A PLACE ON THE HILL             Jack Thomas strode from the bullpen across the outfield grass.  The pitching mound was all he saw, oblivious to the crowd and its raucous mood.  It seemed so far away. It was tough being a rookie in New York City, having to learn the hitters and finer points of pitching.  Add to that expectations of New York fans and media for the large contract he received.  Yet, what made it more difficult was replacing the iconic, aging relief pitcher, Tom Gorman.             Baseball was a natural for Jack. His father began the serious play as opposed to soft toss when he was young. “Catch the ball or suffer the consequences,” his dad would laugh, the consequences- being hit in the face or other body part. Jack sported many bruises, to his mother’s dismay. She chastised her husband but she had seen the same process with their older son Zak and daughter Jen so she understood it would be no different with Jack.

            The walk seemed endless.  Memories surfaced of the poorly-lit stadiums and long bus rides between Columbus, Rochester, Utica, and other minor league cities; meals at roadside greasy spoons; and the uncomfortable, lumpy bus seats. This fueled his determination to stay with the Clippers.  Not even the attitudes of Gorman’s cronies could diminish Jack’s confidence. “I love baseball,” he told the bullpen, “and I’m good at it. If you boys can’t buy that and keep riding me because of your broken hearts, I’ll just have to do my best to win in spite of you.”

            The bat boy took Jack’s jacket.  Coach Martin tossed the ball up and down from hand to hand like a juggler with too few balls while catcher Bill Kolasky pawed at the dirt in front of the pitching rubber with strokes of his big right foot, like a horse getting ready for a race.  A fog of breath escaped from Coach’s mouth and it was then that Jack felt colder than he had since starting his warm-up pitches.             “OK, Thomas,” Coach Martin started. “You’ve got one out, runners on first and second.  We’ve got the lead.  Let’s keep it!”  Coach left the battery to work out the details.             Kolasky began with the signals.  A strapping specimen, his arms bulged with power.  His voice was neither loud nor gruff but firm and in control.  “OK, Big J, we’ve got the usual.  One finger fastball, wiggle one splitter, two curve, three slider, and four for the change-up.  With the runner on second, the sign will be the first after a fist unless I hit my chest protector twice, then it’s the second after the fist.  Concentrate on location and don’t aim the ball. Just relax and you’ll be fine.  Callahan is the first guy you’ll face.  Just like we said pre-game, pitch him down and away so we can try to get a ground ball into a double play.”             “One out, runners on first and second,” the umpire interrupted.  “Snap it up fellas.  My eyes go bad after midnight.”             Kolasky hit Jack in the chest with his glove and returned with the umpire.  It was lonely in that circle, Jack thought, and unusually quiet.  The customary infield chatter was absent except for veteran first baseman Greg Nelson.             “Come on hotshot,” Nelson barked.  “Let’s see if you’re worth it.”             Jack barely heard the remark.  His focus was Callahan.  Sweating now in the cool April evening, he turned to face the outfield, noting their positioning, while rubbing the ball methodically, wondering if a genie would appear to grant a wish.  The umpire bellowed “Play ball!” Jack turned toward home plate after touching the rosin bag, toed the rubber and tugged at the bill of his cap.  Kolasky flashed the signals.

            Slider, down and away. Jack rotated his right arm like a windmill to ease the stiffness.  He didn’t like starting with a breaking pitch but also knew rookie pitchers didn’t shake off veteran catchers. He felt awkward in the stretch as he delivered the ball.  The pitch sailed wide for ball one.  Kolasky threw the ball back.  Still no genie.  A touch of the rosin bag, a tug of the hat, and Jack peered in for the sign.  Fastball, outside corner.  This time everything flowed nicely.  Callahan pulled the pitch hard to shortstop.  Pilato gobbled up the grounder from the dirt, flipped to Ramsey at second who threw to first to complete the double play.             The fans stood and cheered!  For the first time since entering the game, Jack heard the crowd’s cheers and chants “Go Clippers” echoing through the packed ballpark.  As he walked to the dugout, he absorbed the environment. Some fans called for Jack to get the bums out in the ninth while others called for Gorman.  A banner made from a bed sheet read “NY LOVES THE CLIPPERS” scrawled in big red letters stretched across the façade of the mezzanine.  Now he was more relaxed, yet pumped by the excitement of the crowd and fueled by his own adrenaline.             “How’s that!” Jack exclaimed slapping Kolasky’s outstretched hand.

            “Hey you know what they say in southern France, Jacko,” Kolasky replied.  “You’re only as good as your last pitch.  We’ve still got a tough ninth.             Jack and Kolasky went over the scouting report on the Redbirds’ scheduled hitters.  Shouts of encouragement rang from the other end of the dugout for Garcia who was at bat.  Catcalls from the bench detailed the underbelly of the opposing pitcher’s ancestry.  The battery was left alone. It bothered Jack as he glanced toward the players leaning on the top step of the dugout.  He had always been a team player, well-liked by teammates for his laid-back personality and Oklahoma farm-boy humor, combined with his intense desire to win.  His dad had taught him to play the game right, to respect the game. He saw himself as part of the old school, players who played for the love of the game instead of the almighty dollar.  Of course, the millions of dollars the Clippers showered on him seemed to contradict that premise, but not in Jack’s mind.  Perhaps the silent treatment would have affected his confidence if Coach Martin hadn’t talked to him during spring training when the wet behind his ears was still moist.  Martin was a master game strategist and a man of few words, though he had a keen sense for knowing what to say and when to say it.  In late March, the Coach asked to see Jack in his office.             “Kid, you had a sore arm early in spring training. Since then you’ve proven that you’ve got a great fastball and all the tools. I’m gonna release Gorman since the brass sees him as deteriorating and, frankly, don’t want to cough up his option dollars. You’re my closer. It won’t be a bed of roses.  The older guys will give you grief since they were attached to Gorman’s hip.  You’ll have to deal with whatever happens. Gorman’s pals, the media, the fans will be all over every step you take, especially in New York.  You’re gonna have to develop a thick skin and short memory. Like I said, you’ve got the tools.  We’ll see if you’ve got the guts.”             “I’ll give my best,” Jack replied.  “I know I can help this team win.  When I do, I’d say those boys will take to me like a hungry horse to a fresh bale of hay.”  Coach Martin’s eyes never wavered as he gazed at the rookie.  Those strong eyes and support stayed in Jack’s mind as motivation.

            Kolasky had started to run down the Redbird strengths and weaknesses.  “You listenin’ JT?” he asked, not waiting for Jack to answer.  “They’ll pinch hit for the pitcher so just blow the fastball by the guy because he’ll be colder than a penguin’s ass after huddling on the bench all game.  Perez is next.  He hits the low fastball so feed him sliders at the knees out of the zone or heat up high.  He’s quick so he might bunt to get on then try to steal second.  Gotta keep him off  base. Boland and Logan both have trouble with off-speed and breaking pitches so change-ups, slow curves, and variations of the split can get them.  Don’t make a mistake with the fastball to Logan or he’ll lose it.  He’s the guy we don’t want to beat us.  Best bet is to get the first three chumps out.”             Jack heard Coach Martin’s voice above the clatter of spikes on the concrete dugout steps as the team went out for the ninth.  “It’s your game kid.  Get that first out and make it short so we can all go home.”             Jack vaulted from the dugout.  The intensity of the crowd had heightened.  Ninth inning, game on the line.  Butterflies filled his stomach.  Each stride seemed shakier than the preceding one. His arm felt as limp as overcooked spaghetti and worries of the sore arm surfaced.  There was the gnawing doubt that it would not respond in a crucial situation.  A hopping fastball could straighten out and be hit a long, long way.             On the mound, he was tight but loosened up after the eight warm-up tosses.  His focus had returned.  The left-handed pinch-hitter, Gonzalez, entered the batter’s box and looked eager to hit, waving his bat menacingly. He remembered Kolasky’s directive and fired three fastballs for strikes.  On the third pitch, Gonzalez popped the ball to Nelson.

            Perez stepped to the plate.  Jack knew he needed this out. Keep the speed off the bases.  Keep Logan from taking a swing.             “OK, JT, let’s have that same fastball right down the pipe,” Kolasky chattered, signaling for the curve ball low on the outside corner.  The pitch found its target.  “Strike one!” the umpire bellowed and raised his right arm.

            “Another wrinkle, Jackie, just like that one.  Beautiful pitch.  Beautiful pitch!”  Kolasky pumped his fist. “This guy can’t hit.  He’s too busy counting his money.”  Kolasky called for the fastball inside at the letters.  Perez swung and missed.             Jack wasted the next slider, trying to get Perez to fish for a bad pitch.  He tried again with the same result.  Two balls, two strikes.  Kolasky flashed the split-finger fastball.  Jack started his motion and, as he let the pitch go, the location was off and the pitch didn’t dive.  Perez jumped all over it, slashing the ball into right field for a single.  “Damn,” Jack muttered.  “One mistake and the jackrabbit gets on base!”             Boland came to the plate and dug a toehold in the batter’s box.  Perez danced off first, taunting Jack who straddled the pitching slab, glancing sideways at Perez.  Jack tried to tune out the heckling from the opposing dugout, detailing his rural upbringing and who his parents might be.

            “Keep him close,” Coach Martin yelled from the top step of the dugout.             Jack toed the rubber, whirled and threw to first. Perez got back easily.  Jack went into the set position, looked over his shoulder and saw Perez had an even larger lead.  Again, he fired to first.  Perez dove back, barely ahead of the tag.             The runner dusted off and chided “I’m going this time Chulo!”  Kolasky wanted a pitch-out but Jack shook him off.  He didn’t want to get behind in the count to Boland and walk him or give him a hitter’s count where he could zone a pitch. Jack wanted to jump ahead of him. He didn’t think Perez would be stealing after the two pick-off attempts.  Kolasky signaled for a two-seam fastball, low and inside.             “Going!” the first baseman yelled.  Instinctively, Jack ducked to avoid being hit by the catcher’s throw to second.  Kolasky hurried the throw and it sailed into center field.  Perez sprang from his slide and advanced to third base.  Jack threw the rosin bag down in disgust, thinking about the pitch-out he shook off.  Four to three, one out, runner on third.  He was in trouble.  He had gotten into this jam.  Now he had to get out of it.             From the corner of his eye, the rookie could see Coach fidgeting in the dugout. The umpire called time and Jack’s heart sank as Martin began his deliberate walk to the mound.  Jack scraped at the mound, feeling the presence of Coach Martin and Kolasky approaching. Kolasky got there first, assuring Jack he still had his stuff with a big swat of the catcher’s mitt to Jack’s chest.  “Hey, JT, you’re King of the Hill.  He got lucky.”

            Coach Martin came seconds later looking toward the bullpen to see if the lefty he had warming up was ready.  The bullpen coach raised his cap to signal that the reliever was set.             “What’s he got?” Martin asked Kolasky.

            “Fastball’s moving high in the zone.  Slider’s breaking with good tilt.  He just needs location and that’s the ball game Coach,”

            Martin folded his arms, pondering the situation, and then slapped the rookie on the hip, looking squarely into his eyes.  “Show me what you’ve got kid.  Get us a win.”             A sense of renewed vigor filled Jack.  “Thanks, Coach,” he blurted.

            Perez jabbered something in Spanish trying to distract Jack while Pilato and Ramsey shouted encouragement from the infield.  “Go get ‘em Jacko.  We’re right behind you.”  Ah, the competitive spirit!  No matter how tight-lipped they wanted to be to support Gorman, the urge to win made these guys open up with the infield chatter that was music to any pitcher standing on the hill.             Boland was impatient to hit.  Noting this, Kolasky signaled for an off-speed curve.  Swing and miss, strike one.  Another curve, outside for a ball, and a fastball fouled off made the count one ball and two strikes.  Perez again attempted to unnerve the rookie with a dash down the third base line but Jack was in his rhythm and zeroed in on the target.  He delivered a split-finger fastball dipping past Boland’s futile swing for the strike out.             The fans went wild, bullhorns blasting above the roar of the crowd.  They exhorted the Clippers to record the final out, the rowdy atmosphere drowning out the presence of Frank Logan lumbering to the plate.  Logan could change the score with one swipe of his mighty bat.

            The pressure mounted as Jack concentrated on Logan. He remembers thinking how overblown game announcers made pressure.  Heck, all you had to do was get the ball over the plate!  Now, he realized the difference between pitching against the side of the barn with only the dog watching to facing a home run hitter in front of fifty thousand screaming fans with the game on the line.             Logan stood with one foot outside the batter’s box, adjusting his batting gloves and making the rookie wait.  Jack’s palms were moist and he reached for the rosin bag.  Logan took his stance and pointed his big bat squarely at Jack. The first pitch went high and wide as Kolasky had to jump from his crouch to save the wild pitch as Perez dashed from third base.  “Calm down, JT,” Kolasky yelled, pointing to his shoulder as a reminder to stay closed in his delivery.  “Don’t get behind this guy.”  He called for a slider, down and away.  Jack took a deep breath to regroup and delivered the pitch.  Logan was guessing fastball and broke his wrists on a half-swing for strike one.             Home plate seemed smaller and farther away.  Kolasky signaled split-finger.

Mechanics

and location  Jack repeated.  He followed through, saw Logan uncoil a powerful swing and foul the pitch hard into the first base stands as the ball dipped at the last second.             “Good pitch, JT,” Kolasky shouted.  “You’ve got him guessing now.  Make him hit your pitch.  Don’t give in!”  The last one was too close for comfort.  Kolasky pumped the ball back to Jack, making his hand sting as a reminder that these were big pitches. Logan called time out again.  Jack wiped his right palm on his pant leg. He gazed toward home plate.  Logan twisted his neck, pulling at the shoulder of his uniform, one foot in the box, the other out.  The umpire’s hand was raised like a policeman stopping traffic.  Kolasky continued his barrage of verbal wisdom.  “He’s stalling, Big Guy.  Can’t figure you out.”              Logan finally swung his right foot into his stance.  The umpire’s arm dropped.  Jack peered in for Kolasky’s sign – fastball on the fists!  What in the world was this big lug thinking?  One slip of the wrist, one twist of the arm, and goodbye ball game.  Should he shake him off again?  No - no slips, no twists, just a 99 mile per hour four-seam moving fastball.  That’s it!             Jack nodded his head and began his motion.  Nothing penetrated his focus.  He whipped his right arm through, the ball zipping off his fingers.  Logan hesitated just an instant.  The ball rose in the strike zone.  That one split second of indecision cost Logan.  He topped the ball down the first base line.  Nelson moved to his right, snared the ball and made the underhand toss to Jack covering the bag.  Out number three.             The game was over!  Jack raised his hands in triumph as the fans erupted!  Even Nelson grudgingly acknowledged the win.  “Not bad for a rookie,” he mumbled after tapping Jack on the top of the head.  Kolasky pounded Jack on the back.  “Knew you had it, bro,” he repeated twice to emphasize his point, and then raised his eyes skyward in mock wonder.             “The first one’s the toughest,” Coach Martin said as he shook Jack’s hand.  “Good game kid.”             “Thanks Coach, thanks for letting me finish,” Jack gushed.             “Thought seeing that lefty in the bullpen might put a thump in your chest,” Martin winked.             It was a good feeling, a moment Jack wanted to savor and one he’d never forget, holding the game ball tight in his hand.  Even though it may have been just another game for most of these guys, and only one game in a long season, he knew it was his first step to establish his place on the hill.


It had been 15 long years since the last time they had seen each other. Everyone had gone in separate directions, they had all thought they would be together forever, but sometimes, that’s not how things work out. In 2020 we graduated and now it is 2035, it’s been so long, too long. Two remained together, they married and had a family, forgot the rest of us existed, except for when the fifteen year high school reunion was approaching.

They arrived at the school at separate times, but soon they ran into each other and the reunion couldn’t have been happier…… Storm was standing near the punch bowl, eagerly watching for someone she knew to appear, she turned around and almost ran smack into another person. “Storm, is that you?” a voice said. Storm broke into a grin, it was Amanda! They hadn’t changed very much, their hair was cut in a pixie style, instead of the long, golden locks they had in high school. “Amanda, it’s so good to see you!” she said, “What’ve you been up to?” “Well, I have a Masters Degree in Social Sciences and work here actually, as a guidance counselor.” Amanda said. “Oh, and I am non-binary, now that I don’t live with my mother, I can be whoever I want, no matter her opinions.” Storm smiled, “That’s great, I know how much you wanted her to accept you as you.” “What’ve you been doing, aside from getting married, that ring is beautiful!” Amanda said. “Yep, I married Prince, he’s around here somewhere, probably is looking for Jack, anyways,

we have a seven year old son named Alec. I am a 4th grade teacher at Garfield Elementary and I run a non-profit to support families in need.” Storm said, smiling. “That’s amazing Storm, I always thought Prince would end up with Leana though,” Amanda said. “Yeah, I know, but they broke up two years after high school, hey look over there, is that…” Storm said. “NO WAY, it is them, c’mon!” Amanda said, dragging Storm with her away. Carlos just walked into the gym when he saw someone very familiar standing near the stage, he immediately went over and tapped on their shoulder. “Jo is that you,” he said. The person turned around and their face lit up when they saw who was standing behind them. “Carlos, I can’t believe it’s you,” they said. “How’ve you been.” “Well I am a Sports Broadcaster at CNN and that’s about it,” Carlos said. “What’ve you been up to Jo?” Jo was still smiling, “Let’s see, I am an English teacher here, Amanda works here too by the way, and I am still genderqueer and straight, otherwise nothin else has changed.” “Your hair looks good, the chin-length suits you,” Carlos said. Jo laughed, “Thanks, yours hasn’t changed at all.” They both smiled at each other. “Soo,” Jo said. “Are you in a relationship?” Carlos’ smile faded a little, then it brightened again. “No actually.” he said. “I dated a coworker for a week four years ago, but my last serious relationship was you, what about you,” he said, making eye contact with Jo. “Nope, last time I dated was, well, you.” they said smiling shyly. Carlos looked around for a minute. He paused abruptly. “Hey, look over there, is that who I think it is?” he said. “Jo looked where Carlos was pointing and smiled. “I think it is, c’mon!” They smiled and grabbed Carlos’ hand and they hurried away.

Marcus was standing against the wall, watching the sea of people crowded into their high school gym. They thought about all of the memories here, all the people here, everything here that shaped their life. They smiled to themselves before walking over to a pair of people having a conversation a few feet away. It took them a moment to recognize the pair, the woman’s hair was longer and the man’s was very short, what seemed like a buzzcut. “Hey guys,” they said. The two figures stopped talking and broke into huge grins when they saw who had approached them. The woman spoke first, “Marcus, oh my gosh it’s so good to see you!” “Hey Marcus,” the man said. “Hi Kayla, hi Jay, it’s been too long, what are y’all up to nowadays?” they asked. Kayla smiled, “We got married two years into college and have two children, a nine year old girl named Joy and an eleven year old son named Matt. I am a lawyer and Jay over here can tell you what he does.” Jay smiled slyly, “I’m an FBI agent,” he said. Marcus laughed, “No way, seriously, who knew all those jokes about the FBI would make one of us become an actual FBI agent!” “So what do you do now Marcus?” Jay said. “Well, I am a teacher at a middle school nearby and I do some public speaking on the side for LGBTQ+ rights and recognition, after all I am non-binary and bisexual.” they said. “That’s amazing, I always knew you would do great things, oh, and did I mention I love your hair.” Kayla said. “Thanks, it hasn’t changed at all, same old pixie cut, and I always knew you two would end up together,” Marcus said. All of a sudden four excited voices came up on the group from all sides. After a moment of stunned silence, all eight embraced. The gang was back together again.

After a hug that seemed like forever they looked at each other, smiling, studying the faces of their friends from so long ago. They all started talking at once, asking how each other had been, what they were up to, who they were with. Carlos tapped Jo on the shoulder and motioned for them to follow. The two snuck away from their old friends, who barely noticed they had left, and went out into the hall. “I missed you,” Carlos said. “I missed you too,” Jo replied. They gazed into each other’s eyes. “Your eyes are still the same,” Jo said. “What do you mean?” Carlos asked. “They’re the same deep, brown eyes I gazed into in high school, the eyes of the man I fell in love with all those years ago.” Jo said, smiling. “Your eyes are the same too,” Carlos said. “How?” Jo asked. “They’re the same bright bluish, greenish, grayish, whatever color they are, anyways, they always made me smile and made me happy.” he said. They started staring deep into each other’s eyes again, remembering all of the times they spent together in high school and how much they loved and missed each other’s presence in their lives. Before they knew it, their lips were touching and their eyes were shut, grasping each other’s hands. That’s exactly how Storm, Amanda, Kayla, Jay, and Marcus found them a moment later. They finally pulled away and looked at their friends, smiling. “This is why we came back today, to see each other and mend old relationships.” Amanda said. Carlos looked at Jo, “Do you wanna try this again?” he asked. “Yeah, I do, but this time, we’ll do it right,” Jo said smiling. Carlos and Jo walked over to their friends, still holding hands and all eight embraced once again, this time they wouldn’t forget each other and miss out on being in each other’s lives. Two years later Carlos and Jo got married and lived out the rest of their days together, with their friends by their side the entire time.


It’s not all it’s cracked up to be, this superhero lark. I mean, not all of us get our deserved recognition. Take me. What do you mean you’d rather not? Okay, I’m not your traditional superhero, your 6ft, 185lb, looks good in tights type. Or 6ft 3in, 235lb if you’re Superman, the man of steel, everybody’s favorite hero. Okay, I can top that, I’m 250lb. But then again I’m only 5ft 6in, so hardly the ideal muscular physique you associate with superheroes. I don’t get my superpowers from an experiment gone wrong, lifesaving treatment, gifts from wizards or aliens, endless training or from the fact that I was born on a different planet. I’m not strong, quite the opposite. Mom used to tell me I couldn’t knock the skin off a rice pudding. But why would I want to do that anyway? I cannot fly, cannot see through walls, cannot make things freeze or heat them up. In fact on the face of it, I’m just your ordinary Joe in a world teeming with superheroes. But there is one thing I can do. I can stop time. It was quite by accident that I discovered my skill. I was walking down the street one day, minding my own business, when I heard a high-pitched scream and a squeal of brakes, and although I normally wouldn’t want to see the scenario that follows a high-pitched scream and squeal of brakes, I looked. Over to the left, and there was this woman, screaming because her small daughter had run into the road and there was a truck coming. You know how it is, something like that happens and suddenly everything goes in slow motion as the inevitable draws ever closer. Except this time, it went from slow motion to stop.

There was the woman, groceries tumbling to the ground, a look of complete horror as she faced the inevitable. There was the man in the truck, gripping the wheel, eyes bulging, a look which said he was standing on his brakes but still they weren’t working fast enough.

I went up to the guy next to me – he’d been smoking, and there was his cigarette, a lazy wisp of smoke curling up from the end. He’d been exhaling at the time, and you could tell by the track of the smoke which way he’d been facing when he began to turn his head. I walked to a woman next to him. She had blond shoulder length hair that was suspended as she turned towards the where the scream had come from, her bag was swinging, her skirts swirling.

Where was Superman when you wanted him, I thought? He’d have scooped up the child, stopped the truck, and been applauded by everyone. I looked round. No sign of a blue and red streak. I checked in all directions. Still no sign. In fact nothing was moving as far as I could see. There would be no saving that little girl. Unless. I moved closer to where the truck was. This was the first time anything like this had happened. I wasn’t sure what the rules were.  I checked what I thought the driver was doing, which direction he was trying to swerve to, and I went to the other side of the road. Gingerly I put my foot in the road. Nothing. The truck remained where it was, the girl remained where she was, the mother remained screaming, arms outstretched. I ventured a little further, getting ready to jump back if everything started up again. Nothing. Time to take action.

It was obvious the girl couldn’t move by herself, but would I be allowed to pick her up? I went towards her, and yes, I could. It would have helped if mom hadn’t been feeding her so many donuts. Hell, it would have helped if I didn’t eat so many donuts. But I managed to pick her up and put her down next to mom.

Now what? The girl wasn’t in front of the truck any more, so how did we get things moving? It was then I noticed an outline of a figure right next to smoking man, just past blond hair lady. Perhaps I had to go back to where I had been. I crossed back over the road, keeping one eye on the truck as I did so, and stepped into the outline I could see there. First I felt my feet snap into place when I got them right. Then it was my leg, hips and body. As each part filled the outline correctly, it snapped into place. And as I snapped my head back into position, the world came back to life. There was that scream, a screech of brakes, a thud, and everyone was rushing over. I looked round. There was the woman looking confused with shopping on the ground, the girl clinging onto her, and in front of the truck was a young man on the ground. He’d been rushing to try and save the girl when I’d stopped time, faltered when suddenly there was no girl to save, and ended up in front of the truck himself.

Thankfully his injuries weren’t that bad, considering; two broken legs, a broken collar bone, concussion. But the guy lived and recovered. Eventually. And the kid was fine. Okay, so I screwed up, not exactly a superhero, but hey, it was my first time. I wasn’t sure what was happening, what I was doing. This superhero talent I had didn’t come with a guidebook, you know. But I learned a valuable lesson, which is I had to look round for other potential consequences. Hell, at the time I wasn’t too sure it had even happened until I saw the local news on TV that night. They tried to pin it on Superman of course, but he wasn’t having anything to do with it, what with the other guy being injured and all that. None of the others would admit to it either. But I went round for a few days saying to myself, you saved a kid’s life. Fancy that. You. Jerry Martin. Well, nothing like that happened again for a while, so I thought it might just be a one off, but then I was in the bank, waiting patiently in the queue, when suddenly a couple of guys burst in, shooting at the ceiling, and telling everyone to get on the floor. Women screamed, men shouted, and I could see one of the tellers reach under his desk. Then everything froze. I stepped to one side, there was my outline waiting for my return, and I began to assess the situation. I checked outside, I wanted to see if the whole world had stopped; it had. Next, who was in danger. Firstly there was the teller. His name was Bill by the way, and Bill had been in the process of pushing the emergency button under the counter. Had he pressed it? I didn’t know, but what I did know is one of the gunmen had spotted him, aimed and fired. And from what I could see, the aim was good. Or bad, if you were a teller called Bill. As I saw it, I had two options. The first option was to move Bill out of the way of the bullet. If I moved Bill, I would need to get behind the counter, and hey, wasn’t that the door to the back office opening? So for that I could move that filing cabinet so it was in the path of the bullet. But the filing cabinet was kinda big, looked heavy like. To say nothing of how the hell do I get over the counter and the barriers in the first place. Which left option two.

Option two was to move the bullet, which I did very carefully. Hell, if I took it out of time, I’d no idea if it was going to go off or anything or continue on its way. So rather than pluck it out the air with my pinkies, I thought it safer if I used a waste basket, which is what I did. No explosion, it just rattled around a bit, but I made sure that when I put the bin down on the floor that the bullet was facing towards the wall, just in case. That done, I looked back at the two guys. They still had guns, were still a threat. I went up to the one who’d tried to shoot Bill, took hold of his gun, oh how I hate those things, and tried to pull it from his grasp. I found that if I moved one finger at a time, I could loosen his grip just enough so that I was able to get it away from him. When I’d got both guns, I put them in a corner behind a desk. If anyone asked how they got there, I’d say I put them out of harms reach in what I hoped would be the ensuing confusion. But the guys were still a threat. They were big, nasty, wearing masks, and I dare say when they realised their guns were gone, they’d get nastier. First the masks came off. Urgh. Big, nasty and ugly. But what to do with them now? Missing their masks would make them even angrier, so I looked around at the other customers. I judged there were at least three of them that might be able to keep these goons in place till the police got here. But let’s give them a head start. Now I might not be good at many things, but I was a good boy scout, and I like to think I’m good a tying knots. I would have liked to tie their feet together, but as their feet were so far apart, that wasn’t really feasible, so I had to make do with tying each leg to a chair. I went round all the guys in the queue and ‘borrowed’ their ties for the purpose. I made sure I included my own tie that I would remember to ‘miss’ when time started again. I was about to step back into my outline when I noticed that an old lady had been knocked and was falling over. If she fell where she was, she’d break a hip for sure. There was bearded guy quite close, and although it didn’t look like he’d catch her, if he had a well-placed chair to hand… There was nothing else I could do. I stepped back to where my outline was waiting, clicked into it a bit at a time, and bingo. The bullet exploded in the waste bin, Bill pressed the button, the old lady sat down suddenly on a chair that the bearded guy just happened to have his hand on, and two very confused would be bank robbers were being wrestled to the ground by the fit guys just as Superman showed up and shortly before the police arrived. Superman took most of the credit for that one, though he did say he had help from an anonymous source. I could see he was confused about the guys being tied to chairs.

Of course, I’m not like other superheroes. Nobody thinks oh yeah, there goes Pause Button Man. I don’t have a fancy costume, I’d look ridiculous in one anyway. Nobody knows that Jerry Martin is other than he seems, a man in his thirties, still living with his mother, a lowly accountant who works at the Daily Planet. My superpower is not something I can switch on and off like these other guys, it just happens if there’s a tricky situation that I might be able to do something about. I’ve saved a couple of kids from drowning when they fell into a river, I’ve saved a crowd of people when a man was having a massive heart attack at the wheel of his taxi. Couldn’t save the driver though, he was already dead. My gifts are limited to the here and now. But there was one occasion where I found out something very interesting. We were on a night out with other people from work. I was walking along and Perry White was saying “So, Jerry, what part of the organisation do you say you work in again?” Behind, I could hear Clark Kent was trying to chat up Lois Lane. He was droning on, trying to impress her, when there was trouble up ahead. A fight had started in a bar and had got ugly. One guy had pulled a knife, another a gun, and it looked like it was about to turn into a free for all, until it paused. Hell, what was I supposed to do here? I looked round at the others. Perry looked like he was about to crap himself, Lois hadn’t yet noticed and was dreaming about Superman – when wasn’t she – and Clark… Well, Clark Kent was running away. But the truth of the matter was that he was further away than he had any right to be considering that a split second before he had been telling Lois how nice her hair was looking. If he’d started running the moment the trouble started, he wouldn’t have had time to go more than a couple of steps. Yet there he was, half a block away, turning into a side street. What was all that about? I looked at the troublemakers, they weren’t going anywhere, so I decided to take a closer look at Clark. As I got closer, I noticed that he was pulling at his collar, like he was undoing his tie, and he’d already taken his glasses off, making him look more like… A quick peak under his shirt and there it was, red and gold, the S emblem. And further down, I’m sure I caught a glimpse of blue. Well, well, well, Clark Kent, you dark horse. So, now for some fun. I went back to the troublemakers and looked at what they had for weapons. There were three with guns, four with knives, a couple with pool cues and one with a chair. I looked around, and close by noticed a grocery store. From there I picked up supplies and replaced the guns with bananas, the knives with cucumbers, the pool queues with bread sticks. Oh, and I grabbed a tablecloth from a café to replace the chair. The weapons I chucked in a dumpster. There, that would stop any immediate threat. After all, I was pretty sure that someone else would turn up soon enough to apprehend the thugs. Before I restarted time, I looked around to make sure I hadn’t missed anything crucial. No, everything looked fine. Then I clicked back into place and waited. Sure enough, a couple of seconds later Superman turned up to apprehend the guys attacking each other with the contents of the grocers’ store, and I could see he was wondering where all the weapons they’d had only seconds before had gone. The troublemakers had forgotten what they were arguing about and were starting to laugh about it, convinced they’d picked up the wrong weapons because they’d drunk too much. Superman checked everything was okay, and it was then I went up to him and said “Oh Superman, I think they put their weapons in that dumpster over there before you got here,” all innocent like. I could see him looking at the dumpster, probably using his X-ray vision, and after he’d flown off with them, Clark Kent suddenly appeared again. Of course Lois only had eyes for Superman, so had no idea that Clark had even been missing. I could feel Clark looking at me over the next few weeks, wondering, but hey, I’m not one to gossip. I moved on after that, thought I’d go see a bit of the world. Time I left home anyway. And over the years I’ve learned all about the secrets of Hal Jordan, Diana Prince and Barry Allen. Just off to my new job in Gotham City where I’ve got a job with this guy called Bruce Wayne. Wonder what secrets that will bring?


Like Emeralds There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that Asher loved his wife, Evelyn. The way he looked at her made it abundantly clear to any passerby that this was surely a match made in Heaven. Asher had been his small town’s prime bachelor for a long time, thanks to his gentlemanly qualities, sharp looks, and ample fortune left to him by some relative (of whom nobody was entirely sure). He was known for his seemingly random acts of philanthropy, and constant willingness to be of service. Asher always had a smile on his face, and carried an air of optimism everywhere he went. When Asher had reached thirty years of age the townsfolk started to suspect that perhaps their favorite bachelor may have succumbed to a life of singleness. After all, it was not uncommon for people who live on their own for too long to decide that marriage may not be everything it’s chalked up to be. It was to the town’s both dismay and delight when Asher married a woman from a few towns over. “Rumor has it they met at one of those spring dances,” the townsfolk would say, “I hear after their eyes locked they already decided to marry one another.” “What was wrong with the bachelorettes here?” others would say, “Ought to give them a fighting chance hasn’t he?” argued the mothers of said bachelorettes. Regardless of how they met or how the townsfolk felt, no one could argue that the couple’s life appeared idyllic. Asher had both the undying respect and envy of his town. He had wealth, status, and a beautiful wife. Evelyn had also garnered a fair deal of envy for herself, having acquired the security of a rich, warm, and loving husband. It was typically at this stage in a man's life when he started to relax and bask in the blissful years to come. Men who appeared to possess all the treasures one could attain in this life often slowed down and did nothing more than enjoy themselves. Unfortunately, the same could not have been said for Asher. As the months continued to trek forward, he began to appear increasingly more disheveled. Dark circles imprinted themselves on Asher’s eyes, and that air of optimism soon began to disappear as though it had been blown away by some malevolent force. No one was entirely sure what the root of this seemingly spontaneous depression was, and in such a small community it was common to make somebody else's personal business your own. People would stop him on the street every chance they got to ask him how everything was going, in a futile attempt to gain any semblance of an answer to their mystery. “I’m right as rain!” he would say with a smile, “and why wouldn’t I be?”

Asher did indeed love his wife dearly, and treated her as though she was entitled to every good thing on Earth. Despite this, there was just one, singular, minute problem that Asher could never seem to get over no matter how hard he tried. It was her eyes. If you were to ask any outsider, they would describe Evelyn’s eyes as nothing more than a beautiful shade of green, like that of an emerald. While this was indeed true, there was something missing that any keen observer would notice. Even Asher, with his acute observation skills, was blinded by everything else about Evelyn to notice her eyes during their hasty engagement. Evelyn’s face was fully capable of displaying anger, fear, joy, but no matter her facial expression her eyes remained akin to that of a corpse. Asher loved her, but he felt that at times they were too much to bear. Her cold, loveless, stale eyes penetrated his every thought and action, and caused him to lose sleep at night. There was something deep in Evelyn that appeared to be missing, some essential inexplicable something that made someone human. While everything else from her actions to her voice appeared human, her eyes were the critical tell that this was nothing more than an act. Asher did everything he could to overlook this. He began to pour himself into project after project, looking for work in every place he could find in an effort to avoid being home. Even though Asher had enough money to live the rest of his life comfortably, he still found himself working nine hours a day in the fields or in town. Evelyn seemed ignorant to this change in behavior and continued to live her life as though Asher had not come under some sickness in the head. Asher dreaded when the workday came to an end and had to head home. Unlike most working men, Asher counted down the hours until he was able to go to be in the fields again. Every second that he did not have to look into his wife’s soulless eyes was a relief to him. Life fell into dreary equilibrium for the couple, where Asher would go out and work in some neighbor’s field, while Evelyn would go into town to visit friends and run errands. Asher was by no means happy, but he felt that he was able to make do with the situation. Then something changed. When Asher arrived home one evening there was a very subtle change in Evelyn. So subtle that not even the most scrupulous of individuals would have been able to notice it. Her eyes would appear to blink just ever so slightly less frequently, and her stare seemed to penetrate just a little bit more. This was more than Asher could take, and that ever-so-fragile equilibrium was now beyond repair. After having endured months of paranoia and insomnia, Asher snapped, and he began to scream incomprehensible accusations at Evelyn. Something along the lines of her “being the devil” and that she was “inhuman”. Evelyn’s emotionless face and eyes remained on Asher until he lost all semblance of reason. He started to claw at the walls, topple furniture, and destroy any poor innocent décor that happened to be in the madman’s path. “Asher” Evelyn said with a tone of one trying to replicate sympathy, “Is something the matter?“ Asher turned to look at his wife and what he saw was not his wife. It was as though an unholy creature was wearing the skin of the woman he thought he loved. Not being able to contain the growing fear and apprehension, Asher evacuated the hell he called home. The destitute Asher remained missing for forty-eight hours, and the following morning Evelyn decided to take action. She notified the local sheriff, and search parties were arranged to help find her missing husband. The sheriff couldn’t help but remark on how calm she appeared, given that she was reporting on the seemingly random disappearance of her husband. Regardless, they found him unconscious in a field and had a doctor examine him for any physical ailments. Appearing perfectly healthy, the doctor dismissed it as nothing more than some stress-induced panic that caused him to act irrationally. Asher was sent home, and when the townsfolk were told to recount their side of the subsequent events, seeing him leave the hospital was the last time anyone could remember seeing Asher again. It had been a little over a month before anyone had seen Asher leave the hospital. No one had seen anyone leave or enter his residence in a suspiciously long time, so a neighbor of Asher’s took it upon himself to be a good Samaritan and check up on the couple. He knocked, waited, knocked again, waited a little longer, and knocked harder. When he realized this was a fruitless endeavor he decided to go to the sheriff. The neighbor asked him to go and make sure everything was okay, and with an air of tired reluctance at the affairs of the nosy townsfolk, the sheriff fulfilled his request. The sheriff knocked and waited. He continued to knock for the better half of ten minutes, and when he realized this wouldn’t work he resorted to busting down the door. With only a couple strong kicks the door surrendered and collapsed to the floor, and lying before him in the center of the home was Asher’s lifeless body. The sheriff pulled out his gun and entered the premises cautiously. He inspected Asher’s corpse, and saw a kitchen knife residing in his abdomen. The blood surrounding the wound was a dark crimson, indicating that this wound was not fresh. The sheriff looked around the home and saw no indication of domestic unrest, or any sign of Evelyn either. The sheriff had no idea what to make of the situation.

Occasionally, maybe every couple of years, reports would float around of a newly married young man found dead in his home, with no sign of his newly widowed wife.


I've painted him over a dozen times. I guess this is what true love feels like. With each portrait I believe I get closer to him, knowing him both personally and physically. I know the exact degree his eyes turn down, and the angle at which his eyebrows arch. I know the color of his skin at the tip of his nose, and the exact shade it turns once it's dark. I understand the way his hair falls over his face and how it blows in the wind. I know how to capture his curled lip when he tells a lie, and I know the secret he hides. Each portrait I think I understand why he did it. Men get bored easily and forget what they have right in front of them. But women like me will never lose sight of that, I know this for sure because I glide my brush over the canvas to highlight the side of his cheek. I don't think many of my first pieces captured him very well. That was before I thoroughly studied him. I started off having him pose for me, but he got restless easily and that made him hard to see. So, I took a couple of photographs and worked from those instead. "I think you got my nose wrong," he pointed out early on. It's always the nose. After the 10th session, I begged him to sit for one more portrait. He was hesitant, but eventually agreed. "I don't understand why you keep doing this," he said when I was on his lips. "Perfection," "You've got a ton of perfectly good ones already," "I'm not aiming for good. Anyone can do good." "So what, you want to be great?" I put my brush down and looked over at him from behind the canvas. His eyes moved to meet mine, never breaking his pose. "I want people to see your face and know you are a man worth painting a thousand times. They should be able to count the exact number of hairs on your chin. They'll look into your eyes and see you looking right at me, and they will know our entire lives story." In the end of course, it turned out he wasn't worth a single painting at all. And our story was one that had upped and ended, possibly doomed right from the start. In a whirl, I stopped painting him with an air of love and rather one of regret. Regret that I didn't see it coming. "You're still making more?" He scoffed after walking in on portrait number 82. I've come to the point where I can paint him by memory, though I still look over at him every now and again to see if I could capture a glimpse of remorse. "I'll make as many as I need to," "Okay," he chuckled. "Whatever you need." He shook his head and walked out. I don't think it's an obsession, really. It's a desire for the truth, the urge to know. It takes over and I've got to get it out somehow. There are far worse ways I could be dealing with this, I think I'm handling it in a rather healthy way. I could totally lose my mind instead. --- I had to see her today. Out of all the women he could've chosen, he picked one with easy access to my own home. An old college friend of ours, I don't quite remember which one of us introduced her first. I first became suspicious of them when I noticed something different in his eyes while I was painting them. It wasn't anything physical, only a feeling. "That's a very nice portrait," she said, pointing to the one I had hanging in the foyer. I only smiled. "I could never be an artist," she continued to say. "But I'm glad you find it so... fulfilling." She walked away before she saw the look of disgust on my face. Dinner was awful. Besides the fact that I find most of my husband's friends to be the biggest bores I've ever met, I just couldn't get it out of my head that the two of them might be playing footsie under the table. There was no real way for me to check without making a scene, so I did what artists do best- observe. I spent the rest of that dinner studying their body language, eye contact, facial expressions. I wasn't looking for any new information, it had already been confirmed the two of them were a thing. I mean I guess I was only just trying to make myself upset by watching them. There's a sort of comfort in being sad, in feeling like the only one there for you is yourself. I don't understand what he sees in her. She makes a perfectly fine friend, but not even one I would like to spend all my time with. She's not even the type of friend I'd invite to my birthday party, a pity invite, maybe. Her looks have nothing to do with it, she's a very pretty woman. But oh, she's just so dull! Not a single piece of her is unique or genuine. And that comment about being an artist? The nerve. I played with my food while she droned on about the legacy of Pina Bausch. Everyone paid attention like she was the most interesting woman in the world, but I saw right through her. She isn't the only one who reads the New Yorker. Even her fashion is uninspired, coming straight off a store mannequin or magazine catalogue. The proof came from a series of letters sent back and forth between them, and then eventually an eyewitness account from my sister. I found out about the letters through a postal friend of mine, who risked losing his job to bring some of the sealed envelopes to me. I never got to read any of them, but I could only imagine what they said. My sister caught them a few weeks later. She was visiting a friend two towns over when she saw them sitting close together in the park. His arm was around her while she laid her head on his shoulder. I was so upset that night I painted my first fiery landscape. The dinner was over after what seemed like hours, and I excused myself to the kitchen to do the dishes. One by one our guests began filing out, saying goodbye on their way past the kitchen and to the front door. Once I put away the last plate, I walked into the living room where the two of them where whispering over the fireplace. She was holding a book who's title I couldn't read. "Oh darling," my husband said when he saw me. "We were just talking about possibly setting up a book club with the rest of the group, is that something you'd be interested in?" "Sounds nice," I forced a smile. "You're so smart and well read, I bet you'd add a lot of unique insight to our conversations." She giggled. She might as well just call me stupid. --- I resorted back to some of my older portraits and photographs of him so I could paint those instead. It hurt to much painting him in his present state, the nose that's smell her hair, the eyes that have seen her whole, and the lips that say nothing but sweetness and light to her. I wonder how many of the jokes he used on me he's now telling her. And I wonder if he looks at her the same way he looked at me when I was fresh and new. Days went by and I locked myself away for hours, painting portrait after portrait after portrait. Of course it only drove him further away, the time spent in confinement was time permissible for him to be with her. I just wanted him back. Eventually I switched to drawing, and I tore from page to page, making dozens of portraits at a time. In my frenzy I ripped one out too hard and tore right through his face. Even as my creation I ruined him. Maybe I was driving myself to madness. Maybe my madness is what drove him away. The portraits started to pile up against each other, they surrounded me and I was in a sea of him. After another long day of painting I collapsed. He found me later that night and for the first time in a while, rushed to my side. "Darling, this needs to stop," he begged. We looked around in horror at the hundreds, if not thousands, of portraits filling up the space around us. As much as I've tried, I can't bring myself to stop. Because in these portraits, he still loves me. And in these portraits, I find that I still love myself.


I never knew I would make such a terrible decision. It wasn't my proudest moment of my life, but just a portion wouldn't do it justice. Well, I might as well tell you the whole story. I was young and naive. My higher education in accounting was in progress. My female peers gushed over my chestnut locks and sparkling emerald eyes. I was irresistible, at least, for a time. That was until my inevitable downfall. It was the end of my third year, and my abilities were undefeated. A few scholars, including myself, were on our path to showcase our skill. The overall trip included a terribly long bus drive, another college, and a glaringly loud timer. We were expected to complete a multitude of tasks within a set time. "Good afternoon students," the moderator boomed. "Your tasks will be assigned shortly. In the meantime, converse with your peers." Our competitors scrambled to produce their plan of action. My team members decided the more logical course was to keep our voices low. "Why don't we split them evenly?" one asked. "We should split them based on skill," another answered. Two more members nodded in agreement. As the discussion of the other team came to a close, assistants stalked down to the tables with our tasks. Before the packets could touch the tables, they were snatched by a team member. We rushed to distribute our packets. Glancing over my primary packet, a glimmer catches my eye. Attempting to not get distracted, I shake my head and keep my eyes on my packet. I manage to complete a few questions before a blindingly shiny object catches my attention. Upon closer inspection, a realization strikes that the object in question happens to be a phone. "Do you see that?" I ask the member beside me. They follow my line of sight and spot the cellular device. "What do you think we should do?" they question. "We should do something similar," I whisper back. My ally shoots me a terrified look, scrunching their brows in horror. "What?" I question. "If they can do it, so can we!" They shrugged, surely giving up to return to their packets. I grasp at my device, hoping no one spotted it. Opening the apps, I check my surroundings in case of extra surveillance. With a lack of rising suspicion, I proceed to open my advanced calculator. The calculator in hand, the questions ease into simplicity. To ensure my use of assistance goes undetected, I must constantly keep an eye out.*

I happen to finish all but one of my packets as the timer chimes. We pass our work to the judges to be graded. Shoving my phone in a jacket pocket, I pray no one saw it. "Alright students," the moderator shouts. "I have an announcement to make. One of the judges spotted something awfully peculiar during your working period." I gulped, my lunch hopping around in my stomach. " Oh my god, they know ," I thought. As if by some outside force, my seat began to push me away. My thighs grasped onto the seat, not appreciating my readjustments. "One noticed a cellular device in use," continued the moderator. "Be honest and come forward if it was you." A member of the opposing team stood, one after another, until two out of the twelve members remained. "Neither of us did anything wrong," one stated. The other nodded, closing their eyes entirely. "Alright," muttered the moderator. "Since they used a device, the whole team is disqualified. The team from Dallas wins by reason of disqualification." My team cheers and high fives in celebration. We've been working our tails off just to get here. "Go home, get some rest, and we will see you soon," the lead judge said. My team and I eagerly ran back to the bus. Clambering onto the bus, we begin to settle for the long trip home. "Y'all, we need to talk," shouted our teacher. Silence overcomes us as we attend to listening. My chest tightens, squeezing my pounding heart. In doing so, my chest forces my heart to beat in my ears. "Did any of you happen to see the other team use their phones?" our teacher questions. Four hands, including my own, are raised to be presented. Our teacher nods before scribbling something on their notepad. They stumble into a seat and grab their phone. "Why do you think they asked us that?" another student asks me quietly. All I could give them was a shrug, and that would have to suffice. My stomach continued to rumble and shake violently. The body I obtained at birth proceeds with its assault using guilt. Face burning and arms surrounded by ice, I force myself to stare out the window. When we arrive in Dallas, we gather our items and wait for our rides. We all stand or sit outside, no one making a peep. I text my twin sister, so she can drive back to the dorms. "How did it go?" she asks when I get in. "We won," I answered. "That's great!" she cheered as we screeched to a stop at a red light. "We only won because the other team used their phones," I mentioned. "Oh well," she sighs. "At least you won." For a while, we sit in absolute silence. "I'll need to email the professor," I tell, breaking the uncomfortable confines of the lack of noise. My sister nods, not wanting to talk to me. I turn to face the window, and tears rush to my eyelashes. Comfort is found through listening to the radio static with closed eyes. Once we arrive at the dorms, I grab my satchel and rush to the solemn room I call my own. Jumping onto the freezing bed, I remove my phone from my jacket pocket. I unlock the device and gain some composure. I open the emails and pour the details of my crime into an email. Upon finishing my email and sending it, I set my phone aside. I slam my face onto my pillow and quietly sob. My career came to an end, and I've been paying the price ever since. *Keeping an eye out for Selener.


Reedsy Prompt: Start your story with someone looking out a train window The Final Journey Raghavan strode through the compartment of the Vellore to Bangalore train, ticket in hand, looking for his allotted seat. Thankfully, it was by the window. He sat down with a sigh of relief. His escort Ramu, took charge of stowing his small suitcase in the berth above his head. “I will come back and check on you a little later, saami,” he said, folding his hands together. Raghavan nodded, and Ramu went back to his seat in the third class carriage behind this one, interconnected by a short swaying bridge. Raghavan stretched out his long legs and stared with unseeing eyes at the melee outside the window. Typical of most Indian train stations in 1942, the dimly-lit platform was crowded with people rushing about, trying to find their seats on the train. Skinny, dark skinned coolies with luggage piled high on their heads and holding more bags in their hands darted in and out of the crowds, frantically keeping track of their customers. I am glad I was able find a seat in a first class compartment thought Raghavan to himself, observing the din and confusion outside. Looking around he observed the other occupant of the coupe. It was an elderly gentleman dressed in a dark coat and pants, and wearing a white turban. Probably a high ranking government employee , guessed Raghavan, who can afford to travel by first class. He returned to his own thoughts, staring out the window. The events of the past few weeks played out in his mind. He had had to resign his post as the stenographer to Lord Linlithgow, one of the last Viceroys of India in 1942, because of his ill health. The cold climate of Simla, situated in the northern state of Himachal Pradesh, exacerbated his asthma symptoms. He had returned to Madras where his wife Kamala had stayed behind with their large and growing family. “Your asthma is getting worse,” Dr. Krishnan said. “Why don’t you go to Vellore Medical Center, they may have some better options?”

Vellore was the southern city that boasted the largest medical facility in India at that time – the Vellore Medical Center and Medical College. It had been established by an American woman, Ida Scudder, in 1902—her father was a Christian Missionary Doctor there. Raghavan thought fondly of his wife and children, and the patience with which they had handled his frequent asthma attacks as he sat up in bed every night, his body racked by severe coughing. There were no antibiotics, inhalers or other medications available at the time for treating asthma. At his wife’s urging Raghavan decided to follow the doctor’s advice and make a short trip to Vellore by himself. He would stay in a rented house and the cook, Ramu, would accompany him for safety as parts of the country were still under air raid warnings – when the shrill siren sounded everyone had to dive under the table for shelter. Kamala could not go with him as the children were not old enough to be left alone. Raghavan consulted several eminent doctors that had been recommended to him in Vellore. They all shook their heads when they read his prognosis notes. “Our options are very limited”, said Dr. Pillai, supposedly an expert in asthma treatments. “You’ve already tried everything that your doctor in Madras had recommended. We have nothing new to offer. But we can try again and see if anything works.” After a week of treatment the asthma symptoms were not much better. The doctors had run out of options. Raghavan sent a telegram to Kamala to say that he would be coming back in a few days. He got an immediate and terse reply. “Go to Bangalore”, it said. “Letter follows”. Raghavan knew that his wife did not know enough English to be able to write a longer reply. But the postal system in India then -- and now-- is excellent – there are three deliveries a day and even the remotest village is connected. A few days later he got a long letter, written in Tamil. Apparently Kamala had been in touch with her brother Srinivasan, a doctor in the British Army who was stationed in Bangalore, informing him of her husband’s ill-health. He had urged her to tell Raghavan to come to Bangalore, where he would personally supervise his treatment. Kamala told her husband to go to Bangalore immediately. Srinivasan would meet him at the station. xxx The engine driver sounded the first warning hoot. The loud speakers crackled and then a stentorian voice announced in English, Hindi and Tamil--as was customary--that the train was departing soon. There was a flurry of activity on the platform outside as people said their last goodbyes and hurried to their carriages. The station master, wearing his black hat and white uniform and holding a green flag under his arm strode up and down the platform, urging the malingerers to board. With two more long hoots and a sudden jerk the train began to move—slowly at first and then picking up speed as the Station Master waved his green flag back and forth. The waving passengers, the Railway waiting room and the news vendors and tea shops soon became a blur as the train hurtled towards Bangalore. xxx Raghavan shifted his body and watched dusk rapidly settle into night. He looked forward to arriving in Bangalore and resolving his health problems. He thought again of his wife and children—they had been alone long enough while he worked far away in Simla—they deserved to have him come home and take charge of everything. The first class carriage attendant came by and offered him a dinner menu. Raghavan waved him away—he had already eaten before boarding. The train had now settled into a steady clacking rhythm and everything was quiet. The lights in the compartment had been automatically dimmed. His neighbor in the other seat was already asleep, his head resting on his chest. Lulled by the solitude Raghavan relaxed his head and fell asleep. Sometime later he was awakened by a strange feeling. Struggling to breathe, he pulled out his handkerchief and tried to stifle his coughing. Everything seemed out of control – he wanted to shout for help but his body wouldn’t move. He slumped down in the corner of his seat. He did not see Ramu come in to check on him in the middle of the night. He did not feel him touch his shoulder and realize that he was dead. He did not see him check the breast pocket of his suit and take out the wad of notes. He did not see Ramu quickly and stealthily go back to his third class compartment, from which he would alight at the next station and melt into the crowd. xxx The train slowed down and stopped with a jerk at the next small station before Bangalore. As the sky turned pink a uniformed Ticket Collector boarded the compartment and knocked on the swinging doors before entering. Ticket Please! He announced loudly, waking up the gentleman with the white turban. The man roused himself and handed over his ticket with a dazed look. Punching a hole in it the Ticket Collector handed it back. Ticket Please! He repeated to Raghavan, but there was no response. He seemed to be sleeping with his head slumped on his chest. The Ticket Collector touched Raghavan’s shoulder to shake him awake. His whole body tilted to the side. The engine driver gave a warning hoot. The Ticket Collector reached up and gave a firm pull on the Emergency Brake handle, to stop the train from moving. Telegram! The postman called out in a loud voice the next morning. Kamala opened the telegram from her brother with trembling fingers. Her legs almost buckled under her as she realized the implications. She was now a widow at 38 years, responsible for a large family of seven minor children. She stared at the telegram for a few minutes. A single tear rolled down her cheek. With her usual pragmatism she squared her shoulders and called the family in to tell them that she was now the matriarch of the family. Susheela Narayanan


Her throat was overtaken by the taste of a childhood skill. The unmistakable tang of blood and mucus, clot against the back wall of it. Hot air travels up and down its pipe with every pant. She’s tired. She’s been running for hours. But she can’t stop, because she remembered her . Her was the woman from the house, called Elizabeth. Elizabeth was forty three, and worked in an office before she worked here. Her life devoted to milk colored blouses, and coal colored pencil skirts, and red wine lip stain, and whitening strips stapled to her teeth. Her nails, ruby red, desperate to kiss the keys of an ash-gray keyboard. Her lips, hungry to leave invisible imprints on the hips of her employers, in hopes of the raise she so obviously deserved. But somehow, even after everything, she still ended up here, working for Mr. Shepherd.

Lenox remembered the mirror next, because she stared at it for a long while, so to tune Elizabeth out. If this was the last time she should see a mirror, she wanted to take advantage of the opportunity. A girl stood in the glass, staring back at her. Seventeen, black wavy hair, brown eyes, brown skin, plump lips. It’s good she didn’t win the eyes, she thought. Then she’d be one of those girls who focus on every pore. She wondered then, what her mother was like. Did she look like her? Did her mother fuss over every spec and pore? Did her mother—? “Elizabeth,” she finally interrupted, agitated. She swallowed, “tell me about my parents again. For the last time.” “Not the last time,” Elizabeth scolded. “Your mother was an African American woman, maybe twenty-two when she met your father. He was about twenty six. Filipino. That's all we know.” Elizabeth swallows hard, whenever she talks about Lenox’s parents. It often made Lenox wonder if Elizabeth were really her mother, or the sister of her mother. Did she know them some how? But she never asked, for fear the truth would cut deeper than the unknown. Still. Even the little she was given, felt like a lullaby. The injection hurt; the injection always hurts. You get the first whenever they bring you here; it makes you turn invisible, at will of course, in order to successfully play the game. The more rounds you win, the more they reward you, with new needles. New abilities, to give you new advantages over the other players. Last round, Tommy got the strength of a dog’s nose. This week, Lenox got bat ears. “. . . Chameleon Tag,” she caught. She nod in response to it, but she didn’t listen. Lenox didn’t need Elizabeth to explain Chameleon Tag to her. She’s been an expert since the day they brought her here. She knows the game, like she knows herself, like she knows an old friend. Better an old drug. It’s always fun when it starts. And then it ruins your life. “Whenever you need to go ghost, grab whatever’s closest to you and focus on your surroundings,” Elizabeth explained, again, as if she were only starting out. “Once you get good, it should only take you a few seconds. Once you master it, the transition should be instant.” Lenox mastered it last year, before they even started playing. She mastered it in training. “Tommy’s ‘It’ this round. Don't let him tag you.” She knew that too. . . She didn’t want to know that. Whomever is ‘It’ at the end of the round, is to be exterminated. It would suck if it was Tommy who tagged her. . . Presently, Lenox squints. A futile attempt to throw the sun from her eyes, or blink away the rolling sweat that stuck to her lashes. Her cheeks begin to salivate, and her throat bobs up and down. Her stomach bubbles, forcing up the vile through her pipes, and to her mouth. She swallows it.

… His mind was overtaken, by the memory of a sound. The sound of the man named Michael. “Tommy,” he said. “Do you understand?” Tommy, like Lenox, nod his head yes. He wondered why it made sense. Neither Michael nor Elizabeth have ever played Chameleon Tag, so what made them qualified to train anybody? Whatever, he thought. So long as he won the rounds, it didn’t matter who did the training.

Only five people get to win the game, despite being a class of forty-three. It was stupid, Tommy thought. Why Shepherd would waste so much time hosting round after round, when he could just pick who he wanted and be done with it. The rounds aren’t even based on strength. Only pure luck. Of course the stronger of the bunch had the higher chance of surviving, but, not a guaranteed result. He supposes it’s entertainment. Or an excuse, to keep them alive.

The rocks poke into the soles of his boots, as he tramples across the forest grounds. He could smell the pigeons, as they flew lower than usual across the skyline, and the squawking was ever so annoying as per usual. They always fly away during a round. It was almost like they knew.

The ground smells like last night's rain, and the bark smelled wet and like cold. And he could taste the air, like fresh powdered snow. He didn’t run. He swiped his hands across the wet leaves, bouncing water droplets from the green to the dirt. He walked as if it bored him. It didn’t make sense to tag someone, when there was still so much time left in the game. He’d only have to spend that much more, running away. It wasn’t like he saw her, anyway. Usually the goal is to get someone while you can, whomever it takes to take the target off your back. Today, his goal is her. Today, he’d tag Lenox. … Only Hall D plays Chameleon Tag. Hall A plays Hide and Seek.

Hall B, plays a Game of Brains; tasks to be completed, solely by only the strength of mind. Hall C plays Cops and Robbers, and if the robber lost they’d be exterminated, but if they won, one of the other kids are snatched at random. They say it’s scariest, living in Hall C. Hall E plays Rock, Paper, Scissors. It’s harder than it sounds.

Mr. Shepherd owns the house. The children only ever see him at dinner, because he only leaves his office, for dinner. He says it’s his favorite meal of the day. It’s the only time they’re allowed to bother him, unless it’s something serious. He—. Her thoughts were broken by the sound of a snapping twig. Instinctively, she grabs the side of the nearest tree, going ghost in an instant. She stares at the sky, until the sun pierces her eyes. She forces her head down, and covers her forehead with her arm, and closes her eyes. Bright blobs of color infect the black, and shine over the trees and the grass when she opens her eyes to look. Eventually, the blobs fade away, and the space is empty again.

Empty. Aside from the trees, it’s been nothing but empty space. No runners, hardly any rustling, hardly any breath. Just her and the empty space. Where did everyone go? North, she thinks. The mountains are the best place to hide.

She could get there in twenty minutes if she ran. There isn’t even twenty minutes left in the game, if even ten, but it’d be safest to aim for the mountains. She’d make it in twenty minutes if she ran; but her pace is slowing down. She can’t slow down, because she knows he’s gunning for her. They promised to never go for each other. That they wouldn’t let Shepherd’s game take away the years they’d spent together. He was her best friend. And now, he’s gunning for her. She won’t make it if she goes on like this — she knows it. She’s been running for two hours now, and then some more. He’ll catch her at this rate. With a quick jerk to her right, Lenox forces her palm to bark of another tree, going ghost again. If she couldn’t run, she’d have to hide.

She tries to calm her breathing. There’d be no use in hiding, if Tommy could hear her panting. At this rate, he’d have to rely on sound alone, and luckily for her he’s got bad ears. And despite his nose, she’d already diluted her scent a thousand times over, rolling in the mud, and bathing in the forest leaves, and scraping against the trees. If he wanted her, he’d have to hear her. If he wanted her, he’d— there. He’d gotten here quicker than she thought he would.

He thinks he can smell her; either that or the one tree has a particularly overwhelming musk of saps, bark, and wet leaves. They’re nose to nose now. They would be, nose to nose, had Lenox not’ve covered her own to mask her breathing, and sucked her stomach far to the back of her, to prevent them from touching. If he’d taken the next step, he would’ve found her. . . But he didn’t take the next step. He rolled his eyes because he couldn’t smell her, and he gave the place a good once over before deciding it wasn’t worth his time. He’s already wasted enough walking around, doing nothing. Lenox could feel her heart beating in her nose. She ripped her hand away from her face, tired of smelling the maple and oak. She ripped her hand away from the tree, regaining visibility. Now that she knows where he’s going, she could confidently run down the opposite path. She rolls her eyes this time. What was even the point? The only thing she gets out of surviving this round, is the starting mark of another. Wouldn’t it be best to— Crack .

The scream of a broken twig being crushed between the forest grounds and the sole of a running shoe. She doesn’t move. He found her. When she turns to face him finally, Tommy lunges his arm at her shoulder. Lenox bends her back far enough that his arm goes in a straight line over her, touching only the air. Not that he’d thrown his arm that hard, anyway. Combat’s been his specialty, since they were seven years old. He could’ve smashed her windpipe by now if he wanted to. He’s going easy on her.

Lenox throws two missed punches at him, before throwing a spin kick. He ducks, forcing her leg in a spiral in the air where his head would’ve been, before jumping up in a false attempt to spin kick her back, only to miss. They stop. They stand at a standstill. “I thought you were my friend!” she yells. “Go after them !” “There’s no one else here,” Tommy says. “Haven’t you noticed?” She swallows hard. For awhile she doesn’t say anything, rather she considers the chance that they could really be the only two. It’s against the rules, not to join a round. If you don’t leave for the rounds, Shepherd will exterminate you. There’s no way they stayed in their dorms. There’s no such thing as strength in numbers here; the whole class above them got exterminated last year, for holding a sit in. There’s no way it’s just him and her. “You—.” “I made a deal with Shepherd,” Tommy says, answering a question she’d never even think to ask. “I asked him to hide the others, so there’d be no distractions. I didn’t want any excuse, or doubt, or second thoughts.” He shakes his head like he said anything warranting it. “He didn’t go for it at first, he doesn’t break rules let alone his own. But we figured it was a loophole; hiding’s the point of Chameleon Tag. I guess he wants you out as much as the rest of us. . . I’m sorry Lenny. . . You're the strongest player.” Five students get to survive Chameleon Tag. But only one, gets to graduate from each hall. No one knows what Shepherd does to the other four. Only that they don’t come home. The strongest players often helped the other strong to get ahead. It helped them build powerful alliances. The smartest players, picked off the strongest while they had the chance. Tommy lunges for her again, but this time he taps her shoulder. He shrugged to her, as if it were all so innocent. But he stared at the ground when he said it.

“You're it.” She didn’t dare chase him when he ran away. What would be the point? There isn’t any time left, in the round. The big computer in the sky’s already started her song. “Twenty seconds remaining. Nineteen. Eighteen.” Tommy’s the worst when he’s It, Lenox thinks, slumping against the nearest tree. He always waits to tag someone, until the end of the round. Doesn’t even give them a chance, to find somebody else. . . At least she can say she knew when it’d happen. All the seniors assumed, they’d only live till seventeen. Ten. Nine. She didn’t mind losing the round. What bothered her was it being Tommy’s fault. They always promised — There! There’s a rustling? In the tree above her. A rustling? She could see no figure slipping through the branches, no animal, no bees, no persons. But that was exactly it. No visible persons; a runner. “Hey!” she screams into the branches. “Shit,” mutters the invisible man.

The runner exposes himself, becoming visible again, and he slides down the branch of the tree. He slides passed Lenox in a stupid attempt to get out while he can -- Three. Two. -- there was only a second to spare, when she caught him and deemed he be ‘It.’ She didn’t mean to smile, but she couldn’t help falling down the bark of the tree, and sighing a happy one of relief, despite what it meant for the other boy. She couldn’t focus on the other boy. She survived. Tommy rigged the stupid round, and she still survived. “Round, Complete.” Two stoic faces, attached to the stacked bodies of heavy guards, came to drag the other boy by his arms to the unknown place the losers go, to never return. Lenox watched him scream at them, to give him another chance. She watched him, but, she didn’t listen. One of the privileges of her rewarded ears, was she got the opportunity to choose when to turn them off. And more than anything, she wanted to care. To erase the evil mindset you never know yourself capable of falling into, until you’ve entered a round. But the only thing she could focus on, were two very important truths. She is the best player. And next round, she’s ‘It.’


They say that about twenty minutes walk from the village, deep out in the moor, there is a house where no one is supposed to go. The house is tiny, so small that every time it storms, someone brave goes up after to stand at a safe distance and see if it is still standing. It’s almost like a house made by a child for a doll; a construction of mud and straw that looks enough like a house but is, in truth, too cramped and unstable for anything to dwell there. The walls are short and the roof sags low and no one could live there.

And yet- Something does.

Something sweeps the house’s creaking porch, something keeps the yard neat and tidy, something chops wood and stacks it by the door and then takes it inside to burn. Whatever is inside that house, it always has a fire going. You cannot see the house from the village- it is very likely that no one would live there if you could- but you can sometimes see the thin, gray line of smoke, slithering through the chimney like an impossibly long snake leaving its hole.

The townspeople might forget about the house if it weren't for the smoke. They’d leave it there, a ghost story in the heather, and let it be consumed by the land. The foundation would sink into the earth, and the porch with it’s stack of firewood would rot. Birds would build nests in a collapsed roof. Small animals would scurry across the floor, and it would be as if the thing that lived in the house never existed.

But people see the smoke, and people know the house is there.

And because they weren’t supposed to go there, they went.

+++ The house looks different than Isla had expected. She had been prepared for a skeleton of a house, something small and rotting and swaying in the wind.

Instead, it’s just a house. Small and hard to make out in the dark, yes, but so unassuming that she could pass it in the village and think nothing of it. There are no howling spirits, and the air doesn’t smell of death and bloodshed. The air smells of nothing but soil and the afternoon’s rain.

Perhaps the normalcy is meant to put her at ease, but it just winds Isla tighter. She knows why she has come, the dark, looming nature of it, and she has never cared much for tricks.

With one last deep breath, Isla starts across the field and closer to the house, drawing her shawl tighter around her shoulders even though she didn’t really need to. Spring nights are either gentle or alive with storms, and the worst to fear tonight was a strong wind. The sky above her is resplendent with stars. The heather sways in gentle waves. As she moves closer to the house, she notices wild flowers growing close to the porch, beautiful even only in silhouette.

The porch doesn’t creak under her feet so much as it moans, low and wounded-sounded. The wood feels fragile beneath her feet, and she thinks one wrong step will send her crashing through the old boards, so Isla tries to step carefully. There are no candles or lanterns lit on the porch, no light or sound. There is only the ever-smoking chimney, and a low sense of dread burning in her gut. Her skin crawls and her stomach churns. She wants to turn and run, run back to the village, away from the village, anywhere that is not this strange, wounded-animal house.

Instead, she knocks on the door once. The door is hard, solid wood, just as her’s is. She strains her ears, trying to listen for movement inside the house, but she hears none.

“I seek a boon,” She tells the door, her voice so quiet it is nearly lost in the breeze. She doesn’t think that will be a problem. The thing in the house probably speaks the same language the wind does. She reaches to her neck, and fingers the necklace hanging from her neck.

The necklace is poor payment, little more than a stone wrapped in a leather thong. It isn’t even an expensive stone. It’s about as valuable as a river rock, though it looks a stunning shade of green in the right light.

It is the most precious thing Isla owns, and though she should unclasp it to present it to the keyhole or the shuttered windows, she only clutches the stone tight enough that the leather threatens to break, letting the blunt shape press an imprint of itself into her palm.

“I can pay,” She says, a little louder this time.

For a moment, the house is silent, and it is not a peaceable silence. No one appears, but Isla gets the distinct impression that she is being judged.

And then, still judging her, the thing in the house speaks.

“That is something of a given. Everyone comes thinking they can pay.”

The door does not creak when it opens, and Isla almost doesn’t notice. A sliver of a face is just suddenly peering out at her through the crack between the door and the doorframe, and she takes a step backwards so suddenly she almost trips.

The eye -the very human, very brown eye- crinkles with amusement, and Isla feels a fear so sharp she wants to cry out.

No tricks , she wants to beg, no tricks, just take it and be done with it. Let me do this in peace.

Instead, she says nothing, and the door opens the rest of the way. The thing that lives in the house is already moving away from her, further back into it’s glamoured home. Again, Isla debates turning and escaping into the heather fields.

“Come inside, and close the door behind you,” The thing calls, and with shaking hands, Isla does.

Inside, the house’s front room is even smaller than she expected. The fireplace roaring away at the back is barely even a fireplace at all, just a tiny square no bigger than a breadbox, though it warms the room so intensely that Isla wants to take off her shawl. She doesn’t, because it’s a very nice shawl and she would like to keep it.

This, at least, doesn’t look like a normal room. It’s a good enough imitation- the floorboards seem to be swept, and the things burning in the fireplace look more like spits of wood than human bones. But even so, it is not quite right.

The floor is almost too well swept, Isla thinks. It takes nearly an hour to sweep every floor in her house, and as much time as she devotes to the dull work, she still misses spots and corners.

On this floor, there is no dust in the corners, no missed patches. The floorboards are all pristine. But the front room is easily half the size it should be, so perhaps it shouldn’t be all that strange. It wouldn’t be, if not for the state of the walls.

Every wall in the room is lined with over-full shelves, cluttered with bits and pieces of other people’s lives. Children’s toys and rosaries, figurines carved from stone and wood, bracelets and necklaces, hair ties and cloaks, strands of beads and yellowing sheaths of paper and jars full of indiscriminate sludge, swords and knives and a rag caked with something that had dried a reddish-brown. Isla knows what they are the minute she sees them.

They are the offerings of other people come to see the thing in the house, thrown up on these shelves and left to molder. None of them seem valuable, but they are all deeply precious. There is no rhyme or reason to their organization. A thick slice of abalone shell leans against a handful of dried-up dandelions. They’re all thick with dust, some of them spotted with mold. The shelves themselves look dirty too- the thing in the house has collected all these momentos, all these precious keepsakes, and it never touches them.

The floor beneath the forsaken shelves, though, is gleaming and immaculate.

Something that burns and spits with anger comes to life in Isla's gut, but she smothers it as quickly as it came. She doesn’t want the thing’s anger. She is only here to make a trade. What does it matter what the thing does with it’s payment, so long as it accepts it?

But when the thing in the house finishes tending to the fire and returns to her side, Isla struggles to look at it. Instead, she stares past it, into the shelves.

“There aren’t this many people in the village,” She says at last. Her village is tiny, little more than a handful of houses clustered together behind a hill. If every person in the village came up and made a trade here, she doesn’t think they could fill one shelf, let alone over a dozen.

The thing in the house shrugs. It looks surprisingly normal, for what it is. It wears the face of a woman, weak-chinned and about as tall as Isla herself. But it doesn’t quite fit right. Something about the woman- the look in her eye, or the shape of her smile, or something else- itched at Isla, like the gnawing of a rat.

“You would be surprised, how much people are willing to give. Besides, it’s only natural for stories about a house with a wish-granting demon in it to spread.”

“We don’t have a house with a demon in it,” Isla says, trying to cut through the thing’s strange net of lies and false pleasantries, “You were here before the churches. You’re one of the Old Folk.”

“True,” The thing says, “But a demon sounds so much more exciting. Tea?”

Isla still refuses to look the thing in the face, but she feels it’s gaze the way she might feel a cut, or a bite from a stinging insect. Her skin prickles with gooseflesh. Some long-buried, prey instinct kicks to life in her gut and screams at her to run.

Very deliberately, Isla sticks her chin out and stares into the depths of the shelves. Her gaze keeps wandering back to a small horse carved from wood, no taller than three fingers’ breadth and painted what might once have been a cheery shade of red, beneath all the dust.

She thinks of her river-rock necklace, what it will look like on the shelf with the leather rotting, and the offering suddenly feels very heavy around her neck.

“No thank you,” Isla says, forcing herself to sound polite, “I would discuss the bargain with you.”

“The bargain, the bargain .” Isla has the rather distinct impression that the thing is rolling its eyes. “It’s always about the bargain, no one ever wants to chat. I have heard your plea a dozen times but no one will make conversation. Go on, though, go on.”

Something draws Isla’s gaze to the thing’s face, even though she would rather never look at it the whole time she’s here. The thing has changed it’s face. Gone is the pleasant-faced woman of the dull brown eyes and hair, and in her place is a man barely old enough to be called that, with a sharply hooked nose and a spatter of youthful freckles. Strangest, though, is it’s expression. She expects the thing in the house to look pleased, or hungry, or maybe just some unnamed, vaguely sinister emotion.

She does not expect it to look bored.

Her hands shake as she reaches up to draw the necklace off her neck. She holds it out, the stone swaying gently as it dangles. The motion is calming, and she focuses on that instead of the thing in the house. Something ice-cold washes through her, steeling her nerves and freezing her anger. She makes her proposal with a strange sort of detachment. The thing in the house will accept the necklace, and leave it on it’s shelves, and she will have her life back.

“This is a necklace my husband made me when we were children. He froze to death last Winter, and we didn’t find his body until the Spring. It is my most prized possession. Give him back to me.”

The thing in the house remains unchanged, unmoved by her plea. Something about the set of it’s expression makes her wish she’d brought a knife to offer it, instead. She could sink it into the thing’s ribs when they make the trade.

“It is fascinating how many prized possessions you people seem to have. You understand, of course, that I take the memory with the trade as well?” Isla nods, resolute. She knows no one who traded with the thing that lived in the house, and so she has no personal details, but she had examined the stories close enough to glean a few things.

The thing tilts it’s boyish head to the side, considering. “A well enough trade, a memory for a man. It is acceptable.” Something strange and unidentifiable flits across the thing’s face. It is not a feeling, exactly, but something like it. A cousin, maybe. A distant one. “But I will not take it.” Isla’s hold on the necklace goes slack. The stone makes an unimpressive clunking sound when it hits the floor.

“What?”

“I will not take it.” It flicks one hand at her dismissively. “You may go now.” “It is no different than your other prizes. You said yourself that the trade was acceptable.” “Exactly.” “You must take it.” Isla had been determined not to show any weaknesses that the thing might prey upon, but she can’t stop her voice from cracking.

The thing in the house stares through her dispassionately.

“No. I have heard this story too many times, and I tire of it. Go home to your house. Think no more of me.”

Isla can hardly hear over the roar of blood in her ears. She sees, in her mind’s eye, the way her husband had looked when the snow had finally melted and a hunter had brought his body in; the gray skin and the glassy eyes and the stiff claws his fingers had frozen into.

She cannot fail. She cannot go back to her own little house, cold and empty as it is, and bake bread for one person and do the washing for one person and sweep up the dust tracked in by one person.

“I’ll give you something else,” She hears herself say.

“No.”

“A different memory.” “I don’t want anymore of your memories.”

“Take my right hand. That is precious.” “No, that is grotesque.” Between one blink and the next, the thing changes its face again. There is the boy with the hooked nose and then there is the weak-chinned woman again. “Please, take my face,” Isla wheedles, only distantly aware of the way her voice shakes. “You like having faces, don’t you?”

“I already have it.” “Take my life!” Isla isn’t sure when she came so close to the thing in the house, but she is near enough to lunge at it. She clutches at it’s shoulders, screaming loud enough that she feels it grating against her throat.

The thing in the house looks very tired, suddenly.

“I could not take that, even if I wanted to.”

Isla’s mind races, searching for something else to offer up, something enticing enough to make the thing in the house rescind all it’s strange games and give her her heart back, but she finds nothing. It’s all nonsense. The thing in the house, and the strange refusals to every offer, and the way she can stare into the woman’s face long enough and almost recognize it from reflections.

Nonsense, all of it.

“Why,” Isla chokes out instead. Her voice sounds a wreck even to her own ears. Her throat feels like raw meat. Something cold and wet drips off her chin, and she wonders how long she’s been crying.

The thing in the house sighs, as if this is all a very tedious obstacle between it and it’s nightly rest.

“Your husband did not die in the snowdrifts, not at first. I think you went out for a walk with your brother. The blizzard was unexpected. Your husband came to me, a little while after, and he offered me a toy he had made for your son, before you knew he would be a stillborn. And I gave you back. “But death needs a trade as well. That’s why it likes you people so much. All the senseless bargaining. So you died again, in the Spring, when a sickness swept your village. And he came again. And then he died, instead, and you came. And he came, and you came, and he gave me his name and you gave me your face. You two have been giving me names and lives and souls and memories for nearly a year, now. I am exhausted.”

Something pulls in Isla’s chest, like a very large knot slowly unraveling.

“I don’t have a brother,” She says, eventually. It is small and insignificant, but it is also the only thing she can bring herself to say.

“No,” The thing wearing her face said, “You gave his memory to me a few visits ago.” “Why don’t I remember?” “I am a creature that feeds on memories. No one remembers me.”

“And the dying?” Isla says.

“Traded away.”

Isla looks away from the thing, crumpling in on itself with misery and exhaustion, and looks again at the cluttered, dusty shelves.

“...Does everyone come back to you?”

“Without fail. Tampering with fate only makes it that much more interested in you. Please, go away. I am so very tired of this game. Let us both rest.”

Isla looks at her offering, discarded on the floor.

“How many times have you begged me like this?”

“Several.” “...Do I ever heed you?” “No,” It says, hollowly, “No, no one ever does.”