When Claire turned up at Casa Cosy – the worst restaurant in town - she knew she was going to lose her job. She stared into the window and saw plastic seating covered in moss, dirty tablecloths. She turned and looked at where she should have been, The Imperial, drooping in garlands of pink and red geranium. She knew who must’ve got that job but stopped herself obsessing over him and her professional failures: a career that started as a journalist, then a respectable food critic was now ending with a trip to Casa Cosy.              She entered the restaurant: it smelled of damp. The kitchen in the corner had tiles missing off the wall, and the ceiling above was stained. As no one welcomed her, she sat herself down, plucked her phone from her bag and found the restaurant on Google. 1.2 stars out of 5, but the true horror was in the comments:              “Surely, it’s an illegal drug front. The owner’s more interested in his Racing Post than serving clientele and only talks to dodgy looking men who never take their shades off.”              “Ordered a coffee after waiting ten minutes to be acknowledged. My drink didn’t come for another twenty, so I left. Always trying to support local, independent businesses, but with The Imperial over the road, you’d have to be mad to go to Casa Cosy.” “1 star only because there’s no option of zero.”     “Had a plate of Carbonara cooked by a lovely lady. It was tasty. Heard a raucous argument in the kitchen and noted the lady didn’t return. Not a great atmosphere, so left without tipping – will not be returning.”              This is Jackson trying to humiliate me, she thought, why else would this place need a review? It will be out of business by the end of the week. She let out an exasperated laugh and realised from the trembling tenor at the end, she was on the edge. The HR complaint had nothing but push her into a corner. She looked out of the window and by chance saw Jackson. He sauntered down the street, a man with no worries, and entered The Imperial. He always wore a tired corduroy sports jacket, famous from his daytime TV cooking show. Claire cursed his move away from TV and into critique: it had ruined something she loved.              She began packing her phone away and was daydreaming of entering The Imperial unannounced with thunderous words – maybe even an open palm - when she noticed a plump lady of middle age and Italian descent standing at the table with a smile. Although she looked like a cheery type, there were more wrinkles on her forehead than by her eyes.              “Signora. How can I help you?” she said.              “Hi,’ Claire flapped the paper menu onto the table. “I was actually about to leave, sorry.”              Claire began to rise, thinking still of the words she’d deliver to Jackson, when she locked eyes with the woman. She produced an aperitif that Claire hadn’t noticed – olives with garlic and chilis - and placed them on the table.              “Please, at least try these before you go. No money.” The woman wiped her hands on her apron, turned and left. Claire resumed packing her bags and decided to take one for the road. She bit into - it was meaty, tart and of good origin. She sat down and called the waitress back over, and quickly scanning the menu, she said:              “That was rude. May I please have a bottle of the Soave and some sparkling water. Then, I’ll try your Caccio Pepe,” she smiled.              The women nodded quickly and scurried into the kitchen. Claire settled back down into her seat and ate another olive. In the kitchen, Angela washed her hands, then dried them, then washed them again for good measure. She prodded Enzo who was placing a bet on football on his phone.              “Enzo. This is our first customer since Flavio. First new one, so please, help me.”              Enzo’s didn’t turn, but from the side, Angela could see him mutter an obscenity.              “You know, Enzo, your father…”              He turned and shot a look at her that told her to stop. She did just so, and found the bottle of Soave, the water both cold to the touch - and the correct glasses. She made sure they were clean before taking everything over. She served the lady some wine.              “This… is a good menu. Quite stripped back,” said Claire.              “What is, stripped back?”              “Erm, sorry, minimal. Not many ingredients.”              “Ah, yes. We say in Italy, ‘Alla Romana’,” Angela did something with her hands that looked very Italian. “We try to keep it simple, in Rome.”              “Well, great. I like simple. I’ll have the pork cutlet for main and a side of fennel salad. Thank you.”              Angela turned and there was an excitement, maybe a slight panic, in her movements. The lady looked important. She wore clothes that she might’ve seen in a magazine, or on TV. She approached Enzo.              “Enzo, come on, help your mother. I don’t think you understand how much we need this.”              Enzo didn’t move, just kept staring at his phone. Angela couldn’t be painted the villain any longer.              “Enzo, your father, he ruined everything. Please, help me save something from this rotten mess he made.”              Enzo rose to his feet. Angela thought he was leaving.              “What does she want?” He pointed to the table. “What does the lady want?”              “Pork. Thank you.”              She wanted to tell him that saints weren’t born out of every death but instead touched her cross to repent her sinful thought. She boiled spaghetti and heated a lump of butter in the pan. She pulled the pasta out and some starchy water, then blended everything together over the cooker. As she ground pepper, she felt as if she were soaring in the sky, free again. She added cheese – a 70/30 split of parmesan and pecorino – mixed it together and strode to the table and placed the plate down with a smile.              “Come a Roma,” she said to the lady. Just as in Rome.              “I can see that,” Claire smiled. “Thank you.”              Angela turned towards the kitchen and found the two men in shades at the entry. They gestured to their table in the corner and said: “Peroni.” Angela felt her smile disappear. She walked to the humming fridge and took two beers out. She arrived at the table with her finger tensing the bottle neck.              “Do you not have any respect? It’s been one week,” she said as she placed down the beers.              Neither man looked up to her.              “Signora, your husband, it’s him you should be angry at. It’s him who liked our blackjack tables,” one of the men took his shades off; he had cold, black eyes. “A bad husband, a bad businessman, and an even worse gambler. Look at this place,” he grimaced, as if he’d bitten into a lemon, “a stain on Italia.”              “I’m turning it around. I need time,” she said.              The other man, still with his shades on, tutted.              “You see number forty-six, down the road? They asked for time. Now on the counters is just ash.”              Angela stiffened; a bell rang. She narrowed her eyes and walked back to the kitchen, but the lady on table four called after her. She composed her manner and approached her. There were spots of sauce on the tablecloth and both plates had been eaten fully, the universal sign of a well-loved meal.              “That was delicious,” said Claire. “Truly a delight. You should have more people in here.”              Angela nodded and thanked her.              “I don’t want to be rude, but why don’t you get a loan, improve the appearance, maybe? It would help.”              “This was my husband’s restaurant. He, erm, ran it how he felt was right. Maybe it wasn’t, maybe it was, but this is all that he left me,” she picked up the plates, the cutlery. “Excuse me.”              She returned into the kitchen and Enzo was cooking the cutlet. He was a master, letting the fats and the garlic simmer at the perfect heat. It smelled of rosemary and butter. He plated up the dish as she shaved the fennel, before cutting thin strips of parmesan off the block and adding them to the salad with a simple olive oil and lemon dressing. Enzo turned.              “Who are they?”              “No one. Don’t worry.”              “They were here when dad was. I’m not an imbecile, you know,” his shoulders stiffened, and he lifted his chin.              “Enzo, you’re a chef. Leave the business to me.”              Angela picked up the dishes and took them to the guest. The meat had the right amount of juice seeping out of it, and the salad was crisp and aromatic. The lady smiled when the plates landed before her.              “Prego,” said Angela, but as she placed the plate down, there was a loud smashing sound from the corner of the room. She turned and saw Enzo and the two thugs arguing, a bottle of beer in pieces on the floor. The two men raised from their seats, dusted off their jackets and left with a wry smile on their faces. The man with the black eyes turned from the entry and shouted.              “Look at forty-six. We will be back soon.” Claire didn’t want to make a scene. She watched as the woman swept the shards of glass, then mopped. She ate the pork, then the salad – it was delicious. She couldn’t understand the poor reviews. She finished eating, drank another glass of wine, then asked for the bill. The owner arrived.              “How embarrassing,” she bowed slightly, “sorry.”              Claire smiled. “Listen, lady. I think you need a fresh start. Close for a week, make some changes: the name. Start again. Your husband may have been a good man…”              “He was not.”              “In that case, start again. Your cooking is too good, and this place is filled with bad memories and wretched reviews.”              Claire paid double what the bill had asked and bid the woman farewell. She touched her arm.              “You’ll be OK. Don’t worry about them,” Claire pointed to the entry. “Why not call it Caccio e Pepe?”              Claire winked, then she left. She crossed the street and arrived at The Imperial and saw Jackson through the window. He spotted her and asked his table to be excused so he could come outside. He walked with straight, confident strides and his blonde hair bobbed in springs beneath his ears. His wide smile broke as he spoke.              “How was ‘the worst restaurant in town’?”              Claire took out a cigarette and lit it. “Delicious.”              “Sure,” he snorted.              “I wanted to thank you,” Claire exhaled smoke to the side. “Today was important to me.”              “Well, a thank you is much better than a HR complaint. Are you going to apologies, for that, also?”              Claire didn’t respond, she kept smoking and stared directly at Jackson. His sharp features made him look like a weasel – never will she let a man do that again.              He knotted his brows in confusion then gestured towards The Imperial.              “Do you want to join us? We’re just about to have a Crème Brulee.”              Claire took another drag. Her right arm was folded across her chest, and her left held it in the air like a crane. She took another drag then dropped the cigarette and stamped on it.              “Thank you, but I’d rather die.”              She walked away, making sure to take photos of number forty-six on her way to the tube station. It was a burnt-out mess, with black pieces of timber hanging disjointedly from frames and ash still marking every inch of the walls and structure. Graffiti inside issued warnings. She knew she had a lot of work to do, so hailed down a cab.              “Where are we going, love?” Asked the driver.              “King’s Cross. The Daily Reviewer head office.”              She called her old friend as the cab bumped its way across town. Angela did what the lady said. She shut down for a week, her and Enzo re-tiled the kitchen, re-did the bathrooms and painted. They peeled off the vinyl on the front that had said Casa Cosy, and instead had a friend paint the words Caccio e Pepe.              She found new wooden chairs and tables and printed menus on thick paper. Finally, she asked Enzo to remove the old Google Listing and start anew.              On the first day, she was thrilled to be opening. It was light outside, and although early summer, it reminded her of winter days in Rome. That excitement waned as customers didn’t appear, and after a further three weeks and a growing pile of bills through the door, she accepted that Flavio had ruined both her lives: the one with him and the one without.              It was a terrible feeling, watching time eat into your only chance of a future. Across the road, The Imperial had customers willing to queue for an hour instead of eating with her. Then, she did receive her first customers. The two men wish shades walked in and whistled sarcastically, then sat themselves down in their corner.              “Look at this, what a change! Flavio would turn in his grave,” said one man, “I’ll have a Peroni,” he grunted.              “It doesn’t look like your fortunes are different, eh, Angela?” The other smirked. “We said we’d give you four weeks, but maybe, it’ll be tonight…”              Angela felt her arms shaking as she wrote down the orders. She approached the fridge and plucked two Peronis. She opened each with a hiss. She looked to see Enzo, how he was reacting to the men, but his face was thrilled by something. She felt a gust of air crawl up her neck and her skin shivered. She turned, and a group of four people were waiting to be sat. She approached them and they smiled. They asked for coffees and Italian pastries and fizzy water and Angela was busy and smiling, and she saw many more people were now waiting to be seated, all women. She took orders and Enzo readied food, and soon, the two men left having hardly drank their beers, leaving on the table a copy of a newspaper opened on page 12. Jackson Hendrick arrived at The Agency. He wore his sports jacket and was, as always, twenty minutes late. The lady at reception looked at him with dead eyes. He was used to those looks, and wasn’t surprised she was annoyed, as he hadn’t text her back since they made love last week.              He took off his jacket and sat at his desk and opened his laptop, but before he could get onto his emails, The Daily Reviewer landed on his desk, and the towering figure of Al – the agency owner – stood above him. He felt cold.              “Hello chap,” said Jackson. “What’s this?”              “This,” said Al, “is the end of your career.”              He pointed to the paper. Jackson opened it, saw the article with his name in the headline:

Handsy Hendrick from daytime TV fame accused of sexual abuse and bullying by Claire Stoddard, former Senior Food Critic. An attempt at demeaning her professionally saved her life, she said.              Story continues P12, including a piece by Claire herself on patriarchy and mob influence in the culinary world, and a call to all women to support and protect our women in the kitchen – starting with a trip to Caccio e Pepe on the West side of town.              He couldn't believe it - rape! She was lucky they spent the night together! Jackson laughed wildly. He’d easily beat this attempt at a smear through HR – this would be no issue. He rose to his feet and turned, only to be faced by Jose, the big Spanish security guard, who had two policemen at his back.              “Shit.”


“I can't do this anymore,” Carly said “I need to get out of this room. How do you people live in this heat? It´s too bloody hot, it’s unbearable.  46c it says on my phone today.  I swear I have never been this hot in my life. I can't breathe, I can't sleep. The sweat is pouring off me. Last night the aircon went off, there was a mosquito in the room – bastard bit me. I got up at 4am and had a cold shower – I still couldn't get back to sleep. I thought you lot had money, why am I in this shitty motel anyway, there are tons of swanky hotels on the Strip with decent aircon and room service?” Kevin looked across the room at Carly. “It´s July, its Vegas what do you expect? We are in the desert. You get used to it. Just be glad you are not in Louisiana where I grew up. There it´s 37c but 80% humidity. At least here the humidity is 10%, so cool when you get out of the sun. And in answer to your question. Hotels are dangerous. People see things. Most staff are on low wages, easy to bribe. Lots of entrances and exits. You've seen the movies where people dress up as maids and steal key cards. This is crappy but its anonymous, as long as you pay for the room no one bothers you. Anyway, we have one or two more days here and then that´'s it.” “Where are we going then,” Carly said. “I don't know exactly, Petra is organising it. I should know tomorrow when she calls me.” Carly lay back on the bed and got out her phone. She was scrolling through it and he could hear music and laughter. Probably some stupid cat videos people were always sharing. Kevin tried not to think about Louisiana and his upbringing. As soon as he could he joined the police force and went to the big city. He hated the bayou and the small minded people in his town.  Firstly, he worked in Baton Rouge and then, as a result of an exchange organised by the federal government, ended up in Washington – where he had been for 7 years. He loved the city. The drug busts and gang warfare didn’t faze him a bit. He liked putting bad guys behind bars, he felt like he was making a difference. Then he worked undercover. He liked that a lot. More flexible but more dangerous. These villains were off the scale. A stark contrast to Baton Rouge, where the villains were mostly good ol’ boys who had too many bottles of bud and decided to go out in an air boat on the bayou and shoot themselves a few gators for dinner. Sadly, a lot of the time they ended up as the meat, as they were so drunk they fell overboard, and the police had to pick up the pieces, literally. He smiled to himself at the memory, as Carly looked up from her phone and said: “I’m hungry, can we eat something?”

“Sure, what do you fancy, - Italian, Asian. There is a great pizza place on the strip; they have a wood fired oven. I will go out.” “I’m so fed up being cooped up here; can I go with you, just this one time?” She pleaded. “Carly, you know that’s not possible, not yet, it´s not much longer. Once you have the op you will have more freedom, but for now it’s not safe. They are out there and they know what you look like.” “I don’t want to have a nose job,” she said “My nose is fine just as it is, can’t I get an extension or something to change the shape without surgery.” “Because it works, changing your nose shape changes the rest of your face. You will be amazed what a new nose and new hair style can do. You will have a choice, the surgeon we use is very good, and he will listen to you.” “I’m scared,” she said, “what if it goes wrong, what if there are complications? I don't want to be sick and I don't want to be looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life!” He wanted to say, “Surely you thought this through before you did it. You knew it would be hard. These people don't just walk away. You are a target and they are after you. They have a lot of resources and a long reach. You may not make it.”

But instead he said “I had a client once. He squealed on a Colombian cocaine gang. After surgery he was reborn in Toronto where he ran a small bookshop. A few years later we checked in on him. He was happy, smoking a pipe with a goatee beard looking very bookish. He had a wife and 3 children and the Colombians never had a clue. It´s a big world out there, hiding is not that difficult.”  He felt a pang of compassion for her. All alone in a strange country, running for her life. No one to trust – or at least she probably felt that way now, after what had happened in Florida. Petite and dark haired she was not his type, but she was vulnerable and it was his job to protect her. “Carly, I have been doing this for a while. It’s not a risky operation with a good surgeon and good aftercare. You will be out the same day. We will find you somewhere nice to recuperate, I promise.” “Petra said she had been doing it for a while also, and look what happened there.” “That’s why we are going down the surgery route. It will give you more freedom, more chance of making this a success.” “I don’t have a choice, do I?” she said, finally. “Pepperoni pizza it is then” he said, swiftly changing the subject. “Lock the door and don’t answer it for anybody. I will swing by reception also and report the aircon unit.  You know where the gun is. Use it if you have to. I will phone you when I am standing outside.” She felt like saying she wasn’t hungry anymore but in an instant he was gone. # # # # # # # # The door slammed behind him and she ran to the curtains to watch him get in the car and drive off. Kevin was tall, with dark hair, broad shouldered with deep brown eyes. Even wearing jeans he didn’t look scruffy. He worked out, no doubt about it. You could see his chest muscles through the tight white t-shirt and his thigh muscles pushing through his jeans. The way he spoke, that southern drawl, was really sexy, and she was sure he must have had a hard time of it in Washington, where they would have viewed him as a hillbilly. Still, he had stuck it out for 7 years according to Petra. Must be good at his job. Maybe it wasn’t so bad being “babysat” by Kevin after all. Nothing in her life had turned out the way she had hoped it would. She had a good job that she enjoyed, with great career opportunities, until that fateful day. The future that she had planned out, career, family a couple of children, was now a melancholy memory. Her life had taken a different turn, now she had to take one day at a time. The previous episode in Florida had shaken everyone up. Petra was at a loss to know what had happened to blow her cover. The Feds concluded that someone working for the airline had tipped them off, no other explanation. She had been identified and followed. Investigations were ongoing, but meanwhile she was in Nevada, just south of Las Vegas trying to start her new life AGAIN! She switched on the tv and flicked channels until she found an old episode of “Colombo” the scruffy detective from the 70’s, who is actually a whizz at solving murders and bringing the bad guys to justice. The ads kicked in after only 5 minutes, just when you were getting in to the story - it was the same on every channel. She would just have to learn to live with it. So many things here were different, not just the tv. But, it was in her interest to adapt, and adapt she would, her life depended on it. Her phone rang. It was Kevin. “I’m outside, look through the curtains, then let me in.” She did that and saw him standing there with 2 enormous pizza boxes and a giant bottle of coca cola. She opened the door and closed it quickly. There was a draught of air; it was like someone had aimed a hairdryer at her. The pizzas smelt delicious, her hunger pangs returned. “You don't want to be out there. It´s brutal. Worse bit is the heat wave is going to continue for a few more days. It's the hottest day of the year so far - we just have to hang in here!”

There were beads of sweat on his forehead, he wiped them with the back of his hand. She watched him as he opened the boxes and brought out napkins. No cutlery, or plates, she forgot that Americans ate pizza right out of the box. He poured her a glass of coke with ice and sat back in the chair; looking right at her he scooped up an enormous slice and shoved it in his mouth. She watched him eating it. He managed not to spill a drop on his pristine white t-shirt, she knew she wouldn’t be able to do that. Especially when she was nervous. This was their third night together, their third meal. They were still sizing each other up, trying to establish boundaries. Her heartbeat had accelerated but she tried to keep calm and helped herself to a slice. It was pepperoni with slices of onion topped with paprika and chilli peppers. She didn’t want coca cola but drank it anyway. It was cool and took the heat away. She already had feelings for him and hated it. She didn’t want those feelings, especially not now. Not when her life was in utter chaos. They demolished the pizza. “So tell me,” he said, wiping his chin, still no stains on his t-shirt “why did you do it. Why testify, you didn’t need to, you could have just gotten on with your life?” “Didn't you read the file?” she said, picking up a bit of pizza with her fingers that had fallen into her lap and was making a greasy stain on her jeans. “It’s all there.” “Yes, but I wanted to hear it from you. They don't put everything in the file, what was your motivation for doing it?” She sighed. “At the time I was angry, I wasn’t thinking clearly. They out of the door with the jewellery trays but then one of them turned round and came back. We were all lying face down on the floor. He went over to Mr Cohen and shot him in the back of the head. He didn’t need to do that, they were escaping and it held them up, but he did it anyway.  I looked up and he had taken off his hood so I saw his face. He didn’t need to kill him. It was so unfair. Mr Cohen was a good man – she started to sob – he gave me a break, I was training to be a jewellery designer, not just a shop assistant, he gave me a break. I decided then and there that they wouldn’t get away with it.” Kevin thought for a minute. “Was Cohen wearing a kippah, the small head cover that Jews wear?” “Yes, he always wore it, why?” “We think the shooter was a Palestinian who grew up in Beirut. Lebanese father American mother. He used to work for us but then he was turned. He works for terrorists now as a gun for hire. Mostly the PLO. The money from the heist would have gone to them.” “I thought it was odd that the FBI would be interested in a jewellery heist gone wrong in London. They were at Scotland Yard during my first interview.” “We had to neutralise him, he was becoming a real problem. He knew far too much. But these people are vicious and vengeful, but nothing we can't handle.  What about your family, they must have had something to say?” “To be honest, I wasn't that close to my parents. My dad was dead so Cohen was a father figure, and my mum and I were always arguing, so no love lost there; but I will miss my brother and sister terribly, we were very close. They tried to talk me out of it, but I am stubborn I suppose and wouldn'´t listen. I think they have some mad idea about coming to join me in the future, when things have settled down a bit.” “Won't happen, sorry. Don't get your hopes up. It's got to be a clean break.” He said. “I knew it would be hard and tried to visualise myself in my new life but it different when it happens, it’s much harder to come to terms with. Everything is so different now and I can never go back.” Her voice was starting to break. He put his hand on her shoulder to steady her as she was sobbing. He gave her his handkerchief and she made a lot of noise blowing her nose and wiping her eyes. “Coffee?” he said. She nodded. He grabbed the empty boxes and went into the kitchenette. “I got more ice, and more drinks. In the fridge if you need them. When I speak to Petra we will get the date for the surgery. We won’t be coming back to this motel after; we will go somewhere else, closer to Vegas. Everyone is having surgery in Vegas, you won't look out of place with a bandaged nose.” He tilted his head to one side and smiled at her. She couldn’t resist smiling back through her tears. “Oh and one other thing, we really have to work on that accent!” 2,397 words


I'm almost out of love. I can feel it, feel the pinpoints of searing heartache that prod my beating heart every waking moment. My whole life I'd been wealthy with admiration. My mother, my father, and my sister who had loved me so. Our affection fed each other so that we could live happy lives. My father used my mother's undying fondness to keep a roof over our heads, keep our stomachs filled, and give my sister, Tilly, and I whatever our childish minds desired. He used his children's love to fuel their college funds, which is how Tilly and I both ended up at an ivy-league school. That, and we were teeming with knowledge of the world. The other kids at school were envious of me until we graduated. Charlie is swimming in love , they whispered. Why can't he give us some? Then they grew smarter and figured if they befriended me, they would be able to chisel my love out of me through accounts of friendship. But I was too clever by half and had no trouble turning down each person who tried to strike a false conversation. Eventually, they hated me. I was okay with that. But being smart didn't mean I never did wild teenager things. I threw grand parties that cost absurd amounts of affection. People would show up just because they knew I was well-off and tossed my love around only to receive half an hour of enjoyment. I would be the first to leave - like anyone cared - and find Tilly at home, curled up with a book, a spot already open for me across from her. She knew me like the back of her hand, just as I did. Tilly was my greatest companion. But life and love only last so long. That's what I told Tilly when I attempted to take her to one of my parties. It was to be a masquerade held in a beautiful atrium. It was the talk of our entire town. I wanted Tilly to go with me. "It's not my thing, lover boy," she said, unbinding her brunette coils. "I'll read about it in the newspaper next week, though. It sure sounds fun." She put her nose back in the book she was reading, but I snapped it shut and threw it on the carpet beside us. We were sitting on a windowsill, sharing a blanket and hiding from the never-ending snowfall. When she shot me a fiery look, I gave her a pleading stare. "If it sounds fun, why won't you come with me?" "That's pathetic reasoning. Just because it sounds fun, doesn't mean it will be." " Tilly." " Charlie." I narrowed my eyes, hoping they looked as green as venom. "I'll bury your book in the snow." Tilly's jaw fell slack. "You wouldn't!" I smirked at her wickedly and toppled off of the sill, securing her book and barreling down the hall. She chased after me, but I was too fast on my long legs. I dodged the things she threw at me and sidestepped her when she got too close. I was at the sliding glass door when Tilly finally shouted, "Okay, okay, I'll go!" I thought I'd won. But I lost terribly. That night, Tilly and I entered the party hand-in-hand. I wasn't lying when I said it would be beautiful: pillars of plated gold that held up a shining glass roof, diamond chandeliers, golden platters of expensive delicacies, polished marble floors that stunning people waltzed across in light steps. I looked at Tilly, half of her sharp features hidden behind a sapphire feathered mask. There was a smile on her lips and her emerald eyes sparkled like jewels. "Charlie Knox, you constantly surprise me," she whispered, reaching a pale hand up to pat my slicked-back brown hair. "It's a good quality," I replied, and whisked my younger sister away to dance. It was a grand night. We drank sparkly champagne with sunken strawberries. Tilly made two or three friends - those of which who were not particularly fond of me and cast hateful glances. She received many compliments on her diamond-flecked dress, her smile growing brighter with each one. I'd never seen her so happy and social. I will admit this once to you, and never to anyone else. The glasses of alcohol I'd consumed were numerous. They kept piling up, a fresh flute always in my hand. I barely noticed until my world started swaying with the music, and I felt I was about to retch. I was sober enough to catch this and grabbed Tilly's arm. She was talking with a blonde girl who never bothered to look at me. "What is it, Charlie?" Tilly said, and then stepped back to seemingly get a better look. "Are you alright?" "I think we should go home," I told her, avoiding the second question. "It's getting late." Tilly nodded understandingly and led me through the crowd of dancers. I dropped my half-empty glass off at the table before the giant French doors just as we stepped into the chilly winter air. It bit at my nose and bled through my navy-blue suit. Why wouldn't I bring a jacket? I was so ignorant. I got into the driver's seat and started the car. Snowflakes crusted the windshield, but I was so tired. I didn't take the time to wipe them off, figuring that we lived just a few blocks away. It all happened in a chain of events. One moment I was squinting through the snow, the next the tires were slipping over a sheet of black ice. Tilly's scream filled my ears and pierced through every drink I'd had that night. My foot slammed on the brakes, screeching as we spun like thread. Red light swirled faster and faster, and gradually, slower. We were slowing down. We were stopping. And everything was okay. I was breathing hard, my heart pounding. I glanced over at Tilly, who was frazzled but looked okay. "I'm sorry," I said. She shook her head furiously but didn't accept my apology. I closed my eyes and rested my head against the steering wheel, letting the shock and adrenaline ease off. We were okay, and we could get back home safe. And then the red light flickered to green. I heard the whir of car engines from all angles. I jerked up, frantically looking out of the window and all around. We were in the middle of an intersection. How did we end up here? I thought we'd spun into a lone street, an alleyway, something that wasn't dangerous. I guess I never considered it. Quickly, I turned the wheel and stepped on the gas. Which way was I going? I couldn't tell. My mind was muddled with champagne and fear. I kept driving, telling myself I would find a way out by will or by hope. I prayed even though I was never religious. For one second, one measly second, I closed my eyes. That was the last mistake I made, the mistake that cost more than any party I ever held. I don't remember much from when the accident happened. It's all quite fuzzy. I recall Tilly screaming my name, two bright headlights, and the crunch of bone on concrete as our car was flipped and we were both cast onto the road. I was told afterward that I fell asleep at the wheel and a man in a truck didn't see us. I was told that the doctors had to perform emergency surgery on my legs and I would never be able to walk again. I was told Tilly was killed. They said they'd save the details of her death so I wouldn't feel worse than I already did. But they did say that she was dead when they arrived. I hate that they didn't tell me what happened. It left too many doors open, too many possibilities of the way she had gone. Her head could have been bashed on the concrete. Her body could have been crushed by the flipping car. Glass could have slit her throat. Tilly's heart - the heart that provided the love to keep me stable - was six feet under. And it was my fault. Because I didn't fall asleep while driving, even though I agreed that I did. Because I got in the driver's seat, knowing that I was drunk. All my fault. So, like I said, I'm almost out of love. Tilly was my biggest supplier. After her death, my parents closed themselves off and stopped loving. Stopped loving each other, stopped loving me, stopped loving the world. Which I understand, because Tilly was the world. And because I never bothered with friends and I assumed I would be stable my entire life, I spend each day crippled on the windowsill of my dilapidated house, rereading a worn book that still has her handwriting on the cover. Tilly Knox. I spend and spend and spend my love on useless things. If I spend enough, my heart will stop. If I could buy death with the dwindling love I have, I'd be first in line.


“Fear not my lady Abby, thy renowned confidant is here to retrieve thy mislaid soul from the island ‘The Unknown’, said Kat whilst gripping a plastic sword and pointing its sharp end towards the sky. Abby was in a seated position about a meter away. Upon hearing Kate’s hilarious statement, dissolved into laughter and leaned back. Almost lying down on her back. Amid her ceaseless laughter, she managed to word a suitable reply, “Oh, great Kate, make haste and catch my hand in yours and therefore redeem m bewildered humanity”. “Great Kate?”, Kate pointed out, “I think I like that”, she said with a smirk on her lips. Lifting her chin in pride. In classic Abby and Kate style, they were performing in public, at an airport. It didn’t bother them that people walking by stared at them. Neither did they feel embarrassed. Just before Kate could utter another iconic phrase in front of their audience, she was interrupted by the airport announcement. “THIS IS THE FINAL BOARDING CALL FOR ABBY HADE AND KATE COLLINS BOOKED ON FLIGHT 385A TO MIDDLECAM CAY. PLEASE PROCEED TO GATE 2 IMMEDIATELY. THE FINAL CHECKS ARE BEING COMPLETED AND THE CAPTAIN WILL ORDER FOR THE DOORS OF THE AIRCRAFT TO CLOSE IN APPROXIMATELY FIVE MINUTES. I REPEAT. THIS IS THE FINAL BOARDING CALL FOR ABBY HADE AND KATE COLLINS. THANK YOU”, said a female voice through the speakers. Abby snapped out of their fantasy play without delay. “You hear that Kate? We have to go now!”, said Abby and began hauling their bags. While Kate, on the other hand, dragged her feet and groaned with her back slouched. She ultimately accepted that it was time for them to leave. After all, they were late. “Come on Kate, we’ve been waiting for this moment since forever. Since high school. We’re finally going to Middlecam Cay”, said Abby in a soft voice. She put her hand on Kate’s shoulder to reassure her. “Cheer up, we’re going to the island at last”, she continued, in an enthusiastic voice. Abby noticed the change in expression on Kate’s face when the announcement came on. But that didn’t stop her from looking forward to the trip. There was something about that feeling she had. Abby couldn’t wait to arrive at Middlecam Cay. She read and heard stories about the island, such as that spirits are wandering in the area and that not everyone survived more than a few months after arriving. Only the pure in heart with pure intentions flourished. ‘The Unknown’ island was indeed a real place, although some people believed it to be a myth. It hadn’t been mapped out yet by cartographers, as they could not attain the accurate measurements of the island’s perimeters. It was rumoured that cartographers would get lost and unearth new plots of land. Thus, forcing them to retake measurements and so the cycle continued. Abby knew all this information but did not mention a word to Kate. She only told her that the hotels were hiring young people and that is why they were travelling there. She knew that Kate would change her mind about leaving home if that were not the reason. As soon as they boarded the plane, the pair was met with two air hostesses. They paged through their papers and cleared them to go on the plane. They walked straight for a few moments and found their seats. Within seconds after fastening their seatbelts, the pair fell asleep without hesitation. Kate and Abby had been best friends for more than a decade. Both told each other everything. Anyone who did not know Abby and Kate was would recognize them as sisters. Meanwhile in Middlecam Cay, ‘The Unknown’ island awaited them. Named by previous army troops centuries ago. The men claimed to have seen and heard a woman’s voice at night. No one believed them. Throughout all their efforts to ask for help, none of it worked. The mysterious woman-like spirit said to one soldier that her name was Samira. There had also been a story about some magical key. It was crucial in finding a way out and going to wherever you wished. To Abby, this was all a mystery to be solved. According to Kate, Middlecam Cay is a city full of job opportunities for young people. Following six hours of sleep from home, Bailee Town, Abby and Kate woke up just moments after touchdown. They listened through the announcement made by the flight attendant. Still drenched in sleep they rubbed their eyes to fully wake up and start departing the plane. The pair felt a force push them from behind which caused them to skip a few steps before landing on dirt with their faces. They spotted unfamiliar insects crawling around with glowing little legs. Abby and Kate stared at each other’s dirty faces in confusion. “Where’d the plane go? Where is everyone else?”, asked Kate in a tight voice. She examined her environment but still could not make out her location. Kate also received no answer from Abby, who seemed to have an idea of what was happening. She presented no sign of amazement. Lost in her thought about where she was, she had long forgotten about Kate’s questions. “Abby, hello? Answer me. You look like you know where we are don’t you?”, Kate shouted at her. “It’s not… not really like that. I-” “You what? Huh? What? Why aren’t you freaking out?” Kate stood up, shook off the dirt on her jacket and skirt, picked up her backpack and began searching for other people. Abby couldn’t let roam alone in this strange place. Not on this Island. She took her backpack and dusted off the dirt on her face and clothes. She saw a glowing ring-shaped object buried in the soil and dried leaves, but didn’t pay much attention to it, Kate was more important. She trailed on Kate’s trails. Abby then felt a tingling sensation along with a dash of warmth travelling down her spine. Droplets of seat running down her forehead, her heartbeat accelerating almost as if it wanted to evacuate her chest. Abby could not wait any longer to enlighten Kate about the information she came by. She leapt closer to Kate and caught hold of her arm and turning her around. “What, you ready to speak now?”, Kate demanded. “Yeah, I do have something to tell y-” “Well then say it,” Kate interrupted” “Okay so listen. We’re at a cursed island according to legends and myths. It’s called ‘The Unknown’ island because no one knows how big it is. Even the most skilled cartographers have been trying to map it out. They keep getting lost and finding new places then getting lost again before they could write down their findings”. Abby let out a heavy sigh before continuing. “It is also said to be a female spirit called Samira that hovers over this strange place and apparently she is the only one who can give us a key to leave this place.” “What key is that and how do we find this Sameri?”, asked Kate.  A cold wind blew in their direction, flowing with dried leaves and withered flowers. It seemed to have blown specifically in their direction. Silence. Moments later, Abby replied again to Kate with her now shaky voice. “It’s S-A-M-I-R-A okay, and I don’t know how we can find her. But she can probably see us. As for the key… I also don’t know how we can find it”, she said with her hands in the air and shoulders lifted. “Oh. Okay so let me get this straight Abby. You dragged me to this godforsaken island telling me that we’re here to get hired- “I know but- “No, no buts. You knew very well that this place is creepy, and you tell me about some spirit, magical key story. Make it make sense.’ “Look, we are lucky to have made it this far”, Abby protested. “Lucky? What do you mean lucky, we’re stranded? “Yes, I know that just listen to me. We will make it out of here soon. What I meant is that we have a shot of getting the key from Samira alright?” Abby attempted to convince Kate, but she wouldn’t listen. Kate walked away from her before she could say anything. She didn’t know what to make of the situation. It was nightfall and the cold winds blew again, this time even colder. There was no shelter for them to protect themselves. As it got darker, Abby and Kate grew hungrier. Their delicate skin shivered because of the cold and their empty stomachs rumbled loudly. Every now and then, they glanced at each other. Wanting to say something but couldn’t. Some trees had attractive fruit on their peculiar branches. The fruit looked edible, but the pair weren’t sure whether to eat them or not. The fruit did look different from the ones that they knew. It was now Samira’s time to leave her den and roam over her island as she usually does. In the middle of the night, when the moon has disappeared behind the clouds. What Abby overlooked was that Samira had long been hunted and harmed by notorious witch-hunters seeking to seize the island. They learned to conceal their auras which gave off their bad intentions. Samira had fought plenty of bad people while guarding her island. When she noticed Abby and Kate, she immediately fumed. In response to their presence, Samira sent out all her poisonous insects. One of them bit and infected Kate’s left ankle. Her scream was one with agony, she felt immense pain. Sharp shooting and endless pain. She failed to contain it. Abby was soon overwhelmed with intense worry. She couldn’t ignore her childhood best friend who was now in pain. Abby had studied some of the plants found on the island. She knew that some of them could wounds and bites. However, she had forgotten which leaves and plants to put together. Only a few could surface on her memory. Abby used what she remembered to numb Kate’s pain. This was the perfect time to apologize to Kate and mend their friendship. Samira’s ghost-like voice frightened Abby and Kate, making their hearts skip a beat. Samira demanded that they leave the leave her island. Throughout the whole night, Abby and Kate did not sleep a wink. The screeching sound of Samira’s horrific voice kept them awake. What worsened the experience was the darkness. Morning came and the second Abby and Kate opened their eyes, there she was. A pair of white glowing eyes stared dead into their souls. Abby and Kate froze in awe, allowing only their nostrils to keep the air flowing in and out. Finally, Abby gathered the courage and confronted Samira that instant, “Sa-Samira?... My name is Abby. This is my, my best friend Kate”, she paused to gather her words. “How and why were we able to enter this island? Okay… either way, we’re not here to hurt you, we just want to get to the city. You know the… the hotels and stuff. Ca-Can you please give us the key?” Abby could feel Samira’s fatiguing presence on her body. Kate had her eyes shut and faced to the side while tightly gripping Abby’s hand. Samira didn’t make a sound while Abby pleaded for freedom. She only heard the innocence in her voice. She realized that they could never harm her. A breeze blew through her long and flowing black hair. With that breeze came a kaleidoscope of pink shimmering butterflies. The dead leaves disappeared, and the trees bloomed to life. This left Kate and Abby astonished yet puzzled. Then the soil in front of the rose in the form of a mini-tornado. There a key appeared. “The key?”, said Kate as her mouth widened, “Is that the key?” she further asked. “So… you won’t kill us or make us vanish or something like that?” Abby added. Kate stood closer to Abby and cupped her hand on her ear, “Man I wish she said something”, she whispered. Samira replied, “No I shall not harm you because you did not harm me. Take this key to open the door behind you and leave this island.” A wide door decorated with glistening gold awaited them. Covered with fresh and the most beautiful flowers. Completed with the greenest leaves they’ve ever seen. “Woahhhhhhhhh, that’s so amazing, thank you so so much, Samira!” “My pleasure, and my apologies for last night. Here is some food”, Samira handed them a grass basket full of fresh fruit. Abby and Samira’s stomachs rumbled again. “No biggie, it's cool. At least now we can work at our dream hotel!” said Kate in excitement.


Americans, unhappily, have the most remarkable ability to alchemize all bitter truths into an innocuous but piquant confection and to transform their moral contradictions, or public discussion of such contradictions, into a proud decoration, such as are given for heroism on the field of battle. James Baldwin            D’Mitri stumble-limped to his door, taking mental stock of his condition and his assets in the cool and quiet aftermath of Nick’s party. He didn’t have his keys, but he had somehow acquired a cute girl, and she had his keys. Check.            He looked at his shirt and frowned. There were flecks of blood on it, and an ominous brown stain of unknown provenance. He smelled it and decided that it must either be a mixture of whiskey and gooey fudge brownies or, more likely, vomit. Check.            What he didn’t have were either pants or shoes. That was odd, he thought, for he was sure that he had gone to the party with pants. And shoes.            Check. His right leg was festooned with gauze and tape and pain. It felt like someone had jabbed several needles into his leg and it looked like whoever did the bandaging struggled with the concept of gauze-to-tape ratio; the tape went all the way down to his ankle and as high as his knee to secure a small, square piece of gauze. Perhaps, he thought, I was being mummified and escaped just in the nick of time. Check. The couple fell into D’Mitri’s bed for the night, though it was actually 4:30 in the morning. D’Mitri wouldn’t be seen again until Monday morning, dressed for success. The cute girl left in the afternoon, telling D’Mitri that she hoped they could “do this again.” D’Mitri didn’t know if she meant the party or the bedroom antics or both, but he accepted the informal invitation in the spirit that it was given. He nodded dumbly and closed the door. Double check, with some stars and doodles thrown in for good measure. Let me tell you about the party and how D’Mitri lost his pants. ___________________________________________            Nick always threw great parties because he was rich and spent obscene amounts of money on food, booze, outlandish decorations, a DJ, party favors, and cocaine. He was a third-generation Greek-American who made it big writing apps for Apple and productivity software for corporate tax attorneys. D’Mitri would often tell him that he wrote code for the predators of the American Dream, but Nick would just shrug it off and point to his Lamborghini or his house by way of defense.            D’Mitri arrived at the party just as it was getting crowded. Supermodels from the Americas (North and South), Greece (of course), France (predictably so), and one uniquely pretty one from Iceland had just arrived. The guests were indulging in the expensive seafood, the expensive beef, and the expensive booze, all prepared by expensive chefs. The actual servers, however, were more like D’Mitri: foreign, and wondering if the cocaine laid out on the table was for everyone.            All eyes were drawn towards the towering ice sculpture upon arrival. It was a 17-foot-tall replica of the Statue of Liberty. The icy behemoth was surrounded by smaller ice sculptures of people kneeling in front of the lady, hands raised in supplication. What the fuck? D’Mitri wondered. He wasn’t drunk enough – or high enough – to ask Nick about it yet. No one else seemed to wonder about it; in fact, the party guests evinced a distinct lack of wonder at the message. They commented on the size and left it at that.            D’Mitri was suddenly accosted by a bear hug from behind and the smell of vodka and caviar on the assailant’s breath. Nick, of course.            “Hello, Russian friend! You like?” Nick had released his hold and waved his arms expansively around the room. The Icelandic model was by his side, smiling at us.            “This is Helen, my woman. Helen! Say hello to this man!” Nick pushed her forcefully towards me. Helen took it all in stride, literally and figuratively, holding out a hand with amazingly long fingers.            “You have the hands of an artist, Helen. Are you an artist?” I asked, trying to be polite in the face of Nick’s boorish behavior.            Her laugh was deep and scoffing, a laugh that seemed incongruous with her profession and with the types of people that Nick usually invited to his parties. Like she had brains and a a self-effacing sense of humor.            “Yes I am. I travel the world wearing beautiful clothes for which I am paid an exorbitant amount of money. Doesn’t that sound artistic?” She laughed that deep, throaty laugh again. What the hell, D’Mitri thought, is a girl like this doing with a guy like Nick? D’Mitri doubted that Nick even knew where Iceland was.            D’Mitri wandered around the rooms, marveling (again) at the size of Nick’s house and the decadence (as per usual) of the party. A bevy of pot-bellied pigs in lady liberty costumes passed D’Mitri. It was a sign of D’Mitri’s desensitization to Nick’s excesses that he barely gave them a look. Even the nude, snake-draped dancers in cages failed to elicit more than a cursory glance from D’Mitri.            The booze and the cocaine were starting to affect the party goers. Though Nick had eleven bathrooms, most of the guests were either too high or too drunk to find most of them. Long lines formed in front of the three easily-found bathrooms on the lower floor. Some of the guests, though, didn’t deign to wait. One man took it upon himself to relieve his urinary discomfort on Nick’s back fence. That’s what started it all.            “Hey! You! Why are you pissing on my motherfucking fence motherfucker?” The man on the other side of the fence couldn’t be identified, it being dark outside and the dim security lighting did little to alleviate this condition; likewise, the angry man couldn’t identify the mystery man peeing on the fence. I mention this because it is relevant to the story. (As I am the omniscient narrator, my word is inviolate. So go suck an egg if you don’t like it.)            D’Mitri heard this exchange and laughed quietly. Hijinks and outside peeing were always funny to guys. So were farting and witnessing someone else’s pain. And they wonder why they have such a tough time getting laid. But I digress.            The man with the pissy attitude (see what I did there?) arrived at the party, but he was not alone. He had a large and intimidating-looking pit bull with him, secured to the man’s hand with an actual chain. The dog strained at his metal leash, jerking the man’s arm as if the man were a marionette.            “Where the fuck is the pissing guy?” the man shouted at no one in particular. A hundred eyes turned towards the outburst. Most of the guests shrugged and returned to their conversations, their drinks, and the man or woman they were trying to impress. This served to make the man even angrier.            Striding inside with his dog, he toured the area with all of the aplomb and personality of a general who just found his wife in bed with a corporal. The dog barked and growled while the man looked for someone who looked as if they would be the type to piss on a man’s fence. What that would look like is anybody’s guess, but the man stuck to his strategy.            “Okay you fuckers! Who pissed on my fence? I’m not asking again!” But he did. Several times. No one seemed to care about the man, but the dog was scaring people. They moved away. Not to put too fine a point on it, they abandoned the immediate area that the dog occupied, and they did it with an impressive alacrity.            And then the dog got loose from the angry man.            It was inevitable, I suppose. The man, being who he was and the dog, being what he was, forced fate’s hand. The dog rushed to and fro, barking and growling and snapping at the well-heeled ankles of the now-terrified guests. This caused a chain reaction of events that resulted in…well, you know the state in which D’Mitri arrived at his house.            The angry man tossed the food table over, the crash of expensive food and crystal creating an expensive sound. Shrimp, crab, lobster and caviar slid across the floor and came to rest quietly and serenely against walls and shoes. The tablecloths folded themselves inexpertly, gathering stains the longer they remained on the floor. Guests were stampeding outside, causing a crush of bodies in the foyer. Yep. That’s where lady liberty was chilling.            Bodies bumped into bodies, some of the collisions causing some bodies to crash into the ice sculptures. This, in turn, caused the aforementioned bodies to careen into lady liberty. Lady liberty fell. The impact with the floor was resounding; the force of the impact sent shards of ice skittering on the floor, dancing merrily in a chaotic ballet of cold, making friends with the seafood that had been left to its own gruesome fate.            And, of course, the police arrived. Several cops were trying to simultaneously secure the dog and avoid its bite. As you can imagine, their success was nonexistent. They yelled at the owner to get his dog under control or else. The man yelled back that he would, after he found the guy who pissed on his fence. The cops retorted with their vague threat of “or else,” and this had the effect of the angry man taking a swing at one of the cops.            While all of this was going on. D’Mitri was being bitten by the dog. In a display of questionable decision making, D’Mitri decided to watch the drama with the angry man and the cops unfold. Unfortunately, the dog was doing the same, and the dog spotted D’Mitri’s right ankle as a likely target for his aggressive instincts. Soon, D’Mitri was dancing around, trying to shake the dog from his ankle. In a display of good (if desperate) decision making, D’Mitri decided to rid himself of his pants in an effort to dislodge the dog from his ankle. The trick worked; the dog was left with an empty pair of pants (which it quickly abandoned) and a puzzled expression on its face. D’Mitri was now in the unenviable position of wearing no pants and thus displaying his boxer shorts. The ones that were covered with bags of cashews, almonds and the like. Yes, he was wearing boxers that screamed that they were nut holders.            A pretty girl watched as D’Mitri tried to get away from the dog and recover his dignity. He was only half successful at this, but the girl still smiled at him and gave him an invitational wave of the arm. She was behind a trellis, holding a large bowl. The cocaine.            “You escaped with your life, at least. I escaped with the coke. I guess we both did a fine job in the melee,” she laughed out the words. The pretty girl frowned at the damage done to his ankle and quickly took sensible action in the form of retrieving a first aid kit from the kitchen.            “Bixby. Bixby! Come here! We have a hero in need of your expertise!” The girl looked at D’Mitri before responding, her eyes twinkling with mirth.            “Bixby’s a doctor. He’ll fix you right up,” she said. During the time it took the very drunk (or high – or both) Bixby to meander his way to the girl’s voice, the girl had unwrapped a gauze pad and soaked it with vodka and applied a small amount of cocaine to the pad. A paste formed on the surface, looking much more innocent than it was.            Bixby applied the gauze and the tape, being extremely liberal with the tape. He was also falling over as he knelt, so the tape often went around D’Mitri’s ankle in exciting and unique directions.            “Uh. Bixby. You own stock in this tape company?” Bixby looked at the girl, looked at D’Mitri’s ankle, and shrugged as he stumbled to his feet. The girl had to catch his arm so that he wouldn’t suffer the indignity of falling over the trellis.            “Let me take you home, sweetie. You don’t belong here,” she said. She intertwined her fingers with D’Mitri’s and led him to a nearby bench.            “What do you mean, I don’t belong here? I was invited!” D’mitri sounded more irritated than he was.            “Nick’s acquaintances are all the same types. The progeny of the super-rich, the professionally beautiful, the professionally musical, or the professionally athletic. You are none of these,” the pretty girl looked at D’Mitri and smiled. She smiles a lot, thought D’Mitri, but it isn’t always a happy smile.            “No, I still sing for my supper. My 120k salary isn’t especially attractive to Nick’s friends…”            “Acquaintances. Nick doesn’t have any friends. Except you!” The pretty girl had just realized why D’Mitri was at the party.            “But I get by, you know. I own a house with a nice lawn and a two-car garage. My dog has his shots and I always walk him on a leash. I use my outdoor grill often. I have cable TV and five streaming services. I don’t have Nick’s money, but I’m good.”            “I, on the other hand, came from the seed of a billionaire. I go to parties like this one, I attend charity functions for the family, and I am generally left alone to spend as much money as I care to spend, and to use my time in any fashion I choose.”            “That’s a nice life,” D’Mitri said, rubbing his ankle. It felt numb from the cocaine.            “Yours is better,” she countered.            The police were wrapping up the party. The angry man was handcuffed, the dog was under the influence of an electric jolt from a Taser, and tired, high, happy guests were straggling to their chauffeured vehicles. There was broken furniture everywhere, and lady liberty was melting away into an ugly amorphous mass. Vomit was everywhere, looking like a gargantuan Jackson Pollock work spread over grass, floor, and wall. The pretty girl patted D’Mitri on the arm, standing him up and leading him to her vehicle.            “C’mon sweetie. I’m taking you home.”            D’Mitri turned to her. He wobbled slightly because of his injured ankle, and he was wearing those ridiculous boxers. The pants were M.I.A. He held his head up proudly.            “I can make it on my own. Really. I’m fine,” D’Mitri sounded more defiant than he was.            The pretty girl looked at him and laughed heartily. He liked that laugh. It was genuine, like the Icelandic model’s laugh.            “You aren’t understanding me, sweetie. I am taking. You. Home.” She gave D’Mitri a significant look.            “Oh!” D’Mitri finally came to the right conclusion.            “Tell me where you live, sweetie. I can’t find your wallet.” D’Mitri patted where his pockets belonged, hitting only boxers and embarrassment.            “The cleaning crew will find it. You’ll get it back tomorrow, with everything intact.”            D’Mitri looked at her and shook his head.            “Maybe missing some money, though.”            The pretty girl shook her head forcefully in negation.            “No. It is an unfortunate trait in our immigrants that they don’t steal money from a found wallet or handbag. Nor do they purloin the odd piece of jewelry laying around. Deplorable, really,” the pretty girl mused.            D’Mitri frowned and faced her after flopping ungraciously into her waiting limousine. The driver was scary by his very implacability, so D’Mitri tried to put him out of his mind. The pretty girl simply ignored the driver after giving him a brief smile.            “Unfortunate trait? I don’t…”            “No, you don’t. Think like an American, that is. Sad, because you are very American success story. This is the land of the free and the home of the brave isn’t it? Free to pursue your own interests, brave enough to do it by any means necessary. You think my daddy made billions by playing fair? Or Nick?”            D’Mitri nodded at her logic. She was, in fact, just like Nick. Or her daddy was, at any rate. Either way, it was a philosophy that was deeply ingrained in her. Her voice broke in on these thoughts.            “Yeah, I’m like Nick. But I have lady parts and he doesn’t so…” she turned to D’Mitri and kissed him on the lips. It was one of those kisses that linger sweetly, like the smell of jasmine in the back yard. D’Mitri wanted the lady parts, and more jasmine-lingering kisses.            “Home, Jeeves!” he said boisterously.            “His name’s Sancho,” the pretty girl said.            “Home, Sancho!”            The destruction of the party receded into the distance; the aftermath would have to be dealt with in due course. There would be recriminations, wounds, and costs to assume. But there would be another party at some point. And another. And another. Their vague and ephemeral allure would just grow stronger with each subsequent party because…because…            “Why are you going home with me?” D’Mitri asked, genuinely intrigued.            “A girl has needs, you know?”            D’Mitri nodded. So do guys. Even bourgeois guys like him.            “Besides,” she said, turning her luscious face to him, “you might die of rabies soon, so I want to get something out of you first.” D’Mitri wanted to be appalled, but he wasn’t.            He was, after all, an American.


Intuitivity When I received the notice, I set it on the desk with all the others. Applying for jobs has gotten to be an exercise in futility, but one I can’t afford to abandon. Not a joke, not a last-ditch effort to procrastinate my way to a better world. I needed to find work. Not just for the money, which I needed desperately, but I was turning into a bowl of Jell-O fruit salad. I was that grape suspended in the green shimmering coagulated mess of what Auntie had insisted I take home with me after our, “old fashioned,” holiday dinner. She said, “You look thin.” Only one way to respond to that. I took the Jell-O, thanked her, kissed her goodbye, and left before she decided I needed more substantial. Being bored is not difficult when your life seems to belong to someone else. I began to debate the possibility of finding that umbrella that would allow me to feel, “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious,” if even for just a day. It was during this internal struggle between deciding whether chocolate would be better given my present state, or perhaps Tootie-Fruitie given the chance I would be abducted by any foreign entity that would have me, and for no other reason than, they could.  So, as I have learned to do when experiencing stress, and no immediate remedies are in sight, I go to sleep. Not going to bed, not that kind of sleep.  More like hibernation, where you are awake, but it is as if you are watching yourself dream. The most imaginative way of escaping, while remaining, as it is at the moment, the only thing I can afford. The notice I received, although it looked like just another nebulous attempt at redefining my employment status, changed my perception of what could be mind-altering, if I remained in my self-induced limbo. #

“Go down the hall. On the left, the last door, go in, fill out the application form. An electronic screen will appear, once you have scanned the completed form, it will advise you how to continue. Please proceed as instructed.” The voice, much like the automated voice of any call center reassured me by its non-committal tone, that I was safe, we were safe. Nothing out of the ordinary would or could occur within the confines of this concrete building. Its interior complicit with its structural systems, floors, walls, ceilings, all a glazed white.

Walking towards the last door required concentration, as I began to become disoriented. The lights on the ceiling appeared to be on the floor and the wall on the left, mirrored the walls on the right, making my entombment more satisfying than I expected it would be, but then I knew, they knew that. The last door was not really a door, more a suggestion of what a door could be. I passed through to find a monitor situated on a concrete pedestal. Next to it was a folder which I didn’t see at first, because it blended so efficiently into its surroundings. The form was three-dimensional print on a single dimension paper. It took a few minutes to relate to its purpose. The questions were precise; there were only two. The first question confusingly simple: Do you believe? The second question appropriately following the first and related to its need, asked: If so, why? and If not, why not? My natural tendency when asked a definitive question, is to give a non-definitive answer, which I knew they were expecting, and therefore considered giving the answer I believed they were looking for, but didn’t expect. Upon further deliberation, I realized they weren’t as devious as I had presupposed, and answered as I would under normal conditions; I left the question blank. The why question was a bit more difficult because, it supposed I had answered the preceding question, which I had not. The conundrum I faced was not unusual, given the circumstances. Deviance I had been trained to both respect and expect. It was the way civility was ordained and order maintained. One for all, and all for one, that sort of thing. But then one never could be sure because there were no rules. Rules would have been against the rules, as Intuitivity was the only subject, or I should say, the only subject, subject to intuitive scrutiny, should one not adhere to intuitive principles. As I pondered my responses before submitting them to the scanning apparatus, a red light appeared, like that on an English Bobbies vehicle, began to spin, and the piercing sound of a siren ricocheted off the walls making concentration extremely difficult. I could only assume my reaction was being captured and recorded, for examination at a later time.  It was fortunate I had been trained to expect the unexpected. As suddenly as it had begun, the lights and noise subsided into the nothingness that surrounded me. The monitor blinked to life. A black screen with iridescent green letters, floating in a random sequence appeared. I realized, that what I was intended to do, or what they would assume I would do, was find  direction by combining the letters, to provide the answer I knew I was destined to find, and then relay that answer to the machine for confirmation.  It was all so predictable, I knew there had to be a hidden agenda buried somewhere in the façade of the disorganized colliding letters that complained loudly as they bumped into one another. Our accepted civil responses, “sorry and excuse me,” were being abdicated for more perverse and derogatory examples of the language, “Watch it buddy,” and, “try that again and I’ll,” and on and on. I had never experience such uncivility in my entire existence, which is what I realized I was expected to feel, so I pretended to be titillated by the unique situation, and the jargon that accompanied it. One thing I have learned and retained over the terms of my existence, is to always do the opposite of what Intuitivity expects of you. It is not only required, but in some corners of our universe,  is the only way to get and keep a means of employment, that is commensurate with the limitations of your programmed existence.

My predictable behavior, no matter its unpredictability, was apparently not what was predictably required. The room turned from its majestic, glazed white, to the used tire blackness and bleakness of a Monday here on Creptillian. My future had been shortened proportionately by my irreconcilable responses to our yearly assimilation test, which determines whether you are considered compromiseable because of opinions developed on your own, and with no consideration to the unpredictability of un-intuitiveness, or whether you had been paying attention at all. I was found to be in the top 1% of all those that failed the likelihood of becoming compatible, when it came to believing that hope was possible, after being confirmed by the best intuitive minds in the galaxy that it may be irreconcilable with Intuitivity.  And all because I didn’t believe in the old adage, “You can’t teach an old dog, new tricks.”


You had opened the door. He was standing there in an ugly black tuxedo with a boutonniere wilting as you speak. But it probably had been wilting for a while. You don’t think he did anything else in his life important. Except try to get you to like him.

“Too bad.” You reminded him. His smile lingered, but your eyes were rolling. “I don’t like you.” You were about to shut the door when he told you he wasn’t trying to like you—he was here because he knew you thought he was dead. You shrugged. You couldn’t care whether he told the rats in the gutters he was alive. You just weren’t interested in him. And that was that. You slammed the door and waited for him to leave. But you sensed—with growing irritation as your long, star-studded nails dug into your clenched palms—that he was still standing there, waiting for you to jump into his arms and accept him as your husband, fiancé or boyfriend even. You won’t. You wouldn’t. You don’t care. You wouldn’t care. You don’t know why you had cared. Why you wasted your time.

You opened the door and just muttered, “You can go now.” “But you thought I was dead.” Of course. His retort. You sighed, your heavily evergreen beaded tawny hand clutched firmly on the brass doorknob. You wanted to vanish, to leave with him knowing he didn’t belong to such a woman like you. But thinking he had been dead, you didn’t want—deep, deep down—to just leave him. You’re not someone who would just ditch people. You’re loving, kind. Friendly. Dutiful. You just… You pursed your lips and threw open the door. “What do you want?” Crossing arms, you held each elbow in a palm. “Why are you here?” He snorted and shook his head. “You know why.” The man scuffled a black, assumedly polished dress shoe on the finished asphalt and took a step. “You’re about to step in the wet cement.” You called. He snickered again but stopped with his lifted foot pointed downwards at the cement like a hunting dog’s paw when smelling the wind and visually tracking its master’s bird of prey. But this man was no dog. He was a weirdo. You even remember your senior picture day. Now, thirteen years later, he was even weirder. You didn’t need to know any more.

“Guy?” You dashed outside, your bare feet scratching the rough steps but then halting right in front of the wet cement pathway separating you two. He opened his mouth when he saw your bare feet, but you cut in.

“I know, I know. Just get some shoes on.” You turned your head away as he continued, saying he was going to say that you should be careful. “About what? Not stepping in the wet cement?” “No!” His persistence drew you back, almost begrudgingly. “I just don’t want you to get stuck.” You threw your head back and laughed. “Stuck?” You reached out and grabbed his cuffed wrists, him asking why you were suddenly kind to him even when you had killed those times you could’ve invited him in. “Well,” you pulled him across as he stepped dramatically over, “I’ll help you over this cement.” “And then invite me in?” He hooted, shuffling both feet around to face you. You just looked at them, mind blank. “No.” You shook your head and then bolted into the house. Crashing through the door and then opening a wooden cabinet, you grabbed a plastic container of pictures and then scurried back to the man. Suddenly, your hands shot out right in front of you and your brushed, low ponytail kissed the wet cement. Or rather it smacked a millimeter into it, and then you heard loud, instigative laughter from above. You instinctively tried using your hands to push yourself up to punch the guy but immediately felt stupid—they sunk in so your arms looked handless. Using your feet, you tried heaving yourself up. But try as you might, you couldn’t push hard enough to lift your evergreen hand bracelet out of this frightfully embarrassing situation. “Help—please?” You begged him.

Suddenly, you were in the air, and then your soles pounded the white concrete behind the cement. “We’ve got to move!” He grabbed the box of pictures you were going to show him because you found yourself wanting to reconnect over those long-lost years. You wanted to get back together—although you didn’t love him and never would even if you two were the last people on earth. “Come on!” He yelled, frantically beckoning you on. “What?” You inquired, a little oblivious. “What’s going on—” Then you heard a whining, grinding sound as a monstrosity of a bulldozer beeped and rolled extremely slowly towards you. You yelped and then scampered out of its way. It lowered and then dumped a huge mountain of slimily cement-grey cement into the ditch of a narrow pathway trenched in front of the sidewalk in the asphalt driveway. “Amanda!”

“I’m coming!” You rushed over to the man, his hand grabbing yours as you both hurried through the cracked, splitting door that creaked more than the bulldozer beeped. “I got the container!” He stated the obvious as he held it out to you amidst your eye-rolling sighs. You both were in the living room, standing in front of an ugly mustard-yellow leather couch and an ugly wooden side table. You looked at him like he wasn’t making any sense, and repositioned your arms so your palms held your elbows again.

“Why’d you bring me in here?” You questioned. He shrugged, throwing his palms up. “The quicksand—” You slowly closed your eyes. “The wet cement.” “Whatever!” His eyes bulged, but yours rolled to the ceiling. But of course, he ignored this gesture and continued. “We need to get out of here. You see that cement?” He pointed out the window, but you were already looking. “Yeah.” You turned back and half-closed your eyes. “W—“ “We need to escape!” You slouched on your hip. “What’s the problem?” “Mandy!” He was ballistic. Over nothing. Over wet cement. What was he even talking about? It was just a sunny day outside in the neighborhood with construction workers filling a ditch. It wasn’t like green slime rained from purple clouds. Or an orange orangutan dominated the empire, desiring to destroy the world all because of his selfish self. It was like it was just an average day with average people doing average things. It was just an average— A light crash swung you around. He was searching with a hand like he was trying to find his dropped glasses. “Here.” You hurried around the wooden table and relocated the half-empty plastic container onto the table. You shook and scraped off the majority of the wet cement and fell to the floor to slide some pictures from underneath this furniture. Once you had peeled the spider webs and dust bunnies away, you plopped them onto the white top and looked at the still searching man obviously not understanding that he only had to get two more pictures. You smirked and slid a toe around, pushing the pictures in circles and away from him so he had to scramble to get them. Snickering became complete hilarity until the man panicked, shooting his hand out, grasping them and swiping them up to slam them on to the table, his eyes bulging. Utterly confused, you stared at him, eyes wide. “What’s wrong?”

He bit his lip. “Amanda.” He sighed up at you, and you quickly snatched a look out the window. But nothing terrifying was going on. “At least not now.” As if he could read your mind. “I’m supposed to be dead. You thought I was dead. Now I’m alive, and they’re after me.” You scrunched your face together after eyeing him suspiciously. “Who is?” He jabbed at the outside. You tried to imagine what cement monsters or construction demons could be infesting the world outside this shabby place in order to get to your friend. After a dry explanation, he then clutched the container like a precious object of his and then headed for the basement. Barging through the door, he beckoned with an arm, and you scampered over, stomping downstairs until he hopped up on the rail. You found yourself doing the same. Sliding tempted you to scream “Wheeee!” and just ride along. You wanted to just relax from the stress of him randomly spazzing and panicking. He had started already whipping out pictures like a magician whips out a card in front of his guest. “Oh!” You gasped, pushing yourself off, leaving dry cement spots on the wooden rail. When the guy started elaborating that you couldn’t leave the handprints there, you almost fired back, “Are you—” But the guy shoved a picture in your hand. You looked over it, studying the wet cement into the asphalt driveway’s ditch. Then you bent your head forward and stepped back, covering your chest with a hand and gawking. “That’s…!” “Yep. It’s right outside.” You both locked eyes. “We’ll have to move. We can’t stay here.” He threw the picture back with the container’s others, and you ran away into the pitch darkness. Pestering him about how he obviously knew exactly where we were going, the sound of him jumping and then coming loudly down on metal flooring rudely interrupted him. It was telling you that you just had to follow.

Suddenly, a beacon of white light like that of a stage light for a solo performance appeared. You didn’t know where the light came from. “What are we doing?” You slowed down, gulping hard. “What are we doing here, exactly?” “Amanda.” He closed his eyes. You scrunched your face and then thought about it, realizing. “Let’s go.” You shook your head and walked calmly past him but noticed he stood stock-still. Stubborn as a donkey, maybe, absolutely refusing to move. A Duchenne smile formed.

“Ow! Ow!” He laughed, jerking away from your punching hand. You threw your hands in the air and said, “Well, you weren’t leaving.” “So you want me to leave. Besides, we’re safe here.” He flicked his eyebrows up and down, and you gave a rigid smile. He turned away, the stupid grin still wiggling between his round, should-be flushed cheeks. He wouldn’t quit. Maybe you should let your guard down again. Besides, he wasn’t a complete stranger. You both met back in early middle school, you dashing up to him and asking him where your homeroom class was. He just shrugged. Cute. But this time, he wasn’t. He was infuriating. But he dropped the container and repeated convincingly, “We’re safe here. The light is our safety zone—”

“I thought they were coming for us!” Your eyes bulging now, you grabbed his white, starched sleeve and tugged it. But he stayed rooted to the ground. You let yourself care about something else, calming down. “What is this?” You turned to him, but he didn’t look at you.

“Well,” he said seriously that bordered on funny although you didn’t want to admit it. “We’re here.” “What do you mean?” You probably sighed all your confusion and frustration and lividity away. Well, not away but enough for this moment. “Guy, I just…I’m sorry. I—” “Sorry?” He spun on a heel, turning right towards you. “You don’t need to be sorry. Just come over and slow dance with me.” “Slow dance?” That wasn’t in his nature. You stared at him and furrowed your brows. “Dance…?” You repeated slowly, wondering. “Yeah!” Before you knew it, you were right in front of him, his hands holding yours, his shoes tap dancing rhythmically to some beat. If there was a beat, which there wasn’t. “There’s no music.” You stated, but the man nodded his head softly.

“I got it.” He positioned your hand so you both stood before each other like a couple about to dance together. Then he started singing, softly, and then normally. You smiled a little, stepping along with his shoes, careful to shift them before they came down on your toes. But then you moved your body to the song, spinning around and twirling about. Being pulled and let go and then pulled again was actually fun. No one was there to watch you. No one mocked or pointed. Just you and him. You rested your head against his shoulder. You slow danced, you closing your eyes.

He slowed down and you almost grit your teeth—you didn’t want him to stop! You looked up at him and he asked what was wrong. “Don’t stop!” You pleaded and grinned when he just told you that he was getting to a slow part. He sang it for a while and then swung you around, singing louder and moving quicker. Twirling and spinning and then coming back against him, your smile grew big and proud, knowing you’d never get a moment like this again. So you lifted a foot and rotated yourself on the ball of your left foot as he took your raised right hand and pulled you to him. Stopping, you flashed a grateful smile and hugged him.

“Thanks.” You whispered. You slow-danced again, shoes moving simultaneously with bare feet. When he stopped swaying, you stepped back and freed your hands. “That was beautiful. Thank you!” The hands and bracelet were checked. “The cement. It’s gone.” “When you danced, all the cement stuff is gone—” “For now! But we’re here!” A growling, arrogant voice echoed a little off the walls, causing you two to flee the spotlight. While you ran, you asked your friend where you were going as you scampered around a wall and then dashed down a flight of stairs. Entering another hallway of black and blueness with very little light, you skidded to a halt. “No!” His eyes bulged. “We have to keep going. The reason why we were able to dance is because of the spotlight. It washed off the wet cement I pulled you out of.” “How far does this place go?” You looked ahead to a tunnel you entered —all black and blue. No lights except those lighting the corners of the front and end of this weird contraption. Were you going through a construction site? What was going on? Was this a maze of some sort?

You inquired, but no answer came. You just chugged on. Soon, you had run through the tunnel thing and were going through these— “Wait!” You slammed yourself to a stop, and he jammed his shoes into the ground, rolled forward and then spun around while getting back up and rounding around. “This is a trap. I sense it. We need to get out of here.” “Those cement wolves. They’ll get us.” You listened, but you didn’t hear them. You gestured in the opposite direction. “They’re not coming because we’re running. Because we’ve stopped, they’ll be onto us. But if we keep moving…” You surveyed the very dim place. Locating a piece of glass, you ran over and picked it up. Tilting it, you noticed something about the glint—lining it with other glints, you saw a bird. “Hey,” you told the guy as it flapped its wings and snapped its beak. “Come over here. I want to show you something.”

“Huh?” His dark silhouette came closer. “What’s going on?” “We’re coming!” roared the eerily intimidating voice, closer now.

“Let’s go.” The man grabbed your free hand, and you raced again through the tunnels and over rocks and under bridges. The whole time, you tilted and moved it, the bird that was made of refracted light clucking its beak and then suddenly flying out from the glass. You watched in awe as it escaped its own place of confinement.

“Guy. Let’s escape. Let’s… here.” You bent down, running your free hand under some stream water, a handful of pebbles coming along for the ride. Casting them randomly so the wolves would think you went in separate directions, you told the man to stop. He did.

Showing him the formerly glinting glass, you moved it so it reflected your faces. You looked at each other. You looked at the glass. You saw yourselves. “Trapped in the mirrored world.” He explained, scratching his head. He swallowed hard and wrung his hands. “We need to save ourselves.” “How are we going to do that?” Your glass self wrung her own hands and shook her head, asking the guy what they were going to do. The man just blinked at the ground and shrugged. Then he looked at you, but you cocked your head because you couldn’t see how he felt. Then he sniffed, and you could just see some tan against a hint of other tan. “Guy? You okay?” “I’m fine.” Some white whipped away from you, and you knew he had jerked his head away. You bent your head apologetically.

“Sorry.” You muttered. But you felt your hand lighten, and stood shoulder to shoulder with the guy as you studied the jagged mirror. Your mirror selves were panicking. You were almost crying, but he was trying to calm you down. But you wouldn’t listen. You started to sob. His face was contorted in anger but then he yanked you into a hug, admitting he was petrified as well. He also disclosed he didn’t know what to do or what you should do. What we should do.

“That’s how I feel.” The real guy’s voice quivered. You don’t know what to say. You just breathed, “Yeah.” And then hugged him, hoping this gesture would help. It did, but he shuffled away, stepping past you. You pursed your lips and stared at the blackness below you. Then you sniffled, too.