl’s silhouette looked magnificent. His dark eyes had a curious fire in them. A fire that she had lost a long time ago. The fire of hope. She smiled, and took his hand. Getting up she said, “Lets find a way out of here.” The crimson eye hanging overhead no longer bothered them.


It had been a week since the screaming had stopped. He was not grateful for that fact, as his neighbours ear piercing wails were the only thing helping him keep track of time down here. The walls of his cell were closed tightly around him so he could not move and, with the exception of what could struggle through the barred trap door sitting well above him, it was pitch black. He couldn’t see or move. He could smell just fine, but the only stench that penetrated the all encompassing wall of darkness around him was heavy rot and whatever bits of his waste didn’t dribble all the way down to the open pipe at his feet. Food came at random. Water came from condensation on the dirty walls, which he was grateful he couldn’t see properly since it allowed him to tune out any thoughts as to what he was tasting when he dragged his tongue along them. He still missed the screams though. He had, at some point before now, had a name. He had a home as well, and a job. That went away when he was sentenced. Harold Jacob Cobb, sentenced for three murders. Sentenced forever to the dark cells under the lords fortress. He was justified, he told them. The three he killed had been his property, that being his wife and children, therefore he should have been allowed to do it. Encouraged even, since his wife, the damned bitch, had been sleeping around. She denied it but Harold knew. Harold knew and she did too, and she would tell after he started yanking pieces. She never did, that’s why he was sentenced. Harold knew. He always knew. The trap door above him creaks open. He can’t even look up before slop is poured onto his head, his scalp cracked and dusty from previous maltreatment. If it had been done earlier he would have been furious, indignant even. Now, he just knew that now as feeding time so he scrabbled around with his clawing hands for anything he could reach as the trapdoor bangs shut overhead. When he finds something, a moist ball of meat, he stuffs it into his mouth greedily. How long since he’d last been fed? One week? Two weeks? When did the screaming stop again? He couldn’t remember anymore. Couldn’t remember his job or the names of his family either. He remembered what he did to his wife and that memory serves him well down here. He remembers the kids, how there throats broke under his thumbs, and whatever joy he received is transformed into grief. He needs to see them again. They can’t be dead, he never intended that. Harold knows he never meant to hurt them so badly. That’s why he needs to keep thin. Can’t eat too much or he can’t slide up the dirty walls of his cell. He can feel grief transform into something else as something like laughter wheezes through his lips. No more screaming. Just laughter. George hates his job. Hates listening the gibberish animals he has to feed. Hates going down to the dark cells because all the rich folk are to focused on their games. It pays, and he wishes it didn’t because he wants an excuse to leave. All there is to it. When he passes by that screaming blokes cell, he almost smiles. Finally rid of him and his shouting. At least the others knew to shut up. He didn’t even have them screaming their names up at him, just let him say what he liked. Screamer called himself Allen Wesley. George didn’t care. Fella next to him, he knew that one without any words, so his ease hardens into agitation when he gets to the WifeKiller. He doesn’t need to feed him, just has to watch him. The dirty fucker. Everyone knows what he did. No cause for it no matter what he said. Evelyn Cobb wasn’t the type to act how he said she did. George snorts through his nose at the mere thought of it. He stares down through the dirty, rusted bars at where WifeKiller oughta be. He’s not there. For a moment, George just stares at it, that empty spot centred with an open pipe slick with smeared shit. His mind doesn’t kick in to gear until a thought crosses his mind, that being of what may happen to him when this gets out. After that his brain is lobbing questions fast and hard at him as he scrambles to open up the trapdoor. The questions are all jumbled up and mush mouthed, going through procedures and scenarios and death fantasies that culminate when he has the door of the dark cell open wide enough that the man behind him starts pushing against his back. Where is he?! Gravity is dragging him down in the next moment, whatever minuscule light was hitting his eyes disappears as the shit pipe at the bottom of the dark cell meets the crown of his head. He can feel the moist walls beside him as he braces to stop himself, and he does only after he’s fully inside. He couldn’t even scream during the ordeal with how sudden it was. He didn’t scream even as he felt the funnelled opening of the shit pipe brush his temples before stopping abruptly. When the trap door above him clattered shut. That was when he started screaming. George screamed himself hoarse down there, upside down in the dark cell, the only ones hearing it long forgotten save one. The man who had once been called Harold Jacob Cobb, but who now held the name of WifeKiller. He tottered away on stick legs toward the light of the open door. He would see his kids, who Harold knew were still alive and not buried in the local cemetery, side by side with their dear mother Evelynn. He’d find them if he had to burn the whole city down, the whole country. He pressed on up those stairs, ignoring the begging of George no matter how much of it there was. Cobb was up the stairs and out the door long before the man in the dark cell would ever stop screaming.


I went to bed at 11pm,was a little later than usual due to my work deadline, you know how those things can be,I set the clock to go forward at 12,just what I needed with a full day of editing in front of me, less sleep, I settled down, my eyes flitting In and out of sleep, my brain not really wanting to shut down, something woke me with a sudden thump,I couldn't quite understand it, I felt like I had only just dozed off, but there out side,the sun shone and the birds sang,I rubbed my eyes trying to focus,I looked at the clock beside my bed, the time said 7am,ok I thought may have been a restless night ,but let's get up and shower and face the day,at this point my brain hadn't quite woken up,so I did the things I always did, but a part of me had a feeling that something wasn't quite right,as I walked into the bathroom scrambling for my toothpaste and toothbrush,a strange buzzing happened in my ears,thinking it must just be my shower playing up as it does occasionally I took no notice,but as I looked into the mirror I stood back in shock,what had happened? this wasn't my bathroom? That was not me looking back at myself,yet as I looked down, there I was holding my toothpaste and toothbrush in my hands,I looked back up into the mirror and saw a robot, yes a robot staring back at me, but how did that happen? who pulled this prank? I hurried out of the bathroom in a blind panic,everything around me started to crumble and in its place stood a metal box,no windows just a TV screen,sounds of birds were being played from speakers in the courner,I turned to go downstairs to where I left my phone next to my computer,but there was no door, no stairs, "can someone help me" I screamed,the sound of birds halted,a buzzing occured over the speakers then a voice appears "do not worry Simon,you are safe,we apologize for this disruption,we intend to restore the program as soon as we can, please take a seat,your meal will be with you shortly" "but where am I?" "you are on board the SS Sampson,a survivor ship,for survivers of the great war" "what war? It's march 2020 there is no war," "much time has passed sir,the year is 2200",I collapsed on the bed,my hands on my head,"what about my face? What happened to me?" "Please stand by sir, all programs will return to normal,as soon as we can locate the problem" with that the sounds of birds resumed,I lay on my bed not being able to take any of this in,when the tapping that woke me in the first place began again, along with the strange buzzing I had heard earlier,yet this time the sounds made sense to me,the tapping was actually coming from beside my bed,from the wall next to me, the buzzing was a voice asking if anyone was there,I tried to answer but all that I could manage was a mechanical buzzing,why couldn't I speak,I wanted to cry,I wanted to scream, I needed to be able to reach out to someone,but nothing just buzzing and banging,I raised my hand to the wall and banged back hoping that the person would understand, " It's ok Simon I know this confusing,but promise me once they fix the problem you won't remember any of this" I banged again "My name is Cassy, you are one of the last to board this ship,woow I can't believe I'm actually talking to some that went through it,although you can't remember,I was only just born" I tried to speak again,this time a little sound like a sequel erupted. "Hey don't try to speak for now,your circuits are going to be a little rusty,they found you lying there amongst the ash they were looking for survivers,sadly this old girl is going the same way,she's been cruising for quite a while now" I banged on the wall twice in recognition of her explanation,I so badly wanted to ask,how did I become a robot? When yesterday I was typing up a report on global affairs and doing sceduals  for next week, "Look I tell you what how about I ask the questions that I think you want answers to and you reply with one bang for yes two for no,will that work? Ok I may not have the answers to everything but I'll try my best ok?" I bang twice, "ok first question,when did the war begin?" I bang once "Not the right questions,hmm ok,let's think,ooh wait listing to that annocement you have just woke up right?" I bang twice, "Ooh no,ok I get you,you can't understand why you look different am I right?" I knock twice "Ok this is gonna take some explanation,it's gonna blow your circuits,sit comfortably I'll begin" I hear a clearing of a throat,then a sigh then she begins in a sad tone. "If I remember from my history lessons or what my mother told me,visitors came to earth around April 2020,from where no one's knows,there was a mass panic,strange lights fell from the sky,people started getting sick and fell in the streets,some people survived the first wave grouped together in caves,discussing what to do next,many months later, starvation kicked in,the skies turned red, many more died, then around December of that year hope came in the form of the SS Sampson,aboard this ships were more visitors from a different world,they rescued those that were clinging onto life,fed them,clothed them,they decided to help with the shock that they would develop a program to restore some form.of normality for these people,of what they had before,they gave them quarters and laid them.into a deep sleep,they repaired those that were injured with parts they could find,and created a hologram program around them,when the people woke up,they all felt it was a bad dream and went about there buissnes as usual,they did a cool thing,I think pretty wacky, but still cool,many years passed,births,deaths,all the same as before no one knowing the reality,well not until now anyway,the ships hit a bit of a stumbling block,and well here you are,your true self,I guess you must of been one of the soilders, one of the last down there,lucky they found you really, as for why you've just woken up surprised me though,they said the program.didnt work on those below,I guess they were wrong." I couldn't believe what I was hearing,me a solider? how could I be,I was a reporter that's all,a consultant in my spare time nothing special,but wait ,if that was the case how was I having dreams about space ship,and astaroids,I thought it was because I watched to much syfy on my telly,after having to much wine and falling asleep during films,what if that wasn't the case,what if it was a glitch in the program and reality was reaching out to me,I banged on the wall twice to thank her. "It's alright,gives you a bit to think about till your circuits work again,heads up foods coming" A hatch opens up in the wall a tray of oil,nuts and bolts arrive and then closes again,I can't eat that I thought, but for one small second,in front of me I could see steak mushrooms and a glass of wine, suddenly ravinous I ate it all,I felt suddenly tired, I lay back on my bunk,all of what Cassy ringing in my head thinking I must never forget repeating it over and over to myself until I closed my eyes. I woke up to the sounds of birds singing,the sun shinning through my curtains,I look at the clock it says 7am,best get up and face the day I thought,I looked into the mirror,tooth brush and toothpaste in my hands,I had a strange feeling in my stomach as I brushed,I showered and went downstairs,picked up my phone,there was over twenty messages, I checked them,each one telling me to get under cover, something was out there, something was coming,I grabbed my armour,drank my coffee, picked up my gun and went about my daily buissnes,ready to fight.


In the days and weeks leading up to taking my fifteen-year-old son to boarding school, I found myself becoming overly sentimental at times. I liken those moments to the feeling one gets when hugging a family member or close friend goodbye. One whom you don’t know when you will see again. The embrace is loving and warm but also bittersweet because no matter how hard or how long either of you holds on, you know that it is going to end and you both will go your separate ways. The irony is not lost on me that I was glimpsing the future in each of those moments when I would say goodbye to my son. One day I was in the supermarket. It was exactly one week before the drive to Idyllwild and my son wanted as many home cooked meals before leaving as possible. Family dinners have always been a priority in our home and it warmed my heart that there was a part of him that wanted to fill up on those before leaving the nest. So, I planned out each night’s meal, being sure to include his top favorites. As I made my way through the store with my detailed shopping list in hand, I found myself becoming emotional. I was choosing potatoes. Potatoes were the objects of my sentimental haze in that moment. You see, I have made homemade mashed potatoes a million times and I have learned exactly how many potatoes I need to make mashed potatoes for me and my two kids. The thought washed over me that I will have to adjust and learn how many potatoes I need to make just the right amount for only me and my daughter from now on. There I was in the produce section with tears in my eyes and potatoes in my cart. As I slowly walked through the aisles, I lingered on products that were not on my list but those that evoked some memory or connection to my son. Like Taki’s. He could not get enough of Taki’s in the 7th grade. And salad. That boy has loved salad since the high chair. Or bananas. Oh how he loves to tease me because I find bananas to be too sweet for my taste. Not to worry, I did finally make it out of the store without drawing attention to myself. As the week went by, we spent our days shopping for his dorm needs and packing. In the evenings, I and both of my kiddos shared glorious moments and memories at our dinner table.     The morning it was time to go, we packed the car with little to no room to spare but the good news was that we got everything in and still had room for the three of us. I had been worried about it a bit because my son wanted to take two guitars, two amps, a peddle board, a microphone and a mic stand. For all you non-musical folks, these things take up a considerable amount of space. I felt peaceful that morning. I think it was because I knew I still had two days with him. The orientation and welcome celebration was a two-day event at the school and we were leaving the day before the festivities so we could all stay together in the village the night before checking in to his dorm. We had an easy, traffic free drive and checked in at a lovely and charming Inn with a cabin just a few yards from a small creek. Idyllwild was absolutely beautiful. The three of us strolled through the sleepy streets of the village and checked out the local vendors. Then we had another lovely dinner together at a cute little Italian restaurant with some of the best focaccia bread any of us had ever encountered. This was a part of the journey that I had most looked forward to for weeks. A quiet dinner al fresco with my two favorite people in the world, in a beautiful setting, away from distractions. We talked for hours over our meal. The next morning, we headed to the school which was only five minutes away from our cabin. I could feel my son’s excitement emanating from him. Excitement to see his dorm, to meet his roommate, to get on with his journey. Upon arriving, we found the room to be fairly spacious, especially for a high school dorm. His roommate was from China so he had checked in the day prior with all the other international students. He was a sweet kid, a bit shy and very easy going. My son was happy to learn that he was a music major so he will, hopefully, not mind the jam sessions my son was determined to have with other musicians. All of the students were lovely, kind and inclusive. With just about 300 students total, it was large enough to be diverse and also small enough to feel like a tight knit community.     There were several events planned over the course of the two-day goodbye. Some events were for students only, some for parents only and some for both. During the parent reception, the head of school offered a short welcome and overview. She was fun and full of spirit and spunk. I liked her immediately. She impressed upon us that one of her most important goals was to keep all lines of communication open with the parents. She told us that just because we were sending our young ones off to boarding school, she didn’t think we should miss out on the rest of their adolescence. I felt my chest swell and my eyes burn when I heard her say that.     My son continued to impress me over these two days. When he found out that he had not been placed in honors classes that he had been in his last four years of school, he sought out the chair of the humanities department who agreed to email him the essay prompts he would need to complete to be considered and to change his schedule. And, even though he was a film major, he desperately wanted a music class as well. So, without a word he spoke to the music department chair and asked to be considered for a songwriting class. He went back and forth between the music teacher and his film department chair to discuss his level of skill and scheduling. By the end of the two days, he was accepted into the honors level classes and the songwriting class had been added to his arts classes. Yep, he was ready.     The final event was a delicious catered dinner and a performance at the Holmes Amphitheater. It was a tradition for a number of the seniors to perform a Welcome Back performance to start the school year off. This was usually just for the students but, that year, they chose to include the parents. Lucky me (and my daughter). The space was incredible. A soft, rolling hill that looks onto a simple yet beautiful stage with incredible acoustics and behind it is a backdrop of trees and mountainside. You feel as though you are sitting in the most beautiful tree house .The first student stunned us with Beethoven on the violin. Then dancers, then one of the creative writing students recited her work and on and on. As I watched each performance, I felt that swell in my chest and that burning in my eyes again. When the show ended, it was time to go. Time for my son to go to his dorm and for me and my daughter to drive down the mountain and go home. I went to his room to pick up my purse and my head started spinning. Wait! Have I done enough? Have I checked off enough boxes in the parenting column to warrant driving away? I’m not ready and if I’m not ready, maybe he isn’t either! And then my son, my used to be sweet boy and my now sweet, kind, smart young man gave me a big hug, looked me in the eye and said, “Thank you. I love you, Mom.” Yep. He was ready. Needless to say, I cried all the way down the mountain and then again sporadically all the way home. I was so very proud of my boy and so incredibly excited for the opportunities that lay before him. My tears were shed within the appropriate level of grief over the loss of his spirit no longer in our home every day. I think back on those many moments when my heart swelled and my eyes burned and recognize that those moments were born out of the reaffirmation that letting him go was the absolute right choice. I wasn’t ready but my boy was ready.     A few days have come and gone since we returned home without him. I am only just now discovering how quiet our home is now that he is not here. I think I miss the sounds of hearing him play his guitar and write songs in his room the most. Yesterday, I found myself in the supermarket again feeling melancholy, indecisive and a tad bit weepy. There are many items on my lists to come that will continue to be the same as always but there are some that are removed because they were items specifically chosen for my son. I made my way around the produce section and found myself looking at the potatoes. I wasn’t planning on making mashed potatoes again so soon but why not? We are part Irish, ya know. So, I started to calculate the weight in my head about how much less I should get but then I stopped. Wait a second. My son will be home on sporadic weekends and for holidays and summer vacations. And the school is only a few hours away. We can go visit every now and then. Some of those kids are thousands of miles away from their families. Sure, I thought I would have my son with me non-stop for another three years and cry in the supermarket when he goes to college but this is not the end of the world! He is getting educated in one of the highest ranked arts high schools in the country! In my cart go the potatoes. I will make mashed potatoes just as I always have. And if my son is not home to share in the meal, then we’ll have leftovers. My son loves leftovers.


I walked through the heavy wooden doors of the dimly lit tavern, the cool night air giving way to the warmth and scent of ale and roasting meats. The walls were adorned with familiar faded tapestries that depicted mythical beasts and heroic battles, a fire gently crackled in the centre of the large room, and the rough-hewn planks of the floor creaked loudly underfoot. Arlen, the Elvish barman, nodded to me from behind the bar, and I gave him a small wave. The sound of dice landing on a table filled the room for a moment. Momentarily distracted by the Dragonborn bard on the small stage set up in the corner, I scanned the room for any sign of the others. She continued to strum her lute, the notes of her mournful ballad filling the room with a spellbinding tone that seemed to cast a spell on the place. The crowd was sparse, made up of a few locals nursing their drinks and food. I spotted a group of rough-looking adventurers huddled together in a corner and approached their table, the three figures still huddled, deep in conversation. "Howdy all," I said as I pulled up a chair, "I guess we’re still waiting for our contact?" The others looked up at me and smiled, their faces illuminated by the flickering candlelight on the wall above the table. There was Nia, the elven rogue, her features sharp, and piercing green eyes taking in everything in a glance; Drog, the hulking dwarf barbarian, his beard long, and muscular frame intimidating; and lastly Fiona, the human druid, her flowing brown hair entwined with braids of flowers, her expression serene. “We are waiting on the merchant himself,” Drog explained loudly into his ale, “Wanted to meet us all together.” The Orc server approached us with a friendly smile, and I ordered drinks and food to tide us over until the merchant arrived. And we waited. We discussed our previous adventures and expressed our curiosity for the quest ahead. Nia recounted the time she had infiltrated a heavily guarded castle and stolen the Crown of Shadows. “Where is it now?” I asked, as chicken juices dripped down my chin. She let out a long sigh, but Drog was quick to jump in. “She lost it in a bet! Could you believe? Such a powerful item, and she loses it to the likes of a dwarf! HA!” Nia rolled her eyes, “I’ll get it back, you mark my words.” “Wanna bet on it? Ha!” Drog laughed into his ale as he held up an ornate headpiece, made of a dark, shimmering metal. It was studded with black diamonds, the edges adorned with intricate and delicate carvings. Nia just continued to glare at the dwarf. Drog then regaled us with the tale of how he had single-handedly defeated a small army of goblins. Again, the sound of dice could be heard rattling on a table. After he had waffled for a time, Nia said, “It wasn’t a small army. I heard it was only ten.” Drog nearly choked on what would be his fourth ale, “Whhaaaa?” Nia smirked, “I know when you’re talking trash old friend. Besides, Berrand was with you and he said that you were lucky you tripped as the chieftain overcommitted to swinging his axe. Apparently he made a pretty mess at the bottom of the cliff.” “Alright, you got me this time, but you saw me take out that Bearowl single-handedly! Don’t you forget!” Drog scowled into his ale. Fiona said serenely, “You mean Owlbear, and yes, you always remind us.” Drog shifted his glance to her, “Thank you Fiona, nice to know we are such good friends.” The dice rattled. Fiona absolutely beamed, “We are good friends aren’t we!” The rest of us rolled our eyes, and Fiona, saturated with mind-numbing enthusiasm, went on to tell of her encounters with mystical beasts and the secrets of the natural world. We patiently listened to this secret. “… so fascinated by the pattern and spent several hours studying it, trying to decipher the meaning. I eventually discovered that the pattern is actually caused by lightning hitting the tree! The phenomenon is now called Lichtenberg figures. They’re amazing! So intricate, and it seems the branching patterns are created when high voltage electricity travels through an insulating material, such as wood. That’s what the artificer said when we recreated the effect. He paid me two hundred gold for helping him name it after himself. He was such a nice little Gnome.” We all blinked awkwardly at her words. The last bit of information caught us off guard, but where Fiona was concerned we weren’t surprised that such a random event would work out so favourably for her, even if at her own expense. She was known as the lucky one of the group, although, not always in a useful way. The bard was finished for the night and most other patrons had left, when finally, the tavern door creaked open, and a worried-looking man entered. We immediately recognized him as the merchant we were waiting for. He approached our table, introduced himself, and explained that he had been expecting a caravan with a shipment of beer for some days now. He feared that misfortune had befallen them. He gave us details of where the caravan was travelling and begged us to find out what had happened, and to bring the shipment back to him if possible. The offered reward was quite generous. We listened intently and agreed to take on the job. Everyone was sitting up straighter and eyes keen. The idea of a new adventure, combined with the possibility of a lifetime stirring our adrenaline. Free beer. Free beer for the rest of our lives. It was an enough to make Drog shed a tear of joy. The merchant left, and we gathered our gear to set out into the night. Not wanting to waste any time, we left immediately through the town gates, the road quiet as we headed for the hills. The path was long and winding, and after an hour, we found ourselves deep in the dark heart of the forest, on the path where the merchant expected the caravan to travel. The trees towered over us, their gnarled branches creaking in the wind, as we trudged up the slightly overgrown road. No tracks had been found. "I have a bad feeling." Fiona whispered, her staff in hand as she guided a soft glowing ball of light slightly ahead of us. "Who knows what is lurking in this part of the woods." I held back my tongue from reminding her that she spends more time here than anyone else. Nia nodded in agreement, her sharp eyes scanning the shadows around us. "I'll take point," she said, unsheathing her blades. "Keep close behind me." Drog mumbled under his breath in a whiney voice, “kEeP CLosE BeHiND MmEe… What?” Nia paused. If looks could kill, even in the darkness of the forest, Drog would be six feet under. We moved deeper into the forest, and not before long found a scene of carnage. No wonder the caravan hadn’t arrived. Bodies were everywhere, the evidence of an ambush obvious from the amount damage done to the caravan with little sign of who had attacked. The sound of dice bouncing filled my head. Looking closely at the road, I noticed large footprints and multiple wagon tracks that led off into the bush. It became clear that we were dealing with something larger than goblins. Unsure of what they were, I called Fiona over. “Ogres,” She says without hesitation, “Definitely ogre tracks. I’d say two or three of them. They went that way! Drog, Nia, stop looting the bodies, we know roughly where the wagons went.” Drog and Nia stopped filling their pockets and came over as Fiona cast a spell. Her eyes glowed briefly as she chanted softly, and suddenly, the leaves and twigs seemed to part before us, allowing us to move through the forest with ease. But our stealthy approach was cut short when we suddenly heard a loud roar in the distance. We froze, our hearts pounding in our chests as we listened intently to the sound. "What was that?" Drog whispered, his grip tightening on his axe. "WhAT wAs tHaT?" Nia mocked, pointing to the east where the tracks led. Drog glowered and made shooing motions. Slowly, we approached the source of the sound, the twigs and leaves crunching silently under our feet with every step. The forest grew darker as we drew closer to the source of the disturbance. Our hearts raced with anticipation and fear as we moved closer. Finally, we stumbled upon the scene of the commotion. Three massive ogres, their eyes glassy and unfocused, were swigging from the barrels of beer around a fire where one of the horses was roasting. They were laughing and grunting, and their voices boomed in the clearing. Clearly inebriated, the ogres were stumbling around, their movements slow and clumsy. They belched loudly and laughed boisterously as they drank, seemingly unaware of our presence. But as we drew our weapons and prepared to attack, they suddenly turned to face us, their eyes glinting with malice and hunger, their inebriation making them no less dangerous. The sound of dice was stronger than ever. Barrel of beer came careening towards us but smashed into a tree nearby. Beer sprayed all over us. "Looks like we found our beer," Drog said, grinning wickedly. Without a further word, Drog let out a bloodcurdling roar as he charged straight at the ogres, his axe raised high. "Let's show these bumbling beasts who's boss!" he yelled, his voice echoing through the forest. "I'll take care of them from behind," Nia whispered to the rest of the group. Someone snickered, which made the rest of us giggle. She quickly darted around to the other side of the clearing behind the ogres, her sharp blades glinting in the moonlight as she silently made her way towards their backs. Meanwhile, Fiona closed her eyes and chanted softly. "Mother Nature, lend us your strength," she murmured, her hands outstretched as she focused her energy on the ground beneath her. Vines and thorns suddenly erupted from the earth, ensnaring two of the ogres and holding them at bay. The beasts roared in fury, struggling against the thorny restraints that held them down. As I realised I hadn’t armed my crossbow and began to crank the handle, a phone rang. Time went still. Now sitting at the game table, we’re all exhausted yet excited. Having been fuelled by beers and half eaten packets of chips, we stare at the map and models covering the table. The Dungeon Master, Brett answers the phone and has a brief discussion before hanging up. “I’ve got to get the door.” Brett says as he gets up and leaves. We continue to sit there wondering who would be interrupting us at eleven pm on a Sunday night. Brett returns and announces that it’s time to wrap up for the night. We all groan and protest, not wanting to leave the game so soon. "Can't we just keep playing for a little longer?" asks Carly, who plays Nia, her eyes sparkling with excitement. "Yeah, let's see where this goes," Drog, who is played by Josh, chimes in, his voice tired but still keen. But Brett shakes his head. "We'll come back next week," he says, "and pick up where we left off." Suddenly an older man walks into the room from behind Brett. “What the hell is this? Looks like I’ve walked into some medieval fan group convention, or um, what’s it called… a cult.” Brett sighs, “Everyone, this is my uncle Greg, and no, we’re playing Dungeons and Dragons. It’s a role-playing game.” “I thought that was a video game.” Greg asks, “Why you all dressed up?”  Alex, who plays Fiona, pipes up, “For fun! It gets us into character. We also went to a D&D convention earlier today.” “D&D?” Greg asks, scratching his beard. Brett clarifies, “It’s short for Dungeons and Dragons. Anyway, now that you’re here we’ll be wrapping up. I’ll take you up to the spare room.” “Wait, so you’re telling me you dressed up and went to this convention today,” Greg says puzzled, “to then come back and play it. How long have you been playing?” I look at my watch before answering, “seven hours now. It was just getting good too.” Greg stands there and looks around at us all, perplexed. “Maybe you should finish the game then. It clearly means a lot to you. No, I’ll watch. I’m curious now. Go on Brett, I’m sure it will only be a few more minutes.” We all smile at Greg. Greg smirks at the rest of us. The sound of dice and vivid descriptions fill the air. The forest clearing came into focus again and Nia, being the fastest of us, managed to hamstring one ogre, dealing critical damage with a sneak attack. It fell to its hands and knees but was it able to lash out a kick that landed right in Nia’s stomach, which caused a rib to crack and wind her badly. One ogre broke free from being ensnared by the vines, only to have Drog stumble into it, causing them both to fall over with the ogre landing on top. From a table in another world, a group of people laughed at the unfortunate turn. Another ogre got its arms free and threw it’s barrel of beer, hitting Fiona and dealing a significant amount of damage. She let go of the entanglement spell and transformed into an owl. She then flew up into the trees out of sight. I got the crossbow loaded and aim at the ogre that kicked Nia. I let it loose and score a hit solidly in the ogre’s chest, only for it to be enraged. It stood up, getting ready to attack while I looked across to see Drog still stuck under the other ogre. With him incapacitated, Nia badly injured and Fiona gone, it was up to me. “Three on one baby. Let’s do this!” I yelled as I dropped my crossbow and drew my sword. I charged towards the nearest ogre when suddenly, bright shimmering orbs of light crackled through the air past me to hit all three ogres with unerring accuracy and an explosion of sparks. The ogre with the crossbow bolt in him fell to the ground dead. The one before me roared in pain as it clutched it’s face, and I impaled it with my sword, dispatching it with a fantastic spray of intestines. The last ogre had got off of Drog, only to burst into flames, but unfortunately they also happened to engulf Drog. An owl screeched and water appeared from above him to douse the flames, leaving him smoking and charred but alive. We all gathered in the middle of the clearing and surveyed the damage. We turned from the direction we came to see an old man with a beard in a grey robe. He waved a staff at us, “Hello adventurers, I am Greg! No? Why can’t I be Greg? Fine. Gandalf. It’s Gand… What do you mean?” We all look at each other from across the table and smile as Brett discusses with Greg the finer details of character development and that although there’s no copyright for using a well known name, it’s not very original. “I can’t believe I did nothing! I just got smooshed by the damn thing.” Drog, or Josh, laughs and throws his hands up in the air. We all jeer and make fun of him as we start to pack up for the evening. It’s past midnight. “We’ll discuss levels and loot next session, just keep tabs on who did what,” says Brett. “Next week, we’ll roll into the actual campaign.” Greg startles at this, “What? That wasn’t the actual campaign? I thought I must have defeated a big boss or something!” “No, that was just a side quest for fun.” Alex says. Josh jumps in saying, “But now that you’ve got a taste, you should join us from the start. We don’t mind helping you as we play. One of us, one of us!” The chant dies quicker than it started. Greg looks around at all the others expectant faces in the room. “You don’t mind? I wouldn’t have to dress up though would I?” “We could use a mage actually. Sounds like a new member has joined the party!” I exclaim. Brett says, “I don’t mind, we can easily work you in. Besides, this might be a good distraction while you figure out your life. I imagine you’ll be living here now for a bit anyway so we can fine tune everything before the next session.” Greg looks around the room and a variety of emotions pass over his bearded face. He smiles and nods. “Alright. I’m in. But no dressing up.” “Yet!” half of us say together laughing. Brett laughs, “We’ll make a hardcore fan of you yet.” Greg rolls his eyes and laughs, “I’ve always wanted to join a cult! Ha!”


Like most of us, seventeen years ago my life was completely different. I was living in Killeen, TX waiting to get married. It was the first time living away from my family. Killeen is a small army town about an hour north of Austin. Outside of the army base Killeen is made up of bars, tattoo parlors and strip clubs. Growing up in the suburbs of Ohio, I was out of my element. I was in the middle of nowhere with no friends and a fiancé I barely knew. Whenever I found myself homesick, got upset or was angry I couldn’t take off in my car, drive to a friend’s house, or my parents to talk it out as I normally would. I was smack dab in the middle of the lone star state with a man I didn’t even know. I didn’t have any friends when I first arrived, but I did have a house and a lot of time to fill. My fiancé loved to fish, and I often accompanied him to the lake for lack of anything else to do. On one such trip I found an abandoned kitten curled up next to its dead mother. I had to keep it. Unfortunately, my fiancé refused to let me name our kitten. We argued over it, but I lost, and he named the kitten Buddy. I was annoyed with my fiancé’ yet happy to have this new companion. Buddy was a rascal as most kittens are. He very much enjoyed keeping me up by running throughout the house all night long. One of his favorite things to do was lightly touch my face with his paw at 3am. Looking back, it was sweet and funny, but after a few weeks I was exhausted from lack of sleep. He never bothered my fiancé. I loved that cat, but I was very much annoyed and resentful of the sleep my fiancé was getting. I came home from work one day and found Buddy staring under our couch. He wouldn’t budge. I got on my hands and knees to see what had him so entranced. As I peered into the darkness, I saw two eyes staring back at me. Thirty mins later a sweet six-month-old tabby cat crawled out. My fiancé got a kitten for our kitten. He explained to me that a soldier had been deployed overseas and was planning on letting this kitten outside to survive on its own. My fiancé wasn’t going to let that happen. The best part was this time I even got to name him. I knew instantly this darling cat’s name was Scooter. Texas was the first of two states that Scooter and I would live in together. Over the years we would live in two different states and five different houses. We eventually left Texas and moved back to Ohio. Moving into our second living space, a condominium where I had my two children. By that time, my fiancé wanted a dog and therefore he adopted a sweet mixed breed named Norman. The three pets got along wonderfully. All three animals were special, and I loved each one of them, but there was something about Scooter that tied me to him. Maybe it was because I was the one who named him. I chose a name that I thought of as a child but never had the chance to use up until then. When I thought of the name Scooter my family had animals already and thus, I couldn’t use the name. In my mind as a child I wanted a dalmatian named Scooter, instead when I saw my tabby cat years later somehow it just fit. Scooter was a fiery little shit. He galloped around the house, jumped on couches, and ottomans, while his 16-pound frame made all sorts of noise in our house. He had the sweetest round face I’d ever seen. It begged for you to scratch him and that’s when he would bite you. Not hard of course but just enough to keep you away. He did this to everyone except me. Well, if I’m being honest, I got bitten also but far less than everyone else. It was a game he and I played. My sister, friend or family member would come over, see his darling face, and want to interact. They noticed he was a little finicky and asked if they could pet him.              “Will he bite me?” My sister asked.              “Nope.” I said. Followed by laughter on my end after Scooter bit her. He never drew blood or hurt anyone, but he always let you know who was in charge. A few years later I left my husband I moved the two kids, two cats and one dog into a two-bedroom apartment. I was afraid my husband would demand one of the pets, but then realized I had no need to worry. He wasn’t interested in taking care of his kids, why would he be interested in taking care of the animals? The apartment was home number three for Scooter and me, it was little, but we made it work. During this time Scooter became ill with bladder stones. I had just left my husband who was unemployed and giving zero financial or emotional support. I was on food stamps, working part time and I used the last of my savings to put the deposit and first month’s rent down on my apartment. I didn’t have the money for the operation he needed therefore I asked my parents for the $1300 so the vet could surgically remove the bladder stones. I felt terrible. I was 31 years old, using government assistance and asking my parents to pay for surgery for my cat because I was too broke to do so. I thank God my parents helped me with his surgery, otherwise I wouldn’t have had him. I lived at my apartment for the next 5 years and I’m sad to say that both Buddy and Norman passed during this time. Both were hard on me. It was the first time I was the adult making the choice when to end their suffering. The years went by, and I worked hard, getting promotions regularly, I was in a better financial position that allowed me to afford medicine and different diagnostic procedures for both Buddy and Norman. However, they each reached the end of their lives in that apartment. Buddy was young, only around 9 years old when he got intestinal cancer, and the vet told me there was little they could do. Norman was around 10 when he developed a tumor on his spine. Although logically I knew there wasn’t anything else I could do, it was still extremely hard to be the one to make that final decision. I tried to take comfort knowing they were not in pain any longer. Although I struggled with each one passing, I have to say that when Buddy passed the kids were so little, I didn’t have a lot of time to grieve his death. I was still working to make it through each day as a single parent, falling into bed at night happy we all got through another day. A few years later when Norman passed, I felt the grief a little more. The kids were older, and I was getting ready to buy my first home. Norman was a Shepard mix who initially I didn’t want to adopt. We were living in my dad’s condominium without a yard, and I felt that it was wrong to get a dog who needed to run. My ex-husband didn’t care and wouldn’t listen to my concerns, so we rescued Norman. I walked him and took him to dog parks, but it wasn’t the same as being able to open up the door and let him lay in his own open yard. After all the years living in a condominium and then an apartment, I just wanted Norman to have a backyard to run in. Sadly, I wasn’t able to give him that before he died. With the purchase of my first house, Scooter moved into the fourth home we would share. I started to realize that at 12 years old he wasn’t a young cat anymore and I needed to take the extra time to enjoy him. It suddenly struck me that he wasn’t going to be with me forever. I believe that this was when I really fell in love with him. Although the kids were older and more self-sufficient, they were both still in elementary school. After they went to bed I would start a fire, curl up on my couch and wait for Scooter to jump into my lap. Some people read to relax, others go to the gym, paint, or cook. I made fires in my fireplace and snuggled with Scooter. During COVID I started working from home and Scooter sat on my lap for hours. I would be in meetings with my fat cat sleeping on me. I had to work, like us all, but I found the way to do it. Scratching my cat’s ears while I looked at spreadsheets made the spreadsheets slightly more bearable. The years went on and the jokes began. “Mom, do you love Scooter more than us?” my daughter asked. “Baby, how could you even ask that? Of course, I love Scooter more than I love you.” We would all burst into laughter as my daughter playfully hit me. My son would walk downstairs and crawl onto the couch while Scooter and I watched a movie. “Be careful, don’t upset my cat.” I would say grinning at him. As much as we all joked about my love for Scooter there was an ounce of truth to it. Of course, I didn’t love my cat more than I loved my kids. But at that point Scooter had been in my life longer than my kids. I joked that Scooter lasted longer than my first marriage and I had been with him longer than my kids had been alive. Scooter was around while I was wrapped in the chains of active alcoholism and also there when I got sober. Scooter was with me when I was on food stamps and kept me warm when the furnace of my apartment barely did the job. He had slept with the kids, the dog and I all in one bed. He had been in my life for a long time. Scooter started to slow down significantly in his 17 th year. He had suffered a few bouts of pancreatitis throughout his life, but these flares went from once every five years to a few times in a year. Scooter also started getting around slower. Taking longer to walk up and down the stairs and jumping onto the counter happened less often. The vet gave him supplements for arthritis this past year and I’m happy to say it did him wonders. In many ways it turned him into a kitten again. As I saw him age, I marveled at the way Scooter did ordinary things, watching his relaxed face as he slept curled up in a sun beam as it peaked through the window. It brought tears to my eyes when he ran after a laser pointer my kids danced in front of him. Every night coming to a close with Scooter on my lap as we watched TV while the kids slept. At the start of this year, I got married and bought my second house. This house was the fifth home that Scooter and I lived in together. A few weeks before the move I saw a change in Scooter. His vomiting increased, and changed from when he had a pancreatitis flare up to a few times a week. It finally got to the point where he couldn’t keep his arthritis supplements down which caused him to get around much slower than before. As the move got closer, I was terrified it would stress him out and toss him into another bout of pancreatitis. Luckily, he made the move much better than I anticipated and he thrived for a few weeks. Acclimating better than our younger cat and dog. But it didn’t last, soon after the move Scooter started losing weight. Not just a little as he aged but enough that I could tell a significant difference. I spared no expense in allowing the vet to run tests while also balancing the stress of putting him through taking blood and giving him medicine. The only good part of this scenario was that I was in a financial position where I could afford to try whatever medication the vet suggested or to run whatever test was needed to try and help him. Ironic that the money I had worked so hard to get, in hopes of making my family’s lives better, didn’t give me any more time with my beloved cat. On June 9 th 2024 I took Scooter to the vet to put him to sleep. With his passing a wound opened in my heart. I cried the entire time I was at the vet’s office as she asked me questions and finally agreed that it was time to end the pain he was in. We had run out of options, and she agreed his quality of life was not good. I stayed with Scooter the entire time, snuggling him, and stroking his head. The next day I told my husband that I was surprised how difficult each day was. I’m not an overly emotional person. I love animals and consider myself a “pet person” but I’m also very practical. Everything dies eventually, it is just a part of life. My husband was the wise one as he said that “It’s been almost 20 years”. He is right, no one grieves 17 years in a day. Therefore, I’m allowing myself to feel the terrible feelings I have. In my most basic thoughts I keep thinking that I just want Scooter back. I want him physically back with me, at home number five. I don’t like not having him. I had an exceedingly difficult time leaving his body with the vet, and although I opted to have him cremated and have purchased a small urn to keep him near me, I do not like not having him with me. I don’t like being at my house expecting to see him, even as skinny as he was. I want to pick up that skinny body and snuggle it. Logically I know that taking his pain away was the right decision, but I want him back. I feel like a child. If I thought stomping my feet, yelling, and pounding my fists on the floor would somehow allow him to return to me I would do it all. Unfortunately, at 45 years of age I know that won’t change anything. I can’t imagine what it’s like for a parent to lose a child. I imagine the feelings I have of wanting my Scooter back are only a small representation of how a parent feels when they have lost their child. I think the only reason losing an animal is bearable is because we can understand that they live faster and shorter lives than we do. We understand that by loving an animal we will also have to withstand the pain of losing that animal. With children we are not supposed to lose them, they are supposed to lose us. I tell my children that my only real goal in life is to die before them. If I die before them then I’ve won at life. Don’t get me wrong, I hope that I die when I’m 97 and that my children don’t suffer any terrible fates, but in general as long as I die first then I’ll be happy. Often times the kids and I would joke and say things like “He’s not going to be with us much longer.” Even though it was said lightheartedly I knew that it was a true statement. Cats rarely live to be twenty, although I thought my Scooter might make it that long. Pain and misery are the harshest of teachers, but perhaps the ones that teach us the most. I realize that Scooter was my reward at the end of each day. After I finished my job, taken care of the kids, the house, and my husband, I was able to sit down and have my cat’s soft paws and gentle purrs take away the stress of my day. The time I spent with him was when my cup was refilled, he recharged me, allowing me to wake up and start all over again. I don’t know how I’m going to recharge now that he is gone. What I do know however is that Scooter gave me a final gift in his death, he taught me to live in the moment. I can honestly say that I made a very conscious decision to love and enjoy Scooter more in the last three years than in the first twelve that I had him. I knew that time was running out for us to be together and instead of mourning his age I very much embraced it. I enjoyed every ear scratch, and each face snuggle. I took more pictures, made more Instagram posts, and ate up the affection he gave me. Scooter taught me to slow down and appreciate the time we had together. I’m trying to slow down; to enjoy the time I have with everyone and in every part of my life. I can honestly say that Scooter gave me one of the greatest gifts in my life and for that I will forever be grateful to my sweet, feisty tabby cat.


First stop Aruba.

On a muggy June Baltimore evening, my husband sat in our family room in front of our television, impassively watching his favorite science fiction programming. "Destination Aruba is canceled," he said mechanically, almost as robotic as the show he was viewing. "I love going yearly, but we can't afford to go this year." An eerie white noise filled the room, only to discover a programming disruption, perfect timing. I couldn't reply to his announcement since his words were muted by the pressures of life, sandwiched between parents and grandkids, among whom, without knowing, clipped my wings. Aruba was our haven that we traveled to every August. I prepare for all vacations at least three months in advance, but not this year. This was a strange year. I couldn't work because of caring for my parents, thus forcing me to take money from my savings to pay bills. I kept saying to everyone, "I have to get away, or I will lose my mind," though no one heard me; they were too busy pleading their cases of despair. It seems the year was acting strangely for everyone. Months went by, and I tried to convince myself that time spent at home was just as pleasant as being on vacation in Aruba, but it wasn't. I avoided phone calls, read books, and wrote stories, yet felt nothing. I couldn't find the feeling of pure comfort and the effervescent spirit that Eagle Beach, Aruba, provided. In September, I screamed again, "I have to get away, or I will lose my mind." My husband heard my desperation and said, "You know what, Honey, let's go." Last-minute plans were made for November travel at the peak of hurricane season. No worries, Aruba didn’t experience hurricanes. However, the connecting flight in Florida did. Hurricane Nicole canceled everything, destroying all possibilities and clipping my wings again. Tears fell. My husband, concerned about my misery, though no doubt was experiencing something similar, stayed up all night devising an expensive flight to Aruba as everything economy had been booked or canceled. He managed to get first-class flights to Aruba with a layover in New York. We were both thrilled, although feeling somewhat strange. I don't know if it was the exhaustion of fighting for time away or the discernment of what may come because sometimes trouble travels in a pack. Once on the plane, the pilot announced that several airplanes, including ours, required de-icing. Five minutes later, the pilot announced that the machine that de-ices the aircraft had broken.

"Why would our plane need de-icing? It's not even cold outside." Getting another machine and departing from the runway took at least fifteen to twenty minutes. While in the air, I looked at my watch and noticed that it was 6:50am, and our flight to Aruba left JFK airport at 7:20am.

"We are pushing the time." We arrived at JFK Airport at 7:05am.

"Good. I think we have enough time to get to our gate. We are only two gates over." Then the Flight Attendant said, "Anyone flying to Aruba, no need to run." My husband took her statement to mean the plane was going to wait for us. But I insisted we should hurry, so we ran to the boarding area. Our flight left. Consequently, there was no need to run. But I did run; I ran to the desk in the boarding area. "Good Morning. Can I help you?" "Yes, I think my flight may have left?" I was breathless from running. "Can you provide me with your ticket, please?" Cool, calm, she put out her hand. I handed the Agent the ticket. Her eyes never met mine. If the description of an airline agent was a person who gave no eye contact and showed no emotions, this person excelled at their job. "That is correct; your flight just left.” She continued to look only at her screen and not at me. “I can get you another flight tomorrow morning. There is nothing available today." "Wait… nothing today. We've paid for a seven-day resort, and we can't get there until tomorrow?” My tone did not match hers, for I could feel heat rising, my heart fluttering, and my voice deepening. “You cannot be serious?" I closed my eyes and breathed in, intensely remembering what it took to get this far. "Are you at least paying for our hotel?" "No, I'm sorry. We don't pay for a hotel stay if the cause of you missing your flight was because of the weather." Still no emotion. My husband walked over to the desk, angry but trying his best to be calm. "I need to speak with a manager because the weather didn't cause our delay. The machine that de-ices the plane broke down." After a long conversation with the manager, they decided they would pay for our hotel stay. Still, we lost a day at our resort in Aruba. The next day was early. The flight was at 6:15 am. We were comfortably seated on the plane, anxiously waiting to fill our thoughts with the ocean, sand, and sun that would make up for the lost day. Then. "Babe, what is that smell?"

"I can't smell anything. Wait…there it is. What is that?" The most heinous odor was filling the aircraft. Directly behind me, a woman began screeching. "I cannot believe you would take a laxative before a flight. Now you've crapped your clothes and the seats. Why would you be so stupid." The elderly gentleman who sat behind me had to change clothes, and we had to leave our first-class seats because the odor was shocking. The poor flight Attendants had to clean the chairs. Finally, Aruba. It was a stunning ocean getaway, especially Eagle Beach. The waves of teal and aqua mesmerized as the waters flowed gently. Its sands were milky and soft on the toes, with bonsai-looking trees growing out of the sand. The November rains prevented nothing from changing. The morning set intentions: its creative process inevitably occurred when I enjoyed its beauty. There were lessons to learn in the water; it didn’t ask permission to relax me. Its glory followed deliberately. Six days and every day served a purpose. I thought, "How do I keep these intentions and the purpose?" On the second day, I went for a run early in the morning. It had rained the day before (pretty hard for Aruba), which left huge puddles on the street. Cars and buses would drive by, honking their horns slowly to avoid splashing water. For the first time, while running, I didn't need to listen to music. I didn't need a diversion. At home, I blocked all of the world's sounds, smells, and pleasure interference. In Aruba, I'm free; I could fly. Six days went by very quickly. The flight coming home was late, complicated, and tiresome. We flew into Dulles, VA, airport and decided to stay at a hotel in Virginia before driving back home to Baltimore, Maryland. While at the hotel, I woke up early and went downstairs to the gym for a quick run. Upon returning to my room, I showered and got dressed for breakfast. We sat down in the dining area. There was a family with a mother and four kids. The youngest looked around three or four years old. A long ponytail pinned up in a bun, beautiful brown eyes beaming like daylight. To be honest, I thought he was a little girl because of his delicate features and long curly locks that surrounded his face. He looked at the breakfast plate with waffles, eggs, sausage, bacon, and fruit. After he scarfed down his entire meal, he leaped on top of his chair and began to dance. He danced freely with no music playing in the background, just to whatever was playing in his head. His siblings watched curiously and tried to get him to sit civilized like everyone else in the room, but he was appreciating his life. The long, arduous flight had not bothered him. I walked over to the coffee machine, looked at whom I presumed to be his mother, and stated, "She is so adorable." The mother said, "Actually, he's adorable." I quickly apologized for assuming and grabbed another cup of coffee. A gentleman stood beside me and said, "You are right; he is adorable. I was on the elevator with them, and he put his arms like the wings of a plane. ‘I'm a helicopter…brrrrrr…. brrrrr., I’m free!’ His mother told him, ‘No, you are not.’" I looked at the joy presented before me, the freedom of a child, and said to the gentleman who spoke to me, "It was a strange year, sometimes… just sometimes, you gotta be a helicopter."