It's not so much the day it happened, but the day that signaled that I had arrived, I had achieved adulthood. But I am getting ahead of my self. I grew up on a dairy farm in central Wisconsin. This area was all dairy farms. If you farmed in this county, there was no question of what you produced. It was the heart of America's DairyLand, and 60 to 80 cow herds filled the landscape. I was in high school in the late 70's. My uncles farm was nearby, and the two farms touched. My cousin Bill was one grade above me in school, but only 4 months older. I was closer to him than my own, much younger brother, and he had no brothers. Miles from the nearest paved road, we had the opportunity to Drive tractors and other machines at a young age. I had a beat up old 5hp trail bike for transportation, and Bill had an ancient moped. On summer nights after evening milking, we would be on call to help unload and stack baled hay at neighbors places. we put this money away for the one indispensable item all of us rural Romeo's needed, a car. The summer before our 16th birthdays, our fathers begrudgingly cosigned for cars for us to fix up (we couldn't afford much). Bill was lucky to find a Grand Torino that was mechanically sound, but with a badly beaten body. I found a Chevelle with a good body, but burned out engine and transmission. The fall of my sophomore year, Bill and I spent all of our spare time working on his Torino. We hammered out dents, welded in patches, applied and sanded body filler and applied primer. All the while planning our adventures. Oh, the wonderful mayhem we were going to unleash on our unsuspecting little town!. The Torino would soon be ready for paint, and in mid November, Bill passed his drivers test. That fall had been busy, due to the wet weather delaying the corn harvest. The Sunday night before Thanksgiving I went to bed looking forward to the abbreviated week ahead. The corn harvest was done, the machines parked for the winter, and a few inches of snow had fallen in the afternoon. Bill was to deliver his car to a friend for paint and I was looking forward to getting started on the Chevelle. As I drifted off to sleep, I thought I heard the phone ring downstairs. but sleep took over. For some reason, a few minutes before my alarm clock was to ring at 4:50AM, I woke to a light on my bedroom wall. Our farmhouse was on the north side of the road and my room was the in the south east corner. The light was the headlights of a vehicle coming up the road. It was very unusual for traffic to be on out road this time of morning. I watched the light grow bigger, expecting it to shoot to the north side of my room as the car passed by. But instead the light shot south then disappeared. They had pulled into the yard!. I leapt from my bed to look out the east window to see the pickup truck pull into its garage stall. I knew something was very wrong. I pulled on my work cloths as fast as I could, grabbed my shoes and rushed down the stairs. Mom was seated at the kitchen table. I could tell she had been crying. Dad had gone to their room to change into his work overalls. As I tied my shoes she told me to go "feed the monster in the basement", the family euphemism for filling the decrepit old wood furnace that heated the ancient farmhouse. I went down the stairs and rushed through the routine. Open the draft door, scoop out the ashes, shake the grates, small wood first, then the larger blocks. When I got back up to the kitchen, Dad was also at the table, then they broke the news to me. Bill had been killed in a car accident the evening before. I went numb. The exact details matter not. It boils down to an inexperienced driver on a slippery road. My body seemed to be on auto pilot, and the morning chores seemed to drag forever. Even with my Mom and my younger brother coming down to help with feeding the bottle calves, we got late. As soon as we were done milking, Dad sent me and my brother to the house for breakfast and washing up for school and he said he would do my normal job of cleaning up in the milkhouse. School was subdued and quiet that day. The whole high school of 250 students soon heard and a dark mood seemed to press down on us all. My 5th period was study hall, and the school guidance councilor came to get me to help clean out Bills locker. I got the text books back to their appropriate classrooms and threw out unnecessary notebooks, saving only what I thought my Aunt and Uncle might want. At the time I thought I saved too much. With the wisdom that comes from years, I realize I did not keep enough. After school, Mom was waiting for me at the at the school busses. She took me downtown to the men's store for a new suit. I was growing by leaps and bounds at that time and I had long since outgrown my suit from confirmation. On the way home, she broke the news to me that I was to be one of Bill's pallbearers'. I protested, saying, "NO, I cant do it!'. She just smiled her knowing smile and said, "Talk to your father". I relaxed. Dad and I had a good rapport. He would understand. That evening, during milking, (the only time during evening chores that we were in the same proximity to each other in the barn) I pleaded my case, I said, "No, I can't do it". Dad did what he always did. He listened, he asked a few questions to make sure he had a full understanding of the issue, and then he rendered his verdict. He said, "You're going to be Pallbearer". He then went on to explain that it a man's job to be there for the family in times of need. He also explained that it was a solemn duty and honor to be one of the few selected to carry someone to their final rest. I tried to protest, saying, "I can't do it". He said, "You can and you will". He then went on to give me, either by design, or happenstance the best advice he ever gave me. It would be advice that went on to help me many times in my life. He said, "You're going to set your focus, bite your lip, put your feelings aside, concentrate on what's right in front of you, and you're going to do the job that needs to be done. That's what it means to be a man". Seeing I had lost my case, I resigned myself to my fate. The funeral was the day before thanksgiving. A fresh snow had fallen and the temperature was climbing to thawing. As the service concluded, I took my place with my uncles to carry the casket to the hearse. All of the Pallbearers traveled together in one car. It was a 10 mile drive to the cemetery, and mostly only family was attended the graveside ceremony. As we took the casket from the hearse, I took my assigned place on the left front. I was concentrating on the job at hand and measuring my steps. My Uncle on the right front slipped and almost fell when he stepped from the pavement to the snow covered grass, but I was able to shoulder the extra weight while he recovered. By the time we had returned to the church for the lunch, everyone who had not attended the interment had already left, and it was mostly just the family. For unknown reasons, my Dad chose to eat and talk with us pallbearers. Though it seemed shocking to me at the time, My uncles were very nonchalant about it. The conversation between them went like this: "Was that a bit to heavy for you?" (to my uncle that had slipped) "Naw, just the fresh snow, not like Uncle Fred's casket, That was heavy" "I didn't think Uncle Fred's was so heavy, Uncle Merlin was the heavy one". "I didn't get in on Uncle Merlin's, I was out in Oregon visiting Aunt Minnie when he passed away". "Yea, Uncle Merlin was a heavy one, I swear there was four inches of concrete in the bottom of his casket." "Well, knowing the ambitious go getter he was, Maybe that's the only way they figured they could keep him down there!". Some muted laughter followed. I realized some time later that I had taken My fathers place in the family Pallbearers. It was the first step in the changing of the guard from my uncles duty to falling to me and my cousins, and I would eventually be pallbearer for everyone I was pallbearer with that day. And I was the one to shoulder the responsibility of easing the younger cousins into this solemn duty. I didn't realize it at the time, but I was given much more freedom after that, and much more responsibility. I never had a curfew, But I was expected to be up at quarter to 5 every morning for chores. If I overslept, there were makeup chores for me at the end of the day. I soon learned to be home and in bed by midnight at the latest. The rest of high school, I was a bit of a "party pooper". Being at home and in bed while classmates were still "howling at the moon". I was also given the responsibility of the reproductive health of the dairy heard. Basically to be matchmaker for choosing what frozen semen to use on what cows and to be midwife to the cows having calves. As well as noting any cows that failed to cycle to be checked out by the veterinarian. I took it seriously, and made many night time trips to the barn to check on expectant mothers. I managed to drag my attention back to the Chevelle in February out of sheer necessity. An uncle on my mothers side of the family, (also farmers) contacted me to tell me of a neighbor of his who had a son that also had a Chevelle that ran good, but had been wrecked. I went to find a car that had just had a replacement engine put in it and had been rear ended at a stop sign. It was totaled, but he did not want to give the new engine to the junk yard for the few dollars they were willing to pay. A deal was made and I put it on a hay wagon and brought it home. With a little help from Dad and my little brother, I took on the task of the engine and transmission transplant. I even used the front bucket seats and some interior moldings, as well as the chrome wheels. In March I got my drivers license on the first try. By early May, the Chevelle was ready for his debut. We had a rare spring Saturday off for a cousins wedding. We had a cow that was likely to calf that day, so I drove myself to the wedding in the Chevelle. After the ceremony, we all went to the local Legion post where the reception and rest of the celebration was to be held. About 2 in the afternoon, I excused myself to check on the cow. I drove the 12 miles home and drove right down to the barn. Off to the side we had a little maternity paddock, I had hopped to see a content cow, chewing her cud and giving me the "what you want?" look, But it was not to be. What I found was a cow in labor and distress. I quickly drove to the house and changed onto a pair of coveralls and quickly cross tied my work shoes and raced to the barn. My first stop was the milkhouse for a bucket of warm water and the obstetrical chains and grips. I did a reach in check. One hoof, not too big, that's OK. A second hoof. Then a nose. Then a third hoof, and second nose!. she was having twins and attempting to expel them simultaneously!. But I had paid attention to Dad over the years and knew what to do. I slipped a chain around one hoof and gently tugged while feeling of their noses. When I was confident I knew witch nose was attached to the hoof that I had the chain on, I waited for her to stop contracting. When she did I pushed back inward on the other nose while pulling on the chain. The first calf slipped out fairly easily. I attached the other chain and quickly retrieved the other one. After quickly clearing their noses and mouths of mucus, I was rewarded with 2 heifer calves struggling to get their first breaths of air. I tied off their navel chords and dipped them in iodine to prevent infections from entering. I then turned my attention to the cow. Her head was pulled back toward her udder. She was not alert. Her ears were cold. She had milk fever, a potently fatal low calcium condition. I went quickly to work. I retrieved 2 bottles I.V. calcium from the medicine cabinet along with the I.V. kit. I went to the cow and put a rope halter on her head and tied it to her back leg to keep her from fighting the treatment. I took the huge 2 inch long needle and, after locating the jugular vein in her neck, I plunged it in swiftly. I was rewarded with a good flow of blood. I attached the first bottle of calcium to the hose and tucked it between my neck and shoulder to free up my hands. As soon as the mixture flowed freely with out air bubbles, I attached it to the needle. The medicine flowed quickly into her bloodstream and I was soon rewarded with a quivering in her flanks, a sign it was working. After the first bottle ran dry, I switched to the second. She was a large cow and the second bottle was insurance she would have enough. With all of the calcium in her, all she would need was time to recover. I released her head and collected up all of my equipment I had used, cleaned it in the milkhouse and put it away. Then I turned my attention back to the calves. I brought a small pail out and milked out some milk from her where she laid. I took it in the milkhouse and put it in a calf bottle. It was a little more than 3 pints. Not a lot, but enough to give those twins the much needed mothers protective antibodies. They greedily sucked it down. a sign that they were healthy and viable. Having done all I could for now, I returned to the house and took a shower. After getting dressed to go back to the wedding I headed back out to my car. but instead of just going back, I first drove back down to the paddock to check on them . I was rewarded by the sight of the cow standing and vigorously licking one calf that was struggling to stand while the other took it's first wobbly steps trying to nurse. When I returned to the festivities, Dad immediately saw me walk in and asked me, "Is everything alright?". "Everything is fine', I said, "But we have two more calves to feed tonight". The dinner was soon to be served. I was talking to a group of cousins and we were lucky enough to be seated at a table by the kitchen. We were served early, But the table Mom and Dad were on was farther away. As the meal wound down and I was cleaning up my serving of cake and ice cream I looked over at Dad. I thought of the chores that needed to be done. The extra work involved with the cow and newborn calves. I also saw Dad enjoying the time that he got to enjoy with family and friends all to seldom. When I finished, I said to my tablemates, "Sorry, I gotta go, it's chore time". Then I walked over to where Dad was eating with one of his old friends directly across the table from him. I clamped my hand on his shoulder and said, "Stay as long as you want. I'll do the chores tonight". Across the table Dad's friends fork slipped from his startled grasp and clattered to his plate, but he recovered quickly enough to point a butter knife accusingly at my Dad and say, "Ya know, I raised four boys on that place of mine, but I ain't NEVER heard that from one of my kids!". Dad just beamed. Mom had to hide her laughter behind a napkin.


I open my eyes to the light streaming through the lace curtains, it must be morning. My shaved head is cold again, the hoodie I sleep in has slipped down to my neck bunching with the scarf I wear everywhere, a gift from a good friend. Extracting my arm out from under the pillow where it sleeps I pull the hoodie back over my head and snuggle deep into my blankets. Its been getting colder the last few weeks, I don't really like the cold, I am probably a lizard. At some point after dozing and mentally going over my day I realise that I need to actually figure out the time; I need to check my social media for updates; I need to check the news for any interesting developments. Scratch that, they are useless time wasters in this never ending waste of time I occupy these days, somewhere between lazy, procrastinate, and cancer side effects, the cancer side effects being the lesser of the three. I roll over and fumble for my phone, it is in the usual spot on my bed, attached to the charging cable, good! I have batteries. The teenage cat, Atticus, that sleeps next to me has long since woken up to chase imaginary creatures around the house. I Reorient myself, press buttons, swipe patterns, open the browser. Screen glare in the morning is unpleasant, and so is the lack of new information since I grudgingly put my phone down hours before. What did I expect? refresh. refresh. Didn't I want the time? oh yeah. its early, and I don't need to get up. I roll over and snuggle the blankets. At some point, either when I reach peak boredom, get a pang of hunger, feel my bladder, hear the sounds of house-mates(preferably accompanied by the sounds of a kettle) or just because, I pull the blanket off my body, rotate ninety degrees and melt off the exceptionally high bed into a standing position. With the change in orientation comes the sensation of my organs pressing up against my bladder, time to find the loo, is my genitalia appropriately covered? My friends don't care, I could probably walk out naked and they would wink and tease me in good nature. Like a morning zombie looking for brains in a mug of coffee I stumble forwards bleary eyed into the kitchen, a pink nightgown is at the bench facing away from me, I mutter good morning before moving towards the loo. I'm wearing my fisherman's pants, so a little re-arrangement and I'm focused on the stream and the sensation of relief, so practised over so many years, of making as little noise as possible, pondering to myself how so many times at work there is piss all over the floor, what are they doing? do I even want to know? Fisherman's pants don't always cooperate with me when it comes to re-arranging and I may need to undo and re-do them entirely, juggling my hoodie out of the way, it's an awkward dance. The blue hand wash is almost empty. The zombie feeling persists, I stumble out of the loo looking for the pink dressing gown, It will be sitting at the kitchen table, at the kitchen bench, in the study. I reach out and embrace it, hugs are an important part of our morning ritual, a grey tracksuit appears, another hug, a pair of underwear, another hug. each one with its own special style, each one with its own need for affection to bring us back from the dead of unconsciousness. one more person exists in the house, with a large smile like Totoro, I don't know this person well enough for a morning hug. "Anyone for a coffee" the underwear asks, "yep", "yes please", "yes thanks babe" come the answers, soon I will not be a zombie, the feeling is already fading, the coffee will remove the last vestiges of the undead, like decapitating it after beating it and filling it full of gunshots. While I wait for my doom, I'm going to just lay down on this couch and enjoy the voices of the humans. More mundane stuff happens, some arrangements are made. I've just sat on the couch again, dressed in comfortable clothing, laptop and drugs in bag, "Alright, time to go!" my best friend Annie says with a smile. Up I hop walk down the corridor, give the fluff monster Atticus a race, and then a cuddle before picking up the sunglasses and helmet from Annie who waits at the front door for me. We talk constantly to each other but about normal every day things. She re-arranges the bike as I put the sunglasses on and pull on the open faced bike helmet, I swing a leg over, grab her backpack and put it on, secure belongings around myself, my feet are on the back forks and my hands are around her waist. she gives the engine a little rev and we lift off from the driveway into the street, I feel the rush of g-forces as we lurch forwards, I feel the vertigo of sideways motion as we corner around the car park making our way to Prospect Road, and as we merge with traffic the chill of the air on my face as we pick up speed. Annie's warm body in front of me is comforting the chill air is refreshing, the speed up and slow down of traffic exhilarating. I'm not sure it would be as fun if I was by myself on the bike. The wind finds its way easily behind the sunglasses making my eyes water. it's the best way to travel to chemo. I stride through the entryway with my confident swagger learned from years of dancing, chest out, chin high, after all, today is the best of the days I have left. Up the elevator I wait, walk with confidence to the cancer day centre, I've been here many times before, and am lucky to have not been here too many times like the people I see around the ward, years into treatment. At the main counter I greet the staff with a cheeky smile, and get my wristband attached for the party ahead. 5 minutes in the waiting room, the TV is off, maybe they listened to me? a random staff member calls my name and greets me as the person who will be taking care of me today. I try to remember their names, it's not easy. I make small talk, I want this person to like me, I want them to feel good about their job, I hope they aren't too stressed or distracted. We choose a chair for me to occupy for the hours I will be here, I sit down, plug in my laptop power, arrange my equipment and take off my shoes, it's important to be comfortable. My nurse brings over a little tray, a strap and some other bits and bobs to insert the cannula, she explain that blood results take 40 minutes, and we need to test before starting treatment, we check my name tag multiple times, and then comes the apology for the stinging. The insertion of the cannula is interesting in that I truly feel that the nurses are always upset that they need to stick you with needles, they are always gentle and over my time have only messed up once, the pain from the needle is entirely intellectual it hurts, but it's not dangerous. They hold my hand, strap my arm and ask me to clench my fist a few times before relaxing in a fist, they touch my arm gently inspecting the veins, able to detect things i can only imagine, they settle on a spot to insert the device, and then swab the area. I ask them about their week, how their schedules are tracking today, try to find some way to interact, often time I feel they keep themselves at arms length for good reason. They apologise and with a sharp intake in breath I indicate that what they are doing hurts, and then it's done, they connect tubes like its lego, extract some blood and then hook up a drip of saline before attending to other people. I spend the next hour on my laptop browsing the internet again, being bored, wanting to study but unable to concentrate, oh well, sometimes I get in 10 minutes of productivity. A friendly and familiar nurse named Shafi walks past and says hi. Then Lou, Peter, Jess and more I can't remember. The volunteer staff ask me whether I would like some soup, what flavour? tomato, chicken and corn, beef, vegetable. I refuse most days, and ask for apple juice instead, it helps with the taste of the chemo drugs. During the whole thing friends and family visit and sit next to me, we converse, it's good to have company, it's a blur. My bloods come back good, and within a few minutes the chemo drugs are here, being hooked up to the pump stand, the tubes all being connected together like some weird irrigation system, maybe I will grow into a nice ripe fruit? begin the pumps, refrigerated liquid pumped into my arm at too high a rate is uncomfortable, so I ask the nurse to slow it down. The taste in the back of my throat is like the back of a chemical cupboard in the shed, so I sip on apple juice, I try to keep myself busy on my laptop, browsing things, trying to program, talking to staff, talking to visitors. Did they stick the tubes into my bladder? extracting myself from blankets, laptop cables etc, I take my robotic companion pump to the loo with me, several times a day. Clickity clack, clickety clack, the pumps talk to each other plotting their eventual take over of the human race for world dominance. I browse the room, looking into the windows of other people's lives who are also touched by cancer, mums and dads, sisters and brothers, families are there, mostly old people, there's nobody I can relate to, no friends to make. The time wears on, my pump suddenly gets all huffy and starts beeping, the nurse comes over and calms it down with some caressing of its face. My body bulges from the extra two litres pumped into my veins, it's not as intense as the first time. It doesn't take long, between 2-4 hours I am finished and I can escape the robotic pump overlords. they pack up the chemo bags and tubes and throw them in a purple bin, they untape and slide out the cannula, and always press too hard on the cotton wool bud intended to stop the flow of blood from my veins, seriously calm down. and then i'm free to go. I stumble back to reality, down the lift, out the doors and into the street. Tomorrow its likely I will get a lift home, but when I go to work, or when I catch a bus home I have a surreal experience of having quite serious medical shit going on and the world being completely oblivious to me, like if you were a super hero, nobody would know or care for everyday shit, I guess clark kent had it right with the glasses.


**Mother’s Day** I sat crouched in the darkness as the first rays of light broke on the horizon, hidden behind a solid wall of granite. I held the dagger, tightly between my hands, trembling ever so slightly as I scanned the cemetery grounds for movement. “Mom? Why are we in a graveyard, and why do you have the kitchen knife?” Ok, so it wasn’t so much of a dagger but a really sharp chef’s knife. I mean, it was a Wülsthof, so it’s not like it was undagger-like. It was at least German steel, so that made it feel like a dagger to me. All that really mattered was that it was metal and sharp. I scowled a bit as I looked at my son standing there with a flashlight. This was his first time out. Being on cusp of middle school I felt it was reasonable to bring him along - one day he would need to take over this job - if he loved me that is. “Shhh Cy! Just watch” I hissed. I immediately felt badly - it wasn’t his fault he was in such a screwed up family. Hell, it wasn’t my fault either. The least my husband could have done was disclosed what would happen before we brought kids into this. I scanned across the field but there was nothing but headstones, tufts of grass, and old vases filled with dying flowers. I took a moment to contemplate the scene, relaxing just a bit to settle into my awareness. This had become a regular pattern for me over the past decade - each May I spend my weekdays taking the kids to school, doing the laundry, and even enjoying Michigan Spring with a bit of yard cleanup. Then Mothers day weekend would come and I would pack up the kitchen knives, jump in the Ford Flex, and head to the local cemetery at dawn to kill my in-laws. Well, I’m not really sure, now that I think of it, whether I’m actually killing them. Perhaps this is splitting hairs (ha ha!), but when they crawl out of the ground like they do I can’t imagine they’re actually alive. I mean, it sure feels like a zombie/vampire/undead kind of event (at least from my limited tour of netflix shows on the topic), though it doesn’t happen until day break. I don’t really get that either - every show where the undead rise seems to have them coming out at night. I once argued with a girlfriend over this, emphatic that it couldn’t be an undead uprising and that there must be another explanation since it never begins until daylight breaks. She doesn’t talk to me anymore - something about how I project my feelings on my inlaws to justify keeping my kids away from them. Fuck her. “Mom, what’s that?” Cy stammers. He’s right beside me now, leaning up against the big monolith emblazoned with the name “Levine Schroeder”. He’s safe there, Levine was just another dead great great grandpa who happened to die early enough that he was buried at the edge of the family plots. His stone made for a great vantage point of the rest of the field, For some reason you never had to worry about the men in the family coming back to life, only the women. And then, too, only the women who married in. I don’t know if it was a curse or a plague, but it was weird as shit. And ever since I joined the family I’ve been a central actor in this play. I looked down at his hands and saw he was clutching a small red pocket knife - a Victorinox swiss army knife, with its one and half inch blade extended. A smile crossed my lips - that was my boy scout son, always prepared. I brought him out here just to observe, to understand his “heritage” as it were. But silently I was proud that he was ready to to help out - there was a reason I brought him instead of his brother Henry. My eyes darted across the landscape and followed his gaze to a stone roughly fifteen yards away. There was movement, certainly, though in the still breaking light it was tough to tell. It looked like Susan’s stone, a great aunt who was married to my husband’s uncle Alan. “Just watch” I hissed through my teeth to him, and began to move towards the shaking pile of dirt. Despite having only done this for the past ten years or so I had developed a bit of a technique. See, if you move in slow and wait for them to surface their head above the ground you can hit them with one strike and send them back to their grave none-the-wiser that another Mother’s day had passed. Quick and painless (I think!?). What better way to honor a dead ancestor? After I dispatched Susan I went on to Janet and Michelle. Pardon me, Michèle. Supposedly she was French from the countryside, though she died nearly 20 years ago so I never met her (minus the last ten years I’ve been returning her to her grave on M-day, of course). I think I would have liked to have met her though; out of all the corpses crawling out of the ground at me she seemed to have the most lovely vintage clothing, and you just got this sense that she was well put together. I saved grandma Ruth Schroeder for the last. She passed when Cy was just a baby and, while I’m sure he didn’t remember her, I thought it only fitting that I share this experience with him. She was older than the others when she passed, and was slow, so she was an easy kill (or whatever it was I was doing). “Cy, pay attention.” I called to him, still hiding in the shadow of Levine’s stone. “The key is you have to hit them in the head, don’t just hack away at them like a tree.” The minute I said it I rolled my own eyes. Hacking away at undead like a tree. WTF. What kind of world was I living in. I approached Ruth, or what was once Ruth, and eyed her up. She shambled towards me on mission unknown - I’d never let one bite me, or whatever it is they were going to do. Hell, maybe they just wanted to give me a hug. But after all this time I wasn’t going to find out. “The eye is easiest, but anywhere in the head is fine after all this time” I called out, not bothering to look back. I plunged my knife up into Ruth’s skull just between her jaw bones on the right side. The lifeless body fell to the ground and turned to ash like the others. “See, when you do that it’s quick and painless” I continued. I heard Cy shout: “M-MO--” then pain lanced through the left side of my face and everything went dark. I came to with Cy sobbing over me and a headache beyond compare. The sun had risen in the sky and my scout den mother foresting skills told me it was mid-morning. I groaned as I sat up, pain lancing through my face. My hand found dried blood. “Oh Mom!” Cy said, a mixture of joy and desperation bringing him to tears as he grabbed me in a hug only a fourth grader could give. I saw a flower vase on the ground next to me, a twisted kitschy metal container usually attached to cheap grave markers. Next to it was Cy’s knife, sitting discarded in a pile of ashes. Bethany. Shit, I had forgotten. The cancer last year. Damnit. But Cy had my back. So I guess I made it one more year on this side of the graves. I stood up, bracing myself on Cy, and picked up his knife. “We might have to get you a bigger knife” I said, trying my hand at levity. It failed miserably and he started to sob. I picked up my chef's knife and as we walked back to the car I noticed the tip of the knife had broken off. It had been getting old anyways - a wedding present of course - and the handle on the paring knife had long since split. Couldn’t find the bread knife to save my life. Idly I thought to myself that it seemed like a refresh of the cutlery was in order. Maybe I would go down to the Williams Sonoma in the mall this afternoon and see if they had any of those Henckles for a good price. They must have a sale on, it’s Mother’s day after all.


The year; 66 Million B.C. September 23rd. Just after lunch, central standard time. Three Neanderthals- Ogg, Grunk, and Louie were hunting mammoths and discussing the new sport that was taking the caves by storm. Ogg was filling the other two in on the details of the game, as they did not have DVR at the time, and in those days, most folks didn't know how to set their VCRs to record at a specific time. Ogg - "...so Nuknuk snap the egg and pass to Krodd. Krodd make break for endzone, but great winged monster come down from sky and carry him away, and him drop it before he can score." Grunk - "Mmm. What happen, then?" Ogg - "What mean? He fumble. It turnover." Louie, known to be sort of the tribe grump, was thoroughly unimpressed with the game Ogg described. Louie - "Hmm. Sound stupid. That never catch o- *AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH^HHHHHHHHHHH^^HHHHHHHHHHHH^^^HHHHHHH^^^^HHHHHHHHH^^^^^HHHHHHHH..!*" *[Thud]* Ogg and Grunk turned around and realized that Louie had simply vanished into thin air. Grunk - "Hey, where he go?" Ogg rolled his eyes. Ogg - "Typical. Him owe me five rocks. Now him nowhere to be found." Grunk peered down into the gorge next to where they had been walking. Grunk - "Nah. Me found him. Louie down there." He gestured towards the bottom of the ravine, where Louie's crumpled, mangled corpse lay, silent and motionless on the jagged rocks below. Ogg - "Oh. Him okay?" Grunk threw a large stone down towards the body, which caved-in what was left of Louie's skull. He did not appear responsive. Grunk - "Hmm... Me not think so. Him having blood, like woman." Ogg grunted in dissaproval. Ogg - "That sexist, Grunk." Grunk rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. Grunk - "Sorry, that my father talking. How hell Louie down there, when he just up here second ago?" For several minutes, Ogg, deep in thought, stroked his beard- which had long ago coalesced into a single matted, casteroides tail-like dreadlock. There was an audible dial-up noise as he attempted to piece together the facts of this most perplexing mystery. Suddenly, he had an epiphany: Ogg - "Eureka! Me have theory." His curiosity piqued, Grunk inquired; Grunk - "What theory?" Ogg continued; Ogg - "Bear with Ogg on this- Big rock under feet very big, right?" Grunk considered this for a moment. The big rock they lived on was indeed quite large. Grunk - "Me suppose so. What point?" Ogg did his best to articulate his new, ground-breaking notion: Ogg - "Okay: Suppose big rock have great mass. Much bigger than Louie. Since big rock have big mass, it somehow attract objects with small mass through sort of physical force, make objects go down, like when sky cries, and *voilà*- Now Louie down *there*." Grunk furrowed his monobrow, though it was obscured by his bulbous, super-Saiyan 3-like forehead. Grunk - "Hmm... That novel concept, but you not follow scientific method, so is not *really* theory, technically speaking." Ogg scoffed, indignant at this preposterous accusation. How dare Grunk, *a college drop-out*, call his flawless methodology into question? Ogg - "What you *mean* me not follow scientific method?" Grunk elaborated: Grunk - "Well... To have theory, must peform experiments. Take measurements. Record and analyze data to reach conclusion. *Then* it theory. What you have *hypothesis*." Ogg stared blankly at Grunk for several moments. His eyes narrowed. Then, without any warning at all, Ogg whacked Grunk in the back with his club, knocking him into the canyon to meet with his terrible doom. Grunk - "AAAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIEEEEEEEEEE! OGG YOU BUTTHOOOOOOOOO^OOOOOOOO^^OOOOO^^^OOOOOOOO^^^^OOOOOOOOO^^^^^OOOOOOOLE..! " *[Thud]* Ogg peered downward into the chasm and grunted once more. Ogg - "Hmm. **Now** it theory... *Bitch.


"It's dark in here." "Of course it's dark in here, dumb-ass, it's the middle of the night." "I know, shut up. Let's hurry up before someone comes." "Who? The teachers who're patrolling the school grounds during recess? Oh no, Lucy, what shall we ever do?" "Shut up, Tanya, let's go already." \ The two reach the tree. It's dark, yet the cracks in its bark faintly shine with a color constantly changing. This is the tree they can't let the other students come near. One of their friends already died next to it, after she supposedly had a heart attack. Tanya takes the axes out of her bag and hands one to Lucy. L: "Tanya?" T: "Lucy?" L: "I'm starting to have second thoughts about this. Maybe we shouldn't." T: "Have you forgotten what this bitch of a tree did to Sasha?" L: "No! I would never!" T: "Then why back away now?" L: "It's glowing stronger." T: "So?" L: "So I think we should quit it." T: "No, that's a stupid idea." L: "The stupid idea was to come here and risk getting caught!" T: "By who? Who in their damn mind would think to come here? You think the tree would tell anyone?" L: "Well, we did come here. Isn't that saying anything?" T: "No. Now get to where you can swing safely. Don't wanna hit you." Lucy agrees, and steps away from Tanya. They're now at opposite sides of the tree. T: "Ready?" L: "Wish I wasn't." T: "I didn't hear a no." She pauses to scratch something away from her left cheek. T: "Three!" She scratches again. T: "Two!" Lucy winds up. Tanya scratches again. T: "Hold it! What the hell is this?" L: "What happened?" T: "I don't know, something latched on my face probably." L: "Maybe it's the tree?" T: "It's not the damn tree! How can it move?" Lucy takes out her phone and shines a light on Tanya's face. T: "Did you see what it was?" L: "Don't move." T: "What?" L: "Don't move!" Tanya freezes in her spot. Her heartbeat is so strong that even Lucy can hear it. T: "What's on my face?" L: "No..." T: "What the hell is on my face?" L: "It can't be..." T: "Answer me!" L: "But she's dead!" Tanya quickly turns around and falls to the ground. Sasha stands over her body, looking at Lucy. L: "Please... don't..." S: "It's what happens, love. The tree is absolute." Tanya's heartbeat is no more. Lucy, realizing this, cries to the moon. She can no longer hear any heartbeats. The tree glows stronger with every weep. She finally falls to despair and her head drops. "Don't worry, my dear human. I will not kill you." Lucy looks up and screams in terror. T: "The tree is absolute." "I will not kill you." Tanya hugs Lucy, who's now screaming at the top of her lungs. She cannot run away. She cannot hear her heartbeat. "I will not kill you." L: "Please don't kill me!" "I will not kill you." L: "Please!" \ Lucy cannot hear her heartbeat anymore.


The train departed at Piccadilly Station, rattling the teacups of chattering ladies awaiting their sons or lovers or death itself inside the Piccadilly Station Municipal Tearoom.   Philip Philbrick, undergraduate, stood by a train window and watched the city fall further away. The black plumes of smoke from red-brick factories ever smaller. The long-familiar desolate moorland of the Peak District ever changing as his train rattled on, towards Oxford. He thought about his father, of the last words spoken to him.   "Go on lad, make something of y'self, just as I had to do, though I never had no fancy education. We're just trying to do right by you, and me and your ma know you'll do right by us."   His mother had said nothing, but sat with eyes clenched, her face pale and ghostly in the evening light, reflected by streetlamps through thin windowpanes. He couldn't listen to the words his father spoke, he heard the voice from the radio singing "underneath the lantern by the barrack gates, darling I remember the way you used to wait" and he stared strangely at his father, seeing nothing, understanding nothing. The next morning he took his train.   He found a seat in an empty carriage. He was travelling second class. In time, the carriage filled. First came the old and infirm, then the soldiers, bawdy and gay in their khaki uniforms, then came the other students.   He watched them, in their packs. Laughing amidst themselves, dressed in suits of grey, green and burgundy. Paisley cravates and hair immaculately styled. He felt a tinge of embarrassment at his own ragged black greatcoat, which he had inherited from his father, a respected and upwardly mobile factory owner.   The old woman who had taken residence next to Philbrick, with her husband opposite, grumbled to him. The fleshy lines stretching out her face like waves.   "It's all bloody students, in't it Arthur? Like rats, bloody everywhere. Weren't like that back in our day, weren't it, Arthur?" she said, chomping on a large sandwich which shot white mayonnaise out with each hearty bite, over her husband's trousers.   The husband, jolted awake mumbled something to the effect of "aye there's lots of rats in Sudan" and fell back to sleep.   Just at this moment, the pack of students split off into individual smaller groups, evidently searching for space amidst the reasonably crowded train carriage, and one in particular, who had caught Philbrick's eyes; partly because of his deep blue eyes, and partly because he was holding a three-quarters empty bottle of Château Margaux, halted in front of the old woman, reached out towards an empty seat, and fell over. The young man's head landed in Philbrick's crotch, and Philbrick reacted with considerable distaste, attempting to push the unwanted head away. However, the old woman too, was unsettled by this most distasteful of events and spanked the student on his rear a few times, shrieking like a banshee.   The student slid off the two passengers and took a seat opposite Philbrick. Shamefacedly, he spoke. "Sorry, I get a little squiffy on trains. It must be travel sickness. However, I must say I liked your shoes very much when I saw them. You must tell me your tailor. See, every mishap has its silver lining. Anyway, my apologies dear fellow, it was assuredly the travel sickness" he said, taking a swig from the bottle of wine.   "And my sincerest apologies to you too, good sir", he said to the old woman. She would have responded if at that moment, a second student had not taken the window seat next to Philbrick.   "How do you do?" said Philbrick.   "Ten cents a dance, fella", the beast of a man responded.   "Excuse me?"   "It don't mean a thing, if it ain't got that swing." he insisted.   "What?" Philbrick said, exasperated.   "Oh don't mind Clutch" the student opposite said, taking a wine glass from his satchel and pouring himself a glass. "He fancies himself American, though he was actually born in Saltburn-by-the-Sea, wherever that is." The student said, lighting a Vogue with a flick of a match.   "My name is Luciani James Temperance, you might know of my father, His Sir Honorable Lordship Oswald Temperance, got himself into a bit of a pickle with the evening post over a dog and a pair of slippers. No matter, a dreadful bore anyway. I expect you're heading for Oxford? Care for a glass of wine?" he said, producing a second bottle of out apparently thin air. "Indeed, it is a grand cosmic irony that my surname is the one thing I cannot adhere to. But well, somebody terribly dull once said we must all have an occupation of some kind. Care for a second glass?"   Green farmland swept by in a hazy succession, before the drab Betjeman country; sheep, cows, all the delights of rural England. Past distant towns lit faint orange on the horizon, like a postcard, past towering chimneys of smoke and filth. Philbrick imbibed the wine, observed the student and smiled to himself, thinking on the words of Blake's pastoral poetry, or the lads of Housman.   In time, it got darker and the students got drunker. The soldiers sat in their uniforms, fingering their satchels and smoking cheap cigarettes. The old couple slept. The carriage took on the appearance of a hospital waiting room. Nobody stood up. Nobody spoke. Light dimmed and faded until a dull haze was all that illuminated the surrounding fields, and the dull dots of light from faraway towns, scattered like a constellation.   A portly sergeant, evidently bored, looked at Luciani, took a swig from a concealed hip flask and directed a comment at a soldier next to him. "These fuckin' nancies, wouldn't have lasted a minute in the trenches."   The student retorted. "Ah my good man, I've spent a great deal of time in France many years ago. The Parisians are wonderful. All the women look like art sculptures and all the men look like women. I wouldn't have it any other way. Plus their wine is delectable." He lit another cigarette.   The drunk sergeant stood up and shouted "you poncey bastard, I'll give you a good fisting, come 'ere!", a sentence which enacted a succession of sniggers amongst the students, enraging the soldier further.   Chaos broke out in the once quiet carriage. The students fought the soldiers, the soldiers fought the students. The old couple fought everyone, armed with handbag and walking stick. Wine bottles were shattered and soon, the train was forced to halt amidst the outbreak of warfare.   Philip Philbrick, undergraduate, drunk, stepped out of the train. The trees now black silhouettes against an even blacker horizon. He did not notice the noise, did not register the chaos nor the blows he took. He stepped out into the field, looking at the face of Luciani the Student, lit up by halogen lamp inside the train, his hair erratic and wild. He thought of Oxford, of grand, twisting spires, dusty books of Hardy and Housman, of the new poets; Eliot and Pound, so subversive to the old swing of things. He imagined musty bookshops and the taking of tea at ten, and nights spent drinking in the local public house, discussing philosophy and "the European influence".   He started to hum and laugh, and threw his bottle of wine against the window of the train, smashing it, causing the glass to fracture like a cobweb. Droplets of rain landed on his head and he looked up, in doing so, falling back, back against the belly of a sheep.   From his view, he saw the train conductor kick the occupants of the carriage out into the darkness, but this could not revive him from his reverie. He laughed and hummed, singing out loud, screaming, shrieking the lines to Al Bowlly's "Couldn't Be Cuter", he looked at the foppish students and he saw Luciani stare at him, his eyes tinged with something he could not comprehend. He laughed further until he passed out.   It was against the belly of a sheep that Philip Philbrick, undergraduate, spent the first morning of his first term at Oxford, and in time, it would become nothing more than an amusing anecdote to the other students in his college, but then, as he awoke, bleary eyed in the dew-specked wetness of morning, he felt he had undergone a profound change, of which he could not yet decipher.


Hey, I'm a newbie to writing, and I want to try and improve. Here is a piece I started working on recently. If you have any suggestions on how to improve it, or my writing in general, it would be greatly appreciated.   It had always been you. You stare proudly at the chrome-domed tube shining in front of you, wiping the grease off your calloused hands with a work rag before tossing it aside to where—you cared not. The gleaming brilliance stole your eye, and your arms placed themselves satisfied on your aching hips. The drooping bags under your eyes left dark shadows, set by the seeping light from the crack under the garage door. The sun had just rose, making this either the fourth or the fifth day that you had spent shut in, inhaling noxious fumes and metal shavings. The garage was a sty, an appropriate disarray to act as a habitat for the messy, unwashed being that was you. None of that matters. It is time for a test run. You pick up the pile of alumnimum coated clothes folded neatly on your work bench, unfurling it in your hands. You slip it on. A leg. The other. An arm. The other. Then, you carefully lift the spherical reflective visor off the table, and place it over your head. You recall the day that your destiny first called to you. You were eight years old, your mother holding on to your wrist tightly as you tore through the crowds of people surrounding the line up to the ride. This would have been a day you remembered fondly as being the first time you ever set foot in an amusement park—you still did remember it fondly, though for different reasons. The blur of motion settled as you fell into queue, growing ever more impatient. When it happened, it seemed like there should have been an explosion, or a crash, or a sound of some sort. Instead, it just appeared. A chrome tube, a fixture that definitely did not belong in this theme park, let alone this century. It opened up, and a figure in a silver suit walked out, with a reflective bubble over its head. Then, it went back in and disappeared. “A freak occurrence,” “a collective psychotic hallucination,” many different terms were thrown around. But you knew the truth. It was a sightseeing tour. *It* was looking through history. \*It’\*s own history. *Your* history. Your chapped lips open to the smacking sound of a dried tongue unsticking from the roof of a wrinkled mouth, but hydration is the furthest thing on your mind. You admire your handiwork from afar, your heart beating in a loving rhythm akin to parental love as you gaze over every small aspect: The brilliant shine and gleam of its reflective silver surface. The bubbled door and triple pane viewing window. The satisfying click of the square buttons on the main panel, pressing and depressing as the LED display illuminates: “-60 seconds” it reads, in chunky, blocked text. Of course, you were so entranced you hardly took notice of the small imperfections in your work. No, the cracked exterior, uneven sealing around the door, and the half-empty life preserve system did not worry you. This would work. It had to work. It is, after all, your destiny. Your hand trembles as you feel the cold metallic touch of the clutching door handle on your palm. You listen to the swoosh of whipping air as the inner vacuum ceases. Smoke billows out in dramatic puffs and clouds settling along the floor—only in your imagination, of course, because your invention had no reason to spontaneously combust. You step inside, and you feel as if you are entering a womb from which you will be rebirthed as the person you were always meant to be. The time traveler. Crouched down, your back arching to the contours of the tube, you click the door lock closed with your forefinger to start the machine, just as a thought enters your mind. It is a small, nagging thought. An intrusive, inconceivable thought. You try to shake it off, but as your surroundings rumble in flashes of multicolor lights, it forces itself on your mind’s eye: All those years ago, when the you—the one from the future—went back to the past, they saw you—as a child—and you saw them. But, that thought nagged, you had not seen your future-self sixty seconds ago. *Could something have gone wrong?* a part of you wondered, but it was a small, quiet part. Nothing could have possibly gone wrong. Your destiny would not allow it. The lights stopped, as did the trembling, and all went still. All went dark. It worked. But the light never came back. You peer out from the bubbled viewing window out into the infinite blackness, dotted only by pinpoint lights and a massive hurtling blue and green sphere whizzing past you. The Earth, leaving you adrift in the cold, random point of relative space. But you were not alone: your nose smushed against the triple pane glass covered in breathy fog, you see a chrome-domed tube. Then another. And another. Your time remnants, from the past, future, and present. A reminder of your follies. It was never you.


Many moons ago, I had a hell of a lot more time on my hands. I was still in high school and did not yet have to worry about such inconveniences as rent. In those days, I went to a lot of concerts, *especially* in the summer. Local rock bands, mostly. Des Moines has produced a few you may have heard of: Slipknot, Stone Sour, Destrophy... We had no shortage of lesser known bands of similar style in the area either. There must've been something in the water, like.... "Yeah, yeah. *Puns*. Har har. Stop wasting our time with your pretentious tomfoolery and get on with it OP!" *Rude.* *AS* I was *saying*- I went to a lot of these shows. This particular caper is about a free show that Stone Sour was playing as a benefit for a local kid with cancer. You didn't have to pay anything to get in, but you were kind of a dick if you didn't toss a few bucks in the jar. This story isn't about that specifically, though. You just need to understand- * Stone Sour * Des Moines * Technically free-but really just hella cheap show from local boys who made it to the big-time. There was a long, *long* line to get into the venue. It was like a Star Wars prequel-trilogy premier, but with far more Jägermeister merchandise and real-live girls. *Similar smell, though*. My friends and I were standing in line, waiting for the venue to start letting people in. For hours we waited in the hot, blistering July sun, all wearing black because we were edgy teenagers and we were so unique. Yup. *Every single one of us.* After some time, the doors opened, and the line began to move, albeit *very* slowly. I continued discussing my sophisticated musical tastes with my peers, who nodded in enthusiastic agreement that we were indeed way ahead of the curve- Not like those *other* kids who listened to other, *less superior* genres. As we neared the entrance to the club, we found ourselves directly beneath this sort of grated-railing that stuck out about six-or-so inches from the roof, when I felt a light, moist tap on my shoulder. *[PLOP]* My friend Ryan lost his goddamn mind and began laughing. It was the kind of laugh that seemed a bit over-sold, like that one kid at the 7:25 mark in that racist short from the 40's or 50's or whatever. I looked at my shoulder, and there it was- A big ol' watery bird dookie on my favorite Screaming Monkey Boner t-shirt, which was rare as they had changed their name to 'Screaming Mechanical Brain' later- *Still not sure why*... "*You will pay for your insolence, you feathered rat,*" I thought to myself. I looked up to catch a glimpse of my attacker, so I would remember its stupid beak and, in due time, exact my terrible vengeance- But what I beheld in that moment stopped me dead in my very tracks. Fate had deemed that I would not have my sweet, sweet revenge- *Not* because the culprit had escaped, nor for fear of reprisal. No- I would not have justice this day because the fucker had *already dropped dead* in the grated-railing I'd spoken of previously. Its final act; to evacuate its bowels onto me. Not coo, pidgeon. *Not coo.


to the small, velvet box; hesitating before passing it over. "You won't drop it?" he asks. "Look, just because I showed up late-" "-for my wedding-" "-for your wedding-" "-and you're my best man-" "-Gah! Such pressure!" I fumble with the cummerbund, turning it until it was centered over my belly. Or at least close enough. "It wasn't my fault. My mom hasn't set the clocks forward for daylight savings time yet-" "-which should have been done weeks ago-" Marco tugs my cummerbund to it's *just right* position. "-yeah, you know how she is. Anyway, I'm here now." I hold out my hand, palm down. "Look. Steady as a rock." Marco moves to give me the ring. I make the hand shake wildly. "Oops," I fling it behind my back. "Try this one," I offer my other hand, palm up. Marco sighs. He places the box in my hand. "Let's go." \*\*\* **Luckily, we make** it to the church in time and I am able to stand next to my best friend as he marries his High School sweetheart. No, really, she is still in High School. Seventeen years old. Marco, the man himself, only nineteen. *Too young,* some would say. Most would say. But they don't know Marco like I do. The earth will turn, the sun will rise, God will rule in heaven, and Marco will be married to this one woman - girl, now, but woman soon enough - for the rest of their long, fruitful lives. *Such certainty.* It is more than I deserve, being counted among those to witness the event. And I surely don't deserve the honor of standing at the groom's right hand, holding the ring. Well, I suppose that's another advantage of having grown up in a small Kansas town. No competition. I didn't have to be that good to be a best man. \*\*\* **After the ceremony**, chaos. Pictures are wanted, names are shouted out; flashbulbs and laughter, hugs and handshakes. During a lull, I'm called to the parking-lot for a consultation. "What do you think?" Don asks. He and a crew of helpers stand next to the honeymoon car - a workhorse wood-paneled station wagon; 'Just Married' soaped on the rear window and a dozen empty soda cans tied to the bumper. "Great," I say. "Fine." Then, as I get closer and look in the window, I see a scattering of popcorn over the front seat. "What's that?" "That's a prank. You know, fill the car up with popcorn so...." "Funny," I agree, "But don't you think there should be more? That's, like, not a lot of popcorn." In truth, the front seat doesn't look any worse than having taken a sharp turn with a bag of old movie theater 'corn riding shotgun. Don shrugs. I get money from my wallet and tell him, "Go to Wal-Mart. They sell those big bags of the stuff for cheap. You know what I'm talking about? Looks like garbage bags? Sometimes cheesy flavored; or caramel? Get as many as you can." Don grabs some friends and they hurry away. Robert, one of Marco's younger brothers, stands by my side. "That's going to be messy," he says. I laugh. "Yeah." "Shouldn't you stop that sort of thing?" "What?" "You're the best man. Shouldn't you stop them from doing that?" I look at Robert for a moment. "I don't know," is my honest answer. \*\*\* **The reception. I'm** introduced to one of the bridesmaids - a pretty redhead named Anne, and we dance. We dance goofy in a group. We dance slow together. We talk about the bride and groom. We talk about ourselves. She's studying management at K-State. I've moved south, to attend the University of Houston where the temperature is more apropos for a young man ready to set the world on fire. During a break, I leave her with friends to fetch refreshments. Since everybody in the wedding party is underage, drink choices are Sprite and Coke. Sprite or Coke.... While making the decision, I hear a voice behind me say, "Decline and fall." I turn. Christine Kohler stands there, dressed to the nines, smile beaming, blonde hair done fancy in a way I'd never seen on her before. "Fall down baby!" I say, finishing the lyrics of a song that had somehow become our special salutation. I grab her in a hug. We laugh. We hold each other at arm's length. "Look at you," I say. Chrisy Kohler, my High School running buddy, almost unrecognizable now with that blown-out hair and wearing an honest-to-goodness dress. Never a petite girl, the freshman fifteen strains the silky yellow fabric in nice places, as well as around her middle. The dress' neck line is much, much lower than her usual wardrobe of sweatshirts and Ts. "A lot more of me, right?" "Fornicate that. You look great." "You clean up pretty good yourself." "Where have you been? I didn't see you during the ceremony, or the dance." "No surprise. You looked like you were going to pass out from the pressure of having to stand still for an hour. Anyway, I was in the back, with the cool kids." I lean in. She smells of cigarettes. Chrisy smirks. "And we cool kids tend to hang out in the parking-lot during these John Barleycorn Must Die Baptists shin-digs. You know how it is." "Yeah, I know how it is." "Besides." Chrisy hip-checks me hard enough that I have to steady myself against the drink table. "You're doing alright without me." She motions across the room towards Anne who is huddled with a group of girls, all of them eyeballing me while smiling and giggling into their hands. "Can you pop the collar of a tuxedo?" I ask, giving it a try. "I feel as if I should pop my collar." Chirsy makes the judgment call. "Perfect! Looks absolutely stupid." I become Elvis. "Uh hunka hunka," I mumble, pelvis suddenly on a swivel, index fingers pointing nowhere in particular. Chrisy goes upside my head. "Fool." Then, with her hand still on my back, she moves in front of me; face to face. Close. Intimate. I'm tall; we're almost eye-to-eye. A big girl. She places her other hand behind my neck and, with a caress, fixes the collar. "You haven't changed," she says. Her pretty face, inches from mine, tilts slightly. "And in a way that's very sad." She smiles ruefully. "Now." She steps back and slaps my tux into shape. "Get over there before Red realizes what a big mistake she's making." I make a derisive noise. "She can wait. I'm not done talking with you." "Yes you are." Chrisy grabs a two liter bottle from the table. "Besides, I'm due back at the parking-lot. There's some very important rum waiting for coke.... Er. I mean, there's some very important people waiting for me." She backs away, doing the Queen of England hand-wave. "Hey," I call out. "Don't leave without saying goodbye." Then she's gone. \*\*\* **The popcorn thing** is a disaster. Never quick to anger, Marco has always been more of the slow-burn type, so I can see his temperature rise by degrees as he circles the station wagon. Through the car's windows, nothing but popcorn. Crammed to the roof. Marco opens the passenger's side causing an avalanche of the greasy stuff. Gloria, his young bride, moves to avoid having it cover her shoes. Water fills her eyes, threatening to spill over. The gathered crowd laughs and hoots, maybe a little nervous because just popcorn might have been a good gag; but this greasy, buttery Wal-Mart gunk is well over the line. Nevertheless, we can't let the night end on a bad note so we move into action. Girls swarm Gloria, cooing comfort, while us boys start shoveling. We get enough of it off the seats, but the residue is something else entirely. Marco's worried about his rented tuxedo and Gloria's dress. I rather suspect you could toast a marshmallow over his head by now. There are blankets in the trunk of my car. We use them to cover the seats. Marco's grumbling about irreparable damage, but it’s been a long day. Time to go. We have a moment alone, away from the crowd. I congratulate him. Shake his hand. This is my best friend. We've gone to school together for twelve years. Since kindergarten, actually. I can't remember a time when we didn't know and like each other. Soccer leagues, camping; building things, tearing things down. Bad movies and video games. Cars and girls. Between Marco and I, all the mysteries of the universe have been discussed and settled. And we aren't even twenty years old. I let go his hand. I'll never be part of another friendship like this one. We make no plans. He's off to start a life. I'm gone to Texas. We'll see each other again, maybe. I say goodbye to the best part of my childhood one more time. Maybe the last time. And he's a little pissed. And I'm more than a little guilty. \*\*\* **I still have** a few days before leaving town, so I get redhead Anne's number and we make a date for tomorrow night. She gives me a quick hug then rushes away to catch up with friends. Heh. Pop that collar, son. Brooms and trash cans are found. I help clean the offensive popcorn off the ground. Some night birds squawk, but we're doing them a favor. Eating that stuff will kill you! The party has ended. The reception hall is closing. I'm jawing with stragglers in the lobby, all of us unwilling to call it quits. Management has to chase us out. Magical nights like this don't happen often, so it feels odd just leaving when it's over. But a surprise waits for me in the parking-lot. Chrisy has parked her El Camino next to my K-Car and is sitting on the lowered gate, smoking a cigarette with a plastic cup in hand, a black leather jacket draped over her shoulders against the chill. I laugh at the sight. She motions for me to sit next to her. "What?" she asks. "You look so dangerous. Like the women momma warned me about." I perch myself on the gate, bumping her butt with mine as I settle. "Watch it." She holds her cup high to prevent it from spilling. There are a number of brown grocery bags behind us. I rummage through them and grab the first bottle I find. Triple Sec. Disgusting. Almost undrinkable unless mixed with something. Almost. "Do you mind?" I take a cup and prepare to pour. Chrisy arches an eyebrow. She blows smoke out the corner of her mouth. I freeze. Waiting for approval. "Well?" "You don't drink," she says. "Lies!" I roar. "Slander and lies!" She shrugs. I pour. I offer my cup for a toast. Slowly, reluctantly, she taps it with her own. "To Marco and Gloria," I say. Then gulp huge. Chrisy sips. When my breath returns, I ask, "What's the matter?" After a moment, she repeats, "You don't drink, Virgil. I've never seen you drink." "To be fair, Chrisy, there are many things you've never seen me do." "Yeah. Thank God for that. But Virgil? You don't drink." True to a point. I didn't drink in High School. And, because Chrisy knows me so well, she knows why. I come from a long line of alcoholics. Functional, but drunks nonetheless. Indeed, alcoholism broke up my family's home. I'm sure at some point in our long and cherished friendship I had told Chrisy that I would never drink because I didn't want to wind up like that. Broken. However, moving away to college taught me a lot of new and interesting things about being broken. I had assumed booze was a wrecking ball, but it's not. It's a needle. And if used properly it can stitch you back together. Or close enough. "Skip it," I say. "Talk to me. Hey, you still see Jeff? What's going on with him?" "No." Chrisy shakes her head. "Nope. You talk to me. What happened? You used to be so.... Jesus Christ about drinking." "Actually, Jesus drank like a fish-" "-Virgil-" "-Wine, but you had to back then. Water was full of dinosaur piss-" "-I'm serious, Virg. What happened?" I look away. Then I laugh. "What the hell, Chrisy? Who are you...? I mean, you're not exactly the temperance union sitting there." "Here," she hands me her cup. "Drink." "What?" She glares. I obey. It's coke. Just coke. "So?" I ask. "You're slowing down. That's just smart drinking, taking a break every once and awhile." "No, Virgil, it's been coke all night. I stopped drinking years ago. I just pretend because.... Because I want to fit in. That never bothered you, though. You always stood your ground. I remember how they used to pressure you then make fun of you at parties when you wouldn't drink. How you always turned it around, made them look stupid. I admired you for that." "Chrisy...," "Now look at you. Straight Triple Sec? Oh, Virgil. What the hell happened?" **\*\*\*** ***What happened? I*** *met a girl. She broke my heart. Now I drink. You want it expanded? Her name was Shubra, born in Indian, and about the most exotic, beautiful thing I'd ever seen. And before you say it, yes, I guess I did have to go to a foreign country to get laid.* *Okay. I'm going to stop doing that. Joking, always joking. Neither of us deserve it.* *It wasn't just looks, she had an enormous personality. She was fearless. And smart. Effortlessly smart. She aced every class without ever cracking a book.* *But she was damaged. Abused. She could be reckless, borderline suicidal.* *I thought I could save her. With love.* *Oh, right. I said I would stop joking. Mea culpa.* *She was my first, and I, hers. Later I would have good reason to examine everything she said for a lie, but not that. Never that. It was obvious.* *I asked her to married me. She smiled for an answer.* *Once, before I left campus to spend a holiday with my brother in Louisiana, she told me she was pregnant. Again, I proposed marriage. I didn't even get a smile that time.* *When I returned, she claimed to have had an abortion. I asked no details, none were forthcoming.* *Things got worse between us, then better, then worse; and so forth.* *During one of the bad times, she came to my room. She stripped without saying a word. She started in on me and I reciprocated. I could tell it was wrong, her head was wrong. She was angry, cold, insistent. She was so wrong, but still I tried to make it right. God help me, I tried harder to make it right at that moment than I've ever tried to do anything else in my life. More, I know, than I ever will.* *When it was over, she quit the bed and dressed with her back towards me. She might have left as she entered - smoldering and silent. But she didn't. She turned said something she shouldn't have.* *I flew at her. I grabbed her. I pinned her to the bed. Ridiculous in my nakedness, I straddled her and forced her down with hands full of murder.* *And the look on her face.... The scornful, dead-eyed look on her face....* *It's a picture you can't forget. The best you can do is to keep washing it with alcohol until it fades.* \*\*\* **"I grew up,"** I answer Chrisy, reaching for a refill. She waits until I've poured and drank then says, "That's it?" We lock eyes. "Pretty much." Time passes. I look away first. "I guess you have changed," Chrisy says, pushing herself off the gate. "And it is sad." "Where are you going?" "Home. It's late." "That's it?" "Pretty much." "Chrisy, come on. This?" I upturn my cup, splattering booze all over the pavement. "It's no big deal." "I know. I'm just tired. Can you please get off so I can close the gate? I oblige, closing it for her. "Well, I'm still in town a few days. Did you want...?" "No. I can't. I'm leaving tomorrow." She checks her watch. "Today." "Okay." I step aside so she can get in the driver's seat. Before she closes the door, I say, "So... Bye?" "Yeah. Bye." The door shuts. The ignition fires. She hooks an elbow over the seat to reverse out of the parking spot. Once the grill is pointed towards home, she gives me one last look. "Hey!" I say, loud enough to be heard over the engine and through the closed window. "Decline and fall!" She drives away, shaking her head. End *Blame this on anonymity, plausible deniability, and the void that degrades quality. Which is a shame because* The Rainmakers *deserve better. Well. It had to be done. No other band comes close to having the same impact or being as important to me as* The Rainmakers*. They were the soundtrack to the best years of my life. So many memories associated with their songs.... Tch. My drama teacher told me she'd 'hung out with' (implication: dated) one of the band members at KU. "The drummer," she'd said, "Pat, I think." and I couldn't keep my puppy eyes off her after that. Picture me laying on my belly on the school's stage, ankles crossed, chin resting in entwined fingers; "Tell me more about him, Ms. Scovill. He smelled nice, right?" And if Rich Ruth ever sees me coming, he'd better turn the other way because I played bass guitar in a college band and I'll become* Annie Wilkes *on him so fast. There's no telling what I'd sledgehammer just to get him reminiscing about* *. (I thought a Rich Ruth solo album might be a good idea, then I heard* Dogleg *off* Monster Movie *and I now know it to be a necessity).* *Anyway. They deserve better than this pitiful little story, but I had to get it out there and it's the best I can do. The remaining* Gone Songs *won't be so contemplative.


Dogmeat, the typically energetic five-month-old German shepherd, had a big day of lounging around and destroying toys and furniture ahead of him. What he didn't know was he was in for a big adventure that day. His humans had just bought a new trashcan to try and keep him out of it and he didn't like that at all. Dogmeat didn't understand why they would do something like that, he was just trying to protect them from the evil trash monsters. He also didn't understand who they kept referring too when they would say, Trevor. "Who’s Trevor?" Dogmeat thought, not understanding the humans other than simple names and some commands. The humans had just left for the day as they were going to a convention to try and make a living so Dogmeat was all alone with this "Trevor" character. "Maybe if I bark at it, it'll get scared and go away," Dogmeat pondered for a bit, then started to bark at it or yell in dog terms. after an hour of barking and the trashcan not moving he decided to give up on it. He moved in closer and nudged it with his nose, making it rock slightly. this provoked another bark out of him. He nudged it again and again until it fell over finally but none of the contents spilled out. Dogmeat sniffed the lid a bit, he could tell there was stuff in there but didn't know how to get it out. he sniffed around a bit more till the lid wizzed open and some trash fell out. "Sweet victory!" Dogmeat exclaimed with a yelp as he dug through the trash looking for treats. What he didn't know was his humans were monitoring him closely as he was known to get into the trash while they were gone. They had alert notifications from a home monitoring system if something like that happened so they knew exactly what he did. Another surprise was waiting for Dogmeat around the corner. Roomba Doomba as it was named whirled to life as he had been activated to clean up some of the trash Dogmeat spilled. It rounded the corner right for him. Dogmeat turned his head in confusion and then turned his whole body like a spinning disc of cleaning doom came for him. "What is that thing?!" Dogmeat questioned as he barked at the new challenger approaching. He stood his ground until the Roomba was up at him. Dogmeat swatted at it a couple of times then pounced in front of it, causing the Roomba to back up a bit to find another path around Dogmeat. He went to pounce again but this time managing to land on the power button located at the top of the Roomba. As it powered down and ceased motion Dogmeat was pretty sure he had beaten the whirling beat of doom "Hoomans will be so proud of me! I took down two monsters today that could've hurt them," Dogmeat thought happily to himself. As he trotted out of the kitchen and into the living room he hopped up into his favorite chair to take a nap after his daring adventure and saving the day.


"He's at it again..." The other henchmen of the evil Professor Anthrax looked up from their duties at Gary, an intermediate minion of the organization. One of the other recruits, Luther, piped up- "Come again?" Gary gestured towards the door into the room they were all guarding. "The player. He's back. *Again*." The other henchmen glanced at the door, then back at Gary. Luther cocked his head to the side. "How do you figure?" Gary sighed in exasperation. How in the lava-level the others could simply ignore the cacophonous din of automatic gunfire and blood-curdling screams in the next room, he couldn't even *begin* to fathom. "Really? You mean to tell me that you don't find that racket the least bit *alarming*?" Luther shrugged. "Honestly I didn't think anything of it." Gary facepalmed. "This happens literally *every single day*, guys! You can hear him coming from a mile away!" Luther pondered this for a moment. "Now that you mention it, the player does seem to be getting less subtle in his methods." Gary scoffed. "'Less subtle?' He spams this level over and over again, just spraying lead like some kind of post-coitus Rambo!" Luther gestured towards the door on the other side of the room. "Well yeah, it's a boss level. That's good XP, so I hear." Gary gritted his teeth, losing patience. "Luther, he's already *maxed out!* He has all the skill unlocks, all the equipment upgrades- He's even unlocked all the alternate skins! What could he possibly need the XP for now?!" Luther shrugged once more. "Does it really matter?" Gary was beginning to get irritated. "Yes, Luther, it kind of does. Don't you ever get tired of him coming in here and blowing you away, only to respawn and have to go through the same thing over and over again?" "Eh. At least it's job security," Luther replied. Gary rolled his eyes. "When's the last time you cut a paycheck, Luther? We always get killed before we get the chance! Frankly, I'm getting *sick of it*." "Well, what do you propose we do about it, then?" Luther asked. Gary thought about this for a moment. No one had ever asked him that before. "I say... I say we *fight back*." Another one of the underlings piped up. "But we already *do* fight back, don't we?" "Yeah," Gary conceded, "but not like we know what we're doing. He always bursts in through the door and catches us off-guard, then fucks up *all* of our shit! But not this time! I say we light him up as soon as he comes through that door!" The other henchmen gasped at Gary's bold proposition. "An *ambush*? But that would go against the Code!" "Yeah, we're not programmed for ambush tactics, Gary." "The Code..?" Gary chuckled. "**FUCK** the Code! What has the Code ever done for any of us but get us killed over, and over, and over again? We spend our whole existence in service to it, and all we get in return for our loyalty is pain and misery, and I, for one, am sick of it!" The background music began to swell with inspirational vigor as Gary made his case. "Look. I don't know about all of you, but I am sick and tired of getting my head blown-off point-blank with a shotgun because he manages to stay just outside of my 'cone of vision'... I am *sick and tired* of stepping on proximity mines he's planted in *plain view*, just because they're on my patrol path..! And I am **SICK** and **TIRED** of him putting his **GREASY GODDAMN BALLS** on my face *every single time* he kills me!" The henchmen began nodding and harumphing in agreement. "Reverend!" exclaimed one of the cronies in the back. Gary continued, "Well I say *no more*! I say that today is the day that we fight back! I say that today is the day that we reclaim our dignity! And I say that **TODAY**, my brothers, is the day that we put *OUR* BALLS ON *HIS* FACE! **NOW WHO'S WITH ME?!**" The other henchmen, emboldened by Gary's passionate speech, erupted into applause and cheers. They grabbed their weapons and began to prepare for the player's arrival. The room went silent as they waited with bated breath, guns trained on the door to the previous level. There was a wicked squeal of a guitar as the player kicked down the door, dual-wielding a pair of bright-pink miniguns. "*What's up, bit*-" Gary gave the signal. "**FIRE!**" The light of the muzzle-flashes from the henchmen's rifles was blinding, as was the smoke. The thunderous sound of the bombardment drowned out only by the ringing of empty bullet-casings as they hit the ground. Gary and the other henchmen, in a cathartic rage, emptied clip after clip into the fog, until the last bullet was spent, and the smell of hot steel and blood permeated the air. When the smoke cleared, they beheld the remains of the player- now a lifeless, crumpled heap, on the ground. "W-We did it," Gary muttered to himself. "*WE DID IT!*" The henchmen erupted into cheers once more, as they had managed to do the impossible: Together, they had defied the odds and managed to kill a single man! Gary approached the corpse of his fallen foe, and began to squat over what was left of the player's face. "I've been waiting for this for a *long* time, you son of a-" Suddenly everything went black... Oliver stood, towering over the smoldering wreckage of his XBox, Cool Ranch Dorito crumbs cascading from his heaving man-boobs like a zesty orange snow. "*Fuckin' cheap-ass game,*" he mumbled to himself, settling back into the Goodwill couch he'd long-since merged scents with. "Ma!" he shouted towards the stairs ouside his room. "**MA!**" "^Yes ^sweetie?" "TENDIES! **NOW!**" "^Okay. ^Do ^you ^want ^them ^on ^your ^'Little ^Mermaid' ^plate, ^dear?" "...


It was Tuesday, again.  Tuesdays were always especially anodyne for Mark. It was mainly the regularity of the whole thing. Wake up. Linger over a coffee, considering whether accountancy was really in God's plan for him. Drive to work. Team meeting. Coffee break. Lunch. Try to do some actual work in the 30 minute gap before the next meeting. Look at tables and graphs with some people he felt ambivalent about, and if he was lucky potentially witness an argument that was far too passionate to be about accountancy. Nod and say important sounding things at the right point. Try to blend in. Try to get by. Hopefully the work day would eventually end, at which point he'd be so tired of doing nothing that he'd go home emotionally distressed. Rinse and repeat.  The beige aura of Tuesday permeating Mark's commute was so plain it was offensive as he gazed out of his car window. The sky was too bored to rain, preferring to stay grey and threaten the world with some interest. As a man in a large car (he assumed it was a man, despite the tinted widows preventing any vision of the driver) cut aggressively into the fast lane, a cacophany of horns rudely interrupted his daze. He wondered about everyone involved in the car incident. Where were they going at 8:33 on a Tuesday that was so important? Where did the big-carred man/woman (although it was probably a man) have to be so urgently? Did horning make his offfended peers feel better? The questions danced across his mind briefly as the morning radio droned in his ear.  Mark wasn't particularly fond of the kind of people who present morning radio shows. As his car edged ever closer to the building where he would spend his day, he listened to the happy morning people discussing happy morning things and playing songs that were designed to make you believe that it might be alright in the end. Somehow they sat together every day and talked for hours at a time. \_Every\_ day. They must have been the only set of work colleagues that didn't discuss work more than 50% of the time. Mark couldn't avoid discussing fiscal matters in important tones with his own colleagues for more than 5 minutes at a time. He felt slightly jealous, but still sang along to the songs. Maybe it would, in fact, be a lovely day.  As he pulled into the car park, he noticed a small toothpaste stain on his tie. His mother appeared on the dashboard, wagging her finger and lecturing him about putting his tie on after he'd eaten breakfast and brushed his teeth. He sighed, licked his thumb and rubbed at the stain after he parked in his usual space, reaching into the back seat for his jacket while simultaneously trying to brush his imaginary miniature mother from the dashboard. He got out of the car, sighed once more for luck, and walked into work.  Joel was unfortunately coming into work at the same time. This was a problem because Joel was a prick. This impression of Joel hadn't been formed with a lot of data if Mark was being truthful, but he disliked being near him. Joel was aggressively happy, laughed too loudly at jokes that weren't funny ("...and then I said 'That's not a P60, that's P45!'"), enjoyed wearing non-standard shirt colours, rarely did any work and would talk at length about his diet and fitness regime when given the slightest opportunity. These were all problems.  "Morning Joel!" Mark said, smiling with false positivity.  "Hey man!" Joel replied, beaming. Mark assumed it was genuine. Prick.  "How's your ongoing existence treating you?"  Joel laughed. Mark had not been joking. "It's pretty great, man! I was actually just in Amsterdam at the weekend there with my girlfriend. Took a bit of a long weekend, know what I mean?"  There was no ambiguity. Everyone knew what he meant. Mark laughed in a friendly way. "Oh yeah? I hear it's lovely, loads of bikes and all."  "Mate, you've no idea. It's actually just like they say; look up, look down, look side to side, check your pockets, look into the next dimension and still get hit by a bike. Still beautiful when you're not dodging through them. The weed isn't bad either."  "Aye mate, when in Rome in all."  "You know it, boss. Can't go see the place and not partake a bit, know what I'm saying?"  "Aye, definitely. See much else?"  "Yeah mate just did all the tourist bits. Anne Frank's house was packed out like, queue down the street to get into a bloody attic. The missus wanted to see it though, and I traded her that for the Red Light District."  "Aye I hear it's cool to see."  They'd badged through the first door. This would be over soon. Mark's desk was close, and if all else failed he could stop at the coffee machine. He didn't like coffee.  "You've no idea mate, it's class though. Bit weird like but still cool to see."  "What'd your girlfriend think?"  "What?" Joel replied, confused by the question.  "What'd she think?"  "I don't really know." Mark got the impression that Joel had monologued the whole way through the Red Light District. He briefly wished Joel's Red Light soliloquy had been recorded for his entertainment.  "Fair enough. Sure I'll catch you later on, have a nice day" he said, stopping at the coffee machine.  "See you later mate!" Joel replied cheerfully. Prick.  Mark didn't particularly want a coffee, but still lifted a cup and made himself one to ensure his cover wouldn't be blown. The aged coffee machine rasped and spluttered as it was asked to do it's job, making sure everyone nearby knew it was working hard. Coffee trickled out and into the cup. He sipped it, since he'd gone to the effort of making it. It was incredibly average.


Waking up in the middle of a dream is a beautiful thing. Most dreams slip away in the night but waking up in the middle of one is like catching a criminal in the act. Just how a criminal can’t explain away what you clearly have seen, you can no longer forget the dream. You’ve ‘caught’ it, so to say. If remembering a dream in this way is ‘catching a criminal’ then I suppose I’ve cheated. I woke up to an applause just a moment ago. Not just any applause, though. A TV audience for Jenna Raleigh’s Relationship Autopsy program. So, I didn’t ‘catch’ the dream, Jenna’s audience did, and, what’s worse, I can’t be sure that my dream wasn’t just a by-product of what I heard from the television. I think about what happened in my dream. I walked alongside her for most of it. I knew who it was even though I didn’t see her until the end, when she turned to me under the blossoming magnolia, her long, red hair draped along her shoulders, and smiled. The kind of smile one gives to an old friend, like she actually wanted to see me. I’m surprised I even remember how that’s supposed to look. I saw her just last week. She demanded to see my house before allowing our daughter, Kelly, to visit again. The doorbell sounded angry. I don’t get visitors often so maybe it surprised me, getting one, but I remember it sounding wrong. Doorbells are supposed to let you know ‘a friend is here,’ but mine didn’t speak to me. It didn’t say anything heartfelt, reminding me that I have loved ones. It was cold, but even it couldn’t prepare me for her. Amber, my wife of a life long since passed, wasn’t angry, wasn’t judgmental; she was just there. There isn’t another way to put it. She walked through my house (if you can call it that), looking at the dishes lying on the floor and the sofa and the bed accompanied by chip bags and crushed energy drinks, and just watched. She didn’t yell. I wish she had. I wish she showed me that I was worth yelling at. “This is spotless when she comes over,” she stated. “Understood?” Kelly will be here in a few hours and I still haven’t cleaned. The coffee table is probably the best thing to start; she’ll see that first. I grab a trash bag from under the sink and throw anything crunchy, shiny, or bottle-shaped in. “And when did you discover that Brad was having an affair?” A voice asks from the TV. “Well Jenna, he usually cries after sex or tears up at the very least, but the past few months, nothing.” A blonde woman says, scratching her chin. I feel along the coffee table and toss the familiar feeling things in while looking up to see how Jenna’s crowd reacts to the story. Each woman clutches a handkerchief to their chest while nodding ‘no.’ One particularly plump woman wiggles her way out of her aisle and races down the stairs to a lone microphone. “They change when they’re--“ she gags, sobbing into her handkerchief. “When they’re up to no good!” she says, finishing with a clenched fist in the air. “Powerful words. So, Pam, this change is what tipped you off?” The host asks, moving the mic closer to the guest’s mouth. “Absolutely Jenna, Brad just stopped being himself. Something had to be wrong,” the woman continues. “We were engaged but now I have to break his hea--” CLICK. I turn off the TV and rest the remote on the empty coffee table. It’s a start. I fill one garbage bag after the next and place them in the shed behind the house. I don’t want Kelly seeing Trash Mountain on the curb. I get a text, ‘5 mins out.’ She’s almost here and the place is still a mess! I didn’t vacuum the rug. I didn’t do the dishes. I didn’t cook anything. There are a lot of things I could have done, should have done, but I have to relax. I need to show her that I’m not the same man. I can do that. I pace the house one more time, all four rooms of it, hoping that something will jump out to me, a way to impress her, anything. Ding Dong! “Crap!” I say, pacing in front of the TV. I run up to the door and place my hand on the knob. What’s the worst that could happen? I open the door. She’s there. Not how I remember her, but, still, it’s her, pinchable nose and all. “Hi, Dad!” she says, jumping forward and hugging me. “Kelly! It’s so good to see you!” I say, wrapping my arms around her. I wave goodbye to her mother who is sitting in her car on the driveway. She doesn’t react to me. Brush it off. “Likewise, old man,” she says, walking past me into the living room. She pulls off her jacket and tosses it on the arm of the sofa, revealing a tattoo of a bird flying across her forearm. Since when does she have a tattoo? How could her mother let her do this at such a young age?! She’s sixteen, she barely knows who she is yet. “Looks better than last time, I’ll give you that,” she comments. “Your mother let you get... that?” I ask, pointing to her arm. “Dad...” “It’s just a question, Kelly.” “Yes, she did. Happy?” She asks, her brows furrowing. Breathe. You’re doing it again. Tattoos mean nothing if she won’t even talk to you. Just... breathe. “I’m sorry. I just didn’t... I wasn’t expecting... it looks nice.” “You don’t have to pretend to like it, it’s alright if you don’t. I just don’t want you to yell at me about it, but, look, I can see the tabletop this time,” she chuckles, plopping down onto the sofa and grabbing the remote. “See?” she says, waving it at me. “A labor of love.” “Is that what it takes to get your butt off the couch?” “Hey, watch it!” I reply, walking over to the fridge. “Do you want anything to drink?” “Do you have any tea?” she asks, turning around and peeking over the sofa excitedly. “Is green tea ok?” “Yea, that’s great.” I drop down on the couch beside her and pass the green tea. She cracks it open and enjoys it gulp after gulp. She always was a loud drinker. Everything else seems to have changed. It’s nice that something hasn’t. “Hey, Dad?” “Yea?” “Thanks for having me over. I missed ‘us’ time.” “Anytime, sweetie. I’ve missed it too.” The thought nags at me, Would I have woken up if it weren’t for the TV? I didn’t even set an alarm. I may never have had the opportunity to live in this dream if it wasn’t ‘caught’ for me. It may have been just like the thousands of other dreams that go unnoticed in the night. Kelly might have come and gone, seeing a mess and thinking her father was the same wreck he’s always been. I live in this dream, for now, but it will end. The night only lasts so long until a new dream begins and, that one, I’ll have to catch on my own. I have to be a new man now, even if I’m not. It starts somewhere, the decision to end something for a new beginning to blossom. My daughter deserves a father, even if I don’t deserve her.


In the beginning god created the heaven and the earth. Then he said “let there be light!” And there was light. Et cetera. god created man on the sixth day. And this was good. god blew into the nostrils of dust, and created Adam. god also saw that Adam was alone, so he created a partner from Adam’s rib, and named her Eve. On the earth, Adam and Eve lived in a bountiful paradise god perfected for their birth. Verdant life burst from every inch of this garden named Eden. Amongst the green were the clusters of reds, purples, and oranges of fruits and floral arrangements, all for them. Everything was theirs. And this was good. “Everything you see in this land is free to you. All these animals are yours to domesticate, eat, and own. Every tree you see is yours, and so is the fruit those trees bear. You shall eat from any tree you see here in this garden of Eden, except the tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. For if you disobey me and eat the fruit from this tree, you will die,” said god to Adam. “I have no concept of what death is,” said Adam, “ and I know not why I should fear it. However, your booming voice insinuates that it is a concept that should be feared. I am becoming self aware, and this is the first negative emotion I have ever felt, and I do not like it. I will not jeopardize my bliss further. I have an idea, father, my first idea, and it will be good,” Adam said to god. Adam found the sharpest rock, the strongest bough, and the toughest vine, and tinkered the universe’s first axe. Adam found the tree in the center of the garden with the most enticing fruit, and proceeded to chop down the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. god was perplexed, and consulted his angels. “Reverse psychology really is not all it is cracked up to be. I don’t know what to do, this was not my ultimate plan,” god said. “Is it not cruel” said an angel “to endow a creature with free will and then set traps for their failure? How could you love man and crave his downfall? Is that not sadism?” “I gave them too much free will,” said god, shaking his head. “But god,” said another angel, “without the Knowledge of Good and Evil, what will become of man?” Adam and Eve were happy. All the fruit and animals were theirs, in this endless paradise. With bellies full of fruit, they reclined in the shade. With no responsibilities, and without a care in the world, they spent their days eating, reclining, and procreating. This was good, or bad. They had no knowledge of either. This just was. Eve grew plump with children, and gave birth with ease. This irritated god. He had something else in mind for childbearing, and now, it would never be. Adam and Eve eventually put on some weight. And this was good, or bad. They had no knowledge of either. This just was. Eve routinely spouted children every 9 months, and forth from her womb they waddled into the garden. With nothing to teach, and no risk of death, these tubby spawns of man grew fat, while their intellect remained non-existent. Babies played with snakes and bunnies alike, and stripped the bushes of berries. With no incentive to leave, living only within reward, eating, and procreation, what was to prevent the incest? Or the homosexuality? god had not gotten to Leviticus yet, and this eternal Genesis was getting frustratingly weird. Babies popped from daughters and sisters as easily as they were conceived, with the ramifications equal to that of a bowel movement. The spawns from the fat, happy inbreds became more twisted of mind and body as the generations layered. And this was good, or bad.They had no knowledge of either. This just was. The garden began to suffer. All the trees and bushes were raped of their fruits quicker than this continuous spring could endow. The flowerbeds were trampled under the weight of twisted inbred feet and rampant sexual intercourse. Let me remind you, they are all still naked. Without death and without diffusion of population beyond the garden, god was at a loss for how to proceed. “With my knowledge of good and evil, I can say, confidently, this is bad,” god said, grimacing at Eden from above. “There are parasites in my paradise.” “This is unsustainable,” said an angel to god. “Literally, I have done the math. Eventually they will be forced from the garden, and roam the rest of the earth. The earth can only sustain these immortal inbreds for another few hundred years, and I don’t want to know what will become of your earth after that.” “Neither do I,” said god, with a heavy heart. And god pressed the “reset” button again.