Planet KL-9592 was pretty enough, Captain L’aran Storacher thought as her ship approached, but nothing special. She could name fifteen galaxies off the top of her head that were more impressive than this backwater on the edge of the universe, and the planet itself was relatively simple, covered by dull blue with patches of swirled green and brown across it that were obscured in places by weather patterns.

Visually, there was nothing to explain the excitement among her passengers as they approached the small planet.

She turned to her first mate, K’chan, intending to ask if he knew what was so exciting about this pale blue nothing when the ship’s computer chirped, alerting the crew to incoming space junk. L’aran had been born on a spaceship, and she hadn’t spent much time off of one in the intervening three tetrades, but she’d never seen anything like this. As they approached the planet there was more and more space junk, all of it apparently engineered, made out of a shining metallic material and twisted into impossible shapes. The computer was able to chart a course clear of the junk, but the entire bridge quieted for a confused moment as the polluted horizon appeared on the large screen in front of them.

“Captain.” The frazzled voice came from behind her and she turned to find the ship’s passenger coordinator, I’nari, standing behind her. I’nari usually projected a calm and collected presence, but today she seemed…almost smudged around the edges. Her crest was slicked back as normal, but there were small pin feathers popping out along the edges. Her uniform was clean but didn’t appear to have been pressed before she put it on, removing the crisp edges she was usually so proud to display. Most telling, she hadn’t put on her vision assistance cups, instead opting to use the clunkier vision assistance frames.

“You look like someone the helstock dragged in,” K’chan snorted, eyeing I’nari’s less than impressive appearance.

I’nari put her hands up and smoothed her crest back, the small pin feathers popping right back out.

“It’s fine,” L’aran gave K’chan a quelling look. She knew he enjoyed needling the pretty passenger coordinator, but something was obviously upsetting her and he should know better. There was a time and place for such things and now was not it. “How are our passengers doing, I’nari?” L’aran had spent about half of the trip eating in the passenger dining hall. Orean, the captain she had served as first mate, had taught her that while it was important for passengers to see her and even be able to approach her on occasion, it was also just as important to control where and how such things happened. Otherwise, Orean had confided in her, they would inherently choose the worst possible timing to force their way to see her. Her dinners among them were why she knew that her current set of passengers were all archeologists and scientists. It was unlikely that the passengers were physically dangerous to I’nari, and the poor woman didn’t seem to be injured. Yet something was obviously off. Come to think of it, L’aran hadn’t seen a lot of the passenger coordinator during this trip. She usually spent a lot of time on the bridge, trading barbs with K’chan. L’aran thought they should just mate already and get it over with, but what did she know about such things?

“Captain…” I’nari hesitated, which caused L’aran to sit up straighter. I’nari was very straight forward, she didn’t usually hesitate. “Some of the passengers are requesting that we stop and take samples of the space junk.” L’aran felt her eye ridges raise and when she looked at K’chan he had the same incredulous look on his face.

“I know that’s not possible,” I’nari was quick to say. “It’s not on the flight plan, it’s not possible .” She murmured the last words more to herself than her audience, then she looked up at L’aran. “It’s only, one of the archeologists is being quite the pain about needing to ‘take samples’ and no matter how many times I try to explain the intricacies of space flight and flight plans and fuel capacity, she’s being rather hardheaded about it all. No offense,” I’nari cringed and looked at K’chan.

The quartz-based being chuckled and waved her apology off. “We take that as a compliment on my home planet,” he said graciously. L’aran pinched her nasal bridge. She knew exactly who I’nari was talking about. Herian Imal was the head of the expedition to KL-9592 and she’d approached the captain a few times during her dinners in the passenger dining hall, always with questions regarding the passenger’s baggage allowance. L’aran didn’t care how they divided it up, but each passenger was allowed 1,009 yikons of baggage, period. I’nari was right to talk about “the intricacies of space flight and flight plans and fuel capacity.” If they carried too much weight, the fuel capacity would suffer and they wouldn’t make it home for Dr. Imal to conduct her “very important archaeological research.” Dr. Imal had refused to take that for an answer, arguing that her team would likely need more than the weight allotted to them. She also just had a really high pitched voice, which annoyed L’aran. To be fair, all Coriani had high pitched voices, it was a part of their biology, but Dr. Imal managed somehow to hit a pitch that made L’aran want to remove the other being’s vocal organ.

“Has Dr. Imal been badgering you a lot during this trip?” she asked carefully. I’nari somehow looked even more frazzled while still maintaining her perfect posture. L’aran could swear she saw another pin feather pop free of the poor being’s crest. “Dr. Imal has very exacting standards, Captain. And as the leader of the expedition, she wants to make sure every detail is perfect so that her team are able to use their time on KL-9592 to the fullest.” That would be a yes. “What is so important about this,” L’aran waved her hand at the approaching planet, searching for a good description of the underwhelming sight, “this water covered rock? As far as I can tell we’re at the back end of the universe at a tiny nothing of a planet surrounded by weird space junk.” K’chan sighed, sounding put upon.“You didn’t read my write up about this trip, did you?” He asked, though he obviously already knew the answer.

L’aran felt her nasal ridges flare, partly in indignation but she’d be lying if there wasn’t a bit of embarrassment there too. “I read the passenger manifest and studied the orbital trajectories,” she defended herself weakly. “But no, I didn’t read your extracurricular essay.” K’chan and I’nari both looked at her like she was the strange one here. Like it wasn’t first mates who spent their free time writing up packets of information about where they were going and why who were weird. L’aran didn’t really care where they were going or why her passengers wanted to go there; it was just her job to get them there and home again.

“Did you not study KL-9592 in school?” I’nari asked, honestly curious. “I grew up in the Mondrage Fleet,” L’aran answered, “early schooling was focused more on surviving in space.” “And then you had to take up surviving in space as your post-schooling too,” K’chan rolled his eyes.

“Did you know,” I’nari asked, her eyes lighting up, “that 87% of the children born and raised in the Mondrage Fleet end up choosing to live planetside when they are of age? And of those 87% only about 5% ever move their home even once, even on planet. And only 2% of the children born and raised there end up staying with the Fleet.”

I’nari loved so-called fun facts. L’aran, whose entire clutch had settled on their Pa’s home planet when they came of age, had lived those facts and found them less than fun. Though that might have been because she was the decided outsider in her clutch. And the clutch ahead of them. And the one behind. “I guess I’m part of the 11% then,” L’aran smiled weakly, not wanting to crush I’nari’s enthusiasm. “But yes, I did not receive a standard planetside early education, though our teachers always stressed that our curriculum met the Federation standard.” Both K’chan and I’nari looked unconvinced.

L’aran cleared her throat. “So what is so special about KL-9592?” “It’s the first,” K’chan said simply.

L’aran made an inquisitive noise at him. “Planet KL-9592 has remains of the earliest recorded civilizations in the universe,” I’nari explained. “Okay.” L’aran drew the word out, trying to figure out how to phrase her next question. K’chan laughed. “Oh, you space headed being,” he teased. “What I’nari is trying to say, what I wrote so eloquently in my ’extracurricular essay,’ is that not only are the ruins on KL-9592 the oldest in the known universe, the civilizations they came from are extinct. Whatever beings lived on KL-9592 died out long before the Federation was even a twinkle in General Orielian’s eye.” He paused, then asked, “You know who that is, right?” “Of course I know who General Orielian is,” L’aran groused, though it was a fair question. “I said our curriculum was to the Federation standard, didn’t I?” “As far as they can tell,” I’nari said when it looked like K’chan was about to snipe back at L’aran, “and by ‘they’ I mean archaeologists like Dr. Imal and her team, the beings of KL-9592 had achieved space flight, but they never left this solar system. It’s unclear what caused their extinction, but it seems to have happened suddenly and unexpectedly. The other thing they know is that it happened 759,000 years ago.” L’aran felt her eyes widen at that. Her own people, the Ginassi, were considered one of the oldest beings in the universe but their earliest fossil records only dated to about 500,000 years ago. Their oral history extended maybe three thousand years and their written history even less.

“759 thousand?” she asked, to make sure she’d heard correctly.

“Yup.” K’chan nodded once. “And because it’s so old, it’s protected by the Federation. It takes about a gazillion permits and a very thorough background check for anyone wanting to study the ruins there. That’s why this trip is only two Federation annuals and not, say, a tetrade or two.”

Maybe Dr. Imal’s overbearing demeanor was understandable then. L’aran didn’t know how much it cost to get the permits to study KL-9592 but they were no doubt expensive and Dr. Imal’s sponsor for this expedition was an association of small universities from the Theian Galaxy. Maybe Fed U and its sibling schools at the center of the universe could fund multiple expeditions to KL-9592, but this was likely Dr. Imal’s only chance to visit.

L’aran imagined Dr. Imal felt like a pilot who usually made planet-satellite jumps being asked to test fly the newest Federation spacecraft. Like, a really sleek, fast one. “Do you need me to pull rank on Dr. Imal?” L’aran returned her mind to the reason I’nari was here. “I hate to ask, Captain. I know it’s technically my job.” I’nari smoothed her hands down the front of her uniform, looking down in consternation as she felt the lack of crisp lines. “ Ifaal .” She requested the help of her people’s main deity quietly. “They’re going to drive me to drink at this rate.” “Not to worry,” L’aran sent control of the ship to K’chan’s console and stood from her chair. “What’s the point of being captain if I can’t put the fear of the stars into a passenger every once in a while?” K’chan smiled wickedly at her.“I know that’s my favorite part of your job,” he joked as she headed toward the bridge doors. ~ The pitch of Dr. Imal’s voice, L’aran decided a few minutes later, was not understandable. No spacecraft was sleek or fast enough to excuse her tone. “No.” L’aran cut off the being’s rant about the importance of space junk from KL-9592 based on a recent article by Yuurili in The Archaeological Association’s quarterly digest. “I am the captain of this craft, and I am telling you that what you want is impossible. That is the end of the conversation. You will not badger my passenger coordinator about things that are impossible any longer, am I understood?” Dr. Imal shrank back for a second, then glared at L’aran as if she could use the force of her bright eyes alone to change the answer she didn’t like, but L’aran had been a captain long enough that angry passengers didn’t phase her. “Fine,” Dr. Imal huffed. “But you’re standing in the way of expanding the knowledge of every being in the Federation!” With that self important volley, she turned and stomped off. Well, as much as a Corian could stomp, anyway. L’aran caught I’nari’s eye and rolled her own. I’nari’s lips twitched, but she maintained her professional facade. There were still passengers around, after all. ~ Back on the bridge, L’aran checked that their trajectory was still free of the multitude of space junk that circled KL-9592, then turned to her personal screen and pulled up a few articles about the ugly planet.

She read a few news articles and a few academic articles before choosing a personal opinion post. It was written, years ago, by the being who now hosted her favorite history cast.

Effectively , the post read, the beings of Planet KL-9592 must have believed themselves to be alone in the universe. No other civilization we know of now existed at the time of their extinction, not in any appreciable way. Even the earliest Ginassi had yet to hatch by the time those beings were lost. And yet, we find again and again in the detritus of their lives art and stories about the universe at large. They dreamed of a world beyond their own. They imagined a universe full of life and color and technology they could not create themselves, but that would make their world, make any world, a better and fairer place. The beings of KL-9592 were not perfect, that is clear. Their remains include tales of horrors that range from planet wide wars to horrendous interpersonal conflicts. One of their foundational stories appears to be about a man who kills his brother due to jealousy that his brother is favored by their deity. These were not always peaceful beings. They were not always as kind as they imagined the rest of the universe to be. But can you blame them? They thought they were alone in the vast black of the universe. I imagine it’s a lot like being left alone in a locked, dark room, with no idea if any one else is in dwelling. And still…and still they sang songs and wrote stories and created casts that celebrated each other, celebrated the world around them, and celebrated the best that the universe could be. And that, in my opinion, is the best lesson we can learn from them. ~ A few clocks later, after their craft had navigated the space junk and entered the planet’s atmosphere, they landed on KL-9592. As the captain, it was L’aran’s job to disembark first, to ensure the environment was safe. KL-9592 was safe for all beings on the craft, atmosphere wise, though L’aran had been warned the gravity would be a little heavier than she was used to. She felt it the moment she stepped foot on the dusty surface of the planet, like someone had attached strong, magnetic boots to her feet. Otherwise, though, they had hit their landing spot perfectly and of course there was no native fauna to worry about. There hadn’t been in 759,000 years.

There was, however, native flora, all around her. It was mostly green with spots of red, and yellow, and pink, and orange, and brown scattered throughout. No wonder they dreamed about a universe full of color, their planet was bursting with it! Remembering herself, she pressed the button to open her com line and assure everyone that it was safe. K’chan came down next, followed by more of her crew. The porters spilled from the back of the craft, unloading the equipment the archaeologist and scientists would need for the next two annuals.

Finally, the passengers disembarked, led by Dr. Imal.

“Captain,” the being said cooly, nodding her head. L’aran withheld an eye roll. “Dr. Imal, welcome to KL-9592. The porters are unloading your equipment.” “Thank you, Captain.” Dr. Imal inclined her head again, but her eyes were already wandering to where the porters were unloading.

L’aran started to indicated that Dr. Imal was free to hurry off toward them and begin hovering and chattering at them about delicate equipment. She paused, though.

“Dr. Imal, can you tell me what the beings here called their planet?” Every planet had a home name and a Federation designation, after all. There was no way the civilization here called it KL-9592. Dr. Imal thought for a moment, then brightened. “If I recall correctly, in the language of the beings who lived on this part of the planet, they had different languages for different regions, you see,” she explained, hands gesturing excitedly. “But yes, the beings of this region called it… Earth .” “ Earth ,” L’aran muttered to herself, smiling in thanks before finally indicating the archaeologist was free to go. As the Corian hurried away, L’aran looked out at the colorful world that had once been the home of a civilization born too early, and nodded to herself. She turned to her first mate. “Welcome to Earth .”


Leo had never seen anything quite like her. His non-beating heart twitched curiously anytime she lumbered his way. “Aannna,” he mumbled somewhat unintelligibly to himself, half aware that he was speaking her name, or at least trying to. What was it about her that made him want to rub the bloody stump that used to be his right hand through her dark, matted hair? As she approached, his question was answered in an instant. The pustules on Anna’s rancid skin danced in the moonlight like a series of volcanic island chains spewing magma into the undaunted Pacific. Her dull, lifeless eyes rolled back in their deeply set sockets like a shark after the kill. Greenish arms protruded awkwardly from her tattered Ann Taylor blouse, as she absent-mindedly jerked her way towards him. She was in a word, “prrrffeect.”

Leo had fallen in love, or whatever this burning feeling was, at first sight. Actually, that isn’t fair. The first time he saw Anna, she was beating a hapless victim she had begun to dismember with his own arm, while making some hard-to-love gurgling sounds in the midst of the excitement. But that didn’t count in Leo’s mind because she never saw him peering from afar. It was as clear cut a case of a “do-over” as one could have in his mind.

The next time, the true “first time,” they locked their soulless eyes on one another, she tried to kill him, and he felt the kind of terrifying love that really means something.

----------------------------- Admittedly, the pickings were slim these days, given the apocalypse and all. Sure, the world had witnessed massive outbreaks and global pandemics before, and we’ve all seen the history books filled with gruesome tails of the result. The “Plague” or Black death killed an estimated 25% to 50% of Europe’s citizens between 1347 and 1351. The Spanish Flu, Ebola, a series of coronaviruses in the 2020s - humanity has suffered mightily and lost much to these silent killers. But we had always survived, pulled together and emerged stronger. And then everything changed.

A new and horrific virus, casually referred to in the media as “The Sickness,” was reported and spread like nothing that had preceded it. Scientists could not classify it, and the suddenness with which it was all around us made contact tracing to its origin impossible. We do know that the Sickness spread first to the more developed nations and populated cities of the world before making its way elsewhere. The virus seemed unperturbed by socioeconomic rankings and unmindful of expectations that power and privilege are normally inversely proportional to infection rates. It seemed to innately desire to attack positions of significant power first. Famous actors and Instagram influencers even got hit in the first wave for goodness sake.

The Sickness didn’t kill. Well, at least not at first or in the ways you would think it would. Those that first contracted it seemed to suffer only from reduced mental acuity and poor balance for a week or two. But soon, the body started to mutate, subtly and internally at first, but ultimately completely and in the most grotesque ways. Zombies seemed like a ridiculous word to be throwing around initially, but it would be the closest thing to describing the abhorrent creatures that became of our friends and loved ones. Their deformed faces and olive, diseased skin betrayed the bile bubbling within them. Their stilted, purposeless walk with arms limp at their sides revealed the lack of desire to cling to anything that was once human.

As the Sickness raged, infecting everyone with a speed and merciless severity hereto unexperienced in the history of humanity, we realized that death from the virus would have been a welcomed fate versus what came instead. Those infected lost the taste for normal foods within a month, water within two, and ultimately could only be satiated with the flesh of humans or other infected victims. The global infection rate was 15% within six months of the first case, 50% within nine months, and 100% within a year of its introduction. The world’s human population, celebrated as the most evolved species on the planet, was decimated and devolved in roughly a year’s time by the tiniest of microbes.

----------------------------- Some of those microbes lodged deep into Leo’s cells in the earliest days of the infection and made quick work of him. The “Turning” as it is called when the Sickness infects and mutates every cell in your body, leaving you a disgusting shell of your former self, doesn’t tickle. It is excessively painful, it is not a quick process, and it smells.

Leo had lived as an only child with his mother in Bentonville, AK where she had worked as a low level WalMart executive assistant for over 30 years. The house was a modified doublewide with red brick fortifications, a small, unkempt lawn, and an attached carport that had collapsed on one side, never to be repaired. Leo had never really known his father, who purportedly owned a CBD shack three counties over that did pretty well and who steadfastly refused to acknowledge any relation to his family. For his part, Leo worked at a vintage music store called “Lionel’s Vinyls” selling the occasional forgotten LP to hipsters and failed musicians for just above minimum wage. When his mother passed following a tragic typewriting accident, Leo soldiered on in what was a fairly lonely existence in that same doublewide. His Turning was excruciatingly painful, but sometimes you have to consider the alternative.

He wasn’t there to witness Anna’s Turning. Leo often pictured her body twisting and gurgling in horror, as the virus ravaged her organs and slowly boiled her skin until it turned that fateful drab green. To him, the sheer terror of it was slightly overshadowed by the base sensuality of her young, virile body giving into the overwhelming power of something sinister and unknown. She seemed 5’6 with the humped back and slouch, so maybe more like 5’8 back in those days. He imagined her with model good looks, sun-kissed skin and long golden brown hair. The way she killed with such conviction and never shared the best organs with anyone suggested to Leo that she had likely been very goal-oriented and probably an upper-level manager for some cool tech start-up or maybe an independent business owner. Either way, she wouldn’t have given him the time of day in a normal world, but this world, he knew all too well, was “nnott nurrrmaal.” ----------------------------- What became the norm in this post-apocalyptic hellscape was mass murder on a scale that would have been unimaginable to the pre-Sickness brain. A kind of Hunger Games-like phenomenon developed in every hamlet, town, and city across every country on this planet. Ghoulish zombies formed opportunistically into packs that would work together at first, but ultimately turn on each other until one victor remained. One never knew where you stood with your fellow cannibals. One day, you were working in unnatural unison like a slow-moving herd of Velociraptors hunting your doomed prey, and the next day that same herd was feasting on your small intestines without so much as a “sorry about this, Bob, we got hungry.”

Scientists would argue about what caused the sudden escalation of viral intensity and sheer madness in formerly-rationale beings until their dying days, or at least until the Sickness stopped them from being able to think of such things. Climate change was a clear consensus winner, but challenging to prove definitively. Plastics were often blamed, as was the prevalence of digital devices and radio waves that weakened our immune systems and altered our environment. Everyone agreed that social media was obviously destroying the very fabric of our civilization, but that was a slower and arguably more-painful burn. In the end, no one knows what caused it. We just know that it happened, and our world changed.

----------------------------- And that suited Leo just fine. Change was something he could use a little more than most. Anything to be out of that prison of a doublewide and that rut of an existence. To be free of the same old take-out Indian food, the jeering at the hands of the neighbor kids and the long lonely nights. And the longer one survived with the Sickness, the less they remembered of their former life and the more they concentrated solely on two primal urges – devouring human flesh and sex. It’s difficult to say which of these was more disturbing to watch.

Years of devouring slasher films had prepared Leo for the sight of human entrails being slurped up casually like the spaghetti-kissing scene out of “Lady and the Tramp.” He hadn’t personally taken to cannibalism as readily as some of the others, but a guy’s gotta eat, and so he could make do when necessary.

And, yet, a similar dedication over the years to consuming any and all porn the internet could serve up did not prepare Leo for the disturbing sights and sounds of apocalyptic zombie-sex. It made awkward teenage-sex look like the prize winning crescendo of a Stormy Daniels “Best Of” reel. It was all flailing limbs, unnerving secretions and high pitch yelping. It happened constantly on every street corner, park and lawn. It lasted for hours. And, god, the smell.

Obviously, all Leo could think about was what sex with Anna would be like. What it would sound like. What it would smell like. The thought of her that way consumed him. Ever since he had narrowly escaped her oddly powerful death grip by cutting off the lower part of his arm, all he could focus on was getting back to Anna. Admittedly, their relationship was complex and not without risk, but then again what relationship isn’t?

One of the only possessions Leo had from his absent father was an old, beer-stained book of poetry of all things that he had accidentally left behind. Leo had read it cover to cover many times. When it came to Anna, it was always Alfred Tennyson’s fateful words that echoed in Leo’s one remaining ear, “Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.” Even if that meant the loss of one’s arm or perhaps a vital organ here or there.

----------------------------- Unfortunately, extreme and devastating loss was what befell the world in the awful reckoning of the Sickness. And it happened in less than two years from what we estimate to be the first wave of infections. Zombie nations hungrily reduced themselves to warring zombie factions and ultimately to increasingly-starving, roaming zombie packs.

Those infected may have lost their ability to reason and communicate, but they became experts at tracking, hunting and killing with ruthless precision. In the end, we were not annihilated by weapons of mass destruction, but rather our own brute physicality and the awesome power of an unadulterated desire to kill and feed. In this way, the world’s population shrunk from billions to hundreds with the survivors willing to travel great distances to track down the last of their cursed kind.

----------------------------- Only Leo, strangely, longed for something different. Why or how, he did not know, but as the remaining zombies began to close upon him, Leo was given his chance. While ducking awkwardly into an abandoned Nordstrom’s for safe haven, he tripped over two forms squirming on the dusty floor. As he sat up and recovered his bearings, there was Anna, feasting on the remains of her latest victim, blood dripping from her cracked lips. There would never be another opportunity like this. Leo summoned all his courage. “Ith ggoo timme,” he muttered triumphantly to himself.

There in the women’s unmentionables section, Leo put it all on the line. He approached Anna cautiously, watching her every move, noting every detail. She wore her kill on the front of her blouse proudly, like Joey Chestnut celebrating his record setting 75 th hot dog at the Nathan’s Famous Hot Dog-Eating Contest. There was no fear in her bloodshot eyes, but nor was their rage. She returned Leo’s gaze confidently, and maybe, just maybe, even lovingly. For the first time, Leo felt a connection, someone looking at him for him and not just as the next meal. Each lurched toward the other, their bent limbs cracking in concert as the distance between them shortened to a few feet.

Leo braced himself and extended his hand, the good one, towards Anna. The drool extending from the left side of Anna’s mouth cascaded off her chin and danced magically in the wind. Her awful beauty made Leo’s crooked legs buckle. Anna, seeing his hand, paused somewhat questioningly. “Thif isss itt,” he thought. And then it happened. Anna’s veiny hand lifted to meet Leo’s, pausing to caress the bloody cuticles on each of his fingers before fully embracing his limp offering.

His dead heart flickered. “Cud thif bee,” Leo dared to ask himself. It felt as if every oozing pore in his body was going to explode and that his crooked frame might actually lift off the ground all at once.

And for good reason. For, as Leo stood trance-like contemplating his good fortune, Anna had stabbed him right in the gut with a shard of glass concealed in her other hand and was doggedly working on tearing a jagged line up his unsuspecting abdomen. As his blood hit the floor and began to pool, Leo snapped to and managed to weakly push Anna’s arm back, slowing the progress of his beloved killer. Enraged, Anna reached back to plunge her make-shift knife as deep into Leo’s throat as she could, but suddenly found herself slipping on the very blood she had so casually spilled. She fell backwards and plowed the back of her head into the corner of a marble display counter for women’s plus sized jeans. Whether unconscious, brain dead or just dead dead, Anna did not stir.

----------------------------- As Leo sat in a pool of his own blood, stoically eating what remained of Anna’s once beautiful corpse, he couldn’t help thinking, “thaat Tennnyshinn ith ful of shiit."


Werner didn't want to think about losing the house. He had known the time was coming, when the banker would be knocking at the door asking for payment. Every morning as the household woke he found himself praying to the God’s (he didn't really believe in) that today wasn't “the day”.  On the day, that finally was, “the day”, when Werner heard the knock it was accompanied by the scatter of the presence of every other in the house. They all knew what a knock at the door meant. Something bad.

The bank would be seizing one of them, as payment, one of Werner’s brood. That was what happened, when you couldn’t pay. It was no longer a game, this exchange.There were no excuses for non-payment of funds nowadays, no cry for “bankruptcy, no extension of credit, no mercy. When the money wasn’t there, they came to collect and collect, they did. They collected a family member.  Today the time had come for Werner to pay up. He just didn't know how, or who? How could he decide who the bank would take today? There was his wife Gerda. Gerda was a plump woman but with five children that could be expected. Only Werner hadn’t expected it. Werner thought she would be a good choice because she consumed so much food. And with five other mouths to feed the household bill rose each year as the children grew and Gerda, Gerda always grew the most.

 When they met Gerda had a lovely form and ate like a bird. Not that Werner ever thought anything of it, at the time. But with each child born her waist had increased in size as well as her appetite. If only I could have had Gerda eat less, Werner thought.  That has become a constant thought of Werner’s lately. It was almost a mantra (even though Werner had no idea what a mantra was). Over and over the thought went through his head, at breakfast, lunch and the dinner table. Oh the horror Werner felt now as she gorged on a chicken leg. One night the leg looked much like his daughters. Getting rid of Gerda would take that cost of food in half, even less, Werner thought, as he watched her shovel fork after fork down her gullet morning, noon and evening as if there was no end. Gerda made sure the family never missed a meal.

God forbid, Werner thought, wishing he could bring up the suggestion. Gerda would never have it.

“But the children are growing,” He could already hear her excuse. And Werner would agree that the children grew but Gerda, Gerda grew more.

However, there was no way he could get rid of his wife. She took care of all the children while he was at work…. when Werner had work. It had been a long time since he had had a job, that was really why they were in this predicament.

 It was all consuming, Werner’s worrying of how he was going to do this. And that was what made it so hard for him to find work. Werner was too busy worrying.

“I married a louse,” Gerda screamed one day, her robust, stern, face had taken on a hard, apple red color. Werner had asked which child they would, “do away with”, as Werner had put it, which seemed to have made Gerda madder than ever.

“I will not give the bank to my children,” Gerda had shouted, possessively, “if anyone goes, I’ll make sure it’s you.” Werner knew Gerda didn’t mean it. How would they survive without him? Secretly though, Werner worried she may be telling the truth and when the banker came, Gerda would overwhelm them all with her bulk and the bank would take him! But, the time had finally come, the banker was at the door. As the man knocked once more Werner tried to duck behind the curtain before he was seen. Too bad Werner had never been faster, or good, at anything much. Had he, they might not have been in this predicament. Or, at least Gerda was always saying that much.

As much as he wanted to give Gerda to the banker who would take care of the children if she was gone? Werner would never survive them without her. The five children were too much for Werner. Rambunctious, all over the house, always moving, always shouting, always, much, too much for Werner. But then everything in life was much too much for Werner. That was why the family was in this predicament.

The banker wore a blue suit, carried a clipboard and oddly, like no other bankers Werner had ever seen, had a pencil tucked behind his left ear. As Werner opened the door the banker took the pencil from behind his left ear, licked the newly sharpened point and balanced that tip on the paper on his clipboard.

“Mr. Werner Werner,” I presume the banker said. Werner nodded his head, as unlucky as he ever felt in his life and ushered the banker in before the neighbors could see. Werner wanted to run outside, he knew they had all seen the banker, hoping they hadn't. Wanted to run outside and tell them it had been Gerda’s fault, she had eaten her way to losing their children. Werner walked to the kitchen not knowing what to tell the banker. The banker followed, puzzled by the display. Usually the banker's clients were, by now, either crying or shoving him off with one family member or two. None had ever taken him inside their home.

The banker wondered what Werner was up to. He felt secure though, as he touched the taser each banker had been issued, just in case someone got “hysterical” (as the bankers manual instructed to use the taser in an instance such as that).  The banker however, had yet to use this instrument, his weapon. Secretly, he very much would like to try. The banker had just never been given the chance. Yet. The banker wasn't giving up on his dreams, either.

As the pair entered the kitchen Werner began to babble, then bobble, and finally, blubber, something about a big beast and food. The banker couldn't understand Werner over his hysterics. His hand traveled down to the taser, the shiny, black, thing.

“This could be the day,” the little banker agreed (with that little voice inside his head that told him all the things a banker needed to know). While a banker did not usually need to know about zapping people with bolts of lightning (that was how the banker thought about the activity of the taser, having never seen or used one himself) this man was quite proud that his job was so important he could do things like that.

“Only if necessary,” that little voice in his head said, wagging an imaginary finger like the banker's mother had done when warning him of things. She had warned him a great many times when he was growing up. That had been why the banker had been so successful. Successful enough to carry weapons that produce results like an electric chair.

The banker didn't know much about the electric chair, that form of punishment had been done away with centuries before. It had been said to be too inhumane to carry on as a form of punishment.  “Better to enslave people as indentured servants for their entire life, doing manual, back breaking, hard labor. Let that kill them”, the little voice inside the banker's head said (and the banker happily agreed).

Much more humane, the banker added to the thoughts in his head. There were notes in there too, in his head, the voice there made them.

Five minutes had passed as the banker had this talk, back and forth, with the voice in his head. Werner had blubbered on, unnoticed by the banker.

When all Werner’s blabbering, blubbering and blanching had stopped (and the banker had finished his discussion with himself) he turned to Werner and said, ”Now, Mr. Werner Werner, it seems that the bank records indicate you have not paid your house payment for quite some time. I hate to be intrusive but, as a formality, I must record why it is, that is”, (the banker always had a hard time with this part of the collection, each time, as to why, the banker had no idea).... The banker flustered and floundered until he found the words the banker had been taught to say and said,” why is it that you have not made payment?” Werner stood and said nothing for a time, looking at the banker as the banker waited, looking back at Werner.

The banker cleared his throat. Werner said nothing. The banker again cleared his throat. Still, nothing from Mr. Werner Werner.

As the banker cleared his throat for a third (the banker thought) and final time Warner knew that he must give the banker an answer. Sadly Werner had come to the conclusion that there was no other no way out of this than politely answering the banker’s questions, deciding on who in the family to give to the banker and saying goodbye to them forever. Still, he did not know who to give the banker. Werner knew the bank never gave anyone back. And, once they were deposited they were gone,forever. Even the bankers didn't know what happened to the [people] payments.

The banker had overheard a conversation of the top bank officials once but, it had been so shocking (the information he had heard) and so official, top secret, and important, the banker had promptly made himself forget it. Because that was what a good banker did (or, at least that's what the banker thought a good banker did). Werner finally got around to telling the banker he couldn't find employment to pay the bank note on the house. Now, it was up to the banker to find the right course of action for the bank and, of course, the homeowner. Did Mr. Werner Werner want to keep his home? the banker politely inquired. “Indeed, sir, I do, I do. I have five children in this home. All born and raised here. And my wife. My very big wife with a big belly who eats very big food.” The banker felt that Mr. Werner Werner was hinting at something but couldn't put his finger on what. It was strange that the family was in another part of the house. Usually they were all gathered together at this moment. A family was a family after all. It couldn't be helped that the bank had to take one of them today. Couldn't be helped at all, the banker thought.

That's what a family did, after all, the banker thought. A family helped one another. As the banker shared his thoughts with Werner hope sprang in his head, tears glistened in his eyes. It seemed to Werner that the banker was telling him that none of this was his fault. It was just the way of things and when things like this happened the family must make do, help one another. Werner was relieved with this information. Nothing could have been sweeter to Werner then hearing this situation was not his fault. The fault of this should have been laid directly at his feet by Gerda when the trouble began, Werner thought (and knowingly thought the banker would agree). Now as much as he wanted to usher Gerda out of the house, Werner in no way shape or form wanted to, or could, care for the five children it would leave him with.  If he was to rid himself of Gerda first, when the bank came for payment the next time the whole ordeal wouldn't be that hard, as it was this first time, Werner thought. Mentally he was preparing himself for that day (blessed day, as he stopped that thought and shamed himself for wanting to pay all the bills with his beloved family) he would be rid of all of them.

“No way I will let that happen,” Werner ushered that terrible (but wonderful) thought out of his head. To think that his blessed home might one day be quiet again. It was a cognitive dissonance that overwhelmed Werner’s every little bit of brain (what brain Werner, feebly possessed). Gerda, Werner knew, Gerda, would never let that happen. NEVER. As that thought plummeted Werner knew that his pick had been made. He needed to keep the children intact. And, Gerda was eating them out of house and home. His mind flashed back (luckily) to that night, as Gerda sat, eating the chicken leg that looked so very like his daughters. He had three and it really could have been any of their legs. Werner didn't like to look at them much these days. They were all beginning to look like Gerda. And they sounded like Gerda too, at times.

Gerda has to go, Werner thought, sweating now and getting overly excited.

What Werner didn't know was that, in finding the solution, he was feeling relieved. Odd, what a body registers as a feeling for relief. It was just that Werner’s brain hadn’t registered yet, every thought he knew, he knew.

As the banker stood, waiting to ask the last, dreaded, question, one of the Werner daughters wandered into the room having been sent by Gerda to see what was taking so long.

Gerda hadn't known that today was meant to be payday. Werner had his dreaded letter that had come the week before with the date, today's date, boldly stamped in red hidden in his underwear drawer where Gerda refused to go after the debacle over a small, brown, stain.

“Who Sir will you be turning over to the bank to make payment today?” When the banker asked that last, dreaded question, silence filled the room. The banker was used to screaming children, screaming women and weeping men but Werner and his daughter stood silent, both unwavering in their expression of nothingness.

The child seems very like the father the banker noted on his paper for no reason at all. In time, this comment would become wise words indeed, as the Werner children taken in payment were worth next to nothing when it came to work, very much like their father indeed.

And now that the question had been posed, the words had sunk into the home and into Gerda.

“You lousy, no good, filthy, sack of,” she screamed, her huge form flying into the room and raging at everyone and no one in particular. So out of control was the large woman and so frightful a creature, a beast of women, indeed, that the banker's hand shot to his only defense. His trusty taser. The one he had never used. Too afraid of its power but the banker had always been wishful to one day have the chance…. As Gerda’s huge form lost its balance, seething with hatred and rage over the man who could do nothing, nothing at all for them, she began to lose her balance and, so big had been her appetite that her body overflowed and came close to the banker, as if she sought to overwhelm him with her bulk. The banker, unsure of what this huge form could do to his little frame, shakily took out his trusty taser and shot the bolt out into the big woman.

The manual had said this taser was supposed to stop even the biggest and baddest of animals (as the banker remembered studying it). And, as the jolt of electricity found the big woman, the banker was a little disappointed. He had expected more, just not sure of what that more would be. All he knew now was that he was amazed with the power of the woman and a little ashamed at the lack of power in his taser. All Werner could do during this entire incident was wait for it to be over and hope Gerda was taken by the banker.

And, as sure as the power of the taser was spent the woman, as it sputtered, faded and stopped, she flopped like a dead whale, flapping the bulk of herself on the kitchen floor where she oozed over the linoleum and lay still, finally, unmoving.

Werner was amazed. Had he known that little black magic doohickey would do that to his wife. He hadn't known the banker even carried it. Knowing this, Werner would have told the banker to take Gerda in the first place.

Werner’s biggest fear now lay on the floor, unmoving, not talking, not eating and finally Werner was at peace. He had made his decision and though the banker had never taken an unconscious payment before, he felt quite sure that this beast of a woman, who could drain his mighty lightning, would be the best payment the bank had ever received. Her mighty form would do great work Well, that was, the banker thought, as long as they didn't have to feed her much.

The next day with Gerda gone Werner had been made to get up by the children and their need for things. So much was needed of him, for them. And Werner was so overwhelmed he didn't even have time to think of how overwhelmed he was. He just did. And then Werner had to do more. Finally, the family needed so much that Werner found a job. Part-time, that is.

But, with Werner’s part-time work, the money saved on food (Gerda ate no more with them, you see), the children’s help and the extra money Gerda made for the bank with her bulk form working (Werner got a stipend from the bank,which, was a first) off Werner’s payments. Werner never had to see the banker again to make another payment.

Best of all, Werner didn't worry so much anymore (especially about chicken legs and children).


Of all the shit my brother had put me through, putting me on his will had to be the worst. Naming me the sole heir of his inheritance, how generous! Now I had all of his garbage in my apartment. His stupid stinky clothes, the dumb drawing book I bought for him, that goddamn platic figure I thought I had lost when I was 10! What an asshole!

I still couldn’t believe it. That stupid, foolish, self-absorbed cretin had had the gall to go and die. After everything he had put me through, he went and got himself killed while driving. Who the hell did he think he was?

I placed the last box of his belongings in my living room after they had delivered them here. I was panting and sweating, but I was too angry to even feel tired. All his life Steven had put me through hell, first it was the prank wars, which was fair for a pair of children. Then it was the drunken calls and me having to pick him up every time to prevent him from driving while fucking drunk . Then it was running after him so he could complete his responsibilities and finally it was cleaning up each and every one of his messes. Honestly! I felt like I was living his life more than mine.

I sighed, throwing myself to the living room sofa. Not one thank you. No apology. Instead I had every last one of his possessions dumped all over my apartment. The guy was a hoarder. “Not a single visit.” I muttered before I realized my eyes had become watery. Weird. I had never cried of anger before, then again I had never been this angry. I cleaned my face and the tears disappeared as quickly as they came. A quick glance around the house worsened my mood. How could so many boxes make the house feel so… empty? The clutter was probably messenger with my head. I needed some fresh air. It was a cloudy day, my favourite type of weather. The wind was chilly and I could hear the small rumble of thunder at the distance. My black umbrella felt strangely appropriate, since the news had only reached me some two days ago. Although I wasn’t grieving, who was going to miss him anyway? Relax I told myself. No matter how angry I was, that last thought felt like crossing a line. He was probably going to be missed by someone out there, that someone just wasn’t me. I stopped at a crosswalk, blending into the crowd of people. Most of them seemed to be having a pretty active day, looking around or tapping their foot for the crosswalk light to turn green; there were a few people looking at their phones or making phone calls. It wasn’t until I glanced to the other side of the street that I saw him. He looked exactly the same. Light, long brown hair, his lanky legs that gave him too much height over me, that annoying little look he’d have that made it seem like he had just pulled a prank on me, even if I didn’t know it yet.

I shook my head, about to tell myself that it was someone that just looked like him, but that wasn’t possible either: I’d recognize that shit-eating grin anywhere. The light turned green and everyone started to scuttle across the street. I kept looking around, trying to find him again, but he wasn’t anywhere. My search became more frantic, I kept squeezing in between people, moving to where he had been standing. Finally I reached the other side of the street, but found nothing. Stupid I thought He’s not here, of course. Why would I- I shook my head, no point dwelling on a mistake from the light.

My walk continued with no particular direction in mind, being honest, I was just trying to tire myself out before I had another night of insomnia. The busy streets slowly faded away, as well as the crowds of people. Less and less houses were around as the number of trees increased, by the time I finally came to my senses the large black gate of the cemetery was in front of me. On any other day I would have marveled at how the “Green Death” initiative had become so successful, planting a plant over each buried body. The cemetery looked more like a garden where people would come to have picnics. Most people who had been buried with trees were at the edges, but more common than that were the flower bushes, red purple, white, and every other color in memory could be found around. I watched my feet to not step over food or pictures people had left around. I kept walking until I found my brother’s grave. A small sapling on its lonesome at the edge of the cemetery. Not sure with what possessed me, I folded my umbrella and sat in front of the tree, staring at it with all the rage of every chamber of hell.

“Hey.” I muttered “Asshole, you weren’t supposed to die like that, you know?” Another rumble of thunder, as if the sky itself was agreeing with me. “What? You thought you’d be able to escape your tap like that? Dream on!” My voice slowly started picking up steam, becoming louder and louder. “I still have my notebook! Every single penny you wrangled out of me and don’t you think I’m going to sell your stuff to get the money back. I’m too busy to make stock of every single trash of yours.” This time there was only silence, the sky, although still cloudy, made no acknowledgement of my words and the poor sapling simply swayed with the wind.

The lack of response felt insulting, somehow. Like the universe was mocking me for speaking to nothing but air. “If you were just going to die, then why I leave me that stupid voicemail, huh?!” I yelled again, taking out my phone and throwing it to the ground. It bounced harmlessly in the grass. “I bet you thought it was real funny.” tears began swelling in my eyes again. “Well, congratulations! But guess what? I get the last laugh!” I inhaled deeply, blinking the tears out of my eyes. “You’re dead!” Reaching a boiling point I could only rest my head on my knee before my cries became louder. My lungs were crushed in the pressure of my screams and my heartbeat rose like it had never before. Alone, lying in the grass and crying my heart out. “- I promise ” The faint sound of Steven’s voice pierced through my cries. “ I’m coming back home, I-I need your help. ” Looking up I saw my phone lying in front of my feet with my brother’s voicemail recording playing. “ I mean- No, I… Wait that came out wrong. I’m turning things around! For the better! Of course, I wouldn’t be calling you if it was for the worst. Well, no I would’ve still called if it was for the worst. I promise I’m not drunk! ” The rambling went on, the recording lasted for 10:45 minutes.

“I wasn’t.” said another voice behind me. Whipping my head around I saw him again. He was standing not so far away from me, his hands in his pockets and an awkward look on him, like he wasn’t really sure what to do with himself. With my tears slowly drying in my cheeks, a small laugh started bubbling inside of me. He’d done it. He took my “last laugh” comment too seriously and now I was going insane. I was seeing images of my brother right in front of me like he was some sort of ghost! I hadn’t noticed my laugh had devolved into a cackle until I saw my brother’s hallucination give me a weird look. Great, even my hallucinations thought I was insane. Boy! If I thought he was pathetic, then I was below rock bottom!

I deserved this. What kind of self loathing loser comes to the grave of someone they hate only to cuss them out? Ha! Who knew despicableness was a genetic trait? With one last look at him, I fainted. When I came back to my senses, I was still lying in the ground but the day had passed me by. My clothes were crumpled and I had to dust my face twice to even be able to open my eyes without bits of dirt getting into them. Despite having had a probably good rest I felt nothing but exhausted. I leaned against one of my arms to stop my from collapsing into the ground again. “Woah, you really can sleep anywhere can’t you?” On any normal day, my blood would’ve run cold. I would’ve ran to any hospital or mental ward and asked for help. On any normal day, I would’ve screamed and jumped back away from the - most likely - hallucination. On any normal day I would have cared. Instead I just gave him an annoyed look and let my head hang downwards while I got enough energy to at least sit down properly. “Here, let me help.” He reached out to me but I slapped his wand away. It felt real, it felt so, so real. The smacking sound even echoed around the air. “Did you fake your death?” I asked as well as I could with my dry throat. Out of the periphery of my vision I could see him shaking his head. “No, I-” “He’s dead, right?” My voice was harsh, demanding. I couldn’t believe my own brain would turn on me like this. I had seen his corpse, I had buried him, there was not way he could’ve faked that. “I- who?” The hallucination tilted his head, looking around as if there could be someone else who could explain things to him. “My brother, he’s…” I pointed at the sapling. “He’s dead.” He looked at Steven’s grave and them back at me. “You mean me?” “No.” I grew more and more irritated. “Not you. HIM .” “Scarlett, I’m-” I knew what he was going to say, but I wasn’t ready to hear it. “No, you’re not! You’re just a hallucination! A figment of my imagination I created to make myself feel better! I’m talking about him !”

“Scar-” “Forget it.” I didn’t know what answer I was expecting, or rather, what answer would have made me feel better. Instead I focused on trying to come up with some energy to stand up and walk back home. Silence reigned in the cemetery. For I second I wondered if maybe I was alone again, but when I looked around I just saw Steven again, smiling. “You always did hate my ghost stories.” I turned my head back to face the ground, forcing myself to make the hallucination disappear. “I am really sorry, Scar.” I flinch “I-I needed you to know that.” Tears start swelling up again. “Stop.” Hallucination or not, his voice was too real. No matter how hard I tried to remind myself there was no way my brother could be beside me right now, I couldn’t bring myself to ignore him. “Thank you. You helped me out of every situation, even when mom and dad gave up on me.” “I said, stop! ” “I loved you, lil’ sis.” I turn around, crying again of anger, resentment and a soul shattering sadness. He had his arms open, waiting for a hug. I broke down, throwing myself for a hug and crying again. I couldn’t understand it and I couldn’t deal with it but I missed him. I missed him so much. The idiot had made my life impossible, but I had been the one who chose to follow him after my parents kicked him out. There was no reason behind that except that no one deserved to be abandoned and now… now he had abandoned me. “I hate you.” I muttered. He chuckled. “As you should.” “How dare you make me sad.” “I always did have a knack for causing trouble.” “Why did you die?” Silence. “Guess it was too late for me.” I broke the hug, looking at him curiously “The day I died, after I sent you the voicemail I… I made an appointment. Dr. Murphy.” He laughed again. “I knew I shouldn’t have paid in advance.” “You were on your way there?” He shrugged. “Maybe I was just not meant to-” “Stop that.” I interrupted. I had not suffered so much to help someone who was not meant to be happy. “No one is meant to do shit.” “Hey, look at the glass half-full, I’ll stop holding you back.” My head started shaking even before he finished his sentence. “I didn’t mean it.” “I know, but it’s true.” “No.” “You’re going to have a better life now.” “I can’t.” I stated, matter-of-fact-ly “Why?” “Because nothing good can come off your death.” I answered before I even thought of my answer, but like a broken dam the truth started to spill over me. “I don’t want a ‘glass half full’ I just want you to be okay! I want to see that person you wanted to become! I want you to be alive, damnit!” Steven cleaned my tears and said softly. “But I can’t.” I sighed, and repeated. “But you can’t” “And it sucks.” I laughed bitterly. “And it sucks.” “But you’re a resourceful person Scar, you’ve always been. Yeah, things are going to suck for a while and I would’ve liked to become a good brother to you, but you know what?” “What?” He ruffled my hair and pinched my nose. “I can leave happy, knowing you didn’t hate me.” Despite myself I laugh, getting his hand off of my face.

“I never did.” “Liar.” “Fine, I never completely hated you. And for what it’s worth, I’m glad you actually wanted to become better.” Out of the corner of my eye I saw light starting to come on the horizon, even though it was still covered by clouds. In the brightness I could see how translucent my brother’s image had really been. “What happens now? Are you going to haunt me?” Steven just laughed. “I don’t know.” “But then-” A thunder crashed somewhere in the distance, but still close enough to make me jump and look to the direction of the sound. When I turned around, my brother was gone. I looked around for a while, not exactly sure what had just happened. Perhaps I was too disoriented to feel much of anything, or maybe I had emotionally exhausted myself the night before, but there was a certain feeling of peace around me; like a picture that had been off my whole life had finally been put straight. I picked up my umbrella and walked to the entrance, looking back at the sapling one last time. It looked weirdly more green than before. “I’ll miss you, Steven.”


“You can do this…” Kleo self-encourages as he stares at the blank word document practically wasting time waiting for one of his three papers to write itself. His schedule for the next 24 hours includes three papers: one due at midnight, the next  due in the morning, and the last due tomorrow evening. The paper due for midnight he’s already completed, but only needs to comb through and refine;  the one for tomorrow morning he’d already made it halfway through the page limit; and this one he can only pray that he musters the willpower to start. “You can do this..” After procrastinating and telling himself that he could finish all 3 three days before their respective deadlines, he finds himself struggling and suffering the ramifications of his arrogance. Kleo, a semi-humble aspiring fiction  writer, is experiencing the bane of many writers’ existences— inspirational block. Up until this point he jumped between the other two papers until he was slapped with  the inspiration for his third.

The First and most important paper, due at midnight, is a 12 page research paper on the magical influences on the Italian Renaissance. Every student’s sweet dream and succulent nightmare. The second, an 8 page Essay on a philosophical debate on some discourse he could barely comprehend in class, and doesn’t care to recap now. Finally, the third paper is a work of fiction, a 6 page paper completely within in his control, subject to his imagination. However, he has no clue how to handle it. “Come on… come on brain, just one more. You can do it!! Don’t fail me now!” His hands claw at his face, dragging his weary eyelids past their normal stretch-limit. “I’ll just start typing and see where that takes me, see how you like that.” His hands take their battle stance above the keyboard without a clear purpose, his muscles tense as he tries to regurgitate random sentences, but his hands stall and fail to make a move. The paralysis spreads from his hands to his arms, then from his arms to his eyes and finally to his brain. His vision blurs and his mind seemingly shuts down, not a single flare of electricity fires from the creative neutrons of his brain as he dissociates from reality. He hears his thoughts more clearly, they’re  screaming, but not all of the screaming is his, strangely enough. An array of voices, the sound of an emergency siren, and other soft, yet excruciatingly loud noises rampage about his head. The sounds strangely bring Kleo back to consciousness slowly as opposed to intensely shocking him back to lucidity. “I’ve Got it!” He shouts, his hands, now knowing what they should, start typing. “I’ve got it!! That’s actually an interesting theme! I’m gonna have fun with this..” Kleo begins to write and carry out the newfound contents of his heart. His hands, dancing spicily over the phonetic dance floor, orchestrate the story of a man madly in love and overcome with the emotions he feels for his partner, a fellow Brooklyn paramedic. The emotions drive him mad and tear up the wining bits of his heart again and again until he’s just a bruised man still returning to a crush that may never see him the way he wants. A forbidden love, perhaps not to the standards of Shakespeare’s compositions, but socially forbidden none the less. The words beat in his chest as he pulls pieces of his own experience, making the work feel more alive, more birthed than mixed together in a tube. “Write what you know. Turn your troubles to words, and express what you could never show.” Kleo Quotes his 9 th  grade English teacher, “It’s fiction after all, at least that’s all everyone else needs to believe.” The truth behind the story, behind the thickness of the plot, remains  a part of Kleo’s early life that he’d happily locked away. Although, he was never a paramedic and the other guy wasn’t at all lost, he only needed to embellish and shift the story to suit the forbidden love requirements for the paper. In reality, forbidden isn’t a word, Kleo cares to even acknowledge. Except, when he wants to laugh at the futility of it being compared on aspects of his life. The word is merely a challenge gladly accepted. Somehow he manages already to reach 4 pages effortlessly. He, himself, doesn’t quite understand how he manages to achieve this but he doesn’t question it immediately. He allows his brain to pour the flesh onto the bones of the story and his heart to draw the stringy sinews together. It’s magical.

It’s a miracle!!!

He thinks,

Calliope is surely on my side on this one!! Maybe if I’d invoked this particular muse days ago I would have already finished, but better late than not at all!!

He finishes the work of fiction, and pleased with his concluded work, he looks it over. However, his veins are still overflowing with ambient inspiration. It is still too soon to call it quits and wrap it up. He presses the save button for this document and while it slowly goes through the saving process he works on the one he’s nearly finished. Suddenly the discourse seems interesting. He still isn’t fully capable of comprehending it but he manages to take what he has written and turns flips it around in the second half, making an explication of this nightmare. He works in questions of his own to add a personal flavour and attempts to see them into the natural flow of the paper. Even if the paper isn’t the best it could be, it becomes the best that it could be under the circumstances.

This is why procrastination still prevails,

his mind hums,

It never ceases to amaze me, and it definitely doesn’t let me down when I need it.

After finishing and beginning the save process on that paper he moves to the editing process of the bigger paper, the one he’s already completed. He feels as though it would be alright to just send it in without over looking it, but as he glances at it he immediately notices at least five sickening typos and he feels the intense urge to comb through the rest. Luckily he has just enough energy and divine inspiration to complete this task. As he combs through the last paper, he refines it making it infinitely better than whatever it was before.

“The number of typos was….. astonishing…” he teases himself, “It wasn’t the worst paper I’ve ever read.” Oh, really?? That’s grand!! And to think I wrote it in a matter of two hours!!

“ I….. could tell.” Kleo presses the save button and it moves faster than the rest. It completes and presents a successfully saved message. He hoots into the still night with vibrant rejoice! He’s finished.  .  . At least that’s how he’d wished it happened. Quickly 3 messages flash mockingly on the screen of his laptop. “Failure to save documents.” They read. The Joy and intense pride he once felt immediately transmigrated to Ashes beneath his tongue. It intensifies as he the word documents quickly erase sentence by sentence until each one has been removed. In sheer panic he abuses his mouse and keyboard trying to stop this catastrophe, but to no avail. All he can do now is watch as everything rots and draws out his devils. In distress he drops his head to the keyboard, then picks it back up and drops it again. He repeats steps one and two, again and again until he sees the God of Abraham and Isaac. The Clunk, Clunk, Clunk of his head raises in pitch each time. Until it’s a radiantly horrid ringing. He stops and opens his eyes. He’s washed in depression and sadness when he’s looking at a ceiling instead of the top of his desk, and the high pitch sound continues, exposing its true nature. He looks over at his screaming  alarm clock and begins to cry. He never started any of the papers, yet instead fell asleep 17 hours ago. At least he’s well rested, and ready to brave the— “Please….” He choke on his tears, “SHUT.  .  .  . UP.”


Look, I had pica , ok? Oh sure, Aesop tried to disguise his retelling and pretend it was just some "random" fable he "suddenly" invented, but everyone knew who and what he was really talking about. Thanks to him , I've never heard the end of it at our volcanic-barbecues-slash-virgin-roasts. I'm Larry. That's right, Larry the FireLizard, go on and get it out of your system. My folks weren't very creative when it came to naming their whelps. To be fair, there were about 200 of us, and pretty soon you kinda run out of the interesting stuff. At least I wasn't a girl – I was going to be Lizzy the FireLizard. Anywho... It all started when I had finally reached my 250th birthday, the proper age for a young dragon to leave his thunder and begin his lifelong hobby of treasure-seeking.

Only, for me, it wasn’t just a hobby. It went deeper than that, man: it was a calling. I loved gold. The way it sparkled and shone, the way the melted stuff poured, the way it shimmered as it flowed through my claws. It was mesmerizing. I wanted to bathe in it, marry it, become One with it.

Yeah, that all sounds wrong now , but I guess you’d have to have been there. And been dragonkin. Now, that’s not to say I wasn’t an aberration amongst my kin. But, see, we didn’t have all these sissy therapies back then like you have now. Can you imagine? “Tell me about your mother.” “She ate a kingdom. No, not a king, the entire kingdom. Don’t believe me? Do you remember Schlendia? Nope? See, wiped it clean off the map.” (Don’t even get me started on how that "makes me feel ”... “You look pretty tasty,” is how it "makes me feel .") Anyway, so that birthday, I was super excited to get started. I began with the little stuff, roasting a wealthy traveler here and there, maybe an occasional bordello flambello. I particularly loved gambling runs: the gold always smelled filthy, but it came with a side of beer if I was careful not to cook it off in the initial volley.

There was a lotta competition, mind you. The countryside skies were so thick with me and my kind, you could hardly see daylight. I started going further and further afield, just looking for that delicious hit of mellow yellow. Flying over the sea one day, I chanced upon something novel: floating buffets. I later learned they were actually called “ships,” and they were built by the Phoenician people whom I had menaced regularly. I guess I never thought to check, before then, if they were fleeing me by water. They were extremely tasty, so I feel kinda stupid that it took me so long and had to happen purely by chance. Soon as I got hip to that floating action, I didn’t rest on my laurels: it turned out they had no way to warn each other when I raided them at sea, so all I had to do was camp out at a spot on their route – a little tucked-away island with the most delightful cave – for a few months, and before I knew it, hey presto! My cave was full to the brim. I know what you’re gonna say, but do you know why the history books think the Phoenicians were only trading in tin? Me. I made sure and stripped those suckers of every bit of the good stuff and kept going back for more. (...Excuse my wings, they do that little flippity flip flip thing when they're happy.) Now, I’m a collector, yes, but more than that, you have to take some time and smell the roses, know what I mean? By the time I finally stopped savaging Phoenician ships, I was ready for a nap. I buried myself up to my neck in my golden lair and fell into a deep, soul-satisfying sleep that lasted until a new era had dawned.

By that time, the planet had grown more crowded, and my kind had been chased away from the populated routes by weapons the likes of which I had never seen. I couldn’t find much to raid that was safe, so I ended up mostly killing time on my island.

It started off harmlessly enough: I loved gold, and I was bored. It smelled good, looked good… you can see how it might happen, right? I tasted some. Don’t judge – have you ever tried it? I know you have: you people have gold-flake-topped cakes and liqueurs imbued with the stuff. Delicious, right?! Awww yeah: guilt-free gilt! Look, I’m a beast, I have huge appetites. What happened next was the natural progression of things: I ate it. All. Thing is, it was kinda like Chinese food... I was hungry again 2 years later.

That stuff doesn’t digest well, apparently. When I was forced from my lair in order to find more of anything to eat – which, oh, musta been around 600 BC, in retrospect – I happened to be over Greece when my first “accident” occurred. (Hey, that guy in the back: show him the door if he’s going to be juvenile about this.)

Anyway, upshot is, I accidentally buried a small town in golden deuce. I don’t recall the town's name, being as I was too mortified to stick around. Obviously, reclaiming was out of the question: I have pica, not scatophilia. Well, what can I say after that? Once the dam breaks, it’s on, and it’d been a couple centuries in the making. Pretty soon, much of the Greek and Roman countrysides were buried in my piles of filthy lucre, and I was helpless to do anything about it. (I understand those “hoards” are still being found to this day. You’re welcome.) Turns out, stories started going around everywhere about some “goose” who “laid golden eggs,” but unless all those villagers had sh… bad eyesight, I knew they were punchin’ down on me.

I was at one of my kin’s get-togethers not long after that, and it happened by accident. Once . ‘Course, they put two and two together, and … well, there you have it.

“Larry Loosie Goosie,” “Goldie the DungLizard,” “Izzy” (Izzy or Izn’ty Gonna Crap Gold on the Populace) – I’ve heard it all. My reputation was in the toilet, both among my kin and among the countryside. I could hear the laughter coming for miles.

Naturally this Aesop dude heard the "goose" tales, too, and – being appropriately terrified of naming and shaming me, specifically – decided to make it one for the history books and wrote it down for all time. So, people, all I’m saying is: please stop telling your kids that stupid goose fable, ok? You’re gaffelighting my serious mental and physical issues, and you should be ashamed of yourselves.


“Oh, grow up.” This was my mother’s reaction when I came out to her as being transgender. I think she knew already. I had probably left her clues: a bra not so carefully hidden, evidence that I had been using her makeup, leaving a razor stubble ring around the bathtub after a Sunday morning bath to shave my legs while she was off at church. I didn’t consciously want her to find out, but maybe unconsciously . . . . I was just lucky that my father had passed away, because he would've done more than tell me to grow up, he would've thrown me out of the house. Still, the fact that my mother thought it was all just a childish game hurt. “I AM grown up,” I protested. “Well you certainly aren’t acting like it. Get over it. And stop using my lipstick.” “You don’t understand! This isn’t just some game. I’m trying to find myself!” “You’re 19. You should have found yourself by now. You need a job is what you need.” On that score, she was probably right. It would help pay for college, and give me valuable experience. But how, I thought, was I supposed to get a job, and continue my transition? Who would employ a male to female transgender who was barely passable at best? “Regardless, this is who I am. Deal with it!” I yelled, storming out of the room. I decided to go for a run and clear my head, so I put on my pink women’s running shorts, a “Keep Asheville Weird” T-shirt, and my pink and white Reeboks that I had searched all over Asheville to find in my size. I went out Medford Street to Pigeon Street, then up the hill to Main Street in uptown Westville. (The central business district was located on a ridge, so it was always “uptown Westville”, not “downtown.”) I ran down it, dodging pedestrians, to the Masa County courthouse. I turned left on Depot Street, and ran down the long hill. I was getting warmed up, and feeling pretty damned good about myself, when I tripped on something, a shoelace, an uneven place in the sidewalk, and did a face plant right in the middle of the Toad Flat part of town. “Oh, my God,” a woman cried out, running over to me. “Are you alright?” “NO, I’m not alright!,” I half yelled and half cried. “I think I broke my nose.” “I’ll get you an ambulance.” “No, don’t,” I said. The pain in my nose was excruciating, but an ambulance would make a scene, and I didn’t want that. Plus a trip to the hospital might mean they’d see my bra and lacy panties, and I REALLY didn’t want that. I got up, tied my shoe, and started running back to the house. I tried to concentrate on my stride, and my breathing, and not on the pain, and the blood staining my T-shirt. “I’ll swan,” my mother said when I came in the door. “What happened to you?” “I fell. I think my nose is broken.” “Well, come on, I’ll take you to the hospital.” “Just a second,” I said. “I want to take off this bloody shirt.” “Okay.” At the ER, a little man named Dr. Vasquez looked over the damage. “Yow!” I yelled as he adjusted my nose. “Well it’s definitely broken.” “It hurts like hell, too.” “Nurse,” he said to the pretty blonde in dark blue scrubs who had been writing down everything he said, “give this man something for pain.” “No thanks, doc, I’ve got plenty of pain as it is.” “Clever. Clev-er. Seriously, I’ll give you a prescription for pain meds. Don’t drive or take alcohol with them.” “Got it. So what happens now?” I said, looking at the posters for diabetes and heart disease on the walls. I was glad I didn’t have either of those. Maybe that’s why they put them up in the first place, to make anything seem worse than one’s own present situation. “I’ll put some dressing on it to absorb any bleeding, and a splint.” “That’s it? Don’t I need surgery or something?” “Nope. I’ve realigned it. Just gotta let it heal.” “How long will that take.” “About 6 to 8 weeks.” “Great, just great. A splint in the middle of my face for 6 to 8 weeks.” “No, we can probably remove the splint after 6.” “Gee, thanks, that makes me feel so much better.” He tapped his own nose. “In the meantime, I wouldn’t be snorting any cocaine.” “Ha-ha.” “How did it happen, if I may ask?” I felt stupid saying I tripped on a shoelace like a klutz, so I made up a better story. “Was playing volleyball. Got a ball spiked in my face.” “Ouch.” Back at home, I stared at myself in the bedroom mirror. I looked hideous, with the big white splint and gauze and tape on the middle of my face. It had to happen the very day there was going to be a concert in downtown Asheville by my favorite band, Southern Culture on the Skids. It was going to be my first time out in public as Victoria, but she surely couldn’t go out in this condition, I thought glumly. “David?” my mother said, knocking on the bathroom door. “Is everything alright?” “I’m not David anymore, mother, I’m Victoria,” “Sure, whatever you say. Can I come in?” “So you can stare at the freak? Why not?” “You wouldn’t be a freak if you stopped trying to be a female.” “I’m not trying to be female, I AM female. I’m just trying to embrace that part of me, but for some reason the whole world is against it.” “You know, it says in the Bible that it’s an abomination for a man to dress in the clothes of a woman.” “And did you know men wore robes back then, not pants?” “Fine, be that way, David.” “Victoria. Vic-toria.” “Whatever. As long as you’re living in this house, I expect you to dress as a man.” Suddenly going to that concert meant a whole lot more. If I couldn’t cross dress around my mother – I had no intention of not dressing in my room or around the house when she was at church, where she went a lot – I would definitely do so in Asheville. I put on my favorite denim mini-skirt, and tucked it into a pair of baggy boy shorts, and chose a T-shirt that said “Well Behaved Women Rarely Make History”, which I covered with a green pull over. My Reeboks looked femme enough, and even if I HAD sexy heels, I would break my neck just walking in them, let alone dancing. “Where are you going?” my mother asked, as I came out of my bedroom. “Concert in Asheville,” I said. I wasn’t going to deceive her, at least not totally. “Isn’t that a little risky? With the coronavirus still out there, we aren’t supposed to be gathering in large groups.” “It’s fine if you’re vaccinated. And I’ll wear a mask.” “Oh, okay. Say, are you putting on weight?” she said, pointing to the my bulging shorts. I was almost tripped up enough to tell her the truth, but I caught myself. “Yes, yes I have been feeling puffy here lately.” “You should see the doctor about that. I’ll call Dr. Craig and make you an appointment.” “Thanks, you do that,” I said, heading for the door. “Don’t wait up.” “You should eat something before you go.” “I’m sure there will be a food truck or two at the concert.” “But that stuff is not healthy. Let me fix you something.” “No, really, I’m fine.” “Well just remember, unprotected sex is not acceptable.” “Mother, I’m going to a concert, not an orgy. The worst that’s going to happen is they may throw fried chicken. Or serve banana pudding.” “Don’t think I haven’t read about these ‘concerts’. I know what goes on when rock-n-roll is in the air.” “Goodnight, mother.” The concert was happening in Pack Square, so I parked in the Wall Street parking garage planning to walk over, to maximize the number of people who would see Victoria. In the car, I slid off my shorts, pulled down my skirt, and took off the green pullover. I brushed my hand through my sandy brown, longish hair (my mother insisted I get a haircut at least every 2 months, which made it hard to gain much length), applied some lip gloss, and got out of the car. The walk was very satisfying. I liked the look of my long, strong legs sticking out of the skirt, and apparently some of the onlookers did, too, whistling when I went by. I got one catcall that said something about “That fag,” but I ignored that. Most of the people I passed smiled at me, and it just felt good to be able to show my true self to the world, instead of keeping her closeted in my room. I got to Pack Square just as the opening act, a local group called the Honeycutters, were packing up their stuff. A couple of roadies brought out a couple of guitars and a bass, the drum kit was taken down, and a new, bigger one was set up. I watched the crowd, just daring someone I knew to be in it. No, I wasn’t just daring, I was HOPING to see someone. I wanted to be out to the world, but the hard trick was going to be outing myself to people I knew, and if it happened by accident, so much the better. My attention suddenly turned to the stage, when SCOTS lead guitarist and lead singer Rick Miller stepped up to the microphone. “Howdy Asheville? Y’all want a little banana pudding?” The band launched into the song ”Banana Puddin’”. I was standing by the stage, which meant being near the speakers. I knew it was bad for my ears, but sometimes Miller would invite people to come up on stage, and I was determined to be one of those people. I also liked to be by the stage so I could see what was going on with the band. As an aspiring guitarist myself it was amazing to watch Miller’s fingers flying up and down the fret board of his guitar. And bassist Mary Huff and drummer Cris Best kept up a steady beat to keep the crowd dancing. After a parade oi songs – Voodoo Cadillac, Camel Walk, Holdin’ Up The Roof of a Cheap Motel, and Walk, Walk, Walk, with Huff on lead vocals – I was out of breath, and bent over at the waist trying to catch my breath. Miller looked in my direction and spoke to me. “What’s your story, then?” he said. At first I didn’t realize he was talking to me, and I looked around for somebody who might have a story. “You, yeah you, with the cast on your nose. What happened?” “Volleyball. Took a spike in the face.” “Volleyball! Isn’t she great folks? Somebody get her a T-shirt.” The night was perfect for dancing, not too cold, but not too hot, either, so I kept dancing.. I danced with girls. I danced with children. I danced with old ladies. By the end of the concert, my legs were stiff and sore, and I had worked up a pleasant sweat. I felt good about the evening, that I had been seen cross dressed in public and I hadn’t caused a panic or gotten arrested. It felt, so good, in fact, that I almost forgot to change back into my boy clothes. I figured my mother would be asleep when I got home. That would’ve been a disaster. It turned out the disaster would come from another direction entirely. When I made it back home to Waynesville, and opened our front door, my mother was standing there, and she wasn’t happy. “Uh, what’s up?” I asked. “You want to know what’s up? I’ll tell you what’s up. I just watched the 11 o’clock news and saw my only son at a concert, out in public, dressed as a woman. Care to explain that, mister?” “I told you I was transgender. You won’t let me dress up here, so I figured if I did it in Asheville . . .” “The phone has been ringing non-stop. First it was Mabel Grossman down the street. Then it was your English teacher, Mrs. Belk. But worst of all was Father O’Malley. He raised questions about my efforts as a single parent. I might get thrown out of the church for this. But you don’t ever think about how your actions might reflect back on me, do you?” “Um . . .” “Well do you?” “Didn’t they ask about my nose at all?” “Of course not,” my mother said, wringing her hands. “Oh, this is even worse than the time you siphoned gas out of your Uncle Louie’s car to make it look like his gas mileage was decreasing.” “I saved it all and gave it back to him.” “Or when you brought the class ferret home without telling me, and let him out in the house. I’ve still got scars from where he bit me on the neck. Thought I was never going to get loose. You just don’t think! And you say you’re grown up. Pah! “I’ll tell everybody that it couldn’t have been you on the news because you were home studying, and . . . .” “Mother, I . . . “ My mother broke down in tears. “Where did we go wrong, David? What could we have done differently?” “Nothing, mother. This has absolutely nothing to do with your parenting. Why can’t you just accept me for who I am, and maybe stand up for my rights instead of trying to make me go back in the closet?”” “I want to, I really do, but it’s all just so confusing. And I worry about you going out like that. I worry someone will try to hurt you. I worry this means you’re gay.” “I’m not gay, I can assure you of that, mother.” “But how can you want to be a woman, and not be into men?” “It doesn’t work that way. I like women, and at the same time I want to be one.” “That’s just weird. Do you wish you were me?” It was a question I hadn’t considered, and a disturbing one at that. Who in the world would want to be their own mother? “Goodnight,” I said, and ducked into my bedroom to avoid it, That night I had a dream. In it I was my mother, and I was nursing me as a baby, and I had this uneasy feeling that I was going to be ripped away from me at any moment, and it scared the shit out of me. I wanted to protect the infant me even if it cost me my life. I didn’t tell my mother about the dream, but I saw her concern for me in a whole new light. “Mother,” I said the next morning over breakfast. “I want you to know that I get your fears for me being trans. It doesn’t change the fact, but I understand your position better.” “Thank you, David, er, Victoria.” It was the first time she ever called me by my nom de femme, and it felt amazing. “Not a name we would’ve chosen had you been born a girl. We would’ve named you Judith.” “So you’ve thought of me being a girl?” “Yes, I’ve considered it, and I’ve decided Victoria suits you very well,” she said, putting her coffee cup in the dishwasher. “Thank you, mother.” “I’m going the church now, and I’d like you to come with me. Go put on a skirt or whatever you feel comfortable in.” “But it’s Saturday. You go to church on Sundays.” “I know.” “You’re acting very strangely, mother, If you think for a moment I’m going to confession, you better think again.” “I’m not.” “Then why . . . “ “Just come with me, Victoria. You’ll see.” The Catholic church in Westville was a river rock building on the side of a hill, with a rectangular bell tower that rose about a floor above the church itself. The sanctuary had bright red doors, which I always found warm and inviting. Father O’Malley’s office, by contrast, was not. It was cold and barren, with no pictures or keepsakes or any decoration at all. Just a desk with a Bible on it. “Ah, Mrs. Krebs, I see you’ve brought David down to confess. Give me a minute, and I’ll meet you in the booth.” “No,” my mother said. This was new, I thought. I’d never seen her stand up to authority. And what she said next came as a complete shock. “We did not come to confess. And her name is Victoria now! She is transgender, because that’s who she is. It has absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with my parenting! And you haven’t even asked about her broken nose!” “I’m sorry, Mrs. Krebs, but I’m afraid we can’t have David here being seen in drag on the TV, and causing an uproar in the church community. I have no choice but to ask you to leave, and take your abomination of a son with you.” “Fine! Maybe I’ll go become a Methodist.” Outside the church, I gave my mother a bear hug. “Mother! That was amazing. I can never repay you! Giving up your faith for me, that’s a big step. Are you sure about it?” “Yes. I’ve been thinking of leaving the church for awhile now. You just gave me the inspiration to pull the trigger.  I love you, and you’re a more important part of my life than the church could ever be. You understand that, don’t you?” “I do now, mother, I do now.”


Alex Lape Reflected Shadows Neil hurried his pace as he strolled down bustling midnight streets of Sacramento, crinkling his nose as the noxious smell of rotten eggs seemed to well up from its sewage system. The meeting spot designated in the text he got couldn’t be three more blocks from the stoplight he had recently passed. A text from none other than his old friend Alphonse somehow managed to strike an ominous sense of dread in Neil, yet he found himself instinctively drawn to seeing what his former partner/handler sought from him.  I’m barely even there, and I could already smell the bullshit , Neil silently despaired, taking the foul aroma as if it were a forewarning from Fate itself telling him that the meeting was either a trap or a whole new gateway to chaos in his life. As the oldest heir to his Family’s name, Alphonse exuded an air of overbearing arrogance and impulsiveness that often burdened everyone around him. If Alphonse gave an order, it had to be executed with the utmost urgency unless they wanted to be dealt with themselves. Neil had his fair share of having to make people “go on extended vacation” on Alphonse’s orders. “It seems this city isn’t big enough to keep you hidden forever, after all,” a voice pierced through the raucous medley of sounds that surrounded Neil. A voice that would’ve been comfortably familiar to him, had he not remembered to whom it belonged to and all of the underlying menace it implied.

“I thought I told the Family I was out after I left Cleveland and I told YOU not to come find me ,” Neil growled lowly, spinning around to face his former ally, his eyes darting about to see if he could find either an escape route or improvised weapon. “Ah, funny that - cause if ‘I’ remember correctly: WE made a blood pact that makes us closer than family,” Alphonse smirked, his playful yet psychotic gaze seemed fixed on Neil before eventually noticing an open sports bar advertising free wings on game day, “Fancy a drink with an old friend for old times’ sake?” Neil groaned and glanced to his left, feeling for his wallet in case Alphonse was still as notoriously cheap now as he was back then. “Lead,” Neil huffed coldly and followed behind Alphonse as every instinct he had violently tugged on him to get away. “So, why the fuck are you here, Alphie?” Neil questioned with quickly dwindling enthusiasm that would go obsolete, depending on what answer he got. “Do you remember my godsister, Fran?” Alphonse just casually threw out the question as if he were simply skimming headlines in a paper. “Oh, no. We’re not doing this. Thanks for the drink, but I’m out. Goodnight,” Neil stated, getting up from his seat and dusting off as he fished for the last five dollar bill to pay for his lager. But as Neil turned to make his way to the door, a firm vice-like grip seized his right hand. “ I think Fran may be in trouble. I don’t exactly trust this new guy she’s been going around with,” Alphonse admitted with an irritated groan that came out muffled through his teeth. “And what does that have to do with me?Look, whatever happened between me and your godsister happened, alright? She made her choice and I respected that. That’s why when I left your Family, I gave her the space she needed, the space we both need, by moving from Ohio to California,” Neil blurted out exasperatedly, panting as if he were fighting to draw both his air and his emotions back into him. “Are you done? Just hear me out. I know you tried with my godsister, and I know you loved her. I never blamed you for leaving. That’s not what this is about…it’s just…this guy…,” Alphonse’s voice trailed off as he looked desperately out the window. “You don’t trust him, do you?” Neil asked with a more inquisitive tone. “Some things just don’t add up, ya know?” Alphonse sheepishly admitted as his shoulders reluctantly rose and fell as if signaling the wave of regret he felt in letting his cousin go so easily. “What things?” Neil further interrogated his friend, taking a moment to eye the bar to see if he was gonna need another beer for this explanation. “Look, word on the street is - this guy was in heavy with some Eastern Europeans. They even had him on this whole arranged marriage deal and shit. Apparently, he nixed all that when he ran off to be with my godsister. But now….” Alphonse rattled off before sighing and fishing for a cigarette in his right breastpocket. “Now all involved parties aren’t exactly happy and demand restitution. And you’re worried Franceska may be caught in the middle of this,” Neil finished Alphonse’s train of thought as the corners of his forehead began to scrunch up. “All I’m asking you for is to maybe look into this and look out for her. Someone has to- my godsister can be very impulsive,” Alphonse reminded Neil as a waitress went by to ask if they wanted wings or onion rings, which they waved off. “I’m sorry, but it can’t be me. History aside, I left that life a long time ago,” Neil rebutted as he drank his bottle down to its last third. “So, what - we just let Franceska go? YOU let Franceska go? Just like that? I know you, Neil. Our methods may be very different, but I know you. You were always giving your all to protect those who needed it. That’s why for all the shit I gave you, I’ve learned to respect you. ” Alphonse pressed him, his tone more challenging than it was pleading, as if it were a knife being methodically driven in to pry for a response. Outside the bar window, a neon light shone down on the pair, casting a cool, soothing almost mystifying blue hue on Neil while a furious, burning shade of red blanketed Alphonse as his jaws tightened, forming knots on the side. “Alphie…For fuck’s sake, even if I could be there - what do you expect me to do? Like I’ve said a dozen times by now - I DON’T DO THAT ANYMORE. I’m a sales associate at a local flower nursery now,” Neil tried to drive home once again as Alphonse scoffed and looked out the window. “So, is that it? Is that what you wanna do with your life? Spray down flowers for less than twenty bucks an hour? Knowing full well that one of our loved ones, the woman YOU love, can be getting into some deep shit? And if all you can do is sit by, then forgive me for thinking that a ‘Brother’ of mine could actually help me out,”Alphonse sighed, his disappointment plastered plainly on his face as he gathered his things to leave. “Alphie- Alphie, even if I could look into this - how would I even start? I don’t have the same ‘connections’ I did back when I was in the Family,” Neil protested as Alphonse straightened his jacket to leave. “If you were to somehow change your mind and come back to where you belong, every connection and every bit of supplies will be at your disposal - all you have to do is ask,” Alphonse punctuated his final offer by sliding an airline ticket and a calling card towards the middle of the table,”Think it over.” Neill pushed his empty bottle to his left as his eyes fixated on to the materials placed before him. Neil looked up and tried calling out to the man who dragged him into that life, and now sought to drag him back into, but as the door to the bar swung idly - he was gone.