Kundai and Chipo routinely drove in and out of their gated compound in their affluent suburb. Their residence association had built a wire cage on the main road to house their rubbish bags for the municipality refuse collection. The refuse company had become increasingly erratic; whether they forgot to collect, or their vehicles had broken down, or they had no fuel, no-one knew. On those non-collection days, feral dogs would rip open the black rubbish bags as they foraged, leaving the decomposing waste scattered in the street. In the summer heat, hordes of blue bottle flies feasted while maggots multiplied, despite the unbearable smell of the decomposing mass. "Have you noticed, someone is rummaging through the waste bags?" "You do choose some strange morning topics, Chipo! Why would I notice such things?" "It's just yesterday after my early morning run; I saw an old vagrant going through the rubbish scavenging for God knows what. Judging by his ragged clothes which look as if they are starched with dirt, he's been living on the streets. I felt sorry for him, so I gave him food." "Here we go! Given a chance Chipo, you would rescue every stray man, woman or dog!" "I'm just saying." The following week as the couple left their complex, they bumped into the old tramp lugging a large plastic bag as he made his way up the street. "Kundai, look! That's the man I was talking about." "Leave well alone. That's probably another hard-luck story in the making. What has it to do with us? I hope you are not going to take him up as a charity case! Once you start helping him out, your conscience will keep on eating you and knowing you, you'll get more and more embroiled in his life. Take your empathy elsewhere. We have enough on our plate, what with looking after both our extended families in the rural areas." "Sometimes I wonder who I married. It's as if you have no sympathetic bone in your body," said Chipo. The conversation kept niggling Chipo and the following morning on her way back from her run, panting as she approached their gate, the same man was there, picking through the waste. "Morning Grandpa. Are you at it again? Don't you know of some organisation or someone who can help you? It can't be much of a life living in the street." "My child, if I did know where to get help, I wouldn't be doing what I am doing. It's certainly not by choice," he said with a wry grin. "I can't keep giving you food every time I meet you. Isn't there something more constructive I can do to help out?" "The food you give is a blessing, and it's not many who would spend time talking to the likes of me; never mind offering help. You know, I used to live in a place like yours. Not as grand, of course. But I had a family and then everything ... It's a long story." "Grandpa. It's your lucky day because I have time to spare before I go to work. Come and at least have some food and clean up in our cottage behind the main house and then you can tell me all about yourself. My husband even has some old clothes you can change into." 'Bless you, my child! Not everyone shows such kindness." Chipo escorted the stranger into the yard. She tried to ignore the stench of his unwashed body and kept a respectable distance; while imagining lice in his mattered dreadlocked hair which completed the vision of a walking scarecrow. 'Grandpa, go in and freshen up. You can keep your old clothes if you still need them." "My child, who would want to keep these rags? I used to wear suits in my heyday. But that's a long time ago."         The following morning, Chipo was busy around the house, and even Kundai noticed she had an abundant supply of nervous energy. "Chipo, is everything ok? You seem rather hyperactive today. Has something happened?" "I'll come straight to the point. You know that vagrant I mentioned before? He was here. Not in the house. I know how security conscious you are, but I allowed him to wash in the cottage and then we got talking, and I am sure you will want to hear his story. So, I've invited him to come and meet you today." 'You're joking! Why would I want to meet a homeless man, especially one who's been paying clandestine visits in my absence? I knew…" "Kundai, I'm serious. I have my reasons. Just bear with me." Exasperated, Kundai went into his study and settled in his favourite chair; scrolling through his phone messages, Chipo returned and said in a hesitant voice, "Kundai, this is our visitor." Round the corner appeared a clean-shaven man with a slight stoop; a version of himself, perhaps thirty years older. The figure had Kundai's large brown eyes like someone with proptosis. The older man shuffled in clutching a felt hat and wearing an old blazer, shirt and tie that looked distinctly like Kundai's rejects. Kundai did a double-take as he slowly rose to his feet and ushered the visitor to a sofa by the window. Lost for words, the younger man slumped back in his seat and continued staring at an older version of himself. Chipo uncertain what to do next turned to Kundai before leaving the room, "I'm sure you have a lot to say to each other. I'll leave you to it." Kundai was left sensing that this stranger sitting opposite, had more in common with him than he wanted to know. Whoever the visitor was, he seemed very familiar.

"I'm sorry, my wife assumes we know each other. Who are you?" "Kundai, don't you know me? Take a guess," said the visitor. "I don't like guessing games, and I don't know what game Chipo is playing, but I have a right to ask who you are before I turf you out of my house!" "I'm your father! Don't you remember me?" "You mean the one who left Mum and I when I was in my teens? And you expect me to welcome you with open arms?" "You've grown up to be a fine young man. I have been searching high and low after coming across an old newspaper article about you. You're now a rising star in the banking world! Congratulations my son!" "Anyone can come off the street and claim to be related to me. I've no business with you and suggest you leave before I call the police." "Honestly, I am your father. Can't you not see the resemblance? You are the spitting image of me when I was your age. I've still got the newspaper clip if you don't believe me." "Whether I believe you or not is not the point. I am sorry, please leave." Without another word, the older man closed the door behind him as Kundai, no longer confident he had done the right thing, became fixated with something out of the window. All he knew was that a man claiming to be his father had for a short while filled a void. His mother had told him very little about how his parents had slid into bitterness and separation. He picked up his cell-phone and dialled. "Kundai, you are phoning rather early today. I was hanging my washing. How are you and Chipo? Kundai?" "Sorry. Hie Mum. My thoughts were elsewhere. We're fine, and you?" "I am sure you are busy at work.  Will you have time to visit your old mother, just for a quick cup of tea? You know I don't have many visitors." "Have you got a minute? Something extraordinary happened this morning, and you are the only person who can give me answers. I'd rather talk on the phone than come and see you." "I'm listening." Kundai burst out, "Chipo has been entertaining someone who claims to be my father!" "That daughter in law of mine!  Go on." " He came to the house today, to see me on her invitation. I didn't even ask for an identity card or anything, but I could instinctively tell that the man was my flesh and blood. Although he looked malnourished, our eyes are the same. For a moment, I could envisage myself in my old age. I thought you said he had left for good." "He has a nerve! After all these years and he dares to turn up at your gate. He would not try that trick with me!" "Mum! Whatever disagreements the two of you had in the past, I don't want to get caught in the crossfire. What happened between the two of you, that I ended up without a father?" After a brief silence, Kundai's mother narrated her story. Samson, his father, left after disagreements which ended in an acrimonious family meeting. Even though his parents had been childhood sweethearts, something changed when Samson became a successful businessman. The trips abroad to meet clients became more numerous and extended. The unexplained absences were more frequent, initially under the guise of out-of-town golf tournaments and exploring new business opportunities. Whenever Kundai's mother offered to accompany him, major rows exploded over trust, to the point that she resigned herself to bringing up their son as if she was a single parent. Increasingly depressed, she slowly withdrew from their social circle. She turned down invitations because in her mind, her social status and who she was, was so intricately tied up with who she had married. It was as if she no longer had an identity of her own. It didn't take long before the rumours started circulating among their friends. Samson seemed oblivious to his brazen philandering, and his distinct green Volvo would occasionally be seen parked outside a block of flats, sometimes all night. Eventually, Samson decided he wanted to 'find himself', and he admitted his marriage was no longer what he wanted in life. One day, he just packed and left; golf clubs and all. "Mum, I can hear the pain in your voice, even after all these years. I'm sorry I just wanted to know what happened. I was too young to understand the goings-on, and it was not my place to ask. All I know is that I grew up without a father, and he wasn't dead. I've never plucked up the courage to get the full story from you." "Its fine Kundai. You had to find out one day. I am still mourning the loss of my marriage. But don't get me wrong, I don't want him back! I'm just curious as to why he came to you." "I was also taken by surprise, Mum! I, unfortunately, didn't give him a chance to explain anything. I was so cross. He probably thinks I am a soft touch, now that he is old and appears penniless!" "How did he find you?" "I don't know, but I am sure Chipo knows more than she's telling." The call ended after some pleasantries and just as Chipo walked in. "I could hear voices. I thought you were still talking to our visitor. Has he gone already?" "Chipo, don't pretend you don't know what's going on. Are you not the one who let him into the house? I'm sure you were listening behind the door." "That's not fair Kundai, although I will admit I tried listening in, but your voices were so low. So I decided to get on with my gardening instead. So, tell me what happened?" "Let's not play games! You know who he is. How did you find my father?" "I thought you would never ask! Isn't it exciting! The father who once was lost and now he's found! Did you recognise him?  Its the homeless man, who was going through our rubbish! I became curious one day, after seeing a resemblance underneath all the grime and un-kept beard. I could see that it was someone who had fallen on hard times." "So how did he get my old clothes?" "Patience! I felt so sorry for him so yesterday, I let him use the facilities in the cottage to clean himself up and lo and behold, a transformation took place!  We talked at length as he shared his pathetic tale. I then decided you should meet him. Where is he?" "I told him to leave." "Leave? I don't believe this! Aren't you the one who on numerous occasions tell me you missed a father figure in your life? I then find your father, and you chase him away again! You're fighting your mother's battles, that's the only explanation. He left your mother, not you!" "You went too far, Chipo! Taking sides over a story, you know little about. Do you know that my mum had to return to work to raise school fees for me after my dad left? She has carried the burden of the scorned, deserted wife for a long time and I couldn't fill the gap my father left, no matter how hard I tried. He is a selfish old man who neglected his responsibilities. Now that he knows where we live, he'll keep coming to guilt-trip me about my responsibilities as a son! I'm not having it!" "Kundai, I can't imagine the bitterness and hurt you, and your mother still feel. However, bitterness and anger can eat you alive. Do you think he doesn't feel ashamed and broken, coming to you in his current state, especially since you and your mum have made a success of your lives despite his absence?" "I don't need a lecture from you Chipo! He could so easily have been a part of our lives if some skirt hadn't enticed him! More than one, so I hear!" "Leave your parents to fight their own battles. If your mum can't bring herself to reconcile with your dad, can he not at least regain a son?" Kundai felt tortured in awkward silence. He had so easily turned on Chipo in the tension, and sadness now permeated the room. Chipo, in turn, was now reticent, trying to gauge whether she had gone too far. Sounding calmer, Kundai said, "I don't know why we are quarrelling and wasting our energy on the past. He made his choices, and he should live with them." "That's not the point Kundai! Your father opened up to me and told me about his succession of women when things were still good. The last young woman, a business partner he moved in with, left him a while ago after bankrupting their business, through siphoning away assets in cohorts with the accountant. She had already begun to lose interest in your father when he became ill, and she told him she wasn't cut out to look after invalids. His life after that spiralled into despair and homelessness. He's destitute Kundai! You should have given him a chance to explain himself; even you would have felt sorry for him, after hearing such a heartbreaking story." "So now you want me to take him in? He is gone and good riddance!" "The hard-hearted man you are trying to portray is not you, and you know it. Give your father a chance. He's learnt his lesson. All he wants is to be part of a family again. You can trust my instincts on this one." "Fine! Fine!  To please you and end this argument, we'll give him a roof for a few days. But don't expect a reconciliation overnight. Since he's left anyway, how are we going to find him?" "He's in the cottage. I told him to wait while I spoke to you. Kundai, we all make mistakes! I knew you would come round, or at least I hoped you would. Our firstborn is on its way and what an exciting time for his grandfather to turn up!"


(Content Warning: Fantasy Violence, Mild Language.) Lee Oswald awoke to the sound of a shrieking moan not more than ten yards from his bedroom window. Without contemplation, his feet hit the cold floor running, knowing that his cattle were in danger. Rushing through his cabin, Lee eyed his double-barrel shotgun hanging above his fireplace and grabbed it. The weapon was always loaded for occasions just like this, and for a brief moment, Lee was glad he had it. Wearing nothing but white long johns, he exploded outside, ready for combat. The cool air stabbed Lee’s skin like a thousand daggers erasing any grogginess leftover from his slumber. The thermal underwear provided no protection against the frosty March temperatures, but this was the least of his concerns. Something was attacking his cattle. This was Lee’s livelihood and the only reason he could afford to live on the outskirts of Franklin. Lee ran through the field, allowing the frozen grass to slash at his pajamas like a thousand thorny vines in a rose garden. He paid no mind to the minor inconvenience and continued his search. The moan came again. He was close now, very close. Lee halted with senses alert and listened. He knew this valley well, having spent most of his life here. When Lee was a young boy, his parents, Ben and Martha, moved to Pendleton County in hopes of striking it rich. It was the time of the big gold rush, and everyone had the gold fever . The Smokey Caverns just to the east of Franklin bore huge golden nuggets, which attracted hundreds of eager families and decent folk who only wanted to get ahead. Things were fine for a time, but then the greedy businessmen came to town with their slave laborers and stripped the mines dry. Most people moved away during this time. They had the good sense to know when to get out, but not everyone was so fortunate. Ben and Martha had spent everything they had relocating from Virginia to Colorado, so they had no choice but to stay. Over the next few years, the Oswald’s carved out a nice life by raising cattle and selling them to the local butcher in Franklin. They were not rich by any means, but they made the best of things. Money was scarce, but there was love. Always love. Lee grew up under the stern but loving guidance of his father and learned the ways of the land. His mother taught him everything else, like cooking and how to treat the ladies. Through the years, Lee became so adept at working the land that he knew every nook and cranny. If a cow wandered too far, Lee knew exactly where to find the estranged animal. Martha wished that her son had the same fortitude when it came to finding love. She desperately wanted to be a grandmother, but it was not meant to be. Through the years, Lee had to say goodbye to his parents when they fell ill and died from cancer. The loss was devastating, but Ben instilled in his only son an iron will to carry on, and so he did. Martha gave him the gift of compassion, and without hesitation, he took over the farm and endured. Time is our greatest enemy, and before Lee knew it, those old hands of time had caught up with him. Standing alert in the frozen field, Lee’s heart thundered in his chest, and his ancient bones ached from the sudden sprint. Arthritis bit his nerves like a feral cat gnawing on a half-dead rooster, which is what he felt like.

With steely eyes, Lee scanned the land looking for anything that might be amiss. His gaze fell upon a lonely hill where the soil had been disturbed. Contorting his face with determination, Lee gripped his shotgun and trudged forward. The hill was slick from the frozen precipitation, and Lee cursed his old bones. He made it to the top with small baby steps and peered down the slope. In the pale glow of moonlight, Lee saw one of his cows lying on its side. At first, he thought the animal was sleeping, but the sound of cracking bones and violent convulsions made him think otherwise. The lonely cow wasn’t sleeping. Something was eating it. Lee scrunched his lips and aimed the shotgun. The moonlight shining through the trees allowed a sliver of illumination, but still, shadows remained, and the predator bathed in the darkness. Lee wanted a better look before firing because he needed to know what this thing was for future reference. A good farmer needs to be aware of all threats.

Taking a step closer for a better look, the icy grass crunched beneath Lee’s feet, betraying his presence. The invading creature lifted its head, knowing it wasn’t alone anymore. Hideous yellow eyes stared at Lee, which was the only thing he could make out. “Come out here so I can get a better look at ya!” he yelled. The creature let loose a fierce growl and teetered into a stray strand of light. If by purpose Lee couldn’t tell, but he did manage to get a brief glimpse. The monster looked like a coyote but stood on two legs and had a massive humped back. Lee could see a steady stream of blood flowing from the demon’s maw, and in a panicked fright, he fired. Boom! The monster snarled and took off. It had an uneven gate and looked like a gorilla running through the field. Lee had never seen anything like it before and wasn’t sure if he had wounded the creature. With trembling hands, Lee reached up and wiped the sweat beads from his brow, which steamed in the moonlight. He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths to allow his heart rate to settle.

After a while, Lee returned to the warmth of his cabin, but going back to sleep was out of the question. Thoughts of the creature filled his mind, and he wondered if he was safe. He knew the world was changing, and change was the only constant thing in the universe. Life is about making choices and dealing with the consequences. The outcomes of those actions bring change whether we like it or not. The results can be good or bad, but we don’t know until we venture down that chosen path. It’s a paradoxical dance that Lee knew all too well. With this demon on the loose, Lee knew that nothing good could come from its existence. How could it? Evil only lives to serve its own intentions.

When the sun kissed the moon goodnight, Lee ventured back into the field and buried his cow. He wasn’t sure if he could even move the animal, but there wasn’t much left to move after the attack. Still, it took Lee all morning to lay the lifeless husk to rest. Lee stayed ever vigilant over the next few days, but he didn’t see the beast again. He scoured the land for any signs of the creature but found nothing out of the ordinary. He reckoned that maybe his shot did wound the monster, and perhaps it ran off to die somewhere like most wild animals tend to do. That night, Lee slept like a baby and awoke early to make breakfast. He had a craving for biscuits and gravy and thus gathered all the necessary ingredients. His joyous mood turned sour, however, after discovering that he was out of flour. Lee cursed his forgetfulness. In all the time thinking about the strange creature, he had neglected his weekly run to the grocery store in Franklin. Lee sucked in his aggression and released his pent-up rage with a deep breath. All the while, his stomach grumbled, wanting to digest food that wasn’t there yet. Dreading the thought, there was no getting around this dilemma. He had to go to town. Grabbing his satchel and some coin, Lee fetched his walking stick and set out for town. The winding road leading into Franklin was nothing to brag about, but the luscious scenery did bring a wry smile to Lee’s face. It’s funny the things you get used to. Most people go about their business and never take the time to look around. Those that do get accustomed to their surroundings and forget the beauty that nature brings.

The town of Franklin was only three miles from Lee’s house. Although he hated the pain that ravaged his bones, walking was a simple pleasure that he enjoyed. It was something that brought meaning to his lonely, isolated life. After all, a simple man could only have so many conversations with cattle before people called him crazy. Lee cursed himself once more for not listening to his mother. He should have married when he was younger. Approaching his destination, Lee cast the thought aside.

One might call Franklin a ghost town for all that remains. After the gold rush fallout, the only thing left in town were two rows of buildings that mirrored each other on opposite ends. The entrance sign read “ Welcome to Franklin ,” but the cruel hands of time had all but faded the carved words. The dry-rotted plank hung on two rusty nails, not knowing when to give up, just like the few unlucky souls who still remained.

Lee made his way to the general store without much fanfare and purchased the flour he needed and a few other choice items. His gaze fell upon a local bar called the Bowery on the way out. Lee rolled his tongue around in his mouth and salivated at the thought of having a drink. He was a sucker for a good whiskey. Strangling the thought into obscurity, Lee decided that ruining a sixteen-year dry spell wasn’t worth it. “Hello, Lee. It’s good to see you out and about!”

Lee turned to see Harold, the local butcher. He was a robust man that didn’t miss a single meal. His white blood-stained apron screamed for release and smelled like fresh meat. “How are you, Henry?” Lee greeted with a smirk. “I’m doing just fine,” Henry boasted. “You still fixing to sell me those cattle next month?” Lee cocked his head and wondered if he should tell Henry about the creature. He decided against it. Once you get a reputation for being crazy, it’s all over. “Yep, those cows are plump and juicy. They’ll be ready, minus one.” “Minus one?” Henry repeated, confused. “Yeah, I lost one recently from a wild coyote, but I shot that sum-bitch, and haven’t had any trouble since.”

“Good,” scoffed Henry. “I’ll be seeing you next month! Aside from killing cows, the only thing worth doing is playing cards, drinking beer, and screwing the local whore!”

Suddenly, a big buxom woman strode over and slapped Henry. “The local whore has a name, you big fat disgusting pig!” Henry’s face turned crimson. “S-sorry, Linda,” he stuttered. “I was only kidding!”

Lee grimaced and walked away. He had what he needed and didn’t see the point of wasting time.

A mile from town, a harsh wind brushed against Lee’s wrinkly skin as he reached up to scratch his white stubble. Out of nowhere, he heard a blaring moan that echoed through the valley. The creature!

Lee gripped his stick and cursed himself yet again for not bringing his shotgun. There was no way he could run all the way home; it was too far. He circled the area looking for any signs of danger, and when he came around, he saw a medium-sized shepherd dog with brown fur and a black nose. The animal had a nasty cut across its left eye and limped around. “Hello, there,” whispered Lee. “What’s happened to you, girl?”

The dog whimpered and nudged against Lee’s leg. Having his full attention, the animal flicked her head toward the Smokey Caverns as if to tell him something. “What is it, girl?” asked Lee. “Do you want to show me something?”

The dog moaned again, wanting Lee to follow her. He reached down and patted her head. Her fur was wet and sticky with fresh blood. Taking a deep breath, Lee uttered, “Well, I guess breakfast can wait.” He motioned for the wounded animal to move on and said, “Lead on, girl. Let’s see what this fuss is all about.”

Lee followed the injured dog with great intent and kept up reasonably well. After a few yards, Lee realized where they were. The animal had led him to the top of the Smokey Caverns. The view was breathtaking and showcased the entire valley. He only had a few moments to take in the majestic beauty before the dog led him to the edge of the cliff. There, Lee heard a faint squealing sound. He got on his knees for a better look, and his investigation yielded an unexpected result. Nestled on a narrow ledge just beneath him were four puppies crying for their mother. “Well… would you look at that!” Lee gasped.

Lee’s attention was diverted as he heard the momma dog growling fiercely. He turned and saw the hunched-backed coyote demon snarling at them with hungry intentions. The monster was even more grotesque in the daylight than Lee could have ever imagined. The beast had mangy black fur, long claws, razor-sharp canine fangs, and spikes protruding along its humped back. Most people would flee for their lives, but Lee was beyond running. Without his shotgun, he didn’t know how to fight back. At this fragile moment, Lee was able to piece together what had happened. Momma dog must have come across this demon making its way to Franklin and placed her pups down on that ledge for protection. Then, she fought the monster, who no doubt wanted to eat them as a light snack before moving on to town. Putting up a valiant effort, momma dog must have sustained those injuries and saw me walking along the road and rushed towards me for help.

Rising to his feet, Lee locked eyes with the creature and held his walking stick like a shotgun. He hoped the monster might be fooled by this farce from their earlier encounter. “Runaway, you bastard, before I shoot you again!”

The creature wasn’t afraid. It was fear itself. Leaning back, the demon sprang forward, unleashing its claws for a deadly strike. Before the beast could land a killing blow, momma dog pounced first and knocked Lee out of the way. Lee flopped on the ground and felt every bone in his body crack. The bag of flour in his satchel busted open and blew in the air like a fine mist. The demon now stood at the edge of the cliff and had found its prey. The pups were howling for their momma to save them. Hearing her babies cry for help gave momma dog another burst of energy. She raced away from Lee and bit the hunched-backed monster in the hind heel just as it reached down for the pups. The monster withdrew its claws and howled towards the horizon. Momma dog would not let up. She sank her teeth deeper into the creature's flesh, causing dark ichor to spew forth. Lee grabbed a handful of flour and rose to his feet. He knew he had to do something before the monster could regain momentum. He limped over to the beast and roared, “Breakfast is ready!”

He threw the flour into the demon’s face clouding its vision. The beast was angry, and it slashed the air in a desperate attempt to kill the old man, but Lee was able to keep his distance. Lee reached down and grabbed his walking stick. “Hold it steady, girl!”

Momma dog clenched her jaw tighter and pulled the beast to the edge of the cliff. Lee held his stick like a spear and stabbed at the beast, throwing it off balance. “Let go of it now, girl!” As momma dog released her jaw, Lee put every ounce of energy into his last thrust and jabbed the monster off the cliff. The beast fell with a haunting scream that would no doubt disturb Lee’s sleep for the rest of his days. With the monster dead, Lee reached down and gently pulled each pup to safety. He brought them home with him and discovered a new bond that he had never felt before. Together, they became a family, and as they looked on at a new horizon, they realized that where the shepherd dogs lie is indeed a great place to live.

The End Daniel R. Hayes


Thadumn! Prakash swayed and steadied himself as the elevator suddenly came to a stop and he was plunged in darkness. “What the hell? Of all the days, this had to happen today, isn’t it?”, he muttered to no one in particular. He waited for a few seconds. It must be a power outage. But surely they must have backup power in such a fancy office building? It won’t be long before he started moving again. He just wished they got the damn power back up on soon. What a frustrating morning it had been. Just like a set of toppling dominoes, one disaster led to a series of disasters and he was now running late for his first day at work. And now the icing on the cake, a fucking power outage in the elevator! Could it get worse? How long had it been? He took out his phone to check the time and realised it hadn’t even been a minute. Why did it feel like it had been hours already? He switched on the torch on the phone for some light. They should have one of those emergency lights, he thought angrily. “No signal..great. Why the fuck isn’t this stupid elevator working?” Great, he was talking to himself now.

He checked the time on the phone again. Strange. Was his phone broken? It didn’t make any sense. The time was exactly the same as he had checked a while back. His phone showed 9:00 AM. Huh! Simply great. He pressed the button with the bell icon on it. Wasn’t that what it was supposed to be for? An alarm in case of an emergency? He hoped someone would realise he’s stuck here. He couldn’t hear the alarm make any sound. He couldn’t pray either. He didn’t believe in prayers. He knew he had a very low supply of hope as well.

He started counting in his mind.

One, two, three, four, five, six….fifty six, fifty seven, fifty eight, fifty nine, sixty.

One minute. One, two, three, four, five, six…fifty nine, sixty. Two minutes. Three minutes. Five minutes. His mind started to scramble. Had he counted up to four minutes or five? Argh, he wished he had a pen and a paper with him. He needed to keep himself distracted. None of his apps were working on the phone and he needed to save the battery for the torch light. He forgot when he stopped counting the minutes. Why wasn’t anyone coming for him? What was wrong with this elevator? Hadn’t he pressed the alarm button a long time back? He started pacing. A step forward, a step backward. A step to the right, a step to the left. He almost laughed. He was dancing with himself inside a fucking elevator. He hated dancing. He was bored now. How long had it been? He could really do with some water. And he wanted to desperately take a piss too. His palms were clammy and he could feel a bead of perspiration cover his upper lip, his nose and his forehead. He wasn’t dressed for an overheated stay inside an unlit elevator. He was dressed in a suit and a tie, dressed for this first day at work in this shiny new office. That was when his phone decided to die on him. His only friend, his only saviour. And he was again thrown into the darkness of an abyss. He felt like he had been swallowed by a black hole and no one would even realise, since he was certain no one would miss him. “ Beware of new beginnings. They will bring known horrors and darkness ”… Why did he suddenly remember this? It was the silly old fortune teller squatting on the road side, last week. He had just bent down to give her money, when she had grasped his hand and looked strangely at him, staring at him and yet not looking into his eyes, when she uttered those words. He had been shaken that day. Not with what she said, but because the silly old hag had touched him. It had made his skin crawl. He had washed his hands at least twice after that incident. Ugh! He needed to get his control back. He started to shout. HELP!! IS THERE ANYONE THERE?? I”M STUCK INSIDE THIS ELEVATOR! HELP ME PLEASE!! Nothing. There was an absolute silence, which was eerie since he realised he wasn’t able to hear the sound of his breathing as well.

He tried to kick at the door. He tried to pry the doors open. The maddening doors wouldn’t budge an inch. “Oh fuck this! Is this someone’s idea of a sick joke? ARE YOU ENJOYING THIS??”, Prakash was losing it now. He was close to breaking down and crying like a little baby. He hadn’t felt this scared, this suffocated, since he had moved out of his home two years back.

He had worked hard with his therapist in the last two years, to fight his demons. But the nightmares had never fully disappeared.

It hadn’t been his fault. He shook his head as the nightmares surfaced again. He thought of her suddenly. But that was a big mistake. He felt trapped, and he felt her presence, with him, in this dark, quiet elevator. The hair on his arms rose with an instinct that said, RUN! But there was no where to run. He clenched his fingers tightly into two fists to stop them from shaking. Then he walked backwards, two steps back until he bumped into the wall of the elevator. He started to slink down slowly, until his whole body was contorted like that of a child’s. Crouching. With his arms covered around his knees. And his head buried deep inside his knees. “Please..I’m sorry. Please Annie. You know there was nothing I could’ve done that night!”, he pleaded to no one. The nightmare started to flash before his eyes. The booze filled party at his place. The game of truth and dare. The new girl Annie, who had turned up and become the latest target of their game that night. They were a harmless bunch, but it was always fun to trouble a newbie at work. They’d apologise and make up later anyway. It was all in the name of fun and team building. Flashes of a dare that they made Annie do. To hide in the closet until they told her to come out. Flashes of more drinks. They had forgotten her.

Until Prakash found her white, pale body, and her wide open eyes, staring back at him, before her lifeless body toppled out of the closet, when he opened it the next morning. Her death had been marked as an accident. A panic attack due to too much alcohol in her system and being locked inside a closed space. She had locked herself in by mistake and they had forgotten about her. Prakash had had nightmares of her face, staring at him, since that night. For two years. Until he decided to move out of the house and start a new job and see a therapist. Oh gosh, the images were killing him now. He was so scared. He was sure if he opened his eyes, he would see her face. He didn’t dare to open his eyes. He could feel her arms circling him in an embrace and he shuddered with revulsion. He could really do with a smoke right now.

“Oh! I can use my lighter to get some light! Or light a smoke to start the fire alarm!”, his brained suddenly lit up at the prospect of escape from this cage. He unfolded himself and felt his pockets for his cigarettes and his lighter. He took the cigarette out with shaking fingers and put it between his lips. It quivered there, in anticipation. He took out his lighter, rubbed his thumb on the spark ignitor and clicked. And right then, her pale white face, with eyes white as milk, flashed in front of his eyes. The last thing he knew, was his scream.


“Hey honey, can you drive for a bit?” James touched Liz’s knee and she jerked to attention. “I have a bit of a headache coming on and I’d like to close my eyes.” “Of course.” Liz closed the laptop she had perched on her crossed legs as he pulled the blue Chevy Trax into the gas station just outside Childress, Texas. She was so focused on the story she was typing that she didn’t hear his request until she felt this hand on her knee. He stepped out and moved to the back of the Trax to refuel while 		Liz headed for the bathroom. She returned with a bag of Skittles dangling from her right hand. She opened the driver’s side door, climbed into the wide-open space, and began to readjust the seat and mirrors to fit her 5-foot frame. Liz set the Skittles in the center console as the buzz of the seat sliding forward vibrated the stirring wheel. She released the telescoping mechanism and pushed the stirring wheel to the dashboard. She triple-checked the mirrors one last time before she buckled her seatbelt and restarted the engine. James reclined in the passenger seat beside her, head back and eyes closed. She pulled back onto the main road running between towns and headed north toward Childress. With her favorite holiday playlist on the radio, she tapped the stirring wheel and sang along to all her favorite tunes alternating handfuls of Skittles between songs. She savored the sweet chewy delicacy, and it helped keep her awake for the long journey ahead. James shifted in his seat, so she lowered the radio volume. Several minutes passed. “Thank God” by Kane & Katelyn Brown played on the radio. She couldn’t help but sing along. Playing air guitar on the stirring wheel, she noticed the Childress city limit sign. She didn’t get more than the first verse out when she breathed in, and a piece of Skittles lodged in her throat. James sat up in his chair. His eyes locked on her. Several seconds passed, “Are you breathing?” She raised her right hand as tears streamed down her face. She shook her head and pulled the Trax into the middle turn lane, never making a sound. His stare bore into her soul. “Are you okay?” His voice was on the edge of panic. She shook her head. Still no sound. He pointed to the left. She followed his finger and saw a gas station and no oncoming traffic. She pulled into the station and placed the Chevy Trax into park next to pump#4. “Thank God, Thank God, Thank God for giving me you. “Kane continued his ballad to his beautiful wife. Liz pressed the power button to off. “Are you breathing, do I need to perform the Heimlich?” Panic was pushing James to the edge of his seat. Tears clouded her vision and snot fell like snow off the roof. Thud. Thud . Splashing off the stirring wheel and onto her jeans. Liz remained calm. She couldn’t breathe. In or out. Nothing. No sound. “Is this it, God? Am I coming home? It this how You’re taking me, death by Skittles?” She glanced in James’s direction and could see his lips were moving but she could no longer hear sound. She tightened her eyelids and felt more tears escape down her cheeks. They hit her jeans like water balloons dropped from the Empire State Building. Splat. Kerplat . Everything was heightened and done in slow motion. 2 seconds passed. She could feel her heartbeat. Boom Boom It’s so quite here, God. 4 seconds passed . Boom Boom How peaceful…this feeling. Her thoughts trailed off before she could finish her thought. Boom Boom. 6 seconds passed. She looked at James, still moving his lips without sound. Boom Boom . She had a perspective shift. Was she moving away from James? 8 seconds. More tears streamed down her face. God, will James be okay? She glanced at the clock on the dashboard. 10 seconds passed. Was the dash getting further away? Boom Boom She closed her eyes again. More tears crashed to her jeans. More snot dripped to her lap.

Boom Boom . She saw movement on her right and watched James lift his right hand. She squinted through the tears and noticed 12 seconds passed. Boom Boom . Liz moved her hands to the stirring wheel fearing she may lose consciousness. 14 seconds passed. 16 seconds passed. Everything was moving fast forward. A blur of memories whizzed past her head. She placed her forehead on the top of the stirring wheel. Before James reached for the door handle, Liz wheezed.  	He froze. She wheezed again. This time Panic threatened Liz. She clasped the stirring wheel and tried to breathe again. Like breathing through a flattened straw, she took shallow breaths until the minute Skittles piece finally freed its death grip on her windpipe. James slowly released the breath he didn’t even know he was holding and leaned back in his seat. His head pounded even more than before they switched seats. Adrenaline pumped through his veins. He massaged his temples, eyes closed. Cough. Wheeze. Cough. Wheeze. Liz couldn’t speak, but the sheer fact she was making noise was music to his ears. Cough. Wheeze. Cough. Wheeze. “Thank God, I didn’t lose you.” Cough. Wheeze. Cough. Wheeze. Thank God . Liz thought about those words between coughs and wheezes. “Thank God” was playing on the radio and the story those lyrics tell. She reached over and grabbed James’s hand. She shook her head in agreement with his spoken words. Cough. Wheeze. Cough. Wheeze… …Several miles down the road, they pulled up behind a line of cars on Interstate 40. Debris decorated the highway for several 100 feet. They saw chrome fenders, red plastic taillights, glass, and tire shreds scattered down the road. Over an hour they crawled along Interstate 40 at a snail’s pace. Liz looked up to heaven as they passed the wreckage, “Thank God.” She whispered as a tiny tear ran down her cheek. James reached for her hand, “Thank God.” They finished their journey in silence.


Fred, at twenty, is the owner/operator of a successful lawn care service. He started this service as a means to make extra money during the summer when he turned fifteen. He would go around his neighborhood asking the people if they would like him to mow their lawns, rake their leaves or trim hedges and bushes. He soon developed a loyal following. But there was one house at the very far end of the lane that he was told to stay away from. All the neighbors claimed that a cantankerous, witch like, old lady lived there. And so, Fred avoided going over there that summer. One day, the next summer, Fred observed a woman, who looked to be only in her sixties, mowing her grass. In all good conscience, Fred could not bear to see her mowing her own lawn when he was more than capable of fitting her into his schedule. One morning he walked down to the end of the lane, and he knocked on her door. It took a moment, but the door finally opened, and a much older woman appeared. “Good morning maam,” Fred said with a smile. “My name is Fred and I do yard work; lawn mowing, leaf raking, hedge trimming and lawn thatching. I was wondering if I might mow your lawn for you.” “Oh!” she exclaimed. “No. I have my daughter come over and mow my lawn for me. But thank you for asking young man.” “Okay then. Here is my phone number. Please don’t hesitate to call me if the mowing and yard work gets to be too much for her,” Fred stated as he handed her a business card. “Thank you young man,” she said. “You’re welcome. Have a nice day,” he said and then he turned to walk away. “Yes. You have a nice day also,” she said before Fred walked off. A few weeks later Fred’s phone rang. It was the daughter of the old woman down the lane. She asked if he was the young man that did the lawn mowing. Fred explained his services to her, and she hired him to mow her mother's lawn from now on. It would seem that as soon as she found out about Fred’s service, it suddenly became too much of a chore for her to mow her mother's lawn now. Whenever Fred would mow the old woman’s lawn, she would watch from the window. One day, after a month or so, the woman was waiting out by her front door when Fred finished mowing. “Young man! Do you have time to come inside?” she asked. “Yes I do maam,” Fred replied. He put his equipment away, cleaned up his hands and headed for the front door. The woman showed him in. She led him to the kitchen where she had a pitcher of lemonade and a couple of glasses. She poured him a glass and then she poured a glass for herself. They sat down and chatted while they drank their lemonade. “How old are you young man?” she asked. “Sixteen now maam,” he replied. “The name is Almae Johnson. You don’t have to be so formal,” she offered. “Thank you. My full name is, Frederick Williams,” he stated. “But my friends and family call me Fred or Freddy. You can call me Fred if you like.” “Yes,” she agreed. “Mary, that’s my daughter's name. She told me that she was going to call you up when she found your number. I guess she can’t be bothered to come over and visit anymore. That’s the only reason I had her mowing my lawn. So that she would at least come over once a week.” “Well… I’m sorry, and I wasn’t aware of that. I certainly didn’t mean to cause any trouble between you and your family,” Fred stated. “You had no way of knowing. I just have to call her now, if I want to talk,” Almae stated and then took a sip of her lemonade. “If you don’t mind maam. I can visit when I’m through with your lawn. I don’t mind it at all,” Fred offered. “Why would a young one such as yourself want to be bothered by an old lady?” she asked. “And please, call me Almae. I insist.” “Thank you. It’s no bother, really,” he explained. “I used to visit with my grandparents every day until they passed away a few years ago.” “I’m sorry to hear that,” she said. “Were you close?” “Thank you. Yeah, we were close,” he said. “They used to tell me stories of how it was back in the day. I loved listening to their stories. I miss it, and them.” “Yes. Well, I have lots of stories to tell as well,” she offered. “But I’ve kept you long enough. Thank you for accepting my daughters request for your services. I hope you can find the time to chat with me again.” “I would like that,” Fred said as he downed the last swallow of his lemonade. Almae walked him out and then he thanked her once again and then got in his truck and drove off. Within a couple of years, Fred’s business grew. He had about four employees now, but he always made it his business to go over and do Almae’s yard work. She would often have home-baked cookies, pies, cakes, and even a few times, she had a full meal ready when he was finished with her lawn. Almae thought of Fred as a grandson and Fred considered her as a grandma figure. All-in-all, they had found a friendship. Then one afternoon Fred saw a police car drive down the lane and stop in front of Almae’s house. He ran down the lane and then an ambulance drove up. He asked what was going on after he explained his presence. The police officer told him that Almae had a stroke. He asked him if her daughter had been notified and he said that they would take care of all of that. As they were wheeling Almae up to the ambulance, she told the police officer to give Fred the keys to her house. After the ambulance left, Fred went inside and started putting things in order. He made sure that the stove was off, the coffee pot was unplugged and drained. He checked all of the lights and only left one on in the living room and kitchen. When Almae was released from the hospital, she was taken to an assisted living facility. She passed away six months later. A few weeks later Fred received a letter from an attorney directing him to come down to his office. When he got there, Almae’s daughter, Mary was there. The lawyer had Almae’s will and he read it to them. It would seem that she had left the house and most of her belongings to him and a few thousand dollars to her daughter, Mary. After Mary left the office, Fred was given a letter from Almae. He sat down and read it. Dear Fred: You must be wondering what’s going on by now. I have come to enjoy it when you would rake my leaves and mow the grass. Well, as a token of my appreciation, I’m leaving everything to you. This old house, the cars in the garage, the bank accounts and all of my other possessions as well. You have been a most wonderful friend over the past few years, and I wanted to thank you. I know that you will take good care of this old house and someday make it a home. Love, Almae. Fred was a bit taken aback and it took several minutes for him to realize what was happening. The lawyer assured him that everything was proper and legal. Then he had Fred sign some paperwork and it was made official. When all of the paperwork was completed, Fred went back home. He allowed Mary to come to the house and pick up any of her mom’s personal items that she would like. After that, the old house belonged to Fred now.


The elegant black hearse pulled slowly away from 53 Bellamy Street, leading the cortege comprised of just it and one other car. Hetty’s ecofriendly, bamboo coffin, covered with garlands of cornflowers, irises and buddleia in beautiful hues ranging from sky to midnight, could be seen from the back of the second vehicle. “Do you think we’re doing this right?” Stella gently placed one hand on the shoulder of her daughter’s smart, black suit and the other on the cream leather of the seat. “I don’t know Mum, but it’s the best we could manage,” said Claire. “We don’t know much about Hetty. Not much that’s true anyway. Apart from her wonderful clothes.” “I know it’s wrong to speak ill of the dead, but she did tell some tales!” Stella stifled a giggle. “You’re right about her dress sense though, those periwinkle stilettoes were something, and the suede cobalt slip-ons. She had a silk scarf to match every outfit as well.” “Tales is the word! Remember when she said she’d been in the service of the Dutch Royal Family? The Royal House of the Netherlands, she used to say.” “Ironic that they had a Princess of Orange when Hetty always wore blue.” Stella played down her grin by gazing out of the car window and focussing on the houses they were passing. "I'll never forget that peacock jacket of hers, iridescent like real feathers, absolutely stunning." “I still don’t understand why she chose us to oversee all of this.” Claire fiddled with the St. Christopher that sat just above the open top button of her grey blouse. “But then I suppose she didn’t have anyone else.” “No, she didn’t even talk to anyone on the street, apart from us. I did knock on all the doors you know, to give them the details, but I don’t think anyone'll be there.” Stella ran a finger along the square neckline of her black shift dress and straightened her pearls. “I suspect most of them just didn't take to her tall tales.” “Mum, do you remember when Hetty said she once won a wildlife photography competition at the Grand Canyon? She said she hid in a bush waiting for porcupines, but skunks came instead and she only managed to snap a picture of them spraying directly at her!” Claire sniggered. “Oh yes! She said she stank for days and spent the prize money on scented soap and new clothes!” Stella pinched her nose with two fingers and raised her eyebrows before letting out a loud guffaw. “Mum!” Claire shot a glance towards the back of the driver’s head, his neatly cut hair mostly hidden under a black top hat. “A little decorum!” But she was giggling, too. “Must be hard to disguise yourself in the desert when you’re clothed from head to foot in sapphire and navy. Sorry. Not sorry.” The two women covered their mouths with their hands, and each stared out of their own window until they had regained some composure. They were reaching the edge of town, and things were looking a little more rural. “Anyway,” said Stella, “one of us is going to have to give a eulogy and we still don’t have any idea where to start. What can we honestly say about the old dear?” “Well, we can say that she always wore blue,” said Claire. “We know that much is true. And that she was very generous. She’s left us practically everything she owned, I still can’t quite get over that. Who leaves almost their entire estate to people they've only known six months?” “She was very kind; I’ll give her that.” Stella checked her reflection in the rear-view mirror. I'm sure her clothes and shoes won't fit us, she was tiny! The charity shops will have a field day! But those gorgeous scarves we will have to keep." There were a few moments of silence. Stella wiped a tear from her eye. “I don’t suppose it'll matter too much what we say." Stella sighed. "I doubt there'll be anyone there but us. It’s a shame. No one replied to my message in the local paper and I didn’t get a single response to the cards I sent out to those people in her address book.” “We tried, Mum. It was all we could do. Maybe if Hetty had told us anything about her real life, we might have stood more of a chance.” “Her real life. I wonder what happened to the identical quadruplet boys she said she had out of wedlock with the 1960’s film star she refused to name.” “Well, the 60’s was all about free love. Maybe we can give her the benefit of the doubt on that one. Didn't she say they all joined the army?" “Quadruplets?! I don’t think so, Claire. As much as I want to believe she had a loving family at some point, I didn’t see one visitor go to her house since she moved in opposite us. Let alone four .” Stella fiddled with her hat. “How about that time she came over to borrow a casserole dish to put a baby parrot in that she said she’d found abandoned in the park?” “That was so weird. Didn’t you give her some hay from our rabbits, too, to make it comfy? You did indulge her when I think about it. Like with the trifle.” Claire smirked. “Oh my, the trifle! I'd almost forgotten that she woke me up at 2am demanding red fruit to put in a trifle for the vicar’s wife. She swore blind she made a trifle every week, but had just forgotten that day. I’m not sure she even went to church you know. Nonsense.” “Yeah, but you still gave her a punnet of strawberries and a bag of cherries.” “Well, that was all I had!” “Not really the point I’m making, Mum.” “So what about this eulogy?” asked Stella. “We have to do better than ‘she always wore blue.’” “I’m not really sure we can do any better than that. If we told any of these silly stories it'd be like making fun of her. And as much as they have amused us over the last six months, that just feels wrong as part of a church service in her memory.” “I suppose you’re right. It’s so sad we never got to know who she really was. And now we're the only people around to say goodbye.” The hearse rounded a corner off the hedge-trimmed lane and briefly disappeared out of sight. “I think we’re here,” said Claire. “I’ll do the talking if you like. I can say some fairly generic, kind words that we can feel ok about.” “That would be good of you, if you don’t mind.” The funeral car followed the hearse round the bend and pulled into the almost full carpark opposite St. Leonard’s church, as the hearse stopped directly in front of the gothic building. Claire and Stella sat in the back of their car, wide eyed and speechless. Four identical men in full military dress were waiting as the hearse pulled up. They greeted the funeral director and exchanged a few words with him. He pointed to the car that Claire and Stella sat in, and the four men nodded and started to walk towards them. “I don’t believe it! Look at all these cars. Are we at the wrong place?” Stella wound down her window and stared at all the people milling about in the carpark and hanging around the entrance to the church. “I, I don’t think so Mum,” said Claire. “Look, that guy has a parrot and there's a very posh woman over there with a bodyguard!” “And there’s Reverend Gordon and his wife! I’ll be damned if she isn’t holding a trifle! Has that guy got cowboy boots on? And a camera?” At that moment both back doors of the funeral car opened, and Stella and Claire were each greeted by a tall man in spotless military uniform. “Claire and Stella Green?” said a deep, silky voice. “Our mother told us so much about you. It really is an honour.”


Jack slowly meandered out of his kitchen, barely raising his feet off the ground as he moved. Coffee in one hand, and running the fingers of his other across the granite-top island still sparkling from his cleaning lady’s recent visit, he sulked towards the nearly panoramic wall of glass separating him from the rest of the world. The planet’s slow rotation had just begun to reveal the center of the solar system, illuminating Jack’s view of the just-waking metropolis far below. How appropriate he mused, as he looked out over the city that never sleeps, that he had been up for hours, unable to find solace in any slumber of his own.

He took a deep sip of his coffee and winced. Freshly imported from Tanzania and spiked with a blood-pressure threatening dose of sugar, his coffee tasted nothing but bitter as he gulped it down. He stared, watching still dim streaks of light mix with tropospheric wisps of condensed vapor, which culminated in a golden white and periwinkle-tinged blanketing over the horizon. But the beauty was entirely lost on Jack. Such a powerful scene tends to lose its magic after seemingly endless repetition; at least it had for him.

Jack set his coffee mug down on the mahogany table to his right then, exhaling a shallow sigh, slumped into a nearby lounge chair, kicking his feet up on its matching ottoman. He took a moment to think about his schedule, realizing that as usual he had little more than a vague sense of his day planned out. Jack closed his eyes, exhausted though his day had not yet started, confused though nothing particularly puzzled him, and conflicted without a clear reason for his latent sense of distress. Exhaustion, confusion, conflict; other than the unceasing everyday numbness that he couldn’t shake as of late, these feelings were most familiar to him. Mindlessly, he stood then paced to the center of his two-story, penthouse apartment’s open concept living room to entertain his mind with anything but the dispirited thoughts that normally occupied it. The walls that his dwelling did accommodate collectively housed an impressive collection of high-bidded-for artwork. Warhol, Rembrandt, Basquiat; Jack curated their pieces in his home not so much out of reverence for their talent and creativity, or even for the quality of the art itself, but as a shrine to his own opulence and exhibitionism. Of the lavish frames in Jack’s apartment, few bordered pictures that actually elicited any joy from him. Instead of photographs of loved ones or sentimental snapshots of nostalgic scenes from his earlier days, Jack’s walls displayed only the distorted and abstract expressions dreamt up and rendered by overpriced visionaries. Were there so few people, places, or points in time personal and dear to him that he had nothing to flaunt but the work of strangers ? Thoughts of his past, laced with dull nostalgia for a time before receipt of his cash windfall, tugged at his heart. A faint tickle from his pocket accompanied by a dull humming sound alerted Jack that someone wanted his attention. Reflexively, he pulled out his cell phone and woke its display with a touch of his thumb. Notifications of unread text messages and missed calls assumed the entirety of his device’s screen. Apparently a few people wanted his attention. After a quick scroll through the names responsible for his phone’s list of alerts, he discerned that he was uninterested in responding to any of them. “What do these people want anyway?” Jack said aloud, his words echoing through the expanse of his home. But he already knew the answer. His greasy siblings and emotionally bankrupt parents were constantly pestering him for handouts, and his so-called friends were even worse. The vapid egotists that comprised the entourage of company that Jack kept were only interested in money; money and status. Then again, so was Jack to a large extent. The irrepressible repulsion he felt for his fake friends that nagged him was likely an outward projection of his own self-loathing, an idea he pushed from his mind. He didn’t want to think about it. Jack didn’t want to think about anything.

A sudden wave of claustrophobia swept over him, paired with an even stronger sense of isolation. How could it be that in an apartment as cavernous as his, and in the most densely populated city in the country, Jack could feel so simultaneously confined and alone? He needed to get outside.

Once out of his building, Jack decided that he would go for a drive. He unconvincingly believed that a ride with the top down would help him to regain some sense of peace. So after a brisk, two-block walk and a quick interaction with his garage’s valet, he comfortably sat himself behind the wheel of the convertible BMW that he recently bought as a present to himself.

He pulled onto Park Avenue and drove north to East 96th Street, barely hitting a single red light before turning onto FDR Drive. Upon reaching the highway he shifted gears, effortlessly navigating the surprisingly empty, gently curving track of pavement. There was no thrill when Jack accelerated though, nor any hope of him actually clearing his mind. In theory, Jack had everything he ever wanted or at least enough money to buy whatever other objects he thought missing from his life. But the materials he possessed, Jack knew, truly possessed him. The money he came into provided him with nothing but an insatiable appetite for more and a greed that poisoned him to the core. He understood that he was sick. His soul was sick, ailing from desires, the fulfillment of which brought him no happiness, no fulfillment, no love; just a burning emptiness, a bottomless pit of which he wasn’t sure how to climb out. Worse still, Jack’s life, abundant in relationships soured by the curse of his affluence, lacked any meaningful support system. Jack had no one. He sped up, ignoring the road’s dotted lines, then shut his eyes tight, focused only on the car’s roaring engine and the deafening wind howling by his tingling, exposed ears. Releasing the steering wheel from his whitened knuckles, he held the car’s pedal flush with the floor and shut out his surroundings, disconnecting entirely from the world… Then, “SNAP!” A sudden reverberating sound jolted Jack back to his senses. *** Jack startlingly opened his eyes, but to a different scene; a different world entirely: the real world. To him, it was one without riches or expensive belongings; one with an affectionate family and great friends; one with happiness, with love. Jack was once again present, awakened from the chilling fantasy of his imagined possible future. “Sir?” A voice accompanied by snapping fingers shook him from his daze. “Sir, you said you had something for me.” Jack refocused his eyes, pupils constricting in the light of his rediscovered reality. He looked directly ahead at the agitated man behind the counter of the corner store that he entered just a minute ago.

“I did,” Jack said, almost whispering. “I did have something,” but not really for you, he thought; it was just an expression.

“Look man, there’s a line forming behind you. Can we keep it moving?”

Jack gave him a quizzical look, understanding of the cashier’s demand, but confused by his own recent revelation and how to interpret it, let alone how to act on it.

“Come on, you know this is a store right? We sell shit. What is it you think you got for me ?”

Jack finally answered to the cashier’s impatient delight, but also to the man’s disappointment in that he simply responded, “never mind.”

The cashier’s eyes bulged from underneath slightly raised eyebrows.

“My bad,” Jack continued. “I was…just kidding.”

“Whatever,” the cashier followed-up, not entirely surprised by the strangeness of the interaction, having seen his fair share of oddities since beginning his job at the NYC bodega. “If you aren’t going to buy anything, how about you step aside for the next guy, hmm?” “Yeah, that’s…I mean, you’re right. I don’t…”

“I don't want to buy anything," Jack finally resolved, assuredly emphasizing the final word of his proclamation as he moved out of line. Jack left the store, finding unexpected pleasure in the deep breath of rank city air that he took in while stepping onto the sidewalk. He looked down at the slip of paper that he had been holding for the past few minutes and, without giving much thought, dropped it into the styrofoam cup beside a man that sat in tattered clothes, asking for change.

“What’s this?” The man inquired, straightening up slightly.

“It’s last night’s winning Mega Millions lotto ticket,” Jack explained matter-of-factly. “You’re probably going to want to cash that.”

The man’s confused expression turned to one of literal disbelief. He was speechless though rightfully skeptical. But before the man could find any words for the gesture, Jack had already left.

“Just be careful what you wish for,” Jack thought, casually smirking as he walked off.


"Welcome home." "Who are you?" “I am Deus.” “Where are we?” “In your mind, as you can see.” “Of course, of course… I only see a semi-dark corridor dotted with doors on the sides. Did you happen to kidnap me and take me to some kind of abandoned motel or something?” "No. This is really your mind. And I did not bring you here. You got into it on your own.” “Of course! Get me out of here, you freak!” "I cannot. I am sorry." “What do you mean “I am sorry”?! Get a move on!” “I tell you again, I cannot. You will have to escape from this prison with your own strength." “What do you mean by “prison”? “I mean you are going to stay here until you get the key.” ""Key"?! What are you babbling about?! Are you delusional?! And then, what the hell is this “key”?!” “Calm down. The key I am talking about is hidden behind one of the doors you see. You will have to open them one by one until you find it.” “Are you crazy?! Have you seen how many there are?!” “It is normal that there are so many, since each of them holds a fragment of your memory.” “And do you really expect me to indulge this delirium of yours and start looking for a phantom key hidden who knows where? Come on man, get it over with and take me home. The game is good as long as it doesn't last long.” “This is not a game.” “And what would it be about, then?” “Of self-awareness.” “Listen, dear Deus, I…” “During your life you have made a fatal mistake of which you are unaware. Behind one of these doors lies that mistake.” ““A fatal mistake,” you say? And what would it be?” “I cannot tell you. You will have to find out for yourself.” "I understand. But you are totally off the mark if you actually think I am going to play your game.” “I tell you again, this is not a game. You will not be free until you find the key.” “I do not care about your stupid key. Just take me home!” "I cannot. Believe me, if I could, I would. But I cannot." "Why not?!" “Because I do not have the ability. I can only accompany you on this journey of yours.” “And do you really expect me to believe you?” "Yes. I am totally sincere.” “Do you assure me that finding this key will truly end this torture?” “Totally.” “…And that is fine.” “Start opening the doors of your mind.” “You do it for me.” “And why would I?” “I feel like it is better this way.” “And so be it. I am preparing to open the first door. Observe.” “But that…” "Yes. The child you see is really you. It is winter, it is snowing heavily and you are playing snowballs with your friends.” “What a beautiful memory. I highly doubt the key I am looking for is here. Let's move on. Choose and open another door.” "Ok. Here you are." “… This is a decidedly less pleasant memory. I remember my middle school years well. Bullies tormented me and I didn't know how to stand up for myself. At the time I was extremely introverted and incapable of socializing. However, I do not think the key I am looking for is found here. Let's move on to the next memory.” “As you wish. I am opening the third door.” “Oh, first love! How to forget it? We had so much fun together and… But, wait, why have I started yelling at her…? Well, I have just made her cry. What have I done? I bet I got nervous for nothing, as usual. One of my usual tantrums, I guess. The usual imbecile who could not control himself.

Deus, the key I am looking for could be here." “What makes you think that?” “This scene reminded me of how volatile I was as a teenager. Maybe I made some big mess in that period.” “I do not think the key is here.” “What do you think?” “It is just a feeling.” “Deus.” "Tell me." “What do you know about me?” "I know everything." “Why did you lie to me?! You even had the nerve to say that you were “totally sincere”!” "I know. And I apologize." “I will tell you again. Why did you lie to me?” “To prevent you from finding the key and going back.” “Are you telling me that you intended to make me your prisoner forever?” “No, I did not mean to do that.” “What did you intend to do then?” “Make you play forever.” “What are you saying?! Are you crazy?!” “Probably yes.” “Tell me immediately where this damned key is!” “Behind the fifth door on the right.” “Are you lying now too?” "No. I swear.” "Agree. Let's see a little. … I do not see anything strange here. A memory regarding an episode that happened recently, nothing more. I am in the company of... of... Oh, no! No! No!!" “Here is the key.” “Damn, no! Maybe there is still time to fix things." “…No, it is too late.” “Deus!!” “Stay here with me forever. Now you have no reason to go back." “Deus… Deus… You are just selfish.” "I know.” “Why doing this to me? What did I do to deserve this?!” “You did nothing wrong. It is just my fault. I am an unforgivable sinner.” ““Unforgivable sinner”? What do you mean by that?” “Oh, do not pay attention to it. You would not understand.” “How can you be so sure about it? You are part of me, of my mind!” “Nobody can totally comprehend their mind…” “Then open up with me. Let me understand. Let’s use this key properly. Let’s use it. Together.” “After all I did… Unlike me, you are not selfish at all. “I know.” “Do you… do you really want to help me? Do you really want to stay here with me?” “I do.”


The first bang goes off around 3 in the morning. Everyone’s quiet conversations come to a halt as we all sit tight, waiting. The second goes off at around 3:10. The silence hangs heavy over us like a weight on our already hunched shoulders. Wide eyes catch the light from the dim lamp that somebody brought, showing me the terror in their mind as easily as I can see the inside of a store by looking through the window. The bangs come every so often moving further into the distance as time goes on. As they do hesitant conversations start up again, stopping every so often whenever a bang is heard. I look around the room, the heavy guns in the corner sending shivers down my spine. To my right is a mother clutching her young baby in bruised arms. My mouth dries, realizing that that child will never have a childhood like mine. It will never feel the soft grass below its feet as it's running into the park to get to the swings first, it will never be able to play games with its friends in the streets or hear the approaching music of the ice cream van as it pleads with its mother to buy some. I look down at my hands, not able to think about it any longer.

Just 2 days ago, before everything changed, I was going to the mall with Taylor and Beck, complaining that Jacob hadn’t replied to my text. “You’re too good for him,” Taylor had said. I scoffed as Beck put an arm around my shoulder, lightly nudging me into Sephora. I was just being a normal teenage girl, worrying about normal teenage girl things: like guys, my popularity and what I was going to wear to school the next day. Jacob not replying seemed like the end of the world to me back then. Little did I know that I would have bigger things to worry about, bigger than I could ever imagine in my worst nightmares. A bang comes again, snapping me back into the present where I’m huddled with people that I have never met, in a dimly lit, stuffy, make-shift room, carrying my whole life in the backpack beside me. My feet throb from running and walking and then running again. My face collides into my hands as tears start to spill from my eyes. I know Beck didn’t make it but as for Taylor and Jacab, I have no idea. More tears fall. I don’t even know where my parents are, or if they are even still here. I try to stop my mind from going there but it’s too late, I could be an orphan for all I know. Another bang shakes me out of my spiraling thoughts.

Later that day when I came back from the mall, happily carrying my little black and white striped bag, I would never be able to comprehend what would happen later. I was shaken awake in the middle of the night with my parents' panicked voices ringing in my ears “Matilda we have to go, NOW.” Half-awake and still disoriented from my sleep, I scrambled to put some clothes on and hurriedly packed my belongings into the first backpack I saw. We all rushed out of the house to find a layer of thick smoke concealing the quiet and empty streets. “What’s happening?” I shouted, but I was met with silence, my lungs burning with each the inhalation of the thick smoke. My mother grasped my arm and I jolted forward, blindly following her through the smoke. As we were running, I could feel my mothers grasp loosening, only catching glimpses of her bright auburn hair through the smoke in front of me.

Suddenly, a bang went off, causing me to lose my balance and fall. My contact with the ground was hard, my right arm sending shooting pains through my body as it met with the concrete below. That was the first bang I ever heard in my life. In the chaos my mother’s grip loosened and I could no longer feel her touch. “MUM, DAD?” I screamed, but my voice was drowned out by another bang, a little further away from me than the last one. I looked around frantically searching for her bright auburn hair, my eyes burning from the smoke around. “MATILDA,” I heard a distant voice shout. Scrambling to my feet, ignoring the pain in my arm the best I could, I stumbled towards the distant voice. However, the smoke that had crept throughout the city made the streets that were once so familiar to me seem like a foreign land. After continuously winding around the maze of streets I could no longer hear the distant calling of my name. Not before long, my breath started to become uneven and my heartbeat quickened. Collapsing onto the floor in the unknown land, I started to panic, my thoughts spinning out of control. I don’t know how long I sat there, thinking the end of the world had come. I still think that but at least it’s easier now.

Soon enough, someone found me and brought me to this make-shift room, full of people inside. They explained everything to me; that extraterrestrial beings had come into our atmosphere and everyone and everything had gone crazy. That countries had formed different alliances, each group disagreeing on what we should do. I remember my mouth drying as he spoke to me, unable to grasp what he was telling me. I mean I had read about these things in sci-fi novels and seen them in movies but never would I have thought that it could actually become true. “Are they good?” I remember muttering to the man. “Who, the countries? Yes, ma’am I’m asure you that there will be no conflict between th-” he started saying. “The aliens,” I interrupted. His eyes slightly widened before answering that they were extremely harmful and hazardous to our society, and that we should demolish them as soon as we got the chance. His response to my question almost sounded rehearsed, as if someone had told him to say that. Despite being skeptical I stayed in the make-shift room, watching people pile in as time went on, the weapons in the corner increasing with each new person’s arrival. Being sandwiched between sweaty people, with babies crying on and off, I was not happy.

With each day spent apart from my family, I became even more miserable, yearning for my mother’s bright auburn hair that looked like mighty phoenix’s flames. “You know why we gave you your name, Matilda?” she once asked. I shook my head, giggling, my little feet swinging from the chair, not long enough to reach the ground yet. “Because you love the movie Matilda and you wanted her to be smart,” my dad called from behind the barbeque, pointing the chicken skewer in his hand at her accusingly. She threw her head back laughing, her hair flowing majestically like a river of silk behind her as the gusts of wind gently picked it up and put it back down. “Matilda means mighty in battle. Something that I want you to be,” She touched the tip of my nose softly with her finger “When you grow up to be a big intelligent girl I want you to always look to your name and remember that you are mighty and strong and that you can overcome any problems that come your way,”

I wipe the tear from my cheek, I really cannot stand this place. If only I could go somewhere and find some peace and quiet for a few hours before I come back again. People have told me what lies near here and I’m sure that by now the smoke has died down. The man told me I should stay here but the chaos outside can’t be any worse than it is in here. And so, I swing my backpack over my shoulder as I quietly creep towards the door. People are too invested in their own problems and worries to care about what is happening around them, so I reach the exit easily. Lifting the flap of the make-shift room, I catch the baby’s wide eyes following my movements carefully. Before stepping outside, I smile at it, receiving a radiant beam of innocence in return. Immediately after I step out, I am met with a breeze of fresh air, my lungs relaxing as I let go of the flap behind me. The fog has not died down as much as I hoped but I do recognize the streets a lot more. Stepping over any debris I encounter, I fall into the rhythm of the familiar path to the park, the one that I have visited so many times, only now with no one by my side. Soon, I’m pushing the recognizable red gate, the metal cold in my hand. I observe the park. It sits unchanged from when I was last here, only now silent with abandonment. The sounds I hear are the rustling leaves on the tree and the slight creaks of the swings from the wind's movements instead of the usual laughter and chatter of excited children. I walk around and sit on one of the swings, falling into the well known motion of swinging back and forth, missing the strong hands that would once push me here as a child here. As I look around, everything is still before me. “What has happened to the world?” I mutter.

I don’t know what I will do from here. Perhaps I will return to the safety of the make-shift room or I’ll venture out beyond and attempt to find my family and friends. Maybe I’ll come across one of these extraterrestrial beings or aliens along the way and I can see for myself what they are all about. “Mighty in battle,” my mother’s sure voice echoes in my mind. I may not know what I will do from here or what will happen but what I do have is my name, Matilda, sheltering me with protection like a shield in front of me, making me mighty in battle. Just as my mother wanted.


“I ain’t working Christmas Eve. I’ll walk out!” Linda took a long slow drag off her Strawberry Vanilla vape and exhaled dramatically. “Are you smoking again?” Toni asked, her voice intermittently fading, just strong enough to push through the weak signal. “Vaping,” Linda answered. “Since Jordan was diagnosed with asthma last month. I swear it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done but, what can you do?” Her lips tugged at the warm electric pen. Feet propped in a red plastic chair and eyes locked on the puddle collecting at the foot of the staff refrigerator, she sighed and said again, “I ain’t doing it. I ain’t working Christmas Eve. I worked half of my Thanksgiving last week and I’m gonna spend Christmas Eve with my boys.” “People need gas on Christmas, too, Linda,” her cousin reminded, passively coaching her to reconsider resignation. “No, the hell they don’t! By Christmas Eve, everybody is where they need to be, and if they ain’t, then they just need to sit their ass at home and let the rest of us enjoy our time with our kids!” The door swung open, barely any time for the arthritic hinges to groan in protest. A young and red-faced Cassie Martin stood in the doorway, dark green eyes ballooned with agitation behind her thick frames. Here was the posterchild of panic. Cassie’s chest visibly heaved beneath her black wool sweater while her hands nervously flapped, communicating her frustration better than her words. “I’m so sorry,” she started breathlessly. “It’s getting backed up and I don’t know what to do!” Linda sighed at the new girl. “This is called a breakroom for a reason.” Were those actual tears forming in the girl’s eyes? Her lip trembled as she started to turn away. “Cassie,” Linda called in a singsong voice. The young cashier turned to the sound of her name. Linda sighed again, eyes connecting with her co-worker. “Breathe, okay? Stress will kill you.” One last draw from the mechanical stick. She assured her cousin she would call her back. “These people act like we’re the only damn place to get gas in this town!” she explained before disconnecting. “We practically are,” Cassie chimed in. Self-righteous Cassie. Always had to find a way to correct someone. “At least, the only good one with clean restrooms.” Linda rolled her eyes. “I admire your passion, new girl, but you sound like a commercial. I give you a month, tops, till you’re looking for somewhere else to go. See how them clean restrooms feel when you’re overworked, underpaid and going home with bricks in your back every night.” There was no real reason for Linda’s bones to click and pop the way they did. She was only 32 but some days those tired bones felt closer to 80. She lurched out of the small quiet paradise of the breakroom, prematurely leaving behind a world of peace. No constant chiming of a door that never closes. No motors revving, teenagers howling, radios blaring through the parking lot. No boys fighting over who gets the remote. In that breakroom, for those 30 minutes, was her time. Was her shameless hideaway. Solitude was worth her weight in gold. “Lord, Jesus!” Linda exasperated as she came around the corner to see a line backed down to the coolers. Cassie’s body relaxed the moment her eyes found Linda entering the battlefield. Her guardian. Her on-the-job savior. Cassie’s heroine wore a baggy gray hoodie, light blue jeans and white laceless high tops. Her dirty blonde hair was pulled back into a careless bun, bangs long overdue for a trim created a curtain over her stormy blue eyes. “Next!” she called out to the long jagged line of bundled bodies. Linda sure loved her pump payers. It wasn’t unusual to glimpse her waving out the window as they fueled up, showing her antisocial appreciation for those diehard “Gas and Go” customers. Flipside to that coin is that most gas stations cannot survive without its cache of on-the-go drinks, junk food and some here-and-there necessities.

A cold, fresh cola and a $5 scratch-off. Next! Fistful of corn chips, two drinks and a 2-pill packet of painkillers. Next! Three energy drinks, a pine air freshener and a lottery ticket. Next! The mass of bodies disappeared one by one, sometimes two by two. Moving, moving, moving along. All but one. One small-framed body swallowed up by a thick brown parka. A woman. She stood off to the side, evading the line like a timid doe. That face. Linda didn’t mean to stare, but she knew that face. Zoning into that familiar face, her stomach suddenly clenched. It was Catherine Holmes. Linda took a deep breath as the line of customers dwindled down to three. Two. One. Pump payers outside the window never slowed. An assembly line of gas guzzlers. But for now, quiet. Catherine approached the counter in just a couple slow steps. Weak steps. Heavy. Her face was more pale than Linda remembered. Thinner. More fragile. Sunken cheeks accented the sharp angles of her cheekbones, feeding up into hollow sockets wherein lay eyes the color of syrup and just as sweet. Those docile but tired eyes were islands to the surrounding dark oceans encircling them. Undoubtedly sleepless, shark-infested oceans. Catherine’s hair was unkempt. Listless chestnut faded with a touch of gray in the roots, precocious for Catherine’s age. Linda always believed silver hair was earned and should be celebrated. It’s just that Catherine was so young. The wrinkles mapped at the corners of her thin lips, trailing down her neckline were untimely. “Hey Cathy.” Linda pressed her lips tightly together and offered a smile that fell limp. That one simple greeting wore a tone of sympathy like a thick musk. It was an obvious tone, and one she tried to avoid with zero success. Catherine attempted a friendly smile in return. Old habits. She was so good at it, hiding the devastation just beneath the surface. Years of practice, most likely. Though the effort was genuine, a blind man could clearly see the tremendous strain it took on Catherine to lift and hold the corners of her mouth. It was still odd to see Catherine so bleached of life where once she glowed. The silence quickened Linda’s already racing heart. Flanked by the candy bar rack and a small box of cherry lip balm was a clear plain mason jar. The quart-sized jar held a most demanding presence anytime Catherine or Mark Holmes came in, especially now. An image frozen in a time not long ago, taped at all four corners on the front of the jar, was the sweetly smiling pale face of 9-year-old Luke Holmes. For being captivated by the boy’s gentle eyes that sparkled like emerald gems and a genuine smile that could light the darkest recesses of the world, the hospital bed and oxygen hose were almost unnoticeable. He proudly held his game controller high above his head. Catherine had fondly told the story the day she set the jar up. After giving up twice in six months, Luke had finally defeated the end game boss in Turbo Wars Maximum. He was beyond excited that day. What the photo didn’t capture, Catherine had said, was the tears that followed only minutes later from the pain that ignited through his delicate bones. Linda reflected intimately on that story every payday when she would slip $10 through the slitted top and say a silent prayer for the boy and his family. “Twenty on pump four, please.” Catherine’s request was almost inaudible. Her thin fingers shuffled through a wad of $1 bills. Royal blue nail polish flat and chipped on every nail. Linda noticed the fine shaking in the woman’s hands as she recalled where all those single dollar bills came from. The yard sale just a few short weeks ago on Clarity Lane. Sold damn near everything she had. Linda had found the perfect place in her kitchen for the flamingo figurine she bought at Cathy’s yard sale. And her own two boys loved playing the video games Luke gave them that day. Free of charge with strategic tips, Luke insisted. Linda tucked $40 over asking price into the donation bucket, and an extra $10 for Luke’s generous gameplay tips to Jordan and Cam. Those dollar bills between Catherine’s trembling fingers were the products of true devotion. She and her family sacrificed the things they held dear in order to raise money for Luke. Furniture, clothes, antiques, video games, appliances. It was a wonder they had anything left in their house. Linda reached for the jar. The cold on the glass nipped at her fingers. “While you’re here,” she said, trying to tilt her voice into a more chipper tone. She twisted the lid and withdrew $16.75. It felt good to hand it across the counter to those feebly shuddering hands. To give the other woman anything opened up her lungs just a little. Catherine stopped counting the dollar bills and looked at the money in Linda’s hands. Then, she recounted the bills again, this time passing over $4 to add to the $16. The door chimed with a customer. A gentleman in a thin coat over black slacks and polished black shoes. He grabbed a newspaper and a coffee. Cassie called him over. The quiet mumblings between customer and cashier were whispers on the other side of the counter. The weather talk. The holiday talk. “Thank you,” Catherine quietly spoke, bringing Linda’s attention back around. “People are kind.” “Yeah,” the cashier whispered, tucking a stray blonde lock behind her ear. She tapped the numbers into the cash register, ringing up for pump #4. Every punch of a button felt wrong. She didn’t want to charge Catherine. Not tonight. In fact, she just wanted to give her anything she wanted. But she couldn’t. Not with the all-seeing eyes of the cameras, always watching. Not when she needed this job, especially with the holidays rapidly approaching. As much as Linda hated to admit it, and truly she probably wouldn’t aloud, she did need this job. “How’s Mark?” Linda asked. The woman tossed her head back, sending her long wavy bangs out of her eyes. “Oh,” she said, thinking of how to respond. “He’s been staying at his brother’s. Says he can’t be in the house. Trying all he can to get a loan for a decent stone and a funeral.” She shook her head lightly. Heat blossomed from the inside out. Catherine’s pasty, almost ashen complexion rouged with emotion. Embarrassment. Anger. These emotions shared custody of those blotchy patches of redness. “Told him our credit score isn’t magically going up in a week.” Linda nodded and carefully offered, “I knew someone who couldn’t afford a funeral for her dad. She had him cremated and had a private service at her house instead.” Part of her felt like she was helping. Another part felt intrusive. Overstepping. But the woman nodded understandably. “Mark just doesn’t…” her words trailed off, then dissolved into a whole other subject. “How was your Thanksgiving?” Smoky steel blue eyes rolled dramatically, accompanied by a smile. “Oh, you know the Thanksgiving Shuffle. You go to your parent’s house and stuff yourself. Then gotta go across town to the sister’s house and visit with her family, but you’re too full to eat anything but a small bite of pumpkin pie. By the time you get home later that evening, you’re hungry again!” The woman laughed lightheartedly. Counterfeit and forced, as though socially mandatory. “How was yours?” Linda hated herself the moment those words slipped. Habit. Just friendly habit. Her heart hammered in her ears. You don’t have to answer , she silently pleaded. Please, don’t answer that . But Catherine did. Her dark eyes lost the last bit of lingering light. Snuffed out. Through insurmountable strength, she held that synthetic smile like plaster. That, too, was friendly habit. “It was alright,” she murmured. Warm redness bled across her neckline. It was like being caught in a lie. “I mean,” she backpaddled. “We’ve definitely had better.” She laughed a little to herself. How it felt so inappropriate to laugh. To smile. To be standing here. To breathe. To live when Luke couldn’t. Finally, the smile lost its battle and faded. Linda remembered Thanksgiving day. She was leaving her shift that late morning when Mark Holmes came in for gas and cheap coffee. Heading to the funeral home to discuss arrangements is what he told her. Her heart collapsed as she now stared past the façade of Catherine’s mechanical smiles and automated breathless laughter. She also remembered complaining Thanksgiving morning. She was angry that day. She had wanted to sleep in before having to dress the boys for family visits. The funeral home was open that day, too. She wondered if any of them complained as badly as she had. Hesitantly, Linda deposited the money into the register. It made her stomach churn to take money from the grieving mother. The silence was heartbreaking. “You know,” she began quietly as she looked across the counter. “I was so scared that day Cam fell on that glass table. Right in the middle of the damn store! Blood everywhere!” The woman acknowledged with a nod. “Cam screamed the entire way to the hospital. I did everything to calm him down. Hell, I couldn’t even calm myself down! But you…” Catherine’s smile returned, more natural this time. Authentic. “The moment you came into the room, everything was okay. You brought that train for him to hold while the doctor stitched him up. Do you remember that?” “Trauma Bay 7,” Catherine remembered fondly. “Yep,” Linda nodded. “He said you were his favorite nurse. He still says so, two years later.” The smile rolled into a chuckle. The cashier reached beneath the counter and dipped her hand into the contents of her purse. She collected the last $20 from the crossbody shoulder bag. Tomorrow was payday. She had a half-tank of gas and a refrigerator full of food. She had her boys warm, safe and fed. Most importantly, she had her boys. Period. There would be a Christmas tree welcoming her home from behind the partly drawn curtains, twinkling like a coven of fairies amid the pulsing reds, greens, blues and yellows. She stretched the $20 bill across the counter. Catherine stared at the worn green paper. She deliberated for a moment before gently shaking her head. Her lips parted with a refusal, but words were cut short when Linda interrupted. “Please,” she urged. “I never thanked you for being such an angel for my son that day. For me, too.” Tears welled in the woman’s eyes. She whispered, “You don’t have much, either, Linda.” But I have more than you , she wanted to say. “Please,” she insisted. “It’s the very least I can do.” The woman gently clasped her fingers around the money and slipped it into her coat pocket. “Thank you,” she said. Two words she had to learn to use more often these days. A hard lesson for some to learn. To let others love us. To allow ourselves to be helped. “Have a good night,” Catherine uttered. “Tell those handsome boys of yours Merry Christmas, and to stay away from glass tables.” She smiled lightly and turned for the door before the tears blinked out of her eyes and rushed down her warm cheeks. Linda watched from behind the window until Catherine got to her car. Wispy pockets of breath puffed into the air around her. The woman cradled into the ruby red Honda Civic, unaware of the thoughtfully surveying eyes as she drove out of the parking lot and disappeared into the 8pm darkness descending down Chapman Avenue. Linda plucked her phone from her pocket. Four text messages. Hello?? You calling me back?? Did you get robbed?? Hellooo? She headed back to the break room, connecting the phone to her ear. “Sorry,” she started. “Got real busy for a bit.” Toni smacked obnoxiously. “So, I was thinking about this whole Christmas Eve thing and you’re right. Hell, that’s two holidays in a row he’s making you work! I would tell your manager up there to kiss my crack and shove that gas station right up his—” “Nah,” Linda chimed. “It’s no big deal. Sometimes it’s easy to forget just how blessed we really are. I’ll be home with the boys Christmas morning. For that, I’m truly grateful.”