HEART AND SOUL [2524 words. 8 pages.] AWAKENING

The room itself seemed machine.

To breech the one side door and to step upon the brilliant white of its porcelain flooring took know-how. The room, otherwise, rejected those foreign to its central systems. It was not a brutal, alarm-blaring rejection, as much as it was its deep unwelcoming glare. The corner’s lit when the door was opened, there were no windows, and each surface was pristine and glassy. Opening and entering was akin to unmasking an electrical device and being faced with parts, and pieces, and wires, and components. If one had no intimacy with these parts, they were inclined by the oppressive unknown to shut the contraption. To leave it alone. Such was the room with the machine at the centre. The machine itself wasn’t much larger than an office printer, but alone at the heart of this place it had an immediate importance, an unnerving cunning. Though, in the end, one must say to oneself that it was, simply, a machine. The two men who entered through the door were familiar with this concept, as they were familiar with the machine. They entered talking, and the lights shone on, and they brought their dirty soles along the sparkling white flooring and to the machine with both leisure and purpose. They were both dressed in business casual, with powder blue button-ups and brown loafers. Middle-aged, one just a few inches shorter than the other, with a receding hairline. He laid an arm on the grey top of the machine, and still conversing, assessed the display on the machine’s large protruding screen. After idly pushing a few buttons the machine began its processes, whirring and clicking as it went. The men chattered as coloured canvas came, bit by bit, through the side arm of the contraption. At the end of the process warm canvas fell into a tray. The men knew to let it cool and so for a while they continued talking and continued printing. What was left, after approximately five minutes of office chatter, was six separate two-hundred-and-ninety-seven by four-hundred-and-twenty-millimetre canvas sheets with individual pieces of art. The shorter man picked them up from the tray and shuffled through them one at a time. There was a short silence between the men as the inspection continued, and the man holding the sheets looked suddenly very engrossed. His messy eyebrows knitted into a frown. He peered over his shoulder to assess the display screen once again. “What’s wrong?” He didn’t respond immediately. Instead, the man clicked and scrolled the display a few times, his eyes moved a quick right-left as he skimmed through words and numbers. “It’s just, the prints don’t match this week’s trends…” He dismissed the canvas to his colleague and leaned over the machine, again fiddling with its display. His colleague took to sifting through the sheets carefully. “What are the trends right now? Can you see?” He asked. “Exotic animals, portraits of animals,” He listed. “Simplistic backgrounds, realism, nature.” He turned to retrieve the prints. “Not this—” He muttered, “this abstract crap.” “Maybe its listing the trends wrong?” “No,” He sounded stern. “I was just with Carry, these are right. This is what the other companies are printing.” His colleague hummed, confused and acknowledging this confusion. He watched idly, unsure of what to do as the shorter man ran through the settings once again. “Maybe its broken, spewing ink everywhere?” He looked down at the spread of colours on the canvas, mainly primary colours, spattered on in loose shapes and breaking lines. It looked messy, young, unsure of what it wanted to be, colours with a hesitance. That was his interpretation. “It can’t be.” The shorter sighed. “These are exactly what it meant to print, but none of this matches the algorithm.” After a short pause he moved off the machine, putting his hands on his hips. “I’ll plug in some manual prompts and then we’ll try again.”

CRITICS “We printed multiple times. This is the only thing that comes out.” He nearly flung the canvas into the technician’s face, holding it away from himself like a garbage bag that stunk. All the technician did was raise his brows, a false concern. He broke past the office worker and began inspecting the printer, clicking on the display.

Behind the technician there sounded a dry laugh. “You know,” said the office worker. “We can’t sell this. Our company depends on this and its unsellable.” The technician heard the dramatic slap of the office workers arms dropping to his sides. “This problem is serious, and it does involve your pay.” Opening the first side tray and lifting the scanner the technician continued to ignore the office worker’s tirade. He found nothing abnormal in these two portions of the machine, the display screen itself didn’t indicate any issue. He scratched away a little red stain in the corner of the scanner before closing it and moving deeper into the machine’s grey functions. “No ink problems.” He commented, peering inside. The short office worker scoffed. “Like I said.” Looking pointedly at his taller colleague, who gave a dismissive shrug. “It’s not the ink it’s—it’s—well… I don’t know what it is, but it needs to be fixed right now.” “Well,” said the technician. He had turned around to face them. “I’m sorry to say it but everything looks normal. All the processes are working as they should be. The only issue here is that this printer isn’t following the trends like its programmed to. It’s definitely a coding issue. Other than that,” he shrugged, “it could use cleaning, there were ink drops in the scanner. You should watch out for that.” “Can you fix it?” Leered the office worker. “I’ll call someone who can.”                                ---

“Honestly? I’ve never seen this before. Something is wrong but… I don’t think I can fix this.” The new IT worker shut his laptop, disconnecting it from the printer. “So, what now?” The four men looked to each other for some sort of plan, some sort of answer, as feet tapped nervously on the floor. The failed artworks were strewn angrily across the printer and the tray. “Disconnect it and try again tomorrow? Or you could wipe it.”

                              ---

Two blows rattled the printer’s frame. “God, what the hell is wrong with this thing.” The office worker hissed. His fist remained suspended mid-air prepared again to slam it down onto the surface of the machine. “We’re already behind on next week’s release.” “There’s nothing we can do.” Said the other. “If it’s still broken by tomorrow, they’ll just have to wipe it.” He scooped up the failed prints as they began leaving the room. Once outside the prints were thrown into the bin, not dismissively either, but with force, with hatred, with anger.

SPITE “Do you think it’ll work?” The tall office worker looked up with a question. In his hand he held the plug tauntingly over the outlet, waiting on it as if placing a lucky bet. The shorter simply huffed and shrugged. He smiled. “Well, here it goes.” The plug fit in place just as it was meant to. The office worker stood back up and hurried to stand beside his colleague. They waited urgently before it, in stark gulping silence, for the button to finally flicker on. Wordlessly, the tall one pressed the machine on and then went straight back to standing in nervous wait. He shuffled and tapped his feet, watching the slow awakening of the contraption before them, in the centre of the very clean and very important white room. At first, it’s display lit an empty white and shortly thereafter produced a spinning grey load icon. Whilst this loaded there was an audible shifting of machinery in the bowels of the grey printer. A ding alerted the two to the fresh welcoming display. The tall one nearly jumped at the sound. “It looks like everything’s—” He’s cut short by a starting whir and a sharp click. “—okay?” Then another whir and another click. There’s the clear thrum of an electrical engine, the processes inside the machines firing signals along a grass green motherboard. “What in the hell is it doing now.” The short one hammers it again with a fist, but the racket continues undisrupted, and they are forced to watch, baffled more than anything as coloured canvas ejects from the bay. “Did you print this?” He scowled. “No.” Defended the other. “No. Yesterday they told us not to print.” He said it rather sharply, his sounds cut short in a snap of anger. His arms had crossed unconsciously, but it seemed his colleague was uninterested with his defence. He was instead collecting the recently printed canvas and gathering it hastily before his eyes. He noticed also that the machine had not yet stopped. The steady thrum of its liveliness continued to bore into his ears. The more he heard it, the more it made him want to grind his teeth. “More…” Said the shorter, picking up the next print. His voice was calm, a false calm. He ripped up the third print straight from the bay. “More of this—this shit!” He boomed. Spited and scorned he flung away the canvas dramatically to the floor. Before the colour on the fourth could dry he had also torn it from the bay. The red ink stained his fingertips, seeped deep into his powder-blue attire. He wrung it for its colour and dropped it bent, twisted to the tile. “Ugly, vapid colour-vomit from a goddamned printer!” Shifting nervously the other squeaked, “What do we—” “Shut it off!” He cried over the constant whir and click. “Shut it down, and the IT will wipe it tomorrow!” “Yes, okay!” He breathed. The man hurried over himself, finding the glowing white button and clicking. Clicking it for a while. Clicking it until the thrum of life died away with a sad huff and the printer was off, the display black and all its blinkers voided. “Call the IT.” He placed his hands on his hips. “Call them now.”

OPUS It was the very morning when the machine was set to be wiped by a group of IT professionals. Of course, the procedure didn’t require professionals, but the workers had insisted. At current it was before morning tea and these trained technicians would not appear before lunch. Today, the situation with the machine had not halted productivity. In fact, in preparations to change schedule and most likely replace the machine the office work had only increased into a restless fervour. At this time, before morning tea on a Thursday, whilst most everyone was typing onto a screen in a cubicle under white over-head lights, many things occurred. That short office worker from previous was mid-word, finger on the keys, when his screen turned dark abruptly. He was startled, even more so when the over-head lights flickered. All at once the building shuddered and the devices clicked in a single great bout of protest. Light from the morning still shone through, but it was dim. The office worker looked to his partner. “Power outage? Now?” “Seems like it.” Mumbled the colleague. Herd confusion set in first. They could all see each other looking around, looking at neighbours, wondering how long the darkness would last. “Funny, nothing’s happened and they didn’t warn us of anything.” He folded his arms and reclined in his chair. “How long until—” “Oh!” Every screen and every light flickered for a brief moment. The machine’s all seemed to awaken nauseatingly from the brink of a coma. “You spoke too soon.” Joked the short one. “Can someone check that everything’s running. Wifi?” He watched them, still reclined as a few hurried to fidget with their returned displays, peeking into rooms and flicking lights and pressing buttons. One woman, he saw, at the door of the printer, briefly stuck her head into the room. He thought to himself clearly, ‘silly girl, the printer’s not even running,’ as he could see the interior lights automatically shine on. However, instead of quietly shutting the door again as he’d expected, he saw her mouth drop into a gasp and quickly release the handle as if it had burnt to hold. “The printer,” she looked about in panic, “something’s very wrong with it.” No one had really heard her, except for him. “What’s wrong” He called. “The printer, it’s absolutely destroyed. There’s ink all over the place.” His colleague immediately turned and frowned. The office worker himself got up very slowly, up from his chair. He made a hesitant few steps forwards, unsure of what he’d find in that goddamned room, with that goddamned printer. The woman looked distraught as she pushed the door aside for him. At this angle, on his way towards the room he could see nothing but bright white. The sight was comically close to onscreen depictions of the ‘shining light’ at the end of the long black tunnel. Of something biblical or unearthly. He rounded straight into the room where he could see the clear rays of the burning floor lights and the way in which they cast distant bright-shapes on the porcelain. When finally, he stepped a foot inside and saw the printer he himself gasped. “What is it. What’s wrong.” His partner urged. “Let me see.” He saw the printer at the very centre of the very bright and unimaginably white room. He also saw, a scene of angry blazing colours. Primary colours. A rich red, yellow, blue. This colour was all over the place, and it was seeping and splattered from the centre in a violent, hateful way. Each seething pool of sapphire and crimson and gold felt void, felt world swallowing. He stood there and felt his eyes dry as he remained captured by the essence of pure— Of pure— Pure—what? What was it? He felt his gaze sinking into the boiling tar-thick spill along the floor. It was motionless but he felt it moving, encroaching, consuming his brain red, yellow, blue. The white floor may have been him. He may be the white floor. The printer itself was splattered in colour. It was thoroughly dead, he could see. Irreparable. The display was a stark unresponsive white, the processes soaked in ink. The printer seemed unnervingly tragic to him, all of a sudden. He couldn’t help but feel that this was intentional, proof of its unnerving cunning. His eyes widened a gaping white, and he felt tricked, played by his own disregard. The office worker raced from the room and to the trash can. He threw aside papers and typed letter and dug out from the bottom the thick healthy canvas that they had discarded the day before. When he returned the crowd had grown. More people began to pour inside. The word, it seemed had travelled branches and the room swelled with unfamiliar faces, all lined up before the printer. Angrily, he pushed his way back into the room, and finally, there, he held up his canvas. He held it up before his eyes and before the scene and could see finally, the familiar spread of red and yellow and blue.


Once, and never again, Death did not come. Everywhere was blackness. Faces blotted through the shadows like inky letters bleeding from one page to another, staining layers of the King’s miasmic manifesto who sat upon his throne surrounded by the darkness as if afloat a pond reflecting stars betwixt a forest shrouded in night, entranced with fear by the hellish play twinkling in the sky above that plagued his sleepless mind with paranoia. Every rasping breath bulged his milk-glass eyes wide in terror of what lies beyond the veil of light. He dared not to move, fearful that the star-stippled surface would shatter like glass, casting him into the unknown darkness below. The stillness whispered,            It is coming,            It is coming,            It is coming. ¥ The Prince laid across his bed drenched in dappled sunlight, lazing the day by wont of One Hundred delicate fingers feeding his every pleasure in wait of wake for him to rule a million fingers more that would mould his tomorrow. On this day, like any other, where deliciousness has lost its meaning in monotony, this day would offer medicine and pride would name it poison, spreading its sickness to every soul until wellness has become a festering idol. The Prince ventured from his palace and so crossed the threshold from paradise to not, his stare hardening to stone in the lowly place, casting indifference to the filthy mouths espousing pathetic pleas for little things. What a pity, he thought, to waste wishes on practically nothing. Suddenly, the Prince’s wrist was seized by a beggar, whose bright stare smoldered the prince’s stony gaze unto great obsidian mirrors, evoking within their reflections a pestilent demon there to drag the Prince to the fiery pits. The beggar spoke, You do not have tomorrow, for you are already dead. Even this moment is beyond your grasp. So, what will you do now, when you have nothing left? The royal guard pulled the beggar away and the Prince shouted in his trail, Hang him! Hang him! Hang him! ¥ Strung by foot and hanged before the court, above royal flagstone and below the sunken eyes of the King’s throne, the beggar stared into the void of his damnation. Yet his smile never faded and instead the grave visage was crowned, shaking in horrific wait of their dark angelic guest who haunts the peripheries of his waking nightmares. No words were said at the beggar’s trial, but the King’s tremored hand signaled,

On with it And the hand of the executioner dragged his ceremonial blade across the beggar’s throat. The Prince at his father’s right could not stifle his mirth at the sight of what he created. The beggar’s life flooded over his face, raining upon the earth, and death flashed before his eyes. At the King’s left stood a great sorceress. She watched the hanged man fade into that great, mortal slumber and in that moment saw the one who travels in between falling grains of sand, the one who gives meaning to the space between where things once were, the reaper of souls sown by the other one, and its name is Death. The beggar’s smile only stretched further, his hands struggling in knots tied behind his back as he yearned to take Death’s sweet kiss in full embrace, like a lover returned from war. And then- he was gone, all but his rapturous grin. The Sorceress flinched and all the wind left her lungs as Death turned and looked into her, only to disappear within the next instant. She looked down to the seated king, whose eyes remained peeled in trepidation. Only then did she notice the bubbles floating around his head. Lowering to her king’s ear, she whispered,            My lord, I can help you. ¥ The next day, the Prince laid amongst his usual pleasures, sorely in need of celebrating his retribution. With the last bite of his mid-day feast, his two most loyal guards dragged him across the palace to a hidden cell well beneath the court. He was allowed to scream for help along the way. The torch-lit cell cast monstrous features that writhed across the faces of the King, the Sorceress…       …and the executioner.

Father? Asked the Prince. Silver chains were shackled into place around the Prince’s ankles and then everything was upside-down.

Why? Asked the Prince, and the King stared with a terrible intensity into the Prince’s panicking eyes. The Sorceress said something nearly inaudible over the Prince’s exasperating breath.

No! Squealed the Prince, as the executioner traced the Prince’s neck from ear to ear. His scream collapsed and gurgled until the short breath evaporated into a numbing warmth that spread across his throat. He watched the shadows flicker like unholy masks over the faces familiar to him since birth. His gaze followed the blood streaming from his head, dripping to the floor atop some newly painted glyphs and symbols that had begun to pulse brighter with every weakening pulse of his heart. He became aware of the Sorceress still speaking some babbling language that fell on his cold ears. Her thumb wiped blood from his eyes, and he watched her anoint the King’s vision with his death. The Prince felt the last beat of his heart and the tears that striped the red stains upon his face, but most of all, he felt fear as deeply dark as the forever night of which he hanged in wait. Below the Prince glowed a pool of black light, glittering along the cavernous walls like smoky reflections through rose tinted dew. Those anointed by blood given and blood taken froze upon the sudden appearance of the hooded one who stood before them. It observed the Prince with deep reverie and the Prince stared back into Death’s loving regard, unable to scream. The Sorceress drew a sharp breath and declared the King’s petition,            Death! We offer you the most valuable life in the land,            The Prince’s years for the King,            To live and to rule,            His royalty commands it. The dripping from the Prince’s throat ceased to pitter against the stone floor and out rang a steady trickle through the silence as the King shuddered in incontinence by primal terror, for there stood the star of his shadowy obsession. But, the King of all specters would not face the King of the living, and Death did not take the Prince away. Bubbles filled the cell from beyond Death’s hood, bursting as quickly as they appeared, and with them, Death was gone. Once again, the Prince had begun to breathe raggedly through his mouth and sputtering throat. ¥ Death did not stop the King and the Sorceress. Every day, the tortures descended deeper into hellish visions lived by a prince who Death refused; and every day, the Prince cursed the King through bloodshot eyes charred with hate and doused with sadness, meeting the faded gaze bared wide in desperate horror and madness. His fingers, gnarled to the bone from clawing at his ankles to relieve the silver manacles grasp, would trace the scar that smiled across his throat as a nightly parting gesture, releasing his father from his cell as the bubbles would once again appear like hundreds of orbs of divinatory damnation. Perhaps, Hell can only exist without the promise of Death’s kiss. After countless nights of anguish, the ghost of the beggar appeared to the hanged prince. ¥ The King sat in grief, watching his hands crumble to dust with the world he shaped sinking through his grasp, growing heavier and heavier, all around him nothingness. He thought of the Prince, a pulp of a man whose cause was lost the moment life persisted. There was nothing left to do but free his son; and so, the King decided to free the Prince¾ after one year of fasting, lest the Prince seek revenge, his strength would be given back by the father. What to do about Death? Surely, it would not refuse a kingdom. What happened next would start with those whose life is most pure, the ones with the most potential. And if they are not given to the King, the sea will wash away any trace of stubborn bloodline stains, for the mighty will not be refused. ¥ A specter, given form by the Prince’s last wish, like the birth of some Djinn cursed to exist by curse for curses sake, haunted the hanged man who breathed his fate and wasted away in silver chains, linked like devil’s tongues, locking the gate to paradisal gardens and licking one’s feet with blood drawing laps in every step to the place beyond salvation’s rainbow. The Specter spoke,

What will you do now?            Knowing tomorrow is dead, as is yesterday, and indeed so are you            now?            What will you do, knowing life is also there, that the kingdom is            laid within you? The Prince held the image of the ghost as it faded into surrounding darkness, his evaporation punctuated with a smile. ¥ Chariots arrived at the King’s gate. Adorned in jewels atop silk cushions were served babbling babes, their milky breath cooing and stirring the pretty bubbles that always seemed to float throughout the palace. The executioner’s blade would never dull by so tender the flesh. Still, he sharpens while his body shakes. ¥ A family with nothing held fast to one another as they walked into the thunderous twilight sea, its great maw foaming, without ever a scream. ¥ In the shadows beyond the bars of his cell, the Prince could feel the form of something watching him.

Father He said, slipping into unconsciousness… He was a boy. The halls of the palace seemed larger than ever, as if he knew there were rooms he had never been before but must go to now. Yes, that’s right, he needed to recite vows of servitude to an awaiting ceremony crowded with all the royal family and with father’s allies so that one day he may receive the crown without tumult. But he could not recall a single verse, nor whenever was the last he practiced. Without this speech, he could never become king. Wait, someone was following him. The Prince ran down hall after hall, this mysterious man, no, men , in quick pursuit. There was a secret passage within a storage closet that opened to rooms behind rooms. The Prince desperately crawled through the hidden entrances, only known to him for as long as he could remember. But he made too much noise, no matter how quietly he tried to move, and once again they were right at his feet as he crawled through chute-like tunnels that snaked their way from floor to floor, up and up, from platform to platform, men barely more than an arm’s length away, crawling as fast as possible, arms and legs burning with exhaustion. Finally, he reached the top of some spire with nowhere else to run and nothing else to do but fight. As the men piled out of the miniature service tunnel onto the small spire balcony, the prince pummeled them with heavy fists that died on impact, landing seemingly without any effect. The men towered over him, surrounding the Prince with statuesque expressions of horrible apathy. He cowered before them and put on a mask of peace, bargaining to placate the awful strangers. Forgive me, all is fine. Said the prince, backing away from the convocation of dangerous men. It seemed to be working, and the men only stood, appeased by his submissiveness. He spied a broken section of the balconies guard rail and positioned himself opposite to it, allowing one of the men to stand between himself and the impossibly high drop. The prince pushed him with all his might, yet the man was like a wall and all that fell was the Prince’s mask. He stood inflamed with dread upon his bare self, shame and fear fuming from his burning soul exposed to the audience who saw his core. He ran for the passageway, pulling himself from their grips, and crawled like a rabid fox between cavernous rocks, clawing deeper and deeper, exasperated breath, into a hopeless pit of pain and insanity, to be devoured in the grips of beasts or entombed within forgotten walls. … The Prince awoke breathless and searched for the scream that burned within. Silver cuffs around his ankles prickled with the numbing reminder of Hell lost. A voice was at his ear.            When was your last meal? Asked the ghost. ¥ No matter how much blood the King spilled day after day, he withered more and more to the persistent spell of time. All he was left with in his bargaining with Death were iridescent bubbles, unobtainable spheres of existence that reflected his failure and reminded him of the mass grave of expended youth, a choking sea, and the ever-present last breath of the ensuing black angel’s departing gift. He sat atop his throne, trembling over a silent kingdom of ghosts, his mind a boiling pot of cries burrowing through his skull that strangled his throat and heart. The King did not realize the Sorceress had entered the court until she was right before him, and in her hands was a basket with a loose hanging cover with something quietly mumbling beneath. The Sorceress drew the blanket aside, revealing the newly born prince of a neighboring kingdom. ¥ Four seasons had come to pass. What remained behind nothingness was madness and a king whose reign washed away the innocence that could have stayed. All that is young has gone, drowned in a flood as red as the anger that flowed through the man who lost what he had taken. The world did not crumble, but the hands that held it so tightly have become a ruined wonder atop a cathedra. Armies from every neighboring kingdom surrounded the decrepit King’s palace, pounding upon his door for revenge of a generation lost, like the heart of wrath in the heat of battle. The King’s guards carried him to the Prince’s cell amid the blazing pandemonium to deliver him into freedom on the anniversary of imprisonment. Laid atop the carved sigil, the Prince looked as if he were some preserved ancient corpse, skin and bones, but with rasping breath cursed never to cease. In the year of emaciation, the Prince’s skeletal feet had slipped through the silver cuffs. He was heaped in a pile like a severed marionette beneath the chains that had become home. Pain was a transient thing¾ the sole of his existence, for in its venomous hiss was the song of bliss, a fire crackling to birth and to raze. The King looked over the Prince and fell to his knees.

Why are you killing me? The King cried to the Prince. He continued. We are a dynasty of blood and dust. I leave it to you, for I am afraid I must be going now. With his last bit of strength, the Prince stroked his father’s cheek, then his arm collapsed to the stone floor. Tears ran down the King’s gaunt cheekbones as he was carried from the cell. The gate was left open. All that was left for the Prince to do was stare at the portal to his impossible freedom and listen to the fall of his kingdom. The King’s guards placed him atop his throne as the palace doors splintered with every huff and puff of the peoples’ fury. His bones quaked in the deafening cacophony of the fallens’ trumpet blares, crying revolution without salvation. The Sorceress stood before the door, chanting incantations of protection, her words mute against their coming perdition. Bubbles floated from the dark corona of the King’s crown, his eyes were fog suffocated torches bulging red and white. His mouth hung open like a puddle quivering in a storm. Every nerve was exploding with terror for the demons were here for him and they carried torches anointed with the fires of Hell. And then, the door was felled in a final release of carnal rage, flattening the Sorceress as if she were a grape. Hordes of villagers and soldiers rushed the throne. ¥ Unable to move, the Prince could not pull his eyes from the open doorway. He listened as the people stormed the palace, their shouting and crashing knotted together. It sounded like the world was being born. There was a scream that drowned out all other noise and then the finale of applause and cheers. In the delirium of revolution, the Prince watched as bubbles floated in from the hall.            What will you do now? The Prince heard. He took his last breath, completely and utterly in love with the beauty of the dancing light flashing so delicately before him in those bubbles, and all that was left of him was a smile. In Death’s kiss so too is there God’s breath of life. Air filled the once-prince’s lungs and strength surged through his body. The sudden wind shocked him into a gasping awareness of newly born eyes and his flesh electrified in every brush he experienced for the first time again. He re-learned how to stand and took his first step across the threshold of his prison, emerging from a cave into ruins. The halls stretched on seemingly forever and he loved every step before stopping at the throne room’s entrance, seeing the remaining carnage of an idolized kingdom. He saw the royal crown laid mangled near the charred remains of the throne and the headless man who occupied its seat. The once-prince left the palace for the last time and chose an old road he had never traveled, picking figs along the way, and smiling as the juice ran so sweetly from his lips. The End


Mark Reinhold was jolted from sleep when the house alarm went off. Shooting to his feet from the sofa, where he had been banished after his fight with his wife, Nancy, he looked around the living room confused. He didn’t recognize anything: not the coffee table, the TV on the wall, not even the sofa where he was spending the night. Where am I, his sleep-fogged mind wondered?            “Mark!” Nancy yelled over the incessant beeping alarm.            He blinked and everything came into focus. He was not at home, he remembered now. Nancy had rented them a house from an online site called R&R (Rest and Relax) for a secluded weekend getaway to try and work on their marriage. Just the two of them. No kids. No distractions. It was Nancy’s idea. Mark just agreed to avoid another fight.

           “Mark?” Nancy said from the second floor of their rental home. “What’s going on?”            Stepping away from the sofa, Mark’s foot caught in the throw blanket he used to cover with, and he nearly fell into the coffee table but retained his balance before he cracked his skull wide open. Nancy probably wouldn’t even care.            “Can you shut that thing off!” Nancy shouted. “Mark!”            The beeping seemed to be getting louder the longer it was going off.            “I’m getting it!” God forbid you’d walk down the steps and punch in the code yourself. I have to do everything!

           The tile floor in the kitchen was cold on Mark’s bare feet, and he wished he would have slipped on his flipflops before heading to turn off the alarm. He glanced at the rear door as he passed to make sure it was locked. It was.            “Mark!”            “I’m coming!”            Beside the front door, Mark reached for the keypad to punch in the code for the alarm but stopped. What was the code? It started with a one, right? Mr. Hendershot, the home’s owner, had met them earlier that day to pass along the keys and to give a tour of the house and property. After the tour, Hendershot told them the alarm code. But for the life of him, Mark couldn’t remember what it was at the moment.            “Well? What are you waiting for?”            “Do you remember the code?” Mark turned and looked up the steps where Nancy stood in her nightgown, her strawberry blonde hair a tangled mess, eyes puffy from being woken from sleep.            “Jesus.” Nancy rolled her eyes condescendingly, something she always did when he displeased her one way or another. “One-one-three-four.”            He punched in 1-1-3-4 into the alarm’s keypad. The beeping instantly stopped, and the house fell into a heavy silence.            “What set it off?” Nancy asked.            “Don’t know.” Mark looked through the front doors wavey glass window to see if he could spot anything or anyone who might’ve triggered the alarm. But all he could see was blackness, except for the small circles of light on the ground from the walkway lanterns. The woods surrounding the house were so dense even the moonlight couldn’t penetrate the thick canopy of green leaves. “Could’ve been an animal.”            “Is the front door locked?”            “Yes.”            “Go make sure nothing got in somewhere else.”            Mark hung his head. All he wanted to do was return to the sofa and go back to sleep. He was exhausted from the four and half-hour drive from Pittsburgh to the house in the Poconos, bringing their luggage in, and then making them dinner – which he did while Nancy sat on her butt sipping wine, eating bites of cheese, and texting. Who was she texting? One of her friends? Jean or Megan? No. She never looked like a giddy schoolgirl when texting either of them. Someone else? A male friend perhaps?            “What are you waiting for? Now, Mark!”            “I’m going.”            He turned but was stopped in his tracks by what he saw. What in the… In the foyer, was a small table with a guestbook on top. Mr. Hendershot had asked them to sign it before they left. The book was open.            “Nancy?”            “What?” she snapped; the throngs of their earlier argument still prevalent in her tone.            “Did you close the guestbook after you signed our names in it?”            “I believe so.”            “You believe so?” he looked up the steps at her. “You either did or you didn’t, which is it?”

           “You know I did.”            “No. I don’t. That’s why I’m asking you.”            “I…” Nancy’s eyes dance with uncertainty. “What does it matter?”            “Because if you didn’t leave the guestbook open. And I didn’t touch it…”            Mark looked to his wife at the top of the steps. He watched her face go from annoyed to confused to mortified in a blink of an eye. Gathering her long nightgown up in her right hand, Nancy started down the steps and stood next to him in the foyer. Mark looked back to the guestbook.            “Are you sure you didn’t leave it open?”            She nodded.            “There’s something written in it. You see it?” Mark asked.            Slowly, Nancy inched closer to the table, like she was afraid something might leap out at her. A message had indeed been scrolled across the entire right page of the guestbook in large black letters. Nancy sucks in an audible breath and Mark swallows - his throat made a grinding sound it was suddenly so dry – reading the message.

 YOU’RE GOING TO DIE TONIGHT!            “Where’s your cellphone?” Mark asked, feeling his throat tighten.            “Upstairs. Beside the bed.”            “Go get it. Call the police. I’m going to check the garage to make sure no one got in.”            Mark started down the hallway while Nancy bolted up the stairs, her footfalls on the wooden steps sounded like thunderclaps. Rounding the corner into the kitchen, Mark moved to the door leading to the garage. He pulled it open, slowly, and peered into the blackness. Can’t see anything. His fingers fumbled up the wall for the light switch. Thoughts of something lurking in the dark, reaching out and taking hold of his wrist, wiggled into his mind uneasily. Stay calm.  Finally, his fingers found the switch. The overhead lights blinked on, and the garage filled with the soft hum of the fluorescent lights.            But the garage is empty. The doors are down and secured. No one was getting into the house through there.

Is this some kind of joke? “Mark!” Nancy screamed from upstairs. Something about her scream caused the hairs on his arms to stand on end.            “Yeah?”            He heard her feet pounding on the steps again, coming back down. Then, a quiet stillness enveloped the air around him as if Nancy had suddenly vanished.            “Nancy…Nancy?”

Not getting a reply, Mark started back to the hallway, worried why she didn’t respond. He found her standing in the foyer; her eyes are wide with terror, and all the color had drained from her face, making her look like a corpse. “What is it?”            Without saying a word, Nancy raised her right hand and pointed her index finger at something he cannot see. Not understanding what she’s pointing at, Mark started to her, and followed her outstretched finger back to…            The guestbook.            This time, Mark sucked in the audible breath and his hand involuntarily shot to his open mouth, covering it. Another message was written in the guestbook, right under the one they had found earlier.

YOU HAVEN’T CHECKED THE BASEMENT.

“Call the police. Right now,” Mark said, his voice breaking.

“My cell…it’s…gone,” Nancy replied.            He shuddered. The tips of his fingers and toes began to buzz uncomfortably. What’s going on here?            “Gone? What do you mean it’s gone?”            “It’s not on the nightstand where I left it.”

           “Maybe you dropped it beside the bed. Go look again.”            “I didn’t drop it.”            “It has to be up there.”            “It’s not.”            “It has to be. You just didn’t look! Typical.”            “I looked, damnit! It’s not there. If you want to look, be my guest. But I’m telling you it’s gone.”            He slowly turned to face her. If Nancy was lying to him about her missing cellphone, it didn’t show on her face. In fact, what Mark saw was a woman scared out of her mind. Unless…            He thought back to Nancy texting earlier that evening. Was she in contact with someone who had followed them up there?            “Are you doing this?” he asked.            “What?”            “This.” Mark pointed to the guestbook. “There’s no one in this house. All the doors are locked. So that could only mean someone in this house could have written the messages, and I know it wasn’t me.”            “You think I wrote those?” Nancy asked, pointing at herself.            “Just answer the question.”            “This is crazy.” She walked past him. “Where’s your phone? I’ll use it to call the police.”             “What’s in the basement?” Mark asked, following her into the kitchen.            She surveyed the kitchen for Mark’s cellphone. When she didn’t find it on the counter or table, she moved into the living room and started to look there.            “What’s in the basement?” Mark repeated, watching her stuff her hands between the seats of the couch cushions. She looked like a treasure hunter searching franticly for coins in the sand, hoping when she brings them up, she’ll have the booty.            “What’s in the goddamn basement, Nancy!” Mark shouted.            “I don’t know!” Nancy hollered back. She cupped her hand over her mouth and tilted her head into her chest, something she always did when Mark pushed her too far during one of their many arguments.            For a moment, Mark felt the need to apologize. And he knew he should. It was stupid of him to think that his wife of ten years, the mother of his children (two boys 8 and 10), would do something this maniacal. They had problems in their marriage, Mark didn’t deny this, but nothing that warrented her wanting to harm him.            “I left my phone on the coffee table,” Mark finally says, his voice calmer.            “It’s not there.”            “Maybe it fell –“            “It didn’t.” Nancy sounded defeated. But Mark knew she was right, and he hates that she is. Someone had snuck into the house, scribbled in the guestbook, and took their phones while they were asleep or distracted. There was no way for them to reach anyone and the house didn’t have a landline.            “Where are the car keys?”            “In my purse. Upstairs. On the dresser.”            “I’m going to go get them.”            “Maybe I should go with you?”            Mark thought about it. It made sense to stay together, especially if someone was in the house trying to harm them. But Mark was concerned about being able to get out of the house. To make sure that happened, they needed to have a clear path of escape and the front door was their best option.            “Stand by the front door and wait for me while I go upstairs and get the keys.”            “Why?”            “Because I don’t want anything to slow us down getting to the car. You stay there and watch the door until I get back.”            Moving together as a couple, the first time they actually worked in tandem in several years, Mark realizes, they started down the hallway. At the front door, Mark flipped the deadbolt and pulled the door open a crack; he felt the warm summer air on his skin and heard the crickets and cicadas singing their nighttime music.            “I’ll be right back.”            Nancy eyes glistened with tears, but she bravely agreed to hold the line. Mark thought about embracing her. Giving her a reassuring kiss. Or whispering in her ear that everything was going to be alright, just like he had done many times in the past after losing his temper during one of their fights and blew up like a stick of TNT, leaving her a sobbing mess in the wake of his emotional destruction. It’s alright. It’s okay, he would croon in her ear. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. But you shouldn’t have pressed my buttons either.

At the top of the stairwell, Mark looked back down at his wife. She looks as scared as a lamb being led to the slaughter, he thought. It was a look Mark was familiar with, one he had put on Nancy’s face many times in ten years of marriage. He didn’t want to be that guy , but she made him into that guy from years of whining and complaining, not to mention all the ball-busting, man-hating garbage she puked up day in and day out. Sometimes when he looked in the mirror at himself, he didn’t even see Mark Reinhold anymore, but a rundown old man hanging on to his sanity and marriage by a thread.            Turning away, Mark hurried down the hall and into the bedroom.            “Nancy?”            “Yeah?”            “Just checking on you, babe.”            He found Nancy’s purse sitting on the dresser like she said it would be. Pulling it open, Mark found the car keys inside the small front pocket of the purse, where Nancy always kept them.            “Nancy?”            Silence.            “Nancy?”            More silence.            With purse in hand, Mark hurried back to the stairs.            “Nancy why didn’t-“            His words caught in his throat when he saw Nancy wasn’t by the front door, where he left her only moments ago.            “Nancy?”            Hurrying down the stairs into the foyer with the purse tucked under his right arm, Mark’s eyes are drawn back to the guestbook. An icy hand clasped around his heart and squeezed, freezing him in place; eyes locked onto the guestbook. Another message had been left.

YOU STILL HAVEN’T CHECKED THE BASEMENT!

What was in the basement? And why in god’s name…

 He forced the frightening message from his mind. All Mark wanted to do was get out of there. He hurried back into the kitchen, hoping to find Nancy waiting for him. He was going to give her a piece of his mind for abandoning her post by the front door. But what he found instead caused a yelp to escape his mouth.

The door to the basement was open; a waiting black hole leading down into the earth. And then it hits Mark like a lightning strike what happened.

Nancy’s in the basement! Whoever was doing this, wanted them to go down there. But why? What’s in the basement? And why did Nancy think it was a good idea to go down there on her own?

Maybe she didn’t. Maybe someone took her down there.  Swallowing his fear, Mark stepped into the basement’s threshold and looked down into the abyss. He can feel himself shaking with fear. The first five steps are visible, but the rest are hidden in the murkiness. A foul smell – a mixture of moldy bread and rotten eggs – emanates from the blackness, gagging him. “Nancy!” he called out. “Nancy, can you hear me?”            He knows a brave, loyal husband would rush down to save his wife from imminent danger. But Mark’s not that kind of husband.

You have the keys to the car. Just leave and never look back. He’s sure the police will have questions about why he fled. Why he didn’t try and save his wife. But he’ll tell them the truth: someone broke into the house while they were asleep, took their cellphones and kidnaped his wife. You can take the guestbook as proof that you had nothing to do with it. He wondered what life would be like without Nancy’s constant yipping. Peace and quiet for once? He was almost giddy with the idea of being this close to regaining his freedom. The door to the garage suddenly burst open. A gurgling scream erupted from Mark’s throat as a figure charged from the blackness at him. He tried to get his hands up to protect himself. But he’s too late and he’s shoved backwards, towards that waiting dark hole leading into the basement. Falling through the threshold of the basement, Mark tried to grab hold of the doorframe, but his hand missed, and gravity took hold of him. He came down hard on his back, the wooden steps punching into his spine at the base of his neck. He hears something crack in his ears that reminds him of a tree branch snapping and a flash of intense pain sets every nerve ending in his body ablaze. He rolled the rest of the way down the steps and slammed into the basement wall at the bottom, bounced off, and came to rest on his back, bathed in a square of light from the open door above. Dazed, disoriented, and severely injured, Mark’s eyes lulled back to the top of the basement stairs. Someone’s standing there. “Oh, Mark, you fell down the steps of a strange house.” Nancy? “You…did…all of this?” She’s beaming with delight. And for the first time in years, Mark saw her smiling. Truely smiling.

“Did what? I was asleep in bed and didn’t find you until morning.” “Please…you must…help me,” Mark choked out. He didn’t know specifically what was broken – something in his neck - but it left him unable to move, unable to pull a full breath. Somewhere internally, he knew if he didn’t get medical attention immediately he would die. “Nancy…please…” “I brought us here for the sake of our marriage,” she says, her voice cold as ice. “Consider this our divorce you abusive bastard.” Nancy took hold of the door... “W-wait-” …and slammed it shut.


The days felt long. The end of the first chapter of her life began at the ripe age of seventeen. She met a boy. She knew this was it because she could see her future in his eighteen year old eyes. However after joining the Army, they sent him far away. She couldn't go. She prayed, she begged and she cried thousands of tears. She pleaded with God to bring him safely back to her. She impatiently waited for each passionate love letter to arrive in the mail. She kept each letter and pored over each word countless times. The days were torturously long before God answered her prayers, but what she didn't know is that they weren't all that long. The days were actually very short. The days felt long. During the next chapter of life she married the love of her life. She didn't spend much time with him though. She spent her time alone taking care of their first born child, a handsome son named after his father. Her husband had been called to duty in France. She couldn't go this time. Devastated she stayed by herself hundreds of miles away from home faithfully waiting for his return. She passed her days living off the pennies he received for pay. She boiled bottles, washed soiled diapers, sang to her son and rocked him to sleep. When he slept, she wrote long letters to the man she loved. The lonely days seemed excruciatingly long, but they weren't really all that long. The days were actually very short. The days felt long. During the next chapter of her life, their second born child was born. She gave birth to a beautiful daughter. Now at the young age of twenty two, she spent her days taking care of her small family. There was no doubt, she loved her little family beyond measure, but something felt so wrong. She wasn't sure this is what she wanted to do with the rest of her life, She spent her time at home, cooking, cleaning and caring for her children. She wanted more. Her daily life at home felt like a chore and made her days feel long. The days were actually very short. The days felt long. She was twenty five during the next chapter of life. It was a blistering, steamy southern summer, and the humidity drew sweat just from the thought of it. She had given up the stay at home lifestyle and now worked full time. With two munchkins pulling at the hem of her skirt already, her belly stretched and protruded beyond any other body part she owned again. Working full time, pregnancy and summer heat felt like the opposite of heaven. Every day felt like forever, however the moment she looked into the eyes of another beautiful daughter, she knew time wasn't really all that long. The days were actually very short. The days felt long. The next chapter held a surprise in store. She hadn't planned this moment in her life. She thought she was finished, but God had different plans. Her fourth child, another lovely daughter entered this world early in April one year. She had been blessed to this point in her life with healthy children who rarely needed a doctor's care, but this child would prove to be different for her. She returned many times to spend long hours or days and even sometimes weeks in the hospital caring for this fourth angel she had been blessed to raise. The days seemed to drag on, but in reality they didn't. The days were actually very short. The days felt long. The following chapter was filled with children who were honestly easy and well behaved kids, but the responsibilities of a working Mom with four children to care for as well, made her feel like she could never possibly get it all done. She worked until five everyday, picked the children up from her parent's house, drove home to cook dinner, call out spelling words, wash dishes and do laundry while she waited for a husband struggling with alcoholism to make it safely home before she managed a few hours of sleep so she could do it all over again. Considering everything she had to get done during the waking hours, the days weren't that long in reality. The days were actually very short. The days felt long. The next chapter included an unusually cold winter for the south. Heavy coats rarely used were pulled from storage bins and worn for weeks on end. Her daughter now featured a stretched, protruding belly herself. On the January due date, the weather man predicted 3 inches of snow. Far more snow than people in the south knew how to handle. If it snowed, everything would close from schools, daycares, banks and doctor offices. She prayed God would postpone the snow or the baby would wait until the roads cleared. The baby didn't wait, but God granted her prayer. After a safe drive to the hospital, a twelve hour labor followed. The day seemed to drag on as she watched her daughter in pain, but the moment she laid eyes on her first grand child, she knew the days weren't really that long. The days were actually very short. The days felt long. During this chapter of life, she was now retired from her busy career. Her grown children were busy with careers, spouses and children of their own. Her husband of over forty years became sick. His illness took many years to develop into what would be his last days. Every emergency led to a worsening diagnosis. Every hospital trip led to more debilitating symptoms to deal with at home. She did her best, despite the difficult times in her marriage, to give him the very best care she could possibly manage. Though the days felt long as a full time caregiver to a man who wasn't easy to care for anyway, they were really not all that long. Sooner than expected, her husband passed. The days were actually very short. The days felt long. This chapter brought a loneliness she had never experienced. Since her first and only husband had passed, she wasn't sure what to do with herself anymore. Worst of all, she struggled to remember everything she knew she should know. She did her very best to hide her frustrations from her grown children who now lived that same busy lifestyle she remembered from the past, but as the days passed, it became harder to pretend anymore. Eventually, she couldn't pretend anymore. She forgot how to make meals she had made thousands of times. She struggled to keep appointments. She often found overdue bills in the mail. She wore the same clothes for days in a row. Confusion caused her days to seem much longer than they were in reality. The days were actually very short. The days felt long. In this chapter, she didn't know where she was anymore. Her own home felt unfamiliar to her, but she recognized the faces looking back at her. These were the faces of the people she loved most in her life. She could no longer remember what was wrong with her. It had been years since she felt like herself. It had been months since she received the diagnosis. It had been weeks since she managed a bite of food. It had been days since she tolerated a sip of water. It had been hours since she opened her eyes. It would only be minutes before she drew her last breath. She focused on the sweet sound of the voices singing softly in her ear. For a short moment her life flashed before her eyes and she remembered these sweet voices. They belonged to the people she loved the most in this world, her children. For a few seconds, as she drew her last breath, she knew the days had actually been so very short.


1094 words Rated PG; violence, fear, pain Prompt: A character stands in front of two doors. Write a story about what happens after they choose to enter one. I hold out my arms in front of me to protect myself from the light. This lasts for a minute, as I free-fall through a space that exists outside of time. Finally, I feel myself stop. Cautiously, I take my arms away from my face. There are two doors in front of me.  One is black, with shadows reaching out from it like tentacles. There are illustrations of trees--bent, twisted, and being pulled from their roots by spirits. These are ghosts with slanted eyes and cracked teeth that could bite through steel. A full moon looms over the scene, with blood dripping from it and forming a puddle of broken dreams when it hits the ground. The other door has a dragon. it’s twirling through the air like a graceful dancer and spitting multicoloured flames that make the image of a phoenix in flight. A creature with spiky ears and big, feathery wings is beside the dragon, aiming a crossbow in front of them. The background is the hand of a troll reaching up to the sun, being basked in its generous light. The doors are labelled horror and fantasy, respectively. I frown at the horror door, and can already feel spiders crawling under my shirt. I can hear the screams and see the chainsaws. I start shaking at the mere thought of being alone at night. My fingernails might be chipping from just the idea. It’s not a hard choice. I grab the fantasy doorknob and turn it. It’s a field. The grass is blue, with yellow flowers floating above it. The flowers float around lazily, occasionally colliding with each other. When that happens, It forms a bigger flower in a darker shade with a poof. The new flower starts popping out grey buds from the top. The buds fall until they reach the same suspended level above the ground.

The sky above me is pink, though I see no setting sun. There’s a flying creature with a bag. They’re wearing nothing, save a cowl that’s painted in midnight blue. They’re holding a big wooden crate with two of their arms. Another one reaches for a nearby cloud. They grab off a fluffy piece and put it in the crate. The cloud part stays obediently. On the ground level, there are two creatures a few metres from me. They have three eyes, the third one being on their chins, which they can extend. They appear to be playing some type of game. There’s a board in between them, balanced on the same level as the flowers. They haven’t noticed my presence. I get a little closer. They’re still staring at the board, not moving or exchanging any words with each other. A moment in time frozen.

“Hello?” They both jump, falling backwards into the air. Their trajectories are both big, rising them high in the sky. They flap their wings frantically, trying to gain balance so they don’t go plummeting back down. One squints. They see me standing--probably with a bewildered expression--and zoom back down. They only stop once they are so close to my face I could sneeze and I would get mucus on them. “Raie-vepa?” Their hand touches my face. My skin burns where contact is made. My eyes roll back in my head. My body starts levitating. My mind feels like it’s on fire. All my memories are hazy and bring embers to my tongue. I scream, writhing in pain and trying to pull their hand off my cheek. The hand comes off, and they smile. “Hello, creature. You have interrupted our fun time. I’m going to kill you now.” I squeak at the decisiveness of their voice. I don’t think, just turn around and start running. I can hear them calling their friend. I can’t look back. Even though I desperately want to. I push aside flowers as I get further away from them. Several of them collide with another flower, and the reproduction process begins. The field goes on as far as I can see. Animals are frolicking through it, some hunting small frogs and others just taking a nap in the sunshine. They look behind me, where the two creatures are, and immediately start flying away. The things may not have legs, but their wings more than make up for it. I haven’t made it ten metres when they catch up to me. I’m panting and my shoes are stained with magical mud. My hair is sticking to my face. The cheek that the first creature touched is flaring up and pulling me towards the ground. The first creature pushes me, and I collapse, too tired to care. Then I remember I should care, because of what the creature said. I would get up if the grass caressing my injured cheek wasn’t so relieving. The one that now speaks my language gets closer to me. They’re wearing a red robe with a blue belt that has teeth jutting out of it, and piercing the thing’s skin. They don’t seem to care. “I’m Ozh, and I’m going to kill you. What’s your name?” They grin at me and grab my shoulder. With one squeeze I’m paralyzed. I can’t even blink. Ozh waves one of their wings, and my mouth can move. “Let me go.” I don’t know why I thought that would work. My eyes are starting to hurt. Ozh lets out a lighthearted chuckle. “I don’t think that’s your name. Come on, tell me.” Tears in my eyes. Once they reach my cheek, they too freeze and stick to my skin. My eyelids might break with how much I’m trying to move them. “Please let me go.” More tears are coming, all stopping and hurting. One turns to ice. It pokes my eye with a sharp end, and I scream in pain. “All right. If you want to be killed by a stranger, fine. It's your choice. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Ozh says something in their native language to the other creature. They take a blade from the pocket of their jacket. It’s very long and crooked at the end. They toss it to Ozh, who thanks them cheerfully. “You ready?” “Please, don’t-” But, of course, it’s too late. I couldn’t have just chosen horror and gotten some cheap jump scares. I would be shaken, sure, but I would be the main character. I might live. Then The wizard would have let me go and I could’ve just ran away and forgotten the whole thing ever happened. Or at least tried to. Ozh throws it at my head.


Ever since Evan grew up, the holidays had lost much meaning. When he was younger, there was the excitement of gifts, food, and movies. Now the most exciting part was being able to make fun of the weird holiday cards he got.

It was Christmas Eve and he didn’t have anything better to do than go into work. Some may call it sad but work was like a second home to Evan. As trashy and bare-bones Neonprisim was, it had a lot of memories. Since it was a bar the memories were mostly making and drinking alcohol, but they were memories he held dear to his heart.

There wasn’t much he had to do anyways. It was a small town and adding the crazy cold weather meant mostly desperate people would show up.

First, he headed to his locker to put his stuff away. He put away the thick clothes and put on a white button-up shirt and black pants. Next was his appearance. Even though he was born with dark caramel skin, he seemed to be getting paler on the daily. He had dark circles under his brown eyes and weird scratches he didn’t know about were scattered all over his face. He looked like he was half dead.

Regardless of how bad he looked, he still needed to start preparing the bar for customers.

He was able to hustle last minute luckily before the customers started rolling in. It was the same typical 5. Billy, Sara, Bobby, Ramona, and Grandmama Nielson. They typically would make some small talk, order, drink, and leave. Gah, they were fun.

Later, snow started to fall. Most of the 5 had already left so Evan started to get ready for early closing.

Abruptly the door slammed open.

“Party!” The person who slammed open the door screamed.

A large crowd of people followed the screamer in, one carried a boom-box that was blasting pop songs, and a couple of others already carried large bottles of alcohol. Evan stood in a mixed state of shock and confusion as he watched the group grew more and more chaotic.

One of the group grabbed a chair and stood on it. She was tall and pale, her big auburn hair covered most of her face from Evan’s angle but he knew she was probably just as wasted as the rest of them.

“Alright, everybody! Let's finish this Annual Romane Family Pub Crawl off with a bang! If you need a ride, let me know, and come again next year!” She exclaimed to the room. Evan was even more confused than before. What pub crawl? He wormed his way through the crowd over to where the lady was. Somehow she found him first.

“Hey! You work here right? Do you know where Michael is?” She asked loudly, trying to be heard over the loud noises. “I do work here, who’s Michael?” Evan responded, matching her volume.

“Doesn’t Michael work here?” She questioned. “I don’t think so, no. Why is a pub crawl here?” Evan questioned back.

“Wait. This is NovaPrision right?” She asked, confused. “No, this is NeonPrisim,” Evan clarified.

“Oh shoot, we were supposed to go to NovaPrision,” she paused to glance at her watch with a frustrated sigh, “there is no way we could make it there in time.” “Well I’m sorry but there is no way I can help with all these people. It’s just me on tonight’s shift,” Evan stated. The lady paused for a moment. “I could help.” “What?” Evan asked confused.

“I can help. I used to be a waitress and I’ve been ushering my family my entire life,” she offered.

“That could work,” Evan said. The two spent the next couple of hours making sure everyone and everything was well maintained. In the end, the night went well. The lady called everyone rides home and now they were working on picking up all the trash.

“You know, I don’t think I’ve introduced myself yet. I’m Rose, nice to meet you,” Rose said, holding out her hand.

“I’m Evan,” Evan informed, shaking her hand.

“So,” Rose started, “why are you working on Christmas?” “Oh, well I didn’t really have anything better to do and I needed the hours anyway. Why a pub crawl on Christmas?” Evan asked. “Well, it’s the one way where I’m able to see my family, keep them entertained, and able to dodge their awkward questions in one event. My family is pretty far spread out so it’s one thing they can all save up to do. What about your family?” Rose responded.

“Well, my family is made of a bunch of busy people so holidays don’t typically happen with all of us together. The pub crawl seems pretty cool though. Well on the other side of it of course,” Evan teased as he finished up with the trash.

“Holy smokes,” Rose exclaimed.

Evan turned to see what she was looking at.

“Holy smoked,” Evan agreed.

Outside the snow had fallen so hard that it turned everything white. There was no way either of them could go home.

“Um, I think there might be some sleeping bags in the back. You could take the couch I could take one of the booths if you’d like,” Evan offered. “Erm, yeah. That would be good, thank you,” Rose said.

Quickly, the two went to the back to grab the sleeping bags and set up their sleeping arrangements.

They both ended up setting their stuff down on the floor since they both wanted to see the snow more.

The two whispered goodnights and fell asleep quickly.

When the morning came, the snow had melted just enough so they could get through the door.

“Morning, I think I’m going to head out in a bit,” Rose said softly. Evan yawned with a stretch, “Morning, I think I’m going to, too.” Evan got up and started to make some coffee while Rose checked her phone for messages.

She stood up and ruffled her hair in an attempt to tame the bed head and walked over to Evan.

Together they drank coffee and chatted about random movies and books they liked. They talked for about 30 minutes before Rose realized the time.

“Gah shoot I have to be at work in a few hours,” she muttered, “Do you have a pen?” “No, I think we only have pencils,” Evan responded. “Why do you guys have pencils?” Rose asked. “I think just ‘cause they're cheaper,” Evan responded.

“Well,” Rose started before grabbing a pencil from across the bar, “You should call me sometime. Maybe we could go out for lunch or something.” She slid him a napkin with her cell number on it. “Like on a date?” Evan asked softly as he took the napkin, blushing softly.

“Yeah, like on a date,” Rose responded with a smile. She gave him a small wave before quickly running out the door.

Evan looked at the napkin with a smile. He had had a lot of memories at NeonPrisim, but this was definitely his favorite.


This is my worst nightmare. I would love to tell you that I don’t know how the hell I got dragged into this, but I’d be lying. Lying to you and to myself because everyone around this neck of the woods knows that when Mrs Ursula bloody Quartermaine clicks her expensive high heels, people around here jump to attention and do as they are bid. This especially applies to my mother, Lillian. My mother idolizes Ursula Quartermaine; has done since they went to school together. Personally, I can’t stand the woman and never have but, as a 21-year-old Kooma girl I am country town savvy enough to know that a woman’s reign as top hen in the pecking order is never based on personality. No, Ursula Quartermaine has only ascended to her position as leader of the females through the powerful combination of name, wealth, social standing, and the ownership of a seriously large farm. I was dragged into this hell at precisely 9 pm, an hour ago, when Ursula Quartermaine had phoned my mother to ask a favour. Well, let’s call a spade a spade, shall we? There’s no pretending Mother, and subsequently I, ever had a choice in the matter. When Ursula Quartermaine threw a scrap of attention on the ground Lillian McAllen was the first to swoop down and gobble up a chance to please her leader. ‘No’ was not an option. I was interrupted just as I settled in to write a letter to an old friend of mine, May. May had escaped from Kooma with her friend, June to go and live in the city of Adelaide. That was a year ago now; January 1953. If everything goes to plan and if I find the courage, I will soon be joining them. My mother urgently explained to me that Ursula Quartermaine was in a tizz because her darling daughter, Suzanne, needed a ride back from the dance in Tilbin; the next wheatbelt town down the road. Suzanne was originally supposed to get a ride back in Jack Spragg’s brand new 1954 Holden FJ Ute but the car had developed a flat and Jack had to renege on his offer. Ursula was ringing to see if I would drive down to Tilbin to bring her back. If I knew Jack as well as I thought I highly suspect that, after a few beers and some time to reflect, he had purposely chewed through the wall of the tyre using his own teeth. This would be preferable to the prospect of the 24 mile drive back to Kooma, imprisoned alone with the impossible princess that is Susan Quartermaine. I can’t say I blame Jacko, I would have shot off my toes to avoid the same fate, but at 9pm that summer night Ursula bloody Quartermaine had clicked her heels , Lillian McAllen had jumped and I was too chicken poop to say no to the formidable pecking order of Kooma. So here I am, Cate McAllen, driving down the Western Highway on a stinking hot January night towards the town of Tilbin; towards self-imposed entrapment with my mortal enemy, Suzanne bloody Quartermaine. I have never liked Suzanne Quartermaine and I’m sure she has never liked me. She and I started school on the same day and for whatever reason she has had it in for me ever since. Perhaps it’s because I am introverted, bookish and quiet. More likely it’s because Suzanne Quartermaine is simply a giant insufferable cow and, like her mother, was born to lord over anyone she deems beneath her lofty station. Her attacks on me began as school bullying and childhood pranks; like the time she, unknown to me, tucked the back hem of my dress into my knickers and I walked around for half a day looking like a pubescent baboon. In time Suzanne’s terror campaign became more sophisticated and centered more on psychological warfare. This usually came in the form of made-up gossip about me. Make no mistake, the grown-up game of Chinese Whispers is the #1 entertainment occupation of any country town and Suzanne easily found patrons willing to lap up each juicy snippet; spoken morsels to be tasted and savoured before being passed on to the next eager host. That the rumour is true or not doesn’t matter in the slightest. All that really matters is the flow of whispered words must not dry up. That there is always enough gossip to feed the mill. Titillating for some? I’m sure. But it becomes unbearable when you yourself become the focus of the microscope that is Kooma. It’s at that point all you, I, can think about is escaping the toxicity. ___________________ My headlights brush past the Rotary Club’s ‘Welcome to Tilbin’ sign and I touch the brake pedal to slow down for Main Street. It’s been a few weeks since I’ve been here, so I hang my elbow on the opened window and look around. I reckon Tilbin is much like any other West Victorian wheatbelt town that I can think of. All the Wimmera towns that I know sport wide streets; streets that host the usual collection of rural businesses: post office, petrol station/mechanics, milk bar, land agent, chemist, and such. Of course, there are always pubs, all closing at 6 o’clock for the day. I pass the Commercial Hotel, the Railway Hotel, The Grand and lastly; The Royal. A pub on every other corner. The pub is the hub of the male herd in a country town like this, where beer is drunk, sports dissected, wheat prices discussed, and weather obsessed over. Women are not welcome. Oh, don’t get me wrong, women are allowed IN but, if they do enter the hallowed sanctuary, they are corralled into a room called the ‘ladies lounge’. There the ladies drink shandies, a mix of beer and lemonade. Their children drink raspberry vinegars, which sound horrible, but taste lovely. After I pass The Royal I put on my blinker and turn left, bucking my way across the steel rods of the western railway line. There is always a railway line that runs past a wheatbelt town. The train east carries away bags of wheat and wool and people. The train west returns the people. Most will never leave. Turning right into cemetery road I crunch my way along a narrow gravel road that is edged by gnarled gums, towards the corrugated iron town hall. As I close in on the building I can see there’s quite a crowd of people outside, taking in the night air. Their dark forms are silhouetted against the background light of the frosted hall windows. Others are secreted in the dark and can only be seen by the glowing ends of cigarettes, pulsing on and off as the smokers take a drag. The car park is full of cars, so I nose my little Morris further along the road and find a place to stop. My green Morris Minor is my pride, my joy, my independence and my deliverance. It’s unusual for a woman to own a car in these parts. I call her ‘Titch’ and I hope one day that she will take me away from here. I find a park next to a Ford sedan that I recognize as belonging to fellow Koomarite, Keith ‘Bluey’ Jones. Bluey’s a nice bloke, hard to miss with his big frame and crop of red hair. Like all red headed men in Australia Keith has been branded with the ironic nickname, ‘Bluey’. I tap the steering wheel and look out the windscreen. What now? Do I just start asking around for her worship ? Maybe I should go into the hall and look for her? Bugger, I don’t want to go inside. I’m wearing the comfort of slacks and a short sleeve cotton shirt, no makeup, and I know I’ll stick out like a sore thumb amongst all of the ladies clothed in dresses and powder. Stalling, I light a cigarette and start smoking. With any luck Lady Muck will show herself so I can make a beeline for her and we can get out of here without too much fuss. I’ve just about finished my smoke when I spot h er nibs next to the hall steps. She’s wearing a blue rose print cotton dress with matching high heels. Her blond hair is coiffed in the most perfect bob I think I’ve even seen. Of course, she is beautiful. That’s the way life works. She is talking to another woman in an overly animated way. I watch with a sick sort of fascination at the way she snaps her head back to laugh. Her neck ripples, her red lips part as she emits a laugh so shrill that I can hear it from where I sit. It’s a laugh that is designed to turn as many heads as possible; to direct maximum attention towards herself. She’s now resting her left hand on the other woman’s arm as her right hand flits in the night air like a Spanish dancer. It is making exaggerated turns here and there to emphasize some point she is trying to make. Every single thing about her makes my stomach feel heavy. I can’t do it. I can’t do it anymore. I open my glove box and pull out a pencil book and start writing. When I finish, I open my car door, unfold my legs, step out into the night air and place the sheet of paper under one of the wiper blades on Bluey’s car. He’ll find the note before he drives home. Dear Bluey, Please take Suzanne Quartermaine home to Kooma. I can’t do it. Best, Cate McAllen. I turn the key to start Titch and back out onto the gravel road. The warm air feels delicious on my skin as I change gears and pick up speed. I actually feel giddy? Light? I’m smiling. It’s going to be a hot one on the wheat plains again tomorrow. I wonder what the weather will be like in Adelaide?


There was a lot of blood on the floor. “I’ll get that.” Kikimora startled where she stood frozen over a dirty table with a handful of half-filled bottles. “Oh. You’re back. He fine?” “He thinks he’s immortal,” Yaga grunted. “Of course he’s not fine.” Where a few hours ago there had been a party, there was a dark mahogany stain. The chairs have been moved aside, for the ease of clean up, and it helped her move around. The table was pushed from the centre of the room towards the small window, and in the middle of the checkerboard linoleum floor, the blood still pooled. Yaga licked her lips. “Did you touch it?” “He going to be alright?” “Mora,” Yaga called louder, “Did you touch the blood?” “What?” Kikimora lowered her eyes to the surface of the table. “No…” “He’ll be alright. Give me a hand?” The kitchen was tiny. There were multiple cupboards strewn across the walls, collected from different sets of furniture from different years, if not decades. The sink was filled with dirty dishes left over from the dinner and the party, mugs, and cups popped up all over the counters, and multiple rugs were thrown over the chairs. The windowsill was mostly house plants, save for the shadow of a body frame in the middle. Next to it, another unfinished bottle. On the floor right in front of it, a blood spill. “Mora.” “Sorry,” she turned around. “What did you want?” “A bowl and a cloth,” Yaga found them by her chair the moment she asked for it. The next moment, she moved herself to the floor and touched her fingers to another shadow of a body. A shiver ran through hers, and on the third count, she breathed out and started to collect the blood. Kikimora didn’t move a single voluntary inch in the time that elapsed since. “Mora, dear,” Yaga asked, squeezing the cloth in the bowl and running blood-stained fingers through her hair. “Would you get the dishes?” “Did I cause it?” Kikimora whispered in response. “No, dear, now get the dishes.” “But in my house…” “Mora,” sterner, “dishes.” Without looking up from the blood, the floor, and the bowl she had busied herself with, Yaga finally heard Kikimora move across the kitchen. When the water ran, its liveliness wasn’t reflected in anything else: the room was stagnant in time. The window in front of her was dusted but the light made it through, and Yaga could see all the small evidence of life in this apartment suspended in the air. It didn’t dare fall. All the better, she thought. She needed it that way. “Where is he?” “In the hospital. Are you done?” “When is he coming back?” Yaga hesitated. “Are you done?” The dust in the air shivered. “Yes.” Kikimora went around the room to the window. She ran her fingers above it and turned around to meet Yaga’s eyes. “I can help you…” “I’d much rather you didn’t,” Yaga replied immediately but before she could get the last word out, Mora was on her knees, hands hovering over the floor. Yaga stilled, watching her watch the blood. Kikimora’s face didn’t betray any emotion; it was calm but she emanated strong energy, one Yaga was familiar with but couldn’t quite place. From around her knees, the fog started to spread over the stain, barely low enough to touch it. Opaque, it didn’t let the light through. “Mora.” The fog perked up at the voice. “It wasn’t… It isn’t your fault.” The fog bit into it. All of it. Yaga narrowly avoided her legs being pulled along but the cupboards, and the floor, and the walls in a flowery paper, all of it slipped and gave way. “My house,” it rustled. “Just a place.” “Not just a place…” “Not to you,” Yaga agreed, “but to a wretched mind like his, just as good as any.” She paused. “I guess, we should be thankful it was better than any other. This,” she indicated the suspended dust with a flick of a wrist, “You are saving his life.” The fog tensed, the dust in the air flinched. “And this,” Yaga nodded at the bowl, drowned in the murk, “I am preserving your efforts.” The air wobbled, moving around the place, and Yaga heard a distant laugh, whispers, and jokes, a stray scream, a gushing, a wild alarm from outside the window.

“What is… death, really?” Koschei, lodged on the edge of the windowsill, swings the bottle in a wobbly arc, nearly missing the wall. “Like… What is it, you know?” Babay, seated at the table right across the window, watches him with round eyes, a cup of amber liquid in his hands. “What exactly are you asking about?” “Death. Didn’t you listen?” “Death,” he nods. “What about it?” “What the fuck is it?” “Live long enough and find out!” Koschei splutters, waving a hand in the air. “That’s what I’m talking about!” He points the finger at Babay. “Wait and find out? And if I don’t wait, what then? And what if I… What if I, say… What if I don’t want to wait? What then?” “I’m not sure what you want from me, to be fair…” Under a collective shaking laugh, Koschei gasps and stumbles to his feet on the windowsill. “Ok.” He rights himself, “Ok. Hear me out—” Kikimora interjects, “That a dangerous position—” “Hush! Hear me out ,” he finally cracks the bottle on the wall, and the beer comes pouring down the wall to where the glass has fallen on the floor. There’s a loud screech as Kikimora gets to her feet. “Get off the window—” “Shut up—” “Koschei!” “Immortal until proven mortal, eh?” There’s sharp glass in his hand. There's sharp glass to his hand. There's sharp glass through— "Mora!" Kikimora fell to all four, and the room fell quiet and clear. “See,” Yaga prompted. “It couldn’t’ve been less of your fault, alright?” Mora nodded. “Now go find your family. By the time you are back, it’ll all be gone.” She waved around at the mess in the kitchen but finished the action by pointing at herself, too. “He’s not welcome here anymore.” Yaga smiled. “I’ll pass it on.” “Swiftest recovery.” “Bye, Mora.” She didn’t move, but the next moment the air around Yaga was empty and a door slapped a dozen halls away.


"No." The word fell flat. His face fell with it. "Oh my god--" She turned so as not to face him. The sun was in her eyes. She felt almost blinded by it, the tears collecting quickly and filling with sunlight. It was painful. Every feature about it. How could she have let it go on for so long? She should have left so much sooner. His hand on her shoulder reminded her of the pending explanation. The let-down. The break-up. Everything she had been hoping to avoid. Everything she was intensifying due to her long and silent gripping to what she had left. Her hands hurt from holding on so hard for so long. How would her knuckles ever regain their color from the hold she had on Thomas? And who was he to her anyways? A place-holder? A lover? A man. "Alice," he said, his voice quivering although he desperately tried to keep it together. "I, I, I understand, but..." With palms open to the sky, with a look of pure sadness and confusion, he uttered, "What did I do wrong?" She lost it then. How could she ever explain to Thomas that she didn't love him? The question was unsettling to her. Did she really not love him ? He was so fun to be in love with. His shaggy hair and the feeling of it between her fingers. The taste of his lips and how great of a kisser he was. The little tendencies he had to slip into Romeo. To sing to her, to take her to the top of a mountain or a high building and tell her he loved her. The way he held her at night. The sound of his humming as he buttered his toast in the morning. All these things she knew she loved. But then... Then there were those terrible nights. Those stone cold evenings where scarcely a word was spoken. Whenever he went home and didn't stay with her in her apartment. The songs that she listened to purposely whenever she was alone. The way she looked out her car window at the rain. When she'd put down her windows to feel the wet chill on her skin and remember that she was alive. And that love was still out there waiting. How badly she wanted to feel that again. After apologizing profusely, offering tissues, and getting Thomas to sit down and put the ring back in his pocket, she started the long and gut-wrenching descent. "You have done everything right," she said, blinking back a swelling ocean of guilt-ridden tears. "None of this is about you, Thomas." He wasn't looking at her anymore. He stared straight ahead, as if seeing through her. His head was tilted down and Alice considered if perhaps he wasn't hearing her at all. She was so worried about this. So worried about how he would take it all. He was a fragile piece of pottery to begin with. Darkly tinted. Beautiful. Broken. But never shatterproof. Like herself. She took his hand and massaged it gently. "Please look at me," she whimpered. A breeze blew through the tree above them and he gave out a sigh that struck her with sadness. "I would..." he whispered. "If I could. But if I do right now, I'd be a mess. And..." He looked up at the tree to avoid her eyes. She noticed tears collecting there. "I don't want you to see me like that." She nodded painfully and waited for the strength. He withdrew his hand from hers. He stood. Turned. Broke down and walked a few paces, his back to her. "Thomas," she half-moaned. "Please forgive me. I never meant for any of this. I did love you." "You did?" he half-shouted. "Then why didn't you say so? And when did you decide to just stop?" An evil half-chuckle escaped from his sarcastic and frustrated lips. Even now, she still wanted to kiss him. She'd give anything to have avoided this day a little longer. "It was never my decision. If I could make that decision, I would." "What are you even saying? Does it make sense to you!" "Don't patronize me." "You have the ability to make YOUR OWN DECISIONS! Who is making them for you, Alice?" The pungency of his sharp words stuck in the back of her throat. More tears that she didn't even know she had erupted. Guilt mixed with honest pain mingled and came flowing. His face softened as he watched her tangled and shattered heart lay there on the grass beneath him, writhing in an unforgivable and all too familiar pain. He couldn't bare it. He apologized. That was mean. He sat down next to her again and, for what might be the last time, held her gently in his arms. After a while of soothing her and kissing her forehead, smelling the aroma of her sweet hair, she finally came clean. "It's Carson." He turned to see her downward cast face. To watch how her eyelids shut, waiting for the blow. Her teeth gritting. Every muscle tense with the reality that she had never moved on. That Thomas was just nothing more than a rebound gone terribly, terribly wrong. "I'm still in love with him, Thomas." Her confusion was so innocent, so unflinching, so sad, that he couldn't help but empathize with her. "Hey, hey..." he said softly as she put her head to his chest. "Just talk to me, okay? I'm not going to yell. Not anymore. That was wrong of me in the first place to get so worked up. We can talk about this, baby." "No," she repeated, the word too soon reminding him about his lost dream. "I don't think we should. I don't want to hurt you anymore, or waste anymore of your time." She stood then, finding it very difficult to separate from him. "Just please know that what we had was love. It was always something so special to me. And that's why I can't say "yes," and make you happy. I so desperately want to make you happy. But I'll never be happy knowing that my heart is off somewhere else." He nodded, still shocked, still sitting shattered by the tree. "You can call me," she said finally. "But if I don't pick up, give me a day." And then, before rushing away she managed to echo his words of not too long ago, "I love you."


Kari Michaels just quit her job. Again. Mel would be here any moment and Kari dreaded revealing the news to her older sister. If Mel knew, she’d never agree to their road trip and Kari needed this trip.              Their plans had been in the books for eight months, since their mother’s funeral. Kathy’s dying wish was for her daughters to reconcile and visit their favorite vacation spot from when they were children and still best friends.              Kari had her doubts about the reconciling part, Mel always seemed so disappointed in her. If she added the little tidbit about quitting her job, Mel would feel justified in her opinion. According to Mel, Kari did not live up to her potential, but how could she live up to a sister who made all the right choices and wasn’t afraid to point that out?              Kari put her bag in the hatchback of her car and looked at the time. It was unlike Mel to be late. Moments later, Mel pulled up in her sporty SUV with her long blonde hair all blown out and her make-up perfectly applied.              “You’re late,” Kari couldn’t resist pointing out.              Mel just shook her head and didn’t take the bait.

             “I’m here now,” she said, looking as if her mind were elsewhere.              They had agreed to take Kari’s little Toyota because it was so much better on gas mileage, so Mel put in her two large suitcases, which sat next to Kari’s one overnight bag. Melissa Michaels was high maintenance whereas Kari tended to be make-up free and down to earth. They were like oil and water – the two sisters, but it hadn’t always been that way. When they were kids, they’d been best friends, preferring each other’s company over their friends.              It wasn’t until their teen years that they began to drift apart. It was about the time Mel had met Greg, who she later married. That summer her sister had changed. Mel hadn’t always tried to be perfect. Kari could recall her sister’s infectious laughter and adventurous spirit. Kari missed her.              “I’ll drive first,” Kari said, getting in.              “Sure,” Mel responded without an argument. Normally Mel liked to be in control and in charge.              “Should we get Slurpee’s for the road?” Kari half joked, remembering how their mother always began their trip with Slurpee’s.              “Let’s do it,” Mel smiled, which was the last response Kari expected.              What was up with her sister?              They hit the convenience store and came out smiling, with their large drinks. Maybe this trip would be better than she thought.              “Remember when that guy cut off mom and she got so mad she threw her Slurpee on his pristine white car?” Kari recalled.              “And then he chased us for a few miles before Mom lost him,” Mel added, laughing.              “Mom always had such road rage,” said Kari, taking a large gulp of her cherry cola Slurpee.              “We were lucky,” Mel pointed out. “I don’t think I’d do that nowadays. People are likely to have guns.”              “Yeah, but it was fun then, when we didn’t know any better.”              They got on the beltway heading south, each content with their own thoughts, as Kari maneuvered around the busy traffic.              “I brought some of Mom’s Cd’s,” Mel said, taking them out of her large designer handbag.              “Whatcha got?” Kari wondered, surprised by her sister’s sentimentality.              “Neil Diamond, Elton John and the Eagles,” she held up the albums.              “Oh, Mom loved Neil the most,” Kari said, unused to going down memory lane with Mel, who always seemed to be looking forward.              “Neil it is,” Mel said, sliding in the Cd. Neil Diamond’s deep, sultry voice crooned through the speakers.              Kari was immediately hit with nostalgia. It felt like having their mom in the car with them.  Kari blinked away her tears, not wanting Mel to see her so vulnerable, but Mel was looking out the passenger window, deep in thought.              Had Mom been right? Could this trip bring them back together again? For the first time in years, Kari felt hopeful.              The traffic made the Outer Banks feel so far away, but Kari couldn’t wait to dip her toes in the sand and explore the little cottage they used to stay in. Would it be the same?              Melissa cracked her window and let the warm, summer air blow her beautifully styled hair into a mess. Kari couldn’t recall ever seeing her sister so relaxed.              “So how have things been?” she asked, sensing a change in her.              “Fine,” Mel answered, distractedly. She turned up the volume, virtually cutting off further conversation.

             This puzzled Kari even more. Mel loved to talk about her perfect job and her perfect life. She wasn’t usually this closed mouth. Most of her conversations revolved around Greg, but so far, she hadn’t mentioned her husband once.              Kari let the songs and the memories flood her as the traffic let up.

             “I have to pee,” Mel spoke up after a while.

             “Me too,” Kari laughed. “I think there’s a rest stop coming up soon.”              “Remember how Mom always made our stops a game?”              “To see who could be done the fastest,” Kari recalled.              “It wasn’t until years later that I realized she hated taking the time to stop. She wanted to keep going,” Mel said.              “Then why did she ever give two kids Slurpee’s at the beginning of the trip,” Kari laughed, pulling into the rest stop.              “I don’t know,” Mel laughed too. “Who could figure Mom out?”              When Kari was finished, she checked out the vending machines, wanting something to munch on.

             “Beat you,” Mel teased, leaning against the car. “What took you so long?”              Kari held up her bag of chips.              “Aw, you’d better share,” Mel whined, trying to snatch the bag.              “Maybe,” Kari said, holding the bag away from her sister. This trip was going better than she had thought.

             As they got back on the highway, Kari sensed a camaraderie with Mel, as they shared the snack.

             “How was Greg taking it being on his own for the week?” Kari asked, as she stuffed a chip in her mouth. Her brother-in-law was a control freak, and always seemed to like Mel waiting on him.

             Mel just shrugged her shoulders like she could care less. Now Kari knew something was up. Normally Melissa worshipped the ground he walked on. It had been that way since high school when the popular jock had first taken notice of her.              Kari didn’t want to push her sister for more details. She didn’t want to disrupt the peaceful mood they were in, so she changed the subject.              “How about the Eagles?” Kari asked, after Neil Diamond had played through.              “Sure,” Mel said, changing the Cd.              After a while, Mel turned to Kari. “He wants a baby,” she said, looking so vulnerable and unsure of herself. There were worry lines around her sister’s perfect features.              “And you don’t?” Kari asked, shocked. “I thought you wanted a baby.”              There was a long pause before her sister answered in a soft voice.   “Not with him.”              “What?!” Kari almost shouted. She was dumbstruck. “What’s going on, Mel?” she asked, now clearly worried.              Mel let out a nervous laugh. “My life is a mess,” she confided. “I’ve made so many mistakes,” she sighed, looking like she was about to cry.              “Melly, what’s going on?” Kari asked, reverting to her sister’s childhood nickname.              “I wouldn’t know where to begin,” she admitted. “High school? I should never have married Greg. Or let him talk me into changing colleges to be near him. I don’t know who I am anymore. I don’t know who I am without him?”              “You’re still my beautiful, adventurous, smart sister,” Kari told her.              “I haven’t been a very good sister in a long, long time,” she sighed, again. “And I’m sorry.”              “Well, we’ve both lost track of things,” Kari conceded. “But that’s what this trip is for, right? To get back on track?”              “Yes, it’s what I want,” Mel answered.              “Me too,” Kari said, glancing at her sister.              “I hope it’s not too late?” Mel asked. “I’ve pushed you aside for so long.”              “It’s never too late,” Kari stated with assurance. “Plus, it makes what I have to tell you seem small potatoes.”              “What?! What’s going on with you?”              “I quit my job again,” Kari admitted, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for her sister’s caustic remarks.              “Well good,” Mel said, instead. “You can do better. They didn’t appreciate your talent,” she said, with certainty.              “Who are you? And where is my sister?” Kari joked.              “I’m so sorry, I always made you feel like you weren’t doing enough,” Mel confessed. “You’ve stayed true to yourself all these years. Where I’ve let someone else dictate my life. I’m the last person who should be giving advice.”              “What are you going to do, Mel?” Kari asked.              “I’m leaving him,” she said, with tears in her eyes. “I should have done it a long time ago. I think when Dad left, I just wanted someone else to take over, so I gave Greg full range. Isn’t that awful?” she said, disgusted with herself.              “We were just trying to survive back then,” Kari pointed out. “We all handled the divorce in different ways.”              “I suppose you’re right. But now we can make up for lost time,” Mel told her.              “And this is just the beginning of our vacation. We have all week.”              “We have all our lives,” Mel corrected her. And they did.