The wind chimes were going at it again. As the wind blew, they crashed feverishly into one another, a frantic dancing orchestra that woke the girl sleeping on the couch.

As she blinked her eyes open and rubbed her cheek that had been pressed against a scratchy pillow all night, she glanced around the room worriedly. She began to absorb more sounds; the distant howl of a starving dog, the trees crashing together outside, rain colliding with the windows. With small, cold fingers, she pulled the sleeves of her sweater down to her wrists. Sleeves that had her name sewn into them with bright red thread five times over, Beatrice Dean , a name she had seen so often that she was beginning to feel sick of it. But her father had sown her name into all her clothes with hands so shaky she would oftentimes wonder how he managed to get the needle into the thread in the first place. He was always adamant that somebody would try to steal all their clothes one day, so he had to take certain measures.

She stumbled to the kitchen for a glass of water when she saw her father sprawled across the ceramic tiled floor, his skin paler than the floor beneath him. He looked like somebody had tossed a corpse over a field of freshly fallen snow. The sunken skin mixed in with the sparkle of the white contrasted each other, and created a sort of unsettling peace.

She nudged him with her toe. “Dad?”

There were other things on the ceramic tiles. A large, dull needle, a spilled can of orange soda, and vomit. The girl wrinkled her nose and nudged him again. She knew that she had to keep trying to wake him up, so that he would slowly squint his eyes open, rake his fingernails across his chest and sit up. He’d be confused for a moment, and ask her if he had died, just like he would do every time. And she would quietly say no, just like she would do every time. After a few more nudges, her lower lip began to quiver. The rain outside died down, but the trees were still thrashing. It sounded as though they were trying to get into the house, as if there was something terrifying outside. But the girl knew the true terror was inside the house. She felt as though someone was knitting a sweater inside her rib cage with sharp, hot needles. She needed to leave.

Carefully, she stepped around her father, dodging the needle and the soda and the vomit. She stepped past the shiny black garbage bags dotted around the kitchen, glanced at the swarm of fruit flies that looked like locusts come to punish her and her father. She placed her hands on the doorknob of the back door and gave it a good twist. Usually, her father would lock all doors with a special key only he had, so she wouldn’t think of leaving, or worse, attempt to. But to her surprise, the door swung open to the outside. She glanced back at her father, wondering to herself why he would lie about the key. Wondering if there was something out there that might have stolen the key and unlocked everything.

Outside was cold. Her socks mushed into the muddy ground, and the wind felt like fingers weeding up her spine. The long, dark trees that were so richly green that they looked blue, were pirouetting around her wildly. She couldn’t remember the last time she had seen the outside of the house, especially when it had been so dark out.

“Hello?” she mumbled, mostly to herself, just so she could hear something human within the howls of nature. “Hello?” She saw a stream to her left, and she stumbled over to it. Moonlight winked over its tumbling waters. She saw her reflection, and was stunned by it. Her father had smashed all the mirrors in the house not too long ago, claiming that somebody was watching them through their surface. Staring at herself, she realized that her eyes had an uncanny fuzzy brightness to them, like television screens. She looked away quickly.

The tears came so rapidly that she crashed to her knees. They were hot down her face, and salty on her lips. Something inside her stomach told her that her father had finally died, that she was finally all alone. She sank her hands into the piercingly cold water of the stream for a moment, and began to sob, scrunching her eyes shut tight.

Unbeknownst to the girl, there was something rising up from the water. Something small and breathing, something red with big brown eyes and white ears. It rose from the water, gave a small flick of its tail, and sat beside her, watching her as she wept. Eventually, the girl felt its presence and slowly opened her eyes and turned her head, her eyes growing wide as saucers when she saw the animal sitting next to her. She thought it was a cat at first, with its pointy ears and whiskers. But she knew it wasn’t. This was an animal she had never seen before.

“Hello?” she croaked, hoping deep within her stomach for a response. But all the fox did was blink at her.

“I think my Dad is dead,” she said slowly, looking deeply into its brown eyes. She saw her reflection in them, small and scared and lost. “Can you help me?” There was a pause. The fox opened its jaw. The inside of its mouth smelled as foul and as sweet as flowers on a grave. On its tongue was a small key, barely the size of the girl’s pinky finger. She reached out and took it, held its warm brass surface against the palm of her hand. Staring down at it, she knew it was important. She knew the key could solve everything.

Quickly, she rose to her feet and began to run, the fox at her side. She could see the house in the distance if she squinted hard enough. She felt as though the ground was swaying beneath her feet, rocking her from side to side, threatening to crash her into the mud, pull her down where she could never crawl back up from.

She pushed the back door open with all her might, and it swung so hard it slammed into the wall. Her father hadn’t moved. His eyes were still open, glassy like forgotten marbles. His mouth was slightly open, his lips parted and his tongue peeking out from behind yellow teeth. All the holes in his arms looked as though worms might crawl out of them.

Crouching beside him, the smell of death and vomit making her want to scramble out from her skin, the girl inhaled shakily.

“I know what to do now,” she said, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead with the back of her hand. “But you have to trust me. You have to believe it will work. Okay, Dad?” She took the key from her palm, and placed it on his tongue. She watched the metal dissolve onto his tongue, disappearing in a matter of seconds. Relieved, she sat back on her knees and smiled at the fox. All would be well now.

But her father didn’t open his eyes. His chest didn’t start to rise, she didn’t hear the scratchy sound of his breath. He was as still as a painting.

The tears threatened to escape from her eyes again. She felt as though a rock, hot and heavy, was turning around over and over again in her stomach. Her father didn’t believe it would work. A part of her always knew he’d be satisfied with death, especially since he’d been chasing it since before she was born. The room was spinning. The fox began to grow bigger. She saw him grow to the size of a bear in the corner of her eye.

Groping around her father’s head, the girl grabbed the needle. There was still some liquid left inside. She could see her reflection in the murky liquid, stretched out and twisted. She looked up at the fox. The bristly red fur on its head was brushing against the ceiling, its ear caught in the fan above the fridge. The girl ran to it, arm outstretched. With a scream muffled by the thrashing of the wind chimes outside, she plunged the needle into its chest.


He clutched the stems of the melancholie souls in a deathly grip, waiting anxiously for the potbellied owner of the flower shop to finish business with the boy in the late twenties and his order of a 2 dozen roses. Quite pretty they were, the rose flowers, with their red petals dank from the morning dew. Far auspicious a blossom than the ones he was currently gripping, like his life very much depended on it. He'd thought these flowers, the melancholie souls, were quite apt for the occasion he was getting them fo r , because you see, Dariel was not acquiring these for some college sweetheart or as a prop for the coming valentines day. Instead, they were for his wife, stage IV cancer, limping through her final days on IV tubes. He had wanted something more felicitous as a final farewell, something along the likes of marigold, or a bunch of tulips, instead of a pretty symbol of sorrow, but decided against it at the very last moment. For the past 6 months, they've pretended to be a happy couple, ignoring death waiting by the door, fantasized being surrounded by vanilla scented candles and not the sterile odor of the hospital, and as Brayleigh's pragmatic soul would have it, she wanted her last few weeks to be free of the veils of deception and as she called it, free of that "happy little bubble". So there was Dariel, buying Melancholie Souls for his dying wife, instead of being by her side in her last moments. *** The flowers arranged neatly in a vase next to Brayleigh's bedside table seemed to mock Dariel as he sat with the blank sheet of paper in front of him. He'd decided to write a letter to her, something short and sweet to send her off in the next life with little to no regrets. He'd write it down the most prettily and read it out while holding her hand and yes, it would be the most perfect of goodbyes. There was no clean way to enter the deeply folded sections of the heart, so he just picked the pen up, and he poised it over the sheets he'd borrowed from the hospital reception and surprisingly, came up blank. ' How the hell do you even say goodbye?' he wondered absently, then after a brief pause, started writing. "How the hell do you even say goodbye?" Dariel wrote, the ink bleeding and staining his fingers. "... goodbye to someone for whom you baked cupcakes and banana breads for on Sunday's, whose love felt like the ocean and I, the most romantic of shipwrecks, the waves keeping the bits and pieces of me forever afloat. Perhaps, forever is an overstatement. The ocean waves has to calm and settle someday, and when they did, I could feel those pieces of mine slowly sinking. Naw, scratch that. Sinking rapidly. Too damn fast for me to find a piece of wood to stay afloat in an expanse of water that's only ever going to be you. My love was such, that I'd always known I'd never get tied to another girl as long as I lived. 'What if I die?' you had asked. 'Even then', I had declared. " Dariel paused and frowned at the incessant poetic rambling that seemed to crawl over the page like ants on a lost mission. His thoughts seemed to go astray like the wind, blowing in all directions, distracting him from the job he was trying to accomplish. So he took a deep breath, composed himself, and tried writing further, " So, believe me when I say that this is the hardest thing I've ever done. Yes, asking you out as a horny teen does not top the list, although it comes a close second. The first time we kissed? Stars above, it felt good (I know they advised you against falling in love with a writer, who'll immortalize you in their PTSD and make you their muse, but you consoled yourself thinking; 'well, at least he'll write beautiful odes to the mole under my left eye and one liner's to our first kisses' but look at me, describing the synching of our lips and our heart as 'good'). It wasn't perfect in any way though, our kiss. We fumbled over a solid minute on the correct way to tilt the mouth so they would just 'slide' over one another efficiently, before finally settling on an owl's-curious-head-tilted pose, with nose bumping and teeth clashing. Yes it wasn't perfect, but first timers are never meant to be anything but memorable. And they sure were, considering the fact that the taste of your strawberry lip-gloss is still afresh in my mind, as vivid as if I held you in my arms just yesterday-" *** I stopped again, crinkling up the paper in my apparent frustration. What I meant to write was a "short and sweet" goodbye, not this thing I was putting down, whatever it was. A reminiscent poem? I tried to bring my emotions under check and considered what I was going to put down next. That I'm sorry you have to go. I'm sorry that we aged a lot sooner than we had hoped. That I love you, Bray. I'd tell you how you was the first person my poetry held in her palms with such intensity, memorizing and forging free verses to the curve of your lashes and soliloquys to the cupid's bow of your lips and I? I just listened and wrote them. We 'd made that promise, Bray, remember?.... and just like that, my thoughts drifted again, like an aimless wind changing directions without any afterthought, " remember how we said that when sickness will consume the best of us, when one would be lying on a hospital bed like such, the other would find the courage for the last kiss. They'd sneak in some frosted cupcakes on Sunday's and maybe Tuesday's too. The banana bread will be half cooked and the chamomile tea a little too bitter, but we'd gulp it down like ambrosia itself. At that time, it felt like such a faraway vow, you know, a speculation for the hobbling phase of life, but the day we woke up with a greyed hair that moved when we moved, was the day that genuinely scared me. You see, for all my love drenched poems of bravado, I'm a coward, especially in the matters of heart. Especially in the thoughts of losing you. Maybe that's why I've tiptoed around the sleeping form of this goodbye letter that I'm trying to write. 'To become presence, means accepting the risk of absence'' wrote Antoine de Saint-Exup éry, and if that's that case, I'd happily unlatch my soul from this mortal body and spend the rest of my life as an empty husk. After you're gone, I'd go on with my everyday life as usual; folding the clothes on Wednesday's (on autopilot), washing the dishes on Saturday's, but never again will a cupcake be baked. Unless it'll be your death anniversary, and on that day I'll sit by the fireplace like we used to each evening, and write elegy's to what we were before, and what I was right now, a dead man's poem. Only on those days will I allow myself to feel even a miniscule amount of grief that my soul is battering with right now, because if it would have been any more, I would find myself very tempted indeed to carry through the desire of stopping my heart when your own does." Not able to go any further with the opaque wall of tears obscuring my vision, I set the weeping pen aside and neatly folded the page in half and rose, to find the monitor beside your bed going "beep, beep, beep" the air in the room shifts, stills. I become acutely aware of hope departing, leaving the door half open for death to come wander in. Confused, I scream at hope to stop, to be by your bedside a little longer, just enough so I could hold your hand one last time and read out this letter, just enough to- "beeeeeeeeeeeeep..." "beeeeeep..." "beeeep..." -static- *** In the end, Dariel stood in that hospital room, floor scattered with broken promises and withered melancholies, clutching the goodbye letter like his life depended on it, and to say half the truth, it did. In the end, he didn't have the courage for the last kiss. In the end, hope arrived exactly when hope is supposed to. And hope left exactly when hope must, and just like the wind, Brayleigh was gone. ----


“Have you ever pulled an all-nighter?” Riley asked, turning over her shoulder to look at Emma. It was a strange question, Emma thought, considering they were sitting on a rocky outcrop watching the sun come up on the horizon. Riley sat on a precarious ledge, legs dangling into empty air, face tipped up to the rising sun, the sun Emma had woken up for at 5:30 AM, and she was already thinking about night? A few feet behind Riley, Emma sat with her legs safely tucked underneath her. The view was just as good from her vantage, if not better, because she wasn't at risk of falling to her death. Emma rolled a loose pebble between her fingers and said, “No.” Riley grinned, that cat-like smile of hers that Emma recognized as trouble. “Not even in college?” “No,” Emma said, a little defensively. “Sleep is very important, you know.” “Sure it is,” Riley said, swinging her legs back around to face Emma completely, “If you can fall asleep. If you can’t, it’s just another form of torture.” “Do you even have insomnia?” Emma, asked, irritated. She was constantly finding Riley passed out on any horizontal space in their apartment, hand stuck in a bag of chips, a book splayed open over her eyes like the world’s worst sleep mask. “Naps are different than sleeping at night,” Riley replied, as if she’d read Emma’s thoughts. “But no, technically speaking, I suppose I don’t.” Emma put her hands behind her, pressing down on the cold rock. Riley could probably sleep up here, she thought. No pillow, no blanket. She’d nestle between two boulders, on top of a snake’s nest, and even the snake wouldn’t be able to rouse her. She’d wake up with the snake curled around her wrist, and she’d keep it as a pet. “Why are you asking, anyway?” Riley stretched her arms high above her head, letting her long dark hair slip behind her shoulders, and the pine tree tattooed on the inside of her left arm appeared to grow taller. There was that smile again. For all her naps, Emma had never seen Riley yawn. Just the cat’s smile, always the cat’s smile, lazy and plotting. “You’re leaving tomorrow, right? Why not make your last day memorable?” A million reasons, Emma thought. I need to finish packing. I need to get a good night sleep before my trip. I need to forget you, not let you give me a reason to stay. But she didn’t say any of those things. She said, “I’m listening.” The sunrise hike had been Riley’s idea, of course. She’d originally suggested a sunset hike, but Emma said no. She would rather pick her way up a mountain in grey half-light than her way down. The hike was supposed to be Emma’s last hurrah, her last bit of giving into Riley’s recklessness before she moved back East to resume her studies. It was the sensible thing to do, and Emma had not done much of anything sensible since she’d met Riley. For one thing, she’d dropped out of college. For another, she’d moved across the country and into an apartment shared with five people she didn’t know, along with their various pets. Reptiles, mammals, amphibians. It nearly qualified as a zoo. It was the kind of place that had once been rent-controlled, but now cost far too much for an apartment with every room painted a different color, a single bathroom, and a permanent scent of garlic. Riley and the others didn’t seem to mind, and Emma had tried not to mind, but after a year she could no longer pretend. Besides, she’d originally gone to school to get away from her job as a barista, only to resume that line of work when she dropped out. Emma supposed she could sleep on the plane. “Okay,” she said, “On one condition. You help me finish packing.” Riley slid into a standing position. That was the only way Emma could describe the smooth, almost liquid way that Riley moved. Slide, slither. But that was just Riley: face of a cat, body of a snake. Dangerous, exactly the sort of person Emma needed to avoid. Exactly the sort of person she shouldn’t fall in love with. Riley extended a hand and helped Emma stand. Even with the help, Emma managed to scrape her palm on the rock, and stumbled into Riley, who moved her hands to steady Emma’s shoulders. “Deal,” she said. “We get you packed up, and then we keep you awake all night.” Emma wasn't sure what that was supposed to mean. They made their way back down the trail. It switched back every few hundred feet, and as she struggled with the sharp turns, Emma again had the peculiar feeling that she was being led astray. Though she’d been on her fair share of hikes as a camp counselor, this trail felt especially malicious. Riley was sure-footed and moved nimbly over branches and logs and stones that Emma nearly tripped over. And like most of the things Emma feared, the trail ended, and nothing went wrong. Riley’s car sat exactly where’d they’d left it in a parking lot by the trailhead. Now that day had broken, more cars filled the lot. Emma watched a man and woman coax two large dogs out of their car and start up the trail she and Riley had just left. They chattered aimlessly in the way of two people who have been together longer than they can remember. “Hey, space cadet,” Riley called through the window. “Get in. We’re burning daylight.” Emma crouched by the open window and leaned her arms on the door. “Isn’t that what you wanted?” “What I want,” she said, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel, a glint in her dark eyes, “Is to spend as much time with you as possible before you run away from me.” Coming from anyone else, it would have been a sweet sentiment. From Riley, it sounded like a threat. Emma got in the car. Riley sped out of the lot and onto the open road. The first time Emma got into a car with Riley, she didn’t think she would ever get used to how recklessly Riley drove. For once, she’d been right. Riley’s bumpy, erratic driving still made her wish she was the kind of person who prayed. She gripped her seat and took a deep breath. Tomorrow , she thought. Tomorrow, I’ll be somewhere else, and I can make friends who don’t drive like they have a death wish. Back at the apartment, they went into Emma’s bedroom, which she shared with Shirley. Shirley worked nights, and no one knew where she spent her days, so she was rarely home. That suited Emma just fine. The only downside was that Shirley had no investment in keeping her side of the room clean, so Emma and Riley had to wade through heaps of dirty clothes and shoes to reach Emma’s considerably neater side. Riley sat on Emma’s bed, next to her suitcase, and picked up a photograph that had fallen out of a folder thrown on the bed. She examined it for a moment while Emma rummaged in the closet, trying to decide which shoes she could leave behind. “Do you miss them?” Startled, Emma bumped her head on the closet door. Rubbing her head, she said, “Who?” Riley waved the photo at her. Although she knew what it was, Emma stepped closer and reached out for it. Riley didn’t hand it over, so Emma stood with her empty hand outstretched. Finally, she closed it into a fist and dropped her arm. “No,” she said, more definitively than she’d intended. “I don’t miss them.” In the picture, a slightly younger Emma stood with a group of other college aged students in matching shirts, all of them a bit rugged and unkempt. Her bright red hair was longer then, dull and lifeless from too much chlorine. She toyed with a lock of it, now cut to her chin, and wondered who would cut her hair after she left. Since she’d moved here, their roommate Leila, who was in cosmetology school, had cut it for practice. Leila wasn’t very good, and occasionally Emma discovered pieces that were horribly uneven, but it was free. “Why not?” Riley said, running her forefinger over the tiny faces in the picture. “You had fun there, didn’t you? Oh, is this Oliver?” At the name, Emma stiffened and pressed her lips into a thin line. “Let’s just not talk about it, okay?” “All right,” Riley said. She continued staring at the picture as Emma went back and forth from the closet to the suitcase to the common spaces and back again. Clothes, French press, books. What more did she need? She could buy new toiletries there. She would have left her clothes too, if it weren’t for the fact that she hardly had enough money for the plane ticket. Finally, she zipped the suitcase and pulled it to the floor with a loud thunk . Riley was passed out on her bed. So much for helping. “Hey,” Emma said, hand on the suitcase. “Riley!” Riley didn’t respond. Emma made a sound of disgust and shook her shoulder. She roused with a start and stretched lazily again. “I’m done,” Emma said. “Where do you want to go?” Riley blinked slowly. “Nowhere,” she said. “Wake me up at sunset.” “Doesn’t that defeat the purpose of an all-nighter?” Emma started to ask, but Riley was already asleep again. Annoyed, Emma picked her way to Shirley’s side of the room, took a book from the stack on Shirley’s nightstand, and sat on her bed, leaning against Riley to read until she woke up. “So much for spending time together,” she muttered. She shouldn’t have been surprised. Riley was slippery, unaccountable. No one who made plans with her expected to keep them. Emma and Riley had met two years earlier, when Emma was in her first year of college. Riley was not a student, but had found herself living in the college town for a few months in the thirteenth month of a gap year that didn’t seem to be ending any time soon, since Riley had yet to apply to any schools. They met in the public library. Emma preferred it to the noise of the campus library. Riley was there for a free martial arts class. Eternally clumsy, Emma had bumped into hundreds of people in her life, but Riley was the first one who looked at her with interest instead of annoyance. She knew immediately that she would follow Riley to the ends of the earth. She spent the rest of that semester skating by in her classes, meeting up with Riley whenever she could, not for any particular reason. Emma was perpetually attracted to dangerous people. She thought of it as her fatal flaw. When they were together, Emma would pretend to do homework while Riley spoke at length about her current interests, which were varied and far-reaching. The history of pasteurization, the fall of the Soviet Union, philosophies of life and death, the best chocolate chip cookie recipe. At first, Emma didn’t realize why Riley wasn’t in school, since she seemed like the perfect candidate for a liberal arts college, but she came to understand that Riley only learned for herself, and wasn’t interested in having other people tell her what to study or think. As soon as Emma expressed interest in one of her topics, Riley dropped it for something even more obscure. And then one day, toward the end of the semester, Riley asked Emma what she knew about California. Emma shrugged, which usually prompted Riley to share her research findings, but this time was different. She pressed and prodded until Emma gave her a real answer. Instead of waxing poetic about how the state had been misrepresented in the history books, Riley said, “Do you want to move there?” What Emma said was: “Uh, sure, I guess that could be cool.” What Riley heard was: “Yes, let’s go as soon as we can.” Now, as Emma looked around her room, and at Riley sleeping on her bed, she wasn’t sure if she wished that she never came or wished she could stay forever. She wondered if it is was possible to wish both. When the sun began to set, Emma put the book aside and simply said, “Riley.” Riley’s eyes flew open and she said, “Is it time?” Her voice wasn’t groggy with sleep. She didn’t need time to wake up. For Riley, there was sleeping and waking. No drowsy in-between state. Emma nodded and Riley stood, once again offering her hand. This time, Emma didn’t take it, and stood on her own. Riley nodded slowly. “Let’s go, then.” They left the apartment without a word to their roommates, three of whom were recently home from work and in various states of undress. When they got to the car, Riley offered Emma the driver’s seat. Emma raised an eyebrow, but got in. “Where are we going?” she asked. “Wherever you want to go,” Riley said, and the words sounded like they belonged to someone else. The truth was, Emma had stayed up all night once before. With Oliver, who was somehow both nothing and exactly like Riley. That night, thousands of miles away from here, Emma had driven her own car to the base of a mountain not unlike the one she and Riley had climbed this morning. She and Oliver had stood at the end of one trail, where it branched off into three others, and Emma had asked the same question: Where are we going? And Oliver had said, Wherever you want to go . Sometimes Emma felt like her whole life was that moment, repeated ad infinitum, over and over again. Standing at a crossroads, next to someone she couldn’t really trust, but wanted to. Them telling her to go wherever she wanted. Somehow, wherever she wanted always ended up being exactly where they wanted. Without a word, Emma turned the car on and began to drive. She drove for miles, the radio off, the windows open, listening to the rush of the wind and Riley’s breath. She drove until the road narrowed and tapered off, until the horizon turned to water and the ground to sand. “The lake?” Riley asked. Emma did not answer; the answer lay in front of the parked car, an expanse of water so large it may as well have been the ocean. They climbed out of the car, and Emma led Riley to a dock. She put one foot on the wood, testing its strength, then stepped on. Riley followed, and together they walked to where the dock dropped off and became water. Emma sat cross-legged. Riley kicked off her shoes and let her feet dangle just above the water. “Are we just going to stay here all night?” Riley asked. Emma bristled. It was the kind of question she usually asked Riley. So, she gave Riley the answer she usually received: silence. Above them, the moon rose, only half full, and cast the still water in dim white light. Emma didn’t believe in signs, so she thought nothing of it, but she wondered if Riley ascribed meaning to that half-moon. Riley tossed a pebble into the water, and the moon’s reflection briefly shattered before forming again. She said, “You’re really going, then? Back to school, back to a regular, boring life?” Away from you, Emma thought. “It doesn’t have to be boring.” Riley shrugged. Her face glowed in the moonlight. “It might be.” What Emma wanted to say was: I’m not as predictable as you think . What Emma said was: “Come with me.”


‘It’s about the amount of butter on the crust’ he gawked at me taunting a response. I hadn’t thought about the amount of butter I had used and in fact I had been distracted, how many times did I butter the crust? My lips parted, exhaling through the words ‘I’m sorry.’ He stood before me, my hands gripping the edge of the chair below as he tossed a napkin onto his plate, ‘It’s a simple grilled cheese, I don’t understand how you can fuck it up this badly.’ I stared ahead refusing to meet his eyes as he placed a hand on the side of my face, the only touch that could be so soft, yet laced with the intensity of an unbecoming rage.

‘It’s a good thing I make the best grilled cheese in the world,’ my eyes met his ‘Don’t you think sweetheart?’ his hand moving to where my neck met my shoulder, ‘Answer me,’ his grip tightened and I watched as he beckoned for the words ‘Yes,’ I responded ‘The best.’ His hand left me then returned. I saw white, the first blow to the right side of my jaw. I crumbled, the cold tiles settling underneath as the second blow met me, the third, the fourth, the fifth. My face, my stomach, my back. Am I still awake? My mind lulling me in and out a state of consciousness as my eyes rested on his back, moving away from my limber body. I traced the floor with the tip of my finger, willing the pain to rage over me, grounding myself back to his touch.

Darkness enveloped me as my eyes closed over and the exhaustion became me.

— Days had passed when I woke, wrapped in cotton sheets, the mattress soft beneath my damp hair. Did he bathe me? I moved to lean against the headboard, pain searing through my entirety. I let my eyes adjust to the light lifting my shirt as I inspected myself, my stomach outlined with a pattern of blue and yellow, my arms not far behind. I inched further down the bed, careful with every movement sending bolts of agony through me. Turning my head slightly to meet the mahogany vanity I held the reflection of my face, my pale eyes widening beneath a song of red and black, the swelling neatly adjusted to every blow.

‘It brings out the green in your eyes’ I jolted unaware of his presence, the pain buckling over me again ‘It’s the red you know, it contrasts enough to make your eyes look more green’ he smiled at me, amusement dancing in his eyes. ‘Yes, you’re right,’ I attempted a smile willing the sincerity to appear. He moved towards me, taking a seat on the edge of the bed and placing his hand around mine. ‘Beautiful, so perfect’ he mumbled, his eyes casting over me.

‘Now, I need you to get changed as I have a very special surprise for you,’ he beamed at me, anticipation moving through him.

— I shifted on the balls of my feet as I moved slowly into the dining area, the lace on the hem of my dress painfully caressing my wounds. He stretched his arms in front of him, lacing his fingers together and resting them behind his head ’Stand here,’ he motioned to the space beside him. I walked slowly, resting against the kitchen bench where a large plate covered in a bright red tea towel sat before me. ’My surprise for you,’ he lifted the towel to reveal an assortment of foods; eggs, milk, butter, flour, cocoa and cream. I raised my eyes to meet his awaiting further instruction, ‘Today you will make chocolate soufflé.’ Before I could speak, he was gone. My hands moved quickly, unloading the ingredients into their measuring cups, pulling out two bowls an electric mixer and three mixing spoons. I moved to the oven, 350 degrees should be perfect I bent forward letting the adrenaline push through the agony of my injuries, turning the dial 3-5-0.

I adjusted myself, standing and assessing the space before me Ingredients, utensils, oven. I had two hours before he was back, I got to work.

— I was pulling at the straps of my apron when I felt him near me again. I stepped behind him, watching as his eyes cast over the black marble counter tops scrubbed and polished, his eyes landing on the two chocolate soufflés sitting neatly beside two polished spoons. ‘You cleaned too, good girl’ my lips twitching into a smile as I moved to the dining table. Pulling out his chair at the head of the table, I took my usual spot standing. He took his seat, lifting his head to meet my gaze ‘I would like to be served now’. I moved back towards the kitchen, pulling out a serving tray and placing the polished spoons and warm soufflés carefully. I walked them back, slowly setting the tray before him and unloading one soufflé and one spoon. I resumed my spot. Staring ahead, my peripheral watching as he lifted the spoon pushing slowly into the centre of the soft baked dessert. The sole of his leather boot tapping against the hard tiles below, placing a spoonful into his mouth as a moan escaped him. My head tilted to him, delight spread across my face hiding the dissapointment. ‘Exquisite,’ he breathed through another mouthful. A soft smile reached the corners of his mouth as he pulled out my chair and unloaded the second soufflé with the second spoon. I took my seat 'Begin,' he motioned to the dish as I picked up my spoon, mimicking his movements.

‘The perfect wife,’ he beamed as I did, smiling between mouthfuls our eyes not leaving each other.

— His hands on my waist, I circled with him as he moved me into a slow dance. The empty soufflé bowls scattered by the sink, the spoons no longer shiny and polished. ‘You were a very good girl today,’ he whispered into my ear as we continued moving delicately beside the kitchen. ‘I can be a good girl tomorrow,’ I lied, already planning my faults. His eyes met mine, a short smile reaching his lips as he understood the deception before him. I rested my head against his chest, the warmth consuming me as he lulled me into a serenade beneath his arms.

‘Tomorrow,’ I repeated letting the anticipation settle within me, almost tasting his hand sharp across my face, a smile becoming with the thought. T omorrow I would be another canvas for the black that would turn blue, and then into yellow. Tomorrow his pain would become mine and I would become all of me. ‘Yes' he reassured me, 'Tomorrow.' I nestled closer into him and the thrill rippled through me.


October 21, 1950. The train doors clanged loudly as they closed at the nearly deserted station, echoing through the empty platform. The late-night crowd shuffled onto the train like spectral figures, their dark, drab attire and flickering lights giving them an otherworldly appearance. Among this monochrome scene, one figure stood out a woman in an oversized vintage suit, her pants nearly brushing the grimy concrete. Eve Edwin, a determined private investigator, boarded the train with one goal in mind, to crack a cold case involving the disappearances of four children, this was classified as serial killer crime each event happening with same MO, children of the age of 10 were abducted and found dead at Station Stop 5, each exactly ten years apart. This night marked the fateful date again, October 21st, 1950. Despite regulations against personal involvement in cases, Eve was drawn back by a sense of duty and a vow to solve it before another child vanished. As she settled into her seat amidst the oppressive atmosphere of cigar smoke and whiskey, Eve noticed a peculiar boy. Unlike the rest, he wore brightly coloured clothes from another era, his gaze fixed on her with large, glittering blue eyes. They exchanged a silent connection until the next stop, where he disappeared into the departing crowd. Determined to learn more, Eve pursued him through the thicket of grey, only to find him gone. Sitting back down disappointed, she felt a ghostly chill and, to her surprise, the boy’s icy hand clasped hers. Startled, she turned to find him sitting beside her again. "Where did you suddenly disappear too?" she blurted out. The boy gazed up at her with wide, luminescent blue eyes, framed by delicate lashes. His pale skin, almost translucent, gave him an ethereal, almost ghostly presence, making him look like he belonged to another world. His soft features, rounded cheeks, and small nose, were framed by wisps of light blonde hair that fell lightly across his face. When he spoke, his voice was barely more than a whisper, calm and soothing, like a breeze on a still evening, contrasting sharply with the strangeness of his clothing. Eve, in contrast, stood tall and imposing. Her sharp, angular features gave her an air of authority. A wild mane of fiery red hair cascaded down her back, matching the fierce intensity of her gaze. Her voice was strong, loud, and commanding, filling the space with its presence. Everything about her seemed to burn with energy and passion, the polar opposite of the boy's quiet, unsettling calm. The eerie quiet of the train enveloped them. A cold breeze made Eve shiver as she realized the train had stopped moving, and the boy had vanished once more, however as eve inspected the seat the little boy was previously sitting on she was stunned to see that the seat had built up cobwebs and dust. The doors shut, as the train resumed its journey, and then, suddenly, his hand was in hers again.

This time, she asked, "Why have you returned to this train?" Baffled by her own question. The boy, his eyes unnervingly wise, replied softly, "I don't know." His hand tightened around hers, unnaturally cold. Eve ventured, "when did you step into this train, how long have you been waiting?" "I've lost track of how long it's been," he said cryptically, pointing to the train doors. "How long I've been on this train." Eve's concern grew. The boy disappeared each time the train stopped, leaving behind dusty seats covered in cobwebs. As the train moved again, he reappeared, calmly stating, "I got on this train on October 21, 1900." Stunned, Eve realized the boy should be much older if that were true. "How old are you now?" she asked, fear creeping into her voice. "I'm about ten and a half now," he replied, eyes welling with tears. Eve embraced him tightly, but in an instant, he vanished again as the train came to a sudden halt. With a sinking feeling, Eve considered the possibilities. And with a summary she asked “Ni-Nico” His eyes glittering with tears as they’re perfectly structured forms shattered on the solid ground, the train paused, could it be Nico could only appear under certain conditions, perhaps on the anniversary of his death, or when his killer was near. As the train resumed and Nico reappeared, Eve whispered urgently, "Nico, is the person who murdered you on this train? Are they watching us?" In horror, Nico nodded. The train car felt colder than ever as Eve processed Nico's revelation. She had to tread carefully. Nico's killer could be anyone among the passengers. She watched them with suspicion, noting their every move, searching for any unnatural sign. Minutes passed in tense silence, broken only by the rhythmic chug of the train. Eve's mind raced with questions. How had Nico been murdered? Who could have done such a thing? And why had his spirit been condemned to this eternal journey? Nico remained by her side, his presence both comforting and unsettling. He seemed to grow weaker with each passing minute, his translucent form flickering in and out of visibility. "I don't have much time" he whispered hoarsely. "You must find them before it's too late." Eve nodded, her determination solidifying. She knew what she had to do. Shuffling through her bag, She retraced Nico's story, digging into the archives of old newspapers and police reports. She pieced together fragments of information, rumors of a child's disappearance, whispers of foul play, and the mysterious silence that followed each incident. Then, in a tattered old newspaper from 1900, Eve found a breakthrough. A brief article spoke of a child named Nico, who had vanished on October 21st, 1900, from Station Stop 5. The circumstances were murky, but witnesses reported seeing a shadowy figure lurking near the train tracks, the description they gave of the man matched a old suspect that had not been identified. He had lost his 10 year old daughter, after that incident he became quiet violent towards his peers. With renewed purpose, Eve confronted the passengers one by one, probing for clues, searching for any trace of guilt or unease. Among them, she noticed a middle aged man, fidgeting nervously, constantly adjusting his collar whenever her gaze lingered too long. His eyes flicked restlessly around the train car, avoiding her stare. Something about him unsettled her.

As if sensing he was being watched, the man suddenly rose from his seat and made his way toward the train doors. In horror, Eve realized he was clutching the small hand of a little girl, gently but insistently urging her forward. The girl, too young to understand the gravity of the situation, followed, her small steps traced through the train, obedient to the man’s words. Instinctively, Eve shouted, “Stop that man!” Her voice cut through the murmur of the passengers, but most remained indifferent, just lifeless souls moving through the motions of the night. Yet one figure reacted to a woman clutching a small teddy bear, whose eyes widened in terror. “That’s my daughter!” the woman cried. Eve’s pulse quickened, and without waiting, she launched herself toward the doors, racing against the momentum of the slowing train. As the man neared the exit, she leaped between him and the doors, blocking his path with a fierce resolve. “It’s over," she bellowed, her voice commanding. "Let her go.” The man froze, his fury palpable. His eyes darted around wildly, searching for an escape. The train had begun to slow, and his panic was escalating. Sweat beaded on his brow, his grip on the little girl’s hand tightening as though he were trying to hold onto his last shred of control. Just then, Nico appeared. His ghostly form materialised beside the man, laying his small, icy hand on the man’s arm. At the sight of the boy, the man recoiled, his face twisting in a mix of horror and guilt.

“No, no, no… not you,” the man sputtered, his voice cracking. His breath came out in shallow gasps. “You were an accident. You started this!” His grip on the little girl’s fragile hand loosened. The girl, sensing the tension, pulled free and ran into her mother’s arms, sobbing. The man, shaking, tried to pry Nico’s hand from his arm, but Nico’s grip held firm.

Desperate and defeated, the man collapsed to the floor as the train came to a halt. His body trembled, his face streaked with tears. “It wasn’t my fault,” he cried. “They didn’t want to stay with me. I just wanted to give them a better home…” Nico’s grip vanished as the train doors opened. The once shadowy past came into clarity as the man’s confession echoed in the cold, silent train. The truth, laid bare, revealed a tortured man whose misguided need for love had turned deadly, trapping Nico in a cycle of vengeance and sorrow. Eve stood over the man, her heart pounding in her chest. Justice, at last, had come. As the train settled into silence, the tension of the moment faded, leaving Eve alone with her thoughts and Nico’s spectral presence. The confession of the killer echoed in her mind he had taken those children out of a twisted need for love, a need he didn’t understand. But as Eve turned her attention back to Nico, standing silently beside her, she sensed something was still left unsaid. "Nico," she whispered, her voice soft but firm. "It’s over now. The man who hurt you… he’s gone. You’re free." Nico didn’t respond immediately. His small, pale hand reached for hers again, and she felt the icy chill of his touch. His eyes, deep and sad, stared into hers. "I’m not free, Eve," he said quietly. "Not yet." Eve knelt beside him, confused. "What do you mean? He’s been caught. You can move on now, Nico. You don’t have to stay here anymore." Nico’s gaze faltered, his lip trembling. "I didn’t see the others, Eve. When they died, I wasn’t there. I couldn’t help them… I wasn’t taken like they were. I came back because I was afraid." His voice shattered, as though he was confessing something he had buried deep inside. Eve frowned, her heart clenching at the sight of the small, frightened boy in front of her. "What are you afraid of, Nico?" "I’m scared to leave," Nico whispered, his voice barely audible. "I’m scared of what’s next. What if... there’s nothing after this?" Eve’s chest tightened. She had faced her own fears before, many times in her life, but she couldn’t imagine the terror that affects a young boy like Nico trapped for so long, afraid of the unknown. She gently pulled him close, wrapping her arms around him. His cold form felt fragile in her embrace, and yet she held him tightly, determined to give him the comfort he needed. "I don’t know what comes next either, Nico," she said softly, her voice steady despite the tears that trickled in her eyes. "But you’re not alone. You don’t have to be afraid anymore. You’ve been brave for so long. It’s okay to let go now." Nico’s form flickered, his body growing lighter as his translucent edges began to blur. A soft, ethereal glow surrounded him, brightening as Eve held him tighter. His grip on her hand loosened, but he looked up at her, his once terrified expression softening into one of peace. "Will you stay with me?" he asked, his voice trembling. "I’m right here, Nico," she whispered, her voice breaking. "I won’t leave you." As the light around him intensified, Nico’s small body seemed to dissolve into it, becoming one with the soft glow that now filled the train car. Eve could feel his presence slipping away, like mist fading into the morning air, and yet she didn’t let go. She held on until there was nothing left to hold. And then, with one final flicker of light, Nico was gone. The train came to a stop, the doors opening to the cool night air. Eve stood alone in the quiet car, her arms still raised as if holding onto the memory of the boy who had once been beside her. She felt the warmth of the lingering light on her skin, a gentle reminder that Nico had finally found peace. She stepped off the train, glancing back one last time at the empty carriage. The ghostly chill that had once hung in the air was gone, replaced by a sense of calm. Nico had passed on, no longer trapped, no longer afraid. With a deep breath, Eve walked away from the platform, the case finally closed. But the memory of Nico the brave little boy who had faced his fear stayed with her, a light that would never fade. For In his final memory, Nico’s secret was simply fear.


       “Don’t do it that way. You’re going to strip the screw.” Dad corrected as he pushed up from his chair to retrieve the tool out of mom’s hands. They were replacing the screens in the kitchen windows, the last home improvement project of the summer. Winged insects buzzed in and out into the night air. My mother handed the tool over, the familiar look of defeat in her eyes, and went back to the stove to stir the boiling pot of pasta. Her eyeglasses slipped to the end of her nose from the moisture in the air, grey tendrils escaping from her loose ponytail. Dad returned to his seat across from me to read his newspaper. It was the week before I would enter middle school.            “Come See Our Newest Attraction! The Red Bat!” The local zoo summoned in bold print on the back of dad’s paper. I had been to the low budget zoo the year before on a class field trip. Small dirty cages with depressed looking animals circling about. The most impressive animal they had was a giraffe. He had an extra tall doorway leading into his own small dirty cage. The main attraction though, was Smokey Joe, the chimpanzee. Smokey Joe got his name because he smoked Marlboro Reds, up to a pack a day. He inhaled and everything, which was rare for chimp.

           Staring at my ceiling that night I dreamed about the red bat. I first learned about bats in my Ranger Rick magazine (I had wanted a dog but dad said they were too messy and got me a subscription instead.) Did you know bats have belly buttons? Although, I don’t know if they are innies or outies, I suppose it just depends, like in people. And mother bats breastfeed their young, because they are mammals, not birds.            Bats have always had a bad reputation, known mostly as disease-ridden, rabies-transmitting guardians of the night. But they are actually quite important to the ecosystem. Seed dispersers, vital pollinators, they also keep the insect population down. One bat can consume up to 600 mosquitos in one night.             But I had never read anything about them being different colors, they were always some version of black. Was it really red? Was it the only one? For the next 3 days I became consumed with the mystery of the red bat.

           I had been particularly interested in bats after an encounter with them earlier that summer. One evening, like most others, I sat between my parents on the couch. I was well into my summer reading, Where the Red Fern Grows, while Mom was lost in another cheap romance novel from the bargain bin at the drugstore.             “Do you hear that?” she asked turning to me. A particular scratching sound was coming from above our heads.            “Probably a squirrel,” Dad said.

           “But squirrels are diurnal,” I stated.            “Then a mouse,” he said looking down at me annoyed. But mice are so light you don’t hear them walking about. I kept that to myself though, as I made my way outside to investigate.             Walking past the window, glowing blue with the nightly news, I looked in at my parents. It was like looking into a diorama I had made for school the year before, a three- dimensional model with two life-like figurines sitting at either end of the couch, stoic bookends with only space between them.            Nothing like the framed picture on the end table of a moment frozen in time before I was born, dad in his uniform and mom in her nursing outfit. (She stopped working when I was born and never went back.) His arms wrapped around her waist from behind, their heads thrown back laughing, exposing their white necks.

           Dad got up from the couch without a word and came to the side of the house with a ladder he had retrieved from the garage. He nudged me out of the way as he steadied it against the house.

           “Stay right there. It’s too dangerous,” he ordered pointing at me, and then at the ladder, and then back at me again. I nodded. He went back into the house.             With specific instructions not to climb up, I waited dutifully. I heard my mother through the freshly screened kitchen window sheepishly suggest an exterminator as my father scavenged through the closets, a broom falling out nearly hitting her.

           “Don’t need an exterminator,” he said as he walked past her. She bent over to pick up the broom and caught my eye looking at her through the diorama window. She turned to say something to him but he was already gone. That would be the last time she would be stuck in the place between action and consequence. She wiped the sweat off her brow with the back of her hand.            Hot sweat stung my eyes. I turned and climbed the homemade wooden ladder. Creaking with every rung, I made my way to the top. I poked my head inside the round window and looked around.            Dusty beach chairs from long lost summer days when we would go to East Matunuck State Beach stood propped against the pink insulation. My favorite part of those trips was the car rides home. Sitting in the back, stuck to the hot leather seat, dried salt making my skin tight against my bones. From the time the sun set to the time it got dark out was an hour, which was the time it took to drive home.            We would always stop at Salty’s, a seasonal clam shack that only accepted cash, on the way home. Within minutes of ordering the girl would bring two grease-stained paper bags to our car window and a stack of napkins. I would get a cone of vanilla ice cream, vanilla was only flavor they had. I got to eat it in the backseat before dinner so it wouldn’t melt.            ‘Too hot!’ Dad would scream as he bit into a clam cake that Mom held to his mouth while he drove us home, the hot grease burning it with every bite. We’d laugh as he swerved between lanes.

           Next to the chairs were my old baby things. A stroller, a crib and boxes upon boxes of baby clothes, perfectly folded and organized by age. Mom was good at things like that. They had kept all my baby things in hopes of another baby, but another baby never came.            Whatever was in the musty attic must have already checked out I thought as I tilted my head in a little further, the night air was thick with dust and humidity. Then I saw them, twenty, maybe thirty, little blood-sucking (they don’t actually suck, they lap) vampires taking refuge at the opening of the window, inches from my face. They cloaked themselves in their wings like militant little corpses. Their transparent skin pink in the light of my flashlight, blood flowing from whatever victim they stole it from the night before. I scrambled down the ladder, skipping rungs, my heart racing. A knot formed in my throat when I saw my father round the corner with a butterfly net. Without a word I watched him make his way up the ladder. Less then a minute later he calmly came back down, walked past me, and then past my mother and got the phonebook.

           “Mom, can we go to the zoo today, pleeease?” I pleaded with my mother after my father left for work. Summer was nearing its end and soon I’d be back in the real world of complex equations and required reading.            “Not today,” she said softly shaking her head not bothering to look up. She was trimming the roll of screen to fit the dining room windows. I had almost given up when that Monday, my mother announced the three of us were going to the zoo after breakfast. My father looked up from his newspaper as if it was the first he’d heard of it.            We were the first in line at the zoo that morning. After they stamped our hands and gave us a bag of feed for the goats, I was off like a bat out of hell. (No pun intended.) Flamingos, meerkats, cranes, ostriches, lemurs, they were all a blur as I whirled past cages and exhibits. I only stopped to see Smokey Joe. I was worried lung cancer may have gotten the best of him but there he was in all his glory, a head of lettuce in one hand, a cigarette in the other. By the time he had gotten down to the filter I was ready to continue on.            We were nearly to the exit when I saw it. A dilapidated shelter, cracked boards nailed together with the words “Red Bat” scrawled across the top. It had one small peephole to keep the light out. Bats aren’t totally blind, contrary to popular belief, but they do use echolocation to navigate. With nervous anticipation I climbed the three cinder block steps and peered into the aperture. And there it was. Hanging from a rope was a Louisville Slugger, painted red. My eyes filled with tears of anger and disappointment. I quickly wiped them away before anyone saw. On the ride home, skin tight from my salty tears, my parents told me they were getting divorced, but I was too upset to care.


Lily was brushing down the old wooden desk she used for check-ins when she heard the door open. When she looked up to great her customers, she saw Mrs. Barnschweigel. An older woman, probably in her late 50s, she was particular about her room and everything else. True to form, she headed for the desk and Lily suppressed a tiny sigh – she really didn’t have time for whatever manufactured crisis was coming her way, she had a group of new guests that were due to arrive any minute. But Lily knew the key to the success she had made of the small resort was word of mouth, most of her new customers were friends or family of old customers. She believed in treating all of her guests like family, even the difficult ones. “Good morning, Lily.” Mrs. Barnschweigel called out as she strode across the room. The woman was louder than Lily liked, she ran a quiet establishment, just like her mother and her grandmother before her. Loud guests were frowned upon, but Mrs. B was a frequent guest and a surprisingly good tipper, so Lily never tried to shush the older woman. Lily smiled faintly, “Mrs. Barnschweigel.” The older woman had never stated the courtesy, “Please, call me x” that most of Lily’s customers did; Lily thought of her as “Mrs. B”, but would never call her that to her face. Lily had the feeling that the woman liked feeling a little superior and enjoyed being called by her more formal title and would frown upon familiarity from “the help.” “Lily,” here it comes, “can you send your maid up to my room again, dear? I know that this is a ‘rustic lodge’ but I really must insist that she redo the dusting. I woke up this morning with a frightful sore throat and I’m so allergic to dust.” Lily knew it wasn’t the dust, Margarite, the housecleaner ensured that each room was spotless. Still, keep the customer happy, “Of course. I’ll send her up right away.” “Thank you, dear.” Mrs. Barnschweigel had a weirdly formal, old-fashioned manner. Lily thought that the woman wasn’t older than 50, but she spoke as if she had been around in the 1920s. Lily suspected it was an affectation, designed to make her appear sophisticated. The woman wandered off, certain her wishes would be immediately acted upon. Lily picked up the desk phone and called Margarite, “Hello, Margarite. I hate to ask this, but can you please visit room 213, Mrs. Barnschweigel’s room. She would like some extra dusting.” Lily heard the door open again, just as she hung up the phone. This time, it was the group she had been expecting. Hikers that were planning on walking the small piece of the Appalachian Trail that ran just behind the lodge. They had reserved four rooms, doubles, and one single. The leader of the group, an older man with grey around his temples smiled as he walked toward the desk. Lily thought he was probably Native American; he had a chiseled bone structure and strong facial features. “Good morning. We’d like to check-in, the Swiftwater group. I’m Darren Swiftwater,” he gestured to the tiny woman by his side, “This is my wife, Siante.” Lily turned to greet the woman, but she was looking towards Mrs. B, her brow slightly wrinkled and her eyes narrowed. Lily turned back to the man, “Mr. Swiftwater, welcome to the Royson Lodge. Your rooms are all ready, let me get the keys.” Just then, Siante Swiftwater crossed the room towards Mrs. B. “Karen Oglesbee!” she cried out, and touched Mrs. B.’s arm. Mrs. B. turned with a start. “Unhand me. You have mistaken me for someone else.” But Lily had seen a touch of panic and, maybe even fear cross Mrs. B.’s face. But those emotions were gone quickly. Now her face was like granite, all emotions erased, leaving only the imperial woman Lily had come to know over the years. Siante wasn’t deterred. “Karen Oglesbee, I know it’s you. Where have you been all of these years? We thought you were dead.” Everyone in the room had gone quiet as they watched the two women. Mrs. B. took in a deep breath and drew herself up. “I said,” her voice deep and cold, “You have mistaken me for someone else.” She shrugged her shoulders tightly and left the room. Lily turned to Darren Swiftwater, he was standing as still as a mouse caught in an eagle’s sight. He stared at the door Mrs. B. had departed through. His warm brown face had gone pale and his mouth fell open as if to call Mrs. B. back. His wife turned to him, and as she saw his face hers contorted into something ugly, then smoothed out. She came to him and rubbed his arm, “It’s okay honey, I think I was mistaken.” Lily checked in the rest of the guests without incident and they left the lobby to go to their rooms. Mrs. Barnschweigel leaned her back against the door to her room. Siante Bravebird and Darren Swiftwater, after all these years? The lodge was 2,000 miles from the small town that they had all grown up in. She couldn’t believe her bad luck in finding them here. She had cut all ties to her home town, to her life, when she left high school. She had even legally changed her name from Karen Oglesbee to Karina Del Mar. She’d always thought it a little ironic that after losing her ugly last name, she married a man with an even uglier last name. After he died, she’d considered changing it back to Del Mar but she enjoyed the status that came with her husband’s name. She’d done a lot to earn it, it was hers. She wasn’t Karen Oglesbee or Karina Del Mar anymore. She wasn’t sure who that made her now because she didn’t feel like Karina Barnschweigel either. Karina considered leaving the lodge early, but the two weeks she spent here every year was the only genuinely free time she had. The rest of the year was caught up in fundraisers and board meetings. Once Harold had died, it was up to her to keep the foundation running. It was a job she excelled at, she loved. But it took so much of her time and energy that she needed the down time she had at the lodge. Even her staff knew not to contact her when she was on vacation. She wasn’t going to allow people from her past to disrupt it either. She would just avoid them, and if she saw them keep up her “it isn’t me” stance. Karina quickly decided to order room service, not wanting to chance running into Darren or Siante but was aggravated to find out the lodge didn’t offer room service. She was informed that they had a buffet style dinner and breakfast, and bagged lunches – as most of the guests were mountaineers and hikers and left the lodge for the day. Of course, she had known this but was so rattled she forgot. She decided to wait until the outer edge of the time allotted for dinner, in hopes of avoiding her old ‘friends’. It wasn’t really an inconvenience; Harold had liked to eat later than most and she was used to staying up late and then sleeping in Around 8:45 pm, Karina left her room and went down to the dining room. She carefully peeked into the room and was pleased to see it was empty. Karina approached the buffet, happy to see her plan had worked but a voice behind her made her realize it had not, after all. “Hello, Karen.” Said the deep voice from her past. Karen shuddered a little, her body remembering the man. “Don’t bother to deny it. I know it’s you.” Karina turned around, lifting her nose slightly. “I go by Karina now,” stiffly, not allowing herself to soften. Darren’s lips turned up slightly at the corners. “Karina, then. How have you been?? “Did you really stalk me to engage in small talk?” Darren blew out an outraged laugh, “I’m not stalking you, Karina.” He shook his head, his chin tightening in frustration. “I just needed some answers.” “I don’t have to answer your questions, Darren.” Darren reached out and took one of Karina’s hands. “Please.” Karina softened as she saw Darren’s eyes droop in old remembered pain. She knew she was responsible for that pain, for more than he knew. “Fine. Come sit with me.” The couple went over to one of the small tables by the large window. Karina sat for a long moment, thinking. How much should I tell him? Darren sat watching Karina’s face, she was struggling with exactly how much truth to give him but he wouldn’t settle for less than all of it. He reached out again, asking simply, “Why did you leave?” Karina tightened her jaw and looked directly at Darren, “Because your mother paid me to.” Darren dropped her hand as if he had been burned. “What are you talking about?” He knew his mother didn’t have any money, back then they’d been living on the reservation. They were poor, on the verge of poverty. “To be fair, she got the money from my mother. Neither family wanted us to be together so our mothers made sure we wouldn’t be.” “But why would you agree? I loved you, I thought you loved me.” “I did love you. But you couldn’t take care of me.” Darren’s eyes widened at her words; she knew she was hurting him but he did deserve to know. She’d been as wrong as their mothers all those years ago. At the least, she owed him honesty now; as much honesty as she could afford, anyway. “I was pregnant. My mother was going to kick me out, you and your family lived on the reservation. You didn’t even graduate high school. I knew you couldn’t take care of us, so I took the money and left.” “Oh my god.” Darren sat still, but emotions skittered over his face. Finally, he looked up at her. “Did you…?” Karina shook her head, “I had the baby. I gave her up for adoption. Then I took the rest of the money and put it toward tuition. I went on with my life, just like you did.” She hoped the one little lie amongst the larger truths was enough to get him to leave her alone. “No. No, you didn’t give her up.” Darren’s eyes narrowed as he watched her face. “Even after all these years, I remember how you lie.” Karina stood up, her voice shook, “You don’t get to tell me how you remember anything. You are married, you have your life exactly what you and your mother wanted.” That last night, Darren’s mother had told her that Darren would marry Siante. He would stay on the reservation and raise his children the way generations of his Native American family had done. She’d obviously been right. “That’s not what I wanted.” Darren’s eyes blazed hot, “I wanted to marry you, I asked you to marry me.” Karina shook her head, not wanting to remember, “Yet, in the long run you married the woman your mother picked out for you. Go home with her, be happy. Take care of your wife, your children.” “Not that it’s any of your business, but Siante and I were never able to have children.” Karina closed her eyes for a moment. “I’m sorry.” She knew how much he’d wanted children; he’d talked about it even when they were just high school sweethearts. “I want to see my daughter.” Karina and Darren locked eyes, she remembered the first time she saw him – long, silky hair even shinier than hers. She was only five years-old, but she fell in love at first sight. She took his hand then and said they’d be best friends. And they had been best friends right up until the night she betrayed that friendship. Karina sighed and took out her phone. “Dari, there’s someone I want you to meet.”


One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine. Edward counted nine stalks of bamboo growing out of the small planter that lived on his kitchen counter. Edward unlocked his iPhone and opened the Compass app.

“Perfect,” he said to himself. The front of the lucky bamboo stand faced east. The kitchen timer pealed. The aroma of freshly baked eggplant parmesean filled Edward’s urban highrise apartment. He pulled the casserole from the oven, placed it on a four-leaf clover shaped trivet, and covered the dish in foil. The digital clock on the stove turned to 6:55 pm.

Edward lit three white candles that rested in an elaborate dining room table candlestick holder. It had been over a year since he used his dining room. Sheila and he ate their last meal here. Edward didn’t cook much, but he made a good eggplant parmesean. Shelia stopped eating meat because the chemo threw her taste off. She loved Edward’s eggplant parmesean. The buzzer rang. Edward ran to the door. “Hello,” he said. “Ed, it’s me,” Susan said. “C’mon up.” Edward pressed the button under the intercom. He nearly tripped on the Laughing Buddha on his way back to the kitchen. He rubbed the Laughing Buddha’s belly for good luck. “Plates, utensils . . . OK,” Edward said.

Susan knocked on the front door with a shave-and-a-haircut. Edward returned the “two-bits” with the undoing of the two deadbolts. He opened the door and saw Susan in the doorway with a bottle of beaujolais and a little box with two cupcakes in it.

“Hi!” Susan said with an extended “I,” smiling ear to ear. “Susan, come in, please. May I take your coat?” Susan paused. “I’m a cold body. Do you mind if I leave it on for a bit?” “Not at all. Come in, come in.” “A koi pond? You gotta be kidding me!”

Susan ran to the koi pond in Edward’s foyer, almost dropping the beaujolais. Five koi swam in circles, their colors swirling in rainbows, reflecting the low light of Edward’s apartment. “They bring good luck,” Edward said. “Really? How so?” “Legend has it that, long ago, a koi was determined to reach the dragon gate. The dragon gate was a magical portal that rested on top of a far away mountain that lay miles and miles upstream from the koi. Against all odds, the koi swam upstream, fighting the current all the way. Eventually, she reached the gate. When he passed through, she turned into a glorious dragon.” “Was she a luck dragon? You know, like Falcor?” “Who’s Falcor?” Edward asked. “He was the dragon from the Neverending Story.” “The legend comes from China, so I think the koi dragon probably looked more like a Chinese Dragon.” “Like Mushu?” Edward paused and scrunched his brow, looking upward. “The dragon in Mulan. Eddie Murphy voiced him,” Susan said. “Oh, yeah, I remember Mushu. Well, Mushu is the Disney version of the concept, I guess. The great Chinese dragons were much larger and, well, characatured, like flying samauri. Look over here.” Edward walked a few steps down toward the kitchen and pointed to sculpture of a chinese dragon he had in the hallway.

“Is that a pearl in his hand?” “Yes,” Edward said. “Some say the chinese dragon controls wisdom, propsertity, and power when it controls pearl. Sometimes the pearl is on fire. Sometimes the pearl can mean energy or immortality. Sometimes, it means the moon.” “Smells great in here.” “Yes, eggplant parmesean, as promised.”

Edward and Susan sat and ate. Susan poured the wine. Edward talked. Susan listened.

“Thanks for coming over,” Edward said. “My pleasure.” “It’s been a while since I’ve, well, been in the company of someone who listens as well as you do.” “Your story is . . . real,” Susan said. “Do you think all this helps? The good luck charms, I mean.” “God, I hope so,” Edward laughed.

“To lose your wife, your mother, your dog, and your job in the same year would be too much for me.”

“Are you sure I can’t take your coat?” Edward asked. “How about a cupcake?”

“Don’t mind if I do.” Edward wolfed down the vanilla plain-jane cupcake with the firey icing. “Have another.” “Are you sure?” “Yes, I’m full. And, besides, I’m around these all day.” “When do you work next? At the bakery?” Edward swallowed the devil’s food cupcake almost whole. “Tomorrow, 5 am,” Susan said. Edward cringed at the thought of getting up that early.

“What did you think of the eggplant parmesean?” Edward asked, his mouth partially full.

“Loved it. But . . . " “But what?” “Nevermind.” “No, tell me,” Edward insisted. “Ok, ok. Needs salt.” Edward lowered his chin to his chest and let out a long low sigh.

“No, it was good. It’s just that I like a little more salt, that’s all,” Susan said.

“I don’t keep salt in the house. I don’t even touch the stuff if I can’t help it.” “Hypertension?” “Don’t want to spill it.” Susan’s dropped her jaw and turned her head, eyes wide. Then she laughed wildly. “C’mere. I want to show you something,” Edward said. Susan straightened in her chair. Edward got up and headed toward the bedroom. “I want to show you a picture,” Edward explained. Susan got up from the table and followed Edward. Edward nearly tripped but caught himself. “Woah,” Edward said. “I must have had too much wine.”

Once in the bedroom, Edward gestured to the large framed print of

The Last Supper. “ Michelangelo?” Susan asked. “Di Vinci,” Edward said. “Now, tell me what you see.”

“Well, it’s the last supper from the

Bible . If I remember correctly, this was the moment Jesus broke bread and told his diciples that one of them would betray him.” “Correct. And, who betrays him?” “Judas. But which one is he in the painting?” “Look closer,” Edward said. Susan scanned the painting at each of the figures. “I can’t tell.”

“Look for the spilt salt shaker,” Edward said. “There.” Susan pointed to the man on the left side of the table, about half way down, with the spilt salt shaker in front of him.

“That’s it. That’s why I don’t keep salt in the house. I don’t want to end up like Judas.”

“But, don’t you think Judas had a choice? He chose his luck.” Edward staggered backwards. “Excuse me, I’m getting dizzy.” “Don’t you think what happened to him was just? I mean, he sold out the Son of Man. Shouldn’t there be a special place in hell for him?” Edward coughed. Blood dotted his balled fist. “What the?” “Edward, do you think one should pay for one’s crimes?” “Susan, what are you do—”

“I know, Edward! I know everything! I know you smothered your wife! You poisoned your mother! And you killed your dog! You . . . you . . . liar! As for your job, well, you just kind of suck at being a lawyer.” Susan’s voice grew deeper and distorted as she ranted.

“How’d—“ Edward passed out and fell forward into

The Last Supper , knocking it off the wall.

Susan undid her coat. She pulled out a large machete. She cut off Edward’s head. She held it just like the Chinese dragon in the hallway held her pearl.

Then, she transformed into a beautiful yellow Chinese dragon, ate Edward’s head, and flew out the bedroom window into the night.


“The Burgh” That’s the thing about Pittsburgh, it seems like the last place anyone would build a city. It’s three rivers flowing through steep hills and deep ravines and surrounded by even higher hills. Any sizable tracts of level ground are scattered among steep terrain and along the edges of the rivers. Whoever that first person was who stood there, looked around and thought it could ever be anything more than a small military outpost must have been a true visionary. I thought about that as I drove from the airport in a stripped down Nissan Altima, the last available midsize that Enterprise had. The woman at the rental car counter told me to take the Parkway to the tunnel and then over the bridge but the word Parkway was not on the map she’d given me. In fact there was a lot of information missing from that little map. The highway sign read Route 376 Downtown and it was the only road I could see from the rental parking lot so I took it. I drove for about fifteen minutes and the impressive view of the city straight ahead of me didn’t offer many clues about what to expect. I didn’t know anyone in Pittsburgh and the little I knew about the place I’d learned from seeing aerial shots during the Steelers games on TV and from doing a couple of Google searches. It wasn’t much to go on but enough for me to know it was worth a closer look. I’d had enough of upstate New York small town living and a major lifestyle change was in order. I was eager to explore a large city and sample all that it had to offer. Through my online searches I’d learned that there were over four hundred bridges, four tunnels and two inclines that people used to navigate the city. It sounded confusing but the closer I got to my downtown destination the more intriguing it had become. The overhead signs on the highway were the first clue that a driver had to pay close attention to what laid ahead. The rental car woman said to stay on the Parkway and it would take me through the Fort Pitt tunnel so I did what she’d instructed. When I came out of the tunnel there was a sign for Route 279 but not one for Route 376 and with a huge bridge over the Monongahela River looming in front of me all I could do was stay in my lane and follow where I thought it would lead me. That was my first lesson: Pittsburgh roads didn’t all enter and exit in any consistent way. The main highway appeared to curve to the left but a sign told me that I should exit right to remain on 376. I’d have to exit to stay on the road I was already on. Unfortunately I was in the center lane and the traffic wouldn’t allow me to get into the right lane to exit. Moments later I was headed north on Route 279, over another bridge over the Allegheny River. I could see the tall buildings in the center of downtown receding in my rearview mirror. As soon as I’d crossed the second river I began to look for a place to pull off the road. Because my rental car didn’t have onboard navigation and my cellphone signal was erratic among the tall buildings, the rental car map was my only link to any hope of getting downtown. I’d rented a room for two nights at the Renaissance Hotel and planned to walk around the city and get to know it from street level. At that moment I was seeing a whole other part of the city through a windshield and feeling a little nervous. I saw a small retail plaza ahead on the right and quickly pulled into it. Sitting in the parking lot trying to make sense of the map wasn’t easy. The rivers, bridges, tunnels and major public attractions were labeled and except for a few major streets not much else was identified. Heinz Field was visible a few blocks away and signs for the Warhol Museum but nothing about how to get myself downtown. When I got out of the car and stood facing south. I could see the tall buildings and the part of the city I wanted to get to but had no clue of how to accomplish it. After a few minutes I got my bearings and found where I was on the map then got back into the car and pulled out into the traffic. There was nothing to do but keep trying. Any small feeling of confidence I might have had left in me faded quickly when I read a large overhead sign that read: 6 th Street Bridge 7 th Street Bridge 8 th Street Bridge Ahead . I remembered from my last glance at the map that all three bridges crossed back over the Allegheny River but it didn’t note which ones connected to Canal Street which was the street I was on. As it turned out none of them did. All I could do was look down and to my right and see three bridges that could each take me in the right direction but that I couldn’t get on. My frustration was slowly turning into anger. After a few blocks in thickening late afternoon traffic I saw a sign for Route 579 Downtown and my spirits lifted. That is at least until I got to a cluster of multilevel roads and saw that Canal Street only went under 579 but didn’t connect to it. Once again I’d seen another bridge that could take me toward my destination but couldn’t get on to it. I was angry and thought to myself, “How do people get around in this town? How will I do it?” It was another six blocks of driving before there was a way for me to turn around and at least head back in the general direction I wanted to go. With so many unlabeled streets on the map, reading the street signs was pointless. I stopped at a convenience store, hoping to find someone inside that could give me directions. That turned out to be my second lesson: Pittsburgh people spoke a strange, local dialect unique to the city. I walked in and saw a sturdily built woman in a red smock restocking shelves of gum, candy and all kinds of things a healthy person shouldn’t ingest. “Excuse me,” I said. “I’m trying to get downtown and I’m kind of lost. Can you help me?” She turned and looked at me. “That depends. Dahntahn’s a big place. Are yinz goin’ some place special?” Her dialect was strange but I understood it, sort of. “I’m trying to find the Renaissance Hotel. It’s on 6 th Street.” “Then ya’ need to take the 6 th Street Bridge.” “Well, I was going to try that but it didn’t connect to the street I was on.” “You aren’t from around here, are ya’? “Uh, no I’m not. So how else can I get downtown?” She thought for a moment then answered, “Well, all I can say is that yinz need to get on the 579 and go over the bridge.” Which bridge, you have so many?” “Vetrins. It’ll take you right to the convention center.” “And then where do I go?” “Sorry, I can’t help you there. I don’t get downtown much anymore.” I didn’t feel a whole lot better but hoped her strangely spoken directions would at least get me closer. “Okay, thanks, but how do I get back to 579?” “Ya’ turn left out of the parking lot, head on down the hill and turn left again after the Jine Iggle.” I hesitated, trying to decipher what she’d said. “What’s that?” “It’s the supermarket, the drugstore n’at.” It took me a moment to realize she was referring to a Giant Eagle store. “Okay, got it. Thanks again.” I hoped her directions would be easier to follow than her side of the conversation had been. It was like she’d spoken a whole different language. I drove back down the hill, saw the supermarket and turned left. A sign reading Veterans Bridge to Downtown hung above the road and I immediately felt some relief. That was lesson number three: Never let yourself feel comfortable about finding your way around Pittsburgh. The entrance ramp on to 579 was wide and easy to access. I accelerated into the traffic and crossed the Allegheny River for the second time. The highway was elevated enough for me to look out over the downtown area. Somewhere in the midst of all the traffic and buildings was the Renaissance Hotel. It was a somewhere that I’d hoped would become clear soon because I was in need of a bathroom break. When the highway crossed over Liberty Avenue things really got confusing. There were exit and entrance ramps to the left and right and street signs that were of no help whatsoever. I was looking for some sign that read Sixth Street but that was wishful thinking. The exiting and oncoming traffic created a roadway choreography that demanded my total concentration. I knew I had two choices, take an exit somewhere and try to find my way on rush hour surface streets or stay up on the highway and hope a sign or clue would reveal itself. I chose the latter. After about ten more minutes of driving I realized I should have exited somewhere when I’d had the chance. A sign over the roadway read Liberty Bridge/Mount Washington and I’d just passed my last chance to exit. When I saw another sign reading Liberty Tunnel m y anger returned stronger than ever. For the first time I was rethinking my plans to move to this unnavigable city. Being trapped on a highway leading me further away from my destination was bad enough but when I began the downhill slope to the bridge and looked down I saw that I was crossing over Route 376, the road I’d come in on from the airport. “God dammit! I shouted. I was starting to think I’d have to drive over all four hundred freaking bridges in that city before I got to my hotel. My hands were getting cramped from gripping the steering wheel so hard for so long and they only got worse as I drove through the tunnel under Mount Washington. When I exited into the fading sunlight I decided to pull over at the first chance and try once again to figure out exactly where in the hell I was. And I really had to pee. The exit to the right put me on Route 19 and a fairly large commercial strip appeared on the right. My priority was to find a restroom and fortunately a Shell station gave me the relief I sought. At the end of the small plaza I saw a restaurant and decided it would be a good place to sit for a while and get my bearings. I relocated my car to a parking space near the entrance, grabbed the map and walked in. Seeing that they had a bar gave my mood an instant lift and I settled on a stool at the far end. I would have felt more comfortable drinking at the bar at the Renaissance so I wouldn’t have to do any more driving but I’d had a stressful day. A vodka and tonic was in order, drive or no drive. “Hi there, what can I get you?” An attractive young woman slid a coaster and menu in front of me. “Well, let’s start with a Stoley’s and tonic.” “Sure. Interested in looking at the menu?” Her smile was distracting. “No thanks, I’m trying to get downtown and I guess I’ll wait until I get there to find dinner. That’s assuming I get there.” “What do you mean?” “I mean I left the airport around two-thirty and I’ve been driving all over the place but I couldn’t figure out how to get to my hotel downtown.” A well dressed man two stools down turned toward me. “Excuse me, I couldn’t help but hear the conversation. So you’re having trouble getting downtown?” “Trouble doesn’t begin to describe it. I’ve driven a complete circle around it but couldn’t find the right way to get there. How do you people find your way around this place?” He smiled. “Well, I guess it depends on where you live and where you work. Lots of people refuse to drive in the city because the streets are so winding and narrow. We have the T-System and lots of buses but the schedules are confusing. You have to allow extra time for transfers, and the constant street closures can drive you nuts.” “So if I decided to move here what advice would you have?” The bartender set my drink in front of me and said, “I’d advise you to keep a vodka tonic nearby at all times because even the locals get lost.” The man laughed. “Yeah, there’s kind of a common feeling that you don’t go downtown unless it’s absolutely necessary.” I looked at both of them and asked, “How do you handle it all?” The man said, “I live up here on Mount Washington. I take the incline down the hill to Station Square. That’s where my office is. My wife and I do everything down there or up here on the hill.” The bartender nodded. “Yeah, Pittsburgh was never laid out like with a master plan, it just kind of grew into a city. It’s like a big patchwork of neighborhoods and that’s kind of how you live, close to home.” I took a sip of my drink and sat for a moment before saying, “By the way, I have to ask you something. You both speak normally. I mean you don’t talk like this woman I talked to this afternoon. She had this strange kind of accent or something. What’s that all about?”” They both laughed at the same time. The man leaned toward me. “That’s called “Pittsburghese” and I have no idea how it started but you’ll hear it all over town.” He grinned and asked, “Do yinz understand that?” For nearly an hour the two of them and an occasional patron joining the crowd at the bar filled me in on the real Pittsburgh. Not the sanitized hype from the Chamber of Commerce ads but the things only a local would know. The places to visit and the places to stay away from. The best places to shop and dine and the few easy places to park if you absolutely had to be downtown. They even warned me to stay away from the Northside when the Steelers were playing a home game because there’d be no place to park or find a seat in a bar. I was starting to get a clearer picture of the city but I couldn’t figure out if that picture was positive or negative. A glance out the window quickly brought me back to the moment. It was dark outside. If I couldn’t find the Renaissance in the daylight I’d never find it at night. “Well, folks, if you don’t have a hotel close by I’ll be sleeping in my car tonight.” The bartender said, “No problem.” She pulled a pen from her apron and began drawing on a napkin. “There’s a Sheraton down at Station Square. You turn right when you leave here, go two blocks and you’ll see a sign for incline parking. You take the incline down the hill and you’ll see Station Square. It’s within walking distance. You can’t miss it.” I thanked her, shook the man’s hand and paid my tab, then sat in my car wondering if a map hand-drawn on a cocktail napkin would be any more useful than the lousy one from the rental car counter. But I knew I had no choice. In less than a minute I was back on another Pittsburgh street trying to find my way somewhere. To my delight the bartender’s map was spot on and five minutes after I’d parked I was having my first trip on an incline. Five minutes after that I was walking toward the Sheraton. And half an hour after that I was sitting at the bar with dinner and a drink in front of me and a head full of thoughts about the stressful day I’d had, thoughts about the people I’d met and mostly, thoughts about Pittsburgh. Sleep didn’t come easily that night. The next morning the woman in the ticket booth at the top of the incline gave me directions to follow Route 51 to get back to Route 376. It was a short drive along a winding, tree-lined road and when I came around a bend into an open area I saw it, the final punctuation to the story of my trip; a large, green sign that read Route 376 Airport Left Downtown Right. I took a deep breath and clicked on the turn signal.


She waited her turn and looked around at everyone in the crowded hall. Tables littered with bits and bobs were scattered throughout the space, over which experts chatted with patrons about their treasures. Even more owners waited to determine if what they believed to be priceless was instead worthless. A child wailed and screamed somewhere nearby, setting everyone’s nerves on edge during what had already been a long day waiting in lines to get to the check-in desk, then waiting in another line to get into the exposition hall, and then waiting in yet another line to get to a table with an expert. She truly hoped that the trinket she had would be worth all of this hassle. If anyone would know how much money she could gain from this thing it would be the “Ancient Technology Expert'' at the Athenaeum of Antiquery, the finest antique exposition around. Or so the slogan had said on a banner overhead. Finally, the patron in front of her left, after tossing their own priceless artifact into a trash can that was beginning to overflow.

“Can you tell me how much this is worth?” she said as a means of introduction as she carefully unwrapped the newspaper surrounding the box. It cracked apart revealing just how long ago this had been packed up. She flattened the newspaper on the table as little flakes fell to the floor like confetti.

“Hmm. Most likely. Let me see what you have brought and I may be able to help you assess the value it brings,” they replied monotonously, watching as she carefully pulled the object out of its box and placed it on the table. The expert’s eyes widened as they beheld the artifact. They were hesitant about touching it and instead pulled a magnifier out of a pocket and peered closer at it.

“My word.” They breathed almost, but not quite, displaying some emotion. It was a small rectangular object of black glass with a metallic back. It was about 6 inches by 3 inches with buttons along each longer side and various ports along the bottom of the shorter edges. The corners were rounded and showed some wear and tear. The glass front was shattered in places as if it had fallen onto a hard surface some time ago. “I have never seen one of these with my own eyes. They are very rare. This is the Samsnug X33. The last cellular phone made before the Downfall. How did you ever come across such a rare antique?” “Well. My grandfather just passed away a few months ago.”

“My condolences.”

“Thank you,” she replied with the ease of repetition. “In his Last Will and Testament he left his home to me. While I was moving my stuff in I decided to poke around in places that I hadn’t explored before when I was in my youth. In the attic, in one corner behind some old wardrobes and suitcases, I found a box. I guess it had been there a while cause it had a lot of dust on it.

See, this house has been in our family for many many generations. Rumors in our family said we’ve lived there since before the Downfall but I don’t know how much I believe that. So, that house has had a lot of time to accumulate a lot of boxes of trash and junk. Anyway, I dug through this box and found a lot of old stuff. Some tablets, wireless headphones, Guugle Glasses. Seems like my many great grand-something was a hoarder of old things. I threw a lot of it out but at the bottom I found this and I figured why not see how much I could make from it. Might help me pay off some school loans.” The expert nodded, still peering through their monocle unwilling to touch the device.

“How much do you know about the Downfall?” they asked.

She shrugged. “I think I remember a bit from history class.”

“Well, here’s a little history lesson then. These little handheld communicators, or cell phones as they were known back then, were used by all of humanity. It was their primary means of communication as well as their entertainment. It started off innocuous with voice based messaging happening instantaneously between people. This instant messaging then transitioned into text-based messaging which then evolved to pictographs. The people used them to communicate with one another. This occurred on an individual level, with one person speaking with one person and as a sort of mass communication with individuals speaking with communities as a whole. Eventually, individual based messaging, one person to one person, became old-fashioned as humanity became more immersed in mass-based communication.”

The expert finally picked up the X33 turning it this way and that, and watched as the light reflected off of the shattered touch screen front. They pushed a few buttons and seemed to deflate slightly when there was no response from the device. They continued their impromptu lesson.

“Entertainment from the device, too, went through multiple rounds of evolution. Beginning with sound based entertainment, songs and spoken word, then to longer visual and auditory forms called videos. But as human’s attention spans became shorter and shorter the entertainment moved to match, becoming short clips of video. This gave people easy access to sources for fighting boredom. Unfortunately, as humanity became more and more engrossed in this entertainment and mass communication, personal relationships were neglected leading to a severe decline in reproduction. A large amount of unreliable information led to a distrust of each other and their ruling governments which further deteriorated the sense of unity. This led to a population that was on the edge of collapse.” The expert picked up the box that the curio came in and examined it as well, setting aside a small booklet written in an ancient language long forgotten. They pulled a packaging insert out as if looking for something and seemed slightly discouraged to find nothing inside but a dried up sticker. As they put the box back together they kept talking, as if forgetting they were talking aloud.

“Luckily, a few intrepid groups were intelligent enough to foresee the eventual disaster. These people called themselves the Unplugged but are better known as homo sapien martian or Martians. This group saw the disrespect that humanity had not only for themselves but for the planet, as well. They had determined that there was no hope for the future. So they built spaceships capable of traveling reliably back and forth from their home planet, Earth, to the adjacent planet, Mars. It is unknown how, but most modern-day scientists believe they used ancient primitive technology to restart Mars’ inner core. This in turn led to a habitable atmosphere and terraforming. Shipments of a life-saving liquid as well as nutrients sustained the Martians until the planet’s restarted atmosphere was able to create its own. From this new home they watched as the bulk of homo sapien eventually succumbed to its own incompetence and thus the Downfall of humanity.” She yawned as the expert droned on and on. It had been a very long day. She tried to ignore the annoying pop-ups and various notifications that flashed along the edges of her vision. She had never been good at history and this was very much trying her short attention span. Her eyes started to roam to the notifications and she resisted the urge to open her new game, Space Invaders 3000. The expert seemed to come back to reality and notice her growing boredom. “This,” the expert gestured at the X33, “Is one of the last remaining pieces from just before the Downfall.”

“That was very interesting. But might I ask how much it’s worth?”

The Ancient Technology Expert’s eyes lost focus and she could see tiny numbers flash and fly over their corneas as their Eye-Techs ran the calculations. A notification flashed insistently at the edge of her vision as a friend wondered where she was. She closed it with a quick double blink before returning her attention to the expert as the numbers stopped flying by their irises.

“About 3-5 Million Cinches,” they answered deadpan.

She sighed, disappointed. “That’s unfortunate. That will barely even cover my first semester of school. I guess I’ll just pack it back up and store it for another 5,000 years.” She sheepishly reached forward and wrapped her tentacle around the cell phone, careful to keep her claws retracted. She put it back in its manufacturer’s box and bid the expert farewell as they settled back onto their hind legs and retracted their head. She had to dodge many various teeth, tentacles, and gelatinous trails before finally reaching the exit port and into her StarCruiser Nebula. She wrapped both front tentacles around the handles, gunned the engines, and shot away back home to the Pegasus Quadrant.