The night was dark and starless.

The wind screamed and pounded against the doors of the pub.

Great grey clouds filled the sky and snow whirled about in thick sheets.

Yet the Golden Goose was crowded and raucous laughter echoed across the walls.

Despite the storm tearing apart the front of the shop, the chattering din never ceased.

It was February the sixteenth, a time of year where people were just getting over Valentine’s Day craze and falling back into the grasp of banality.

But nothing about the sixteenth of February was normal this year.

People talked nervously, eyeing their televisions.

Second Chances was about to come on.

Lucas Galeman sat alone in a far table of the pub, a glass of beer in hand.

He rubbed his thumb dejectedly against the glass.

“And scores, what a play!”

A voice from the TV cried.

Lucas had sat at that table every night for nearly a year since his sister died.

He had no clue why the pub was so packed tonight.

Was it the Superbowl?

No, that had already passed, hadn’t it?

He shrugged and took another sip of beer. “Another!”

He drawled at the waitress passing by.

Her smile was dripping with false sweetness.

“Sure, hon.

Anything else?”

He frowned and waved the waitress away, but not before glancing at her name tag.

Rose.

When Rose turned away from him, however, a deep scowl crossed her face.

She hated working at the pub because of drunks like that.

They experience a little loss and decide to make everyone else as miserable as them. She whisked empty glasses from table four and took them into the kitchen.

While clearing the dishes, she eyed Lucas warily.

He was one to keep an eye on.

He had caused a dozen brawls in the last year and tonight seemed like another one was brewing.

And that was the last thing they needed now.

Second Chances may be twisted, but it was good for business when it came on.

Nonetheless, like nearly everyone else in the pub, Rose found that her hands were shaking in anticipation. Apprehensive.

That was how to describe the tension in the room.

Apprehensive. Static crackled from the TV above him.

Then, like wolves echoing a howl, the televisions across the pub changed too.

Along with every single one across the States.

“We’re a go, Pike.” Pike Redvale dusted his cheek with the last bit of powder and stepped out onto the stage.

He wore a ghastly suit of bloodred with a leopard print tie covered in glitter.

The stage lights were blinding, and the cold was intense.

They didn’t have the budget for heating systems, apparently.

His stride was purposeful and his teeth were like sharks.

“Welcome everyone, to Second Chances !

I’m your host, Pike Redvale!

Let’s get twisted!” When he was younger, he hated his name.

The kids at school would always call him Fishboy, but he would always insist that he was named after the weapon.

The type of pike you would stick a head on, the type of pike that would be stained red.

Now, nearly fifty years later, he was in front of the nation.

No one would make fun of his name now.

If they did, he could bring their family onto the show.

That would shut them up. The stage was set with mechanical contraptions of strange sorts.

There wasn’t an audience- all the seats of the auditorium were deserted.

Bright red curtains and LEDs lined the stage.

Ten skeletons hung from ropes so that they swung eerily in the middle of the stage, covered in crusty, crimson blood, and casting long shadows as they swung. “Last time, we got twisted with fire, and boy did things get heated up!

Jane and Leroy joined the

skeletons and Hitte got away,” Pike informed the camera, waving up at two of the skeletons. “Before we get started, let’s explain the rules for our contestants!

Every week, we go out and find candidates for our program, and put them through challenges!

But the risk is high...for if you lose, you join the skeletons.

But if you win...you go free!

If you win a challenge, you get an advantage in the next one.

If you fail a challenge, you get a second chance.

You lose when both chances have run out… and you lose a challenge.” Pike spread his arms out in an extravagant gesture.

“Let’s meet our contestants.” The camera panned to a blonde girl about twenty with chocolate brown eyes.

She trembled head to foot, standing next to Pike on the stage. “Our first contestant is from Denver, Colorado!

Milady, tell us your name and occupation,” Pike requested.

“M-my name is R-Riley Wallace, and I’m a student at Colorado S-State.”

Riley kept glancing to her right, where a vintage Winchester rifle pointed at her temple, hidden by the curtains.

“Superb!”

Pike cried.

“ Et...tu ?”

He turned to the contestants on his left. A grey-haired man and a tall boy stood to his left.

The man looked about sixty and had piercing blue eyes.

He looked pretty determined, Pike thought.

Maybe he could win, despite his age. “Our second contestant is from Morgue, California!

Tell us your name and occupation.” “My name is John Whitby and I’m a Marine Corps veteran.”

The man said, a bead of sweat the only betrayal of his fear.

“Fantastic!

Our third contestant is from a place not far from here.

Esceleter, Wyoming!

Tell us your name, please!”

The boy had forest green eyes and caramel brown hair lined with heavy acne.

He was sobbing profusely, shaking in his shoes.

“Don’t kill me!

I’m only twelve!

Please!” Pike heard a click from left stage, behind the curtain.

Probably the other gun, a revolver, suspended by a series of pressure-activated cords.

All Pike had to do was tap his left foot and the boy’s brains would be out on live television.

Tap the right foot and Riley would prematurely join the skeletons.

Wave his fingers and the gunman crouching in the rafters above would put a bullet in John’s head.

Pike shrugged mentally.

Well, he couldn’t have everything automated.

“Please tell us.

We don’t want to end before the games have begun, right?”

His voice was deceptively soft, like poisoned honey slipping down a jar.

“D-D-Dewey Abbott, sir, don’t shoot me!”

“Good, good,”

Pike said calmly, relaxing his foot, which had been tensed to activate the gun. He grinned like a shark.

“Let’s begin.” Rose’s eyes were fixed on the screen.

Everyone in the Golden Goose must realize it, she thought.

It was so silent.

The only sound was Pike Redvale’s honeyed bass tones echoing through the pub.

Dewey Abbot was the kid who went missing yesterday.

She had gotten the Amber alert, had seen him on the news.

He went missing in Esceleter, the next town over. Tears of fear threatened her eyes.

Second Chances was nearby.

Part of her wanted to go find the site, crash the party.

But then she came to her senses.

She was just a waitress.

The most she could do was call the police.

But Pike and his crew would probably vanish.

They had hacked into public television systems five times already.

They hadn’t been caught yet.

They weren’t about to be caught now. Rose watched as Lucas, that drunk bastard, rose from his seat and stumbled for the door.

A sick feeling settled in her stomach. Lucas had heard too much.

He had remembered why the pub was so crowded and it was because of that terrorist show or junk like that.

He had known Dewey.

It reminded him of what he was like before his sister Sam had died.

So bright-eyed and ignorant.

Now it seemed like every memory of his past life was fading.

“The first challenge is called Track and Shield !”

Pike called, grinning brightly at the camera. “We’ve gifted all of our contestants shields, and they must use them make it from one end of the stage to the other!”

He explained as the stagehands equipped Riley, John, and Dewey with heavy, round shields the size of a truck tire.

They looked ancient, like they had been sitting in a closet for a century.

They were nearly falling apart.

Pike smirked.

The producers didn’t have the budget, or they just didn’t care. “Alright, athletes!”

Pike positioned the contestants at the start line.

Then he positioned himself onto his next spot, marked with blue tape on the floor.

Pressure pads connected to cords and wires were located in various locations about the stage, waiting for him to activate the traps. “On your marks, set, GO!” Cheering tracks echoed in the empty auditorium.

They started to run, their legs pounding against the stage, sending it vibrating.

Their breath fogged into the crisp air.

Pike gave a sideways smile.

Let’s get twisted , he thought.

Left foot, left stomp.

Right foot, right stomp.

It was like the Cha Cha Slide, Pike noticed.

Heavy darts shot out of holes in the walls surrounding the track.

John, the ex-Marine, was in the lead, trudging on apparently unbothered by the heavy shield strapped to his arm.

Darts whizzed past his ears, and John raised his shield rhythmically to block them.

Right foot, left foot, bang!

Right foot, left foot, bang! It was such a hypnotic rhythm, Pike thought.

John’s feet were so swift, and his bulging muscles were unhampered by age.

His eyes still seemed young.

Pike shook himself.

John was his favorite to win, that’s all he was saying, he told himself. Riley was behind him, her stride hampered by fatigue.

She didn’t seem to be hit by a dart yet. Dewey far behind and seemed to be surviving on sheer luck.

He stumbled blindly through the course, the weight of the shield dragging him forward.

He already had a thin line of blood across his forehead. Left foot, left stomp.

Right foot, right stomp.

John had been hit by a dart, striking him in the arm.

Pike sucked in a breath.

John’s piercing blue eyes cried out in agony, but he made no sound, instead slowly trudging forward towards the end.

Pike nearly cheered.

John had won.

The relief in his eyes made a tiny grin twitch at Pike’s mouth.

Dewey was gaining on Riley now, desperation replacing his previous fear.

They were both side by side, darts whizzing in every which direction. Pike was still manning the pressure pad, with faster movements now.  Left foot again.

Right foot again.

Left foot, left stomp.

Right foot, right stomp.

Crisscross!

Now his feet were going in some sort of frenzied tap dance to the beat of the Cha Cha Slide. It looked like Dewey was going to win.

He was pulling ahead.

Cheering tracks blared louder, and the camera panned closer.

They were neck-and-neck.

Right foot again.

A dart hit Riley in her side.

She cried out and fell, leaving Dewey to finish. Pike’s feet slowed to a stop and the camera shot to his face, pitiless, beaded with sweat, and carved by plastic surgery. “John gets an advantage in the next challenge!

Dewey, kid, you’re safe.

And Riley...well sweetheart, you lost.”

Pike grinned at the camera, pausing for dramatic effect.

The producers loved that.

“You’re on your... Second Chance !”

The theme music blared obnoxiously from near the camera.

“The next challenge is a mental one, and I like to call it: Inches From Pinches !

Here’s how it works.” Pike frowned at Riley, who lay bleeding on the floor.

“Someone clean her up, we can’t get blood on the conveyor.”

He swung his head back to the camera, waiting like the eye of an enormous fly, beady and black. “We’ll strap each contestant to a conveyor belt, each moving at the same pace.

At the end of each belt is a pit of scorpions.

We’ll ask the contestants each the same question, and every correct answer slows down the belt.

Every wrong answer speeds up the belt.

The first one to fall in will lose, and the one farthest from the pit will win.

John, because you won last time, we’re giving you a five-foot longer conveyor belt than Riley and Dewey!

And Riley, next time you lose, not only will you be heinously injured, you’ll be killed.” While Pike spoke, crew members mopped up Riley and strapped each contestant to a conveyor belt.

And on the challenges went.

John fell into the scorpion pit and Riley stayed the farthest.

“You’re on your Second Chance !”

Then Pike and the entire nation watched as they were forced to walk over a bed of syringes.

Dewey fell and had dozens of holes puncture his arms.

Pike grinned.

The syringes all had lethal doses of anesthetic, which would kill them in by the time the show was over.

The facade of the winner escaping was just that- a facade.

Pike always poisoned the contestants somehow so that there were no loose ends.

“You’re on your Second Chance !” Pike watched in glee as Riley fell into a tube of acid when she failed to answer what the name of Hitler’s wife was.

Dewey had seemed to be going mental, muttering to himself and screaming at random intervals, whereas John was his same, stoic self, hiding his fear on the inside.

When Riley died, Dewey started screaming again.

He ran off the stage and threw himself against the exit doors.

They gave way and he ran screaming out of the building.

Pike moved to signal the gunmen, then froze, snickering.

Dewey wouldn’t be running for long.

The more he ran and screamed, the faster the anesthetic would work its way through his system.

Pike doubted that Dewey would get out of the building, let alone find anyone. “In a shocking turn of events, we seem to have an escapee.

That means John is the default winner!”

Pike announced.

The crew members operating the teleprompter waited for a second, then started shaking their heads violently.

Pike sighed as he read the new message as it appeared.

Disappointing.

He had really liked the ex-Marine. “Or, he would be.

But we’ve decided to find a new contestant to play against John.

Just one moment while our teams find someone.” Music played in the background. “Welcome back to Second Chances !”

Rose looked up.

It had only been about thirty seconds.

Whoever they found must have been…

Close. Lucas was staggering onscreen, too drunk to understand what was happening.

That snake, Pike Redvale, smiled his sideways grin. “Let’s get twisted.”


A table adorned with pastel rainbow cakes for two and warm french fries accompanied by fingers that tapped rhythmically with the bell that rung each time the door swayed, voices and laughter filling the cafe as well as leaving it. The end of the week celebration for two friends as well as colleagues of contrasting ages for simply making it through their working week. “You’re watching a movie tomorrow.” Marnie peered from her glasses while she devoured a handful of fries in one go. Christine’s mouth hung low as she folded her arms, “How did you-“ she paused and saw her movie ticket sticking out of her wallet. “Nice catch.” She nodded. “I didn’t even see that ticket, I just know.” Marnie paused, “Yes, I did see it. But I know this, you’re watching it alone.” “Oh Marnie, there is nothing wrong with watching a movie alone. You don’t need a date or a friend to always keep you company for a movie.” Her smile spread across her face knowing Marnie would detest what she would say next, “ You just need the company of a platter of cheesy nachos and a large drink of soda." As she guessed, Marnie rolled her eyes as she twirled her cake, collecting a rainbow on her spoon.

“Back in my day, you mostly went to the movies, if a tall, lanky, peppermint-gelled boy would buy you a ticket, popcorn, one tub of soda, and two straws.” Christine smiled as she picked out only the pink and blue portion of her cake.” That sounds romantic. Reminded me of a movie. ” Marnie poured the tea onto their cups, “What is it with you and movies?” She knew the answer each time. “It’s just something out of the ordinary, you know. Every scene is a sign, a foreshadow as to what’s next.” Marnie sighed. “Here we go again. And this movie for tomorrow will be full of them?” “Oh absolutely, this one’s romantic even” she cupped her chin on her palms as she gazed at a couple outside. “The tension, the premise of destiny in one’s life.” “Ah, Serendipity. The moment in life where all coincidences in life were in fact,” she broke into song “meant to be.” Christine shook her head, ”That’s Synchronicity. Serendipity is simply leaving something to fates. Destiny” she exclaimed. “Oh so theoretical you have to be always. Its toma(ay)to, toma(ah)to.” Before Christine could protest, she dusted the crisps from her fingers and pointed, “I’ve got a bad leg, is this sign to not go to Italy tomorrow?” Christine playfully jabbed Marnie’s arm, “No mam, nothing should stop you. In fact, I hope that you will have a nice Italian man look at it for you.” “Ah, maybe I will. And I’ll ask if he has a rich son or a nephew I could give your number to.” Touching the brim of her tea set, “I like these cups, doesn’t it remind you of the tie Joe wore today; Shell colored baby pink tie.”

“Speaking of, he almost caught you dazing at our meeting today, even answered a question from the sales team for you” "You know how boring it is, every time they send someone in from Sales. Joe’s a good manager for us, much better than the previous ones.” She sunk back into her couch. “So,” Marnie cleared her throat, “What are you going to do about this writing and film study thing. You know, when I met you five years ago, I REMEMBER, you said this was a temporary job to save some money to go to writing school.” “Ah yes, back when I was young and full of dreams.” She timidly joked. Marnie raised her eyebrows. “Come on, you know what I mean. That would have flopped if I actually did try that.” “And what about those quiet crying sessions by the work phone while sobbingly munching on those donuts I gave you in peace, it was quite a scene to watch then.” She pointed her fries at her, “I remember even telling you to go to therapy.” Christine raised her arms, “Oh Marnie, I was just tired and scared then. I went to business school because I couldn’t go to engineering or medical school like everybody in my family. And for a moment I thought what could I do to escape from whatever I am doing.” Her head shaking, she picked up her tea, “You are scared. You won’t admit it.” “I still write sometimes.” “And?” “And?” She asked back perplexed. “It’s good for me.” “But who is reading it?” “No one.” Her eyebrows kneaded as she answered that question. “Well then what’s the point?” “Marnie, what do you mean?” “Oh Christine, I didn’t mean to offend you. I just think if you wrote for someone, it would be more fulfilling, don’t you think?” “I don’t know. I never thought of it.” She sat with her palms over the bubbling tea.” “Don’t tell me” her eyes widened, “You're waiting for a sign?” Christine broke into an awkward smile, “Maybe. See, I just don’t feel like I’m there yet. If I was meant to quit this job and go to Europe and study film and writing, I just would know from some sign out there. " “Sometimes a sign is not a leading man from a movie or a ghost of the Christmas past, “ she spat sarcastically, “finding and telling you what to do, if only you simply looked at your heart.” Marnie sighed as she looked at her ruby-stoned watch. They got up and walked out of the cafe together, arms linked, in the late hour on the bustling street of the city. Christine stopped and patted on Marnie’s arm, “Maybe I’ll write something for you. And when you come back from Italy, you’ll read it?” “Yes, and maybe I’ll send you a postcard, scribble some Italian saying that sounds inspiring. Can that be a sign?” “Depends.” Christine kissed Marnie’s cheek as she walked Marnie towards her car. “Safe travels. Make a wish in the Trevi Fountain for me.” She called out. “I’ll get all the coins I can.” Marnie blew her a kiss as she closed her door. For Christine, she’s had this conversation ample times with Marnie, in about every cafe they dined at most Friday nights. Then she would come home, gaze at the drafts in her laptop, her handwritten scripts and stories, incomplete and abandoned.

She would set goals in her notebook and it would suffer the same fate as her writing. Her thought process would go two ways; Maybe if I realized my dream earlier, she would think, and another, if should she had have taken another path, what would she be doing now. Perhaps, still miserable, she thought quietly. But she would never know. The week had passed, and the desk beside her was still empty, as her Marnie was still vacationing in Italy. Reassuring Joe that she could handle the workload just until then, she got ready for the day. “Wasn’t she supposed to come in today?” He asked her again. “Perhaps we misunderstood the time? It's possible she will be on her way today, her messaging skills are not so top-notch like her selfie skills,” she held up her phone to reveal the goofy photos Marnie had sent. “Is that on purpose?” He pointed to the caught off-guard men in the background of her selfies. “Yes, she is asking me to choose which Italian man I find best handsome, and she will happily pass my number.” “That is Marnie for you.” His cell rang, “Hold on, let me get this,” He walked away, while Christine stood up and dusted Marnie’s desk aligning her files. “Christine, come here a moment,” Joe called her into his cabin, his face seemed struck with shock. She felt an odd twist in her stomach. “I don’t know how to process this.” He clasped his hands on the table. “What do you mean?” “That was Marnie’s sister. Marnie passed away.” Christine froze, trying to make out if she heard wrong. After few moments, she spoke, ” That's not possible, she just sent me a message two days ago, that her trip was going well." “She died yesterday while swimming at the beach and she couldn't handle the sudden currents-“ No, she whispered a she stood up, her lips quivering and burst out, her vision blurred with tears. *** Barely beating the morning rush, she hastily sat at her desk rushing to catch up on the morning tasks. “Christine, can you come in, please?” Christine walked in, meekly sitting in the chair. “Good morning Joe, is this about me coming late?” “Oh no, it’s alright. I actually have some good news for you.” He leaned forward, his face animated, “I wanted to offer you a promotion.” Christine’s eyes widened, as she clutched a ruby-stoned watch that wrapped her wrist. “It’s been 5 years since you’ve been here Christine, there is no one as hardworking as you. I know Marnie’s death has affected us all in the past 3 months, but you really took over. In fact, you've worked the hardest I've ever seen you. “Ah, thank you, Joe.” She shook his hands excusing herself out, "I’ll consider it.” Her phone rang at her desk but her feet made their way to the stairs towards the rooftop, one of her hideout places. What followed was a wallowing scream that emptied out of her, as she felt her heart pound hard. She never felt so frustrated in her whole life and she still couldn’t see why. That night, she sat by her TV, beside her side a stack of DVDs that were emptied from her cupboard. Although she was watching a movie she adored, eventually her ears blocked out the sounds from the TV, her mind replaying back memories of today and some of her conversations with Marnie. The next thing she knew, she got up to her work table, held the stack of manuscripts and idea notebooks, and hurriedly threw them all into her trash, catching a glimpse of her handwriting before she took the bin out. No more running away , she thought. *** It was a day of buzz and Christine’s office looked different than before, with a new deskmate who leaned apologetically, at her table “Christine, I’m so sorry to bother you again, I left my report at your table earlier. She handed her a stack of files, “Here you go Jenna. Make sure you add this one as well.”

Mr. Thompson walked by calling Christine over, “How is she doing?” “She’s caught up good. Much faster compared to when I was new here.”

She watched the new girl fumble over papers and binders and she was reminded of herself once. So, Jenna how are we with the meeting prep?” “It’s alright, I’m a bit nervous, This is my first job after graduate school.” Christine waved her hands in protest, “You’ll be great. The team from that cabin will be helping you as well. That's a relief,” she looked at Christine worriedly," But I wish you were really my manager Christine, it’s too bad you’re leaving.” Christine smiled fondly at the young trainee who was going to take over her job.

The girl reached over and placed an envelope on her desk “Oh by the way I picked up your mail while you were on break. It seems to be dated a few months back.” After a long day, she dropped back in her apartment, her hands clutching boxes of gifts and letters of farewell, as it was her last day at the company.

Her packing was still a long way to go as she needed a suitcase separately for her DVDs as well as her manuscripts and notebooks.

She checked her email and replied back to the coordinator at the university in London, where she would be studying in the summer.

For someone like Christine who spent her whole life looking for the signs she had projected to find, she may or may not have had ignored many signs entailing as to why she should have simply pushed herself to change her life earlier on. It may have been the loss of her dear friend or the ache she felt in her heart as she threw away all her manuscripts and dreams of another life that night or simply her offered promotion, but it was the postcard from Italy that arrived today, that she held tightly to her chest, that confirmed everything.


Trust me, trust us, you say every time, sugar sweet and sleepy. Everything will be fine—have you ever known me to lie to you? Have you ever known me to spread untruth? You say, I have never led you astray. And then you smile, showing your teeth, and you laugh, showing your tongue, and your words curl up around my neck like a centipede scarf, some warm, limp, many-legged thing, and I think, every time, oh very well, and it marks the beginning of my surrender.

I have come to see you as a curse of sorts. Did you know? Despite the human face and the hands in mine, you reside in my mind as a wicked thing.

‘Oh, I had no idea,’ you hum. ‘So what makes you say that?’ ‘What?’ I say. ‘What?’ I wring my fingers and drag my nails down the length of my palms.

Curious, you tilt your head. You are always very curious. Relentlessly so. The other day you came to me as I sat at my laptop and checked my emails, leaning over my shoulder and pressing your cold skull against my temple. I thought about asking you to leave me be, but you settled yourself beside me and peered at the screen. ‘You’ve been doing this for a while. Aren’t you tired? Hungry?’ ‘I’ve only started,’ I replied. ‘And it isn’t lunch yet.’ ‘But aren’t you hungry? I am. And I’m very bored. Come and keep me company.’ So you tugged me up and dragged me to the dusty kitchen. The dining table is tall and rectangular. If someone were to put a cloth over it, I think it would look like an altar.

Going to the fridge, I kneeled and rifled through the shelves and drawers, all of them partially-filled. ‘What do you want to eat?’ I asked. There were a pack of nectarines wrapped up in plastic and cardboard and they were rotting, somewhat, paling and wrinkling and shrouding themselves in faint mold.

‘We have some fruit,’ I said. ‘But none of it is good.’

‘No fruit,’ you said from the floor where you sprawled. And so I set the nectarines aside, and the round, golden pears, and the grapes, because those had gone grey. I heaved myself up and looked at the shelf above. Everything there was frozen, or at least very cold. A bottle of water gone limpid.

There was a jar of tartar sauce that knocked against my knuckles as I nudged different objects out of the way. A container of baby cucumbers, a small wheel of camembert, a vacuum-sealed packet of smoked trout. I moved the jar to the top shelf. The thick grey matter on the outside of it stained my fingers. ‘We have some leftovers,’ I said. The night before this one we ate fried rice and left it unfinished because you brought dessert out far earlier than we really should have, and I had to pull cling-wrap over the top of the bowl and store it for later. ‘Do you want the leftovers? We should finish it soon, or it’ll go bad.’

‘I’m afraid I’m not quite hungry,’ you said. So I put the food back in the fridge.

You do this often. You’re horribly fickle. Each word released from your mouth is an inconstant thing. You might usher me to bed one moment and rattle me awake the next because you are bored and lonely in your own head.

‘But a curse?’ you say with many teeth. ‘I don’t think I deserve this slander. You had to rearrange the fridge anyway. Now come. Why don’t we go on a walk? I think you’ll feel much calmer after. Trust me.’

It’s been raining very hard recently: strong winds and bulging droplets of water, swollen and cold. The puddles soak through the worn soles of my shoes and every step is a squelch of discomfort. Outside is a mess of tumbling greys and blues, the trees are wet and tired, the sky is dripping down into the gutters,

I have an assignment that I have yet to complete—some electronic poster due in three days.

You ask me about it, stepping idly around the dead worms all over the pavement.

‘I thought we were going on a walk,’ I frown. ‘Why are you asking me about it?’

‘Well, why don’t you multitask? You can think up your ideas out here in the rain, and once you come home, you’ll be able to type it out. Clever, clever, isn’t it?’ ‘I’ve tried that before,’ I sigh. ‘I can’t concentrate.’

You flick your gaze at me and laugh. ‘‘This time will be different! Trust me. Have you ever known me to lie?’ We walk out in the storm for longer than you said we would earlier. Much longer than those few minutes, more than an hour, perhaps two.

Hm? You say as we pass beneath a bridge. There are centipedes grooming themselves on the rocks, moving their mouths over their many, many legs. You nudge them with your foot and they all go skittering away, abandoning their tasks. You hum, it’s okay, let’s stay out a little longer. It’ll be fine. You’re still thinking, aren’t you? It’ll work out. We come home and the sky has poured itself into the storm drains, leaving only a thick, dark clog behind. The moon and the stars all look like faint, whitish smudges in the night smog and the front gate is covered in water, creaks loudly as it opens.

I don’t really do my assignment that day. It’s mostly alright. I have a little more time, and it should all work out. Instead, I sit at the dining table and peel the grapes. First I wash them, rub off the sticky wet with water to make it smooth and clean, and then the skin comes off, shiny, fragrant, and then the layer of it that has gone squishy and overly sweet until only the center is left, the seeds bitter and crunching between my teeth.

‘You’re going to stay there?’ you ask me, leaning over my shoulder, your perch. ‘I’m too tired to feel like moving,’ I say absently, ‘including my brain.’ ‘You have a terrible procrastination habit,’ you tell me.

I hum to myself, digging my nails under the skin of a new grape. ‘You don’t say.’ --- (Note to me: Please do your assignments. Stop going to the fridge to stare at the food. Just do it. Please.)


Prompt #267 OVERCOMING OBSTACALS Your character wants something very badly. . . . will they get it? A GREAT GRANDFATHER’S ENCOURAGEMENT FROM THE GRAVE Her dad had been a writer; but, a writer of fact-based, instructional materials; writings that could not, justifiably, be classified as “creative”. She, herself, had been a writer, of sorts; but, as with her dad, her writing too consisted of fact-based, persuasive materials. Nothing creative. Having grown up hearing her dad clicking away on his old Olympia manual typewriter down in the basement where he did most of his work, she had vicariously experienced the “writing bug” which, later in her life she realized had been in her genes. Her great grandfather – on her mother’s side – had also been, what appears to be, a “frustrated’ writer. In looking through old boxes which had been passed down from great grandfather to grandfather to mother and now to daughter, she came upon several packets of material written by her great grandfather. Much to her surprise, she found that he, too, entered contests and wrote manuscripts. To the best of her knowledge, however, he was never actually a “published author”, but possessed the “writing bug”!

One packet which caught her eye consisted of twenty “student” writing assignments put out by the then NEWSPAPER INSTITUTE OF AMERICA in New York City. They would send writing assignments in yellow folders, which would be returned to the writer with a critique.

An interesting comment on the cover of the final writing assignment read, in part:

“In writing, each failure is a forward step. For it is by attempting jobs not quite within our powers that we develop strength and ingenuity” . NIOA, Editorial Dept . “Failure”, apparently, is an inherent fear of all writers?  However, as her grandfather later optimistically wrote in a prologue to a submission to an unknown publication:

“ Men and women are looking through the columns of newspapers, magazines, and other periodicals, seeking something that will satisfy an innate desire for better things. Perhaps a word, sentence, or paragraph, will have an appeal that will sparkle with the very thing they so much desire”.

HWMiller   The fear of “failure” can be allayed by a drive he so eloquently described. Her “writing bug” was obviously “in her genes”! After a lifetime of not pursuing what she had, in the back of her mind – without then having all of this generational information -  always considered her dream, now,  at this stage of her “senior”, retirement status,  little hope seemed left of achieving her dream.  She always loved to write, but mostly, now that she was retired, her writing consisted primarily of correspondence to friends - either typewritten and posted, or simply emailed (a despised format which she considered “without class) or in the form of notes of bereavement placed in sympathy cards which, as she aged, became more and more frequent. Any support  she may have received over the years trying to convince her that she should “write” came mostly from those who had received her notes (youth to whom she was offering supportive advice or motherly wisdom) or to those who had received one of her bereavement  notes which they indicated to her they would “treasure forever”.

As a retired senior, she was feeling that her ship had sailed, so to speak, on her confidently productive years and now, in the twilight of her days, she held little confidence or hope that her dreams of becoming a noted author would ever come to fruition. Yet, almost daily, to her friends/family, she would refer, in some way, to her writing.

She just knew she loved to put words on paper – for whatever the reason – in the hope that they would actually have meaning to someone. She had been well-advised by author friends that there were two important aspects to becoming an accomplished author:

First, you had to write something every day. That took discipline. She was disciplined enough in her real life. But in her writing life, she held no discipline.

As a child, she had grown up with the routine of having to get her work done before play time. In other words, if she wanted to write, she first had to get all of her life’s chores out of the way; then she could sit down and write. More often than not, that free time never occurred. Without the required discipline, she was unable to put all else aside and simply sit down to write. Yet, in truth, she could never quite seem to find the time to actually sit down and write.

While she longed for, and agreed that, the set-aside daily time was necessary, at the close of a busy day other demands constantly seemed to take over. Dinners needed to be made, children needed to be cared for, laundry needed to be done and spouses, friends and family needed her attention. What was  “left” of her at the end of the day was insufficient to provide the creative thinking necessary to effectively write something on a sheet of paper that anyone would want to read. The second  aspect of becoming an accomplished writer, she was told,  was to write about something she knew. As one ages, one is constantly reminded that we are no longer in our prime , we are no longer “with it” when it comes to knowing what is going on in the world AND we are no longer entitled to have (or at least express)  an opinion about things about which anyone would give a damn.

Given the fact that she was now considered a senior member of society, with little to no “free” time, no energy, no creativity and no support for her dream, why did she try to hold onto any false hopes that she could become an author. If she could find the time, what did she “know”,  at her age,  that could be turned around and used in a creative fashion that would be of interest to anyone else? Yet something in the back of her mind kept telling her that she could  make her dream a reality. Day after day, she fought with herself as to just how to accomplish that goal.

If income was strictly her desire to publish then her chances of  success  were even slimmer. Intellectually, she knew, first and foremost,  that she needed to set aside the monetary goal and deal strictly with trying to put down on paper words that would mean something to somebody which might catapult her into a genre of creativity and accomplishment. One day she found herself off the grid , alone for a week with absolutely none of life’s interruptions. On a whim, she shot off a note to a publishing company whose name she found in one of the many writing files she had accumulated over the years with various research articles about publishing and writing and succeeding in the literary world. To her amazement, the inquiry was immediately responded to. A publishing employee (likely in pursuit of his desire to pick up a new author for his company)  began routinely hounding her for a commitment to a completion date for her anticipated manuscript. How flattering; but, REALLY?

Her contact with a publisher had been a spur-of-the moment impulse;  intended to encourage her own self motivation. In her mind, she had only two writing options (in terms of what she “knew”): one being to write about a traumatic experience in her life (which she wasn’t even sure she was ready to revisit) and the second being to expand upon a short story she had written many, many years before (which would take hundreds of hours to accomplish background research because it was not set in an era about which she “knew”).   She had nothing .  No files stuffed with proposed manuscripts, or even notes or thoughts about writing topics. N othing.  Yet, she fancied herself as wanting to be this discovered, legitimate literary icon!

After several months of follow up by the publisher’s employee, she finally fessed up to him that she had nothing.

Why did she have nothing?

When the dream of being an author had been such a part of her life – in vision if not in reality – why couldn’t she ever find the time to write; or was it that she didn’t have the drive to write; or was it that she didn’t have the confidence to write. What were her excuses? Obstacles. Overcoming obstacles. Self-made obstacles?  Real-life obstacles?

Would they continue to pop up in front of her; or, had she finally reached a point in her life when she would break down, one by one, those obstacles that had prevented her from at least trying to accomplish her dream. As she sat down at the keyboard one sun-drenched day (when, in truth, she would have loved to be outside puttering around in her yard) and put her fingers to the keys, she remembered her great grandfather, and her father, writers of a different sort. On this day, she knew:

first, that she was going to write something today; and second  that she was going to write about what she knew .

And, if she failed:

“. . . each failure . . . (would be) a forward step”

in developing in her “. . . strength and ingenuity. . .”  which might, as her great grandfather’s words had so aptly encouraged,  help her to create a: “. . . word,  sentence, or paragraph,

[which would] have an appeal that will sparkle with the very thing [the reader ] so much desired”. Only time would tell if her great grandfather’s words would help overcome the  real or self-imposed obstacles that she felt had held her back and that now, in her twilight of days, her written word would some day accomplish her long-awaited dream of becoming a real “author”.


“We are all of us, afraid of the dark” he says it sadly, as though he’s delivering a terminal diagnosis, and in a way, he is. “When we’re kids, yeah,” snorts Philips. Now he’s lazily shaking his head with an economy that makes it all the more striking, “we still are. Every last one of us.” “How do you work that one out?” says Philips, disdain dripping from his words, disdain and the beginnings of aggression. There is a threat here, but it’s pathetic. Philips is showing himself to be that bully-in-waiting and I wish he’d shut up. I dislike conflict, but he’s bringing it and I can see that it will be down to me to shut that stupid mouth of his. I should do it now, but that isn’t how it’s done. Innocent until they prove themselves guilty. Pre-emptive strikes are frowned upon. Even by me. The old man looks up at Philips. Looks into him, then his eyes shift a little and he’s looking through him as though there isn’t much of value in Philips. That there is a damning look and Philips knows it. He bristles, but he doesn’t know what to say, only that he’s not comfortable with the way the old man looks at him and he wants it to stop. Philips has a need to fill the silence and change the old man’s focus, “it’s only a blackout. What’s with all the drama and tall stories?” There is something like pleading in his voice. He wants the old man to go easy on him. He doesn’t think he’s being fair. Since when did fair come into it? The old man sighs and an air of disappointment fills the room, he should not have to say this, in saying it, he damns us. He damns us all. We are not ready, I know that in this very moment. Perhaps we never were. “This isn’t just a blackout that’s coming. The lights aren’t going to come back on. Not ever. There is a darkness within us. Always has been. Forget the wheel, or whatever other invention people bandy about as the most important development in our history, fire was

the  transformative technological innovation in our evolution. Fire gave us warmth and light. Respite from the unending darkness. When we stepped out of the darkness, we changed for the better. Problem is, we never did anything about our darkness and it has lain in wait for us ever since. We are afraid of the dark because it speaks to our darkness, and when it speaks, we

feel  it. We feel it and we

know. ” “We know what, old man?” says Philips flippantly. I should punch him in that dumb mouth of his, but I don’t. I want to hear more from the old man and Philips serves a purpose right now. He’s asked the dumb question I wanted to, but was never going to ask. “Can’t you feel it?” asks the old man, he looks around the room as though there is something in here with us, something other than his sorrowful disappointment, “if you give yourself a moment. Cease attending to the constant noise we’ve created in an attempt to deny and ignore our very selves, you will hear it. If you look down into your selves, you will see a darkness that goes all the way down into hell itself.” “This is utter cobblers!” cries Philips, “we’re talking about a blackout, not the end of bloody days!” “There’s that noise,” says the old man calmly, as though he’s teaching a class of five year olds, “you’d rather make some noise than acknowledge how close we all are to that dark half. That all we have ever done is turn our back on that darkness of ours. Ignored our true nature and lived a charade that is now coming to an end.” Philips scowls at the man and for all the world looks like that petulant five year old. The again, I doubt he’s made it to five. Right now, he seems more like a grumpy and petulant two year old slinging toys like they were his own excrement.

Despite his poor behaviour, I want to side with Philips and that proves the old man’s point. I’m in denial and I don’t have the guts to face the truth. We’ve all been in denial and pretended everything was OK for far too long, and now it is too late. I want to ask him all the same. I want to know what it is that we can do, but this question of mine remains unspoken. I already know the answer. There is nothing we can do. It is too late. Far too late. Silence falls over us then. Each of us forming questions and half thoughts then pushing them away and down. There is nothing of use available to us now. All I feel is a shedding of an invisible skin. The armour of civilisation has turned to dust and now I am red raw and vulnerable. I smell of blood and fear and my very existence is an open invitation for the evil that is coming. I hope it is not going to be painful, but my hope is weak and futile. With a force of will, I consider what it is that awaits us and I face my cowardice. There are worse things than death. Death would be an escape from what is coming. Even a painful death would be preferable to the dark wave of change and what it will bestow upon us. That darkness brings chaos, an instantaneous undoing of all that we built over thousands of years. The dark is our undoing and I can already feel myself unravelling.

I really can feel it right now, some of what the old man has told us. His words have summoned my darkness forth and I resent him for that. Now it is not Philips I want to punish, it is him. I swallow this down and I shudder. I have experienced a small taste of what is to come. I can smell it on the wind and I know what is coming with a growing certainty that threatens to completely undo me. So, I fight. I make fists with my hands and I stick with what I know, and I hold it together. I hold it at bay. I do what I have always done, what we have always done, since we huddled over the fire and waited out the long, dark, bitter nights. The darkness crowding in and threatening to take everything from us as we cowered from it and held on in the hope that the sun would rise before we fell prey to the most fearsome of all predators. “This really is the end for us, isn’t it?” the words escape my mouth before I know what it is that I am saying. Thought and feeling made all the more real for them having been said. The old man smiles. It should be inappropriate, but I feel gratitude for both the sight and the warmth of it, “we also fear change. An end heralds a beginning.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” Philips asks. We exchange a look, the old man and I. I know at least some of his meaning and it is cold comfort, but it is at least something. I find that I do not want the coward’s escape of death, instead, I want to see this thing through. Come what may, I want to be a part of what is next. Philips persists, “no! Tell me what you mean! All these ramblings and your mumbo jumbo, it’s all getting on my bloody nerves, you old git!” I’m up on my feet before I know what I am doing, and I’m grabbling Philips’ throat and pinning him against the wall before he can react. I stare into his eyes and all I see is fear. Fear and cowardice. Whether it’s mine, or his, I can’t tell.

“Shut up.”

That is all I say. The sound of those two words is alien to me. I am broadcasting on another frequency and there is no recognition to be had here, and that casts me adrift on the first waves of the dark tide that will very soon consume us all. So soon? I thought we had longer. I wanted longer. We always want longer, and we are never ready.

We go unwillingly into that dark night. My fear is displaced by an overwhelming sadness. I feel the darkness stirring and I can no longer separate the darkness without, from that darkness within. Everything is bleeding into one and I feel it rising up.

Counter to everything, I feel that upward movement and an inexplicable elation. I am with the part of me that I have always considered to be the entirety of who and what I am. Now I know how wrong I was. This part of me has had its day and now it is leaving. It rises, only so it can fall, and it will fall eternally.

That well of darkness is infinite. That is the hell that awaits us. The hell that has stalked us all of our days. I turn to the old man and we both smile, but this time I see his smile and it does not warm me. It is cold and it is hungry, as are his eyes. His lips move further upwards and reveal teeth that are a threat. I feel my detached response and what frightens me the most is that this does not frighten me. It excites me. I am being freed and there will be no rules. Only me and the darkness. I doubt there will be much of me left after this eternal night begins. Then I understand. I want this. I have always wanted this. Everything before this has been a lie. This is not who I am, because there is no

who . This is what I am. This is my nature, and I am returning to it. I am returning to the darkness. There is only the darkness. There has only ever been the darkness. It indulged us. It allowed us to play in the light for a short while, now it is reclaiming its own. This is when the lights go out for the very last time and the darkness finally swoops back into its rightful dominion. The lights go out across the globe, and that is then the light goes out in each and every one of us. This is when the light goes out of me, and this is when the first of the screaming starts. I think some of the screams are mine. It’s so difficult to tell. It’s even more difficult to care.


Hard rain rattled the window. The occasional cloudburst couldn't drown out my mother screaming at my father. Stiff like a mummy, my hands are hard-pressed against my ears. I'm paralyzed with fear and confusion. In the lower bunk, my little brother sobbed in a fetal position. Leaning over the bunk, I whispered, "Carl... Carl, it's okay." I repeated this lie several times in attempting to comfort him - and myself. His crying was as disturbing to me as the screaming. The front door slammed, and the screaming stopped. I peeked through a crack in the bedroom door and saw a butcher's knife lying on the floor. Mother chased Dad out of the house again - this time with knives. She drank a lot. Sometimes when she drank, she was a werewolf on a full moon. Mom's bedroom door slammed. I heard only my brother gasping for breath. Silence outside our room is tense. I climbed back up the bunk ladder and wrapped the pillow over my ears to drown out the last of my brother's whimpers. It is quiet. Shaken awake in the small dark hours of the morning, I heard, "Paulyray, get dressed. I need you at the store today." It is my father. He whispered he needed my help because Sundays are busy. I liked when Dad said he needed me. Groggy from little sleep, excitement pulled me off the rack in a haze. Winter days are short and cold, but I insisted on wearing denim shorts. And my red, white, and blue cowboy shirt with the fringed sleeves. "Son, it's cold outside," said Dad. I look at him, shrug and shove my scout knife into my pocket and searched for shoes. Dad was a man of few words. He understood kids learn best from the rewards and consequences of their choices. He didn't argue with me but grabbed a coat for me without a word. We slink out of the house. The sky is misting as we sloshed through wet grass to the car. Dad's right: it was cold. Moments later, I sank into the large bench seat of the pinkish-orange Cadillac with the big tail fins. The same car I filled the gas tank with the garden hose two months before. I was playing gas station attendant. I don't remember him being angry with me. Safely nestled on my father's side in the ugly Sherman tank, we navigated the empty streets of downtown Los Angeles. Before sunrise, the glare of streetlights flashed on the wet asphalt. It was silent except for a low rumble of the muffler and tires treading through the drizzle. A lone car passes with a whoosh and splash on the windows. Dad did not speak of last night. He had a lot of kind qualities. Knowing when to talk to a traumatized young boy was not one of them. The sun lies behind the hills as we crawled through city streets. Last night's rain raised the oily odor of the city streets to the surface. The store is a block away. The corner building is plastered with signage. One electric sign remained lit. "Booth's Fountain and Sundries" flashed in the faint light of early dawn. The more prominent signs on each side of the store are dim. The entire building is a bulletin board for every type of service a local would need. Cosmetics, all kinds of insurance, 'notary public' and 'pay utility bills here.' Liquor, ice cream, milk; you name it, there is a sign for it. It is the neighborhood trading post. Shivering next to my Dad, he unlocks the heavy wooded framed glass doors. He nudged it open with his shoulder, and the alarm bell ripped through the neighborhood like a shot from a starter's pistol. It marked the rush to prepare the store for opening. Leaving the door ajar, I remained protected in the doorway. Tied bundles of newspapers had been tossed on the sidewalk. I popped the twine with my pocketknife and ripped off the protective wax paper covers. Sunday editions of the Times and Examiner came in sections and had to be assembled. My bare legs quiver, and frozen fingers work feverishly for Dad's approval. I shuffle the sections together with an assembly routine that gets a smile on Dad's face when he checks on me thru the window. An old pickup pulls to the curb and slows but does not come to a stop. A man in the back plops two more bundles on the corner. It's a small stack of La Opinion, the Spanish paper, and a smaller stack of the Daily Racing Form. Pulling away, the man rubs gloved hands together vigorously and calls out, "Cold, cowboy?" I shrugged to give the impression I'm tough. I cram thick Sunday papers into vertical racks that line both sides of the entrance. I slip into the warmer building, closing the door behind me. Inside the store, lights remain low. I filled sugar containers. My sponge squeaked across the counter and the backless, round red swivel bar stools. The fountain area emitted an odor of disinfectant from last night's sanitizing of rubber floor mats. Sweet smells of ice cream, donuts, and syrups mixed with faint lingering cigarette smoke are stirring. Two large electric heaters pushed a welcome warm sensation around the room. Dad rolled down rubber mats behind the counter. He made quick work of preparing large coffee urns. The aroma of fresh brew saturates the store. He went to the back and returned looking like a pharmacist in his blue smock. Holding the cash drawer and swinging a milk crate, he puts the box behind the register for me to stand on. He reminded me how to open and close the register and a quick review on the skill of making change. The keys to the old mechanical cash register are hard to press with small fingers. I would scoot the crate around the deep chest-high horizontal ice cream freezers. The thick insulated steel folding topside doors were heavy. I struggled to reach the ice cream buckets deep in that freezer. Once, leaning over too far to get to the bottom, I fell in. I had to be rescued as my legs kicked back and forth in the air. Above the freezers are the syrup pumps. Even on the crate, I stretched and balanced on one leg to reach them while holding oversized Dixie cups in my small hand. I memorized how many pumps for a chocolate shake or a cherry cola. I made malts and shakes and responded to the ding of the El Rey infrared oven. It heated po'boy and ham and cheese sandwiches. On frequent breaks, I arranged and reviewed comic books. My favorite sodas were RC Cola, Tab, and Bubble Up. And the candy rack! Big Hunk, Abba-Zabas, and Moon Pies were my favorites. This store is a kid's dream. Dad pointed and nodded towards the door. It's time. I opened one of the heavy entry double doors as Dad flicked on the remaining lights. There was a domino action from the back to the front of the store. Some fixtures pop on, and others fluttered. The store came to life as if a black and white movie turned technicolor. Neon signs, frig lights, phone booth, and jukebox flashed and blinked. The store awoke with the buzz of electricity and color. The back-counter shelves were stacked with assorted ice cream dishes and bone-colored coffee cups and saucers. Alongside is a jadeite Hamilton Beach Triple head malt-mixer and stainless-steel mixing tumblers. The bright-lit mirror behind them could use another wiping, but I couldn't reach it. The aroma of brewing coffee is comforting. I made Boston coffee with lots of cream and sugar. There is an increasing whoosh of cars and trucks from the wet streets through the doorway. Yellow honey-like warmth of sunlight filled the store through one large window. I felt I belonged there. Marvin shuffled in and claimed his regular stool at the end of the counter next to me. He would put his hand on my back and lean over to inspect the comics I'm reviewing. He's an older weathered-faced man about 5' 9", the same height as Dad. Marv's thin from drinking or illness. His usual wrinkled brown suit hung on him. The trousers were too long, and the baggy cuffs gathered on his shoes were soaked from the rain. A cigarette hangs off the corner of his mouth. The worn black fedora gave him the look of a dime-store novel gumshoe except that he wore it on the back of his head like a cub reporter. It covered his stringy hair but for a strand over one eye. He needed a shave. Marvin was always friendly, with a twinkle in his eye when he smiled. He rubbed my crimson-headed noggin and, with a gravelly voice, "How ya doin, kid? Given Pops a hand today?" "On Sundays 'cuz it's really busy," I said. "Good. He needs extra help on Sundays," says Marvin. Dad slides a cup of coffee in front of him and acknowledges him with a nod and "Marv." Dad often fed Marvin coffee and food and gave him small chores to do around the store. I don't know if Marvin had a job as he hung around the store a lot and traveled around town with Dad on errands. Gordon struts in next. He planted himself on the stool on my other side. Gordon and Marvin were usually the first ones in and claimed regular spots. He came in only for coffee and small chats with Dad. A tall man, Gordon, gave me the impression that he might have managed a lumber yard. He's dressed in meticulously ironed khaki slacks and plaid shirts. His hair shaved close to the sides like most men in 1960. He lived a block behind the store, and I'd been to his house a few times. He once gave me an expensive metal toy race car. A British racing green Indianapolis style wind-up he brought from Germany. The store, now bright with sunshine and chatter, when Pauline strolls in. She worked the early shift. Pop says, "Good morning, Pauline," with a slight smile. Pointing at me, Pauline says, "I see he's here again today. You sure you need me?" "Maybe not. It's time he had a regular job," Dad said with a wink. She says, "I'll stay around for a while in case he doesn't work out." Pauline's in her 50s, short and sparky. Under her full-length knitted sweater, she wore a light green waitress uniform and apron. A tight hairnet controlled her wavy red hair. She is full of energy with a sharp, sarcastic sense of humor. Immediately opening cartons of cigarettes, she filled gaps in columns of smokes shelved behind the cash register. It is a neighborhood store. The adults called my Dad "Pops." The kids say, "Mr. B." Pops knows the neighborhood, and they know him. He greets all with a smile when they climb onto a counter seat. Kids hand him notes from parents for cigarettes. Sometimes he got a call from parents saying they were sending the kid over. Other times he might call their house to check. He would then staple packs or cartons in a brown paper bag to take home. In a short time, the counter is full up, and the noise and chatter increased. The whir of the big ceiling fans kicked in and sucked out cigarette smoke. Everyone smoked. The public phone rang in the background. If no one stepped up quickly, Marvin might take a message, or he might shut the accordion doors to quiet the ring. Ka-ching of the register, slamming of the cash drawer, the clink of the coffee cups, ticking of the El Rey oven, and the grind and whir of the shake mixers. The store was alive with friendly business. Behind the counter, I mix sodas, malts, donuts, and empty ashtrays. My arms weren't long enough to be trusted with the hot coffee, so Pauline served that. I felt important. In the early afternoon, Hobo Jim bobbed in. He is a large round man with a potbelly. He wore an almost white T-shirt stretched out at the neck. It had food spots and a cigarette burn hole. He slept in his clothing. He made attempts to clean up by slicking back his hair. He was a real hobo and bragged about his escapades. Dad liked Jim. I liked Jim. On occasion, he spent nights at our house for a shower and a meal. He retold stories of life on the rails. He hopped trains, sometimes not knowing the destination. More than once, he was chased and beaten by the "bulls." Jim, a storyteller with a vision of freedom and a lot of embellishment, has us gripped in his vagabond tales late into the night. Tommy showed up to relieve Pauline around two p.m. Short and stocky, he's a youthful mid-30 and energetic. He is fast and smooth in movement but patient with me. Tommy taught me quicker ways to do things. He would lift me to clear off the dishes and show me how to wash cups in the sink at the counter. Tommy made a hard liquor sale a circus act. Everyone's attention is focused on Tommy as he tells jokes and flips the bottle in the air like a juggler. He breaks one now and then to everyone's amusement except Dad. Teens fill the store in the afternoon, ordering sodas, shakes, and some stealing candy. On guard for theft, Tommy watched the candy rack and beer frig. The soda fountain is now a frenzy of kids squeezing between the stools to get to the counter. Most of the customers are very patient with them and assisting the watch for candy theft. It's as if it is their store, too. Like a king in my castle, I scurried behind the counter and rang up sales. I felt years older working the cash register. I tried not to flaunt my freedom to enjoy all the treats available. It seemed I had a lot of friends at the store. I don't remember questioning their motives. A kid dropped coins in the jukebox. The older crowd paid their checks, said goodbyes, and made their way out. The atmosphere of the store changed. Song after song of doo-wop filled the corner. The high schoolers attend Belmont High. Their favorite tunes are the Reflections, the Coasters, and Dion and the Belmonts. The group had no connection to the school other than the name. Tommy played tunes when the kids ran out of coins. He knew the words from hearing the songs over and over. Girls might dance on the corner outside. Others slurp large cherry colas, and root beer floats from giant Dixie Cups and parfait glasses. They sway their heads side to side. Some tapped their glass with spoons. I bopped my head with the rhythm and sang the words I knew. What a day! What fun! The day turns dark, and clouds form again. The energy in the store winds down, and kids go home for the night. The sales turn to alcohol and cigarettes, leading up to closing time. The local street gangs, Clanton and Playboys, cruise the street in noisy old, lowrider cars and send in young couriers for beer and cigarettes. Some of them have been banned from the store. Night falls, and thoughts of going home are creeping back. I don't want the day to end, but I'm tired. Tommy taps the back of my head on his way out. "Thanks for the help, kid." A light rain begins as Dad locks the door behind Tommy, and he turns off the outside lights. A minute later, a young man knocks on the window, pleading for a pack of cigarettes or beer or a short dog of wine. Dad explains to me that this is how a store gets robbed by opening that door after closing. Dad shakes his head back and forth and shuts down the lights, one switch after the other. Dread rises over me while the last bit of life drains out of the store. Dad and I move to the back room, away from the storefront windows to not be seen or someone will keep knocking. He settled into a little cubby behind storage shelves. I grabbed comic books, cherry coke, and a po'boy sandwich. He worked his lever-operated adding machine by the light of a single gooseneck desk lamp. The device clacked and ratcheted. Staring down at the shadow from the lamp we cast across the floor, I stand at Dad's side. I ask him, "Are you moving out?" Surprised, Dad turned, "For a while." Short, no discussion. I wait for more, but nothing comes. I dragged my feet to the storage room, and he returned to the adding machine. In the storeroom, I pushed dusty, heavy boxes of empty quart beer bottles. They're stacked on top of the wood plank that hides the concrete-encased floor safe. Positioning the dusty boxes alongside, I laid on my belly across the dusty boxes. With my head hanging over the side, I reached down and spun the tumbler. I initially wished to open the safe and then slower and slower. Listening to the tick, tick, tick was a  distraction from the mounting dread and held back my tears. The store is silent except for the spinning tumbler and the ratcheting of the adding machine. I watch my Dad's shadow against the wall.


Here's Part 2! Sorry if it feels rushed, I didn't have that much time to submit this story. If you haven't already, please read Part 1 to have some context to this story! I also changed the perspective to be Brook, since its more natural for me. I hope you enjoy! The three check our pockets. All we found were a couple of pennies, a paperclip or two, some scraps of paper, and a couple of receipts. Since we had practically nothing, we decided to head over to someone's house, but we didn't know exactly whos. "By the way, I'm Kat, and this is Jordan," Kat points towards Jordan, "And you are..?" "Oh! I'm Brooklyn, but call me Brook." I say, hesitation. I've never really talked to anyone, let alone been asked my name, so it felt unnatural that these girls wanted to get to know me. "That's a really pretty name!" said Jordan. "Thanks!" "So, could we head over to your place? To get some paper?" "Um, my parents aren't home, and, uh, I don't think we have paper.." I know, I know, a lame excuse. But if I told these girls that I'm a homeless orphan, they might think that I'm weird or something. Or they might call Child Services. Whatever it is, it's gonna be bad. "Okay then... we'll just head over to my place!" said Kat. "Okay sure!" Jordan says, grabbing her cake-pop. ~~~ We reached Kat's house, and went inside. It was one of those nice houses, cozy, yet big enough for a family of three. I haven't gone inside someone's house for years, so I was pretty self-conscious for a bit. I hope her parents aren't home, I thought to myself. I looked like a mess . My long, brown hair was messy and tangled. I scavenged a small comb once, but it didn't help detangle my hair half the time. I wore a gray tee that said, Beach Vibes , worn out jeans covered in stains from dirt, and a dirty black sneakers. I looked like I rolled around in mud, and didn't bother taking a bath for 10 years. "Kat, are you home? Are you going to accept the invitation?" asked a woman's voice from the stairs. She had dirty blonde hair tied up into a high bun, with a pencil holding it together. She wore a gray robe over nurse scrubs, along with fluffy white slippers. "Yea, I am! So is Jordan, and my new friend, Brook!" said Kat, pointing towards me. I give a small wave, "Hi, miss!" "We just need some paper to register. Could we borrow some, Mrs. Lyke?" "Of course, Jordan! And tell your mom I said hello!" "Will do! And thank you!" "No problem girls!" I nodded, and followed Kat and Jordan to a table with art supplies, and black sheets of paper. Kat hands each of us a pencil and some paper. "Okay, Brook, has your magic been unlocked before?" asked Kat. "Has my what been unlocked?" I asked, confused. Kat sighed, "Every mage has to get their magic unlocked before they go to a school to learn how to channel their magic. My mom can do it for you though!" Kat's mother comes over holding a box of 7 crystals, lined up perfectly. "Ok Brook, pick a crystal that stands out to you." Mrs. Lyke tells me. I hesitate. "It's better to close your eyes." She says with a warm smile. I close my eyes. At first, I have no idea which direction to reach towards. Suddenly, I feel pulled towards slightly to the left. I hesitate, but reach out towards to feel a crystal in my hands. As soon as my fingers touched it's surface, I shiver, as if part of me resonated with it. I pull the crystal towards me and open my eyes. I had picked the last crystal. The crystal fills with colors, from a deep maroon, to a lime green, to a neon blue. Round and round the color spectrum, until the crystal stops on a deep, rich purple. "Ooh, nice choice!" says Jorden, "I got an emerald green!" "I got a light pink!" said Kat. "Dark purple, purple, purple.." Mrs. Lyke mutters to herself. She scans through a stack of cards, colored all the colors of the rainbow. She stops at a dark purple card, and hands it to me. It read: Dark Purple: If your magic aura is dark purple, your brave, courageous, and willing to do whatever it takes. Only 3% mages have this aura, and 13% of the time they're Evil. Huh, interesting.. There are Good AND Evil mages... "Ooh, you got a brave aura! Neat!" said Jordan, "I got an illusion aura, basically means I'm really clever and can pull off a lot of tricks." "I got a kind aura!" said Kat, "That means I'm kind to everyone I meet, so I know for sure I'll never be an Evil Mage." "Okay girls, chit chat time is over. You have to register before everyone else does!" said Kat's mother. We all nod, and write our letters accepting the offer... ~~~ The rest of the summer went by pretty fast! I would scavenge for food in the morning, come back for lunch, then I go and meet up with Kat and Jorden. On August 31, I packed everything I needed. Kat's mother helped me buy the books we needed, and also got me a luggage (I claimed that my family doesn't travel often.) "Clothes, check! Books, check! Snacks, check! Shoes, check! I think I'm ready!" I called downstairs. I closed my luggage, and carried it downstairs to see everyone waiting for me. I gave everyone a quick hug. "Don't worry! I'll be back for Christmas!" I say, with a smile. I walk to Kat's house with my luggage, with Kat and her mom waiting for me. "Hi Brook!" said Kat, taking my luggage, "We're all ready to go! We're just waiting for Jorden!" Jorden runs up behind me, heaving her luggage, "I'm here! Let's go!" ~~~ As we board our plane, we take out snack and some books for the 4 hour flight, and start reading. I had brought my favorite book, The School For Good and Evil: One True King with me. I was so excited for the flight! I had never been on a plane before! I open it up to the first page and began to read. ~~~ I woke up to Kat shaking my arm, "Wake up!" she exclaimed, "I think we're about to crash!" "Wait, what? " I exclaim. I look out the window to see us heading straight towards a formation of three rocks, in the shape of a triangle. "Are we heading straight for the Bermuda Triangle?" Jordan yelled. We all started freaking out. "I heard that everyone that goes in never comes out!" said Kat. Which didn't help our nerves. "I think Brook was right! That was a scam letter! We're going to die!" Jordan screamed. As we drew closer and closer towards the eerie rocks, we brace for impact. What impact, we had no idea. But I was thinking of some sort of creature, grabbing us by the waist and pulling us into the ocean. And surprisingly, everyone else on the plane wasn't freaking out. I don't want to die yet, I think to myself. God, why me? I close my eyes as we dive straight into the water. I expected the plane to be filled with water. I hold my breath. "Uh, guys?" says Kat, "We're not dead ." I open my eyes and look out the window. Instead of seeing the Atlantic Ocean, I saw.. a blue sky? I looked down to see a village, the buildings so small, there were the size of a fly from the plane. It was a cozy little town, something you would see out of a storybook. The sky was more bluer than normal, the grass greener, the clouds fluffier, it looked like something out of a 5 year old's imagination! We landed shortly after, and we exited the plane with our luggage. The people were very different! Some people had wings, some had capes that turned you invisible, some had wands, some were floating in mid-air, and some were even casting spells! I noticed this boy, about my age, he sent an orange blast of light towards the sky. It burst, and turned into a phoenix ! "We're definitely not in New York anymore."


Fieri walked into her room after a hard day at work. She was sick of people mistreating her. As a waitress working for a classy and expensive restaurant, it was to be expected. But she’d grown tired of it rather quickly. It was always some elderly man or teenage boy harassing her or drooling over her. She knew she was pretty, with her long dark chocolate hair curled and pinned up elegantly, and equally stunning dark eyes.

She wore glasses and thought they made her seem mature, but a lot of the female customers that came into the restaurant deemed them a pointless distraction atop her curvy tattooed body. As if they thought it was an attempt to draw the customers’ attention away from her tattoos with them. An older religious woman had come in once and refused to be seated by Fieri, claiming she was the face of sin simply because she had them. After starting her job, she tried to cover her tattoos to save the face of the restaurant she worked for. She’d even swapped to contacts. But she eventually grew tired of that, too.

She was exhausted. Mentally and physically. Fieri often worked fifty hour weeks and never had much to show for it. She’d grown disgusted by the treatment she received at work and had even begun therapy to relieve some of the stress and anger she’d built up and buried.

Her therapist had instructed her to start a journal on her phone, and after every terrible occurrence she had at work, or even at the end of every day, she was to document it and express what she felt should’ve happened, or what she wished would happen instead. The therapist had said it would be a good outlet for her, and could add some positivity in her life amidst the poor treatment. She’d even suggested a specific app. So Fieri had downloaded the journal app on her phone, but she’d never touched it. She thought it was silly, as if she were a little girl keeping a diary. She often thought to give it a try, but never actually did. Today was especially bad, though. And she decided to at least give it a chance. She opened the app and labeled a folder, “Change”. She started a fresh note in the folder and began typing:

Day 1 A woman in her mid forties poured her drink on me today because it had too much ice. She said she asked for light ice, but she didn’t and we both know she didn’t. One thing I wished could change is that people be a little more reasonable.

Fieri saved the note and closed the app. She then plugged her phone up on her nightstand to charge, took a shower, and went to bed for work the next morning.

This next work day hadn’t gone as particularly bad for Fieri, but not better, either. She’d had two notable experiences today.

One had been a family of three. And when they’d arrived, she offered the parents a booster seat for their two-year-old, but they’d declined. They had said he was advanced enough to eat without one. But their time spent at the restaurant had proved them to be wrong. The little boy spent the entirety of their meal screaming and throwing food at her every time she approached their table. The other experience had been strange. Fieri led an older woman to a table. She was perhaps in her early fifties. She’d been to the restaurant a few times, always in a foul mood. Fieri asked the woman what she’d like to drink and the woman told her. She retrieved the drink, but upon reaching the table, she bumped it slightly, spilling some of the drink onto the table, and splashing a few drops onto the woman’s shirt. Fieri panicked and immediately started apologizing in remorse for the accident. She watched the customer’s face contort into anger, then stop and completely change into something more calm.

“It’s alright, dear.” The woman had told her. “It’ll wash out.” Fieri had frozen, dumbfounded. She’d never expected such a response out of the woman. The woman had reacted reasonably to the accident, rather than demanding to see her manager or pelting her with threats. Now home, she opened the journal app on her phone and clicked the “Change” folder. Starting an additional note, she began to type: Day 2 A family of three came in. The parents had a two-year-old son and refused a booster seat. The boy spent the whole time screaming and once full; he started throwing his food at me when I tried to refill their drinks or ask if they needed anything. One thing I wished could change is bringing untrained children into higher-end restaurants such as ours. Or hire a babysitter if you want to spend the evening out, I suppose. The next day, Fieri got home feeling just as tired as usual. She plopped down tiredly on her bed, kicking her heels off lazily. She recalled a few things from her day. One worthy of documenting in her app. And the other, just strange.

An elderly man had come in, and she’d taken him to one of the few remaining booths at the back of the restaurant. He’d begun talking about his deceased wife and how lonely he was from the moment she hosted him. He took a seat, and she placed a menu down and asked for his drink order. He told her he wanted water, so she nodded and left to fill his drink. Upon returning, she placed his drink on the table. Before she could ask him what he would like to eat, he reached out and clasped her hand around his, and kissed it. The elderly man told Fieri she was too stunning to be working as a waitress, making minimum wage and that he could subsidise her easily.

Fieri retracted her hand carefully and declined respectfully. This had enraged the old man, and he blurted obscenities at her and left the restaurant in a fit. The strange occurrence had been a family of four; two parents, a toddler and a newborn. Fieri had seen them come in and had frowned, having dealt with this the day before. But she put on a smile and went to greet them. The woman was distressed and was talking to the father. ”Chad, I know you made reservations. But I really don’t think we need to be bringing the kids in here just because the babysitter canceled.” She told him. ”But you’ve been waiting all week. It’ll be alright.” The father responded. ”I just don’t want to ruin other people’s dinners, honey. It’ll be hard enough to keep them quiet. They haven’t even napped.” ”Oh, come on Sarah. It’s our anniversary.” Chad said. Fieri greeted them and offered them a booster. She watched Sarah look at Chad, pleading for an answer. But Chad’s face had completely changed. He looked Fieri in the eyes and said, “Actually, no. It looks busy here and our babysitter canceled. We’ll just reschedule. I’m sorry for wasting your time.” Sarah looked just as shocked as Fieri did, but she smiled and mouthed the word ‘sorry’ to Fieri. Then the family had rescheduled left. Sighing to herself, Fieri opened her journal app to the “Change” folder and started typing the day into it: Day 3 Today was very weird. An old man I seated flirted with me and asked if he could financially support me. I declined, of course. But he marched out of the restaurant angrily. One thing I’d change is respect. People are so openly disrespectful to not only hosts but just in general.

Fieri plugged her phone up to charge and went to shower, while puzzling about the things she put into the app and the incidents that followed. It was as if things were actually changing.

The following day, Fieri had actually had a good day, aside from the people who’d tipped only a few dollars. She decided she’d put that into the app since she didn’t have anything really terrible come out of the day. Day 4 Today wasn’t actually too bad. Just small tips. I guess one thing I’d change is that people should understand that I rely on tips as much as my hourly rate. It’s just rude to tip poorly when the waitress is consistently catering to multiple customers, and somehow doing it well. The next day, Fieri was actually excited to document her day in the app. She couldn’t explain what was happening, but she knew it had something to do with her notes app. It was like the things she typed were coming true. Today, a kind younger gentleman had made her day when he tipped her fifty dollars for doing such a splendid job. She insisted he didn’t, but the man had refused to take it back and claimed she deserved it for her hard work. He told her his girlfriend was a waitress and that he understood the struggle. A different couple had come in, however, and the girl did nothing but complain about her entire meal. About the steak not being to her liking and how the sides weren’t cooked how’d she’d specifically ask. Then she mumbled something about an allergy. Fieri had felt bad for her boyfriend. He’d sat there quietly, red with pure embarrassment. Then he’d quietly paid for the meal and tipped accordingly. She opened her journal app to the “Change” folder. Day 5 Today was splendid and slightly miserable at the same time. A young man tipped me 50 bucks! On the other hand, a young couple came in and the girl whined over everything imaginable. Her boyfriend was so embarrassed.

One thing I would change is the public decency some people have. There’s no reason to go out in public with those types of manners, let alone a classy restaurant. Fieri laid her phone down and grabbed some clothes, then routinely went to shower before heading to bed. The following morning, Fieri sat on her bed after getting dressed for work. The weekend had flown by too quickly for her. All she’d managed to do was clean and do her laundry, after being called in to work a few hours both days. She barely ever made time for herself with how much she worked. She hadn’t even had time to document anything in her journal. Fieri thought about her journal app and smiled, an idea forming. If the things she’d typed had come true, surely this would work too. She opened it up to her “Change” folder. Day 6 I’ve been called in on my days off now for several weeks in a row, and it’s exhausting me. One thing I’d change is my manager giving me days off or maybe some PTO. Fieri smiled, sure of herself. She stood and grabbed her purse and keys, ready to get to work. She was excited about the outcome her notes would bring her this time. Walking through the restaurant, Fieri smiled slightly. She was on her way to inform the cook she needed a steak to replace the one he’d prepared for an order. A woman had come in a short while ago and had ordered a steak. Upon receiving it, she had stopped Fieri to explain to her she preferred her steak to be cooked a little longer.

But she’d done so in a mannerly fashion. It had pleased Fieri, as she thought back to the note she’d written previously about manners and decency. However, she’d crossed paths with her boss a few times, without him so much as glancing her way, as if she didn’t exist. She waited until he was about to leave and caught him on his way out. ”Um, excuse me, sir? Tony?“ she asked. He turned around while digging in the pockets of his long name brand trench coat. “Yes, can I help you? I’m kind of in a hurry.” Fieri talked quickly to hold his attention. “So sir, I’ve been working a lot of overtime here recently and-“ Tony didn’t even look her in the eyes as moved to dig in the front pockets of his dress pants. “Yeah, yeah. You and everyone else, Fiery. Oh, have you seen my keys? They’re not in my pockets.“ Fieri frowned and held her tongue. Instead, she continued. “Anyway, I was thinking it would be nice to have some time off. Since I’ve not had as much time to do the things I need to do in my little spare time.” Tony sighed in frustration. “You know you’re not the only one to come in on their days off. Everyone else does too. I don’t know why you even bothered asking me such a question. I’ve got to find my keys.” He said as he brushed past Fieri, pausing for one last comment. “Oh, and don’t ask again. We need the extra help.” Fieri bit back tears as she rushed to the employee’s restroom to take a minute to recompose herself. The note she’d written hadn’t worked the way she’d thought it would. Later that night, Fieri laid in bed, still in her work attire. She had come home and flopped down on the bed, sad. She’d held her tears back all day and now she was tired of holding them back.

Her dark mascara ran down the side of her flushed cheeks. “He called me Fiery. And only two of us actually come in when called cause we’re all they have. Maybe if they hired more people…” Her voice trailed off as she sat up and wiped her face. Fieri knew it was no use. That talking about it wouldn’t make her feel any better. She laid her phone down on the nightstand without plugging it up to charge and went to take a long, hot shower.

Fieri didn’t touch her phone at all that night, didn’t even bother with the notes app. She’d simply gone to bed right after her shower. The next morning, Fieri moved slowly around the restaurant, having no motivation. It was only after she’d seated her therapist and asked for her drink order that she realized who it was. Her therapist didn’t respond as she looked Fieri in the eyes. “Fieri? Is everything alright?” Fieri snapped from her daze, ashamed. “Oh, Dr. Williams! Um, yes. Everything is fine. What would you like to drink? I think I missed your response.“ The therapist looked deep into her eyes and then clicked her tongue. “You abused the power, didn’t you?” ”I’m sorry,?” Fieri asked, confused. ”Oh, nothing. Nevermind that. How are things? With work, I mean. Has journaling helped?” Fieri frowned. “Things were okay, I guess, until they weren’t. I’ve stopped using my journal app. The one you suggested was great. I just, I don’t know.” “I see. I made that app, you know. Though, I’m glad to see you at least gave it a try. Makes me proud.” “I’m sorry, Dr. Williams. Did you say you made the app? The one you suggested to me?” Fieri said, appalled. ”That’s right. Oh, and I said a coffee would be wonderful.” She answered with a wink. Fieri couldn’t speak. Her heart was lodged in her throat and she could feel her pulse all over her body. She nodded at her therapist and fled to get her a coffee.

From a distance, she kept watch on the therapist, refilling her coffee without another spoken word between them. Fieri had somehow convinced herself that she’d heard wrong or possibly misunderstood. She told herself there was no way her therapist would lie to her about such a thing. But how had she done it? The app was almost like magic, bringing her wishes to life. While cleaning a table on the other side of the restaurant from her therapist, Fieri hadn’t noticed when Dr. Williams got up, paid, or even left.

She went to clean the table and upon lifting the napkin under the therapist’s coffee cup, Fieri found a folded twenty-dollar bill and a scribble on the back of one of Dr. Williams’ business cards. The note read: Keep journaling. Things will only get better! Fieri only smiled and tucked the note and the twenty-dollar bill away into her pocket.