Carl looked at himself in the bathroom mirror and an old man stared back at him.  The face had changed, the mirror too, but he could trace a straight line from the old man to the boy he had once been. “Bullshit!” said the editor, “every face tells a story, but it never follows a straight line. There’s always ups and downs, arcs, setbacks and deviations. You are lying to me and to yourself.” The editor jabbed a finger at Carl. Carl dodged the finger. “It is just as much effort writing my own story as it is any other,” he said, “and there are many more interesting subjects than me”.

“You know what they say about the unexamined life, don't you?,” replied the editor, “and, besides, since you’re constantly churning your life story, over and over, you might as well write it down, and stop expending energy on needless repetition, not to mention this 'creative fiction' fixation.  You might even end up resolving a few things along the way... troubling character flaws.” “What if my story doesn’t deserve to be told?” “You have a point there,” said the editor, “but let’s stop the quibbling. Why don’t you set the scene, if you still feel compelled?” “The man in the mirror lived in a house in a town that was heavily populated with the elderly, each growing alike with age, their stories attenuating along that same straight-line and converging on a shrinking punct of irrelevance, and loss. They would all die apart, together” How dull and dreary, thought Carl, and so he made himself a cup of fresh-brewed coffee and sat at the computer terminal, where he was joined by the editor. They waited, then waited some more, and then – suddenly - caffeinated optimism spilled over them as if the sun had emerged from behind a dark cloud, atoms swerved and – just for the briefest moment, Carl felt close to something so profoundly true and beautiful that it would make the angels weep, and then he started typing.

“ Annabelle Cloud emerged from the dark charnel house carrying a small body, which was that of the child …” Carl annihilated a trillion planets and a million stars, and where there had been too much or nothing, there were a now a few specific things: Annabelle, the charnel house, the body of a child. ” The blustery rains made London a dreary place in the winter of 1910, ” a sentence that dropped like a bomb on hundreds of cities, laid to waste a thousand of years of civilization, until all about Annabelle there lay a wreckage of things that almost existed. Carl had the sense of a beginning, but the editor was lurking around and distracted him. “I need a muse to go on,” said Carl, wishful, hopeful, maybe the editor would grant him this wish.

“Not happening,” said the editor, wise to this game, “that whole droopy doe-eyed pre-Raphaelite thing. It’s not fitting, and it’s just a little bit pathetic, don’t you think?”.

“So how am I going to continue? I’ve got nothing left” said Carl, desperate. “Suddenly!” said the editor, now poet, "that's how you will proceed". "Suddenly?" “Suddenly, from a dimly lit hall… suddenly,” said the editor, grasping at air with his fist.

Carl was game, grasped at the same empty air, "Suddenly! An interruption of time and space, a dislocation, a dramatic change of state, or a beginning, like the moment of universal singularity. The big bang". Very dramatic, very earnest, and a little bit melodramatic, but Carl had inspired himself back to the keyboard, which he banged at with abandon. “Suddenly, from the crucible of flame, Annabelle Cloud emerged in shredded rags and a clinging swath of smoke, carrying the limp child in her shaking arms. A fire man grabbed the infant from her and ran to the horse-drawn cart that was loaded with buckets of rancid water from the marshes. Annabelle fell to her knees, raven hair falling like a veil, swore an oath of revenge in the direction of the stinking sky, and blanked out on the cobbled street.” “I hardly know where to start”, said the editor, his nose twisted in distaste. “Why don’t you start with ‘suddenly’?” said Carl. “Well, that was my idea, regrettably, but – frankly - the bigger issue is your persistent exploitation of women as a means to an end”, said the editor, “I denied you a real-life muse, so you just had to go out and invent one?” “I like women,” said Carl. “Yes, I know that, but they’re always young, athletic, beautiful, and more often than not scantily dressed… all action, kicking and screaming… but they lack any kind of emotional substance. You love women, the idea of women, but you are scared to give them real agency or autonomy, so why do you insist on making them your protagonists? It’s beyond your ability and outside your sandbox.” “They’re more interesting than men, and less threatening”, said Carl, knocked back and down. “Fascinating, I’m sure, but remember most of your readers are women and they don’t have patience for animated girly-dolls, even when they are presented as ninja assassins, Russian spies, or some other neo-liberal trope... It's not authentic because it doesn't come from a credible place, and it insults your audience.” The editor placed a compass point at the dead center of Carl's identity and drew a bold circle that defined a small universe of authenticity. Carl felt deflated and responded with a petulance outbreak. “Suddenly, Archibald Cloud, emerged from the fire, looking glum".

“Very witty. Was his shirt sweat-soaked? Were his forearms sinewy?” asked the editor. “Who cares?” said Carl, “it’s a man this time”. Carl wanted to hang with Annabelle, not with Archibald. He was trying to convince the editor that authenticity originates in something more than identity - in truth, for instance - when, suddenly, Carl’s wife appeared in the den. “I’m going to the shops; do you need anything?” she said, cheerfully. “Protein. Any kind of protein, but healthy, please,” said Carl, mindful of his cholesterol. “No, Carl, protein is too personal,” said Shelly, “how about staples? Milk, OJ, bread?”

He paused just long enough to annoy her, and -suddenly - Shelly went on her merry way, happily putting behind her the dismal solipsism of the dimly lit den. The editor, keen to accompany Shelly to the supermarket, was momentarily distracted, which yielded an opportunity for Carl to proceed unchallenged. “Suddenly, from the crucible of uncertainty, Annabelle Cloud, auburn-haired, sinuous of limb, clothed in revealing black silks, erupted from the grave, fully formed and of irresistible pre-Raphaelite beauty. Neither Nash, unprepared, nor Le Queux, unequipped, had the strength to resist…” “Nice try. So here we are, and you’ve still going with the woman idea. You just couldn’t get rid of her, could you?” said the editor, who seemed to enjoy Carl's irritation. “I’m teasing a story into existence”, said Carl, “I need a woman to motivate me. Creativity is nothing more than sublimated sex, you know?” The editor was a student of Freud; he knew, he agreed. “Why is sublimated sex infinitely subordinate to the sublime?” said the editor, for whom this was an agreeable subject of discourse, mano a mano. “I’m not sure, but if you are right then it’s the specificity, I think. A specific thing that is sublimated is subordinate to the sublime. The sublime itself is oceanic, unifying all things in that universal singularity I mentioned earlier.” Carl imagined himself dressed in a Victorian frock coat, standing at a lectern, pontificating to an audience of men with bushy whiskers, gold fob watches and top hats. The editor looked at Carl as if he were a talking dog. “Strangely, that actually makes sense to me, though it also sounds terribly pretentious, and it would best if you didn’t write it down anywhere or – heaven forbid - publish it”. “Strangely? Terribly? As in peak-use-roaring-20s terribly? As in terribly-dull terribly? As in terribly-pretentious terribly,” said Carl. The editor didn’t appreciate being questioned or mocked by his protégé in this way, and it embittered him. Behind the scenes, second fiddle, pulling the strings, never capitalized, his resentments erupted into venomous spite, “you will never stand shoulder to shoulder with a real writer. If you had any talent, it would have been obvious a long time ago. If you were ever going to become a writer, you would already be a writer... at your age too.” The profound truth that seemed slightly beyond Carl's grasp, went careening off across the universe. Carl would never make the angels weep and it made him feel desperately sad. “You are my editor. I expect you to encourage me,” said Carl, shocked, “you’re not supposed to knock me down and destroy my self-confidence”. “I’m your editor, not your friend. My job is to stop you making a fool of yourself”, said the editor. “But I can’t stop now, I’ve only just begun” said Carl, appealing for sympathy and accommodation.  “I suddenly have the sense of a good beginning here.” “And I suddenly have the good sense of an end,” said the editor.


I was once again floundering, faced with the dread of adulthood looming over my head. It started with the black pumps I had to buy at JC Penny’s. The smell of the grey carpet and vacant-like atmosphere reminded me of a long-lost childhood, memories I kept grasping for but could never seem to reach. Then it was the the blisters the pumps gave me and the bagginess of my eyes. My face suddenly seemed strikingly asymmetrical. If beauty was symmetry, I felt uglier than I’d ever felt in my life. I walked in the glass doors, wincing as my ankles were pinched by heels designed by men, then covered my collarbones because of rules written by men. I didn’t know myself anymore, working 9 to 5 and covering my collarbones with thick cloth like they were weapons of mass destruction. I didn't recognize the dullness of my hair and the stiffness of my arms as they reached for the receiver one more time. Every day was just another call to an insurance agency and another 8 hours in a room without windows. “Flora, darlin’ are you hard of hearing?” Blaire was my co-worker, a vivacious blonde who wore floral patterns so bright I could have sworn her day job was directing traffic. She had her hands on my desk and a smirk on her face. “Sorry, Blaire, I was just thinking.”

“Thinking about someone special?” Blaire teased me, grabbing a section of my hair and twirling it. She sat on the corner of my desk. Did I forget to mention she also had no concept of personal space? “Didn’t you have something to tell me?” I changed the subject. “Oh, do I ever.” She stood up and began to pace around the room, coming to a sudden stop and pointing her finger at me. “You know, I always thought that Bradley Redding was cheating on his wife with that redhead nurse from pediatrics. And today, I caught them in the autopsy room together.” “The autopsy room?” I couldn't get past their location of choice for committing adultery. “Isn't that where dead people are?” Brooklyn peeked her head around the corner just then. “Sure is.” “You know about this too?” “Oh, honey, everyone knows.” Blaire was laughing. “I swear, your barista put something in that coffee in the morning.” Blaire was marrying the love of her life that weekend in Destin, Florida, which meant I had to drop a couple thousand dollars on travel expenses and gifts for the lovely bride. It also meant I had to tolerate her insufferable maid of honor, Andrea Skinner, who just loved violating the codes of AA and telling others that she and I attended classes together at one point. It didn’t matter through— I’d been through AA, and I wasn’t sure I bought the standard definition of an “alcoholic.” If I was an alcoholic, then mostly everyone was, so what did it matter anyway? Blaire was laughing as she watched me trip over the last step on my way out. 	“Don’t tell me you’ve gotten into the liquor again.” I wanted to tell her to shove it, but something deep inside myself made me fear what would happen. The heat lightning on the horizon was particularly daunting today, but the air was crisp and cool. Paradoxical October made me fear my own shadow once again.

*** The red wine stains wouldn't come out of the cream-colored bridesmaid gown, no matter how much Downy I poured on it. I’d gone through 4 Tide Sticks, 3 cycles in the wash, and scrubbed the material raw. Despite my external display of tranquility, I was terrified that Blaire was going to rip me apart with her abnormally large hands.

“Oh. My. God. You alcoholic.” Blaire grabbed the skirt of my gown and rubbed the stain furiously. The wine glass in my hand suddenly felt much heavier, and my wrist was shaking a little. “Blaire, please—“ “And now you’re about to do it again.” She threw her hands up. “Honestly, I don’t know what to say, Flora. We’ll just have to work around you in the pictures.” Blaire maneuvered me around the whole afternoon, hiding the war scene on the front of my dress behind Rachel’s butt, Ainsley’s hand, and Mary Linley’s bouquet. Meanwhile, having taken Blaire’s remark about alcoholism quite personally, I had spent the time leading up to the photo shoot rather ironically indulging in more red wine than I probably should have. I knew my face must have been flushed, but nothing speaks louder than the glare of neon bathroom lights. My cheeks were red and blotchy, my eyeliner was more spider-like than I’d remembered, and my hair was matted on the side. I did a mock toast to the mirror and headed for the door. At least I looked honest. I ran smack into Andrea Skinner. “That mock-tail looks so convincing,” Andrea said, eyes wide. “If I didn't know better, I’d say it was real. Congrats on—what is it, 9 months sober?” Her beady brown eyes looked yellow in the sun, and they were scanning my body for lie detection like a New York City subway pigeon searching for scraps. Except subway pigeons were cuter. And friendlier.

“Yeah, it’s amazing. Want a sip?” I lied, an unsettling feeling rising within me. “Wow, Day,” Andrea said, “I honestly didn't think you could do it. You always seemed like you had no self-control. But congrats.”

She grabbed the cup from me before I could change my mind and took a big gulp. To my surprise, she did not taste the alcohol—how was it possible? Andrea’s yellow eyes widened, and I prepared to run. “This is so yummy! Mind if I take this one? The first dance is happening and I can’t miss it for the world.” She scurried back over to the table she was assigned, and I willed myself to feel guilty for what had just happened. But why didn't I? Usually when you think you can't beat yourself up anymore, someone else does it for you, either figuratively or literally. And if someone has a chance to make a speech in front of a crowd, make sure you haven’t done that person wrong. Or, at least, don’t be present when they do it.

“Andrea Skinner, maid of honor, and endlessly proud of Blaire Woods for her dedication to Kendrick Osborne. Now, I’m gonna get real with ya’ll for a second. Blaire has helped me through some rough times. When I was going through AA, I was terrified. I was terrified that I wasn’t going to make it through, terrified to go in public places and have to explain why I wasn’t drinking….” Typical , I thought to myself, maid of honor makes speech about herself and her feelings on the bride’s big day. “… so that’s why I’m utterly disgusted that Flora Day poisoned me today by giving me an alcoholic beverage.” I suddenly became more aware of my surroundings. Everyone turned to stare at me.

“Um,” I squeaked. “I think you have me confused with someone else.” Meanwhile, Blaire was enraged. Her forehead vein looked like it was about to pop out and come punch me in the mouth. She ran up to the podium and grabbed the microphone from Andrea, who grabbed it right back. And all the while, I just felt myself become smaller and smaller, the audience studying me like tissue on a microscope, babies and children alike. I was frozen. Andrea’s mouth kept moving, but all I could do was stare at the way all of the ceiling fans moved in unison in their neat circles, wishing I could be half as consistent.


The Promotion by Mackenzie Littledale I was an assassin, yet nothing and no one I’d ever faced shook me to my core like seeing my mom in this hospital bed. Her supine frame—twenty pounds lighter than just a week ago—made me feel powerless, not the invincible son she’d raised. A forked tube disappeared into her nostrils; her mouth hung open. I’m six-four and my knees wobbled at the thought of losing her. I dropped down into the armchair and pulled up to her bedside. Her hand felt frail, even though just two months before, this same hand had stirred pots of my favorite curry goat stew for my birthday. I couldn’t even comprehend what day of the week it was. I slipped into the past and back so easily, it made me dizzy. “Mom,” I said, praying my words weren’t in vain. “Please know that I will do everything in my power to make you healthy again.” I swiped at the hot tears rolling down my face. “Don’t die on me.” Her head rolled toward me. “Mikali?” she whispered. “I’m here, Mom,” I said, squeezing her hand. “Too much money,” she rasped. It took me a second to realize what she meant. The doctor had said her treatment would run into the tens of thousands. Every. Week. Despite insurance, we could be out of pocket over $300,000. My mom had tried to make a saver out of me, but I wanted to enjoy life and spent money left, right, and center. My bank account barely had $15,000. I’d built no equity to tap into. Guilt nibbled at me for being unprepared. I needed to win lottery. Or to quadruple my pay. Or to sell my soul to the highest bidder. Or to get promoted to special operations and take down more valuable targets. My thoughts went crazy. “Mom, I will not let you die.” A sob burbled up my throat. “I’ll do anything.” I remained sitting by her side, hoping she’d recover enough to have a conversation. There was nothing to do, so I stared at the wisps of grey at her temples. She used to braid her own hair but only managed to tangle it into knots. She’d tried teaching me to cook but I nearly melted a frying pan because I’d forgotten it on the stove. Mom had never complained.

By time I noticed the clock, three hours had ticked by and the sun had gone down. She hadn’t said another word or opened her eyes. Wracked with misery and fear that she could slip away from my life, I left when the nurse announced visiting hours were long over. The next day at work, I was busy writing the report for my latest assignment when Mr. Green called me into his office. “M.,” he said, businesslike, his Jamaican accent coloring his voice. I stepped inside his space, never comfortable at his old-fashioned his taste in décor. Green took deep pride in his hunting. Small kills littered the shelves, in ‘natural’ poses, their eyes perpetually glossy as if their souls were trapped inside. I didn’t believe the animals deserved to have their carcasses on display. Killing was for bad guys. The sooner true evil was eradicated and forgotten, the better. “Your work has gotten the attention it deserves,” he continued, tapping my shoulder. “Your last hit was even cleaner than corporate hoped for.” He gestured for me to sit, but the whole team knew he didn’t like anyone sitting, so I stood. “I’m offering you a chance at a promotion.” I feared my eagerness burst through my professional exterior, so I stood straighter. “Thank you, Mr. Green.” My last assignment was difficult. It had been imperative to be careful. Green smiled, exposing a wide gap between his front teeth. “When targets are too easy to hit, it’s common to get sloppy.” Mr. Green took an unlit cigar from a crystal ashtray on his credenza and planted it between his teeth. He lit it; something about them must have made him feel important and strong.

“That’s true,” I said, wanting to vomit at the stench. “But not you. You made Target-65’s death look like an accident.” Mr. Green tipped his head toward me, a subtle show of respect. “I admire your work. As you know, our department was sold to a new owner, a chap by the name of Morningstar. He’s an asshole and drives a hard bargain, but he’s promised to raise your pay twenty-five percent if you make this next target.” Green hitched his eyebrows. “If you can do it within forty-eight hours, there’s a six-figure bonus, as well. No one has been able to get close. Target-66 is…” He gestured with his cigar as if searching for words. “…well-protected, let’s say.” I could afford my mom’s treatment if I succeeded. The target’s protection intrigued me. “Protected by how many?” “Just one person, actually.” No battalion? That surprised me. “What do you mean by a chance at a promotion, sir?” My peers who had received a promotion for special operations had simply been promoted.

“Target-66 is special. If you can take her down before the deadline, you’ll get the promotion. We can’t give you any details or identifiable information.” “I don’t understand.” Not one assignment had ever been conducted that way. “New boss, new rule. Once your target is within striking distance, we’ll alert you straight into your earpiece.” “That’s highly unusual, but as you wish, Mr. Green.” “Target-66 is a pet project from Morningstar. He says she’s the most dangerous, most cunning criminal we know of.” My heart pounded overtime. “Sounds personal. I can do this. Where was Target-66 last seen?” I asked. My adrenaline surged. There was no higher honor than to be trusted with a job that would earn me a higher position straightaway. I wanted to tell my mom that I got the promotion of my dreams, but as far as she knew, I was a mobile massage therapist, a job with no advancement possible except to open a practice. With a raise and bonus coming to me if I succeeded with this project, I’d be able to pay for her medical treatment and anything her tender heart desired, but she’d never believe I’d come into that kind of money. Secrets upon secrets. “He said she’s in the local vicinity,” Mr. Green said without his usual self-assurance. His sharp bluish-grey eyes looked me over, though not coldly. “She’s very dangerous.” Green replaced the cigar in the ashtray. When he turned back to me, his eyes were stern, laser sharp. “When all was said and done, we couldn’t agree more that you’re the man for the job.” “I appreciate your faith in me, Mr. Green,” I said, though not altogether humbly. I’d earned this. I knew I was a gifted assassin. When I watched The Professional with Jean Reno, it sealed my fate. I would never complicate my work with a kid or let a Mafioso handle my finances like Leon did in the movie. I kept my body in a perfect balance of leanness and muscle, speed and strength. The main quality I admired in myself was stealth. For that, I had Brad Pitt in Troy to thank. He fought like a god, and I trained to the bone to move like that. Take my opponent at will. I couldn’t delude myself into thinking she’d be easy to take down, but I planned to stop her dead in her tracks. “Good man,” Mr. Green said. He clapped me on the back, the signal to get the hell out of his office and go get weapons.

“Thank you, sir.” I said on my way out of his pine-paneled office. I headed to the Weaponry Department. I had to take a few deep breaths to steady myself. I was too excited to make this kill and knew overexcitement could cloud my judgment. The whole reason I’d taken to assassination stemmed from my childhood. My father had a vile temper and took his anger out on my mom and me. One night, he’d nearly killed her, left her lying lifeless on the kitchen floor. Her royal bronze skin had been smeared with blood. A blind rage took over me and I stabbed him thirty times. I weighted him down with cinderblocks and dumped him into the Mississippi. My mother never asked any questions; all I knew was that we were free. We never spoke of his disappearance. She told friends and neighbors that my father got called into Marine service and I was happy to let it go at that. J. of the Weapons Department laid out an assortment of pistols, silencers, scopes, hypodermic needles, knives, blades, poisons, and customized rifles. I would be well-equipped whether the target was at arm’s length or 500 feet away. “How am I supposed to make my mark?” I wondered aloud. Without photos, video, or a dossier, I would be at the mercy of the judgment of a man whom I hadn’t even met yet. “M.?” asked J. “What’s wrong?” “Let me see to him,” said an unfamiliar voice, as smooth as cognac. A man wearing black-on-black with a crow on his shoulder came forward. Savvy, experienced eyes pierced through me from a youthful face. His appearance disarmed me. “I’m Morningstar,” he said and smiled, waving J. off to find somewhere else to be. I nodded to J. to go. I needed answers from the new boss. “I trust you’ve been given your new assignment,” Morningstar said. “I have, sir. I’m looking forward to it.” “Good.” Morningstar’s voice was silky. I imagined if it were a color, it would be crimson. It practically had a sheen. “The parameters are a bit unconventional though.”

“Trust is a premature thing to ask of you, since we’re only now meeting, but it’s a prerequisite. I demand resourcefulness and Green tells me you’re born for this.” I could admit without humility that I was resourceful. “Yes, sir.” “Call me Lucien.” “Thank you, Lucien.” Thoughts of my mom in the hospital barged their way into my consciousness, throwing my mind into chaos. I forgot what I wanted to ask. “You go on about your life, M. Target-66 is close. Keep your earpiece in place and follow orders to the letter.” Lucien sucked on his teeth and straightened his suit jacket. The crow beat its wings and settled down. “J. will get you the weapon you need.” “Weapon? Only one?” If I were to be honest with myself, I had no idea how to go on about my life while my mom lay in the hospital. “Yes, the only one that can take down Target-66,” he said, as if it should be obvious. “If you have anywhere you’d like to be, you go.” He made a courteous nod of his head and walked down the grey stone hallway. I was a bit thunderstruck at how enormous the opportunity was for me, for my mom. The air conditioning kicked on and I felt a chill. I’d soaked my uniform in sweat. I followed after Lucien Morningstar, but I couldn’t catch up. His footsteps suddenly stopped as though he’d evaporated. J. handed me a violin case. I took it and turned a corner down the corridor leading to the locker rooms. Once in street clothes, I dropped off my uniform at Wardrobe and left for the hospital. The sun reached a tipping point slightly above the horizon. It seemed to drip colored lights into the sky, reminding me of my mother’s house rules: “Bettah not lemme find yah outside dis house when de sun go down.” I had to laugh at the memory. It had been a hard rule to follow in autumn when the sun slipped out of the sky earlier and earlier. By wintertime, I’d been happy to come in from the cold and dark for split pea soup. As I parked in the visitors’ garage, I decided to take the violin case with me to prevent theft. The only thing I knew was certain violins could be collector’s items. Now, once inside the hospital, everything was the same, but somehow different. The elevator seemed slower; the lights glowed greyer; the hallways leading to her room seemed longer, narrower, emptier, and colder. At last, I reached my mom’s room. Her breathing remained shallow. Had she lost even more weight since yesterday?

My earpiece whispered to life. “You’re close, M.” I was tempted to remove my earpiece. The timing couldn’t be worse. Hadn’t Lucien told me to go about my business? I reached for it, but decided to leave it in. Close to what? “Come again, sir?” “I thought you were going home, but you’ve tracked down Target-66.” “In the hospital?” I asked, wondering if a nurse, doctor, radiologist, or visitor could be Target-66. “I need some sort of physical description.” “Negative,” Lucien said. “Just follow directions. You’re a mere six feet from her.” I looked around the room. The other bed was empty. I peeked outside the door, looking up and down the hallway, but there were no people. “Sir, I believe you’re mistaken. There’s no one that close…” I looked at my mom. “Except my own mother.” “Makeesha Lewis is wanted dead, M.” Lucien’s sharp tone shot through my ear. “Take her down and I’ll explain later.” Uproarious laughter bellowed through my head. This guy is crazy. “Mr. Morningstar, you’re mistaken and I can’t trust you enough to take down my own mom.” “I’ve been called many names throughout the ages, M. The woman you call ‘Mother’ is an escapee. She’s not even the Makeesha Lewis you’ve known your whole life.” His matter-of-fact tone had a soft edge to it. Serious. Not a prank, but I remained suspicious. My stomach began a mild protest, sloshing, churning. I felt a wave of dizziness for a second. “Perhaps you should sit down,” Lucien said. “Target-66 isn’t going anywhere, but we don’t have time. If she dies naturally, we lose.” I sat in the armchair without pulling up close to my mom. “I’m afraid I don’t understand. Normally I wouldn’t care, but seeing as how this is my mother…” “Let’s start with your father, M. She led you to believe you’d killed him.” “How do you even know that?” Who the fuck was this guy? “She toyed with your memory. She killed him, and he was a prime asset to me. She let you believe his death was at your hand.” He clucked. “Sinful to lay blame on her innocent son. Makeesha slipped into a catatonic state. She was about to die of a broken heart when Target-66 took over her soul. Target-66 escaped my gatekeepers and needs to go back where she belongs.” It was so outlandish. It had to be April 1st. “Lucien isn’t exactly your name, is it.”

“Lucien, Lucifer, Morningstar. A rose by any other name and all,” he said, laughing quietly. “If you’re clever, you’ll have your cake and eat it, too.” “What do you mean by ‘cake’?” “Target-66 is possessing your mother’s body, which is weakening your mother; that’s why she’s in the hospital. If you can extract her soul, your mother has a chance to live. Take her out.” I thought of my secrets from my mother, and here her own secret plagued me with guilt for killing my father since I was sixteen. I stared at the violin case and then looked at her. Would I go through with this assignment? Was Lucien telling the truth? When I opened the case, there was actually a violin inside. “Play it,” Lucien said into my ear. This day was getting weirder and weirder. I had no idea how to play a violin. The instrument had a pentagram and the initials L.M. carved into its back. I held the violin under my chin like I’d seen on TV and picked up the bow. Without finesse, I dragged the bow across the strings and AC-DC’s “Hell’s Bells” came out. “Perfect,” said Lucien. “That’s the one.” I kept pulling and pushing the bow. My mother’s eyes opened wide and a chorus of screams wailed out of her gaping mouth. “No!” “Yes,” Lucien hissed. “Tell her to go to hell.” “But what about my mom?” I asked, caught in a vice. If I succeeded and sent Target-66 to hell, would my mom live? I’d get the bonus and then I could afford the treatment. The doctors would bring her back from the brink of death. If I failed, Target-66 would remain in possession of my mom’s body. If Lucien was lying or simply wrong, my mother would be dead at my hand. “Keep playing.” “Hell’s Bells” continued to screech out of the violin. Target-66 writhed and convulsed. Her skin paled from bronze to grey until her back arched and her mouth unleashed a deafening scream. Then all went silent. The monitors stopped beeping. The screaming ended and a green sphere of light escaped Target-66’s mouth. It floated upward. “Lucien, what do I do with a ball of light?”

“I’ll take over from here.” The ceiling split open and a finely-woven net of black and red light descended, encircling the green sphere. It closed tight around it and swooped back up through the split. The ceiling closed again seamlessly. “Karma is a beautiful thing,” said Lucien. “Why did you need me when it was that fast and easy?” I put the violin back in the case and sat down next to my mother. “No one else could have done this because it’s your Karma mingled with hers. Only you could untangle your fate from sharing in hers. Your bonus is being wired to your account as I speak.” The connection in my ear went silent.

My mom sat up and called my name. Mikali, her one protector.


Life now had a direction, a purpose. The plan was foolproof. There would be no consequences. In fact, he could see nothing ahead but a life of opulence, once he’d taken the necessary steps. He was going to kill his wife.            Malcolm Roberts had been born in a squalid area of New York some thirty years earlier. The fates had given him a quick mind and an athletic body, and he soon realized these were his ticket to a better life. Adopting a new name and a fabricated past, Malcolm Roberts became Mac Revere who ruthlessly climbed the ranks of society at the expense of wealthy, yet needy women he found on selective online dating sites. Mac spent several years meeting humanity’s emotional flotsam and jetsam. He saw it as an apprenticeship, developing skills to say the right things, displaying just the right amount of assertiveness, or modesty, to gain trust, confidence, physical intimacy, and money. There was always a quick escape plan, so that he could disappear quickly, only to re-emerge with a different background, elsewhere. Then he discovered Prudence. Staid, plain Prudence, his passport to a glittering future.  Prudence Van Althen had everything Mac craved: an influential family, with a pedigree going back to the founding fathers, and unimaginable wealth. She was the heiress to a fortune that would make her the central star of a fiscal galaxy around whom the moneyed illuminati would strive to orbit.            Unfortunately, Prudence had no desire for such a life. In her case, the genetic structure that had driven her forebears to rise to the highest echelons of power, had somehow skipped a generation. Had she lived in mediaeval times, she would have hidden herself away in a remote convent. Prudence fell for Mac almost immediately. Whilst not exactly true love, he exuded confidence and carried a patina of sophistication that would meet the minimum standards to satisfy her family. With him she could avoid parental pressure and the seemingly endless string of potential suitors they had lined up from the social hierarchy. As for Mac, her lack of confidence and need for assurance made her an easy victim. Their courtship had been rapid. However there was one flaw in this otherwise perfect fairy tale. Prudence’s father was Theodore Benning, a highly regarded surgeon who had married her mother, Clarissa Van Althen, out of true love. Defying convention, Theodore had not objected to their daughter carrying the more renowned surname rather than his own. The two formed a loving couple who worked together to further the Van Althen interests. Clarissa had difficulty conceiving, and it was only after several years and many millions of dollars that Prudence came into the world. Their daughter’s decision to marry Mac was therefore a great shock. They had tried so many times to find Prudence a suitor from within their own social circles and had not been deceived by Mac’s contrived persona. Nevertheless, they wanted to see their daughter settled, giving the family a sound future. At least Mac had all the trappings of social status. Reluctantly, in view of Prudence’s uncharacteristic determination, they had finally agreed to the union.

 A few days before the wedding, Theodore had called Mac into his study at the New York family estate in Southampton which had been chosen for the event. He had not bothered with niceties. “Why are you marrying my daughter Mac?” Theodore raised his hand, “No, that was a rhetorical question. The answer is obvious, you want her money.” Again, Mac made to answer but was silenced, “You’re not here for a chat so just listen, carefully. The family you’re about to join has been likened to American Royalty. It’s a vast realm of wealth that operates at the highest financial and political levels. We can make and break heads of state, worldwide. In the same way that royalty has always had a monarch, the Van Althens have always had a nominated head, a sort of blend of president and king supported by a team of experts.” He paused to ensure that Mac fully understood the implications of what was being said. “My point is Mac, you will never be in that position. Neither will Prudence. She has made it clear that she wishes to remain in the background. Prudence is our only child; we do not have a son. Nor do you. Hopefully that will change. Do you know what primogeniture is?” “I, er….” “Well I’ll explain. It’s a system of inheritance in which the first-born son is bequeathed the entire family fortunes. Now times have changed, and we would have had no qualms in leaving all to Prudence had she shown the aptitude and willingness to be the head of the family. I was content to allow my daughter to take the name of Van Althen instead of my own. It ensures consistency, tradition if you like. I’ve been honoured to work with my wife, expanding the family’s interests. However, you and Prudence will be given no such powers.” At this point Theodore looked directly into Mac’s eyes, speaking quietly and slowly. “Don’t worry, you’ll be financially secure, but do not for a moment believe that you will have any influence in our operations. Any offspring of yours will have the opportunity to inherit everything, but you Mac, you will not.” Theodore reached into the top draw of his desk and took out a large envelope which he handed over. “This is the will concerning Prudence and yourself, just so you know exactly what your entitlements are when Clarissa and I are no longer here.” Turning his back on Mac, his future father-in-law turned and walked out of the room. Three years had passed since that evening. Three years in which Mac had been very busy. He had hoped that his situation would change when Prudence’s parents passed away within three months of each other. Prudence was then the head of the family, but in name only, a legal technicality. She was happy to allow trusted family advisers to run the ever-growing business empire. Then he remembered the will. The family were so meticulous in all their affairs that it never occurred to him to have it checked by a legal expert. There was always the hope that he could walk away from this situation with money and the freedom to pursue other women like Prudence.  During the time he called his apprenticeship, Mac recalled meeting a stunningly attractive woman, Sabrina Michaels, a lawyer. She was wealthy and respected by her professional peers. The problem was that she was independent and extremely intelligent with a strong ambitious drive, not someone Mac would want to upset as she had the contacts to possibly track him down and wreak revenge. Although she seemed interested, Mac had declined a second date, saying that he felt a little out of his league. He now hoped this apparent openness may enable him to renew their acquaintance. He was not disappointed. Sabrina not only remembered him but seemed eager to see him again. It was not long before a relationship developed. Mac was not too concerned about Prudence’s family monitoring his actions. To establish some prestige within the family, and to cover his affair, Mac had started a charity organisation for the homeless. This gave him a cover story for his regular meetings with a lawyer. As for Sabrina, she had offered an escape from the boredom of Prudence and, more importantly, she had unearthed an extreme, but possible, solution to his problems. Mac could hardly have kept secret the fact that he was since it was the will relating to that union on which he needed legal expert opinion. Sabrina found the situation intriguing but could find no obvious loopholes. There was however, one clause in the will that offered some hope. The clause had been inserted to ensure that Prudence retained the family businesses in name only. It had been designed to exclude any spouse or partner from ownership but, and this was the interesting point, there was no definitive statement as to what happened to that ownership if she predeceased her husband. Sabrina informed Mac there was a strong legal argument for him to inherit everything if anything were to happen to his wife. The clause had possibly been left open to guarantee that Prudence’s father, a trusted and invaluable patriarch of the family would continue in lieu of his wife should she predecease him. Mac understood his choices; walk away from Sabrina and settle down to a wealthy but boring life or embark on an irrevocable course of action offering wealth and influence beyond his dreams. The two conspirators started to meet more frequently, purportedly to establish refuges for the homeless. Surprisingly, Prudence’s family encouraged his philanthropic efforts. Two of her cousins ensured there were sufficient funds available to buy up and convert disused buildings in the more dilapidated parts of the city. The buildings of course would carry the Van Althen family logo, rather like a heraldic crest. Little did the family know of the other items on the meeting agendas between Mac and Sabrina. One of which was the choice of poison they would use. The pair had quickly discarded any form of accident. Prudence rarely left the confines of the estate. She enjoyed horse-riding which offered some possibilities, but the presence of security cameras throughout the grounds made this impractical. A little research led them to aconite. The symptoms included diarrhoea and vomiting. Prudence had suffered from poor digestion all her life so these symptoms would point towards a pre-existing condition which had resulted in heart failure. Having decided upon the means, the actual deed was simple. Mac often made snacks for Prudence. Although they had a full-time cook, he genuinely enjoyed preparing food, regularly making dinner for the two of them. It was one of the things that helped to ease the seemingly endless banality of his marriage. Mac was surprised when Prudence insisted on attending one of his meetings with Sabrina. She had also insisted on choosing the venue, this being one of the family’s exclusive restaurants where stars of film and stage, famous musicians, and billionaires, could be found. Prudence said it was about time she took an interest in her husband’s plans for the homeless and wanted to be an active participant in the charity. Mac was decidedly uncomfortable about this; however Sabrina had been very reassuring, reminding him that the charity was genuine and that they had in fact truly created something that would benefit many needy people. It would have been difficult for anyone to disentangle Mac’s altruistic work from his true intentions. At the restaurant, Mac felt relieved by his wife’s effusive behaviour when he introduced the two women. “It is so good to finally meet you,” Prudence began, “Mac has told me so much about you and the wonderful work the two of you are doing.” Sabrina was equally effusive, “And it’s good to meet you Mrs. Van Althen, your family’s generosity is remarkable.” Mac stared at the two in amazement, his wife was rarely excited about anything, and Sabrina was playing her part like a Hollywood actress. Prudence interrupted his thoughts. “Well don’t just stand there, Mac, let’s sit down and celebrate.” Turning to Sabrina, “Mac tells me your plans are now finalised, everything’s ready. And please call me Prudence. ‘Mrs Van Althen’ makes me feel so old.” Prudence proposed a toast, looking first at Sabrina, then her husband, “To us, and to the people our efforts will benefit.”  As they sipped the aged Armagnac from the finest hand-cut crystal glasses, Mac hid a smug smile as he thought of how he had risen above his impoverished beginnings. Meal over, Sabrina returned to her office after she and Mac had agreed on a meeting the following day. This was purportedly to organise a date for the official opening of their first housing establishment, but the true purpose was to decide on the date for Prudence’s murder. Mac knew he would be attending the official opening as a grieving widower; a Van Althen widower with the money, power, and influence that he deserved. As their chauffeur drove them home, Prudence took Mac’s hand and told him how proud she was of him. She apologised for not being a more active partner and promised that from now on, things would be quite different. Mac found it difficult to respond as he thought he was about to regurgitate his lunch. Prudence noticed his pale complexion. “It’s almost certainly the fish you had, darling, I keep saying it doesn’t agree with you, but you won’t listen. Let’s get you home and into bed so you can rest.” Mac weakly nodded agreement. Lying in bed, Mac wondered if this were payback, or perhaps it was self-induced, maybe a bad conscience. Except, deep down, he realized he really had no conscience. In fact, his one concern was that maybe he wouldn’t be sufficiently recovered to plan the deadline he and Sabrina were to agree upon the next day. He quickly dismissed this, telling himself that any delay would make no difference to their plans. Besides, this felt serious. He’d heard of food poisoning from bad fish sometimes being lethal; the irony didn’t escape him. He constantly needed the toilet but each trip became more arduous. He readily agreed to Prudence’s suggestion that a doctor be sent for. As the minutes ticked by, Mac deteriorated further. He became impatient for the doctor’s arrival. He hoped it would not take long to make a diagnosis and administer some medication. Once recovered, he would contact Sabrina to renew their plans. After what seemed hours, Mac heard voices from the main hall, the sounds became more distinct as they approached the bedroom. Was he hallucinating? Rather than the doctor, Prudence seemed to be talking to……Sabrina. The door opened and Prudence entered, swiftly walking to him with a look of concern on her face. Seeing him now writhing in pain she looked a little relieved. “It’s alright Sabby, he’s still with us. Come and see.” Mac was wondering what the hell was going on. Where was the doctor? Then Sabrina appeared, smiling down on him. “Hi Mac. We were worried that you’d already left us. Puddy so wanted to explain things before your departure.” Mac slowly turned his head towards his wife who had taken his hand. Breathing was difficult; he was unable to speak. “You must be confused darling, so I’ll explain. You did a really good job of hiding your affair. I hired one of the best private investigators available. He’s been of tremendous use to the family in the past. But even he had difficulty finding anything between the two of you besides the charity work. But persistence paid off. I confronted Sabrina some months ago and, apart from you, we found we had a lot in common. When Sabby told me about your plans, I encouraged her to go along with it. You see, I wanted to give you a chance. I wanted to see if there was any heart within you at all. At one time you seemed to be all I needed, but in Sabby I found a true friend. In fact, she’ll be moving in here after you’re gone. You see, from my adolescent years I’ve always felt different from other girls. I couldn’t face the truth I suppose because any deviations from normality would have tarnished the family name. I hid myself away, taking no interest in the family investments. I felt safer doing that than risk exposing my true, shall we say, inclinations. I could never tell my parents. They couldn’t understand why I rejected so many potential husbands with such impeccable pedigrees.            When you came along, I could hardly believe my luck. Everyone knew you wanted me only for my money, so any passionate intimacy was not going to be a problem. I could withdraw from family interests with grace and keep my secrets safely hidden. When my parents died in such a short space of time, the need for secrecy somehow seemed less important, the world has become more tolerant. So, when I met Sabrina, and discovered your plans, I felt the time had come to live the life I wanted. I’m about to become a widow…..” Mac vainly tried to interrupt. “Shush, just listen to me. As I was saying, what could be more natural for a recently widowed woman to be comforted by a friend. And that is how Sabby will be introduced to the family, the person who is so devoted to our newly established charity, who becomes a friend and ally in my time of need. It will then be relatively easy for her to be accepted as a permanent part of my life.  “Even though I came to understand how ruthless and unfeeling you are. I was still disappointed that you chose aconite and were willing to let me die in agony so long as the poison could not be traced. I’ve such concerns. Our family doctor has been a loyal friend for many years. He helped with my delivery. When he eventually arrives, there will be a thorough examination before heart failure is identified as the cause of death.” Prudence paused; she drew her face close to his. Mac could see a flinty edge to her once subservient eyes. “Bye.” In his final lucid moments, Mac went back to the myriad faces of his victims over the years, many of whom had been left penniless. Then to his childhood, his desire to escape the circumstances into which he had been born. Just like everyone else who tried to reject their origins, Fate had eventually caught up with him.  The last thing he saw in this world was his wife and Sabrina leaving the room, hand in hand.


“Arthi! there is a post, go get it” Arthi's mom screamed from the kitchen. “Ok mom!” Arthi replied. The postman ask her to sign in the paper. After doing it she took the post and came inside the house. She noticed that the post was from her school. She opened the post, it was an invitation. she read the content in the invitation and there was a smile in her face. At last her wish of meeting her true friends is about to happen she squealed with happiness and sat on the sofa. It was reunion. She was very eager to meet Kiran and Lakshmi who helped her when she was in depression. She took her phone and was about to message Lakshmi, “Arthi, there is a wedding invitation on the table just tell me when is the reception, so that we can prepare accordingly.” Asked her mother from the kitchen as she was preparing the lunch. “Ok mom” said Arthi. She crouched down the table and took the wedding invitation. Sitting back comfortable in the sofa she opened the invitation, the first word attracting her sense was 'Aiswarya'. Her eyes bulged out, though it was just an invitation with someone named Aiswarya, she was totally distressed. She fell back into her past, and imagined what that name had caused her. " Can you keep a secret?" asked Arthi to her friend Aiswarya. " Yeah, for sure " replied her friend. Arthi is the class monitor for their class XII. She and her friend Aiswarya were very close friends. They stayed, played and studied together as they were studying in the same residential school. Arthi is a very jovial person. She never keeps anything in her mind as she is very open minded. Aiswarya likes her a lot. But she is a short-tempered person and she has certain principles to live her life. She never accepts the playful, funny things of mates as well as friends. Arthi doesn’t hide anything from her friend Aiswarya. So Arthi told the secret about the incidents of the game " Truth or Dare " which was played in their class the day before as she was absent. " You know what! Tom and Jemi kissed each other over a dare!!! " Arthi said. Aiswarya was shocked, she scolded Arthi of her irresponsibility as a class leader. Arthi pleaded, " Aishu, Please don’t make this a big issue, please. " Aiswarya agreed and kept her the secret with her, but she couldn't bear the incident happened in their class. Arthi loved her more than her soul. She had a special place for Aiswarya in her heart. As they were waiting for results of their board examination, the results of the exam was declared, "Hurray! hurray! Aiswarya won with first rank! She got a Gold medal !!!!"  Arthi rejoiced with joy and happiness. But Aiswarya started to move away from Arthi, as she was not able to accept the incidents of the game 'Truth or Dare.' While Arthi was rejoicing over the victory, Aiswarya started talking ill about her best friend to everyone.

" Arthi is too bad.. she has affairs with so many boys..."said Aiswarya to Tittu. " Is it ???.. " asked Tittu. Tittu then spread this rumour to everyone in their batch. They all started to ignore her by mistaking her entire character. At the same time, Aiswarya acted as being very close to Arthi. As Arthi is open minded, she couldn't understand the behaviour of other mates of her class, ‘cause her innocence believed in everyone. "Ma'am , Arthi allowed the students to kiss each other on your absence, Is this the responsibility of the class monitor?" she asked Pramela, a tutor of them in their residential school. "Oh!!! What nonsense you are talking???" "Is that true?" "What are you blabbering?" "Yes ! Ma’am. You can enquire anyone you want" she said. The tutor was very furious with Arthi she wasn't able to to keep mind calm in such an indecent behaviour. She was about to take an action against Arthi, but was stopped by Aiswarya saying that, “No ma’am. not now, please.” Being a favourite student to the tutor, Pramela listened to Aiswarya's words.     Few weeks later, knowing the true nature of Aiswarya, Arthi's friend Kiran talked to Arthi. "are you mad??" asked Kiran. "What?? what happened??" said Arthi "Don't you know? there are things happening around you?. "Everyone is avoiding you. . . Arthi" "No ..no..no.., you must be joking" "Do whatever you want" and he left from that place. Arthi started thinking and walked aimlessly. "Hai ! Mubi"

Mubisina didn't react anything and passed Arthi without saying anything. "Rashika..." "what?" said Rashika. "Why are you all like this?" Arthi became very upset and sat in her class alone.    By looking her, Kiran felt bad and came near her and asked 'did you say about "Truth or Dare" which we had played last year in the class to anyone?' " No. . . ", "Yes. . . to Aishu alone" replied Arthi “Can’t you keep a secret with you Arthi?” "Yes! She is the one creating the entire problem. She said it to Pamela mam and informed it to our principal." he said. By hearing those things, Arthi fainted there itself. Kiran brought some water in a cup and sprinkled few drops on her face.

 "Arthi ! Arthi! What happened? " Arthi opened her eyes and cried aloud.

 "Don’t worry Arthi, Be very careful with Aiswarya. She had created bad rumours about you that, you are going for dating every week with many boys". " What???" "No! Aiswarya will never do like this. You are lying" and she went to her hostel. Had a glee to Aiswarya and she lie on the sofa closing her eyes.

    At that time, Neenu knocked on the room in which both Aishu and Arthi stayed. Aiswarya opened the door and they Chatted for a while. She started to talk ill of Arthi. "Neenu! Do you know one thing? " "What? ? " "Arthi is very bad, I hate being with her," and said many things about her thinking that Arthi was in deep sleep but Arthi was listening everything they were talking.    It's 10.pm Arthi woke up with a new strength and hope, not to believe any human being in her life thereafter and sat on the sofa where she slept. Her heart was broken like a broken glass, but still she loved her as Aishu was close to her heart. The kind heart of her made her forgive and forget the entire matter, yet she did feel sad about the incident, she knew that this incident will remain in her heart forever.   After two months, the sports students of their school were taken to India for the National tournament. Aiswarya and Arthi were there in the team. On first day, they conducted the indoor games like chess, carom, table tennis etc. Aiswarya won the title on the game of chess and the next day, Arthi went for 100 metres, 200 metres and 400 metres running race but she lost it in few seconds. Losing the game made her fake friends make fun of Arthi, and Neenu said "she is tired from dating with many boys" and everyone laughed aloud.

 Arthi was totally broken she wasn't able to hold her anger any more, hence, shouted at Aiswarya

 "you !!!... betrayed....!! Me....!!!.. you can never have a friend like me who understands you and forgive each and every mistake you make. You have hurt me so much. This is all your fault you have done enough for me. Thank you so much for doing this. I just request you not to ever enter my life again.” Aarti went to the hostel room and cries her eyes out. After few days she vacated hostel room and went to live with her parents as she finished her schooling. Days passed she was so much broken from inside that she denied talking with anyone and remained alone for most of the time.

“Arthi, what are you doing I asked you to tell me time for reception.” asked her mother. She was brought back into reality looking at the time for the reception she said to her mother, “5 o' clock in the evening, mom!”. She looked at the reunion invitation in her hand, and thought off all the things Aiswarya has done in her life. With all the thoughts in her mind decided not to attend the reunion. Though she wants to meet her friends very badly, Arthi felt betrayed by her only and one friend Aiswarya. She was not ready to see her. She wasn't able to forgive Aishu for what she has done. Because of her Arthi went to depression and suffered much. Hence, she decided not to attend the reunion and crumpled the invitation and threw the post in the dustbin.    Arthi's mom after finishing her works, came and sat near and asked, “Dear, what was in the post, “ Oh! nothing mom, it’s just an advertisement paper for college admission.” “Ohh, ok ok dear!” said her mom and went to her room. Arthi looks at the dustbin in which she had crumbled the invitation and threw and thinks about the pain that she had gone through.


Craig Thompson slides out his office chair and sitting down, gets into his Investment form, booting up his multiple systems which display the numerous world stock markets on the multiple monitors which are strategically situated around his desk. Being a twenty eight year old Investment prodigy, Craig has made the firm of Hanson & Hanson Investments millions of dollars in the last several months with eerily accurately calculated trades. Today, arriving at work way before the usual employee crowd arrives, because this time using investors funds, he took a personal risk, without the firms knowledge or authorization. With his index finger hovering slightly above the enter key, sweat begins to form on Craig's brow as his heart pounds loudly in his chest. Watching intensely, Craig slams the enter key and submits the sell transaction as the graph hits the desires price point, wiping his brow nervously as he waits for the response. Within seconds, the red box appears – transaction accepted. In one motion, jumping in the air, knocking over the office chair, Craig almost dances about his office. In less then twenty four hours, he just made the firm over one million dollars in a single trade. He must now explain his action to his boss, as the transaction was not sanctioned. Up-righting his chair, Craig sees Sarah staring at him through the office glass wall. Craig's office dancing has displayed a total out of character action of the completely cold-hearted office bastard he constantly displays. He gives Sarah two middle fingers and yells for her to disappear. Sarah turns and almost runs in fear. Ten hours later Craig shuts down his systems, and, leaning back in his office chair with eyes closed, smiles to himself. “A million dollars for the company, and a ten thousand immediate bonus for me.” Taking three one hundred dollar bills from his wallet, Craig folds them in half and slips them into the small donation like envelope taken from the stack from his top desk drawer. With a marker he jots “Be Safe” on the front and seals the envelope. Glancing about the office to ensure no one is watching, Craig slips the sealed envelope into his breast pocket. Finished for the day, Craig turns out the lights and heads out. Pressing the down button on the elevator, Craig pulls out his Cell Phone and checks the closing stock prices and global stock trends. Sarah, seeing Craig, stops then cautiously approaches the elevator standing nervously beside Craig. A little bit apprehensive, Sarah smiles. “Craig... heading home?” Craig scrolls his Cell Phone, seemingly unaware and continues to scroll his phone. “Sarah, would I be out of my office, standing at the elevator with the down button lit, if I was not going home? Really?” A ding and the elevator arrives, doors opening. Craig does not move his eyes from his Cell Phone. Craig flat and cold says “Sarah, you go ahead... I prefer to travel alone. I will grab the next one.” A slight huff as Sarah stomps into the elevator and turns facing the completely engrossed Craig. “You’re a cold-hearted ass!” The elevator doors close, and Craig presses the down button without removing his attention from his Cell Phone. Martha, sitting on her sleeping bag to protect herself from the cold of the sidewalk concrete, adjusts her homeless sign as she waits for the five o’clock business crowd. The passing donations have been small recently, but Martha still tries to put some of the contributions aside for her dreams. Dreams she is beginning to think will never happen. Martha always dreams of a weekend as a normal person in a comfortable warm bed and a hot shower. A nice dinner, regular conversation and maybe a glass of wine. But now as the business traffic lessens, she fears that this dream too will be as her life, totally shattered. Martha wipes away a tear that flows down her cheek, and as every other afternoon, holds out the battered paper cup to the passerby's As she waits for the office crowd, Martha remembers the day, as she does so many times, where at sixteen, her moms new boyfriend tossed her out of the home she had lived in all her life. She refused his advances while her mom was at work causing a gigantic rift in the fragile home-life. She does not know what happened after, except the locks were changed and her mom would never answer the door. It has now been six years, and the streets have become her home. A quarter here, fifty cents there, a sign the donations... contributions are diminishing. Possibly a sign of the current times, as, the traffic has also thinned. Where Martha could possibly have two meals a day, it has now become one as the norm, but she continues to try and put a little bit aside, even if only a twenty five cent piece, to hopefully have her dream, if only for a single weekend, of a taste of a normal life. Martha watches for the one Friday constant – the tall beautiful man in the expensive suit that every day places a small envelope in her cup. Sometimes a dollar, sometimes two, but always paper and never coins. The one time her gave her a twenty dollar bill allowed Martha to eat for almost two days that weekend. He never takes his eyes from his Cell Phone, but always says the same phrase that is written on the small envelope – Be Safe. Another quarter form a stranger clings against the other coins in the bottom of the paper cup, as Martha softly says thank you, watching, as the stranger, possibly, now feeling better about themselves, continues on their way. In the distance, Martha sees the one constant, the beautiful man that sometimes allows her to continue on, heading toward her, as always, focused on his Cell Phone. As he passes where Martha has sat for over two years, Craig reaches into his breast pocket and removing the envelope places it into Martha’s paper cup again uttering the familiar single phrase – Be Safe. His eyes remain fixed on the Cell Phone, continuing his stride as Martha utters a soft – Thank you. She watches as he vanishes down the stairs into the Subway. Opening the knapsack, Martha views the stack of small envelopes and reaching into her tattered paper cup, removes the most recent one, reading the phrase Be Safe. Lifting the flap Martha gasps seeing the three one hundred dollar bills. She places her hand on her mouth to muffle her excitement, as tears begin to flow down her cheeks. With shaking hands she removes the three one hundred dollar bills and places the envelope in the knapsack with the others. Craig dresses in the clothes he purchased from the Thrift Shop, because, Friday night is the one night he can be himself. He glances about the penthouse condo, the coldness of it which comes with his profession. The millions in his bank account can not compensate for the loneliness he lives in his life every day. Filling his wallet with one dollar bills, he heads out to the other side of town where no one knows who he is, or what he does. To the fun and casual establishment where everyone is no one, yet, still, someone. An adjustment of the second hand leather jacket and Craig heads out for a night of casual non business conversation and interaction. Martha opens the door to the eighty nine dollar Motel room she got for Friday and Saturday nights. It is sparse, but clean. All carpet floor, a double bed, dresser with a mirror, A TV with cable, and best of all a shower. Closing and locking the door, the bags with the clothes from the Thrift Shop and make-up from the Dollar Store dropped to the floor, Martha throws herself onto the bed, wrapping herself in the comforter. She begins crying and shaking like a baby. She now has the one time weekend dream to live as others. She wipes her eyes and begins to get ready. Craig enters the small homey restaurant on the other side of town, far from where he resides, and takes in the simple atmosphere. Small round two person tables, which all seem to be taken, and a small bar with a couple of empty seats. Maybe wanting some chicken wings, maybe pizza and a couple of beers, Craig opts for a seat at the bar, when in the far corner a single young beautiful lady is sitting alone. Martha sees Craig and shyly waves, motioning him over. Craig stares, not knowing who this lady is. He has never seen her here before. Shrugging, he makes his way to the table Martha is sitting at. Craig finds Martha alluring and beautiful with her red flowing hair, large brown eyes and simple silk blouse and pleated skirt. There is something familiar about her, but he cannot place it. Martha, knowing who Craig is, invites him to join her, which he immediately accepts. Ordering a simple draft beer and simple pub snacks, Craig easily enters into conversation with Martha. After several minutes of conversation, feeling unusually comfortable, Craig invites Martha to have dinner with him, and she immediately accepts, gently touching his hand. “Please call me Marty... I prefer the nick name.” Martha rolls over in the large double bed of the hotel room she has for one more night. The dinner and conversation with Craig the night before was playing over in her mind. It was like having a wonderful normal life... if only for a small slice of time in her life. Tears swell as she thinks of how she deceived him by going to the ladies room, only to catch a cab back to the hotel. He would never want to be seen with a girl like her. Tonight she will stay in her hotel room and order in, and not meet Craig for dinner as he asked. Martha clutches the pillow and cries. A week has gone by, and Craig cannot get Marty out of his mind. She never showed up for dinner on Saturday, as he waited for almost two hours. Nothing has been the same in his life since as she is constantly on his mind. Even his trading has been lacking success. Sarah, walking by his office, gives Craig the middle finger and mouths the word – asshole. She turns her back and continues on. On the main screen, a message pops up from the VP. “Craig – in my office now.” With a sigh, Craig knocks on the VP door, enters and sits across from the Harold, one of the senior partners who he calls boss. His solid stern look is very concerning. Craig watches as he leans forward, hands folded on the desk. For the first time in his life, Craig is very nervous. “Craig, do not speak, just listen.” Harold sits back and sighs. “Last week you made the firm over a million dollars. Your performance has been outstanding, but, this week has been... shall I say, concerning. Tuesday you cost the firm one hundred thousand dollars in a questionable transaction, and yesterday another twenty five thousand.” “Sir, Harold, I can explain.” “Craig, please, I understand trader burnout. You have been performing at one hundred and fifty percent for months – Sarah has voiced her concerns. I feel you need a break.” “But sir, I can explain.” “This is going to be non negotiable Craig. Starting right now, you are on six weeks unpaid leave. Rest, relax, get away from the market – you need a break. So shut down and go home, and we will see you after you are rested.” Craig leaves Harold’s office and for the first time, his tail between his legs in defeat and head hung low, but yet, a burden removed from his shoulders. For the first time in his business life, he is not bound, tied to a desk and is relaxed. Raising his head high as he walks through the office, he thinks. “I have over twenty two million dollars in my account, time to be a normal person. I do not need this damn job. The first thing I do when I get home is my resignation letter.” Craig sees Sarah, and with a cold stern face, points a finger at her mouthing. “Got what you wanted bitch – I am outta here.” Proceeding to the lobby, Craig pushes the down button, and waits for the elevator as calmness flows over him and all tension leaves his body. For the first time in a long time, a smile appears on his face. Martha adjusts her sleeping blanket and prepares for the Friday afternoon business crowd. Thinking of last weekend, Friday especially, she wonders if she will ever experience that again. A warm place to sleep, a shower, a glass of wine and dinner with a very beautiful tender man. She did not care he had very little money – he treated her as a very special lady. Holding out her tattered paper cup, Martha receives a quarter here a quarter there as the business, office people pass by. Suddenly, she sees Craig in the distance, and, for the first time he is not on his cell phone. Bowing her head to display only the baseball cap she is wearing, Martha outstretches her arm, holding the cup high. Craig passing, drops the small usual envelope into the cup as he continues toward the subway. Martha looks up and removes her baseball cap, allowing her long red hair to flow down about her shoulders. She softly utters her usual phrase to the patrons, but, this time adds a name. “Thank you... Craig.” The voice sounding familiar, Craig stops in midstride, freezing in place. He turns and glances down the street to focus on the homeless girl he has given so many envelopes to, every Friday, in the passing months. He turns and walks towards her, his stride quickening. Martha stands and faces Craig as he reaches her. Gently grasping Martha by the shoulders, Craig gazes deeply into her eyes, and for a second time a smile graces his face. “Marty? Marty, is this really you?” A tear flows down Martha’s cheek. One of thousands in the last week. She smiles sweetly. “It is actually Martha, Craig. I am Martha, and thank you for you kindness you have given me every Friday afternoon.” Craig cups Martha’s face and gently kisses her then hugs her close. “Martha, this has been my Investment of a Lifetime.” THE END


Saturday, 30 March 2024 To: ericaclark-steele@gmail.com From: david.steele@gmail.com SUBJECT: Photos in Google Drive Hi, Honey, I hope you’re doing all right there. Oh goodness I miss you already. I know; I know. You’re going to say I’m being sappy again. If you were here, you’d roll those beautiful sapphire eyes and shake your head at me sighing as I stare at the 20x24 shot mounted in our bedroom of our first dance as a married couple whilst Jim Croce’s “Photographs and Memories” --- the song you always love to hum whilst you work -- plays in the background. Even now, I see the clear image of you contorting your face into a grimace, hear you mimicking a vomiting sound when I try to squeeze a pillow, pretending it’s you, my Erica. It’s true, though. Every single second I’m in this bed without being able to see your eyelids flicker like a shutter bulb, every cup of coffee without your lilting laughter in the golden hour, it all feels as if my life were in freeze frame. I can’t wait until I see you again. In that moment, it will only be you in my depth of field. Well, I got the selfie you sent me two days ago. As usual, you look stunning in it. Yes, I know you always point those blue eyes like an Instamatic at me and shudder whenever I tell you this, but really, I’m just exposing what is obvious. You truly do look like a cover girl in this photo. Your dazzling sapphire orbs, the emerald green and marigold mosaic pattern sundress floating on your lithe body, and the copper-coloured wavy wig --- You’ve always wanted to be a redhead, after all --- you carefully placed on your head all jump out of the stark white backdrop of the walls. Your beauty is the primary focus of the image, as it should be. Like you asked me to, I’ve uploaded that it in the Google Drive you’ve meticulously set up of photos to be printed. Night after inky night, when a gold-tinged moon is the Earth’s only spotlight, I’ve watched you build your gallery of images to be placed in the 10x12 chrome frames with the leaf detail that you purchased two months ago. The self-portrait now joins a digital copy of your graduation robe print, your corporate headshot, the Instagram-style photo of us pretending to do a magazine editorial during a trip to Paris, and a still from our formal pre-wedding shoot. All of these capture your luminance, the way you saturate a room with your fire (Oh, you know I was going to say this, Hon. Eye roll away.). I want to suggest something, though. I know. As with any project you’ve focused on, kept your eyes that have supervised many an advertising campaign on, you have scrupulously selected the photos that you think deserve to be immortalized in silver-coated paper, that you deem perfect enough to display before all of our friends and family. Well, that’s precisely the thing, though. Honey, I couldn’t help noticing that all of the stills you’ve asked to be stored in the cloud are all, well, posed, perfectly planned so that not even a single hair strand would fall out of place. It’s all well and good, but I don’t know. I feel like some snapshots of your more candid moments also deserve to see the light, that your unfiltered side is as much part of the picture of you. If you don’t mind, I will also be printing the following images, even if it’s just for me. 1.    The photo of you beaming as you received a medal of distinction for your dissertation  – Of course, you know I’d love to include this. Oh, how I love how the gold award hanging proudly on your delicate neck and the warm glow of the late afternoon sun brought your expressive blue eyes to the foreground. Even more so, I love how your wide, toothy grin could rival even high lumen flash bulbs in terms of brightness. I may not have photographic memory, but I still remember the day I took that shot. You looked so ecstatic, so admirative of yourself. I was so proud of you, my university best friend, as well…so proud, in fact, that I began to see you through a different lens. You know that it was the day I realised I was in love with you, that you were the subject of all my dreams. Of course, little did I know then that you felt the same way, that you were taking millions of snapshots of our moments together in your mind. It wasn't long until our deep friendship fully developed into a romantic relationship. 2.  The photo of you gasping in surprise at the very first bouquet of flowers I sent to your office for your birthday    – Oh, this image will always be precious to me! How can I not grin dopily at your mouth covered by a delicate, manicured hand and your irises widening like an aperture in surprise? You told me you never expected me to notice the bouquet of sunny yellow tulips that was your phone’s wallpaper, and then, have a florist create an exact replica of it as a present. How could I not show you, however, how much you illuminate my life in floral form? Of course, that was just the first of the yearly birthday bouquets. Every single year, when 19 July rolls around, I dutifully and happily sent you tulips to your workplace until…. 3.  The photo of you enjoying a pain au chocolat during our Paris trip

– Of course, I can’t make this list without including my favourite snapshot of the trip to celebrate our engagement six years ago. Whilst you’ve always adored our recreation in front of The Eiffel Tower of that Murad Osmann image of a woman leading her boyfriend around the world, I have always had a special place in the album in my head for this snap of you with your eyes closed, mouth stretched into a euphoric smile after taking a bite of the viennoiserie in your hand. Of course, though, that adorable expression in the image pales in comparison to the face you make every time my lips touch yours, a portrait of bliss. The colour temperature of your blue eyes seems to go warmer, your smile, more luminous. I obviously feel the same way in those moments, as you know already. I’ve told you this many times before, but every single kiss with you feels as if the entire world has dissolved to bokeh, like a million flashbulbs were dancing on my lips. At least, this still of a” pastry and you is a bit more private, I suppose. 4.

A smaller version of our wedding dance photo – Oh yes, my favourite picture in the world, the one I insisted would grace our bedroom! Not even the work of Ansel Adams or Henri Cartier Bresson could ever top how this still captured the adoration in our eyes glued to each other, the radiance in your smile, the dynamic way we glided around the dancefloor. The image of that day is still fresh in my mind, of course. As I whirled you in my arms, I whispered to you that from then on, you would be my sole focus, that I will always be there to take care of you and to support you. I vowed to be with you whether the hour was blue or gold. I hope I…. Anyway, again, I really miss you. I'm excited to be able to hold you again, not just picture you in my arms. Always know how much I love you, okay ? Know that even beyond my time on Earth lapsing, it will always be you I choose. Always with a slideshow of you in my mind, Your David *** I gaze once again at the chrome-framed selfie of my Erica beaming before a camera, the portrait that I’m holding in my hands. As I look at the radiant smile, the bright red wig, and the sparkling blue eyes staring back at me, teardrops can’t help falling on the glass panel protecting the image. Right, even if my throat feels parched, as if doused with photo developing solution, I promised my wife that I would be still. Damn is it hard, though. “As you know, this was taken at the hospital,” I manage to sputter out, continuing the speech I’ve been giving for ten minutes before a crowd of black-clad familiar faces. “This was the very last photo of Erica before she passed.” Five years of marriage --- five years of photographs, five years of memories --- that was all I had with the love of my life. One minute, everything was picture perfect, a clear vision of the future in front of us. The next minute, a year and a half passed by in flashes --- a sudden splitting headache cutting short a trip to Australia, an appointment for an MRI, the unforgettable image of an oncologist trying his best to act stoic as he announced that my muse and inspiration had glioblastoma, surgeries that cropped off more and more of her brain, my Erica trying her best to hold back tears when she lost the vision in her left eye. (She had always been the type to insist on carrying on, even at that point where her future was unclear and grainy.) It was all so sudden, so instant, almost like a Polaroid popping out of the slot in an instant camera. The day she got the news that her cancer was incurable and she only had a couple of months to live, she had asked me to act as if she never received a death sentence, “to continue to smile in photos”, so to speak. She said she didn’t want the final images in her life to be me bawling my eyes until I lost the ability to view. As still as a snapshot, she began to plan her funeral, began to upload photos in the cloud she wanted us all to remember her by. She had always been like that, orchestrating everything like a shoot for a client’s products for her job. Two months later, the flash of her life went off permanently. Just like that, my life was hollowed out like an empty canister removed of its last roll of film. After laying down my Erica in the coolth of the ground, to her final resting place, I walk back to my car. As soon as I settle in the driver’s seat, I retrieve a large scarlet envelope from the back seat. The moment I open it, my breath catches as I lovingly gaze at images of my four favourite unfiltered moments of my soulmate’s life, the same ones I’ve listed in my final e-mail to her. The tears I’ve held back for months finally escape me, as if someone had pressed a shutter button in my eye. “Erica, Honey, it’s me,” I sigh through the waterfall pouring from my eyes as I slip in the key. “I promise you I’ll be okay. Just please tell me you’re still with me, that photographs aren’t all I have left of…” But we sure had a good time When we started way back when Morning walks and bedroom talks Oh, how I loved you then Suddenly, as if it were a flash of light, I hear the car radio turn on as soon as I start the ignition. I can't help breaking into a smile of both light and shade as my mind flips through endless images of Erica slumped over a laptop, her blue eyes glued to a photo she was editing, this very song hummed filling the air. No, the next months, the next years --- they won’t be picture perfect. There will be times the stills from our love story will replay over and over again and expose me once again to the knife-like pain of losing Erica. I wouldn’t have it any other way, though.


“You used to be so nice!” she screams.

I don’t agree with her. When have I ever been nice? “Please stop that and look at me,” she says in a normal voice. A sweet brown voice that you can taste and see. Like a bear or a lion.

I keep plucking the strings on my guitar, pretending that I’m on tempo. Pretending that her sweet brown voice is a song that she sings for me. But her voice is not a song. Her voice is not a bear or a lion. Her voice is a lie.      “Why won’t you listen to me?”

I want to ask her the same thing. But asking that would only make me more like her. I don’t want to be like her. I’m apparently afraid of bears and lions. She’s a hypocrite, telling me I’ve been demoted from being a nice person to being this . But I’m okay with being this. This is all I am, anyway.      “So you’re just gonna pretend that I’m not here? Is that it?”

I stop plucking and start strumming.      “Please! Listen!”

I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. My lips are shaking. I feel my lunch scraping its way out of my eyes. I feel like I’m bleeding through them, seeing nothing but shades of dark red and silhouettes of noodles. My eyes are now dimming. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe! How can I forget how to breathe? I can only feel her now. But I don’t remember how to feel. When the hell will she shut up? Just shut up!     Nothing.

She does. A hunter tranquilized the bear or the lion. Her sweet brown voice is gone.     Nothing.

I try to open my eyes. But I can’t remember how.     Nothing.

Why am I not nice? I’m the nicest man alive.     Nothing.

I somehow manage to open my eyes. The guitar that Tom gave me before moving out is not in my hands anymore. I don’t feel my hands anymore.      “Run,” she warns. As if I’d know what that means. As if I know anything at all. “Just—”

I slowly look behind me and find the mirror that Tom left before moving out. He didn’t give it to me. I took it out from the trash. I thought it was such a waste. But I don’t remember bringing it up here, in my room. Am I even in my room? I don’t remember the color of my wall but I’m sure it isn’t brown. Why don’t I remember the color of my own room? I find myself staring at myself. I look awful. My hair has grown long. The bags under my eyes suggest that I haven’t had enough sleep or haven’t slept at all. I don’t think the bruises I see are makeup. I don’t cosplay anymore. Who am I staring at right now? Why does this person look so familiar? Who is he?     Nothing.

I suddenly realize everything after staring at myself for four hours.

Tom is gone.

I try to remember more vague details. Anything at all. Like what Tom looked like. Like who Tom is to me. Like why I took his mirror out of the trash. Like why he gave me this guitar. Who is he? Who is he? Who is he?     Nothing.

I smell terrible. I feel terrible. I don’t remember what starving feels like. I’m stuck in a room I don’t recognize in front of a mirror I took out from the trash. I want someone to save me. Why did she leave? Where did she go? Why did she ask me to run? I can’t even feel my legs.

That’s when I realize that my right leg is gone. It’s s all suddenly painful. As if I’ve been bitten by a bear or a lion. I suddenly scream and then check the mirror from the trash to see if it’s making the same reaction. But it’s not. It’s just staring at me, dead eyes with its mouth wide open. I start to get scared. But then, I start to get even more scared when I realize that I’m not screaming at all. That I’m looking at myself in the mirror, dead eyes with my mouth wide open. I think I forgot how to scream.     Nothing.

Both of my hands are still here. But my right leg is gone. So I can’t run. But where should I go? I don’t even know who I am.  I feel weak and tired. What am I even doing here? Why can't I cry to ease this pain maybe a little? I want to forget seeing my leg that's gone. Maybe if I hadn't looked, I wouldn't have felt it at all.

I feel like I know what I don’t. I feel like I just said things that made sense. But I can’t remember.

I try to stand up but the pain is just too much to handle. I don’t want to faint but what I’m feeling right now is very close to being unconscious. I feel dizzy and cloudy. Like high college student or a pen. I don't make sense. None of this makes sense. I crawl all over this dark filthy room. I don’t recognize anything. Are the walls wooden? Does this room have windows? It’s way too dark to see. It’s way too hard to try.

I somehow manage to get my hands on a bag of what seems to be powder and a small Glock 42. I squint my eyes to read a note next to the gun. It more or less says, “This building is now yours, Tom. I’ll be screwdriver home gut. I mean it’s 1990! Live a life. From: Jane.”     Nothing.

Right after reading this incomprehensible note and right before I try to comprehend it, the door suddenly opens and a tall blonde man shows up. He’s about six feet tall, almost twice the size of me. He looks worried and tired as if he was looking all over for me. His face says pity and relief. As if he cares if a wasted not so nice man’s leg is gone and is stuck here slowly bleeding to death. He hurriedly carries me out of this sick room.

 “You’re fine, Tom. You’re gonna be just fine.”

I look the blonde man in the eye but the lights in this hall are blinding. He’s running away from something.  I can feel the tense in his grip. He’s afraid. What is he running from? What is he afraid of?

 “We have to leave this building,” he pants.

 “Did you just call me Tom?” I ask him. I don’t understand. I must have misheard him. He must be lying.

He doesn’t stop running. We’re running down the stairs now, a bit slower than when we were in the halls. I think he doesn’t want me to fall off. Why doesn't he want me to fall off? Why am I so important?

 “It’s worse than I thought,” he says to himself. Then, he looks at me fast with a familiar expression and says, “What’s the last thing you remember?”

 “Nothing."

The blonde man sighs and says, “It’s 2090 and you came back in the building you and your ex-girlfriend Jane lived in. It’s complicated but the Jane you cam back to wasn't yours. And the Tom that lives here isn't you. It was you a hundred years ago. This whole place was yours. Coming Back has extremely dangerous side-effects including dismemberment and severe memory loss.”

 “I…”

“This must be hard for you to take in but I’m Keith. We’ve been married for three years back in our time. You’re a nice man, Tom. But I don’t know why you Came Back. You owe me an explanation. But right now, I have to get us home. We just have to leave the building.”

 “You’re my…?”

He called me a nice man. But Jane didn’t think so. I don’t think I’m a nice man at all. I have a lover and I still went back. What for? How? Why is Tom such a jerk?

 “Tell me, Tom. Have you seen Jane?”     Nothing.

 “I didn’t exactly see her. I wasn’t looking. But I did hear her. And she told me to run. Tell me, is she making fun of my leg?”

The face Keith suddenly makes makes me want to lie and tell him I hadn’t heard her. He says, “Then it’s too late. I’m sorry. I—”

The building collapses immediately and I never get to know why I’m not a nice man.


Martin was a very good kid with big brown eyes an brown curly hair. He lived in small town whit his beautiful mother and caring father. Martin went to sleep every night at 9:00 p.m. First, he will eat his dinner and help mom to clean the table. Then he would take a quick shower and brush his teeth, put on colorful pajamas, choose one of the picture books and sit on the bed. Mom or Dad would read him a story that he chose, sometimes they both would read it together, after story they will put blanket on Martin and he would go to sleep. One evening, after doing the same ritual, when mom read him story and put him in bad, Martin heard some pounding while he was under his blanket. At that moment he opens his eyes, he turned on the lamp and quickly looked around the room, but no one was there so Martin thought he maybeheard something outside the hous. He slowly turned off the lamp and tried to go back to sleep. But in an instant, when he was almost asleep, he heard pounding again. He jumped on the bed and quickly turned on the lamp, Martin was now a little scared, but he didn't move from the bed. He stood there and listened, listened and listened, when suddenly he heard pounding again. Martin was now very scared, he wanted to run to get his mom and dad, but the pounding was heard right under his bed. He thought that this thumping thing would grab his leg as soon as he hit the floor. Now he didn't know what to do, he was thinking what that sound could be but couldn't think of anything. Martin remained standing on the bed for some time. He realized that it must have been an hour since he should have been asleep and his kom and dad are probably already asleep too. He thought about peeking under the bed, but he was too scared. The sound of pounding was still coming from under the bed, buy then, something gets in his brain and Martin gathered his courage in an instant, put the blanket around his neck on his shoulders like cloak and pulled the pillowcase over his head for a helmet. He held his stuffed rabbit in his hands so he don't feel alone and maybe stuffed rabbit could help him and then he threw the pillow a little further from the bed. Martin's plan was to jump as far away from the bed as possible so monster can'tgrabhis legs, and since he didn't want to wake up mom and dad, he decided to jump on the pillow so they won't hear the jump. One, two, three and he jumped, falling right on his butt on the pillow. At that moment, Martin was very proud of himself and quickly got down on the floor with a cloak made of a blanket and a helmet made of a pillowcase and looked under the bed. He saw nothing at first. He began to crawl around the entire bed and crawled, and crawled, and crawled until he suddenly saw a shadow moving. Martin stopped but still feeling brave. Two large pointed horns on a huge shaggy head with four arms bearing large claws approached Martin. The shadow was getting bigger and closer and at that moment Martin jumped and forgot how brave he was. He started running and left the stuffed rabbit behind him on the floor next to the shadow and ran to mom and dad in hug. They were just planning to get ready for sleep and go to their bedroom. Mom hugged the scared Martin and told him to calm down, to slow down and tell them what happened. Martin quickly told them everything about the monster under the bed thet he was first listened him and how he tried to find it, but that the monster, in the time when he almost get him, jumped on him with big claws and horns and he start ran away becouse he was too big for him. After his story, dad praised him for his courage, he said Martin that he always can wake up them if he get scared of something and all three of them headed to the room to finde monster. Mom and Martin stood carefully at the entrance to the room and looking at dad, while Dad very bravely came next to the bed. He picked up the stuffed rabbit and put it back on Martin's bad and than he saw a shadow. He first little bit observed the shadow and tried to match it with Martin's description of the monster. He looked like it have horns, but didn't sow four hands. After a few moments, dad get down and reached under the bed. Martin got scared, closed his eyes and hugged his mom and waited, waited and waited. After a few minutes, dad laughed loudly, pulled out the big monster that Martin was scared off and called mom and Martin to come and see the monster. All three laughed when they saw Martin's monster. That was Rudy, their guinea pig. It seems that Martin didn't close his quarters properly after feeding him so poor Rudy wandered around the room and got lost under the bed, he probably was even more scared than Martin. They returned the guinea pig to the little house, and Martin went to bed with relief. Mom and Dad stayed with him for a while and wait till Martin fall asleep so he wont get scared again. That night Martin dreamed about himself, the brave knight that is going on adventure and his brave helper, guinea pig Rudy, how they defeated a big monster with four arms and terrible big horns. After they defeat a monster he got a big medal for being brave. His mom and dad was very proud of him ad they went on ice cream together, and little guinea pig Rudy gets his treats for being brave too.