Next!” The voice droned from behind the dusty desk stacked with papers, some in neat piles and others in disarray. The young man was plain under his inconspicuous mustache that hid any emotion. He pushed his thick-rimmed black glasses back into place, closer to his brown eyes. “Next!” His voice tolled out to the line of people waiting outside of the abandon warehouse’s storage room. “We don’t have all day,” his voice flat and unyielding to anything other than monotony. An oversized woman in a brown oversized coat came around the corner and approached his desk. She spoke in a low tone, thickly glazed with a Russian accent. “That’ll be $10.00 ma’am. Just sign here.” He turned a pen towards her thick hand as she hunched over part of his desk, still contemplating if what she was about to do was right. Once, long ago, she had been a young and successful dancer at the Bolshoi. It had been her ticket out of poverty, yet a one-way road into a life of control and neglect. Which one would have been better — the poverty or the neglect? She was still unsure of as she hovered over the table, gripping the pen between her fingers, which still showed an air of delicacy to them. As she stood, her feet splayed out into first position. It had been part of the drills she went through in ballet, to master that one position before going onto the next. And though it seemed easy to stand with feet turned out, she still remembers her tiny feet kicked at and forcibly moved about by impatient hands. Oh, the impatient hands! always moving her little body about. She had shown so much promise, but it was never good enough. Not even when she had turned fifteen and was the lead ballerina. Her hands had been rapped on so often, that even as she still hunched over the table she could feel them rapping on her knuckles, and she dropped the pen. Other people waiting in the long line were growing impatient. Only moments had passed, but her memories were flying as if she were ending her life. She wanted to see the memories and proclaim to herself she had made all the right decisions, that without them she would be worse off. But there was no way to know, unless she signed the paper. The other people were eager. Some had made their decision and were unquestionably itching to hold that very pen, encased in her large fingers, smothering the time that each expectant customer had to wait. All while their own quiet memories played out in each of the waiting people. Some were old, some very young — just children, holding their mother’s hands. Was this pen meant for them? The old woman looked back over her shoulder after she had reestablished her grip. The man behind the desk had all day. It didn’t bother him how long she took, he would always be there, day after day. Pushing his punch card into the slot to hear the familiar clank of time in, and clank of time out each day. But the woman’s focus was behind her, and she was not moving slowly, it all was just moments — more moments that racked onto the pain of her life. Or had her life not been the pain she thought it to be? Had it been a good life? Could she miss it, when she could not remember it? She paid the fee and held the pen that was to erase everything. All she had to do was sign.
Sign the name she was given, the name that had been screamed to her for years, the name that had been whispered by the other children sympathetic to her at night. The name that had been dragged and tormented by others through the crevices of her life, that she rather just forget. “Yes!” she said, as she straightened herself up, and looked kindly to the clerk behind the counter. Her feet turned forward, and she smiled for a moment to him. She was not seeing the man behind the counter but her father’s face. His sweet, joyful smile that made her so proud to be his daughter each month when he came to visit her at the orphanage. Without another thought her hand moved, scrolling across the dusted paper with thick black ink and highlighted sections that went unread. There her name ended it all. “Thank you, NEXT!” the man in the checkered shirt and tan pants pushed his glasses closer to his brown eyes and forced a large stamp onto the paper in red ink. “Next”. He drawled out, his voice echoed out to the people around the corner, lined down the warehouse, and down the street to a thick yellow line on the ground that read. STOP, line ends here. Those who had missed lining up early enough, turned back, dejected at their opportunity to leave their old lives behind, to forget forever and start a new. Maybe tomorrow… they would tell themselves. But for the ones that had made it into the line, all awaited his face. They talked of the man with the thick-rimmed glasses and longed to hold the coveted pen. After the old woman in the oversized coat had turned and left, the line moved smoothly. The man with thick-rimmed glasses never left his swivel seat that creaked when he turned to get the next application. He never removed himself from behind the old metal desk, the color of the top unknown, covered with papers, but the front showed a worn pea green, left over from the 70s. Around him were stacks of papers and boxes, dusted over with the remains of all those who had come and stood before him. Those that had held the pen and then left with not a trace of their old life active within their memories or bodies. Free, he often thought to himself. I am in the business of freedom, he often told himself, to justify his work and actions. As if to liberate himself from the haunting memories of all those faces who passed by him, never to remember their old lives. And he wondered, would he as well one day come to the yellow line that said, STOP, line ends here. Would he stand before the one that would take his job and wear the thick-rimmed glasses, checkered shirt and tan polyester pants that were always a little too short, and hold the heavy pen in his hand while looking over the papers with highlighted sections and thick black ink? Would he look down to see the red stamp? COMPLETED Would he be happier as he turned to leave and live a life free from checkered shirts and glasses? ~ On the beaches of Maui, it is said you can touch the edges of pleasure and hold them the longest within your senses. There are not many places in the world that can promise such pleasure, but Maui does. It is said that if while in that pleasure you are beholding the beaches and waves, the organic life of birds, seals, and turtles that you could reach a place of ascension and become that which you have always long to be. It is said that if you fill yourself with goodness, then goodness you will become. He had lived on Maui for two years. He had made it passed the dreaded island fever and found that the perimeter of his life was to remain within this island forever more. What brought him was pure curiosity, but a reoccurring dream of an abandon warehouse and dusted papers played out in those uncontrolled moments of sleep, the ones he tried to escape, and pushed him out to the islands. He often awoke in a sweat and would rub his eyes as if he once wore glasses. But now on Maui he was tanned, and only wore sunglasses when necessary. He avoided checkered shirts, an aversion he could not understand, but adhered to and donned the flowered apparel of the islands instead. The most remote side of the island was a jungle, and there in the dense forest is where he slept and called home. The thought of four or even two walls was cloistering to him and called up dreams of a dusted old warehouse, which he avoided as much as the checkered shirts. Today he was going to the market. Fresh papayas, mangos and the Maui gold pineapples were his favorites. He filled himself with the goodness and beautiful colors of the island itself. The only fruit he avoided were the coconuts. He even arrived early to the market, before the people who cracked open the coconuts with short machetes’ began their work. The thirsty customers, always eager, always lined down the isles waiting for the sweet and refreshing waters of the islands. He avoided them for the sound of the thumping on the log with the machete. They would become like machines, hacking off the tops the thumping sounds would pull him from his life of pleasure into that dusty warehouse of papers. “Here!” a man with a checkered shirt placed a paper onto the table before the tan man dressed in the Hawaii apparel. It was a map, showing where the young man could go to find bulk fruit that would be tossed into compost if not eaten, a working fruit farm that needed an extra pair of hands. But the tanned man just looked down at the paper. “Just sign here and I will get you set up to work there.” His voice was friendly and helpful but the tanned young man with brown eyes could only see a form with yellow highlighted areas and thick black ink, a stamp in red was across the form COMPLETED. “You okay there, its not like you are signing away your life.” The young man snapped from his daydream and saw before him a colorful map with green palm leaved drawn around the edges and a mapped village with a hut circled in the middle.
He picked up the heavy pen and signed very slowly his name. He didn’t want to remember whatever was trying to be remembered. “They will pick you up next week here at the market, it’s a pink bus with green leaves painted on the sides, you won’t miss it.” The man in the checkered shirt behind the pile of apple bananas smiled as if he had done a great deed. He fixed his glasses and tucked the paper into his pocket while replacing the pen into his money bin, awaiting the next purchase. Customers were lining up where the people with machetes and coconuts were soon to be stationed. Their beat up truck was parked nearby, and the deeply tanned men hoisted plastic buckets filled to the brim with coconuts over the sides of the truck, the customers growing with anticipation. The young man in a Hawaiian floral shirt and beach shorts that stopped at his knees turned to leave. The flip flops had been a challenge to adjust to, and as he turned, it became lodged and the young man jolted forward into a woman’s arms. She was a robust woman, draped oddly in a brown coat. She caught him by the arm, her large hand pushing him back up to standing. His judgments passed quickly as she smiled innocently at him. She looked happy, he thought. “The flip flops may be the death of you.” Her voice was boisterous and thickly laid with a Russian accent, but her happiness seemed to alter it into something else, though the happiness could not hide who she really was. He nodded, thankful to her, but needed for some strange reason to get as far away from her as possible. He had also delayed too long and the men with machetes had started at their chopping block. With the first thud, the man with a broken flip flop turned and ran from the crowd of lined customers.


Twenty chairs usually lined the long farm table. This room, but for the table and chairs, was empty most of the day, and yet, it was here that Hannah felt most connected to her family. Tonight she eyed the extra chair warily as she and her sisters carried heaping platters of food from the table as the family assembled. Daed sat at one end, his bib overalls caked with the toil of the early spring planting, Mamm at the other end tucking stray wisps of hair back under her kopp. Mammi and Daadi sat across from each other in the middle of each side, ready to help the little ones cut meat and pour milk. Hannah and her siblings sat on either side of the table in perfect symmetry. Girls on one side, boys on the other, in order of birth. Hannah took her seat beside Daed and watched Levi perch himself on the pile of books on his chair so that he was high enough to reach the table. It had been three years since Levi, the last bopplin. Mamm said sixteen children were quite a blessing, and it would be prideful to wish for more.

"Händt nunna," Daed said, and the family dutifully put their hands in their laps and bowed their heads. Finally, Daed cleared his throat, a signal that grace was over and the passing of the platters could begin. Tonight Levi's chair straddled the corner next to Mamm to accommodate the Bishop, Jacob Yoder, who sat at Daed's left. Hannah shifted in her seat to avoid the Bishop's less than subtle glances in her direction. The straight pins holding her blouse together poked her chest. She listened to her father and Jacob drone on endlessly about crops and the shenanigans of the local adolescents enjoying their Rumspringa. Hannah thought back to her own summer of 'worldliness.' While her friends attended parties at the lake, went to movies, and sized each other up as potential partners, Hannah refrained, knowing that stepping that far from the community norms would only upset her parents. Instead, every Saturday morning, she packed a lunch and set out for what her parents thought was a hike. Secretly, Hannah spent those afternoons at the public library reading furiously, vicariously experiencing a forbidden world above the safety net of the pages. Every week the librarian offered her a library card, which Hannah demurred. Bringing home Englisch books would be offensive to Daed and Mamm. The mention of her name brought Hannah back to the dinner table. "So Hannah," Jacob Yoder began, "I've talked to your parents about the possibility of us spending some time together." Hannah inwardly cringed. Last week, when her parents urged her to consider Jacob as a potential suitor, Hannah had quietly accepted his appearance this evening as inevitable. His wife had died last summer, leaving him with three children to raise. She remembered Saloma, his oldest. Hannah was in eighth grade, her final year of school when Saloma was in first. The poor little girl cried endlessly for her Mamm those first few weeks. Hannah had done what she could to be comforting. Now her long-ago kindness was being repaid with Jacob's unwelcome presence at the family table.

"Hannah," Daed interrupted her thoughts, "Jacob is talking to you." "Sorry," Hannah turned to Jacob. "I was thinking about Saloma and what a hard time she had adjusting to first grade. How is she?" "She's twelve now. Next year she'll finish school. I'm looking forward to having an extra pair of hands during the week after that." Hannah noticed Jacob didn't tell her how Saloma was, only about how she could benefit him in the future. "I was hoping we could take a walk after supper." The Bishop made it seem more like a directive than a request. There had been whispers by the girls in the community. Hannah's friends Miriam and Sadie both told stories of uncomfortable encounters with the Bishop. There was even talk of Saloma being visited by her father late at night.

Hannah glanced down the table at Mamm whose eyes were pleading. "It's been a rather busy day for me, Jacob. Perhaps we could have a visit on the porch instead." The Bishop looked disappointed, and Hannah suspected why. At that moment, the scattered dissatisfactions of her life gelled into a lump of desperation. She looked down at the green flowers printed on her dress from her assigned seat at the table. Mamm never seemed to remember how much she disliked the color when she made Hannah dresses. Her fingers were stained pink from the countless quarts of strawberries she had picked that week. She remembered being ashamed of them last week at the Farmer's Market when a cute Englisch boy had shamed her by noticing them. The bobby pins keeping her bun secure dug into her scalp. She had seen English girls in town with their pixie haircuts dyed in various shades of green and pink and wondered what it would be like to live in a world without modest dresses and prayer kopps. And now her parents, her beloved Daed and Mamm wanted her to consider courtship with this awful man? After the silent prayer at the end of the meal, Hannah found herself alone on the front porch with the Bishop. "Saloma has two little sisters, you know. Becca is seven, and Miriam is five."

"Yes, they walk past the house every day on the way to school. They seem well-behaved." "Saloma does the best she can, but they need a mother, and I need sons." And there it was. Bishop Yoder wasn't here because he found Hannah interesting or noticed her strict obedience to the Ordnung. He was looking for a housekeeper and broodmare, like a replacement part for a buggy or plow. Hannah resisted asking him if he'd like to examine her teeth. The screen door creaked as Mammi appeared with two glasses of lemonade and a plate of sugar cookies. She put them on the table, scuffled to her chair at the far end of the porch, and picked up the rug she was crocheting.

Hannah hoped that with Mammi acting as chaperone, the conversation would turn to safer topics. "We're having an excellent strawberry season," Hannah offered. "The dry spring made the fruit sweet. We can't pick them fast enough for the customers at the market." Jake smiled his approval, knowing that her parents were saving Hannah's portion of the profits to build her future home. "The new baptism class will start in a few weeks. I will teach some sessions; I hope you'll be there. From the corner of her eye, Hannah saw Mammi staring at her. Hannah picked at the cuticle on her thumb and stared off into the distance. Her plans to attend the class evaporated. Why is every decision presented to me with a dose of added pressure?

"Of course she'll be there!" Mammi exclaimed.

The betrayal hit Hannah as if Mammi had slapped her in the face.

Swallowing the bile that collected in the back of her throat, Hannah turned to Jacob. "Please forgive me; I'm suddenly not feeling very well. I'm sure Mammi would enjoy it if you stayed and kept her company, but I'm afraid I need to go lie down." Hannah headed for the door, ignoring the glass of lemonade she knocked over as she left.

Mamm was standing at the bottom of the steps, no doubt eavesdropping on the conversation from the porch. "Hannah," she began, smiling hopefully. "Not now, Mamm," Hannah sharply said as she stomped up the stairs and slammed her bedroom door. Her sisters were all taking down their hair and putting on their nightgowns. Hannah ignored their questions about her visit with Jacob as she hurriedly got ready for bed. She pretended to read as the girls finally settled down and turned off the oil lantern.

She listened to the bullfrogs sing their courting songs down by the creek. She laughed to herself, hoping the frogs were making a better argument for mating than Jacob had on the porch earlier.  Mamm had carefully modeled a wife's complete submission to her husband. She hardly ever talked about the past, but when she did, she spoke of the two times in her life when she freely had her say. The certainty she felt about the day of her baptism and how happy she was the day she accepted Daed's marriage proposal. Now Hannah doubted the truth of her testimony.

Mammi's comment had brought everything into focus. Lies. It was all a lie. This evening had shown her two clear paths, to acquiesce for the sake of the community or the unthinkable. As she listened to the rhythmic breathing of her sisters, her heart swelled with love for each of them. She thought of Levi and his silly antics that could soften Daed's most sullen moods. Someone was sneezing and sniffling from the boys' room across the hall. She knew it was Henry, her dearest friend, and twin brother, who had followed her into the world moments after she arrived. She should talk to him. Did he already know?

No, he was blissfully unaware, as she assumed was everyone else in her family. Without realizing it, Hannah's carefully planned Rumspringa adventure had resulted in an unforgivable sin of Biblical proportions two summers ago in the public library.

 Like Eve, she had spent months picking fruit from the tree of knowledge. Her eyes were open to the coercion, false promises, and oppression, and now the price would need to be paid. With great sadness and firm resolve, she threw back the covers and dressed quickly. A sob caught in her throat as she passed the family table. Unable to resist, she sat down at her assigned place one more time before walking into the night, expelling herself from her Garden of Eden.


"It kinda looks like—" "Don't say it."

Kenny nods solemnly, recrossing his long legs in the rusted lawn chair. The skinny blue and white plastic spindles weaving the chair seat have long since loosened and torn. His ass hangs out of half of it, but it doesn't bother him any. I watch him try to change the subject in his brain, can physically see the wheels turning, his lips twisting from one side to the other.

It doesn't work, though, so he readjusts in his chair and tries again, "I'm just saying—" "Don't say it ." "It looks like a friggin' Christmas tree!" He shouts, hands flopping in the air dramatically. I sigh and crack open my beer. We sit quietly in our old shitty yet somehow still comfortable lawn chairs and stare at the tall green spruce, shimmering as if it were decorated with the ghost of baubles, tinsel and lights of Christmas past. He's right. It does look like a Christmas tree. Doreen, a few RV's down, had some fancy app on her phone where she could just take a picture of the damn thing, and it told her everything we needed to know about the giant green tree that showed up out of nowhere a couple of days ago. As if a fully grown, sixty-foot Christmas tree appearing fully rooted in the center of our little town wasn't bizarre enough, the fact that we're about ten clicks outside'a Roswell, a desert-laden arid landscape, only added to the mystery. The even stranger thing was, about four or five nights ago, I was out, maybe had a few too many beers, wandered a little too far into the desert, and I coulda sworn I saw this same tree. Just sitting there, in the middle of nowhere, all by itself. It glistened in the moonlight, and I slapped my face to get a grip, but it was still there when I pried my eyes back open. Somewhere between the booze and the call of the moon, I passed out right there on the hard-packed dirt, and when I woke up, there was no tree. Of course there wasn't; that would be crazy.

But when I stumbled back to my silver Twinkie airstream the next morning and heard the commotion of my neighbors, all gathered around outside their RVs and trailers at the center of our little town, it was impossible to miss that same giant green monstrosity beaming up from behind the crowd. As if it had just up and twinkle-toed its way over here and then planted firm. According to Doreen and her fancy app, said green monstrosity is a Norway Spruce, the same kind they use at Rockefeller in New York at Christmastime. And it just so happens to glimmer when the light catches it as if it's decorated in rows and rows of lights. Annoyed I won't partake in further discussion—as if it weren't the only thing we've all talked about since the damn tree's mysterious arrival—Kenny huffs and climbs out of his lawn chair, joining Doreen, her husband Danny, and a handful of other locals and their heated conversation. There's a lot of pointing and handwaving. I sit back in my chair and attempt not to give in to the temptation and join them. After a few lazy hours and a long nap in the sun, I haul up out of my lawn chair and make my way inside.

I never needed or wanted more than I got; my place is comfortably sparse, and the stream's tiny size has never bothered me. It's the quiet of living alone I've always craved. The can opener in my grip is halfway twisted into a can of beans when the door rattles, Doreen knocking and shouting my name. "Open up, Joe!" Grumbling, I pull my lit smoke from between my lips and growl, "It's open." The rattling door whips open, Doreen huffing as she enters. She stares down at the can in my hands, brows furrowed. "Tell me you're not eating that for dinner." I growl back, straining the beans in the sink before dumping the can into a pot on the hotplate. "Joe, why don't you come out and join us after eating that very enticing can of beans? We've got a whole spread; everyone's brought somethin'. Not that what you've got there doesn't look like the best damn meal you've ever had. Looks very appetizing. Filling, too." "You're not very funny. And I ain't in the mood," I say quietly. "Never are," she rolls her eyes, gripping the Formica countertop, her claw-like hot pink fingernails clicking furiously. "Joe, it's Thanksgiving. And there's a god-forsaken Christmas tree out there! A goddamn miracle! You shouldn't be alone here, stinkin' up the place with cigarettes and beans. Come over." Steam begins to rise up out of the pot. I stir it. Doreen watches me. I watch the steam. She groans, "Just think about it. No one should be alone on the holidays. Even your ornery ass." The screen slams shut behind her. Of course, she doesn't shut the door. I turn the heat on the hotplate off, then move to close the door when the sounds of laughter drift in through the screen. I watch my neighbors laugh and talk with their hands and hug and touch. A part of me shifts uncomfortably at all that affection. Another part watches with envy. I close the door quietly, light up another cigarette, and grab a spoon, not bothering to transfer my dinner to a bowl. Faint sounds of holiday music and chatter filter through the aluminum walls of my airstream. The air inside feels thick and stifling. By the time I crack another beer, it's full dark. A new, glimmering light streams in through the window above my sink. It shimmers and dances, and I want so badly to ignore it, but the laughter's grown louder, and suddenly, the silence of my home, ordinarily comforting, feels oppressive. Tentatively, I get up and glance out the window.

The damn tree is lit. It's fucking lit , with white and green and red twinkling Christmas lights, seemingly unfolding out through the branches. I'm certain it's not plugged in, and there are no wires or string lights. We've checked. It's been doing this since its equally mysterious arrival. Doreen and her husband Danny smile, his arm draped over her shoulders as they look up in wonder. Kenny wobbles from too many beers, a shit-eating grin on his face, our other neighbors all cuddling and chatting around the tree, relaxing beneath the glow. I feel envious. I grumble, grab another beer from the fridge, and reluctantly step outside. I'm grateful no one makes a big deal of it when I give in and join them. Swallowing my annoyance, I listen to theories of aliens and government conspiracies regarding the Christmas tree's sudden, strange appearance. Why either party would go out of their way to plant a fully grown glittering tree for a bunch of us bumpkins in the middle of the desert is beyond me. I've got no better ideas, but I doubt it's aliens or the government. More likely, we've all somehow accidentally ingested ayahuasca or some other mind-altering substance. Kenny drags our lawn chairs over in front of the tree, propped up like a warm fire, and I join him and sit, kicking out my long legs, our asses falling through the broken spindles.

I can't help the slight grin tugging at my lips at how happy this stupid tree makes my neighbors. Maybe I don't mind spending time with these idiots so much. Maybe they aren't half bad.


Nothing irked Marianne more than a subway ride late at night. It was practically impossible to find a wagon that wasn’t taken over by party goers who reeked of drunkenness and sweat. The seats were all covered in filth from a day’s worth of spilled fast food and coffee, so sitting was simply not an option. Standing wasn’t glorious either: the steel poles must also have been contaminated by a thousand germs and unknown substances, and she would rather have died than be forced to come into any form of contact with them. She therefore stood in a triangular position, steady as a bridge with nothing to hang on to, while the club crowd grew increasingly rowdy around her. The train came to a sudden stop, and the laws of physics were no longer in her favor. She found herself catapulted down the wagon and would have landed on the dirt-ridden subway floor if it wasn’t for her powers. Her lips uttered the incantation in a whisper. Wind of yore I summon thee, from this plight come and save me. For a split second, Marianne levitated without anybody noticing, just enough time for her to find her footing again. It wasn’t without a price however: an intoxicated college student who couldn’t hold his booze anymore barfed on her expensive scarlet jacket as she got back up. A monumental cleaning spell would be needed to get rid of the stain. She got off at the next stop, unable to stand this prison of steel and bodies any longer. This was the last time she agreed to do overtime past nine. Demopolis was too much of a ruckus at night – not that it was any better during the day. No matter the time or place, a never-ending stream of humans filled every inch of every street (except for the space taken by the occasional rat), and not one person in the infinite crowd cared about the wellbeing of another in the slightest. “Hey girl,” blurted out an ogler smoking a cigarette by a sketchy pub entrance to the delight of his toxic group of friends. “Looking for someone to spend the night with? Plenty of choice here! You can even take all of us if you want.” My bed is not the one you seek, in the arms of Morpheus you shall sleep. The ogler instantly collapsed, falling into a deep slumber on the sidewalk. His crew of followers gathered around him with puzzled looks, too drunk to be alarmed at the state of their leader. They couldn’t understand what had just happened, but they probably would never harass a woman in a scarlet coat again. No wonder a warlock had cursed her to spend the rest of her life in this concrete jungle. It was just like being cursed to rot in Hell. The fumes emanating from the sewers were infernal flames. The sea of people was the Styx, overflowing with wretched souls. The bouncers at the entrance of every nightclub were Cerberuses in shades. The demons of the Ars Goetia stood still around the blissfully ignorant mortals in the form of skyscrapers. The city was no place for a witch. Her link with nature had been broken. The stars in the sky were no longer visible amongst the light pollution. Most of her rituals simply could not be practiced. There was no space in her one-room apartment for an altar, and even if there was, her roommate would have been suspicious. Practitioners of the Craft had always been outsiders, but in Demopolis, the single outsider was trapped in the heart of the inside. If only there was another one just like her, someone she could confide into. The suffocation kept her awake at night, made her dread the following day. So far as Marianne knew, she was the only witch in town. How she longed for the lush meadows in which her former Coven lived, for the inebriating sensation brought by the casting of enchantments in the silver moonlight by the pristine lake. The young woman reached her apartment complex at the same time as Joel. He was the one person she did enjoy crossing paths with around here. Her twenty-something neighbor might not have been very talkative, but she felt a strong spirit in hiding behind his brooding eyes, underneath his raven hair. “Good evening,” she said timidly. “Good evening.” This was the extent of their conversations. The introverted programmer was shy and rebuffed any kind of social interaction, yet she couldn’t help but smile in his presence. They walked together in awkwardness into the long entrance hall and Joel ran for his room. Marianne, alone again, entered her apartment with a glimmer of happiness from the brief exchange. It wasn’t much, but it was all she had. Her roommate was already fast asleep. There was not much Marianne knew about the puzzling stranger in the bed next to hers. Her rent had gone up beyond her threshold of affordability a couple of years back, so the obvious solution had been to put out an ad for a roommate.

Who knows, it might be someone I can talk to , she thought. Turns out, Vanessa was mute. They communicated only in writing. There was an inherent sadness to her, as if she wished to voice many stories of trauma and pain but could not. These secrets were locked deep inside her chest, never to be spoken of. She left early in the morning, came back early in the evening, and went to bed right after dinner, to the point where Marianne barely ever noticed her presence. Somehow, that night, there was something intriguing about the speechless woman. She seemed at peace. As for Marianne, she had never felt so empty. In this small apartment covered in peeling beige paint, devoid of any finery or embellishment, the walls seemed to draw in closer to her, ready to crush her bones. A wave of claustrophobia flooded the witch from head to toe. She knew; it was time. Time to do what her mother had done fifteen years ago. She had to break free from the earthly chains that bound her to this cruel reality, and this could only be achieved through Astral Projection. Tonight, she was going to Project out of her body and Ascend towards the Spirit Realm, leaving behind her Demopolis cage forever. It was a simple ritual, one of the few she was capable of performing without direct contact with nature. Twisted into the lotus position on her bedsheets, she first aligned her chakras. The Crown was always difficult to line up, so she concentrated all of her spiritual energy towards thoughts of freedom. The meadows materialized before her eyes. The surface of the pristine lake glistened in the silver moonlight. The leaves fluttered left and right, guided into an airy waltz by the call of the Nymphs. Winds of change carried the scent of eternal renewal as the Coven danced with nomadic steps, free from routine, free from shackles, free from the weight of soul-crushing depression. All of these things were of course only taking place in her mind, but they felt more real than anything she had experienced in the five years since the curse had begun. All chakras were now aligned. She did as the Coven’s Great Book prescribed, taking the feather of a dove in her left hand, and the feather of a crow in her right. Her feet sinking deeply into the sheets as if they were dipping into rich and vibrant soil, she spoke the words: Bird of light and bird of night, Make my soul fly with might. Her body collapsed onto the squeaky mattress. Marianne found herself hovering over it in her spirit form, translucid, ethereal. All she had to do now was ascend. Light as a feather, she felt herself drift towards the ceiling, but something caught her attention, stopping the ascension midway: a cloud. There was a cloud suspended over Vanessa’s head, tied to her hair by a golden thread. Of course, how did she not think of it? In the Spirit Plane, dreams were visible. Dreams were nothing but condensation of spirit energy above a person’s body. What could her mysterious roommate be dreaming of? Marianne came back down and peered into the depths of the cloud. Beneath its fluffy whiteness, there were meadows. Lakes. Waterfalls. Constellations. Vanessa dreamed of escaping the City too. Had she been able to speak, the two women might have been able to share their pain, their isolation. Alas, it was never meant to be. Another thought came to her. Joel must also be dreaming by now. She absent-mindedly drifted towards her apartment door, passing right through it. A minute later, she found herself into Joel’s bedroom. There he was, a cloud tied to his hair by a silver string. Inside the cumulus, she saw herself walking up to a door. He was dreaming of her . Her dream-self knocked, and Joel opened. They stared at each other for a moment, then began to passionately kiss. He liked her too. The two neighbors remained intertwined, bound together by love, a love Marianne had no clue to be reciprocal. Suddenly, the scene dissipated. Dream-Joel found himself back at his computer, cornered into a desk. The cumulus turned to a nimbus. Spirit rain fell over his face to the terrifying sound of thunder. Marianne’s spirit stepped away. They shared the exact same desires, the exact same fears. The Spirit Realm now seemed much less tempting, but she had been out of her body for too long already. She lifted her head and saw through the ceiling the dancing auroras of the world waiting for her. It pulled her soul with an irrepressible force, dragging her away from a place she no longer wanted to leave. She wanted to stay, to tell Joel how she felt, to physically experience the embrace from the dream. With the last drop of strength left in her, she tried to fight it off, but to no avail. Her destiny was sealed. Bird of light and bird of night, Time has come to stop the flight. The pull vanished; so did the auroras. Marianne drifted back down. Someone had spoken these words, but it wasn’t her. She turned. Vanessa’s spirit stood before her, translucid, ethereal. “Every witch has a voice in the Spirit Plane,” she said with a beaming smile. “Even me.” Her voice echoed mystically in a tone filled with power. “You’re… You’re a witch?” Marianne muttered in disbelief. “That’s impossible. Why did you never…” Before another word could be said, Vanessa snapped her fingers. Marianne found herself back in her body and woke up in cold sweat. She looked around. Her roommate still appeared to be sleeping soundly, as if nothing had happened. Had this all been a product of her imagination? Thankfully, two feathers swirled over Vanessa’s head, carried into their dance by a crafty wind, and Marianne understood that it was not. She sunk her head into her pillow. Her roommate was a witch. How had she lost her voice? Why was she trapped in the City? By what coincidence did they end up sharing the same apartment? The questions would remain unanswered that night, but that was okay. For the first time in five years, Marianne knew there was someone she could confide in. There was also someone she could love. For the first time, she looked forward to tomorrow. And so that night, inside the small apartment covered in peeling beige paint, devoid of any finery or embellishment, on that squeaky mattress in the heart of Demopolis, she slept soundly.


She was electric. Her feet shuffled in a clumsy glide to the beat of the song, her hands rising to clap along with the singer. The stale beer she had found lodged between two wooden planks sat on the dusty bar, half of it drank and now sloshing around on her empty stomach. I hear the secrets that you keep When you’re talkin’ in your sleep The speaker was crackling as “Talking In Your Sleep” by The Romantics desperately tried to keep playing. The joy that she felt listening to music was a refreshing change from the hellscape she was trapped in. In this moment she didn’t have to run away from the decaying bodies of someone’s loved one, she didn’t have to fight back against other survivors who wanted to rob her. The bar was a safe haven she never expected to find; having a working radio capable of playing its melody above a soft whisper was a luxury. Her hands wrapped around the warm beverage and took a swig. You tell me that you want me She uses the bottle as a microphone as she slides across the wrecked floor, a sticky mixture of old liquor and sawdust making her feet stumble.

You tell me that you need me Her eyes flash over to the old band poster that was half visible and she points at the mysterious singer as if serenading him. The man had kind eyes and lips that weren’t calloused and cracked, with soft hair that she ached to feel between her nimble fingers. You tell me that you love me If only that poster would wink back at her, better yet if he would materialize out of the poster and wrap his arms around her waist. The feeling of another person holding you close and the warmth of their body was a mere memory that she couldn’t even find the energy to recall.

And I know that I’m right There is a lull in the music as the speaker steadily becomes more garbled and her own singing is louder than the radio’s.

‘Cause I hear it in the night As if it was planned, Ramona’s moment of normalcy was jeopardized by the sound of shotguns and raised voices in the distance. Not wasting a moment, she quickly moved towards the collection of rubble, beer still in hand, as she tucked her frail body as far back and hidden as she could. She positioned herself in a way where she could lift her head up to view the entirety of the room or lower it to remain unseen. The bar looked as if it had been abandoned for around the same amount of time since the apocalypse had occurred. It reflected the chaos of the day that it happened, when an unknown virus spread throughout the U.S. after a failed experiment, infecting over half of the population and leaving survivors to fend for themselves. The virus would infect the body over 72 hours. First came the restlessness within the first 24 hours, progressively worsening until your veins glowed with a deep purple hue during the final hours. She had seen hundreds of bodies during her journey and it soon became difficult to tell the difference between those alive and dead. So, when she found relics of the past that used to provide joy and entertainment, she clung to them in an attempt to escape the current reality. But, like all good things, they come to an end. The door flew open, the hinges creaking in protest and drowning out the music for a moment.

I hear the secrets that you keep “I haven’t heard this song in so long,” a raspy voice chuckled. “Makes you remember those nights bent over a bottle.” A more lively and crispy voice laughed at the comment, their boots causing the floor to groan. “Honestly, I feel like I’m back in the city with my buddies.” Ramona bit back a gasp as the two individuals’ faces revealed themselves. There was a dark coating of dust and grime that coated their faces, their eyes devoid of life, as they shuffled around the room just like she had when she first came in.

“How in the Hell do they have working speakers?” The raspy one asked in awe. “More importantly,” the younger one spoke as his eyes scaled the room slowly, “Who was playing music?” Sweat rolled down the side of her face as she held her breath, breathing shallowly through her nose. She should’ve been more cautious, she should’ve known people would find the building, but she lost her reason to care.

“Hello?” One of the voices called, their eyes flickering to her hiding spot. Before he could move closer to inspect, the gruff one grabbed the man’s shoulder in a small warning. “If,” he began slowly, “someone was here before us, I highly doubt they would be eager to let us live. There ain’t nothing here except for the music and we’re wasting time trying to prove otherwise,” he gave the room a lookover. “The only reason a person would be here is if they got a death wish.” Ramona flushed her back against the corner and shut her eyes, the sound of her blood roaring in her ears. The two men had gone quiet, save for the creak of their boots as they moved across the floor back to the entrance. As soon as the door slammed shut, she poked her head out and cautiously moved forward.

I hear the secrets that you keep Her hand was in a crushing grip around the coolness of the bottle as she shakily raised it to her lips. The amber liquid flowed down her throat, the bitterness a welcomed sensation against her dry tongue.

When you’re talkin’ in your sleep Immediately, a cough racked through her body as she attempted to swallow more and she pressed her hand against her mouth. The rattling in her chest subsided as she pulled her hand away. The red splatter that covered her hand only made her sigh in defeat. She let her gaze wander past her hand and onto her arm, purple veins extending up towards her shoulder.

I hear the secrets that you keep She let the tears fall as she placed the bottle back onto the bar. Her feet were still moving and she looked down at her legs. The jeans that she had found months back were ripped to shreds and her pale skin shone brightly through its cracks, more purple lines etched across her thighs. It was her final day, and she knew that the moment she let the speaker play. But what better way to die than to live in the beat of the music.


He moved briskly on the path to his home,thrilled with the refreshing air and his performance in school with the test he took, he sang joyfully. On getting to his home's doorstep after opening and closing the compound's gate with his spare key, he happily pushed the door open and greeted mum as he entered, although having not set his eyes on her. He moved further into his house as he closed the door behind him and there was mum coming through the back door and heading for the kitchen( always in the kitchen) with some vegetables in her hand. "I'm back mum" James said as he greeted once more, smiling. Mrs Smith just looked at him, smiled as she noticed the kind of unusual aura around him. James continued smiling and Mrs Smith had to speak out "Why are you so happy?" Mrs Smith asked. "Nothing really...just happy" he answered as he followed his mum to the kitchen. He took his seat on the kitchen's dining table as he left mum to continue her cooking. "I passed awesomely in the school test I took today" he told mum willingly " That's good of you...what was your score?" Mum asked him. He immediately unbaged his bag and placed it on the dining table, almost hitting a bottle of ketchup that was left to cool off on the table by mum. He immediately unzipped it and brought his test result out and immediately ran to show it to his mum. She saw it and was

"Wow....that's good...almost 100 percent good" Mrs Smith said and returned her attention to the vegetable soup she was preparing. He returned to his seat and redid his bag to it's former.

"Let me change and come down to eat your delicacies" he said as he alighted. He ran upstairs with the speed of joy, counting the steps up his room with style and finally pushing his door open widely. She covered the pot and absently inhaled the aroma coming from the hole in the pot's lid. She shifted to the pot of rice and realized it was ready to be sieved..as she moved towards it she heard a door bang and immediately realized and recovered after halting, that it was from James. She smiled and halted again, placing her gloves hands akimbo.. "I can't believe I am a mother" she said aloud to no one in particular. She smiled again as she stopped the fire under the rice cooker as she unseated it, she immediately moved it to the sieve that was already placed in a suitable position for the action to take place successfully, she sieved it hastily but perfectly. She returned the sieved rice into the pot after braining the water from it successfully then placed it on an inactive position on the gas cooker. She checked the vegetable pot and realized she still have to wait for 5 minutes till it gets cooked finally. She took this moment to dish the rice. While preparing the dishes she heard James sing loudly and then he was not heard again. Suddenly soaked and stuffed with the joy of motherhood she smiled once again and suddenly fell into a throwback as she held a dish in her hand *** "Why did you say I'm on a fifty-fifty chance of having a child" Mrs Smith asked the doctor " You have a problem with fertility" the doctor replied with expertise. Mr Smith looked at Mrs Smith and

"Hope it is not what I am thinking.." Mr Smith told the doctor as he slowly shifted his gaze to him "No it isn't... Abortion right.?.. whether I have had an abortion in the past...firmly NO!" Mrs Smith replied with confidence, almost standing "Yes Mr Smith...it is not abortion..it is a cervical issue..it can be solved" "Okay" Mr Smith answered as he patted Mrs Smith to calmness.... **** "Thank God" Mrs Smith said as she came back to the present. Her attention was suddenly moved to the food on the fire. She placed the held this on the table and headed for the food on the fire. She immediately halted the fire burning beneath and headed to dish the rice. As she was about to start this she saw James appear behind her,already dressed in his house clothes. She took a look at him and she saw the look of a James ready to eat. "How's the food going?" James asked her and she answered " It's ready... love" she answered, smiling Ben closed his room door behind him and waltzed to through the sitting room where his mum and his dad were watching TV, his dad has a day off and as he do with his off days, he is spending it in front of the TV with his wife beside him. Ben looked at them and focused back on his goal, as he passed the doorway that led into the dinning area he crushed his phone against the pathway but was lucky it was not damaged. He recovered and moved to the unsheathed a dinning chair, took his seat and placed his phone on the table. Since his mum did not serve his food he had to head to the kitchen and help himself ' she could not even serve my food even though she knows I just arrived from school's he thought as he headed to the kitchen. After dishing his food he returned to the dining table, carrying a glass of water alongside his plate of baked beans. He took his seat carefully as he placed his victims on the table, ready to consume them. But first he took his phone and read some pending telegram messages from his friends. And after that he settled down to eat his food in silence, taking one spoon after the other in an almost simultaneous but balanced manner. Few minutes later he drank from his glass of water and had an interference as he returned the glass cup to a seating position; his mum came to him and "We need to reach somewhere real quick...I and your dad" she told him and then continued " We'll be back soon..." as she said this he could see his dad walk out of the door from a space left by his obstructing mum. Going to prepare the car, he thought.. "Hope you understand?" His mum asked "Ma?" Ben asked,he was lost already "What were you thinking?...let me repeat myself... don't leave the house" " I ain't going nowhere" Ben answered as he continued eating. Not paying attention to his mum anymore he heard her footsteps walk out the door and then the bang of a closing door. "There you go again" he said as he returned his full attention to the lunch afront him


The land had been riddled and left a vast wasteland from the war between the revolt of creatures. Long ago their had been peace among creatures such as vampires,werewolves,elves. However humans feared such things so riots and fights broke out. War had begun between species. Humans fearing the things they could not understand set off nuclear war heads. Leaving the world in ruins only few structures stood now. Survivors fought for recources keeping their own territories while some were mutated from the war and nuclear blast. Creatures kept to their own places while humans did the same. One girl though set out to help others and to find the safe haven from which her brother had went. With the help of a vampire she had rescued from a few raiders who were about to kill him. The two stuck together like glue although they didnt get along at first. Her name was Anna Thorn she was a pretty and slim young girl with long curly brown hair and eyes as blue as the sea. Her skin tan from the long journeys under the sun. She stood under a old broken down building looking to a homemade map examining it closely from the location they were at. She wore a green tank top and brown cargo shorts with boots on her feet with a backpack strapped to her back. "According to the map we should be close to the safe haven once we make it there we can be safe." She told the tall vampire that stood nearby who hair was slicked back and black as night itself slightly spiked in the back. He wore a trench coat and black pants. His skin pale like porcelain while his eyes were crimson a piercingly dazzling. He was unaffected by the sun despite being a vampire and only drank animal blood and could eat human food well recources they could find anyway. As his gaze looked to the girl. "Yes but we have to be careful we are cutting threw nasty pixie territory those guys are not friendly and I dont want you to get hurt." He told her stepping over looking over her shoulder at the map. Anna could feel his breath against her skin. Looking down with shyness but smiled up at him reassuringly. "I can handle them. As long as we get their together thats all that matters Bane." She told him softly while she felt the vampire kiss the top of her head before he embraced her so close. Lately feelings had sprung up between them dare Anna say love. She cared for Bane and he cared for her. Bane smiled with a fang showing against his lips. "Well I dont doubt that. Lets get going." He told her softly letting go slowly while he held her hand stepping along threw the path keeping Anna close to his side. Anna could tell Bane was protective over her. He had been ever since they had kissed under the stars during a cold night so many nights ago. Stepping along quietly she kept close to his side as she froze hearing something glancing back to the sounds of twigs breaking. "Did you hear that?" She asked Bane quietly who nodded in response before pulling her behind him in a instant from a mutated pixie crawling out onto a boulder its figure hideous and grotesque its skin blue and as broken mutated wings on its back as it shrieked with teeth as a sharp as needles its eyes like black sapphires in color but in a instant it ran at them sneering fangs drawn as Bane pulled Anna away drop kicking the Pixie clear across the ground grabbing a machete that was strapped at his side. "Come on!" He picked up Anna bridal style with one arm running at quick speed threw the dessert lands as more shrieks of pixies would pierce there ears as Bane sliced threw one that dare try to attack slicing them into turning them into black dust from cutting them down dead while holding Anna protectively in his other arm running toward the direction of the so called safe haven he spotted a markings on rocks that matched the map running toward them as the mutated pixies were hot on their tales a horde them like zombies chasing them except these were ravenous mutated pixies way nastier. All pixies knew was too eat anything and everything. Some pixies were normal but these were ones that were long since mutated and turned into monsters well more monstrous than they ever where before. Bane jumped down a whole in a instant with Anna sliding down a mostly covered tunnel holding Anna losing the pixies from jumping down the hole. The tunnel they slide down seem to go on for ages as Anna held onto Bane with all her might until they fell being submerged in water swimming up Anna looked around not seeing Bane! "Bane!" She called out as he soon popped up from the water coughing his hair wet as was hers from the water. "Im here dont worry." He swam over to her touching her cheek before looking around. "The secret underground water like on the map. Its untouched by the radiation." He mumbled looking around. Anna swam up to the cave shore standing up soaked she waited for Bane to swim up as he got up out of the water. Anna stepped along until they reached the end of the cave she gasped. "We made it.." She mumbled softly while her eyes adjusted to the sunlight and the vast civilization filled with green and life along with huts built into the trees and and different passageways into the rocks like this cave that lead into the safe haven. Bane stepped at her side smiling from the sunlight against his skin looking to Anna smiling. "We made it together." He mumbled softly leaning in pressing his lips against hers in a passionate kiss. They had finally made it to their new home.


Trigger warning: kidnapping, firearm, threat of violence, foul language They call me “The Luckiest Woman Alive.”

I would say that’s a pretty accurate description – that is, if you buy into the more traditional meaning of “luck” –, as I’ve won pretty much every lottery, sweepstake and contest I’ve ever entered, the prizes ranging from all-expenses-paid trips and dream houses to cars, boats and cold hard cash.

Of course, another term of endearment given to me – one that’s particularly popular amongst the masses – is “Rich Bitch.” I hate to use the “poor little rich girl” card here but it turns out that having money doesn’t exactly make you well-loved. I know, shocking right? I often have a good cry about it on my yacht, on my way to the bank (#sorrynotsorry). To be fair, though, the title of “The Luckiest Woman Alive” feels rather ironic right now as I find myself sitting tied to this sweaty rickety plastic chair, inside what I can only gather is some kind of a shipping container with a dimmed light bulb right above my head, flickering like a poor man’s disco ball.

On my left-hand side, next to the wavy, rusty wall, stands a man. He’s about 5’9, slightly chubby with a mustache and red overalls that make him look like Dennis the Menace on steroids.

I gather that this is the man who’s kidnapped me.

Granted, I never actually saw my kidnapper on my way here but that’s because I had a nosebleed seat (read: in the trunk of my own car with a black bag pulled over my head and my nose literally bleeding after having an unfortunate encounter with someone’s elbow), but there’s something about the way this man has trained the barrel of his gun on me that doesn’t exactly scream “knight in shining armor!” However, despite the gun pointed at me, my bloody and throbbing nose, the duct tape digging into my wrists behind my back, I decide that I feel pretty okay. In a strange way, it’s almost a relief that this has finally happened, that after all these years I’ve finally been kidnapped, something that was bound to happen eventually anyway. And maybe it’s this very relief, my sudden clarity of mind, or the duct tape around my wrists, stopping the blood flow to that part of my brain that deals with reason, but I suddenly feel an overwhelming urge to say something to my kidnapper, like I could talk myself out of this, negotiate. And so I clear my throat and open my mouth.

“Excuse me...um…”

I don’t know my kidnapper’s name, but since a) I know how important it is to establish rapport early on in any negotiation (torture included, I’d imagine), b) I personally hate when someone calls me “ma’am,” or “hey you,” and c) he’s a Caucasian male in the US, I decide to play the odds. “...John?” I venture. Unfortunately, this does not have the desired effect as my kidnapper, whose name is clearly not John, turns to me swiftly, an irritated look plastered on his face. “Did you call me John?” he says, his husky voice bouncing off the walls.

My eyes dart from left to right, as if looking for the nearest exit, and manage a little nod. “That’s not my name!” he barks. “Why would you call me that? Is that some rich person thing where you just call everybody John and they never correct you because they don’t want to upset you or overwork your precious little brain?” Whoa! I hadn’t even considered someone could draw that kind of a conclusion. Also, he’s clearly making some very stereotypical assumptions about rich people here, but what with my life hanging in the balance and all, I think it best not to point that out.

“You just look like a John,” I offer calmly. There’s a small pause, then his mouth stretches into a crooked smile. “What? Like, John Wayne or something?” More like “Here’s Johnny!” “Hmm, I was thinking of another John, but yeah, I mean, sure.” He steps closer to me now. So close, in fact, that I can smell him. Interestingly enough, he doesn’t smell what I would expect a Dexter-type serial killer to smell like (soap and bleach) but more like a mixture of cologne and sweat. “Well, you’ve got my attention now,” he hisses. “What do you want to say?” I gulp, the sound more audible than I would have hoped. “I was just wondering,” I start, “what is a girl like me doing in a place like this?” Not-John stares at me. Above me, the light bulb is flickering frantically, making a static sound.

“Glad you asked,” he says at last, then extends his arms to his sides. “This,” he says, “is a kidnapping.” Duh. I shift my weight uncomfortably. “Well, that much I figured. I mean, the bag over my head was kind of a tip-off, wasn’t it?” He blanks at me. I guess he was expecting me to gasp or faint or have more of a reaction than I did because he goes on to say, “No. I mean, this is a real kidnapping.” “Is there any other kind?” “What I mean is this isn’t some rich socialite’s ‘Extreme Kidnapping Experience’ or something like that. Or some Skull and Bones’ or Sticks and Stones’ or some other secret society’s initiation ritual.” “Thank God for that!” I let out. “Personally, I’ve always abhorred secret societies.” He grabs the collar of my blood-stained Mulberry silk blouse, pulling the fabric so hard that it tears, and I swear that somewhere I hear millions of silk worms screaming, “Nooooooooooooo!” “Do you think this is a joke, lady?” he says, his breath hot on my face. Without waiting for an answer, he lifts up his gun and dangles it in front of my face. “Do you know what this is? This is a gun. A Glock! A .22 caliber.” The thing is I don’t take this as a joke at all. I guess you never really know how you’ll react in a crisis until it actually happens, and now I know. I’m calm, I’m focused, I’m not thinking about what could happen, I’m fully in the moment. Which is probably why, instead of begging him not to shoot me, the next thing out of my mouth is, “It’s…um…very shiny.” I can see the color drain from his face, and he lets his arms drop to his sides. “Shiny?” he echoes, incredulous. “Shiny?” “I know,” I say with an apologetic sigh. “Gun small-talk is not my forte, but I’m really not a firearm person, so what can you do? Anyway, there must be a reason why you haven’t shot me yet. So, what is it? What do you want from me?” He stares at me from one eye to the other and that crooked smile appears on his lips again. “Information,” he says and, then, without further ado, turns around on his heels and walks away, his shoes making a funny, almost non-threatening, Charlie Chaplinesque squeaking sound against the floor.

He stops next to the door of the container, bends over to pick up a brown bag of goodies from the floor and pulls out… …a pair of big, hefty pliers. The type he will probably use to go “this piggy went to the market” on my toes, or fingers, or teeth.

Awesome. He holds the pliers up, glances at me, gives me an evil grin, and in just two leaps is back to standing next to me, brandishing the object in the air a couple of inches from my face. “Care to guess what these babies are for?” he asks. “Mmm, some kind of home improvement?” I offer. “They are for ripping off your tongue.” “Ah.” Aw, barf. “And what exactly,” I manage, “would prompt you to rip off my tongue?” “If you don’t tell me what I want to know.” I think about that for a moment. “But if I don’t have a tongue, then I really can’t tell you what you want to know.” “Then you better start talking,” he says. I want to challenge him on that logic, but then just give up and nod. “Fine. How can I help you?”

I already know what he wants to know, of course. It’s what everybody wants to know. It’s what I want to know. Not-John leans closer to me, showing off his dental hygiene (or the lack thereof). “How the Hell did you win seventeen lotteries? The odds of winning even one are infinitesimal. So. What’s your trick?”

It’s actually way more than seventeen lotteries, but when you have a gun against your head, it’s probably best not to brag. “And don’t even think about lying,” he says before I can open my mouth. “I can always tell when someone is not being sincere. Professional hazard. Lying will earn you a bullet in the head!” “Bullet in the head. Got it.” “So, tell me the truth.” I let out a sigh. “Fine, but I feel like you’re going to be disappointed with my answer.” “I’ll take my chances.” I draw a deep breath, bracing myself - and him - for what’s to come. “I got lucky,” I say at last. Not-John chuckles, then his face turns serious as he realizes that I’m not joking.

“Lucky,” he echoes. “Lucky,” I say. “That’s it. Sheer, pure, good old-fashioned dumb luck.” He gawks at me, examining my face, then finally scoffs and shakes his head. “What a fucking waste!” he groans. He walks away from me, paces the floor, his hands folded behind his neck, cursing. Then he seems to snap out of it, strides back to me, grabs his gun, and presses it against my forehead. “I guess I’ll kill you now, then.” Whoaaaaa! That escalated fast. “No, now wait a minute, I told you the truth!” I protest. “You said lying would earn me a bullet in the head and I didn’t lie!” “I know you didn’t lie,” he says. “That’s why I’m killing you.” “Wow,” I say, flabbergasted. “I hate to break it to you, my friend, but you don’t have the slightest clue how this whole carrot-and-stick thing is supposed to work.” “It’s just no use,” he whines. “If you’re telling me the truth - and I know you are -, that means that there’s no trick, that it’s really just been dumb luck. So, now there’s no use keeping you alive because you’ve seen my face and you’ll just go running to the cops, making things difficult for me.” “B-but I could give you money,” I sputter. “I don’t know if you’ve heard but I’m kind of loaded.” He rolls his eyes. “And why would someone like you give money to someone like me ?” I shrug as much as the duct tape around my wrists allows. “Well, that gun against my temple is pretty convincing.” He seems to be thinking about that, then smacks his lips. “No,” he says. “If it was money I wanted, I would have pulled a bank job. I wanted to know your trick. But now that I know that you don’t have one-” “I’m lucky!” I interrupt him, my voice shrill. “Yeah, yeah, we’ve established that,” he says dismissively.

“You pull that trigger,” I say with emphasis, “and the bullet is going to ricochet. It’s going to be your brain on the floor instead of mine.” He stares at me, then bursts out laughing. “Now why would it do that?” “I told you,” I say, staring him dead in the eye. “I. Am. Lucky.” He scoffs. “Just because you won seventeen lotteries…” “Thirty-six,” I interrupt him. “It was thirty-six lotteries.” He narrows his eyes at me, suspicious. He must see that I’m not lying. “I’ve heard of seventeen,” he says. “If I’d had my way, you would only have heard of the first one, the time when I thought people would actually want to celebrate my victory with me. I know, I know, I was young and naive. The second time, I tried to hide it, but in California you can’t remain anonymous when claiming lottery winnings. By the time number three came along, I had moved to another state, but it leaked to the press, as did numbers four to seventeen. I’ve gotten wiser since then, of course. Now everybody who works with me or for me has to sign an iron-clad NDA, and I have a very small circle of people around me.” Not-John blanks at me. He suddenly looks like he’s having trouble breathing. “So, you’re not just a multi-millionaire,” he manages, “you’re a…” “...billionaire,” I say with a nod. “Many times over.” He shakes his head disapprovingly. “That’s way more money than anybody should ever have!” “Agreed,” I say. “But in my defense, I give most of my money to charities, research, startups, plays, my family and friends, and yes, sometimes strangers like you. The only reason that I still keep playing and entering contests is to see how long it’ll take until my luck runs out.” He gives a grave nod. “And now it seems like it has.” “Or has it?” I say hurriedly. “I don’t know that yet. And neither do you.” It’s a small movement, but I can see his hand that’s holding the gun starting to shake. “But your bad luck has already started,” he points out. “I mean, you were kidnapped, for Pete’s sake!” “I don’t see that so much as bad luck.” “No?” “No. It’s been… interesting so far. Granted, I wasn’t crazy about getting ‘bag hair’ on my way here, and that elbow to the nose was really unnecessary. But it’s definitely been a day with a lot of firsts. For example, I saw my own car from a whole new perspective.” “The trunk?” “Yep. Gave me a whole new appreciation for the car. And a reminder of how much I prefer the backseat.” He laughs, despite himself.

“Also, never been to a shipping container before. So, that’s new.” He offers a small nod. “This is a car carrier, actually.” “Really?” I say. “Well, I find it quaint. Do you come here often?” A ghost of a smile dances on his lips. “Why? You hitting on me?” “Hmm, well, I can’t say that Stockholm syndrome has fully kicked in yet but maybe, sans the kidnapping and the elbow to the nose and the whole gun-against-my-head thing, I would definitely probably maybe perhaps not completely swipe left on you.” The smile on his lips disappears and his eyes clear with realization. “You’re stalling,” he says. “Maybe,” I admit. “Or maybe it’s you who’s stalling. Maybe you’re thinking, ‘Do I really want to test my luck against her? The Luckiest Woman Alive?’” And that’s all I need, that seed of doubt, that hesitation, buying me just a couple of extra seconds. He forces a laugh and presses the barrel of the gun tighter against my head. “Pathetic,” he murmurs and then there’s a loud bang and my eyes squeeze shut in anticipation of the pain. But the pain never comes.

When I open my eyes, I see Not-John still facing me, but now his hands are up in the air and there’s loud yelling bouncing off the rusty walls. Behind Not-John, I see a sea of blue uniforms and the kicked-in door of the car carrier. Just like in slow-motion, I watch the uniforms run towards Not-John, cuff him in front of me and read him his Miranda. Another blue uniform runs to me and unties me. She says something, but suddenly it seems I have forgotten how to speak and understand words. She says it again. This time, I understand her. “Are you okay?”

I manage a small nod and then, for a reason unbeknownst to me, I double over, bury my head in my hands and burst into tears.

“Ma’am,” the cop tells me gently. “You’re having a panic attack. Can you breathe?” But it’s not that.

I lift my head up and smile at her. “I’m fine,” I manage to choke out.

“Are you sure? There’s a doctor right outside who will check you.” I shake my head. “That’s okay.” “I must insist.” “Can it wait?” I ask. “I’d like to get some air first.” The cop hesitates, then nods. She pulls out a blue baseball cap. “Better wear this,” she says. “The press is already here.” The press… I guess the one good thing about having paparazzi sleep outside my gate is that it’s difficult to kidnap me without them noticing. One of them must have called the cops. I slip out the door into the cold evening air, hiding behind a wall of blue uniforms, and draw in a deep, slow inhale. I can see the flashing lights ahead, people screaming my name, the helicopters hovering above me, but it’s like I’m witnessing it all from outside my body.

It’s late and the entire sky looks like one big storm cloud, casting a dark shadow on my surroundings, painting them black and white, and yet, I see everything in technicolor. And it’s at this very moment that I realize that I’ve never felt luckier than I do right here and right now. Lucky to be alive, lucky to draw another breath, lucky to have another day in this beautiful world.

My gaze sweeps over the flashing lights. My kidnapper appears to be long gone, so I turn around and cast my words to the wind that carries them away, never to be heard by anyone. “Thank you, Not-John,” I say under my breath. Seriously.

Thank you.


Like most young children I made the mistake of trying to bite my ma when I was a toddler, and she gave me holy hell. Here we are Thirty Eight years later, and she’s bitten me but all I have to give her is love. Well, I guess she isn’t really herself anymore. She looks like herself but also doesn’t. Nobody’s home. The lights aren’t even on. The electric works but the power has been transferred to a new supplier. The thing you need to understand is that my ma died today, but then she woke up and I don’t know what lives in that body now but it isn’t her. I keep trying to tell myself it’s her but I don’t know who I’m trying to convince, maybe she’s still in there. There’s no cure but I live in hope. A false hope perhaps, but still hope.

I saw it on the news this morning. It’s like something you see in a movie. There is an infection, an epidemic and it’s affecting the dead. They are starting to walk and they’re hungry. It’s like rabies on speed, the word I want to use is Zombie but that’s madness, isn’t it? The press is trying to sugarcoat it, they’re calling it Corpse Reanimation. I don’t know where it started but I suspect a lab, isn’t that always the way? All I know is that some people got this infection and it killed them and when they died they rose again. They bit some other people, and then they died, and they rose again and so it continues. Those who were already dead aren’t gonna start rising from the grave or anything like that. They aren’t infected and can’t get infected so that’s a plus I guess.

Dolores Spencer was a strict mother, but she was also very loving. Her son Tommy was all she had in life, and she wanted to raise him right. She had raised a good boy and on the day when it all went pear-shaped Tommy was right there at the door. He should have been in work, but he decided that taking into account the state of the world, going to work was not on his to do list. Tommy lived two hours drive away from his mother and the traffic was horrendous and there were a few infected wandering in the road which caused problems but Tommy followed the lead of the other drivers and knocked them down at full speed if they got in the way which included his mother’s neighbour Helen Rafferty. She was wandering about in the street not too far from his mothers house. He came to an abrupt halt when he got there, jumped out and didn’t worry about the car door being open. He didn’t just knock on his mothers door he beat the hell out of it.

“Ma! You OK?” No answer. “Ma? It’s me Tommy! Open up”. There was still no answer.

Under other circumstances Tommy would have been more patient but not today. He needed to make sure his mother was OK and the fact that she wasn’t answering and hadn’t even called out rang alarm bells for him. He was frightened. He threw the whole weight of his body into the door and knocked it right off its hinges.

“Jesus, boy!” His mother shouted at full volume. She was on her way to the door when the door was on its way to her.

“Ma! I was worried. Why didn’t you answer?”. “I ain’t no spring chicken boy, takes me a little while to get to the door these days”. “Sorry Ma, I’m glad you’re OK”. “I’d be more than OK if you weren’t being all kinds of crazy”. “Crazy? Have you seen it out there? You seen Mrs Rafferty?”. “No. You seen her? How is she? Not seen her in a while?”. “She’s been better, Ma! She’s dead, but she went for a walk anyway”. “Boy, didn’t I tell you that you are crazy already” “Didn’t you see what’s been going on? Put the news on Ma!” “I don’t watch the news, nothing going on there but negativity” “Yeah well things about to get real negative round here Ma!”. Tommy gave his mother the full story and waited for her to react. Dolores was now convinced her son was crazy. He had always been a good boy, and she knew she had raised him right but in her mind nobody talked crazy like this unless they were on drugs. It didn’t take long for Tommy to convince his mother though when Helen Rafferty came round the corner and her head was only half attached to her neck and it was hanging upside down on her back.

“We need to move, Ma! This is serious!” Tommy told his mother sternly.

“Son, you ain’t wrong” his mother began, “You know what I think?” “What’s that Ma?” “When cadavers are getting lively that’s about as serious as it gets”. Tommy smiled. Even when things were dark his mother always had to have her say, and she really did have a way with words. Tommy loved that about her. From that moment on Tommy didn’t think of it as an outbreak, an infection or even an apocalypse. To him it was the dead getting lively.

I drove over to Ma’s place as soon as I heard the news, and she didn’t believe me at first. She hadn’t heard or seen a thing about it but when she saw Mrs Rafferty walking around with her head hanging off she knew that I was talking sense. I was worried about having to deal with Mrs Rafferty, but she wandered off in the opposite direction which was a relief. I didn’t know if I had what it would take to take her down. I told my ma to go pack her bags, I didn’t know how safe it was there. I didn’t know if it would be safe anywhere but I didn’t want to take any chances. She was a stubborn woman, and didn’t want to leave, but she was also a wise woman, and so she nodded at me in agreement but I could tell by her expression she felt as though she was leaving her soul behind.

I stayed on guard outside while she went inside and packed a bag, I didn’t want us to get caught unawares by unwelcome neighbours who might forget they are dead and wander in, it had never occurred to me that the back door may be open which I found out the hard way when I heard a blood-curdling scream. It was my ma, I had never heard her scream like that but it was her, she was unmistakable. I ran inside post-haste, stepping over the front door which now lay in the hall. I ran into the Living room knocking over my Ma’s favourite vase in the process and not caring a bit when it shattered all over the floor. (I didn’t think she would mind under the circumstances). I found my poor old mother being pinned to the ground by what used to be Henry Rafferty, who’s wife had taken an impromptu ride off my bonnet only a few moments earlier. I ran over to pull him off her but I wasn’t quick enough, and he took a hefty bite out of her neck. I pulled and pulled at his arm, his skin was yellow, it was hard and crispy like plaster and cracked like plaster would and when it cracked I could see brown residue beneath his skin, it smelled absolutely putrid. Is this what dead people smelled like? I thought this might be even worse. I continued to pull at his arm which was now mostly skinless and managed to get him off my mother, detaching his arm in the process and taking a big chunk of my mother’s neck with him in his mouth. If screams could knock foundations, that one would have knocked the whole house down. I knew what this meant, she would change, she would be a danger to me but in my denial I pretended there was no problem. She was bleeding profusely and I needed to tend to her but The coast was not yet clear.

Mr Rafferty was still a danger to us both. He only had one arm now but that wouldn’t slow him down.  I lured him away from my mother and ran for the kitchen, I didn’t want to leave her like that but I had to get rid of this lively dead nightmare. I turned back, he was following me as intended, I kicked the kitchen door open and pushed my weight against it as I entered to ensure that the door would stay open. I searched for a weapon, I didn’t know how to stop him or even if I had the stomach to do what must be done but I’d do anything for my Ma. I wished she had an unlikely sword or chainsaw collection somewhere but obviously she didn’t. I found a large kitchen knife and that’s the best I could find, it would have to do. That was when lively dead Rafferty took me by surprise. (I had got lost in my own thoughts and momentarily forgotten to keep track of his location). I ducked out of his path just in time but dropped the knife and it landed behind him.

Suddenly I was overcome with anger, I needed to get to my ma and this guy was in the way. I grabbed his head and squeezed it, he fought me but I kept hold, I kept squeezing hoping it would just cave in but that didn’t work at all. I kicked him in the chest which forced him up against the wall and then I pushed my foot against his chest again to keep him pinned and I pulled his head with both hands. I was playing with fire now, one false move, and he could bite me but I didn’t care. I needed him out of the equation. I pulled and pulled and finally his head came right off, I threw it through the open doorway and watched it roll. I assumed his body would drop then and there but it didn’t. I released my foot from his chest, and he started to move. He was still lively. I assumed he was no threat now he had no head but I couldn’t be sure. Did he need to bite to pass the infection on or could he simply scratch me with the rotten nails on his one hand and infect me that way? I couldn’t be sure. I was taking no chances. I don’t remember thinking about what happened next I just remember seeing the kitchen knife on the floor that I dropped earlier and picking it up and hacking at his left leg. I hacked and I sawed at it and I smashed the knife into it with all my might fuelled by anger and fear of losing my ma until finally that leg came off. I repeated the same technique with his right leg until he lost that leg too. I dropped the knife. His torso dropped to the floor. He still had one arm but I didn’t see him as a threat now. I thought he might still be able to use his arm to pull himself along after me but I wasn’t worried. How fast could he be now? I ran over to the other side of the kitchen and searched the cupboard under the sink where I knew I would find the first aid kit. I grabbed it and then ran back to my ma.

She had lost a lot of blood and was dying. I expected her to be dead already, but she was a tough old warrior my ma. I attempted to clean up her neck but I didn’t know where to start. I paused and then I lied to my mother. She didn’t have all the information. She didn’t know what being bitten meant for her mortality. I didn’t want her to worry herself about it.

“You’ll be fine now, Ma. You don’t look so rough” “I don’t feel good, son”. “You don’t look a day over Forty Five, Ma” “Terrible Liar” “I love you, Ma” “I love you too, Tommy” That was our goodbye. I knew it and she knew it too. She never called me Tommy. I was always boy or son to her. The fact that she used my name told me that was her saying goodbye to me and I couldn’t hold back the tears. I didn’t cry a river for my Ma I cried an ocean. I didn’t want this for her. She fell unconscious then and I didn’t know if she was dead or asleep and I didn’t want to check her pulse. I was afraid of what I’d discover. I held her hand for a moment and her skin had a yellow tint to it and was starting to crisp. That told me everything I needed to know. She was gone, and she was going to rise again. She was going to be hungry. I knew I should be on my guard, but I was distraught, and I was exhausted. A tougher man would have chained up his mother at that point but not me, not this man. I was still holding onto the hope that this nightmare was all in my imagination, it was denial of the worst kind. I didn’t know if I had the strength to do what must be done, how could I? I cried some more. I cried myself to sleep. The pain was so intense it woke me. I could feel the flesh of my neck being penetrated. My eyes widened. It felt as though a wild animal had bitten into my neck but it wasn’t an animal, I knew it had to be one of the lively dead. I tried to push them off me, but they were insatiable. I pushed and pushed and eventually I got them off me. That was when I saw that it had been my ma, and she had a big chunk of meat in her mouth. I was bleeding severely just as she had but I didn’t rush to the first aid kit which was just across the room. I was in shock. I took a look at the being that looked like my ma with my neck flesh hanging from her mouth and my blood dripping from her lips and chin. Who was she now? What was she? Her eyes were blank. There were no pupils all that was left were the whites of her eyes, but they had turned yellow! Then there was the smell, that putrid smell again. You could spend three weeks in the worlds filthiest sewer and you would never smell anything like that. I came to my senses and ran for the first aid kit and then ran to the bathroom, narrowly avoiding the one armed torso that I used to call Mr Rafferty and locked myself in, I knew they would both be coming for me and I wasn’t ready to die.

My wound wasn’t as severe as my ma’s, so I had a chance of patching it up but I knew that in the end it wouldn’t matter. I cleaned myself up and patched up the wound with bandages and then I just sat there on the floor and that’s where I still am. It’s been an hour and I still feel like me. My ma started to change much sooner, but she had a sleep not long after she was bitten, maybe that’s the key. If I stay awake, will I always be here? Something started banging on the door a while ago but I won’t let them in. I don’t know it’s her, that thing wearing my dear old ma or that one armed monstrosity, but I still want to be near my ma (is that insane?) so I’ll just sit here and wait until I change or until I starve to death, whichever comes first. She always wanted the best for me. I just wanted to make sure she was OK. I guess I messed up but if worse comes to worst I’ll become undead too and maybe in some form I’ll always be with her and I’m fine with that and I’m sure she would be too.


With each step I take I feel more and more weight being bestowed upon me. This painstaking journey has brought me nothing but grief and disappointment. The fatigue I feel is like hammers bashing my head telling me I can’t, and I won’t find anything. I feel so deserted with no vegetation to comfort me. When I reach into my backpack I hope for some refreshing water, so when my hand clasps the lumpy bottle I am at ease. Since it’s a brand new water bottle, I twist the lid to hear the satisfying sound that is a mixture of both a crack and a pop. I press the rigid bottle to my lips, and tilt it to get the sensation of crisp cool water. Unfortunately the water's taste isn’t as pleasant as the temperature, it tasted as if a wet dog had just rolled on my tongue. I make a sour face trying to get the taste off my tongue. Unsatisfied, I put the water bottle back into my bag and continued to trek through the barren wasteland, with the only thing motivating me; the reward at the end.

As a child I always wondered, wondered how things happened, why they happened. I always wanted to know where my dad had gone. Did he leave, or was he taken? To my knowledge dad didn't have any enemies that could’ve had the motive to harm him, then again he was a very secretive man and I was only 12 when it had happened.

I remember the day vividly. While I played with my homework, my mother sat on the couch watching the Late Night Show. Interrupting my learning and a Will Ferrel skit, we hear an ominous knock on the door. Both of our attentions are turned to the door.

“Who could that be at this hour?” At 11 o’clock pm I could think of no one who could be at the door. Itcouldn’t apply to me, so I shrugged in confusion and continued to play with my homework. My mom stood up and slowly opened the door. As it creaked open I whipped my head around to see a tall man in the doorway. He was a police officer, with uniform and all He tipped his hat to my mom, then steadily took it off completely. He looked at my mom with a solemn expression. Without a doubt the next thing he said was what changed us forever. He said our father’s business jet had never landed, and they have no idea where it was. For all they knew it would have exploded. My mom gasped, and that’s when I knew she had looked at the cop then the floor appalled. She yelled at the cop demanding to know why, but of course he didn’t know. Mother shouted and cried in denial, no one wanted to believe it. Her shrieks were heartbreaking and traumatizing, I can still remember their shrill sound.

The officer tried to calm her but nothing could break her mind free of her terrible thoughts. When I found out that my dad may never return I wailed. I never stopped, for I wailed because I didn’t want to believe it. I wouldn’t believe it. The police officers half heartedly looked where his plane had departed, the airport he was at, and where he went during his business trip.

In my heart I knew they would never find him, because they didn’t really care. It wasn’t their own family member gone. They didn’t know I had fallen into a black void of sickening feelings, that brought me nothing but depression and atrocious thoughts. My mom and I fell together after his disappearance. We were a mess day after day, after day as we mourned his sudden perish. Our sorrowful feelings were like hands holding us in the dark, letting no sunlight shine upon us.

After some mourning time I was able to condone myself in a respectable manner, in order to search for my father. Though I will never really be cured unless I find him, I am determined to find the exact cause. If

I have to go to the ends of the Earth I will.

I searched everywhere he might be locally, and after 2 years

I had no more places to look. After steadily losing hope for 2 years, 1 month before now I had felt pessimistic. Would anyone ever find my dad? All signs were pointing towards no. I had almost given up, until I talked with my mother and got some vital information.

“Hey Clem, could you come here for a second?” “Sure thing mom, what do you need? Wait! Are you okay, it looks like you’ve been crying. What’s wrong mom?” “Well I had been thinking about dad. Do you think it’s time we had a funeral? I mean it’s been 2 years, and I know everyone is trying so hard to find him, but I’ve seriously lost hope. We have no clues as to what happened. No one even knows where his plane went!” “I can’t believe you mom. Your own husband is missing, and you’ve lost hope.” I said in the most disappointed and grim way possible.

“It’s been 2 years, Clementine Jones! 2 years! He is dead Clem, and the sooner we come to that conclusion, the better off we'll be in life. We should at least have a celebration of his good times in this world. I would be doing your father and MY husband a disservice if I didn’t give him a proper send off.” “We can celebrate him here, right now, privately. We can talk about good memories we have of him, in hopes of motivating us to find him, or at least the cause. I want answers mom! I need closure, and I won’t rest until I get it, or him back!” “Did he ever get to tell you why your name is Clementine?” mother asked so bluntly and sincerely.

“Why are you trying to change the subject so quickly?” “You said you wanted to talk about him, correct?’ I nod my head in agreement. “Well your father and I took a trip up to London, because we had heard of this flourishing garden hike and we just had to see it. At first the surrounding area seemed like it could never have any foliage, but we stepped hundreds more worn down wooden steps, until we had made it. We made it to this large wall encapsulating our reward. Pushing open the large brass door it grated ajar, and we saw the most magnificent flowers. On our right side there were yellow begonia’s next to flourishing blush pink azaleas, in which both bushes of the sweet flowers came to my neck. Beneath our feet were sprigs of glacier white baby’s-breath. We had never seen anything more beautiful, until we saw a welcoming bench underneath a Clementine tree. We climbed a few more wood steps to reach our final destination. Your father and I plopped onto the bench and admired everything with veneration and awe. Above us was a solitary Clementine, your father reached up and grabbed it off the comfort of it’s branch. I put my hand over the textured surface, while it still lay in his. Then your father said, “It’s beautiful. Just like our child will be.” From then on out we knew your name, even before you were an actual human.”

Mother and I both had hot sticky tears dribbling down our faces, but this time they were a mixture of happy and sad tears. My father was a great man, and whenever we thought about him it brought many tears to our eyes. “I wish to go there mother. I want to see such wondrous things, just as you and dad did. We might even find some clues there.”

My mother explained how she wasn’t going to be able to supervise me on such a trip, but I had grandparents in London so it wasn’t a definite no.

Before bed that night mother had called my grandparents’

explaining the importance of the trip. They had agreed to

oversee my trip to London and my 3 night stay. I jumped up and down feeling triumphant, for I left tomorrow.

When my plane skidded across the runway I was more anxious than ever. Even when I got into my grandparents car I wasn’t content. I

needed to see this inconceivable place my father had ventured. I had asked my grandparents about it, but to their knowledge they have never seen, or heard of such a place. They said it should be noted that they could be wrong, and to just search on their home computer. When I did a search on the computer I found an unpromising hiking trail that had the familiar wooden stairs. Worn down to bits and pieces, waiting for it’s next splinter victim. The hike was going to be indeed a challenge, but I had just made plans with my grandmother to go tomorrow morning.

One hundred paces in front of me I can see the imagined brass door. After all the suffering of this hike, I had finally come to my end point. There are faint smells of a sweet floral candle, which mesmerized me and pulled

me to the door. I go to push the door open, and it creaks ever so shrilly with each step. Finally I fling the door open to see a place so charming, it's unfathomable. My mother hadn’t left a single detail out, and it had remained the exact same over the years. I brush my hands against the unfamiliar flowers as I make

my way to the bench. Their pollen sticking to my fingers, but I don’t pay that much attention. I sit down on the weathered bench and brush my hands against the grass underneath it. The grass tickles my finger just as cotton would. As I rub my hand deeper and deeper into the grass, I feel something cold, and rectangular. Getting off the bench I crouch down and sift through the tall grass to see what mysteries lie beneath my nose. While searching I feel small drops of water on my head. Nothing could’ve motivated me more, for it was raining the last morning I saw my dad. I kept sifting through the grass as my hair became dense. The rain starts to turn the once soft dirt to mud, but nothing can stop me at this point. I need to know what this is. I forget it’s raining and find what my hand had touched. A plaque. It reads Matthew Jones 1970-2003: Never forgotten forever a mystery .