I had finally saved up enough of my salary to afford one, my very own to keep and look after. I had sacrificed 500g of food each week for almost a year, and now finally the time I had imagined for so long had arrived. The blank-looking shop assistant slowly walked to the back of the poorly-lit, magnolia-painted store and over to the gloomy looking fish tank. She didn't share my excitement or need for haste. We both wore the same plain grey uniform with plain black shoes, and likely the same empty expression, the only distinguishing difference between us was the assistant's pale blue, dusty apron. There is no need for name tags anymore. We all had the same pale complexion too, not quite healthy, but then not really unhealthy either. She slowly submerged her plastic-gloved hand in to the seemingly stagnant, murky water, pointing to each of the plump and docile goldfish in turn. My choice of fish was the sleekest looking one nearer the bottom of the school, the brightest gold of the twenty or so, each staring in the same direction with their tails wagging back and forth just enough to tread water and keep them aligned and synchronized. They were all staring towards the front of the tank, perhaps at the plain wall beyond, or perhaps at their reflection against the tank's glass, or possibly at nothing at all, just collectively phased out or deep in meditation. The uncaring shop assistant knocked each one out of the way with her pointing finger until she landed on the one, Marty I was going to call it, after one of my favorite classic films. I nodded once she reached Marty, then proceeded to slowly pick it up with both hands and raise it out of the water. The assistant smirked as she pulled it out, "funny how you can just pick up an animal with your hands. Their primal instinct to run away has been bred out of them to the extent that they don't care about anything at all. They just sit here day after day, with their only purpose to eat and breathe." She then dropped it into a small plastic bag that was partially filled with grey water and passed him over to me. This sad comment quickly dispelled the excited feeling I had in my stomach, incidentally the most joyful feeling I had felt in years. In thought, I looked up and saw the same vacant look which the fish wore in the other people in the store and wondered if the shop assistant's point applied equally to us. I shook my head instinctively, shaking away this negative feeling and remembering the worthwhile sacrifice and achievements of our society. Our lives are indeed simpler now, having created the paradise which so many generations before us had envisioned and sacrificed themselves for. War is no longer a threat. It is not even understood how or why a species with such intelligence, wealth and capable technology invested the money meant for people in development of mass and precision killing devices. With war gone and with it the killing machines, the extra money was reinvested in healthcare for all of the highest quality, extending the lives of some to near immortal standards. Famine is also a thing of history. Now, we are careful about how food is produced, distributed and consumed. The decadence and gluttony of the past replaced by sustainable food sources that could be produced near to fully autonomously by robots. And best of all, the planet was saved. The pillaged and suffocated world of the past, left for dead having been harvested, mined and dredged of nearly all of its resources for the benefit of a small minority, saved on it's deathbed by a miracle of the current culture, a miracle I will explain shortly. Amazingly it was us who achieved all this, finally brought together in unity by a common, truly virtuous vision. We had even eradicated the causes of so many previously common mental illnesses, which plagued so many of my ancestors. No more holding ourselves to unrealistic standards, no more feeling inferior to other people, no more unnecessary time spent on unnecessary hobbies or expending effort into exercise for meaningless pieces of metal and ribbons. The result was that over the generations, our anxieties and depressions slowly vanished. And how did we achieve this world which previously only existed in dreams? Well, the answer was so effortless and relatively easy; we all became the same. We are now all raised the same, hold the same values, earn the same wage, and live the same. We are homogeneous and interchangeable in almost every way. I even know the opinions of the strangers around me, without ever talking to them, and they know mine. It was the human race's differences and perceived freedoms that were holding back our ancestors for so many wasted years. How was anything supposed to be achieved when democracy, delivered by self-serving individuals, allowed for an ever changing goal? Our whole lives now follow the same plan and routines. And of course some weren't happy with the new system or didn't fit in with the new order, and sadly weren't able to breed, cast aside by society or imprisoned. However this made the remaining people more aligned to our vision, reinforcing our trajectory and enabling our journey to paradise now possible. The thought of all this wonder then dissipated as I nodded to myself, remembering the "why". With the bagged goldfish and murky water in hand, I walked towards the front of the store, grateful that i would soon be able to eat properly again. Thinking of food caused my stomach to rumble, reminding me also to collect some satiety powder, our sole food source, on my way to the checkout. Similarly, this food was apart of the miracle of the modern world too, genetically altered grain produced by robots in huge glass warehouses and supplied in biodegradable packages via lines of conveyor belts hundreds, if not thousands of miles long, and delivered direct to the stores. It is such an incredible achievement I can feel myself smiling to myself. Better still, the elimination of low-paid physical jobs meant that over time, the oppressed lower class workers slowly disappeared. This in turn reduced the differences, resentment and bitterness between classes, leading to the near-elimination of crime. How were we ever to achieve all this when there was so much choice and difference? I shudder at the thought of how things used to be, the videos I watched as a child of all of the trash heaps and floating islands of plastic in the oceans. All because my ancestors couldn't work together, because they were too selfish and wanted choice and supposed freedoms. I placed Marty and my bag of satiety powder onto the checkout and the automatic scanner checked the goods and calculated the cost. I held up my wrist to the machine, which scanned my microchip, beeped and deducted the amount from my account with the efficiency that had evolved over hundreds of years. The butterflies in my stomach came back as I walked out onto the street and headed home just a few hundred metres away, little Marty staring up at row after row of towering grey apartment blocks. I should have mentioned the reason for such excitement over a fish. They are considered a luxury and are the only pet permitted under current regulations, after being bred over time to be barely sentient and almost feelingless. Animals, so commonly and cruelly kept as pets in the past were no longer permitted, with it deemed far too mean to keep an animal outside of its natural habitat. The thought of keeping a dog and away from its pack, locked inside your stuffy room all day by itself and fed on dry, barely nutritious feed, for no discernible reason or benefit shocks me. I took a deep breath to calm myself, which reminded me of the freshness of the modern city air and returned the smile to my face, reminding me of another one of our achievements. Everything was designed to be in close proximity, using tracking data to optimize how we move and operate - the shops and the parks were all designed to eliminate the need to travel long distances and therefore the need for cars. We even worked in the same building where we lived, with workstations located in the basements. I haven't even mentioned the best part of our new, modern world or explained where both this wonderful fresh air comes from or this feeling of worthwhile sacrifice. Slowly, over the years, governments progressively consolidated into more cohesive ones, using the money they saved through reduced social and military needs to procure vast areas of our country for a special new purpose. In addition, as the farms became more and more autonomous, people became reliant on the government and the need to live in the country reduced, causing the cities to grow significantly in size. Then, once the remaining country folk became fewer and the exception, their land was purchased for an irrefutable amount by the government. A stubborn few remained in their original country homes and selfishly battled the vision that would benefit so many. However new legislation was introduced, initially aimed at making it unaffordable to live outside a city, but was soon revised to make it an imprisonable offence to live, and now even venture outside the cities. Concurrent to this, huge concrete walls were being erected around the new metropolises as part of the great plan. Once the walls were complete and the humans all located within the vast cities, the lands outside were handed back to mother nature to do as she wished. Then, through her magic and wisdom, mother nature retook the former towns and villages which soon became overgrown with flora and returned the land as intended. This provided homes for insects, which provided food for the other animals, allowing them to return to huge numbers not seen for fifty-thousand years. Great forests and plains now exist, rich in life again, with the skies are filled with birds, the seas filled with fish and huge sea mammals. From the verge of becoming extinct forever, animals now live freely in the environment they were designed for, free from the interference, greed and selfishness of humans. So I am told anyway, I haven't been outside the walls myself as only special workers are permitted. We do however get to visit locations in virtual reality from our workstations as a treat, and they are spectacular. Occasionally a bird will fly over the walls, but soon leave of their own will once they realize there isn't anything here for them. There are of course rumors and conspiracies around what is also outside of the walls, but those are just nonsense created to occupy the minds of the bored. Some say those who run our civilization live out there too in huge palaces. But I also hear other similar lies about wars being fought outside the walls too, which I know can't be true as I haven't heard anything to indicate fighting. Still, I would love to explore outside the walls one day, to see what freedom looks like. And I plan to one day.


I took a step off the ledge of the office building and let the wind, and then the warm concrete, embrace me. And upon impact, it was silent void--black and sensationless, the feeling of legs and the sounds of cars driving past entirely absent--but my dwindling consciousness, hanging by a thread, remained. When the weak, grizzly voice of an older man grew from behind me, my thoughts, already incomprehensibly fuzzy and confused, turned into a panicked frenzy. But there was no jolt down my spine, or increase in heartbeat. I had no body to feel surprised with. His voice, thick and tinged with a hint of New York Jew, felt distantly familiar. “You’re not supposed to be here, and you know it.” It took me a second to gather myself together again, but I discovered that upon thinking the words, *Turn around*, it was only a moment before I was looking into the eyes of a short, stubbled man with a beer belly and a hairline that could only be the product of age. “I’m sorry?” He removed a wide, beefy hand from the pockets of his khakis and smoothed out the bright, button-down hawaiian shirt he wore. Slowly, he took a step through the emptiness in my direction. The way he stroked his chin echoed nonchalance and he repeated calmly, “You’re not supposed to be here. You know that, and I know you know that.” “Do I know you?” “No. I’m nobody. Don’t think about that. If you really screwed up this bad, then your consciousness is probably falling away, and you might find that it’s getting harder and harder to remember things like the name of your wife--” “I don’t have a wife.” “Yes, you do--things like the name of your wife, where you work, where you were born, et cetera. So don’t waste time thinking about who I am. You made a mistake.” I found it difficult to believe, but I took a brief moment before speaking again to try to remember my supposed wife. In my mind, as if recalling an old framed photo that had sunken into the forgettable white noise and static of my bedroom, I blew off the dust and recalled the vague shape of an early middle-aged woman--maybe mid-30s--with hair that, though hazy, was clearly brown. She had no name and in my mind’s eye, she had a variety of different eye colors, none of them sticking quite right. “That’s Elise,” he told me. *Elise.* God, she was beautiful. “Yes. She is,” he continued. “But tell me, why did you do that? What the hell made you think it was a good idea to take a running jump off a five-story office building?” Stupidly, I paused before speaking. The English language was slipping through my fingers like sand, and with whatever faculty of speech I had left, I spoke. “Life was bad. It was evil. I was being beat up over and over. The universe was mean to me and I was tired of it. I just wanted this. I wanted this feeling.” “Describe the feeling, Caleb. Keep that language side of your brain active. At all costs. Do you understand me? Describe the sensation.” “Calm. I feel calm. Quiet. Big quiet. Small noise. No sound. No feeling.” “*Bigger than that, Caleb,*” the man said, his tone getting more intense. He took his other hand out of the pockets of his khakis, and the flowers on his Hawaiian shirt wrinkled as he raised his arm and snapped rapidly, “Use bigger words! Don’t just say the feeling, *make me feel the sensation!* Do you understand me?” Even in death--or whatever this was--I still felt the rising pressure coming from this short man. As my mind strayed away into oblivion, I clung to what I could and frantically stuttered what few descriptive words came to mind. “Sad but happy--happysad,” I stumbled. “*No*\--not happy. No, no, I feel--*elated*.” “*Excellent*," he hissed. "What’s your wife’s name?” He was barely giving me time to think, but the answers were starting to come more naturally. “Elise. Her name is Elise. I feel like I’m trudging through a warm lake. It’s a summer’s evening and I feel secure, and there’s no risk of me drowning. It feels good.” “*No, not ‘good!’ Tell me more!*” Like an olympic runner in the last lap, with a final burst of mental adrenaline, I felt language, familiar and beautiful, flood my thoughts again. “It feels relaxing and transcendent, like all the work of the philosophers in eons’ past, the consideration of what death means and the never-ending questions of what comes after it are about to be momentarily answered. The coming moment is the oxymoronic crux of existence in which we miraculously lose everything but find ourselves with knowledge the likes of which none have ever known. I’m oblivious to problems and the sensation brings a quiet, droning tinge of regret because I miss--*Elise!*\--but the anticipation is over and I’m soon to know what it means for a story to end. I remove myself from the hurricane that surrounds me and find myself in the eye of the storm, where everything is peace and I no longer need to question the world.” In the following few seconds of silence, in the absence of a body and the blood to course through it, anxiety ran quick through my veins. The man stood silently, and I wondered if he would disappear soon, if this was it, and I was nearly onto the “next life.” Slowly, began crossing his arms while a wide, smug grin crawled across his face. “They’re saving you.” “What?” “You could only speak like that if there were somebody there, next to you, saving you. They might be using defibrillators or any other sort of thing, but Caleb, I think you’ll be on your way soon. So tell me, how do you feel?” Knowing that I finally had the English language at my disposal once again, I allowed myself a few moments to consider his question before answering. “Devastatingly defeated.” “You shouldn’t. There’s more to this than you think. The life you lead is a sad and difficult one, and nobody could deny that, but at the end of the day, all of this is in your control.” The man looked down at his watch. “I’m betting you’ll be back in a couple minutes or so. Be ready, though, kid. It’s going to hurt. A lot. Remember, you’ve just jumped off a building.” “I don’t want to go back.” “I know you don’t. Nobody ever does.” “There are more like me?” It didn’t take long for the stupidity of the question to smash me like a brick. I didn’t need an answer. How in hell could I be the only one? “Of course there are more like you,” he scoffed. And he was right to do so. “You think you’re the first to try to kill yourself? It’s a mistake, but it’s an easy mistake to make.” He was right. It was unfair to believe that I was the only human tempted by the ledge of an office building. No doubt that there were alternatives elsewhere. People jumped off of cliffs, buildings, out of helicopters. People found ways. Where there was a ledge there was a temptation that, more often than I might have thought, was just strong enough to prompt action. But that wasn’t fair. Why should others succeed--should get that relief--and not me? Why do some succeed, and I’m forced to go back? The sensation of death was addicting, and at least according to the man, in mere moments, it was going to be forcibly taken from me. The man in the hawaiian shirt apparently detected my rising frustration. “Kid,” he said with a tired sigh, “you gotta understand that it’s *good* that you’re being saved. Your time hasn’t come yet.” I still stood in silence. I didn’t know what else to do. There was nowhere to go, and there was nothing to feel. My consciousness remained in full strength but my body was a ghost. I had never realized until then just how unpleasant the sensation of having a body was. Arms, legs, aching back, having problems or stressors, all those sensations were just upsetting, distant memories. I imagined the paramedics kneeling next to my mangled body on the concrete outside the office, speaking quickly and mechanically into their walkie-talkies, knees stained with blood, frantically stitching my broken self back together. It was funny to see them caring so much about a body. It was just a body, after all. The man continued. “You don’t think it, but you’ve still got more living to do. I know. Trust me. You’ve still got a lot more to go.” He paused, and his grin faltered. His voice, with its cigarette-stained rasp, lowered to a whisper with a tone as soft as velvet. “Elise would miss you, you know.” The gentleness, as much as it ached with honesty, somehow felt crooked on a voice that had so much fallen victim to drinking, smoking, and old age. It was a few moments before I could word what I was thinking, but when I could, the words clicked like a missing puzzle piece. “If I’m going to be forced to continue living, I refuse to let it be for the sole purpose of making *other* people happy.” In the time it took me to speak, we mirrored one another. His face contorted with surprise as the words washed over him, and I held myself back from giving a triumphant “Hmph!” But it was true. I’d got him. He gathered his thoughts and opened his mouth, hesitating for a moment, and then launching into his exasperated response. “Caleb, that’s what life is. People live for *you*. It’s a responsibility. Without other people in our lives, we’d all off ourselves. We rely on one another.” I almost interrupted him, but he didn’t give me the chance. “Don’t worry, kid, I’m not gonna try to shove some false-optimistic bullshit down your throat about how life is beautiful. Life is hell, and it’s always unfair, whether it’s unfair in your favor or in somebody else’s. But it’s a whole lot better with other people in it. We’re all in this perfect gridlock where we each have to stay alive for each other to make life more bearable. But at the core, I guess you’re right, it’s a system that’s a bit screwed up. But hey,” he said with a weak chuckle, “if you’ve got a better alternative, you go on ahead and make me the first to know.” It was a minute or two before I responded. My mind was running at full speed, and I knew that if the blood was pumping through so much of my brain already, it wouldn’t be long before I regained complete consciousness and I awoke at the foot of the office, my life officially unpaused. But I took my precious time. This was a conversation that was not going to be rushed, even if that meant cutting it short. “Why are you trying to talk me out of this and everything if life isn’t anything more than some sort of ‘hellish gridlock’?” “Because I want to know you’re making an educated decision. Maybe you’ll wake up and find that life really is hell. That it doesn’t get better, that Elise is mediocre at best, that your future children don’t deserve to live, that, I don't know, *chocolate* isn’t worth living for. And if that’s the case, then shoot. By all means. Jump off an office building. Leap in front of a moving train. Drive off a cliff, for all I care. But if you’re doing it, you oughta know *what* it is that you’re doing. Now you have an idea of what dying is like, and more importantly, at least I sure hope, you’ve got an idea of why you should live. You *do* live for other people, Caleb. It’s a bear and a burden and a difficult responsibility, but they’re doing the same thing for you. Remember, they’ve thought about jumping off a ledge somewhere else before, too, and when they considered it, they thought of you and pictured tears running down your cheeks at their funeral. You do it for them, they do it for you. So yeah, it’s maybe a bit hellish. But there are a lot of great parts to it, too. “Think hard, Caleb, about Elise. Remember when you met?” I didn’t need to jog my memory anymore. The image of the two of us on the footbridge was brought forth with ease and efficiency. “Brooklyn. 1992. On the bridge, when we both saw the spare change in the stream and both tried to get there first.” I tried to resist, but my lips involuntarily curved upward just a bit. “That was a good time. Did you wanna die on that bridge?” “I see where you’re going with this.” “Sure you do. But am I wrong? Again, feel free to shove a shotgun in your mouth when you get back, but make it an educated decision. Think of the bridge. Think of Elise’s eyes.” The image came easily and at my command: her eyes were a glistening auburn brown. “And ask yourself, did you wanna die at that moment? If not, then kid, you've just proven to yourself that there's stuff in life that's worth living for, that's bearable. And then, once you’ve thought about all of that, fine. Fine. At that point, it’s outta my control. You make your choice. Go on ahead and off yourself however you want to, if you really think that's the right choice, all things considered. I mean it." The words slowly sank into me. Whether they were warm water or scorching flames, I couldn't quite discern. Maybe it was a bit of both. It was then that pain--fierce, fiery pain--pierced through me with a vengeance, as if life were trying to make up for the pain I had missed while in the void without a body. I had allowed myself to, even for just a moment, experience the bliss of not knowing what it meant to have a physicality. And it was all coming back, whether I liked it or not. The pain crashed over me like a waterfall, coming in thick, aching waves. "You're coming back, kid. Good luck out there. I know it's tough. It's a real bear, like I said. And don't worry, you'll come back soon enough. Just give it a few years and you'll die eventually. Just be patient, okay?" I hissed through gritted teeth as my body was reborn, bit by bit, stab by stab. "*Who the hell are you?*" His voice echoed faintly around me, getting farther and farther away with each syllable. "Don't worry about it." As his shape faded away, it was replaced by blinding light, and as if careening uncontrollably through a narrow tunnel, the burning, aching pain only booming louder in my ears, I felt warm concrete underneath me. More importantly, I *felt.* My eyes blinked open to autumn trees above me and the sidewalk below me, the blood already forming a sticky film on my skin. Three paramedics knelt over my body, beaming with wide, searching eyes like spotlights, the defibrillator lying on the concrete next to me. Stunned that I wasn’t a lost cause, it was only a moment before they began frantically shouting, gathering together mysterious tools and tinkering with my body, right there on the concrete, like a mechanic working rapidly on a customer’s car when there was another customer waiting in line. My blood served as the engine oil on their knees--a badge to wear, boasting of a hard day’s work. The pain had swallowed me whole and dissolved into a numb, tingly TV static, and as I faded in and out of consciousness and witnessed the paramedics above me flicker into and out of existence, rage filled me and made my heart sore. A rage that entered unwelcome and would fester silently over the next two weeks in the hospital, and hibernate into a thick, viscous disdain for the doctors that stole death from me. It was only when Elise was finally allowed to see me that the aching of fermented anger began to fall away in small clumps. The paramedics, with an incomprehensible yell, handed the man kneeling closest to my head a syringe. I felt pressure on my arm, and the paramedics, still flickering in and out of view, after some deliberation, finally came to a solid conclusion and flickered into decisive nonexistence. I found myself in a hospital bed, hearing the A/C whir, feeling the cold air on the few parts of my skin not hidden by a cast, and remembering Elise’s face. It was 15 days later while I was lying in my cast on the hospital bed, two doctors standing on either side monitoring me like guards, that she cautiously peeked her head around the corner, flowers in her hands. The rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor quickened and I relished in my ability to look at her face and see that, for the past couple weeks, my memory had been astoundingly accurate--down to the shape of her eyebrows, the exact hue of her hair, and the way her eyes squinted when she smiled. Many years ago, young love gave us thrill because it was risky at the time, and when things teetered on edges, the passion grew tenfold. In that sanitized, white hospital room, we were floating on a bridge back in Brooklyn in 1992 and we were filled with the naive longing of young love. It was a fire that had burnt itself away years ago, but something about the temporary loss of life stoked the flames again, and I think we both knew somewhere that it wouldn’t last and that after this, there would be a wall. But good feelings are addicting and when love presented itself to us, we both greedily took our share and relished in it unthinkingly. When the adrenaline of risk wore off, we were different, but not altogether worse. We still loved each other, but she was scared of losing me, and I was scared of staying. I knew I’d be back in the void soon enough, and she knew that I knew that. And on my end, there was a newfound peace that I attributed to the man in the Hawaiian shirt. She never liked that, and she had asked me more than a few times in superficially playful conversation what it had been like to be dead. And I always told her the same thing. “It was warm. Relaxing and transcendent. Enlightening.” And she would change it up occasionally, sometimes mocking me for sounding like Buddha, sometimes mocking me for sounding like Jesus. For months, I never brought up the man in the Hawaiian shirt after I mentioned it to a doctor the day I woke up and was told that it was a form of mid-mortem hallucination. It was five months later, visiting my family in Vermont, that I finally spoke about it with my mother. We sat on the end of my old childhood bed, smaller, springier, and more welcoming than I remembered. She nodded along patiently, staring off into the orange late-autumn forest wallpaper and allowing the story to marinate in the tense air before inhaling it and truly processing it. She didn’t say a word. I went on for as long as I needed to, describing in detail the man’s shirt, the way he spoke, and what he told me. Why I was still alive, and why I was going to continue on living for her, for Elise, for dad. My words left a heaviness and a depth hanging over the room that slowly, my mother’s ears absorbed like sponges. I finished, and we sat in silence. Admiring the familiar autumn wallpaper, I imagined the sound of the vibrant leaves rustling through the air as they floated to the forest floor and waited for the first frost, signalling the new season. The aged bed creaked as she, without a word, cleared her throat and pulled her purse onto her lap. Tenderly, she reached in and removed from its contents a small photograph of the man with the Hawaiian shirt and the khakis I’d seen in the void. She cleared her throat. Her speech didn’t waver, but it remained low as if the gravity of what she was saying pulled it closer to the earth. “I found this photo in the attic a couple months ago. I’ve been keeping it on me for good luck. It’s my grandfather. Your great-grandfather. Elias.” I had never met him, but the name rang a distant bell. Great-grandpa Elias. I’d seen a couple old black and white photos of him, but nothing substantive enough to stick his face in the banks of my memory. “Are you sure this is who you saw?” It wasn’t only the face that made me sure. It was the posture. The way he carried himself. In a black and white photo, a moment frozen in time, his sly, toothy smile and his finger, bony and pointing at the photographer, were dynamic. Without moving, his character seemed alive and well in that moment, moving along as if he were still breathing, drinking, smoking, going about his life. I assured her that this was him. She nodded slowly. “Maybe it was something subconscious. I don’t think I’ve ever shown you this photo. I hadn’t even found it until relatively recently. But, I don’t know, maybe you saw it a long time ago somehow, and maybe it was a hallucination, like you said the doctor said.” She paused, sopping up every detail of her grandfather’s face in the photo. Elias’ smile was infectious. “You know, at Elias’ funeral, years before you were even on the way, we made a lot of jokes about that ostentatious, loud personality of his and about how he was probably up above us somewhere, laughing his raspy, breathless laugh, and probably feeling a little bit left out. It really was all just jokes, I think, meant to help us all cope. Y’know. You say what you have to to deal with people dying. But I’ve sometimes wondered if he really was up there, watching us, listening in. If he was there, in the room, when you were born. I don’t know.” She paused. “I don’t know. But maybe.” She thoughtfully put her arm around me, and after a few minutes of warm, pensive silence and admiring the autumn wallpaper, we descended the staircase, put on smiles, and joined the family again. I approached Elise with the brown hair and the memorable glistening brown eyes, hugged her, loved her, and patiently awaited the day I’d be seeing the void again.


“Medium or Short,” asked the barber with a generous paunch. “ Hair & beard medium trim please.” I replied. My hair and beard had grown tirelessly during the lockdown; moreover, I wanted to avoid a haircut until the situation due to the pandemic settled down. Thanks to the advent of technology, I could now book a barber with a few taps on my iPhone. Manju was the hair stylist who was alloted to me. I was unsure how to proceed. So, I remained silent. But the mirror in the room reflected his smile— a subtle one covered by a vizor and a mask. I wasn’t sure how to react. The mirror in the room gave away the confusion on my face.s covered with a white translucent membrane which spread over from my upper torso to my below my knees. As the electric trimmer whizzed away, I started the conversation. “ How long have you been working for UC?” “ 3 months sir.” “Before this?” “ Own saloon sir with 3 employee” I was unsure how to proceed. So, I remained silent. But the mirror in the room reflected his smile— a subtle one covered by a vizor and a mask. I wasn’t sure how to react. The mirror in the room gave away the confusion on my face. “ Not first time Sir. I have worked with UC before.” “ Oh is it?” I said. Now, I was curios. ‘Why would someone alternate between being an employee and entrepreneur?’ Manju had turned off the electric trimmer and the room fell silent again. He now reached out to the bright red scissors and the black comb. “ I started by working as a hair stylist in my town. I learn business and get experience. Got a loan and open own barber shop. My saloon was royal, Sir! I introduced the shampooing sink; people could now come in between work to get a hair cut. It was big hit.” “ Wow nice!” “ But it very grand for my town. No profit.” “At least it made you famous.” I said trying to sound positive. He nodded. “ I realised that I should move to city. City ocean sir, my town just lake. UC first time sir. I worked for 2 years save money plus borrow money from friend. Again open saloon.” “ Town or Bengaluru?” “ In my town.This time simple saloon. Daily expenses much lower. Suddenly my friend fall sick. He need money for cancer treatment. “ Manju paused, as he snipped at my moustache. His deft hands clipped away at specific spots: making the finer cuts, to even out the hair length. I looked at him, eager to her the rest of the story. He picked up a smaller mirror and held it up, parallel to the existing mirror in the room, giving me a view of the back of my head. “ Nice.” “ So you sold your salon again?” I blurted, unable to control my curiosity any longer. “ Yes sir. My friend not asking. He need more money than he give me. I sell again. So I give all money from sale to him. I will work again and open a saloon, this time in Bengaluru.” The conversation had me hooked and I was completely unaware that Manju had cleaned up the hair and packed up his equipment. The determination in his voice was very evident. “ Is your friend better now?” I asked as he was about to leave. With a voice filled with heavy emotion. He said,” Friend recover from Cancer but got Corona at hospital. He died today morning.” “ Please give rating sir. Thank you.


So let me get this straight." God said to one of the archangels who's nation he was watching over was damaged by a sudden wave of natural disasters that was randomly sparked off. "Kali: The goddess of destruction got into a fight with Ares: The God of War and somehow their quarrel had spilt out from our realm onto the earthly plane, creating a small famine, multiple earthquakes, and more supernatural activity in India, Greece, Hong Kong, Australia, and most of all what I hate the most, people claiming its the end times for the one thousandth time?!" "Yes my Lord." The angel answered. "I'm guessing they wanted to fight out of boredom. You know how Ares is, always trying to provoke a problem with either humanity or the other gods." "Okay okay, I'll call Azrael and Death to go collect the souls, you get Michael to go on a patrol with the Heavenly Host on the ends of the earth to stop the demonic presence." God demanded out of frustration. Death was attending to his pale horse in Hades while some of his workers were guiding the souls who've exited the earthly plane crossover to the next life whether it was Purgatory, Heaven or Hell. God appeared before Death who had manifested himself into his anthropotheistic form. A bearded man standing at a solid 6 foot 6 inches. Death was unmoved. "There's been a problem." God said. "Im guessing some damn mortal had found a way to become immortal again?" He replied. "No but you're not gonna like this." Death had put away his grooming brush and looked at God face to face arms crossed. "Ares had got into a fight with Kali and it's gotten to the point where they've caused some destruction onto some of the nations on Earth. Reasons, I'm guessing is Ares had angered her." Death let out a heavy sigh. "Great, a fight between the gods and humanity receives the wrong end of the stick. We need another meeting." Back on Earth a Hindu leader and Hellenistic Pagan got together to discuss the random natural distasters and paranormal occurrences in a meeting at the UN Headquarters. They both could agree that this isn't how Earth normally functions. The Pope had received a lot of attention from his followers who demanded answers yet he was silent. He knew what was going on but hasn't said anything due to the fear of world leaders politicizing these events for their own gains or playing the blame game on each other. The one thing the Pope agreed to do was to go onto an expedition with the Hindu and Pagan in secret. The fallen warriors in Valhalla were training with each other along with a few giants who were laughing together and sharing meals and drinking on one of Asgard's finest wine which was soon interrupted by a sudden sound of horns which signaled an emergency. "Don't tell me a goddamn demon had slipped through here again. This is the 85th time!" An Army Sergeant exclaimed. He was an infantry officer in the 96th Infantry Division who died in WW2 while protecting his fellow soldiers from 241 Japanese Imperials during the Battle of Okinawa. He manned the M1919 Browning and took down at least 70 soldiers in the span of 20 minutes before dying from a grenade. In the skies of Valhalla, Kali and Ares had entered the Norse plane holding and punching each other angrily until they crashed into the ground. "Hold your fire!" The Sergeant exclaimed. "Damn it." Kali cried as she fixed her broken nose with one of her arms while the others were holding blades. "We've already caused some trouble on Earth, why do we have to destroy Valhalla because of your stubborn ass?!" Ares gave a nasty grin before swinging one of his swords near Kali's neck. Before the sword came into contact a hammer had flown into both of the torsos of Ares and Kali striking them with a forceful electric blast. The hammer was summoned back into the hand by the one and only: Thor. "Enough both of you." Thor said out of frustration. He jumped down the hill landing on both of his feet and approached the damaged gods. "You guys have caused enough destruction in each plane. And now the humans on earth has to recover because of you two. Shame on you both. In the next meeting you need to take a few lessons or two from a few of the Buddhas. You could learn a few things, especially controlling your anger!" Thor said angrily as he looked directly into Kali's eyes. The heavenly host had got finished banishing the last few powerful demons back to the depths of Hell, Azrael along with Death were exhausted from collecting the souls of the people who were lost from the destruction, and the gods along with God and Jesus had got finished fixing some parts of the Earth in the span of 8 months. The world had returned to "normal" after those events.


Hello short stories, This comes from a strange musing I got. Just a forewarning it has some violence, but it really has no deeper meaning. There is no political metaphor or any kind of symbolism it's just something weird that popped up in my head and I had to write it down. I hope it. . .intrigues you. All was silent, all was dark in the pitch black room. For almost thirty minutes the valued employee waited until a single metal door swung open and slammed onto the wall upon which it was fixed. The open frame painted one lone ray of light on the floor. Then footsteps, like a raucous cacophony of hail, flooded the hallway leading to the room. Man after man poured through the door, each one a mirror image of the other. They were all dressed in black suits and ties, pressed and fitted, with a striped tie and black coiffed hair. A keen eye would immediately mark them all as salary men, seemingly taken from your pick of any mid twentieth century ad campaign. Their fine dress and well shaven faces would place them somewhere directly in the rank and file of the army of American middle management. Each one had the endearing, grinning smile of a high caliber salesperson or politician. They all ran, one behind the other, in a line with a gait that was more like a hectic scurry than a dignified march. As they came into the room they turned their heads to stare directly at where the employee was sitting, alone and barely visible, in the darkness. The line stopped moving before turning to face him, each man shoulder to shoulder. In the hands of every man was a solid hickory billy club, painted black, and grasped with such hateful force that the bones of their hands show through their skin. No sooner had the last man come through the door than did it shut with a deafening crash. What followed was, again, only silence and darkness. Several agonizing minutes passed and a single lightbulb flickered on in the center of the room, illuminating the cheerful and smiling faces of the line of more than thirty men. All was quiet until the echoes of hurried footsteps approached from the other side of the door. Once again the metal door flew open, as if kicked, and slammed full force into the painted cinder block wall with a deafening crash. The one man that entered looked the same as all the rest, except in his hands was a briefcase. Out of the case he pulled a piece of paper. His eyes darted over the paper as he silently read it with a cheerful and genuine smile. After reaching the end of the page he shoved it back into the briefcase, turned around and scurried out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Silence ensued for only a brief moment after the metal door slammed shut. Each of the thirty men, still grinning with charming and inviting smiles, then leapt forward without hesitation and began beating the valued employee to death. Rapid and powerful blows covered him in the frenzy as the sound of shattered bones could be heard one after the other with mechanical efficiency. The beating was carried out as quickly as possible as if being done on a timetable without a moment to lose. An unrecognizable lump of blood and flesh, contorted in all directions, was all that remained. Each of the men then hurriedly filed out of the room just as they had entered it and the door slammed behind them. The light went out and finally, once again, the room was filled with only silence and darkness.


A small cafe is just closing after a long day busy in the summer heat. There are trash bags stacked on the corner of a dumpster, a stray dog wandering past, and a heated debate over which soccer team will win which cup between four people as they laugh past the cafe. As all the employees dress themselves to leave the place behind, two waiters’ heads illuminate in the light of the street lamps above them as the rest walk towards home, down the street between tight colonial buildings. Loud music is screaming from the club across the road, and the two stand facing each other outside the cafe. “Do you want to go across the street?” “What’s across the street besides girls and beer *pendejo?*” “Nothing, that’s why we should go.” “You’re far younger than me, you’ll fit in fine.” “But I’m nervous, what if I get robbed?” “Why would you be scared of that?” “Well, I would lose my wallet, and maybe my ring,” the younger man says. The older waiter sits down on a brick bench, looking down the narrow cobblestone walkway where, floating carelessly over the bay is a blanket of light fog, green and purple and white swirling in it from the boats and houses on the other edge. “What would you have to lose besides that?” “Well, they might take my shoes.” “*En serio?*” the old man yelps as he chuckles. “What?” “You’re worried about your shoes?” “Oh, of course I am.” “And what else could you lose?” “I don’t know.” “So you have nothing to be afraid of.” “I suppose so,” the younger waiter pauses before speaking again. “Thank you.” “No, don’t thank me, enjoy yourself.” “But you want to stay and close the bar?” “I’m too old to do anything else,” he tells the younger man. The younger man nods his head in agreement, and begins walking across the street, lamplight flickering around the shadow of his feet as his legs move sharply in the direction of the club. The old man looks out across the bay; the fog is a deafening barrier between the mountain and the town below, of which is barely visible in the blanket of white and green and purple. He rests his head on the back of the bench, a cool summer breeze running it’s fingers through his grey hair. The staunch smell of food in the air sticks to his tongue as he breathes. He stares out and recognizes a shape along the water’s edge, he notices a schooner sailing in the silent night. He looks down at his left arm, through the hair to a faded tattoo, and he sits and smiles sweetly across the night at the lonely schooner. The young man reaches and opens the door to the club as the old man dissipates from his mind, stepping into a barrage of music and smoke. The telltale signs of a rave and a night of heavy drinking loom with the atmosphere. He immediately begins to shake, and he walks clumsily over to a long, black marble table lit by a red light, and the massive screen of a T.V. over the dance floor. “Hey,” the young man says loudly to a bartender as she makes a drink. “Hey?” he says again, uncertain she heard him. “What can I get you?” she says impatiently over the loud snare and hats. “I don’t know, anything at all.” “You need to tell me what you want, I can’t just make you anything.” “A beer please,” he says, hearing her sigh and watching her roll her eyes. “What kind of beer?” “I don’t know any different kinds of beer,” he says. “Then what are you doing here?” “I don’t know.” A woman and her friend bump into him as he’s speaking and shove him to the side, and for a moment he’s lost in a sea of people as blaring noise and bright lights reign over the bar and subsequent dance floor. He finds himself surrounded on all sides, being swept away like a raft in a thunderstorm. As he finally sees over raised hands, and the heads of taller people, he walks himself back on the bar and turns to talk to the bartender, but she’s vanished across to the other side, serving drinks rapidly with a bleak and annoyed look in her eyes. As a wave of colored light begins to blind him, someone steps in the shadow of the beam, speaking to him in a short and quaint Spanish accent. “Hello, sorry about bumping you earlier.” “It’s alright, I’m not used to this.” “I don’t think any of us are, but sometimes people stay the whole night.” “How could someone come here to get away from everything else?” “I don’t think it matters to them, *mi hombre*, *eres corto por aquí.”* “I don’t speak Spanish.” “Sorry, I couldn’t find the words in English.” “What are you doing here?” he asks, letting the awkward moment pass. “what does it look like I’m here to do?” He can see her as the green and red light fixture moves, and she has tattoos from the top of her shoulders down to the tips of her fingers in beautiful arrays and sequences. There are four letters on the hand holding her glass that say “Pati”. “What does *Pati* stand for? Is it Spanish too?” he asks as the music becomes louder. She speaks but he can’t hear her over the music. “What?” he says. “Pati is my husband.” “Does he know you’re out partying?” “No, he’s dead.” Her cheeks turn an obvious red, even in the dark lights of the room and even in the reflection from the marble bar. Her hair looks knotted in the dim lights, although it’s dyed and arranged perfectly. He sees dark rims now around her eyes, a contrast to the smoothness of her face. There is a small scar running beneath her neck, up to her chin. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to-” he says before she begins to cut him off. “It’s fine, don’t worry about it,” she says, her voice cracking. “So what brought you here in the first place?” he continues on. “I’m here to have fun.” “Is this really fun to you?” “When I’m on drugs.” “So you aren’t really here for anything at all are you?” “I guess I’m not.” “Are you okay?” he asks her, nearly having to yell. “When I’m on drugs,” she shouts back once again over the music. “Are you on drugs?” he replies. “Could you stop asking me questions?” she says, sounding angry. “Sorry,” he mumbles loudly. “You’re fine, why don’t you let me ask a few,” she shouts over a loud kick. “Go for it,” he replies as she sets her drink down. “Have you ever seen the bay up close?” she asks, continuing her request. “Of course I have, I live on it.” “And so you would know where *el parque de hombre rojo* is*?”* “Yeah, I live right next to it actually.” “I used to go there every weekend as a kid in the summer.” “I’m just staying for the summer right now, I don’t really live here.” “Ahhh, this place is only good for the summer *mi hombre simpatico.”* “Okay, are you trying to confuse me?” the young man says. “Maybe a little, you’re more interesting when you’re not talking.” “You don’t know anything about me.” he says in a stark response. “I know enough to know you’ve never been to a club before. I also know enough to know you haven’t been keeping an eye on your wallet.” He looks down and feels his pockets, turning them inside out. He looks back up and she’s disappeared into the crowd, her blue dress blending into the dim lights and her voice wisped away in the loud music. He turns, embarrassed, and walks towards the door of the bar, listening to the bits and pieces of loud conversation around him as he sulks and hap-hazardly shuffles. He spends the rest of the night wandering aimlessly in the club among the most beautiful people he’s ever seen. There are feelings of inadequacy in every short encounter he has with any one of them. Maybe it was a sideways glance, or a patient tap on the shoulder signifying a demand to “move over” for the more beautiful people to pass, it all felt like a haze regardless by the time he realized how long he had been there, searching for something he felt he would probably never find. He reaches the doorway finally after giving up, and he pushes it open out into the street. He moves back towards the small cafe across the way, where the old man once sat on the bench. He thinks of how like the old man he had become so tired, so melancholic around that swarm of people. He understands it in a small way. He walks around the entrance, under the street lamps and into the cafe; a large mirror showing the reflection of his dyed black hair in the dark hallway as he enters. He rolls his hand over his head anxiously, flipping his hair as he sits in a diner seat. He rests his head on a large oak table and looks out at the lights around the bay, knowing that much time has passed though it feels like only a second. There is a faint trace of the sun’s light, the leading beauty of another day poking through the dark clouds, casting a small glow around the mountain. As he sits and he thinks of how beautiful it is, of how beautiful that moment was with the woman in the blue dress, he hears a laugh behind him. “Hey *hombre*, you dropped your wallet.” He turns around, surprised to see her here. “I thought you were going to keep it,” he says. “No, I don’t need your money American.” “Why didn’t you just stay?” “Because I got bored of being- um, *mi aburri de estar borracha.”* “What does that mean?” “I told you, I don’t know English well.” “High? Drunk?” “Ahh, drunk is the word.” They both look at each other in the hollow light of the cafe, the walls slowly becoming lighter around them both. “It felt like I was in there for just a few minutes,” he says. “It usually feels like you weren’t even there, like it’s all a bad dream.” she tells him. “Isn’t it so much nicer here, alone?” he asks the girl in the blue dress as the sun meddles over the mountain, and the shadow on the bay becomes shorter. “It is,” she whispers. She looks at the houses beyond the bay, and the lights as they turn off slowly, as the shadow of that great mountain becomes a small triangle at the base of the bay. “It all seems so much smaller now, from here,” he says. “Yeah, it does doesn’t it?” she speaks before pausing shortly. “Sometimes I think it’s better that way.” she tells him as she sets her arms on his shoulders, relaxing around him and watching the sun rise.


Today Jack Greene was turning 200 years young. He was the youngest of four siblings including Jamie Jennie and Jessie each of whom were about ten years older than him, although Jessie was no longer with them. He walked to the couch, his robotic joints creaking as he sat down. His two siblings were being fed lunch on the matching chairs across from him. He grabbed a prescription bottle off the small coffee table, inside was a hypodermic needle filled with a goopy substance that looked like cat barf which he injected into his arm. His frail arms got plumper and healthier looking, the wrinkles on his face went away, basicaly it made him less senile, The drug especially affected his mind improving his memory and such. He turned on the television and grabbed another pill bottle witch contained many different drugs that he had to consume today, the some people on the news where talking about an exess in the population witch everyone knew was just a myth. "Can you believe these people Jaimie? There's no Overpopulation as far as I'm concerned" "Well then they must be doing their job well." "I just can't understand why they try to make us think they're failing." "I donno" The door rang and Jack slowly went up to answer it. "Hello sir" "Hi" "I'm looking for a Jack Greene" "That's me" The federal officer cuffed him and walked him to a van, he stepped in alongside about five more people each of whom were either crying or screaming their lungs out, he refrained from this childish behavior. The cop drove the van away picking up people, as it reached the end of town it took a left driving into an empty parking lot and coming to a stop. "Alright people you know the drill, in order to keep the population down there are a few sacrifices that have to be made, each of you get one phone call if you wish to use it" all the people took their phone calls crying to their friends and family and telling them how much they loved them. When finished The man in the front of the van started panicking and saying things like stop! no! please! But the rest did not need to endure his annoyance much longer because soon a gunshot erupted and all was silent (except for boisterous screaming) The man was pushed into the back of the van away from the rest of them and the process was repeated until all the subjects were dead. The officer drove the van to a landfill and dumped all the bodies. He drove Home parking his car out front. When walking to the door he noticed a note on it that read. "Dear Mr Hoffman we regret to inform you that one Jane Hoffman was selected by the population moderators today as a fitting candidate to help with lowering the population seeing as even with the highest levels of medication she was not improving at the standard rate. Deepest condolences, Todd parson secretary to the emperor." The End PS. This is my first post please don't downyote too hard unless it's trash I ain't no karma simp.


Aster breathed heavily as she pressed her hand firmly against her stomach, glaring at the blue glow emanating from between her grimy fingers. When a pebble flew across the cave room and landed by her foot, she smothered her mouth with her other hand and pressed her back flush against the stalagmite, the rocky spire barely thick enough to hide her trembling body. “*Aster*!” Her target’s voice sounded heavy, tired and frustrated. How long had she been stumbling in these dark caverns to hunt this…this thing down? Was it still light outside? “Just surrender, little star,” it groaned, dragging its feet across the gravelly ground. “I won’t hurt you. I would *never* hurt you.” She bit into her finger as two cylindrical objects manifested in her hand and lay against her aching stomach, while a bead of sweat rolled down her grubbily scratched face. *Only* *two?* The glow faded and her heart sank as she lifted her hand, revealing the turquoise bullets. A wave of dizziness swept over her and she pushed back into the stalagmite, a tear mixing with sweat and blood as she listened to the shuffling footsteps that paced the room. “Aster? My little star? Where are you?” Silence. Such deafening silence. Aster didn’t dare breathe. Her teeth sunk deeper into her finger and she squeezed her eyes shut. Drip. Something cold landed on her head and her body tensed in response. She began to shake again, praying to any deity or any higher power that nothing will give her away. She flinched at the sound of a weary sigh. “My starshine…” it began singing as the shuffled footsteps moved away. “My lovely starshine… Come home to me, oh come home to me…” She listened to the footsteps fading deeper into the cavern system, waiting several seconds more when they’d faded, and the room was silent. Then, with a shaky gasp, she scrabbled for her bullets and pistols. “Hell…” she whimpered as the bullets slipped in her fingers. “*Hell*.” The clicks echoed painfully in the room as she slid a bullet each into her pistols. She hastily patted the pockets of her trousers, each one empty until… She pulled out a caramel wrapped in clear plastic. She stared at it with wide blue eyes and parted dry lips. It wouldn’t do much, but right now, it was definitely better than nothing. The wrapper crinkled stridently. She chewed hard and grimaced as the stretchy substance got stuck between her teeth. Wetting her lips and taking a deep, calming breath, she forced the ball of sugar to swirl around her mouth as she pushed herself to her feet. The motion made her stagger and grab the stalagmite, wheezing and choking on her sugary saliva as she swooned on the spot. She closed her eyes and chewed harder. The dizziness swept over her again and faded as quickly as it came. Her grip on the stalagmite tightened as she opened her eyes to the dim light that struggled to light up the cave. With clumsy footsteps she crossed the room to the cavern path outside, shoving her right pistol into its holster and supporting her left hand as she aimed down the corridors. She could feel her heart thud in her chest with every unsteady step into the darkness, the tunnels winding around bends, up and down slopes and opening into empty rooms; every sound she made felt far too loud. Aster turned the next corner and her heart leapt. A breeze. Fresh air. *Escape*. She lowered her pistol and hobbled down the tunnel. To her dismay, she arrived in yet another cavern room. Above was a skylight, allowing moonlight to illuminate the lake below. Aster inched towards the ledge and peered down. She could see an islet that hadn’t been consumed by the still water and a tunnel from where the water was flowing in from. She closed her eyes, tipped her head back and took a deep breath of fresh air, listening to the faint chirping of crickets and grasshoppers outside, and smiling as the breeze kissed her cheeks. She heard the scraping of a foot across gravel. She spun on her heel and saw glowing golden eyes. “Aster!” She shot. Black substance splashed on her. An unholy shriek of agony echoed in the cavern as it reeled back. Aster grabbed her other pistol and aimed for its cowed form. She took another shot. BANG! The pistol backfired on its owner and Aster cried out in pain. She lost her footing and fell back into the lake. The cold soothed her burns as she was submerged, while the pistol in her right hand drifted from her grip and disappeared into the murky darkness below. She forced herself to swallow what was left of the caramel and pressed her hand to her stomach again, her heart leaping at the sight of the familiar blue glow. *Please, please, just one more…* Aster used her spare hand to flail in the water and resurface. She gasped and sloppily swum to the islet nearby. She crawled onto the stone, bent over and gripped her shirt. Her stomach churned and a bullet fell into her palm. *Thank gods!* She fumbled with her remaining pistol, shoving the fresh bullet into its chamber. “Aster…” She paused and looked up at those golden eyes glaring at her. It had gotten bigger, its form more distorted. It was difficult to believe this had been a human, if it ever had been in the first place. “Look at me, little star. We’re both at breaking point. Surrender now and we can relax. We can while away the hours in peace.” Aster raised her pistol and pressed the barrel between the eyes. She supported her left hand with her right. A black tendril coiled around the barrel as she closed her eyes. *Please.* She pulled the trigger.


**This is a true story. Names and details adjusted to maintain confidentiality. It has themes of death and trauma which some readers my find distressing. If you struggle with mental health please know there are always people to help. I am always happy for comments on ways to improve my writing, I have fairly thick skin at this point.** This is a sad story. A difficult situation and a horrible outcome. It was shortly after being qualified as an Intensive Care Paramedic, my partner the same. I am working with a friend, John, competent and capable. I always enjoy working with people that just know what to do, too know they’ll stop you from fucking up. We are relaxing, on a soon to be interrupted meal break. “Motor vehicle accident” Rings out across the station with the associated alarm. I always find that funny. Calling it an accident just doens't make sense!? An accident implies no one is at fault. Anyway. The car dislplay tells a short story. “Female 40s run over by car. CPR in progress.” The address is some suburban street. Weird. My partner is driving, we head off lights and sirens. Now I say weird because you don’t expect any serious injuries in a low speed area with minimal traffic. The forces just aren’t usually there. We are thinking our patient was a pedestrian and stepped out unexpectedly. MDT Update “Pt run over by her own car. Dragged across pavement before going under and car rolling over.” Well there’s the answer. A second car is attached, AFP on scene. I get nervous and start to do some planning with my partner. I hate this. You know your turning up to shit scene. In the simplest sense I always wonder if I’m going to get this right or will I be caught out as a fake. It’s horrible. We talk through our roles and priorities. I will lead, my partner will be on the airway. We drive, siren blaring. John checking the MDT for directions. I clear him through intersections. I’m losing the joviality in my voice. “Clear, clear, clear”. We roll through the intersection. I put my gloves on. I’m nervous I always do that when I’m nervous. I try and get them on before my hands sweat too much. Gloves are impossible to get on when that happens. We turn into the suburb. I’m silent. I’m nervous. It a weird feeling, things are happening, lights flashing, siren blasting. But you just don’t hear it. It’s quiet in my head. Not calm, just fear being held at bay. As we drive into the scene it’s controlled chaos. There are police and the fire brigade evidently just arrived. To our left a small crowd of bystander’s huddle in concern near a new model Jeep. Some are turned away with heads nestled into consoling hugs. Police are nearby trying to gather information, performing crowd control for the small group. It’s not needed. Everyone is staying back, staring. Their attention is on the dead lady across the road. I look over and see where she lay, a young man performing CPR. We pull up close get out and grab our gear. We’re quickly informed the patient had pulled into her driveway when she got out and walked behind the car to go inside. No handbrake, it then rolled over her and dragged her a short distance before hitting the gutter where she stopped, and the car rolled across the road to where we can see it now. Everyone had only arrived moments before, not much has been done. In the time it takes us to get out, grab our equipment and wlak the 2m to the patient the firefighters have fallen into their position, doing CPR. She looks in her early forties. There’s no blood, no scratches. It looks like the car has run over her chest and abdomen. She looks dead. We start taking control and ask the firefighters to continue CPR. My partner goes to the airway as planned. Well haven’t frozen yet, we just get on with the job. I expose the patient cutting away her top and bra with shears. I apply the pads and we find she is in a non-shockable rhythm. We continue with our guideline and our back up arrives. We quickly brief them, and they take over certain tasks. I get to step back and take stock. I note the young man from earlier, he’s only a kid really, maybe 14. He’s squatting maybe 2 meters away. “Do you know what happened?”. Nothing, he just stares, no recognition I spoke. I dismiss him and move on; I see the husband distraught and talking with police nearby. I try and focus back on the patient. Again, no shockable rhythm. I discuss our next steps with John and our back-up. Something to understand in chest trauma like this is the lung likely detaches from the inside of the chest wall creating a space that shouldn’t be there. That space fills with either blood or air and you have a pneumothorax, or what would be called a ‘collapsed lung’. If it is big enough and affects your blood pressure, we call it a tension pneumothorax. This lady probably has one. To fix this we place a large needle through her chest until it reaches that new space. We then leave a tube in place and it allows the air (or blood) to escape and releases pressure. So I set up for the procedure and mark my place. But I can’t get the needle through the chest wall. That’s when I realise, she’s ruptured an implant. The silicone has ridden up and I can’t get my needle through. I quickly tell my partner who just reached over and pushes the silicone down and out of the way. I insert the needle successfully and step back out. The job continues for another twenty or thirty minutes but there is no change. She’s dead. We talk it through, and I go over to inform the husband of what we’ve done. There is understanding, he knows we will soon stop. We will clean up finish our paperwork and leave. He will stand there next to his dead wife who only moments ago was fine. We stop. He goes over to the boy and consoles him. It’s his son. I guess that explains why he was acting weird. As we pack up, I hear commotion. Police are holding back a young girl that just drove up to the scene. It’s the daughter. I go over and start talking to her. I retell the story, that her mum suffered severe chest injuries from the accident, that we’ve stopped CPR and her mum is deceased. She turns away and paces for bit. Calmer than before. I always thought it strange that. How quickly people calm down once the worst news is confirmed. I tell her she can see her mother, that its ok and we walk over together. We kneel down next to the body; we have a blanket over her. I pull it back to reveal her face, unmarked. You can sense the daughter is getting more emotional, more distressed. I watch her as she glances at her mother, then down her blanket covered body. Back and forth, back and forth. Her hands reach out and hover over the blanket. In conflict whether to peak underneath. It clicks, she thinks her mum is mutilated under that blanket. All she knows is her mum got run over by the car causing ‘severe chest injuries’. It just felt right so I rest my hand on her shoulder and gesture over her mum as I explain. I reassure her there is no gory wounds or deformity under there. The blanket is for modesty. The distress dissipates. The sadness remains, overwhelms. She cries as she strokes her mothers face. I leave her to her grief. We finish our paperwork and leave. Controlled chaos, a distraught family, a dead mother. We go back to station and finish our lunch, having a laugh and making jokes. The dead body soon to be poorly remembered as just another job.


Avidan made a tidy living writing formulaic romance novels full of graphic descriptions of casual sex, with no redeeming qualities whatsoever. He published under a pen name, and told no one. All his loved ones thought he worked at his volunteer job at the homeless shelter, and somehow never questioned how a person could afford an apartment in this city from whatever imaginary earnings they thought he accrued from such a modest organization. His life was smut and serving soup. His editor told him she was going to have to take a ten month leave of absence for personal reasons involving cocaine and legal trouble, but that everything was perfectly fine. Really. She assured him that she would return at the conclusion of this hiatus prepared to edit, and was trying so hard to keep her cool in this three-minute phone call that she didn’t give him any writing parameters at all. This was unprecedented. “No wonder she always sends her edits in the middle of the night,” he said to himself after he got off the phone. Avidan set his personal feelings regarding drug addiction aside and contemplated the gift he’d just been given. Thankfully, his last novel was already on the press, which meant it was time to start a new one. He could finally write however he wanted. He had ten months, but this project had to be of such quality that his editor would publish it even though it wasn’t like his other books. He was going to go rogue. It had to be a romance novel or his editor wouldn’t touch it, so he poured his heart and soul into writing the romance novel he’d always wanted to write. After ten grueling months of late nights and peanut butter sandwiches set on top of glasses of milk next to his computer for more meals than was really prudent, he had a complete draft. The protagonist had a complex personality, and rejected the handsome man who doggedly pursed her because he was shallow and controlling. When he attempted to rape her, she gave him a knee to the groin and reported him to the authorities. He went to prison halfway through the book. She overcame nearly insurmountable obstacles in order to receive a formal education, and met a wonderful man who treated her as an equal. They fought some pirates and then moved to a city where they had ample career opportunities. His editor broke the silence. “Do you have a draft for me?” She sounded more like her old self, if less energetic. “Well...I do… It’s not like my other novels. Just read it and keep an open mind.” “This does not inspire me with confidence.” She read it. She loved it. They sent edits back and forth for a while, then it was published. Within six months, it was apparent that this book was going to sell extremely well. Whether it was the pirates, or the total breakdown of normal romance novel procedure, either way, he now had many readers. The publisher increased the advertising budget, and then sales exploded. Now there was talk of a book tour. This was problematic. He had no way of explaining his absence to his friends and family, and felt bad about taking leave from the homeless shelter. Sales went up and up, and soon his other books had increased sales, as well. Avidan was becoming a rich man. “The book tour is non-negotiable.” They told him. “You leave in June, come back in September.” He was going to have to tell his friends and family. This did not go well. He was glad he decided to call his parents, rather than tell them face to face. “You’re some kind of porn writer?” His mom scornfully spat out. “What happened to writing Christian books? That’s all you talked about, growing up.” “Writing smut is the only way to make a living as a novelist,” he attempted to explain in vain. Then, he endured a fifteen-minute lecture about Jesus, moral values, and the importance of good reputation and how he was destroying their family. He tried to point out that he wrote under a pen name, but his mom was resolute in her certainty that everyone would find out once he did the book tour. “It’ll be your face in all the pictures. People will know.” “What pictures? Nobody is going to take any pictures. I’m just going to go to bookstores and sign books.” His dad intervened at this point and negotiated in earnest for the family to simply never discuss this issue again. It was left that way. So he thought. Right before he left for his book tour, he received a call from his 89-year-old religious grandmother. “I’ve read all your books, and I have some questions…” she began. “Oh, dear God, no!” He couldn’t help but say. “Calm down. I’ve had two husbands and know more about romance than you. I have questions about some of the decisions your heroines made. Why in the world did Penelope in your first book lead on that poor, hardworking lawyer who loved her so much?” They discussed G rated plot details for hours, and she gave him valuable insight. He was shocked to have such an unlikely supporter of his career. His friends mostly made fun of him, and he learned from his mistake with his family and refrained from divulging his pen name, despite considerable pressure. Then, there was the matter of the money. Avidan had royalties pouring in, and he was a simple man who required few material things. He completed his book tour, sales still skyrocketing, and was given complete liberty to write his next book. As he set about to write another novel that broke convention, his savings had accumulated to the point that he could retire if he wanted. Instead, for the rest of his long career, he continued to write industriously, and donated all his earnings to the homeless shelter. He no longer volunteered there, instead spending all his time writing so that he could maximize his earnings. They were able to expand, serve better meals, hire more staff, and start providing additional services with his smut money.


This story is dedicated to Morag, Alison, Viv, David, Diane, Pat "Miss America", Sonnie, Milo, and anyone else who is battling, has battled, or has been affected by cancer. *-* An old man sits alone in his dark house and pours himself a drink. It is the first birthday he will be spending without the woman he loved for so many years; the woman he still loves. He was lucky to meet her; it came as a fleeting chance that he seized upon. And from that, the purest form of love was shared. From their first kiss, to their first house, to her saying ‘I do’; he fondly recalls her smile. He takes a small sip of his whiskey; the ice has melted as he was lost in his thoughts. He smiles warmly, remembering her as a tear trickles down his cheek. He looks back on it all; their adventures, their struggles, their life. He didn’t think it would end so early, let alone so suddenly. What started off as fatigue quickly became sinister; a tumour growing inside her. She fought hard and she fought true, but she could not beat her sickness. And now, the old man drinks alone. He fiddles with the radio which quietly begins to play, providing a backing track to the memories he holds. Her eyes. Her nose. Her mouth. Her laugh. Things he wishes he could see again, hear again. But, he cannot. He cannot kiss her. He cannot laugh with her. He cannot hold her waist. Instead, he drinks alone. His hand reaches down and touches the spot on the couch that was hers. ‘That’s my spot, silly’, she’d claim if he ever dared sit there. He loved to though, just to annoy her - even if it was just to get her attention. But now, it’s empty. He would never dream of sitting there again. That’s her spot. The man is unsure whether he drinks the whiskey to numb his pain or to step closer to his grave where she’ll be waiting for him; perhaps, he drinks it for both of these reasons. Every sip of the liquid is met and equalled with the now steady flow of tears that he produces as he quietly cries. The radio flickers, almost as if it is interrupted, and begins to play a song the man recognises. It’s their song. It’s the song they first danced to. He stifles laughter; the mass of emotion proves too much for him to know how to properly react. Soon he is smiling once more, but the tears continue to fall. The song quietly plays as the man closes his eyes and remembers their first dance. She was so beautiful that night. As he held her waist, she held his heart. And they danced. He imagines he is back there, his butterflies rising at the first sight of her. His eyes closed, he remembers her smooth skin against his as they slowly danced, ignoring the world. Her hair, in his face, tickling his nose, but there was no way he was moving it away. Her scent – The man opens his eyes and they dart around the room. Her scent. It’s here; her sweet perfume drifts into the room. Suddenly, he is not alone anymore. The room is empty, but he knows she is here. Her presence is unmistakable. His heart flutters, as it always did when she was close, and the room brightens. He opens his mouth to speak, to call out to her, but no words come out. His eyes frantically search the room looking for the woman he’d lost too soon. Beside him, she sits. He cannot see her, but he knows she is there, sat in her spot on the couch. He stands, feeling wary and confused yet somehow safe. The overwhelming safety that he’s only ever felt with her before. The kind of safety that turns a house into a home. His quivering eyes stare at the spot on the couch. The vast sense of love the man feels repairs the pain in his heart more than his whiskey ever could. Then, as if he following her, his eyes rise. The man stares ahead; the same height he had stared at for so many years looking into her eyes when she had stood before him. And now, she’s standing with him once more. He knows she is. He reaches his hands out as their song continues to quietly play. He gently rests them on the waist of the woman he knows is there, but cannot see. Despite this, he looks into her eyes. And then, they begin to dance. They move slowly, in complete unison; a step forward, a step back. The song provides their only company, but the man could be in the middle of a war zone and he wouldn’t notice. All he sees is her. With every step of the quiet dance, the room brightens. With every step, the old man’s house becomes a home once more. As they dance, the tears dry on his face. The tears carrying the pain, the torment; dried out by a single dance. He knows she won’t be here for long, so he smiles. She’d rather see his smile than his pain. His nose twitches; her hair tickling his face as her head rests against his chest. The song is almost over, but the man prays for it to never finish. *Please*, he silently begs, *please don’t end.* But it does. And with the final words of the song and the final strums of the guitar, the old man is alone once more. He slowly lowers his arms, desperately hoping that he will feel her as he had a second ago. But he knows deep down he will not. He knows he won’t feel her again. He quietly thanks her for giving him one last dance. Gradually, he moves back and picks up his bottle of whiskey as he rests beside her spot on the couch. The old man sits alone in their home and pours himself a drink.


"You must pick one and only one." I stared hesitantly at the two swords embedded in solid rock, one glowed with a heavenly pure white light, as its intricate design had an inlay of gold. And the other, seemed to pull light and color from its surroundings, it's cold blade seemed to pulse with a deathly intelligence. "So, has anyone successfully picked a sword?" I ask, eyeing the shadowy figure that hovered just beyond the rock. "Yes." "Ah, ok then." That was probably all the insight I'd get on this subject. "Can't you at least tell me about each one?" The shadowy form shifted giving the impression that it was annoyed. "One sword is death incarnate, merely touching its blade will drain the life from every living thing in this forest, including yours." I shifted on my feet uncomfortably and inched closer to the bright shiny one. "And the other?" "The other is life incarnate, touching it will bring new life to the world and grant its wielder the power of a god." I now hovered my hand over the golden sword and I could feel it warming my hand softly. But what if the shade was lying, merely trying to get me to pull this sword and it turns out to be the evil one killing everyone and anything. I tore my eyes away from the golden sword, "Are you lying to me?" "No." "Oh." I reluctantly pulled my hand away from the sword and rubbed my face. I definitely didn't want to die, and I really liked the sound of me having godly powers but, the shade said it was lying to me. "And what if I don't choose?" The shade seemed to ponder for a second. "You will be allowed to leave, but you will never have this choice again." I walked up to the stone and scrutinized each blade carefully as I felt the shade watching me. Each blade resembled an English longsword though with its own carvings and etches. "So the death blade only kills? It doesn't do anything else?" "It is said to have the power to kill everything it touches, be it mortal, undead, or immortal." I took a deep breath, "Well I've made my decision." The shadow regarded me coldly. "Your fate is in your hands." I reached over to the golden sword and touched its handle. Nothing happened as I wrapped my hand around the grip and began to pull. My breath caught as the longsword slid cleanly out of its rocky sheath. *Shing* I stared widely at the glowing white blade, it was surprisingly light and warm to the touch. "You have chosen the blade of life, and have been imbued with its power." "I don't feel any different." As I uttered the words the sword pulsed and began to burn my hand, I cried out but couldn't let go. I pulled desperately as my vision began to become blurry and my mind was assaulted by millions, no trillions of voices, some in languages I knew and heard, and others that I knew couldn't be uttered by human mouths. My body continued to be burned from the inside as I screamed. My eyesight split into two different views: One of the sword burning my hand and another of a woman cradling a child in her arms. My vision multiplied again, and again and again. Until there was too much input and I closed my eyes. Only to be met with more views. My screaming had turned from a terrified human to the roar of wind tearing through a quiet farmstead. The burning intensified but I could no longer discern where my body was nor the sword. I tried to move my nonexistent arms but was only met with extreme resistance as if dragging them through thick syrup. I opened my eyes again and saw everything. Every face, every word, every thought, every lie. I could hear everything. A babies first word, a child promise, a sickening cry, and dying heart. And I knew everything. Secrets, lies, hopes, dreams, deepest desires. Everything. Everything. And nothing. I felt the pain of a dead child, the sadness of death, the hopelessness of suicide, the hatred of murder. All of it at once, from every direction, thoughts, feelings, words, all of it. "There's too much...make it stop..." The pain kept coming, I saw a parent hug their child as their planet was destroyed. I saw a person regret everything as they took their steps off a building. I saw a tortured persons last thought and heard their screams. I saw genocide millions of times and heard trillions cry out. "Please..." And then it hit me. I was responsible for all of this pain and suffering. I had the power to stop it all, but I sat and relished in my newfound power. Every second someone, somewhere, died. And I did nothing. I blinked. \### The shade floated in the vast darkness. In the mere seconds, the mortal had wielded the sword, they had erased everything. Of course, they lasted longer than the thousands of previous mortals who had tried their hand at immortality and omnipotence. It was refreshing to have a break between life and death. The shade floated for a bit in limbo, the sad thing was: None of it mattered. There would always be death and anguish, life was merely a means to and end. The few seconds of omnipotence he had gifted that mortal had hopefully shown him the truth in it all and had put their mind at ease. Time to start again. \### Stacey never noticed the two swords protruding from the rock before, and she had hiked this path a million times. "You must pick one and only one.


Margrett was sitting in her garden, swinging on the little porch swing she had George set up for her a few years back. There were all sorts of flowers there; spring had sprung a few weeks ago, so the flowers were looking as fine as they ever would. Margrett spent lots of time in her flower garden, among the marigolds and rose bushes, the tulips and hedges, the climbing vines and the decorative trees. She also had the eatable garden, with the tomatoes and the corn and the peppers. That was always George’s favorite place to work. He had grown up on a farm, so he knew how to take care of plants. When he was on his deathbed though, he made sure to make Margrett promise that she would take care of it for him. And take care of it she did. George had never really talked about how to maintain the plants with Margrett, so she went to the public library to check out books on how to cultivate her own food. That was years ago. The peppers were always his favorite. George’s family was originally from India, so he always liked very spicy food. Margrett could never eat some of the foods that George could, but she always made sure to try a bit of them. Even the super spicy curries that he loved so much. He always said that the peppers loosened his joints, and after he said that he’d always do a little dance. God Margrett always loved that dance. Margrett got up from her seat and walked over to the eatable garden to look for weeds or things that were ready to be picked. She grabbed the little basket that sat next to the raised beds and started to look over the space. The tomatoes were coming along nicely, she picked a few of the plumpest and reddest and put them in the basket. Then she moved along to the eggplant, seeing a good one she twisted it off and put it in the basket. Moving over to the fruits (George had always considered tomatoes a vegetable) she walked between the blueberry bushes and the strawberry plants, picking as she went and dropping them into the basket. Then she got to her favorite part of the garden, the peppers and herbs. She decided to get to the peppers last today, so she went to the herbs first. These were seated on outdoor tables in little planters, that way they could be easily harvested and seen, not to mention them being protected from animals. Animals other than humans that was. She pulled off a leaf of mint and stuck it in her mouth, chewing it to release its freshness as she walked through the tables covered in green. She decided that she’d make some lemonade today, Diane had some lemons she’d given her from her tree that would go nice with a little bit of the mint. She pulled leaves of this and sprigs of that as she walked, making her way to George’s peppers. There were all sorts of peppers, Margrett’s late husband had always like variety in his life. If she every suggested making the same thing for dinner twice in a week he’d joke that she’d ran out of recipes to cook. She looked to the bell peppers first. They were green, which meant they weren’t quite mature. But green bell peppers were always welcome, so she picked a couple anyway. Then came the chilis that George had always loved. There were all kinds, jalapenos, bird’s eye, jolokia peppers, and so much more. She walked over to the generic chili peppers. There was something off about the plant. Something was moving, even without the presence of a breeze of any kind. She bent down to get a loser look, and there she saw the creature for the first time. It was small, with its body being the length of her hand. Its head was a chili pepper that could split open horizontally, with two little slits that acted as a nose of sorts. It didn’t seem to have any eyes, not that Margrett could see anyway. The stem moved further than any stem had before, with four appendages mimicking legs coming off of its thin body. It was wriggling around, trying to pick itself and get free. Margrett was stunned. Nothing in the library had ever mentioned the produce coming to life. She took the clippers and snipped the dragon off at a reasonable length. It fell to the ground and scuttled away. Or at least it would have had Margrett not scooped it up in her old hands. “Woah there little guy, you can’t get away from me that easily,” she said with a chuckle. The dragon turned its head to look at the old woman. It moved it up and down, as if it was looking her over for whatever reason. Then it reared back and sneezed. Some of the fluids got onto Margrett’s arm and she immediately knew what it was. Capsaicin. Her skin started to get irritated at the chemical.” “Hey now, don’t be like that,” she scolded as she brought it inside to wash her arm off. Her kitchen was small and scarcely decorated. She set the basket of produce along with the little dragon on the counter. It immediately started sniffing around the place with its little slits down on the counter. Margrett finished washing off her arm and was drying it off as she thought what to do with the little dragon. She could always show it to somebody. Maybe she could bring it to her weekly bridge game at Diane’s. She walked over to the phone on the counter and punched in her number. “Hello?” came the voice from the other end of the line. “Diane? It’s me, Margrett,” she responded. “What can I do for ya Margrett?” “I found a little dragon in my garden, do you mind if I bring it to today’s bridge game?” she asked. “I don’t want to leave it alone here at home. God knows I go crazy enough in here by myself.” “Sure, I don’t mind. As long as he doesn’t make a mess.” “You’re a lifesaver, Diane. Thanks.” Margrett ended. “No problem.” Click. “You hear that?” Margrett said, turning in the kitchen to look at the small dragon munching on one of her tomatoes. “You’re going to meet the girls.” Margrett spent the remaining time before bridge making a large pitcher of lemonade with the lemons Diane had given her. She squeezed the lemons by hand, adding water and sugar in no particular amount. Then she took some mint out of the basket, dodging the dragon finishing his tomato, and threw it in. She took out a wooden spoon, stirred the whole concoction up, and tasted it. A little sweet, but sometimes all you want is something a little sweeter. She took the pitcher in one hand against her body and the dragon in the other and walked over to Diane’s house. They played in the parlor, which had an old chandelier above an even older table. She set the pitcher of lemonade next to a plate of cucumber sandwiches, a small salad (Greek from the looks of it), and a plate of chocolate chip cookies. A fine lunch. Everybody was already in the parlor. Diane, her designated partner, was sitting at the head of the table. Margrett took her place at the foot. Bethany and Edith were across from each other on the left and right side respectively. “Sorry I’m late everybody, there was a dragon in the garden today,” Margrett explained as she set the chili dragon on the table. A chorus of variations on ‘it’s alright, hon,’ went up from the table. They started to play. Typically, they played one game, had lunch, and then played another game. But if Diane and Margrett won one and Bethany and Edith won the other they’d play a third one if nobody was busy to break the tie. Bethany and Edith won the first game, then they cleared and set the table for lunch. Plates were set out, as well as cups and forks. The plate of sandwiches was set in the middle of the table, along with the bowl of Greek salad. “It’s a little sweet,” Margrett warned as she filled each glass around the table. “But I think it’s still good.” “So, what’s this I hear about a dragon?” Bethany said, taking a bite of cucumber sandwich. The dragon, who was sniffing around the table, looked up at this. Its head was pointed towards Beth, but quickly swiveled to the rest of the women in turn. “I was looking through the garden this morning, and I found it wriggling trying to get free. I figured I’d see if you gals had anything to say about it.” The old women went silent at this. None of them had every really seen a dragon, let alone had any experience with them. “Does it have a name at least?” Diane asked. “No pet is complete without a name. Took me a few days to name Charlie.” The cat Diane gestured towards lazily looked up at the group of women eating around the table and then went back to licking its paws. “I actually do think I have a name for it. I think I’ll call him George. Peppers were always his favorite, so it seemed fitting,” Margrett explained. The women agreed that it was a very fitting name. They finished lunch and played their second round of bridge. Bethany and Edith won the second game too, but Diane and Margrett had gotten closer on this one than they had the first time. They each had a cookie and then Margrett went home. She walked back into the kitchen, putting the leftover lemonade into the refrigerator. Margrett looked around the house and noticed she didn’t have a place for the dragon. It didn’t look like it would take much space, so something small could be arranged. She poked around her closet for a while and eventually found an old shoebox, so she took off the lid and set the box on the counter. That could’ve done on its own, but she decided that she needed to make it a little cozier. So she set an old tea towel on the inside of the box, curling it up into a nest of sorts. Then she remembered that every bed needed a pillow, so she went into the medicine cabinet and amongst the various medications she took, along with the ones George used to take, there was a bag of cotton balls. She took out a few and pressed them into one somewhat coherent mass before going back into the kitchen and placing the pillow into the bed. She decided that the makeshift bed would be good for at least a night. After that she went around the house cleaning as she normally did in the afternoons. She swept the floors in the kitchen, dusted the shelves around the house, cleaned the bathroom, and generally decluttered anywhere there was clutter. Once she was done cleaning Margrett looked at her calendar. She was scheduled to be a substitute teacher for Mrs. Gill’s fourth grade class. Maybe she could take in the dragon for a day, the kids would love seeing George. Then she heard a sneeze and remembered that pure capsaicin was akin to pepper spray, so she eventually decided against it. Her stomach growled and she realized how hungry she was. She looked around in the pantry to find something to eat, and eventually settled on making spaghetti with meat sauce. She set a pot to boil and got out the noodles, Italian sausage, everything for the sauce, and the red pepper flakes. George had always called red pepper flakes ‘birdseed’ for whatever reason. George, the dragon this time, took an interest in the little red and yellow flakes. Margrett took some in her aging fingers and held it like fish food above the little pepper dragon. He opened his mouth hungrily and she sprinkled them in. The little pepper shut his mouth and seemed to swallow, although he had no digestive system. Margrett didn’t ask questions. Once dinner was ready, she plated herself up a portion and placed it on the table. Then she took a shallow dish and put some sauce and a small mountain of red pepper flakes on top and set it next to her own plate. Then she carefully scooped up the dragon from the counter and set him on the table next to his plate. He lapped it up quickly, then looked at Margrett as if to ask for more. Margrett smiled and got up to get George more sauce. He lapped his seconds up nearly as fast as the firsts. “No more.” She said, turning to her own plate. Once dinner was over she took George the dragon in her hands and set him on the easy chair George her husband used to sit in all the time. She took her place in her own, lighter rocking chair. She took the book that was on the table and cracked it open. It was a mystery, and she was a little over halfway through it. Out of instinct, she started to read aloud. The particular chapter she was reading had the detective investigating the crime scene again, the clues and puzzles unravelling in his head. She enjoyed mysteries. She finished the chapter and looked over to George. He was curled up in a little swirl, with his head resting on his paws. She delicately scooped up the plant and set him down in his tea towel bed. Then she took the shoe box and brought it to her room, setting it down on her bedside table. She said a quick prayer, then turned out the light and went to bed.