"You know there are cleaner shrimp?" she asked.

"Cleaner than what?" he asked.

"No, they are called cleaner shrimp because they clean parasites from fish. Do you know why they call them cleaner fish?" she asked. "Because they're the cleanest," he said. "That's funny," she said.

"You're the smart one," he said. "Yes, I am smart," she said. "I'm the Jerry Lewis to your Dean Martin," he said. "So the shrimp and the fish have a symbiotic relationship where they help each other. The shrimp gets to eat parasites, and the fish get to be parasite-free," she said. "Okay, that's pretty well-known in the scientific community anyway. But I was thinking about these shrimp in the Caribbean who clean parrotfish." "Is this a pirate joke?" he said. "No," she said. "The Caribbean and parrots make me think of pirates," he said. "Sorry." "So these parrotfish would normally eat shrimp. I mean, researchers actually chopped up shrimp and threw them at the fish, and they gobbled them up," she said. "So they think what happens is that the shrimp wave their antenna at the fish to say I'm going to clean you. And then the fish turns dark to say, hey, come clean me. I won't eat you." "Turns dark?" he asked.

"Yeah, because of chromatophores and iridophores," she sighed. "Long story short, they can change color when stressed or hormonal when breeding or with the season or camouflage. They turn a darker color and welcome the shrimp to clean even inside their mouths. It's like a cat with a mouse cleaning its fangs." "What's this about?" he asked.

"I don't know," she said. "It's interesting." "I guess," he said. "I mean, it's fascinating that at one point a fish would eat these shrimp, and at another point, they let them groom them, in the most intimate places like inside their mouth," she said.

"Yeah," he says. "Do fish have intimate places, or do they know what intimacy is?" "Do you know what intimacy is?" she asks. "I could show you," he said. "No," she said. "I'm thinking." "Okay, what is the point of this conversation?" he asked. "I just like the idea of being mortal enemies becoming friends," she said. "Are they friends, or does the shrimp work for the fish?" he asked. "Well, if you're working together, it's friendly," she said. "Right," he said. "Like Tabitha," she said." I love her, and she loves me, but if I were the size of a mouse, she would eat me." "Well, she is a cat," he said. "I know," she said. "Of course, she is a cat." "Right," he said. "I love her," she said. "I know you do," he said. "I love her too. Of course." "So let me ask you a question: would you rather be the shrimp or the fish?" she asked. "Do I have to?" he asked. "Yes," she said. "No jokes?" he asked. "No jokes," she said. "Would I rather be cleaned or be the cleaner?" he asked. "Indeed," she said. "I would rather be the cat," he said. "Hilarious," she said. "Well, you do love cats," he said. "So, back to the question, would you rather be a cleaner or be cleaned?" she asked. "So that's the point of all this?" he asked. "To be cleaned or not to be cleaned." "That is the question," she said. "I'd rather not be dirty," he said. "Is that your answer?" she said. "It is an answer," he said. "Do you feel dirty?" she said. "Not when I am clean," he said.

"Seriously," she said. "So the shrimp is cleaning the fish because it's hungry. The fish could have eaten the shrimp but it doesn't because it doesn't like parasites, right?" he said. "Why does the shrimp trust the fish?" "Because it turns a dark color," she said.

"So the shrimp just knows this is a welcoming color," he said. "Yes," she said. "And it just goes in its mouth," he said. "Yes," she said. "I don't know," he said. "Why is it always so hard with you?" she said. "What is the question?" he asked. "Are you the shrimp or the fish?" she said. "Why does it matter?" he asked. "It just does," she said. "Why?" he said. "I just want to have a normal conversation with you," she said. "This is normal? Okay, okay. I'd obviously rather be the fish," he said. "I don't want to be the shrimp." "Why?" she said. "Because the shrimp could easily be eaten, the parrotfish could change its mind anytime," he said. "At any time?" she asked.

"Yeah, after the parasites are gone, it might get hungry," he said. "That's nice," she said. "What?" he asked. "You eat shrimp." "I don't know those shrimp," she said. "That makes it okay?" he asked. "It makes it different," she said.

'So you only eat strangers," he said. "Correct," she said. What's wrong with that?" she asked. "Nothing," he said. "You shouldn't eat strangers," she said. "Okay," he said. "Why can't the fish and the shrimp just be friends? Why can't you be friends with the shrimp?" she said. "Me?" he asked. "Yes, you're the fish," she said. "This is silly," he said. "No, it's not," she said. "I want to know why after the shrimp spends all day cleaning your body, every crevice of your entire body, you could possibly turn around and eat it."

"Because I'm a fish, and it's a shrimp. We are sea creatures. We have to eat to live," he said. "I'd rather die than eat someone who takes care of me," she said. "Someone who has been in my mouth." "So you're a shrimp," he said. "I'm not," she said. "Well, are you a parrotfish?" he asked. "Absolutely not," she said. "So you're a shrimp," he said. "I guess I am," she said. "Great," he said. "Yeah, I guess," she said. "Want to watch something," he said. "Okay," she says. "Parrots of the Caribbean?" he asked. “Get it.” "Not funny," she said. "It's a little funny," he said.


Wasn't a sunny day, but being new to Missoula I didn't reckon on snow in September nor all the queer goings-on which happened next. The menfolk rode out early that day- everybody was still spooked by the killing of Mister Custer last June. A few ladies stopped by earlier, but since about two, nobody wanted to go out with the all dark clouds. I have all the groceries, the early apples and late cabbages, set to go back in the cellar, when a terrible howl commences outside and snowflakes, fat as the end of your thumb, start falling everywhere. I rush three baskets to the lift what Eli, the town blacksmith, installed afore I got here. I work the chains and levers to send them all down where they'll be safe from freezing. I'm just set to go down and settle them in when I hear a little wail from behind the row of dresses we got shipped in last week. I rummage around and, lickety-split, spot a basket with a bundle wrapped in it. Don't take no college boy to figure this is a baby what somebody done left here for me to raise. Only, when I check the baby, it looks like it must be some sort of monkey, as hairy as it is. Not so much the face, but its arms, chest, and legs all got a kind of fur, soft like goose down. And the little boy has peed himself. After raising six younger siblings, I know how to do this, but... As soon as I git a makeshift, but dry, diaper on the little fellow, he starts bawling louder than afore. Change, feed, spit up, then start over again. Pattern I know better than Colt knows revolvers. I pry open a can of condensed milk and git some in a cup. He won't take a spoon, so I have to soak the milk in a bit of cloth, then dribble it into his mouth. His skin is red enough he can't be more than a week or two old, and he's small to boot. He might be early, or his ma might have been a midget or some such like you see at a traveling show. Or maybe he's one of them before history people, seeing as how he's got that fur. But he got a good grip in his fingers and he likes his milk. After his feeding, he settles right down and I git back to the work of settling in for a snowstorm in September. Bout the time I'm finished down in the cellar, bell rings and I hurry up to see who in tarnation would be out in this sort of weather. I don't see nobody and am set to git back to work, when I spot the basket is empty. Ain't no way, no how, that baby got outta that basket and out the door on his own self. Body had to help him somewhat. I grab a coat, the basket, box of shells and a Winchester. Ain't no sense going out without all three. Putting shells in ain't easy with a basket slung over my arm, but I got to git going. I step out onto the boardwalk and the cold slaps me in the face. Beaumont weren't never like this. Nobody on the street, least ways so far as I can see. Snow's falling heavy like rain afore a hurricane. I look down and spot a place what's filling in where a body dragged something along the walkway. Can't make out no boot tracks, but that trail's the only thing I got, so I follow along like a calf after its mamma. Bout the time I reach the bank, I finish loading the shells and slip the box into my pocket. the trail rounds the corner into an alley leading back and I aim to go after whoever took the baby. Something growls, low like a wolf, making me lever a round into the chamber. I go round the corner with the barrel leading. Only ain't nothing there but the baby, crawling through the snow like it ain't cold nor nothing. I go to grab him up and he looks at me with his big pale blue eyes and I stop, staring in wonderment. I put the basket beside him and say, "Git on in, if you're so all fired sure of yourself." He crawls in and burrows into the blankets. I lift the basket and something is sure as sugar wrong. It weights too much, then I figure that I got the Winchester too, so it adds as much as a small baby, sort of doubling the weight. I make it back to the store and Mrs. Jackson is standing inside tapping her foot. She's an old busybody. Thinks she owns everything. She's part-ways right, seeing as her husband owns the sawmill and is on the right side of comfortable. "Sorry to keep you waiting, just had to step out for a moment. How can I help you?" "Miss Boyle, do you know how long I have been waiting?" "I was out for about ten minutes. So I reckon it's no more than that." "Would your brother care for your attitude?" She waves around the room. "Your store is entirely too cold." "I agree, but I ain't got let to put coal in the stove." I aim to make her decide I'm too stupid to know what she means so she'll git down to business. "I came her today-" Baby lets out a squall would do a locomotive proud. I look Mrs. Jackson straight in the eye. "I heard a baby crying and went to save it from the storm. Seemed the Christian thing to do. Reckon I need to feed it now." "How do you propose to do that?" "We got canned milk." I want to punch her to git her to shut her big bazoo. She don't never stop jawing. The baby bawls some more and the basket is getting a mite heavy, so I set it on the counter. His face pops up and looks like it belongs to an infant not a newborn. "Mama," he says. He's looking at me, reaching out with his hands, the chestnut fur on his arms visible for anybody looking. "He seems a bit mature for canned milk." Mrs. Jackson lifts her nose. "Indeed, his hirsute nature indicates he may not be human. Is he a red savage?" Low growl from the baby startles us both, but I'm quicker on the wiggle. I point to the door. "You can take yourself out and that's your attitude. This is the onliest dry goods and greengrocer in Missoula. So hobble your lip or light a shuck." She leaves in a right huff and I turn to the baby. He's sitting there, just staring at me, but he cain't be the baby I found earlier. 'Cept he cain't be nobody else neither. Can he? I check his mouth and he's just at the edge of teething. I grab some canned applesauce from the shelf and open it. He's big and hungry enough that he eats the whole kit and kaboodle afore I know it. Once he's done, I check his diaper, which is awful snug but not wet or nothing. Maybe I recollect it wrong. Maybe he was red from being cold and warmed up in the blankets. Or might have been the wet diaper. That gits kids riled faster than a hornet on a frog's back. Fussing and crying makes everybody red. Ain't no other thing it could be. All them folks talk of spiritualism is just grasping at straws. Good Lord knows what he intends and it ain't we should put our faith in some sort of hexes or magics. To try and warm the store up, I pull the shutters closed and light the Franklin stove. The Lucifers don't want to strike, I go through seven afore I git one going, but the kindling lights right quick and sets the wood to blazing. I don't aim to chase after the boy again, so I keep his basket beside me the whole time. He's all tuckered after his escapade, so he settles in and sleeps like he ought. It starts to get cheery until Mister Jackson roars in like a herd of cattle. "Damnation Mabel. What did you do to rile my misses so bad?" "Saved the boy there instead of waiting on her like she was the queen of England." I'm in no mood for Jebediah Jackson's nattering. "She went and called him some sort of Indian and him with eyes blue as the summer sky." Mr. Jackson ruffled the boy's hair with his hand. Lucky that the boy had gone under the swaddling again or the fur would have give it away. "Seems a normal enough child to me." "I ain't one to soft solder doings." I want him out, but he ain't leaving so I reckon I got to give him both barrels. "I calculate she was mostly riled on account I wasn't taking none of her guff." "She does have a temper." He pulls out a list. "I'd sooner bend an elbow, but I got to have this." I take the list and add the costs in my head. "That'll set you back a fair margin." "I'm good for it." He put a twenty dollar double eagle on the counter. "Add in a jug or three of hard cider to round out the cost. I don't fancy toting a pocket of loose dinero around." I git everything in order, and by then the snow is thick as ticks on a hound dog. Mister Jackson hoists the entire box, including a flitch of bacon, a sack of flour, and two jugs of Mrs. Boone's best hard cider. He staggers a mite and I help to git the door open, then, so soon as he clears the lintel, shut and bar it. I turn back to check the basket and the baby has disappeared. Again. "I am consarned if I can guess where all you might have got to this time." I'm so flustered I'm talking to the Good Lord, hoping he'll send me a sign. Then I know what I got to do, but applesauce is getting expensive. I decide I can search until I either find him, or he starts to bawling and makes it easy. I go over every foot of the store like I'm a scout tracking hostile Sioux. I'm stating to git riled when I hear him knocking into somewhat in the back storage area. I hike my skirt and run in, where I find he's trying to climb up for a big jar of hard candy, the sort as sells at three sticks a penny. I dash over and, before either falls, grab him then the jar. He's too heavy. I can't hold him with one hand. I know he wasn't more'n five pounds to start, but he must be thirty now. A toddler, like to be near two, but still with that tight diaper, the cloth ripping on account of his size. And he still got fur over most of his body. He latches onto me like a burr, wrapping his hands around my arm. "I don't know what all you are, but you ain't a human baby." The words are just out when the back door opens. I feel the burst of cold air but don't hear nothing. My hackles rise, warning of danger, but the Winchester is out front. I turn, slow as molasses, and find an old native woman wearing a Cheyenne leather dress covered with intricate wampum designs, mountains and clouds and falling snow. She leaves the door open and beckons with her eyes. "I didn't take this boy," I explain. "I found him and he latched onto me." "I know." She ain't talking English, but I still understand. "Old man winter lost his son while weeping for the people's children. I will tell him not all white men are so evil that you must be frozen." Then she disappears, alongside the boy, in a billowing cloud of mist. I know I won't never see neither again, and my heart gets a little colder with the pain of losing the boy as was almost mine.


Sun peered in through the crudely-made skylight - a hole, really - and illuminated the dust particles floating in the gentle breeze that came through partially broken stained-glass windows. Rotting wooden pews, dust-covered and termite-bitten, lined the faded carpet from the entryway to the altar. The acrid stench of smog found its way into the church. The faraway noise of the high-speed rail and blaring sirens could be heard faintly, just barely touching the overwhelming silence. There had been a time, Nyx remembered, when the silence in this place was welcome. When it was the mark of worship and faith and respect.

The floor creaked something awful as Nyx placed one booted foot in front of her steel one, taking cautious steps into the dilapidated building. As she neared the patch of sunlight on the floor, her rusting ankle joint caught mid-rotation and sent Nyx toppling to the ground.

Only, there wasn’t any ground beneath the sun-lit spot on the floor. The faded carpet caught around her like a net as she fell through the hole in the floor that matched the one in the roof. She landed roughly, broken pieces of wooden boards digging into her back and she wriggled out of the carpet. A few muttered curses later, Nyx managed to free herself from the heap of fabric and walk crookedly to the cellar door that would lead back up to the main floor. Taking a moment to assess the rotting staircase, Nyx decided to waddle back over to the sun-lit mound of fabric in the middle of the basement, seat herself on top of it, and raise her right foot over her left knee for inspection. There was no way the staircase would hold her if the joint stuck again.

Nyx checked her fanny pack with baited breath, sending a prayer to long-deaf ears that the canister of oil she normally kept with her didn’t break during the fall. It didn’t. Perhaps the goddess came back briefly just to pity the poor girl who didn’t know when to let go. A derisive snort left Nyx as she took a ratty cloth from her pack, dabbed it in oil, and began smoothing it over the rusting joint. As if the goddess would listen to her .

Nyx rolled the joint a few times, satisfied with the range of motion, and packed her things. The staircase creaked heavily under her weight even as she tried her hardest to lighten her steps. Luckily, it didn’t send her tumbling back into the basement, but a few steps looked considerably worse than they had before she used them.

A sigh blew out of parted lips as Nix made her way, carefully this time, to an altar that had seen better days. Above her loomed a fading stained glass window with spiderweb cracks scattered across its surface. On it was the image of the goddess that so many looked to for guidance, but no longer answered the peoples’ prayers. She had left them, taking her magic with her. Or so the news had said. Nyx knew the truth, whatever good it would do now because the goddess was gone regardless of how she’d actually left.

Nyx settled herself on her knees before the altar and brought her palms face-up in front of her, the movements coming with practiced ease at having done this as a child. She spoke softly, a dead language echoing off her lips and the small spark of a spell igniting in her open palms briefly before winking out in finality. Clasping her hands, Nyx continued her prayer if only to finish the ritual that once brought her peace.

~~~ Nyx woke up slumped against the altar. How embarrassing. No wonder the goddess left if all her followers fell asleep during prayer. Shaking her head and rubbing sleep from her eyes, Nyx rose slowly, but steadily, to her feet. She looked up to the vibrant stained glass window, picturesque in its beauty. The goddess, all greens and golds and blues, brown hair falling around her face like willow branches - wait.

Nyx startled as she looked at the wholly-intact stained glass window. She turned quickly, surveying the room, noticing that there was no dust floating in the sunlight that streamed through the other, equally intact stained glass windows. The wooden pews looked a bit worse for wear, but there were still places where the varnish was glossy and there was definitely no termite damage. In the center aisle an emerald green carpet, heavily used, ran from entrance to altar, definitely without a hole hidden underneath nor one to match in the ceiling. Flowers - real flowers - bloomed in planters on the windows and in vases scattered around the church.

And there was no sound . At least, not the kind she’d become accustomed to since the city erupted in the area like a geyser. No horns or sirens or high-speed rails. Just the breeze carrying the scent of grass - oh, how she’d missed that - and the chirping of birds.

She had to be dreaming. There was no way -

A loud bang echoed in the church as a tiny figure shoved the doors open. A little girl with hair as black as pitch and honey-gold eyes ran down the aisle to pray at the altar for help Nyx knew would never come. She felt oddly detached watching the memory of her younger self, dark skin unblemished and right leg still flesh, that she didn’t immediately notice when her name was being called. Nyx remembered that her parents had been at work the day she came here, sneaking past her sister to come to the church.

Nyx Her name echoed around her in the room, and little Nyx didn’t seem to hear. Nyx noticed her own, adult hands were transparent, light streaming through her as though she were one of the stained glass windows.

Child... Listen to my voice… The little girl was still praying at the altar.

Not her… You “Me?”

Yes Nyx felt even more detached, though she was hyper aware of the voice that only she could hear. It was warm, like the fleece blanket she used to sleep with as a child. Her younger self still prayed, oblivious.

Do you want to save them?

Them wasn’t specified, but somehow Nyx knew the people being talked about where all those she lost since the goddess left. The day magic died. How did this voice - ?

Do you want to save them?

“Yes.” Nyx had questions, but the words stuck in her throat.

Would you fix your mistakes, knowing what you know now?

She felt the cool steel in her hand. The recoil rattled her shoulder as she pulled the trigger on her best friend. How had it ever come to that? Nyx looked down to see that there was nothing in her hand; still as transparent as she was before. A single tear fell through her hand.

“Yes.” More tears welled in her eyes.

Are you sure?

“Yes.” She sniffled. I can give you the chance, but it requires a sacrifice -

“Anything! Anything to get them back - “ Nyx’s voice broke as tears fell through her transparent hands. “Please.”

Very well.

~~~ Warm tears splashed her hands where they were clasped in front of her. Opening her eyes, Nyx realized she was on the ground in front of the altar where she had been praying before she fell asleep. She did fall asleep, right? Child, you have work to do.

Nyx noticed her clasped hands were entirely too small to be her own. They looked like they had when she was six, before there had been any calluses or burn marks. Before she had to work to survive. She stood quickly, surprised that her prosthetic didn’t catch despite it’s prior oiling. It was more rust than steel these days, anyway. She looked around to see the church as it had been in her memory, silence not quite as heavy as it had been when she arrived at the old church. But it didn’t look so old anymore, did it? Looking down, a choked gasp left Nyx’s lips as she realized her right leg was flesh instead of steel.

And that she was remarkably shorter than she had been when she started praying.

Child, you said you wanted to fix things.


I've got a plan. It’s one that aims to provide me with a whole-of-life roadmap, if that doesn’t sound too grandiose. It's not complete, not fully worked out to the last detail, although the central thrust of it feels very solid. Anyone who knows me is probably surprised by this. I tended in the past to take each day as it comes. Not anymore. I feel much happier, more centered, my mind more fertile, since I got serious about having a plan. What I want to express with my plan, and my surrounding commentary upon it, is the need for the modern alienated individual to replace “God's Plan” with something human yet capable of touching the ineffable. Art certainly has its place in my plan. And some poetry, although not a lot. William Blake, for instance, is not included. Does this all sound a bit pretentious? I hope not. There’s a hell of a lot of very hum-drum practical detail in the plan. Early on, for instance, I plan to open a bank account. Hardly the stuff of a pompous, head-in-the-clouds “intellectual”. There is a rumor going round—and I think I know who started it—that I called my plan “The Plan To End All Plans”. Let me state for the record: that is absolutely not true. Before I lay it out, it’s probably worth mentioning how the big change came about. How did I, of all people, get caught up in the all-absorbing project of making a plan? Well, I guess I have my best friend Douglas Dunaway to thank—couldn’t have done it without him, as they say on the red carpet. Now, for anyone who knows Doug, that might sound preposterous, but he undoubtedly provided the initiating prick. It was a couple of years ago, at a picnic by the lake. Doug had recently dropped out of university. Geology oppressed him and meteorology left him dazed. What the hell, he wondered, was he doing? His life began inching deeper into sloth and squalor. Even at the best of times, Doug was a heavy, ruminative sort of bloke. I once joked that his problem was geological—the eras just rushed by him in a blur. Ha! By the lake, after an egg, he shook his head slowly and said, “Maybe I need a plan.” At first I scoffed. I suggested that what he really needed was a job. Not to be harsh, but he was letting himself go—or, letting himself stop might be more apposite. On the drive back it was hard to tell if he was awake or asleep. I found myself asking very basic questions like, “What does he do? ” Back home at my desk, working on my blog, I found myself a bit blocked. Blogging has always come easily to me, and I guess if I couldn’t do it I’d kill myself. Today, dammit, Doug’s phrase “Maybe I need a plan” wouldn’t stop repeating. So I thought to myself, alright, I’ll play along, does the idea of a plan appeal to me? I laughed out loud at that—then suddenly jotted down on a scrap of paper: Douglas Dunaway’s Plan for Life: 11am: Sit down 3pm:     Blink 9pm:     Bed I’ve always used humour to cope with stress. But even leaving that to one side, this was bloody hilarious! I posted it on the blog and sent Doug a link, explaining it was just a bit of fun, hoping he took it in the spirit intended. When we next met for coffee and a bun, I pressed him on it. “So?” “What?” “The plan? We’re all agog, Doug. Onward and upward?” He shifted slowly in his seat and murmured something about preferring to keep mum. Dear God! Then he passed me a ragged, dog-eared piece of foolscap. Doug, it seemed, in the harsh light of day, had written a poem. Little Jack who made thee Dost thou know who made thee Gave thee such a tender voice, Making all the vale rejoice!                Little Jack I’ll — I didn’t read the whole thing. In fact, I upset the table and left. It was with a heavy heart that my next blog entry outlined the reasons I could no longer be Douglas Dunaway’s friend. I would, sadly, never speak to him again. The stress of all this did knock me a bit. Fortunately Auntie Joy moved back in and for a dry old stick she talks a lot of sense. Of course, she knows me better than just about anyone. You see, she raised me. Something I’ve never said publicly before: my mother died giving birth to me. A gynodontic complication science was powerless to stem. It gutted my father, reduced him to a ghost. If Auntie Joy hadn’t moved in, I might not be here. That night was rugged, and it was Auntie Joy who made the hot chocolate, pulled the dressing gown tight about her, sat across from me at the kitchen table, and quietly said, “Sweetheart, maybe you do need a plan.” I stared at her like I’d seen another ghost. Doug was one thing, Auntie Joy another. Had I been missing the bleeding obvious? Well, I’m open-minded about a lot of things so, I thought, maybe I should play along? See how it went? And from there it just took off. Boy, did I ever throw myself into the initial planning! I accessed a vital surge of energy. Blog, shmog—this, my friend, was going to be the plan to end all plans! (Not that I ever called it that, not even to Auntie Joy.) My desk was soon groaning with it. You should have seen the exercise books pile up! Ha! I bounced a lot of ideas off Auntie Joy—what to put in, who to leave out—and one morning she said, “And poetry...?” “Well...” I was evasive but Joy’s gaze was steady. “Well, I’m not having any William Blake,” I said hotly. “Period.” “How about Coleridge?” I shrugged. “I guess there’s a few things in The Ancient Mariner , might work.” “So that’s a yes?” I nodded. “Yes?” “Yes, yes, Jesus!” I’m glad Joy prodded me. I did need the leaven poetry provides. Without it, a plan risks becoming nothing more than a sterile to-do list. It was after about eighteen months of solid work that Joy addressed the elephant in the room. No prizes for guessing. An elephant so dense in the hindquarters, nearby oxygen lost its buoyancy. Wouldn’t a plan that was to include everything—wouldn’t it have to include... Douglas Dunaway? I said I’d prefer it not. Joy said, “Perhaps I should go see him.” “But he’s a joke.” “Just to see where he fits into the scheme of things.” I wasn’t happy, but didn’t yet feel sure enough of my plan to argue. Joy spent a long time getting ready, but it was worth it. Wow. She’d really dolled herself up. Reminded me of when she’d first moved in to save me. Except... “What do you think?” she asked, twirling gaily. “Yes, wow...but your hair—is that a wig?” I barely recognized her. “Ask me no naughties and I’ll tell you no nasties,” she quipped cheekily. It was hard not to laugh, hers being so infectious. Depositing a glove in a severe, stylish, bright-red triangular handbag, she said toodle-loo and left. Joy walked alone down the dark deserted street, stiletto heels ticking on the cold cement. It was so quiet I checked my watch. Good Lord! Ten minutes to midnight. No wonder! Where had the time gone? Already I felt a little worried about the plan’s need for an update. It was only a ten minute walk to Doug’s place, but it seemed an eternity. Joy didn’t miss a beat. So stylish and assured. If she was surprised to see Doug out in his front garden, she didn’t show it. Under a waxing gibbous, she was immaculate. Doug was surprised, having been engrossed with a rosebush. An old one, it was, with big blousy orangey-brown blossoms. Joy couldn’t help a small smile. Trust Doug to find the only rosebush with blooms that looked like something the cat dragged in. “Oh, hey,” Doug said with a grin that looked a little oafish in the moonlight. “I think I’ve lost her.” “Oh dear. Who? Do you mean a cat?” Joy stepped her way carefully to Doug’s side of the rosebush. “Can I help?” Ha! Poor Doug. He had no idea who Joy was. The look on his face! Who was this stunner walking into his rose-garden? Well, you can’t really blame him—Joy was very dolled up and he hadn’t seen her since eighth-grade summer camp. Joy was actually a little agitated. “Where did you last see her? What’s her name? Here, kitty...” Was she play-acting here? One thing you can take to the bank: don’t bother asking Doug, haha! “No, no, I was referring to the rosebush,” Doug said. “I saw it just now from the kitchen window. It fell over.” Joy gave him a funny look. Unsure? Doug perhaps felt challenged. He let the rosebush go and stepped back. The big blocky shrub fell down. See? But Joy’s gaze had locked onto the base. A complicated clump of whitish roots was now rudely upthrust, and the sudden hole in the ground seemed to be alive with trickling soil and little ticks and grubs. “Oh dear,” Joy whispered, taking a step back, putting a hand to her breast, going weak at the knees. She clutched at her handbag but it was too late—she fainted dead away. In all my years of knowing Doug—and, oh, where is the geological time scale that could do it justice!—I have never seen him move with the speed he employed to catch Joy in his arms. Then, gently, with his more familiar stolid step, he carried her inside, where she recovered quickly. Tea? Thank you kindly. You’re sure you’re okay? Fine. Oh, I don’t even know your name! Chrissy. Yes, she introduced herself as Chrissy. A bit much, really, but he seemed to buy it. Honestly, he had no idea. It was everything I could do not to start blogging right then and there. Ha! Seriously, who would last five minutes in this world without a sense of humor? They talked of many things and soon began to click. Joy was coy but masterful. “So, um, where do you see yourself, Doug, in, say, ten years time?” Doug, for his part, ho, ho, tended to let the future take care of itself. Besides, who knew: war, disease, volcanoes. Yawn. Kudos to Joy for suppressing an eye-roll. But, seriously, time to go, babe. Dumdum needs his dummy sleep. “Doug?” she said tentatively. “Would it be okay if I stayed here tonight?” Jesu Maria! You could almost see Doug’s soul turn over in his leaden humor. Shield her well! They walked down the hall to Doug’s bedroom. Closing the door, Joy suggested Doug get into his purple pajamas with the white trim while she saw to a few things at the dresser. Once Doug was in bed, Joy turned and walked to his side, handbag held before her in both hands. “Doug,” she said, a little sharply, trying to focus his rather wild and wandering attention. “Where do you see yourself in one week’s time?” Doug, under the blankets, just his head showing, not his best angle, gave a weak laugh. “At the Ritz, maybe?” “Do you think perhaps you need a plan?” “Oh, ah, well...” “Is that a yes?” “Hmm.” “Yes or no, goddammit!” “Yes! Jesus.” With a snap of her clasp, Joy loosed her garment and slipped quick as a feather between Doug’s crisp white sheets. * * * Me, on the other hand, got no sleep that night. I had no idea Joy had intended to stay at Doug’s. Where, in the bold blue blazes, did this fit into the plan? But even the impulse to question turned on me like a cur. Sitting in the cold kitchen, alone, rocking on a chair, pushing a knuckle into my stupid temple—is that any sort of life? Oh, but the plan, the plan! Now, to begin with, children, take one fresh egg, pop it in warm waters... Sure, I managed a few laughs, but it didn’t take. Toward dawn, I tried to rouse myself, this was ridiculous, god I was stiff, trying to edge into the plan, but had to put it away, cold, dead. And Joy didn’t return for a full week. I won’t describe the hell of it. Open a bank account? Why bother when there’s plenty of room in the eternal abyss for all one’s pennies. Hell it turns out is fairly straight-forward. Hell is sterility. Hell has no plan. Then the door rattled and Joy walked in. She looked amazing! The bright morning sun really suited her. And with her came... Douglas Dunaway? As I lived and breathed! Doug? I stood up from the table, almost bumping my knee. Doug? Sheesh, he’d lost a lot of weight. He walked with a pronounced limp and his right arm hung uselessly in his sleeve, withered and spindly. His grin was much the same, not done any favors by the bright morning light. I nodded, and he nodded back, and, well, here we were. “Coffee?” I said. Joy insisted on making it, and busied herself at the sink, happily humming, making quirky observations about any little thought or thing that popped into her head. Keeping the atmosphere bright. Not sure I ever loved her quite as much as I did right then. Sitting across from Doug, I watched him lift (with his left hand) Joy’s stylish, bright-red triangular handbag, and place it on the table. “I think you’ll like this,” he said, and used his left hand to work the clasp. Well, to fumble at it. Oh dear. “Haven’t got the hang of being a leftie yet,” he said. Tentatively, I offered to help, but was gruffly rebuffed. It was painful, so bumbling. I think it was when I noticed Doug’s right shoulder twitch once or twice, a vestigial autonomic attempt to rouse his useless limb, his poor arm that hung like a smote bratwurst in a deli closed for business—I think it was then that I had something of a revelation. I think you know me well enough by now to know I am not sentimental. I eschew it. Too many good people have been lost to that tar pit. Rigor, work, that’s me. But at that moment of seemingly endless bumbling and fumbling, I felt... I felt my heart go out to Doug. Spontaneously. Unreservedly. There’s no other way to put it. So take your best shot. Seriously, aren’t we all fellow-travelers on this blasted, headless, clueless juggernaut? Joy brought hot coffees, fussed with coasters, laughing at something the grocer had told her, and I think she must have discreetly opened the handbag. “I think you’ll like this,” Doug said. With his left hand he took from the handbag a large, thick, rectangular wad of neatly folded wax-paper. And let the stars above shine on forever—they’ll never be a patch on Douglas Dunaway’s plan! Even clearing the table to unfold it wasn’t enough. This plan was wall-to-wall, baby. And it was an absolute wonder. In the top-left corner was my name, address, birth registration number—everything required to open a bank account—and in the bottom-right was a selection of the latest cutting-edge mathematical equations outlining string theory. And in between was everything else... e verything. Heart bursting, I cried, “Doug! This is the plan to end all plans!” He grinned affably, modestly, goddamn-near sweetly. We pored over that plan for—oh, hell, I dunno how long—like, forever! Until I suddenly had a brainwave. “This is so cool,” I said to Doug. “Why don’t we start following it right now? ” Doug shrugged and smiled as if to say, sure, I guess. “Do you know where the bank is?” I asked him. “Um, yeah, in Johnson Street, beside the servo.” “Bewdy! Let’s go.” We looked to happily beaming Joy. She said to me, “I think I have a better idea.” “What?” “How about you clean your room up first. Not much point having a bank account if you can’t even find a clean pair of socks.” Doug stifled a laugh with his left arm. Grudgingly, I had to admit she had a point. Technically, it wasn’t in the plan, but it could probably be taken as implicit. My desk lately was not so much groaning as stinking. “Do you wanna see my room?” I asked Doug. “Sure, okay.” I got Doug to put his left arm around my shoulder—his left leg was next to useless—and we headed up the hall to my room. Joy called after, “Doug, sing out if you need to go to the toilet.” “Okay.” “I can help him!” “Okay, but call me if you need anything.” After we closed the door, Joy folded up the plan and placed it in the top drawer by the sink, under the tea-towels. She washed the dishes, wiped the table down, humming a happy tune all the while. After drying her hands on her apron, she walked down the hall to my bedroom door. Raising a knuckle to knock, she paused and moved an ear closer to listen. She smiled at the sound of the boys inside. She flexed her knuckle but continued to wait. She was in no rush. She wanted to get the timing just right. She had a plan.


Let’s start at the beginning, in the last few months of third grade I became friends with a boy named Scot. We bonded over the fact that we both liked history and filming. Scot and I started really writing and coming up with scripts in fourth grade. At recess we would plan a show we wanted to make, drawing and writing in my notebook and talking about things we knew we couldn’t do with the ten dollars we both had.

Scot and I hung out a lot in and outside of school. I had bought a camera so on days that worked I went home with him and filmed in his room with my camera and a greenscreen our school had lent us. We would film for hours, rewrite scripts, angle the camera differently, and take a break to eat and chill. Also, we would make fake commercials for Star Wars, Home Alone, Disneyland, etc. In my strange twelve-year-old mind, I think it is important to add that also in fourth grade Scot and another one of my friends, Lousia, and I started writing a little picture book about a lion cub named Dandy. When we all talked about it we would say things like; “Well we have a sorta plot but where should it take place?” and Scot answered;” I have an idea! Knock-of-America!” he exclaimed. And then all at once all of us were consumed in a fit of laughter.

By the time I was in fifth grade I had his number and we facetimed often because in march of 2020 all the kids were sent home and told we would be back in six weeks. Well, that six weeks passed and it led to another six weeks and that six weeks turned into the rest of the school year. So while we were doing zoom calls with our class, Scot and I were talking on facetime. We talked almost every day for over two hours. When they let us go back to school Scot’s parents wouldn’t let him go. But we hung out sometimes at his house and even had a picnic and a park, granted we were ten feet apart and it was really cold but still, it was fun. I also got to play with his puppy on a trampoline.

As we got later into the spring Scot came back to school and that was fine but we weren’t in the same class and all he wanted to do was play gaga ball, so we didn't hang out much at school but we still talked a lot on the phone. After lunch we would have conversations that went like this; “Hey, how ya doin'?” one of us would ask. “Same as always, questioning my life choices, thinking about how sad my life is.” the other answered. Even though we both know our lives aren't sad, just tricky, we still said it with a silent understanding between us that it made us both feel better because in reality we just needed someone to talk to.

When school ended it was the end of elementary school and I was so excited to go to middle school, that’s pretty much all I talked about. During the summer we talked a lot because both of us are pretty lazy. Scot and I were going to different schools so we wouldn’t see each other every day and couldn’t talk as much but I planned to make it work.

Sometime around August, I started to notice that when we talked we didn’t even look at each other because he was always playing video games. I was never sure if I should keep talking or hang up to see if he noticed. I talk about the new movies my papa(dad) showed me and the crazy parts in the book I’m reading and if I talk about it for a while he will just hang up. He says he is doing it jokingly but he did it so often that it really hurt my feelings, and sometimes I would call him after he had hung up because I was in the middle of my sentence and he wouldn’t pick up when he did that I had to use all my power not to cry because I have so little friends and he was the only one that would pick up, but he didn’t. And when he finally picked up I would continue talking like nothing had happened. I should have seen that as a sign that Scot was not a good friend,

but I didn’t. It went like this for two months. I would talk about this brutal death that had happened in the movie I watched last night and he would hang up. I told him about the plot twist in the book I’m reading and how a character was betrayed and he would hang up.

Some days I cried because of how awful Scot made me feel, making me feel like

I  did something wrong.

When I finally told him, he would say he would stop doing that and he was just trying to be funny,.......but Scot kept doing it. It got to a point where I was the only one calling, my parents told me to stop and wait for him to call me. And after about two weeks and no call, I called him. Now I know what you're thinking: why the hell would you call him, he is a horrible friend? Well, the answer to that is that I was lonely and kind of sad, and Scot was the only one who made me feel, well not sad anymore. But then I realized he was the one making me feel that sadness and I needed to step away. And if he wanted to call me that’s fine but I most certainly was not going to call him if he is just taking pity on me for having so few friends. It’s been four months since then and I have received zero phone calls and I doubt he notices a thing. I’m not sure how this sounds but I have had four dreams with Scot and in all of them I ask why he ignores me and he always denies that he did anything at all and the worst part is that that is something he would do. When I wake up from those dreams I always start to cry because I miss our friendship and the days we spent hours in his room laughing and having genuine fun.

I still occasionally think about Scot but I have made new friends and I am no longer lonely and sad. I

am  sad that I lost a friend but believe me when I say

I do not dwell on that anymore. I am in the present and plan to stay there and will not let the memories of Scot take me from it.

                 The End.


A large oak tree stood in the middle of a large, ever growing field. Branches were long and thick as if they could shade out the whole valley. Leaves reflected the light like mirrors in the broad daylight. Small wildflowers were

spread randomly around the valley. Its roots came up out of the ground, and fell down deep under the soft soil.

It was just a normal oak tree, but it was also so much more. A place to escape, relax, explore, find inspiration, but most importantly to find love. Deep connections under the warmth and comfort of the tree. That is where Autumn and Tristan met two years ago, and where they continue to meet every single day.

           Autumn sat against the bark of the tree. Her auburn hair and hazel eyes matched with the subtle scenery of the area. Light brown freckles covered her cheeks. Life wasn’t a struggle for her. Instead it was merely a gift with every new day. “I want to grow old and connected like the roots of this oak tree.” Her soft smile gleamed like the beaming rays of sun.

         “Am I included in this dream of yours?” Tristan smirked and shook his head. His fluffy brown hair was bouncing from the gust of wind.

       Her gray cottage style dress unfolded as she stood. “Well of course you are!” She rushed past the tree out into the light. Bowing her head down to watch her step. He couldn’t quite see what she was grabbing from his angle, but from the way she started to run back he assumed it was another one of her games. “Now make a wish,” she handed him a white fluffy dandelion with a long stem.

“Don’t tell me you actually believe in that cliche wishing stuff. Blowing on a dandelion won’t make anything come true.” He held the plant in his hand. The wind seemed to have died down a little. Tiny spores on the ball of the dandelion stopped straining to stay on.

“Oh come on. There is no harm in having a little bit of hope.” Her pupils dilated as she knelt closer to him. Almost like a puppy dog would beg to its owner. “ Please?”

“Alright, fine.” The dandelion in his hand formed a new meaning. It now represented faith, but not just any faith, her faith. If she believed then maybe he should too.

“Good. Close your eyes.” Autumn demanded.

            She stared at him with intent until he finally caved in. Everything closed around him. Sucked into an endless void. He thought hard about his wish. Out of everything in the world that he could have wished for. She was the only thing that actually meant anything. Tristan was sure that Autumn would’ve had some poetic way to say it. Although he didn’t feel that it needed much complication. He cared for her and only ever wished that she would be ok.

Tristan blew hard before opening his eyes. Light slowly entered back into his pupils. All of the fuzz on his dandelion was gone. He glanced over to Autumn who had a droopy look on her face. “What's the matter?”

“I have one seed that didn’t blow off my dandelion. My wish was never complete'’” she took a deep breath and sighed. Looking forlornly at her plant. “Well. I think that just means you haven’t used your wish yet, and when you blow that one seed off then your wish will be finished.” He was desperately trying to cheer her up. Technically he didn’t really believe in the wishing in the first place. He just liked that it made her happy.

“You think so?” Autumn perked her head up in response to what he had said.

“Of course,” He remarked, taking her left hand with his right.

Autumn nodded and held his hand with a gentle grasp. “I will save my wish then” She clipped her dandelion onto the small top pocket of her dress. The pocket was so small she had to fold the stem in a zigzag pattern to make it fit. The one fluffed weed peeked out of her shirt.

“Shall we head off to town now?” He inquired, grabbing his navy colored jacket and standing up while still holding her hand.

“Oh yes. We need to get the relic to the pawn shop in town to sell.” Autumn stood up. Coming a few inches shorter than he was.

Tristan ruffled her curly hair before leading her off through the valley in the direction of the main road that led to town. When they made the small hike through the wooded base to the main road it was mostly empty. Except for a white, two story house with polished wooden trim and a fence pattern on the bottom half of the first floor walls around the whole house. There were four windows in the front of the house and a glass sliding door in the back. Along with a thin window on either side of the front door. Vines crawled up the outer walls, blooming with pink trumpet shaped flowers. The front yard seemed as if it used to be a garden, but the ground and plants were ill maintained by now. Almost covering the small red for sale sign that was speared into the ground.

He had his eyes set on this house long before meeting Autumn. There was so much potential to the house despite it being worn down. What he loved the most about it was the fact that it was more isolated. Farther away from the harsh judgment of society. Although he never actually had a desire to buy it because of how big the house was. Certainly he didn’t need all that space, but now he had someone to fill it with.

They both continued to walk the main road. That's when a rustling came from behind them. A wooden cart hauling various bags carried by horse. The man driving the cart looked old. Wrinkles covered his whole face except for around his eyes. He had dirty blonde hair that was waving in his periphery, and a dirty blonde mustache that was so thick and furry it practically covered the bottom of his nose.

The two young adults looked at each other for a moment. “Are you thinking what I'm thinking?” Autumn asked with a cocky, yet upbeat tone. Furrowing her eyebrows. Tristan just nodded and gripped autumns hand tighter. Once the cart passed them he started to run, getting faster and faster until his legs could hardly keep up with each other anymore. When he managed to get only a few feet away from the cart he launched Autumn up into the air at full force. She grabbed the wooden edge and stabilized herself on the tiny ledged platform. Tristan continued to run. Autumn held her hand out for him to grab on to. Reaching out as far as she possibly could without falling off. Adrenaline surged through his veins. He just wanted to make it to her, but she kept fading farther away. One leg after another, dirt made small clouds of dust off of his shoes. Finally he got a hold on Autumn's hand. She helped him up onto the cart. He couldn’t help but gasp for air. The fresh gusts of wind from the movement helped a bit.

Autumn smiled and hung from the back of the moving cart, whooping and cheering as its wheels turned.

“Autumn. Be quiet. The old man is going to hear us,” He ducked down and pulled her close to him. Wrapping his arms around her in an attempt to not be seen.

“I’m not deaf you know. I can hear what you're saying, and I'm not that old. Only thirty” The old man exclaimed in a raspy voice.

“Thirty!?!” The two of them both yelled at the same time. They didn’t mean to be rude, but his age caught them both off guard. The man didn’t look anywhere close to thirty. Fifty at least.

The man scoffed at their comment. “Yeah yeah whatever.”

Autumn giggled and continued to hang from the cart. Tristan didn’t try to stop her now, knowing that there wasn’t much chance he would try to throw the both of them off. Tristan however didn’t necessarily want to be seen. He stayed in a crouched position with his hand hanging onto the cart. That was where he stayed the whole entire time until they made it to town.

The town was a large place with stone buildings that pillared towards the sky. Most of the buildings were shops that had apartments above them. Vague signs were placed strategically so one couldn’t exactly see what shop was where, mostly to trick travelers into staying longer and buying more things. The pawn shop was the hardest to find out of everything because it had no label or sign to convey what building it was in. Shady deals went on in there. It was better to stay inconspicuous.

“Do you want to split up and look for it?” Autumn inquired, “We could probably find the shop faster that way.”

“Yeah that seems like a smart idea.” He nodded and pointed to the lane behind him. “I’m going to look this way.”

Autumn agreed and they both went their parting ways. The town was like a maze this time of year. Roads were vastly decorated with different eventful concessions and games. People were rallied around everywhere. So crowded that those on horseback could hardly get by. He held his hood close over his head. Paying attention to even the smallest cheap gum wrapper that was dropped on the ground. His shoes crunched against the crumbs on the cement pathways with every step he took. A stand with a red sheet held up by wooden poles wasn’t that far ahead. Little crafting trinkets were set up on its shelves. Spanning from painting supplies, to wood making tools. I should get something for Autumn. He reached into his pocket and pulled out three coins. It wasn’t much, but enough to get her something small. Approaching closer to the stand he came to a halt. Taking notice of the paper on the wall nearby. A wanted poster, his wanted poster. For stealing the relic a week ago. He had to be faster about what he was doing. “Hey! What are you doing!” someone yelled from the crowd. Trisan grabbed the paper from the pole and folded it into his pocket.

“It’s the criminal!” A lady screamed at the top of her lungs pointing at him.

He grabbed an item from the stand without paying and dashed around the corner before anyone could yell any more or do anything about it. His heart felt as if it was pounding outside of his chest.. All he could think of was finding Autumn before he was reported to the authorities. The midway circle was his target. It connected all the roads in the middle of town. If he could make it there before authorities then he could get out with Autumn. He just needed to find her.

Tristan got pulled back by his collar. He almost screamed. This was it he thought. Until the dress flowed around his ankles. He felt as if a heavy boulder was pushed off of his chest. “Autumn?” He whispered.

“I’m here, but the authorities have already blocked off the gates out of town.”

“What do we do then?” He slipped deeper into Autumn's comforting arms. Her words drifting into his head yet he couldn’t seem to listen.

“I know a secret way out” She led him over to a large fence that went up the second story of two buildings. Pointing to a thin gap between the wire. “I can’t fit through, but you can. They aren’t looking for me so I can make it through the main gates”

Tristan furrowed his eyebrows and cocked his head. “Are you sure?” His voice was shaking just like the leaves shook in the wind when they were back at the valley.

“I’m sure” Autumn gave him a kiss on the cheek, then rushed him to leave quickly before it was too late.

Tristan crouched down. Dirt covered his hoodie and pants. He pried the cut of wire open, beginning to slide himself through. His hands clawed at the earth. Continuing to pull over and over. Soil started to build up under his fingernails. Almost there. He was almost out when his jacket got caught on the fencing. Loud noise started to creep closer to their location.

“I will meet you at the oak tree,” She unhooked his unzipped jacket and unraveled it from his arms. Taking it and leaving with haste after making sure he had gotten through.

He had to walk down the main road on the way back. It was around around ten minutes that had gone by when Tristan got to the valley. He hoped that Autumn would be back soon. Walking was becoming a bore. The wind’s howling made him want to shield his ears and bury himself deep under the ground. Eventually he gave in and sat down on the grass.

A single dandelion seed landed on his shoulder.

Something inside of him shattered. The relic was still inside of the coat. It wasn’t any normal dandelion seed, it was her dandelion seed. He just knew that it was. Warm water streamed from his eyes. Everything went blank, he was trapped in a void, yet his eyes were wide open. The wind wasn’t grating anymore, just as the tree he had returned to didn’t feel the same without her. In the end it was just a tree. One that held her vow, her gaze, her touch. One that shared her joy, her peace. Tristan had made a promise to stay at the tree and wait for her, even if that meant he would die waiting.


“No blindfold, please. I’d prefer to see my death coming.” The guard let out a cynical laugh. “You think you’re so tough saying that, don’t you?” He stepped in front of me, leaning his face inches away from mine. The minty-fresh smell of his breath was quite a contrast to his psychotic grin. “Nearly every person executed here has said the same thing. And you wanna know something? They all died the same way, with their brains splattered across the wall that you’re leaning on. You’re not anything special.” He turned away from me, stuffing the dirty blindfold in his back pocket. I could hear him chuckling faintly as his boots crunched across the small, rocky yard. He took his place at the opposite wall, facing me once again. The wall he stood against appeared almost brand new; the wall I stood in front of was pockmarked with bullet holes and stained with the blood of countless prisoners. Executions were nothing new here. Guards stood against the walls on either side, ten of them in total. All of them wore the same camouflage fatigues, yet their boots were an array of colors and styles and in various stages of disrepair. Terrorists seldom have enough money for proper uniforms. And yet somehow, they manage to deal destruction across the globe. They weren’t worried about me trying to escape. Even if I managed to get past them, the chains on my ankles would keep me from going very far. The guards were merely there to watch, smoking cigarettes and exchanging greetings as they waited patiently for the execution to commence. I can’t imagine how many executions must have taken place here for it to have become such a casual gathering. At the very least, I expected more of a sadistic ritual. The executioner entered the yard, a pistol held loosely in one hand. He wore the same outfit as everyone else, yet his face was completely covered by a black baclava. The opening for his eyes was taken up by a pair of mirrored sunglasses. Even his hands were covered by a pair of black gloves. Not a single inch of skin was left bare. I suppose most executioners prefer to keep their face covered, although I never understood why. Are they afraid their victims will recognize them in the afterlife? Time slowed to a crawl as the executioner took his place directly in front of me. I stared straight ahead into his mirrored glasses, reflecting upon my figure as well as my life. I could barely recognize myself at that point. My once closely cropped hair had grown long and matted against my head. My cheeks were sunken from malnutrition, and my eyes seemed to stare blankly into an eternal abyss. It had been months since I had seen anything other than the dank interior of my prison cell, and so my skin had taken on a deathly pallor. My family wouldn’t recognize me if they saw me on the news. Maybe that would be for the best. They say your life begins to flash before your eyes when faced with certain death – yet all I began to recall was the torture which led me here. I joined the military right after high school, and shipped out less than a week after basic training. Ironically, it was less than a week before I was taken prisoner. Our post was ambushed by a terrorist group in the middle of the night, sneaking in as we slept. Most of my buddies were killed on the spot; the rest of us were forced to watch as they took their last breaths, gasping around the blood that slowly filled their lungs. I was thrown in an underground cell and left in isolation. I don’t know how long I was there for – months, maybe even a year – but it was the last place I saw before the execution yard. The only sort of routine I had was daily interrogations, growing more and more horrific each day. Eventually it was decided that I was of no use, and so I was put to death. An ear-splitting bang interrupted my flashback. The sound of a gunshot, but not one meant for me. I stared in disbelief as the executioner crumpled to the ground, a sniper’s bullet lodged firmly in his skull. The guards all seemed to be in a state of shock, standing paralyzed until jarred from their trance by the door to the execution yard slamming open. I threw myself to the ground, doing everything I could to shield myself from the hail of gunfire that rained in all directions. Rocks dug into my ribs as I landed hard, unable to catch myself. Bodies fell to the ground with sickening thuds; I lodged myself between the wall and one particularly large guard, my eyes squeezed tightly shut against the destruction. My only hope was to play dead, and maybe I would have a chance at survival. The gunfire stopped as quickly as it began, lasting merely a few seconds. The yard was left in an eerie silence, broken by the soft crunch of footsteps growing closer and closer. I lay perfectly still, holding my breath as the footsteps stopped inches away from my head. “Private Jackson?” I opened one eye just a sliver, to get a peek at whoever said my name. A man kneeled down beside me, dressed in a uniform so familiar to me with a rifle slung over his back. He placed a hand on my shoulder as he spoke. Despite being deep, his voice was soft and filled with compassion. He smiled slightly as he spoke, but his eyes remained filled with sadness. “I’m Sergeant Smith. We’re here to bring you home.” I was helped to my feet, supported on either side as Sergeant Smith removed the bonds from my wrists and ankles. For the first time since my capture, I could move freely without the heavy iron shackles digging into my skin. My head began to spin as I looked up towards the sky. Once again, I had become a free man.


I was nervous. My hands kept tensing up and my legs would go cold. This was my first job interview and I needed this job. I needed the money. I sat there for 15 minutes when a girl around my age, walked in and sat in the chair next to me. She had brown curly hair and was holding a black folder just like mine. She looked over at me and smiled, I simply nodded my head. “Are you here for the job interview too?” “Yes”. “This is my first job interview, I thought I would be nervous but i actually feel relaxed”. I just nodded. “My name is Jackie, by the way”.  	“Alexander”. A lady with long dark hair walked out and called for the girl. “Well then Alexander, wish me luck”. I saw the girl walk away as I sat in my chair, thinking about how I have never met a girl like her. I waited for about 20 minutes until I saw Jackie and the Lady walk out. “We’ll give you a call when we make our decision”. “Okay, Thank you very much”. “Mr. McClain, Mr.Jefferson will see you now”. I stood up from my chair and walked over to the door. Jackie tapped my shoulder and smiled at me. “Goodluck Alex”. I nodded and followed the lady to the interview. As I was walking to Mr. Jefferson’s office I thought about how I suddenly don't feel nervous anymore. It's like all the anxious and nervous feeling left my body out of nowhere. My hands weren’t tense anymore and I didn’t feel like I was going to vomit anymore. “Just wait here for a bit, Mr. Jefferson needed a couple of minutes to set up again for another interview”. I nodded and sat in the chair outside Mr. Jefferson’s office. As i sat there, i tried to think about all the reasons that could have made me calm down. The only thing that i could think of is Jackie. “Mr. McClain, Mr. Jefferson is ready to see you”. I nodded and walked into the large office. The office was grey and gloomy. I sat in the chair right in front of Mr. Jefferson’s desk. He looked at me and gave me a small smile. He stood up and offered me a hand shake. I took his offer and shook his hand. “So Mr. McClain, what type of job are you looking for in this facility”. “I was interested in having a profession in data work and i noticed that there was an opening in this position”.

Mr. Jefferson nodded and wrote what I said down. “What are you three best qualities?”. “I am hardworking, I am focused, and I can type on a computer”. Mr. Jefferson nodded and continued to write what I said on the sheet of paper on his desk. Mr. Jefferson continued to ask me questions for about 20 minutes until he stood up. “Alright Mr. McClain, I think I have the information I need to make my decision. I will give you a call when my decision is made”. “Okay thank you very much sir”. Mr. Jefferson offered me another handshake and I accepted and shook his hand. “I have to say Mr. McClain, your resume is very impressive. I only knew very few people who already knew how to type”. “It's the 70’s, the world is continuing to evolve, I suppose we need to evolve as well”. Mr. Jefferson chuckled and nodded his head. “I suppose we do need to evolve Mr. McClain”. Mr. Jefferson led me to the way out. When I got outside, it started to rain. I ran to my car and started the engine. I drove out of the parking lot and made my way to the stoplight. The stoplight changed to red, I stopped and looked over to my right. I saw a girl waiting at the bus stop for a bus. I looked closer and realized it was Jackie. She was standing there in the rain with no umbrella. The light turned green and I made a U-turn. I pulled up near the bus stop and rolled down my window.

“Hey do you need a ride?” “Oh hello Alexander, don’t worry I'm fine”. “Are you sure, I don’t think the bus is coming anytime soon and your pouring wet”. “No im fine, don't worry, thanks for the offer”. “You are going to get sick if you stay out there in the rain”. Jackie looked like she was debating trying to get in, but after a very short moment the look on her face implied that she gave in and decided to get in the car. She got in the car and told me where she lived at, It wasn’t very far away from where I lived. The drive there was nice, we talked and got know more about each other, It went on like that for about 7 minutes. I parked in front of her house when we got there. “Thank you so much, I could never know how to repay you”. “Don’t worry about”. Jackie grabbed her stuff and opened the door.

“Wait, Would you like to hangout another time”. Jackie smiled and nodded. “Sure, I would like to hang out with you. Here’s my number so that we can call each other and set up a date and other stuff”. She wrote down her number on a piece of paper and handed it to me.

“See you around Alexander, and thanks again for the ride to my house”. A few days passed by and I finally decided to call Jackie. I called her and we set up everything we needed to meet up again. After our first date, we ended up going on many other dates. On each date, I learned more and more about Jackie. She has lived a pretty crazy life. After our seventh date, i finally got the courage to ask her to be my girlfriend. We dated for seven more years and eventually got married. I always think about how the most important person in life came into my life at a sucky waiting room. I fell in love for the first time because of a sucky interview.


My luck had finally run out. Somehow I’ve avoided this misfortune for the two years that I have worked here. That doesn’t mean I haven’t heard the stories.

The feeling of being watched.

The ominous shadow figure.

The mysterious doctor.

And to top off working the night shift in a hospital, today just so happens to be Thursday 12th October. That means that when the clock strikes midnight it will be Friday 13th. Great.

Pulling up to Hope Gardens Hospital, the heavens opened painting everything in its path a gloomy grey. Turning the engine off, I lean my head on the steering wheel, trying with all my might to be ready for the night shift. Sighing, I shrug on my coat before running for cover inside the hospital. The rain also painted my mood in the same gloomy grey as outside. Trudging up the stairs to Ward 21, the only sound echoing around me is the squeaking of my trainers. I just have time to hang up my coat before the clock strikes 8 signaling the start of my shift.

The next three hours go smoothly. Or as smooth as they can go when you are a nurse. Sick. Check. Blood pressures. Check. Intravenous fluids and medications. Check and check. Finally, I am able to sit down at the nurses' station. My only companions are the flickering lights down the hallway, the beeping of heart monitors, and the shadow standing behind me. I whip my head around to see just the plain stone blue wall. No shadow. I shrug as I start filling out the paperwork, unable to shake the feeling that I am being watched.

The clock strikes 11.

The rain continues to lash at the windows, it too has found a companion. Lightning. It slashes across the darkened sky and the thunder rumbles in the distance. But the storm is coming closer. Soon it will be right above the hospital.

When I was a child, I was scared of thunderstorms until my Granny taught me that if I counted the time it takes to hear the thunder after the lightning, that's how far away the storm is. I know it's a trick to keep your mind focussed on a task instead of the anxiety but I couldn’t help but count the seconds between the flashes of lightning and rumbles of thunder. Especially now that the flashes of lightning caused shadows to flicker in and out of view in the corner of my eye.

The flashes of lightning and rumbles of thunder were now so close together that I could not count the seconds between them. A lone lightning strike hits the hospital, plunging it into darkness and turning the hospital quiet. All I could hear was my heart thumping against my chest.

Unbeknown to me, the clock strikes 12.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention as a shiver runs down my spine. A singular word breathed in my ear.

“Beware”

I turn around expecting to see an older gentleman standing there, after all, that would explain the raspy voice. Darkness. Empty darkness. There was no one or nothing to be seen. That is until a flash of lightning illuminates the hallway. Looming over me is the ominous shadow figure. Just as quick as the room is lit, it is plunged back into darkness. I scramble out of the chair, knocking it to the floor as I scurry backward until my back hits the wall. I keep my eyes focussed in front of me until the hospital flickers back to life.

The clock strikes 1.

The next two hours sail by just as smoothly as the first hours of my shift. Checking that the machines have come back online with the ominous shadow figure lurking in every corner where the light doesn’t quite reach. I return to the nurses' desk to continue filling out the paperwork and updating patients' notes.

The clock strikes 3. The witching hour is upon us.

I look up from the computer screen to see an old male doctor impatiently tapping his foot.

“Nurse I need to see patient 1-5-D-B-7”

His gravelly, demanding voice scratched against my ears. Quickly, I begin looking through the patient's ID and ward floor plan. The ominous dark shadow figure inching its way closer to me doesn’t go unnoticed as I find the patient that the doctor is looking for.

“Ah, you mean Mrs. Deborah Jenkins in room 21B. I didn’t think a doctor needed to check her medication until 6am”

“Well what do you know, you are just a nurse”

The doctor looks behind me and I know he’s seen the shadow figure that is now looming right behind me. With meaningful steps, the doctor turns around and walks towards room 21B. I feel a wave of relief wash over me as the shadow figure follows the doctor down the hall.

The clock strikes 4.

Code blue alarms ring out from 21B alerting all nurses and doctors that there is an adult cardiac arrest. Jumping out of the chair I run down the hallway, my trainers squeaking on the newly cleaned floors. Just as I reach the door, it slams shut in my face. Colliding harshly with the door, I am knocked to the floor. Pushing on the door I find it to be locked.

“Open the door” I shout as I pound my fists on the door, continuously trying to get the door to budge.

The door swings open catching me by surprise as the floor catches me. I look up to see the shadow figure standing there. For some reason, I blurt out a thank you before scrambling once more to my feet to try and resuscitate Mrs. Jenkins. Within a matter of seconds, the room is a hive of activity of doctors and nurses trying to bring Mrs. Jenkins back to life.

But all attempts fail as a doctor declares Mrs. Jenkins dead at 4:50am. I slump to the floor defeated, my head in my hands.

The clock strikes 5.

Tears sting my eyes as Dr. Bailey crouched down in front of me, softly placing his hand over mine. I meet his sympathetic eyes.

“Where did the other doctor go?” I ask, my voice almost breaking. I assumed that he must have slipped out of the room during the commotion of trying to resuscitate Mrs. Jenkins. But Dr. Bailey raises a singular eyebrow at my question.

“What doctor?”

“The one that was in here before the code blue”

“Sophie, I'm the only doctor that is working on this ward tonight”

I stare at him like I am a fish out of water trying desperately to breathe.

“We have all had a long night go have a break Sophie” he suggests before standing up and leaving me alone with my thoughts. And the shadow figure, watching over me.

Eventually standing up, the pain of pins and needles in my legs reminded me that I was still alive. The shadow figure, no longer lurking behind me, walked next to me as I headed to the staff room. Staring into a glass of water I zone out until a singular word is breathed in my ear once more.

“Protect”

The clock strikes 6. The end of my shift.

Sighing, I placed the glass down before wrapping myself up in my coat. My trainers squeaked as I trudged down the stairs and out of the hospital into the cold morning rain. Just as I reach my car, the hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention as I suddenly feel like I am being watched. Turning around I see the shadow figure standing at the window.

I smile knowing that the shadow figure is not only protecting the patients in the ward but also me.


A week after Abigail Whitaker’s funeral, her two children reluctantly began going through their mother’s belongings. To sell the valuables, donate usable items, and discard the rest. But it wasn’t an easy task. Abigail was a hoarder her entire life, and she couldn’t easily throw things away. She kept postcards, some of which belonged to sixty to seventy years ago. And like a zealot, Abigail kept all belongings of her late husband, who was listed as MIA in the Vietnam war decades ago. She loved her husband dearly and waited all her life, expecting him to walk through the door at any moment.

Amongst all her children and grandchildren, Paul Whitaker was Abigail’s favorite grandchild. Perhaps because he had the same name as grandpa, and by getting older, like two peas in a pod, he further resembled his late grandfather, the man he had never met. There was a framed black-and-white photograph of the grandpa in the military uniform on the grandma’s lounge room wall, very much resembling Paul today. Despite grandpa being around ten to fifteen years older than Paul when that photo was taken, the resemblance was stunning, as if Paul himself posed for that shot. Therefore, Paul had a special place in Abigail’s heart.

Paul willingly volunteered to clean grandma’s attic. Grandma didn’t like anyone to get close to the attic. It was a no-go zone for everyone. So much so that when Paul was a child, he and his cousins believed grandmother had a secret, and whatever it was, she hid it in the attic. In their imagination, they believed grandma kept a treasure there, more like pirates’ treasures, a box full of gold coins and jewelry. They possibly got the idea from the Treasure Island story, with its animated movie having just been released back then. Now Paul was in his late twenties, a Ph.D. student in theoretical physics, researching the concept of Time. However, it was implausible to find anything valuable in the attic. Still, Paul was keen to find what grandma stored there and why she didn’t want anyone to walk in there.

The attic hatch was secured with an old and bulky padlock, and same as all old things, it was made of high-quality steel. But no one knew where its key was. Eventually, he had to cut the tough lock with a bolt cutter, and he found it more challenging than he had expected. The attic was dark, and its light wasn’t working, possibly for ages. Its air was damp and heavy. At first glance, it was like a cave with lots of abandoned goods left forgotten for centuries. Everywhere was covered with a thick layer of fine dust. Paul walked in and stood in the middle of the attic. It took a while before his vision adjusted to the dim light. First, he noticed a few pieces of old furniture such as; side bed tables, chairs, and a lampstand, all covered in dust and spider webs. Some looked heavy and bulky. ‘How did grandma carry them up in here?’ Paul questioned. ‘They will go straight into the waste bin,’ he decided. Then he saw a bookshelf full of old, dusty books with discolored pages. As a bookworm, Paul quickly decided to keep the books for himself and read them all. He was sure no one would protest against his will to keep those old and dirty-looking books. ‘But family will worry about my sanity!’ He smiled at his thought. There were many packed carton boxes there, stored on top of each other lined up next to the walls. On close examination, Paul recognized his grandma’s handwriting on the boxes, with a short description of their contents. It made it easier for him to sort them.

The first box he examined was full of unmatched glassware. ‘Sorry, grandma. I know you don’t like to throw them away. With your permission, I will drop them at a charity,’ he murmured as if he was talking to grandma. Though he didn’t believe in the afterlife and the existence of spirits, he liked to think grandma’s spirit was there, monitoring his actions, and he didn’t want to cause her any distress. The next box was full of old and out-of-fashion dresses whose color had changed by the passage of time. ‘Should I donate them or throw them away?’ Paul asked himself. ‘With your permission, grandma, I will discard these old dresses. I don’t think anyone will wear them.’ Paul murmured as if he was talking with Abigail.

After going through a few boxes with unimportant contents, he found four large carton boxes with grandpa’s name written on them. He got curious about their contents. Paul had never met his grandfather. He was listed as MIA during the Vietnam war a few decades before he was born. But his memory was alive in the family. Grandma had told many stories about Paul Whitaker, her husband. So, for everyone in the family, grandpa was a hero. But for Paul, grandpa was a superhero. He was proud of being named after him. And their resemblance was Paul’s pride.

Paul opened the first box. It was full of civilian clothing belonging to grandpa. A quick examination told him they were all in his size. ‘I can wear them. There are good for a retro, 70s party,’ he smiled at his thought. The next box was full of old military uniforms and boots. At the bottom of the box, he found a military belt, a bayonet, and a stainless steel military water bottle. He excitedly decided to keep all of them to himself. In the third box, he found documents, photos, and letters grandpa had sent to Abigail. Paul couldn’t hide his excitement. It was a real treasure, and he would keep them all for himself. The letters were sorted by date. So he opened the first letter dated 10 th of June 1970 posted from Quang Tri, Vietnam, and read it.

My dear Abigail, Today is the tenth day since my arrival in Vietnam. I am sorry for not being able to write sooner. We were busy attending induction groups and adjusting to our new environment. Today I got a desk job, working at the company office at Quang Tri. My condition is not as bad as you might think, and we are far from any action. It is pretty safe here, and you don’t need to worry about me. The heat and the mosquitos are our sworn enemies. I am sharing a bunker with six other guys. But, three of them compete to prove who snores louder than the other two. So their symphony orchestra keeps the rest of us awake all night. I guess this is an army’s plot to force us to volunteer for the front line than sharing the bunker with these roaring bears. Sorry, I have to go. The sergeant is calling me. Miss you, Paul

Grandpa’s handwriting was like his. And strangely, his signature was exactly like Paul’s signature. How could two people, who lived at two different times, adopt to sign like each other? ‘Statistically speaking, its chance is near zero!’ Paul argued with himself. ‘If I knew, I would forge documents under grandpa’s name and get away with it,’ he smiled at this thought. Paul heard about hereditable genetic traits that some individuals are physically and psychologically more like a parent than another. But in his case, he looked almost identical to grandpa. But, as far as he knew, he should inherit just a quarter of his genes.

That night he finished reading all the grandpa’s letters addressed to his wife. Some were funny, and a few brought tears to his eyes. Now he understood why grandma had always been talking highly about his grandfather and had never remarried. They were in love. There was a bulged large manila envelope full of black and white photographs in that box. Paul took the bunch of photos out and explored them one by one. In the first picture, grandpa was in a bar and held a pint of beer in his hand. Grandpa wrote a short description on the back of the photo: 5 th of August 1970, at a local bar in Quang Tri. Vietnam. Paul Whitaker.

Most of the photographs were from his time in Vietnam. While shuffling through the photos, Paul found a much older picture, damaged, with low resolution, possibly over a hundred years old. A man that could be grandpa stood next to an old warship. He looked at the back of the picture. As he expected, Paul found a handwritten description there, which had aged with time. It was grandpa’s handwriting, which was like his own. 24th of December 1863, USS Wissahickon ship armed with an 11-inch cannon (Dahlgren gun). Civil war. Paul Whitaker. ‘Was grandpa interested in the civil war?’ He asked himself. Soon he found a sepia-toned old photo. In that image, a man who could be grandpa posed in a bunker with a long rifle hung on his shoulder. Paul quickly checked the back of the picture. As he expected, grandpa left a description. 5th of September 1914, France. A day before the battle of Marne. Paul Whitaker. Paul suspiciously stared at the old picture. The man looked like grandpa or even himself. ‘How could it be? How could he take part in that war?’ Paul asked himself, puzzled. ‘Maybe this man is his father and my grand grandfather!’ He mused.

Then he found another photograph. This time, grandpa or someone similar to him stood next to three other soldiers, with the one on the left having a sergeant insignia on his uniform’s sleeve. It was in another war zone near a coastal line with many warships on the horizon. By their uniforms, he could say it wasn’t Vietnam. He quickly checked the rear of the picture and nervously read the handwritten description. Wednesday, 7th of June 1944, a day after D-day, Normandy, France. From left to write; Sergeant James Blackwater, Corporal Paul Whitaker, Private John Parish, and Private Timothy Spring (our Medic). Paul Whitaker.

Paul was puzzled and couldn’t digest how his grandfather could be in all those wars! ‘If today someone shows me photographs of himself at different times in the history, I would suspect that the pictures are photoshopped. But these are real photos taken long before the invention of personal computers and photo editing software. So how can it be possible?’

Paul re-examined those bizarre photographs again and again, without finding a rational explanation for them. Then, suddenly, an epiphany caused a chill to go down his spine. The stunning similarity he had to his grandfather, their same physical size, similar handwriting style, and their identical signature made him ask, ‘what if I am my grandfather?’ Paul had been seriously researching the concept of time and the possibility of time travel in the last two years as part of his doctoral research. ‘What if I build a time machine in the next ten to fifteen years? Then I can time-travel into the past. And I can be my grandfather!’ Then he asked himself, ‘did grandma know the grandpa and I are the same person?’