                                        Packwood     Bogie (Full name William Bogart and no relation to Humphrey) was an I.T. guy who had worked for Flame Optics since 2012 and had  moved up  the corporate food chain far enough so that he occupied a corner office with a view of Sixth Street. There was a big window which hinged wide open and as the office was  ten stories about the street Bogie loved the luxury on fair days of closing  his door, turning off the a.c. and breathing the fresh air wafting up from the harbor.     But like so many  semi successful people, his personal life was a mess. Two ex-wives, three excommunicated children and a debt load which rivaled that of Rwanda was only the tip of the iceberg. On paper his income looked good but Bogie lived alone in a middle class neighborhood in a one bedroom apartment having lost a house to each wife. He had maxed out three of his four credit cards, was months behind in child support payments and soon to have his car repossessed. At the age of fifty he also had a bad ticker, a swollen prostate  and creaky knees. Pale and flabby, he pointedly avoided  double mirrors that revealed  the back of his balding head. Ironically, the pandemic had offered a sort of economic reprieve because rent forbearance allowed him to go  a full year without eviction while he tried to juggle his other debts. Money was like water it seemed, always slipping through Bogie’s fingers.  And because Bogie had a growing addiction to gambling, what trickle of cash was left at the end of the month was  soon sopped up on the tables of a near-by Indian casino or the racetrack or an on-line sporting book. The constant debt collection calls went straight to voice mail.      As he sat at his desk one Thursday afternoon when most of his colleagues had slipped away for an early happy hour or were making their way home, Bogie stared at the screen of his Packwood 900 Series computer and drummed his fingers on the desk. How to avoid financial ruin?   Sure, he could turn hacker and get the drop on some suckers a thousand miles away. Maybe with time he could slip past the firewall of a bank or brokerage and at least nibble on the cheese wheel, but this strategy gave Bogie uncomfortable visions of men with big shoulders and badges pinned to their blue suit lapels  walking down the corridor to his  office, so he discarded the idea.      And at that precise moment his Packwood 900 desk top with its crowd of icons went completely blank. Without any movement on his part there suddenly appeared the following garble:

Powanga Casino tomora  night. Secund placktack table neer  cashier. Too hands then yu wawk away. Can’t lose.      Bogie grunted. It wasn’t funny. Bill, a couple of offices down, sometimes liked to play cyber cute and was familiar enough with Bogie’s woes to pen something like this. Bogie rose and went into the hall. Bill’s office was closed and dark.   One thing for sure, whoever it was didn’t know syntax or how to spell.   Bogie put his fingers on the keyboard and played along: How much am I supposed to bet on each hand?     And the screen replied: Whuddever.     Bogie rubbed his chin and thought for a moment, then typed: I’m broke.  What do you mean ‘whuddever’.     And almost instantly came the answer:  Whuddever you bet your konna cleen up.                                                            ***     Friday  Bogie went home, made sure his Shatanga (Not ‘Powanga’, another massacre of language) ‘Fantastic & Frequent’ players card was tucked inside his wallet and drove to the casino.   He used his card  to buy himself a discounted buffet dinner which left him over-full and burpy but offered time to think about what he’d read on his computer. It was  ridiculous to think somebody toying with him in cyber space had actually prodded him enough with god-awful spelling to get him  to the casino to try his luck. Weird, yes. But desperate as he was for money, Bogie simply thought to himself what the hell.     For his stake he’s scrapped together three hundred bucks, a hundred of it borrowed from his dubious downstairs neighbor Harry who said “be sure to win” before forking over the cash.     Bogie surveyed the casino from the carpeted steps  of the restaurant. The ‘placktack’ (blackjack) table nearest the cashier’s cage had three people seated on red upholstered stools: One was a guy who wore an expression which crossed somewhere between boredom and disgust. The second person was a middle aged woman, a bleached blonde with an ample bosom and a low cut top, and the third a skinny older man who rested his hand on the blonde’s shoulder to let everyone know they were together. The dealer was an attractive young woman in crisp whites with olive skin, her black hair pulled straight back from her forehead and clipped in twin braids down her back.     Bogie settled himself at the table and his three hundred bucks were rapidly exchanged for twenty dollar chips. He took a deep breath and pushed the entire pile forward which elicited a little smile from the dealer. The other players raised their eyes from the green felt where their much smaller wagers sat,  silently considering the move. In house-banked games, it was each player versus the casino. The cards came out  clockwise, each player getting one and then the second  both face up. Bogie’s first card was an ace. He waited. His second card was a ten. The dealer paid off four hundred fifty dollars for the three hundred bet.  Bogie kept his lips tightly pressed together, an artery starting to pulse in his neck.

Two hands.    Bogie pushed all seven hundred fifty bucks forward. Any motion, any noise in the casino  evaporated and time itself  stopped. He forgot completely about the other people at the table, about the smell of food wafting out of the restaurants, the tinkling of slot coins.     Out came the second hand.     The King of Hearts stared at Bogie. Then another ace.  Blackjack again.     The dealer looked at Bogie, then at her own inferior  cards, and then back at him. This time as she counted out the chips and placed them in front of Bogie,  incredulity shading  her features.

Two hands.      Bogie caressed the stacked chips in front of him and thought: What the hell. A grand and a half up in two hands. Go for a third. When you’re hot, you’re hot, what the hell.                                         But this third time for Bogie it was going to be an act of defiance aimed at whoever was behind Packwood. One more hand  and then walk away. Bogie pushed out fifty dollars in chips. Two cards  landed in front of him: A four and a three. He hit. The dealer sailed the card across. Another four. She had a nine and a seven. Bogie drew a face card  and the fifty dollars in chips disappeared  from his side of the table.                                                           ***     Monday morning Bogie   was pushed back in his leather chair, the wide window in back of him cranked wide to a  pleasantly mild spring day as he  read through his emails, deleting ninety percent of what showed up in his ‘in’ box as unimportant.  A genuine alert from one of Flame Optics customers who had been hacked over the weekend prompted him to open another window on the screen which displayed the procedures to be followed to wall off any further incursions and  repair the damage.     Then everything disappeared and he was again staring at a blank screen and a blinking cursor.     Yu lidn’t dissent tu me. Yu won. But betted thurd time.

      Bogie bolted forward. Had he been followed to the casino? Weird cyber stuff was one thing. But if he was being stalked by someone… He typed:     Look, I don’t know who you are.  I appreciate your good guesses  but I’d really like you to i.d. yourself so we can talk about this face-to-face.

  I am dentufyed. Yu  lookink at me rite now. Namz Packwood.        Bogie decided no matter what the truth, he’d treat the computer as if it really was acting on its own. His return message read:     I might have lost. So, o.k. smarty. Think you can do it again? Prove it. (Bogie pursed his lips, then continued): I don’t think you can. I think that was dumb friggin’ luck, Packwood. And what do you want?

  Lotto numberts. Nensday Wight. Yu play 5,10, 11,30,40. We see whooze smarty on Therrsday. Tu early to tel yu whad I wont.     Bogie bought a single lotto ticket with the prescribed numbers during  Wednesday lunch hour and stuck it in his wallet. Oh, the odds, he thought. Only cost me a buck to have the last laugh on Packwood or whoever.     Bogie ate dinner and threw himself on his couch at 7:57 that evening to watch the drawing live at 8 P.M. On cue his flat screen filled with glitter and lights. Happy music swelled  in the background. A huge unattended glass orb sat front and center with black numbered ping pong balls lying at the bottom like  unborn offspring. From stage right popped out a stunning brunette in a tight dress with a smile  wide enough to reach the international border. From stage left emerged a slender, clean shaven man in a tuxedo with slicked back hair, both of his  hands waving at a wildly applauding unseen audience. “So here we are!” he boomed. “Nobody won the Lucky Loot drawing last Saturday or the week before that. Can you imagine?”     In fact Bogie could imagine. He knew the odds of winning were about the same as the odds that a pebble from planet Mars would survive entering earth’s atmosphere and lodge in his anus. But OK, the pleasure it would give him the next day if his cyber benefactor should have the guts to show up.     “Darla, start the spin!”     And so Darla did, the ping pong balls ricocheting inside the glass, the drama building until the balls were sucked one-by-one out of the orb and along a glass arm, the numbers showing at the bottom of the screen. “ Five! Ten! Eleven! Thirty! Forty! And the Bazillion Bonus number, forty three!”

    Bogie loosened his collar and sucked for air as he stared at the lotto ticket on the coffee table in front of him.  “Oh, my God.”                                                                        ***     On Thursday morning Bogie handed off a couple  medium-important assignments to other members of the team and made excuses about needing to work on a critical security issue. Then he sat back and drummed his fingers as he stared at the Packwood 900 computer screen. At 9:35 the desk top went blank.     Hullo snotso smartie. How much yu win?      Bogie’s hands trembled  as he typed: $25,000.  Thanks. I don’t know how you did it. But you didn’t give me the Bazillion Bonus number. If you had I’d have walked away with millions.

Yu churt my fellings. No rig beeward this time. I wont sumting.     Bogie rubbed at his bald spot then typed: OK, I apologize. My bad. And I am grateful. But I’m  in a deep financial hole and I want to get out. How about one more big payoff? I won’t insult you. I won’t doubt you. We’re pals. What do you want ?     The cursor on the screen froze.  Bogie held his breath. Then: Upgrate to Wavoci 1300 series. I need moar rume. Kramptin hear.

Bogie’s fingers moved like lightening: No problem, you got it.  All files transferred to the W-1300  after I score. All the RAM you want. But its got to be big. REALLY big.      The cursor blinked as if thinking. Saturrday is Kantakme Durby. You bet all on horce too win. Yu ket rich. I get Wavoci. Deel?    Back came Bogie: Deal, Packwood. What’s the name of the horse?

Hardeepy                                                            ***     Bogie went to a website-- his bible--  when betting on the ponies. Fourteen horses, a big field in Kentucky and none had been scratched. And there it was right at the top, ‘Hardplay’, the name naturally butchered by Packwood. The odds were fantastic, a long shot at seventy-to-one.  Bogie swung immediately into action. His first call was to the lone credit card issuer where he could use what remained of his credit line. Bogie grabbed it and transferred it to his account. Then he called  his financial adviser. Against his untapped retirement he borrowed everything.   Then he ordered the broker to liquidate the college funds he’d established for his three children when they and their mothers were still speaking to him.     “You sure about this?” The advisor asked. “What’s going on?”     “Don’t worry,” Bogie said. “It’ll all be back next week.”     His third call was darker. It went out to Louis L, a bookie and loan shark Bogie had come to know through some friends.  He’d managed to stay clear of  Louis even given his desperate financial situation, vowing that Louis, a dangerous man,  was the proverbial line he’d never cross. Now he crossed it.     “What you need?” The bookie asked. Bogie told him and Louis whistled. “That’s a lot. And you got to pay the ‘vig’ on top of that, you know?” Bogie said he understood. “And you got a week to get the money back to me, that clear?” Again, Bogie agreed. “And you know what will happen if you don’t, right?” Bogie told Louis it was a sure thing.     By Friday afternoon the entire flood of money had been routed to Bogie’s bank account and from there the bet on Hardway to win.  Bogie calculated he’d first pay Louis back and eliminate the risk to life and limb. Then he’d re-fund his retirement. The kids? Maybe, maybe not. Depended on whether they’d be nice to him.  All the other unpaid debts would be settled, he’d buy himself a house that no ex-wife could get her hands on and he’d take a nice long vacation-- maybe the south of France, maybe Spain-- and decide whether he wanted to return to work or simply live off his investments. These thoughts, sweet as sugar, held him on the drive home.                                                            ***

    Saturday afternoon Bogie went to his office which was empty except for a janitor   collecting some trash bins from a distant row of offices. Next to his Packwood 900 he turned the small t.v. mounted on a wall swivel so he could watch the race from his chair. He  closed his office door, opened the big window to the breeze, flipped the computer and t.v.  on and waited. Five minutes later the monitor glowed with a presence.

Didn spect yu at the offace, thot you  hom for this.

 You’ve got a Wavoci 1300 in your future, Bogie typed.

O guddy.

 After forty five minutes of exasperating build-up narration from Churchill Downs  the command ‘riders up’ was finally given and it was post time. Bogie’s eyes zeroed in on one horse, that horse wearing black-and-white stable colors with the name ‘Hardway’ printed on the saddle. The horses pranced toward the start and one by one the track hands coaxed them into the gates. Bogie’s heart beat a tattoo in his chest.

    “And they’re off!”     Hardway started square in the middle of the pack. At the first turn he gained ground and moved to the outside. “He’s gonna do it,” Bogie said out loud to nobody.  Hardway swerved left and went a nose ahead of the nearest horse, then stretched that  and was  just a few lengths behind the three lead horses bunched in front of him. Bogie dug his fingers into his thighs. It was happening. Hardway almost reached the flank of the next horse… and then faded. Four, then five, then six passed him. He was all in. Down the stretch he was dead last.     Bogie opened and shut his mouth like a fish gasping for air. He watched in shock as the winner bearing the stable colors of purple and red entered the flower-lined circle. The jockey dismounted to hugs from the owners and the trainer while a stable hand took the bridle of the animal and started to lead him away and the name ‘Cardplay’ in blazing white slid by on the screen.     “You sonofabitch of an ignorant cretin computer,” Bogie hissed as  he typed the same words. The  cursor blinked.

Wel, sorrie sbout speling, not reel gude at it.     It was ‘Cardplay’ not ‘Hardway’.

  Thus dis meen no Wavoci??????

Bogie  got out of his chair, reached for the power plug behind the computer screen and pulled it. He thought he heard a buzzing come from the Packwood 900 as it disconnected but would never know. Then the other plugs one by one he tore from their moorings until the tower was isolated and mute. He turned to the open window. Using both hands, the monitor was first to drop followed by the keyboard and then the speakers. Last went the tower. Ten stories below he watched with a grim calmness as the cement was littered with glass and shattered plastic. Then Bogie stood on his chair, stepped onto the ledge, spread his arms like a bird about to take flight and leaned forward.                                                                        ###

2881 Words.


The calling bell rang precisely twice with determined urgency, radiating as the faint sound of hope amidst the devastated household of the Archers. "Must be the police..open the door Sebastian", Lady Archer ordered, wiping her forehead with her laced handkerchief. "Yes ma'am" Sebastian opened the door and a short, burly man walked past him inside to face the people gathered in the large living area. The man wore a leather jacket and ripped jeans, and a sunglass hung from the breast pocket. His skin had the tint of light tan. He carried a small briefcase which was more likely to pass as a handbag. The Archer family, who were expecting to see a swarm of formal black uniforms were taken aback. Before the helpless, duty bound Sebastian could think of how he could address the situation, the man was marching promptly towards a middle aged man with ageing black hair. "Mr. Benjamin Archer I presume? Ian Horse, professionally referred to as a detective." There was a second's silence. Turning towards his family to share his surprise would seem rude, so Benjamin tried to cover it up in his tone. "I apologise for failing to recognise you, Mr. Horse." They shook hands. "It's alright, sir. Appearances are deceptive. Most gentlemen are even more surprised at first acquaintance. I'm not too late I assume. Colonel Dickinson had ringed me up. Would you show me the place where the necklace was kept?" “Certainly” Mr. Archer blushed a little in embarrassment at the knowledge that his surprise had been grasped by the man, as he guided the swift footed detective to the locker room in the second floor where all the family wealth was stored, apparently not safely.. "No one misplaced anything I assume?" "Just to look for the necklace, we turned the house upside down in anxiety, but I can guarantee that all was restored where it originally was. I made sure of that before calling the police." On the way the detective fired many questions and got to know all the details that the police was yet to gain. Mr. Archer's story stood thus-The diamond necklace, the costliest among the family heirloom was a birthday gift to Mr. Archer's then eighteen year old grandmother from her only aunt, which had been passed on to Mr. Archer's wife on their wedding day. Since then, the precious ornament lay either in the locker or in the days of conferences and parties hung boastingly around Mrs. Archer's neck, for it was her favourite piece of ornament among the abundant she owned. Until two hours back, just when the couple were dressing up for a dance party, Stefannie's shrill scream was heard, and on further discovery it became known among the household that the diamond necklace was missing..thorough search was carried out with no fruit, even though Stefannie was adamant on the fact that she was sure that the necklace was kept nowhere else but the locker when it was last seen. Mr. Archer had added that it was unlikely that his wife was mistaking the fact, because the necklace used to roam from the locker to Stefannie's neck and back to the locker, nowhere in between. "But the strange part is that no other ornament or jewel has disappeared..there are jewels worth much more than the necklace and so many other valuables, but the thief decided to take that very necklace.." "We might take a thief into account only after we have solid proof of a theft." declared the detective, taking in every bit of detail around him. "But there's nothing to prove, of course there has been a theft..my wife remembers the day we first met in college, thirty eight years back clearly to this day..she can't possibly be wrong about three weeks ago." "That ought to be the last occasion involving the necklace?" "No, it wasn't..,It was about.. two months ago." "Then what about three weeks ago?" Benjamin looked around a little hastily. "You see, we just cannot trust the servants..so Stefannie and I personally check the locker once every month." "Does any outsider, including servants know a little too much about the locker by chance?" "Not as far as my knowledge goes..but I think I've been proved wrong already." "Is everyone in your family down there?" "All except for my older nephew Martin who is studying abroad." The detective took in every bit of the information precisely, professionally adept at making the most out of it. "Why was everyone in the hall at the moment of my arrival?" "Actually, we had heard a sound when we were searching for the necklace..we had assembled downstairs to find out what had happened." "And?" "We could not trace the origin. It had died away as soon as we had heard it." They passed the corridor and entered a room towards the left hand side. The locker came into view. It was obviously locked. The detective examined the room while Mr. Hunter stood at the door, looking on with hopeful eyes. The detective came to him. "The necklace obviously has additional utility if no other valuable was misplaced. Would you mind if I check the content?" "Oh surely" The locker creaked open and all of it came into view. "Is that part absolutely confirmed and reconfirmed that only a necklace is missing?" "Yes, checked three times myself." He closed the locker. "Any special reason for claiming it to be a theft? Do you suspect anyone?" Mr.Archer tensed as he quickly glanced around and whispered while pointing at a nearby wall painting, "Yes..I think it was our maid Sabine." "Why do you suspect that?" "Because she was the closest to my wife and accompanies her almost everywhere in the house..from kitchen to the garden and back." He kept on pointing at the painting. "But you trust your family not to let out secrets?" "I do I do, but I think the maid has somehow managed to steal the necklace and is hiding it." "Why do you think she would take such a risk?" "Because once she had been caught red handed stealing some money from the drawer. I had seen it myself, yet Stefannie would not believe it was her..she trusts her too..CAREFUL!!!" Horse had stumbled over and a statue fell down and smashed into pieces. "I'm extremely sorry ..I will clean that up. I'll compensate.."he kneeled down to gather the pieces. "It's okay..sir..the maid will clean that up..please don't worry about it..are you hurt??" "Not a bit compared to the statue.." Mr. Archer telephoned downstairs and summoned the maid. Meanwhile Sebastian had come upstairs with two glasses of fresh lime juice. "Thank you..hot day indeed..my apology again for the statue" Horse took a sip. “Hmm..valid reason against the maid..” "Do you believe that the necklace has been stolen, now?" Archer asked,eyeing around in his nervous manner . " To each word..pray we go downstairs now.." "Surely" They walked downstairs. The four other Archers included Stefannie Archer, Mr. Archer's two younger brothers and a married sister. All of them had the same story to tell. The detective put his hands in his jeans pockets and stood before the window..eyes closed.." "I won't be able to eat anything before I find out what became of the necklace" Mrs. Archer was heard complaining in a muttering tone. Clearly, she did not take the appearance of the detective very appreciatively. Mr. Archer was trying to hush her. "You might have your lunch very soon then, Mrs. Archer..but probably not peacefully, I'm afraid" The detective’s composed voice echoed in the large room. "What??Mr. Horse.. I'm pretty sure Sabine is innocent..she is not involved in this, you can take my word." Stefannie knew where this was going, and she was adamant to save her faithful companion at all costs. "I'm not saying she isn't innocent." "Well!!Who stole the necklace then??Where is it??!" “I need to take a few details from the neighborhood for producing proof, if my theory be correct. You will have to excuse me for twenty minutes, I’m afraid.” And with that the detective walked out of the front door. “Twenty minutes! The thief will reach the airport in that time and safely check in by then!” Rita Archer Morris exclaimed in frustration. “Interesting..” Frank Archer looked on. “Weird man I know, but worth it Stefannie..he’s not who we thought him to be.” Mr. Archer tried to console his lady. “I could see that..did you see his attire?!”Stefannie responded bitterly and a bit too loudly. About hundred meters away, that same attire was stripped off and replaced by a new makeover..he was unrecognizable.

Next day, The Daily Mail reported of ‘a coincidental second robbery’.


One day, not so very long ago, a young nurse named Angela needed to use the laundromat. She loved to ride the waves after work, to let her surfboard carry her through cool water and salt air.  She loved to ride the back of the ocean, to feel the power swell beneath her feet, to let the water take her on adventures, to spy sparkling shells buried in the sand, to follow sharks and dolphins, to make the water sing with her. But all her suits were sodden with salt and sand, so she made the trek through sun blasted streets, trudging past wraiths curled up under the barred windows of smoke shops, avoiding the stares of  tattooed and bearded giants, finally pushing through the glass doors of the laundromat, bells tinkling behind her.

The washers gleamed in friendly rows – though the largest one, the triple loader loomed alone in its corner, its round door dark and ominous. Angela avoided it, choosing instead a spritely little machine, a single loader.

Two old women sat together watching their clothes spin through the rinse cycle. One chattered happily to the other who was wearing a sky-blue bathrobe with a pattern of shooting stars, but she ignored her friend, murmuring to herself instead.

As she began her wash, the chatterbox turned to Angela. She was missing a tooth and had hair sprouting from her chin, but her eyes were bright and kind.

“I’m Drusilla. My friend, Griselda, thinks something bad is coming here. Do you feel it? I don’t feel it.”

“I don’t feel it,” Angela said.

“Griselda is usually right. She uses herbs and sometimes runes. She has the power of sight. Not me. I just go with my gut. What about you?”

“I like to surf.”

“Oh,” said Drusilla, “so you’re one of those. Well, aren’t you the special one.”

Before Angela could reply, a tall man pushed open the doors, bells silent behind him. He was broad-shouldered and blue-eyed, his blond hair precisely groomed – he wore khakis and loafers without socks.

He surveyed the room, his cold blue eyes sweeping across the people waiting on benches, the spinning of clothes, the rush and roar of water pouring into and out of machines. His eyes swept over them, resting first on the triple loader which seemed to return his gaze and then on Griselda, her bathrobe, her grizzled hair, her restless mouth. He leaned casually against the wall, crossed his arms, and stared, the room belonging to him.

“I don’t know,” Angela whispered, “Maybe I do feel like something bad is about to happen.”

Drusilla whispered back, “He’s one, isn’t he. An evil one.”

At the far end of the laundromat, a small door creaked open, and a tiny wrinkled man appeared. He carried a bucket and cleaning cloths and began to wipe out the machines. The blond man’s eyes swept across him, too. They swept across the glass doors as they were pushed open by a dark-haired woman carrying two heavy baskets. They swept after her as she placed one basket on the ground and loaded clothes into the washer from the other. They followed her out the door, bells tinkling behind her, as she rushed to her car for another load.

A baby cried.

“No, you cannot,” Griselda hissed at the blond man.

Lazily the blond man straightened up, lazily the blond man swaggered over to Griselda. Lazily, he looked down on her.

“You’re wrong. I can and I will.”

But Griselda’s eyes were closed and her murmuring sounded like water rushing over stones or the surf retreating over seashells.

The blond man swiveled his eyes to Angela and Drusilla.

“They don’t belong here, you see. Immigrants. From those countries. They ruin everything for the rest of us. This is the only way they’ll learn. I don’t want to do this, but it’s my duty. It’s my duty to my brotherhood. I’ve sworn an oath, so I don’t have a choice, do I. I have to honor my oath to drive them away. To keep us pure and unpolluted.” And then he smiled, showing them his gleaming white teeth.

He snatched the basket the woman had placed on the floor and inside it a baby cried. A baby with chubby rosy cheeks and curly black hair.

And before Angela could think, like a thunderbolt he placed the basket with the baby in the triple loader and slammed the door shut. And then he was gone.  No bells tinkling in his wake.

And because it was in Angela’s nature to save lives, she rushed to open the door, but even with all her strength she couldn’t, even with the strength of the desperate mother, the door wouldn’t budge.

The caretaker placed gentle hands on their shoulders, “There’s nothing you can do. She’ll keep the water from rising,” he gestured at Griselda whose murmuring had intensified, “without the silver disc, there’s no way to open it.”

Drusilla held the sobbing mother, the three of them helpless as the baby’s faint cries were heard through the round door.

“What disc? What’s happening?” Angie had to find a way to help.

The caretaker sighed. “That...person ...you saw, Preston Simmons, owns this place. He doesn’t need the money, it’s a like a game for him, he enjoys catching people, playing with them, terrifying them. It’s fun for him.  He set a trap in here – the triple loader. He uses it to scare people, sometimes worse. But he usually releases them with the disc, after they’re terrified and beg for mercy and promise to leave the country. But he became enraged last week, when no one here spoke English, and one girl laughed at him when he spoke to her, so he threw the disc in the ocean where no one can find it. Our only hope is Griselda, that she can find a way to break open the door.”

Angela knelt down next to the mother whose hand was pressed against the door of the machine, the baby inside reaching for her.

“We’ll find a way. We can take the machine apart. I’ll get tools.”

“That doesn’t work,” the caretaker said. “He has powers, that man or whatever he is. I’ve tried everything. Everything breaks, my best electric drill. Nothing works, it’s all been tried before.”

Drusilla straightened up, her eyes bright and shining as she regarded Angela.

“I know something that will work - it’s you. Of course, you’re the special one. Go ride the waves. Go on, let your friendship with the ocean help us.  Go now. Don’t question it – just go.”

Angela struggled to the beach – she felt she could hardly move; she could hardly lift her legs as she fought her way through the thickened air.  She felt the cold eyes of Preston Simmons everywhere, holding her back, his rage infecting the air, baking the sidewalks, pulling her down.

She staggered through hot sand, so deep and hot, she felt she would be buried in it.  Someone’s surfboard lay ahead of her, thrown on the sand – she fell to her knees and crawled towards it. When her hands touched its edges, she felt some strength return and half dragged it to the surf. But the waves resisted, they pushed her down, they held her down, pounded out her air. She thought that she would never breathe again, betrayed even by the waves. The waves roiled into violence by the force of Preston’s rage. Pinned to the sand she saw sunlight beckon through the water and the waves, finally recognizing her, collapsed and retreated. Blue sky welcomed her, the water now contrite and calm. The board floated above her head, waiting patiently for her to paddle out, to ride the right wave to shore.

She could feel the roll of the water approaching her, the powerful swell approaching.  The sun made a shining path over which three pelicans flew and then it was time.

In apology, the water made a temple for her a shining blue cathedral she entered just under the crest of the wave. She rode through silence and blue light and absolute stillness. And as she emerged into sunlight and shallow water, a silver disc shone in the sand at her feet.

Running past the eyes of wraiths and giants, water pouring off her shorts and tee shirt she slammed into the laundromat, bells tinkling behind her, and held the silver disc triumphantly aloft.

The caretaker delicately passed it before the blackened, baleful door of the washer which with a guttural groan creaked reluctantly open. The mother flew to her baby who wrapped his chubby brown arms around her neck.

Griselda stood up and took Angela’s hand in hers.

“We have work to do,” she said.

And Angela did do the work, saving lives across the world and riding waves wherever there was need of her.


Even as a small child, I was obsessed with Superheroes and the incredible feats that they could achieve. Now, as an adult, my love for the Super Powers still exists; in fact, it may be stronger than ever before.            My name is James MacAvoy, a simple suburban-living chemist with a keen sense for numbers. I had been working on several formulas over the years which would allow me to develop my own superpowers. Unfortunately, up until now, they have all proven to be unsuccessful.            Let’s see…First was the formula to give me super strength, but instead, I broke out in a full-body rash. I think restraining myself from scratching was a superpower in itself.            Next came the formula which would allow me to run at super speed, but instead, my heart rate increased so much, that I had to be rushed to the hospital after suffering cardiac arrest.            Following that mishap, I tried a formula that would allow me to fly. I came close you might say; my hair stood straight up and seemed to defy gravity, but the rest of my body remained grounded.            These were followed up by one failure after another, but I believe that I may finally be onto something this time. I am working on a formula that will theoretically cover my skin with a protective shell and make my body impenetrable. If this works, I could sell the formula to the military and the police departments so they could replace their heavy bulletproof vests or flak jackets with a lightweight skin protecting their entire bodies. I could make millions…BILLIONS!            Tonight’s test will be the clincher. Needless to say, I won’t be testing on myself first. I will begin with inanimate objects like wooden stumps and bags of sand, and then if successful, I will move on to living objects such as plants and animals.            Test Subject #1: Wooden stump of a Maple tree. The stump measures thirteen inches in diameter and ten inches high. Bark surrounding the stump is a quarter-inch thick. I will be firing a 9mm cartridge from a Glock pistol. The formula is being applied by a spray gun hooked up to an air compressor and will completely cover the stump. The drying time of the formula appears to be fifteen minutes after a single coat. I am firing a single shot to the center of the bark-side of the stump. The test appears to have failed. The bark was splintered and the bullet passed four inches into the stump.            Test Subject #2: Sandbag weighing 10-pounds. The bag has been suspended to a frame with each corner fastened securely to the frame. The bag is made of canvas though it appears to be non-porous. Once again, the formula is being applied to the canvas sandbag using an air compressor, however, this time two coats are being applied with fifteen minutes of drying time for each coat. Again, I am using a Glock 9mm as my test weapon. A single shot is fired at the center of the bag, but this time, very little damage has been made to the sandbag. All that happened, was a small puncture hole had begun, though the bullet did not fully penetrate.            Test Subject #3: Ficus Benjamina, commonly known as a weeping fig or ficus tree. The plant stands twenty-four inches above the planter that it sits in. The planter will be supported by ratchet straps on either side of the plant to prevent it from being knocked over at the force of the bullet. Three coats of the formula are being applied with the air compressor. A Glock 9mm is once again the test weapon. A single shot is fired towards the leaves of the Ficus, and it appears to have stopped the bullet. The 9mm cartridge lays at the base of the plant.            Test Subject #4: Laboratory Rat, deceased. The subject died of natural causes two days ago. Three coats of the formula are applied to the subject’s entire body with 15 minutes of drying time given between coats. The Glock 9mm has been fired from a distance of ten feet away towards the midsection of the subject’s body. The rat was not harnessed to the table in any way, and yet it barely moved an inch after impact from the bullet. There does not appear to be any physical damage to the tissue of the rodent.            Test Subject #5: Laboratory Rat, living. Duplicate application of the formula is being applied to Subject #5. The subject seems to be unfazed by the full-body coverage of the formula. I will proceed with the test. A Glock 9mm pistol was fired from ten feet away. The subject is not harnessed in any way to the table and yet was unmoved by the impact. No visible physical damage. X-rays show no interior damage either. No apparent side-effects at this time.            It has been one week since the testing of the live rat, and still no signs of damage or altered behavior in any way. I will now move on to human testing.            Test Subject #6: Homosapien. Dr. James MacAvoy, Ph.D. With the assistance of a colleague, I was able to convert my formula applicator into a walk-in shower. The chemical will be released in a mist form. I will allow four coats with the appropriate drying time in between each application. Unable to find a colleague who was willing to fire the pistol, I have also rigged up the pistol to fire remotely at my command. The cameras are capturing the entire process from six different angles for later analysis. From ten feet away, I press the button on the remote and the gun fires. What I feel upon impact is a slight tap, similar to that of a finger poking your belly. I look down to see if the cartridge had hit the floor in front of me, and to my shock, all I could see was the bullet. I could no longer see my legs, torso, or arms. After running to the mirror, I realize that my entire body was now transparent. The formula was a success with bulletproofing my skin, however, it seems to have had a chemical reaction to my human DNA and has made me virtually invisible. It is more like light is being refracted off of my skin allowing the illusion of invisibility. After turning off the laboratory lights, my skin had once again become visible. As I shine a flashlight across my arm, however, a portion of my arm disappears. My conclusion is that my formula has gone beyond all expectations and further testing will need to be done.            It has now been three weeks since I tested the formula on myself and I am beginning to see the refraction of light slowly wearing off, so I will reapply the formula and see if there is any improvement.            The reapplication of my formula has again allowed my superpowers to return. It is time for me to take it to the streets to see what good I can do.            The testing of my superpowers in public has been a great success. I spotted a bank being robbed and I was able to sneak inside unnoticed and disarm the suspect without him realizing what had happened. I then subdued him by twisting his arm behind his back and forcing him out of the front door into the care of the police department.            The next day, on the cover of the local newspaper, there was a picture of the suspect from the bank robbery stating, “A ghost made me give up!” . That settles it; instead of making billions of dollars off of my invention, I am going to put it to good use and become a crime fighter. Look out world, The Refractor is here!


I am roused from my 10 a.m. slumber by the sound of a phone notification going off. Fuzzy dreams of black wavy hair and crinkled-eye smiles still linger in my head as I reach for my phone on my shelf. My initial thought is not that it could be you because I haven't heard from you in days. Although, who else could it be? My only friend is someone I've known since fifth grade, who is now 25 years old and married. She only reaches out to me once every two months through random Instagram messages from her favorite cat lover account to let me know she's still out there. If it's not her, then I'm sure it's another Instagram notification followed by forty others that will soon follow throughout the morning. But, then again, could it be you? I become excited as blurry images of brown doe eyes still rush to swarm my drowsy thoughts.

Don't be , I tell myself.

The notification list is just as I thought, except your beautiful, magnificent, adoring name, wedged in between the forty Instagram notifications, graces my small screen, impossible not to catch. A missed video call. Not a message. I look at the clock. I have work at 12:00. It takes 40 minutes to get there. Based on my typical routine, it should take approximately 10 minutes for a shower, 10 minutes for breakfast, and 5 minutes to make lunch (assuming we have turkey). Ok, I don't have time to call you back. But my finger selecting the notification has a mind of its own. I guess I'll skip lunch today. Or just work altogether.

It takes a minute to go through, but soon your bunny-toothed smile captures my screen. Your eyes squint in joy, and your hair flops around your head in black waves long enough to cover your secret bunny ears, which I know must be hiding underneath. But I can't miss the iced mug of dark yellow beer in your hand raised up to the screen. Now I understand why your smile looks so goofy. I laugh lightly to cover the worry. You are miles and miles away, and although it may not be 10 a.m. where you are, it's still 3 a.m. on a Saturday for you. I'm concerned. It seems like you're making this a habit. You're a casual drinker, but is it considered casual when you're crying by the night's end? I decide not to ask you. It's been a while; I keep it light. And I've missed you too much. I inform you that I have work in an hour, and I'll need to carry you in my pocket for the day. However, you don't acknowledge my playful attempt to get your attention. I send an onslaught of messages, each containing bright purple hearts, one after the other, but again I fail.

You've started a karaoke session in your apartment. Turns out you also sing when you're sad too. Since you're busy, I walk around the house getting ready for work and listen to your drunken melodies through my earbuds. Even while intoxicated, your voice is sickeningly sweet, pure, and honest, laced with pain in its octaves. I gladly listen to you sing and sing as I crack eggs on the counter for breakfast and fasten on my light-washed overalls, imagining you here beside me. After I've picked out a coat for the nippy Spring day, I realize you've gone quiet. I then notice you've disappeared from the screen when I look at my phone. Your room is dark, as usual, the only natural light emitted from a flickering candle you lit and placed in front of the screen. I look for you in the shadows. I can only make out the black couch and the scattered stars rotating on your ceiling, cascading over your living room in a green and blue galaxy-like dust projected from your favorite galaxy mood lamp. Then I hear the soft snores coming through my ear. You fell asleep. You're lying on the couch but out of the video lens. The candle you have lit burns next to the screen; it sounds like a tiny crackling fireplace. It's peaceful. If I could, I'd stay and fall asleep right next to you.

It's now 11:25. Again, I am late. We'll talk next time.

At work later on I get a message from you: Lol, is it morning?! I still need to sleep more :) I'm still sleepy I reply back. Oh, look who woke up, sleepyhead >.< :)

—------------------------------------------- The library life is fantastically eventful. Only three or four patrons scour the dust and book-filled shelves and sit behind the only two available public computers in the corner. As I assist a patron with the printer, I ponder whether my English degree was a worthwhile investment. Meanwhile, I sneak glances at my phone hidden under the counter, eagerly anticipating a message from you. Although you're probably still sleeping in your beer coma. I shut my phone off. As I listen to an elderly man scold my coworker for not putting up the closed sign on our holiday Monday last week, my mind wanders into a daydream. I imagine you waking up to the warm midday sun with your hair tousled and your lips slightly swollen from a deep sleep, only to discover that your video is still on. I laugh lightly to myself. You'll probably be famished once you wake up.

I count the hours, I count the minutes, I watch old videos of you and your friends playing games of UNO and Jenga while I take phone calls that blur into one another. "No, this is not the Law Library," "Yes, you need a library card for that," "No, I cannot provide that." But it's not enough.

When I get home, I tell myself to search for new jobs. My part-time job doesn't pay me nearly enough to support me. Nor the occasional concert ticket. I fight the urge to check Instagram to see what you've been up to. I remind myself not to live vicariously through you, to not become too intertwined in your life. Holding onto my pink bunny plushie, I recite this mantra and open my computer only to see a collage of our pictures I made last month and set as my wallpaper, with your face in it. I fail.

I know you haven't posted anything, that's not unusual for you, but when I search your name, I can't find you. There are countless accounts with your exact name, but I don't see that familiar black-and-white silhouette profile picture. I check all the letters of your name. I spelled it correctly. Do I need to remember the underline? I type "J, U, N," but it doesn't appear. I check your messages from today. Could I have missed something while at work? I discover there's one message unread: I left Instagram. I just erased it because I never used it. I don't think I'll use it in the future just letting you know :) Oh. Well, at least I have your pictures saved. I close the app. I really need to get a life,

I think to myself . But where would I start?

I think back to the day I first saw you. My best friend invited me to her house one day; she had been trying to introduce me to you and your friends for months, stating you were the next big thing. She said you all sang and harbored immense talent, but she said your voice specifically was one of pure magic. I could care less, but she asserted that I had to see you; actually, she said, "You have to see his friend. He's so beautiful!." Your friend was more handsome, I'll admit. The first of your friend group to catch my eye and all the other girl's eyes, I'm sure. Initially, he appeared distant and aloof, resembling a stunning yet frigid sculpture. However, as the night progressed, I learned he was quite warm and open. Nevertheless, I took one long look at his marble form and let my eyes flit elsewhere. They fell on, what I come to know, as your more responsible friend. This one seemed most intuned with my usual type. Kind and intelligent and just a bit of a goofball. I sometimes imagine if you weren't there that day how we would be married by now, on our second child. Naming our second son Indigo. But I'd never tell you that.

I'd like to say I didn't see you first; instead, I heard you first. This doesn't make sense because sitting next to your friends, you were the more reserved of the group. The kind to watch things play out before acting. Shy, but not around those close to you. Your hair was cut short around your face, dyed a light brown, and straight. You had a constant Duchenne smile which made you appear innocent but a little mischievous. You definitely were noticed. When a karaoke session began, I watched as you went up for a rendition of

Memory of the Wind  by the singer Naul, right after your kind, intelligent friend had just jokingly butchered it. We laughed along with him at his self-deprecating humor; however, this suddenly broke off at the first sound of your voice. I was entranced. To this day, that song remains my favorite because you sang it. Even against the muffled mic defects in your 10-dollar karaoke microphone, your voice was clear and powerful, warm and comforting. Even your friend's laughter had abruptly paused as they sat and listened, even though I'm sure they'd heard it a hundred times before me. You were not just a noticeable boy anymore. You took the stage, the forefront. You became the glittering star. The crowd you made gather around you could not look away. And neither could I.

I still can't.

You were born to be a singer. Nobody that ever met you would ever question it. I was not surprised in the least when your talent was noticed by a large entertainment company too. I supported you from the sidelines and became one of your fans as you climbed to the top. I was ok in my little part of the world as you discovered and conquered the whole of yours. And you stayed humble, always coming back to me at the end of the day. You really loved me. You had never failed to say it every day. But calls got shorter, and the days got lonelier. What was I to expect? You were living your life; I needed to live mine.

You told me on a video call one day to prioritize my life and be happy even if you were not with me. You cried that day. You were drunk again. You were sitting at your dinner table with a white beanie and black hair underneath, curling against your neck.

Were you leaving me? Was this the end?  No, no,

you  were my only priority.

You

made me happy. I needed you. Nothing else mattered.

My friend, the one who introduced me to you in the first place, told me you were right. I needed to move on. I was becoming too "obsessed" with you, she said. But she didn't understand. We had something special. You loved me, and I loved you. We relied on each other. But I yielded to her concern and put on my best fake smile. So I went to college for five years and got that degree I'm still not sure I wanted or needed. I spent day after day writing, reading, writing. You went to the White House and shook hands with the President, targeting social issues, spending day after day singing, traveling, and winning. I heard a rumor you dated that famous singer with flawless skin, the pixy nose, the one with Bambi's eyes. Her songs are almost as mesmerizing as your voice. I can see why you picked her.

Over time, I have come to accept the bitter truth that your life is beyond my reach. Your life appears to be a constant display of vibrant purples and shimmering blues, like an endless fireworks show. You have found what you love, nurtured your talent, and let it flourish into beautiful roses. Giving one to each person whose lucky enough to receive one. I would like to take a little bit of your magic and sprinkle some overhead as well. Maybe some tulips might grow instead of these weeds.

I want to prove that although we may be far apart, our love for each other remains strong. I know I am your biggest supporter. If given a chance, I could make you happy and wipe away any tears that fall. I've known you for so long. Our friendship, our love, can overcome anything. —-------------------------------- I find myself standing at your doorstep, outside your hotel room. I had heard that you were in town, and although I know you value your privacy, I remember you mentioning that you wished we could all meet up in person instead of just chatting online. Maybe now is the right time for that. That day could be today. I took off the weekend from work to see you and be here for you. You seem so down lately, I had to come cheer you up. So here I am, food in tow, with your favorites, sweet bread, and strawberry milk.

A friend on Instagram told me you were staying here. I hope she's right. I even bought a room beneath the floor you're supposed to be staying on. It's 10 p.m. right now. Tomorrow is your 24th concert, but I'm sure you're awake, considering your video calls are always past 12 p.m. I waited until this floor was clear because I didn't want any distractions; I'm already nervous.

Room 284.  I knock on the door twice. I stand there for a minute or two, with no answer, before I hear footsteps coming down the hall.

I panic.

I drop the food in front of your door and sprint down the opposite direction of the hall, pushing through the emergency exit doors as I race down the three flights of stairwells and throw myself through the lobby stairwell entrance. I fly through the lobby, boots hitting against the red and beige patterned carpet until I pass the hotel bellhops with puzzled looks on their faces and set off down the sidewalk at full speed, my heart in my throat, and possibly the dinner I had three hours ago.

—--------------------------- "Did you see Jun-sang's Weverse post?" My boba drink is grasped tightly as I suddenly hear the name. I look up from my phone to find my friend staring at her phone across the table with a disturbed look. My palms suddenly feel sweaty.

"No, why?" My voice sounds calm enough.

"Those sasaengs are at it again." She rolls her eyes and hands her phone to me. I read the post for the second–first time.

Jun-sang: Please don't send me delivery food. I'm thankful for your concern, but I won't eat it even if you send it over. I'm serious. Stop. If I get sent food one more time, I will check the receipt number and take further action to stop this. End it beforehand.

My throat is dry. I can't form words, so I look up at my friend and widen my eyes in a dramatic expression of surprise.

"I know, right?" She states, grabbing her phone. "That would have been you five years ago, too," she jokingly bursts out laughing, resuming her scroll through Weverse. I laugh nervously with her and sip my boba tea to keep myself busy. "Have you seen his recent lives?" she continues, "He seems a bit sad lately, but his lives look like so much fun. I heard he got drunk and fell asleep with the live still going the other day! Did you watch it? I just saw some clips on Instagram." I shake my head vigorously, mouth full of milk tea as I chew the boba slowly.

"Oh wow, you've really changed since your Z2M phase. I still remember when I showed you that video of their group singing karaoke at my house 5 or 6 years ago. I was so in love with Tae-hwan. And you were so obsessed with Jun-sang. I could tell you were hooked as soon as you heard his voice. All I heard for the next year after that was how great he was. That's all you ever talked about!" My friend begins to laugh hysterically across the table as she relives our old memories. I stay silent.

When her laughter finally dies down, she looks at me again, quiet for a moment. "I'm pretty sure you were their biggest fan," she giggles. "I had to force you to get out of your room and off that computer. I mean, your still a fan, right?" As I gaze at the tablecloth adorned with purple and white flowers, I run my fingernail along the curves of the stitching. I glance up to see her curious expression.

"I mean, not so much. I'm not really a fan anymore."


Dry leaves tumbled down the empty street. Samantha stared out her window. The cloudy glass made it difficult to see out clearly. Yet, she knew no one was out there. No one ever was out there. Why aren’t children playing ?

She turned and walked back to the kitchen. She needed to figure out what to make for dinner. Opening the fridge, she leaned in searching the shelves.

Nothing . I need to do the shopping. Samantha sat down at her computer and launched the grocery website. She scrolled through the food options and selected the usual commodities. Chocolate would be nice, but she had no extra for frivolous purchases. She finished, closed the browser, and walked back to her bedroom. There she found her husband, Thomas, lounging on the bed reading with his tablet.

“I bought groceries.” Thomas muttered a wordless grunt. “I saw children playing outside today.” Immediately Thomas looked up from his novel. His forehead tightened, his mouth pursed.

“Did you see birds?” “Yes, small ones. I think they are called swallows.” “Oh good I was worried about them.” Samantha smiled. One of these days we need to talk about this for real . “Have you talked to your parents?” Thomas closed his book then dialed his mom. He waited while it rang. Samantha waited in the background, holding her breath, hoping that everything would be okay.

On the fourth ring, his mom answered, “Hello Tommy. I was wondering if I would hear from you today.” Thomas swallowed, his eyes blinked a few times.

Oh thank God. “I call everyday, Mom.” “That you do sweetie. How’s Samantha?” Samantha took that invite as her cue to join in the conversation. Laying on the bed next to Thomas, she leaned into camera view. “Hi Mary! It is so good to see you. How was your day?” “Can’t complain.” Mary’s smile rang false.

Tears gathered in the gentle lines that graced her temples, hints to happier days.They could tell the truth was the exact opposite.

Samantha laid her head on Thomas’ shoulder. One day we will be able to be open and honest again. “Same here. Sun is shining, birds are singing.” Mary’s eyes opened bigger.

“Oh really? That is good to hear. I really miss the birds.” They both took a sharp intake of breath. Samantha looked at Thomas out of the corner of her eye as Thomas clenched Samantha’s hand. She tried to guide the conversation, “You hear them all the time. You told me last time.” Blinking rapidly, Mary seemed to get the hint. “You are right, just today I heard the sweet warble of a swallow.” Thomas gave a quiet sigh of relief. “How’s dad?” Stay positive . “Just fine. He sends his love,” Mary said with watery eyes. By blinking a few more times, she managed not to cry and maintained a stoic expression. “Well dears, I should be going. I love you both so much.” “Love you mom!” Samantha and Thomas said in unison. Thomas touched the hang up button. They sat in silence for a few moments. Samantha very softly, in a voice of a hush whisper, asked, “Think she will be okay?” Not wanting to lie in positive phrases, Thomas shook his head and pulled his wife closer to him. There is always someone listening. Always.

They went through the evening routine in silence. A heaviness hung over them as concern weighed them down. The weight could only be lifted with a successful conversation tomorrow evening. Samantha cooked dinner, noisily banging pots and pans. That is what happened to dad. She looked at all her modern appliances, refusing to wipe a tear. This is how it is now.

After dinner Thomas and Samtha cleaned up together. Then they put their phones, watches, and tablets on the table.

Thomas took her by the hand and led them into the master bathroom.

He locked the door and Samantha turned on the water to fill their large soaking tub. Thomas drew the blinds, and pulled the curtains shut. Neighbors will think we are doing other things.

As the water poured into the tub, Thomas grabbed Samantha into a caring embrace.

Together they cried. Deep heart wrenching sobs wracked their bodies.

Eventually the tears slowed, Samantha breathing came rapidly, she rubbed her eyes with the heels of her palms. She leaned down to get a handful of water to splash on her face. Thomas did the same. Then they slipped into the warm water to soak away the pain of sorrow.

The water was almost too hot, it eased the tension from her shoulders as she sunk further in. Breaking the silence she whispered, “What will we do? We can’t keep living like this.” “No we can’t. But remember according to John Locke, ‘government is an agreement between the ruled and the ruler.’ Eventually things will get righted.” Samantha slipped under the water for a moment to wet her hair. As she resurfaced, she stated, “Not soon enough.”

“We should finish up. I don’t want anything thinking we have been offline too long. I will miss your father.” They quickly dressed. Samantha hugged her husband before he walked out of the bathroom. She took the time to drain the tub and hang up their towels. We need to make a plan, take a risk. I think tomorrow will show us what we need to do. *** Samantha sat shoulder to shoulder with Thomas at the dining table. Their intertwined fingers out of sight of the camera. She held her breath as the call rang. After the fourth ring her body asserted itself, forcing her to breathe.

Thomas counted the rings, nine. Ten. On the twelfth ring, he closed the application. The room absorbed all sounds. Nothing moved. Nothing spoke. The loudest silence held them captive. Half an hour passed before Thomas looked at her. His raised eyebrow matched her internal thoughts. Now .

They went upstairs, turned on the tub water again. This time they didn’t shut the door. This time they rebelled. All their smart gadgets dove into the tub.Each gracefully swimming in a zigzag pattern, coming to rest gently on the bottom of the bathtub.

Thomas haphazardly threw clothes into a suitcase, not paying attention to what he threw in. Samantha pulled her prepared one out of the towel closet. With a nod, they started to exit their safe room.

She put her hand on his shoulder, causing him to pause. Quickly in her stocking feet, she walked to the bathroom mirror. Using her brightest red lipstick she wrote on the mirror, “The ruled have had enough.”

Thomas and Samantha left.


The night still rang fresh in his mind. Three years and the smell of burning rubber still came to him. He could see it too playing out for him. He took another swig from the vodka bottle to his left. He twiddled the small ring around on his finger. He could still smell her lavender perfume. The keyring jingled in his hands as he fumbled through it looking for the one that fit the door of his car. Genavieve had looked so beautiful in her sparkling dress. Her makeup was a little smudged and it made him think of what she would look like after she'd been fucked. He had seen it many times before but tonight was special. The way they danced, the way she teased him, rubbing her hands in places she knew she shouldn't. He finally thrust the right key into the car door, swinging it open, and getting into the driver's seat. He debated it for a while, start the car and drive. He had remembered at this moment all he had learned. The videos in drivers Ed of the bloody faces and broken limbs, the words "this could be you" stuck bitterly onto his tongue. He continued despite it and shoved the key into the ignition. He sat up now and checked his surroundings, looked at the empty bottle of vodka in his hands. He wanted to blame it. Pin some sort of responsibility onto the bottle for what had happened. Voices in his head screamed otherwise. The voice of her mother when she told him it was his fault. The sight of her leaning into the casket (the same one he was too guilty to look into) tears streaming down her face. As her mother stared into the casket of her daughter. He stood from his spot on the couch and headed for the kitchen. He needed to see it. He had to go back. He grabbed the keys off the key hook. The car's engine roared to life as the key turned, the sound of it made him jump. Before he left the spot he looked at Genavieve, her soft features still visible even in the low light of the car. Everything hit him at once their wedding night, their first time, even the first time he had laid eyes upon her in chemistry. He loved her. The car's headlights turned on and he rolled out of his parking spot, he was headed to that place again. He needed to see it again. The Oregon roads were slick with ice and the roads seemed dead. If it weren't for the lit houses he would've thought the whole town up and left. the bottle of vodka still swam through his veins causing his head to dizzy and his vision to blur. he needed to go back, to prove to the cops, her mother, and most importantly himself that he wasn't wrong that it wasn't his fault. The car glided down the summer roads, Genevieve rolled down her window and waved her ginger hair in the wind, letting the cool air run past her. He started at her in bliss, this was the woman he was in love with, this was the woman he loved, this was the woman- He pulled the car to the side of the road, he knew this spot. He opened the car door and took a deep breathe the smell of pine filled his lungs, the cold air nipped at his face, causing his nipples to stand erect under his sweater. He stood there and waited, he closed his eyes. Slowly it began to come back to him. The smell of burning tires, the feeling of the warm summer air as it rushed in through the broken windshield. He could hear it too. He remembered it all. He and Genavieve had left her cousin's wedding in northern Oregon, they both left drunk and he drove as he had touched less but still, it was a lot. He had said this all before once in front of the first responders, then to a judge, then to her family. As they were driving they hit something. He opened his eyes and slowly let his vision focus, the car was busted and the smell of burning metal and charred tires was what he first noticed. Then he saw it, through the shattered windshield sat a tall dark figure its mouth wrapped around the midsection of vision, it raked out her organs with its large yellowed teeth. It was eating her. He tried to move but his legs were broken. He couldn't scream, all he could do was watch as it devoured her. It ate what it could then left. He began to cry, he thought about how he could've saved her. He sat there and watched it swallow her guts. He could've at least screamed. Tried to scare it away. He fell to his knees and began to cry harder. "I know you're out there you son of a bitch!" He screamed into the forest. The forest answered with a cold shoulder. He lay there in the road a slobbering mess. Slowly he picked himself off the ground and got back into his car. From the glove compartment, he pulled a 9mm pistol the same one he had bought with her years ago. He Placed it into his mouth the cold metal almost comforted him. It reminded him of the lollipops he would get on the corner as a kid. The windshield splattered with crimson. His car sat slowly being covered in snow. Later the patrolmen would find his car under the snow the windshield broken and his body found placed in a tree all his organs removed. The town searched for weeks for a killer, the policeman on duty said he found the body after following bloody deer tracks which led into the forest and ended under the tree where he found the body. Finally, it was ruled a suicide and left to gather dust...


It’s a rainy Saturday: dark, gloomy, and miserable. The TV is on, and I’m watching a Charlie Chaplin episode. Its warm glow basks me in blue light, making me feel a bit less alone. The blanket snuggles me, and a bowl of chips compensates my stomach.

A knock at the door startles me. It echoes throughout the house, spreading its message. It’s rough-three hard knocks. I turn the TV off, and make my way to the front door. Who would be at the door in the wee hours of the night?

I creep to the door, my blanket clutched around my chest. My moving boxes are astray in the hallway, still not sorted out. I weave my way through them, shoving them aside as I reach the door. There’s no windows near the door to look outside. Nor is there a peephole. I feel blind.

As I’m debating what to do, there are three more knocks. Loud and clear.

After giving myself a few more moments, I decide to open the door. At first, I only see darkness and rain. However, a figure takes shape. It’s a tall man, and he towers above me. I want to close the door, but I’m too scared to. The streetlights cast dark shadows across his face, hiding a sinister smile. His eyes are piercing blue, and they look deep into my thoughts.

He simply stands still in front of me, just like a lion about to catch its prey.

Am I the prey? Who is this man? As I ponder that question, he gently waves his hand in front of me. It’s pale and gentle, and I slowly close my eyes. ------------------------------- The tall stranger pushes past me, making me stumble.

“Who are you?” I question, mustering some courage.

“Nobody,” a gruff voice says back.

He heads into my home, and I tug at his long cloak. It’s blue and is coated with velvet and small jewels. He simply strides forward, ripping it out of my grasp. The dim lights make the stones on the cloak sparkle, just like stars. They look magical, and I run to catch up.

He makes his way upstairs, and pulls down the ladder to the attic. The stairs creak under his weight, and he ducks to head to the room.

Unsure, I decide to follow with only a moment's hesitation. I gasp, astonished, when I reach the landing. The room is bathed in a golden light, all radiating from the stranger. His cloak flies behind him, lifted by an unseen force. Blue and golden particles begin to float around, instifying into an orb a few feet before the wizard. Then he starts chanting in a language I can’t understand, and suddenly, the orb explodes, leaving me blinded. ------------------------------- “May I come in?” the stranger asks.

“Su-re,” I stutter as a reply.

“Thank you, Ma’am. If we have your cooperation, this ordeal can be completed without much time and trouble.

“What ordeal?” “Ma’am, please do not act like nothing is wrong. We have received a tip-off that there is some criminal cyber-activity originating from this location. To relieve you of all stress, my team is waiting outside, ready for my call.” “What?” He says nothing, and keeps on walking, ignoring me. He makes his way into each room, gracefully and purposefully taking objects out and checking every corner. My heart is pounding, even though I know I have done nothing wrong.

He eventually makes his way to my room, where he stops in his tracks. I rush forward, trying to see what’s wrong. I bat his arm aside, and stop in my tracks too. My room is a large computer setup, with multiple screens and some suspicious activity. I’m confused. This was never here. I turn back to look at the agent.

His stone cold eyes meet mine. “You are under arrest.” ------------------------------- The stranger quickly rushes in and closes the door behind him.

“Please. I need help.”

The door rattles, and thumps. I can hear the roar of people, banging against the woof frame.

“Please. I need help,” the man says again.

His face is bloody and bruised, as if he had been in a fight. But with this many people? “What can I get you?” “Ice. And some first aid, if you could.”

I don’t hesitate, and this man’s polite words make me want to help him even more. I hurry to help him. “What happened?” “It’s...hard to explain.” “Do you want to rest?” “Yes, please.” I lead him upstairs, and the stairs creak under his bulky frame. I guide him to the spare bedroom, which only has a mattress, but no bed. He mutters a small thanks, and collapses onto the bed with his eyes open.I make my way downstairs, trying to see why all these people are after this innocent man. The problem is, I can’t see anything. I sigh. With nothing else to do, I make my way upstairs. I freeze, however, when the sound of metal scraping against metal fills the air. I grimace, the horrible sound hurting my ears.

I peer over the banister to see the stranger, standing against the wall, sharpening his… knives. They are stained with blood, and it still looks fresh. Who is this man?

He notices me, and beckons me closer, holding the knife out menacingly.

Crying out, I rush downstairs, fumbling to open the door.

------------------------------- The stranger pulls me into a bear hug, embracing me.

“My dear, are you alright? Took you forever to open the door!” “Da-d?”

He lets go for a moment to look at me, with a large smile on his face.

He leads me inside, and I hug him tight. “Charlie Chaplin, eh? I used to watch him quite a lot!” “Well, want to join me?” “Sure!” However, as I enjoy the episode with my dad, I can’t shake the feeling off; something is wrong. I manage to lose myself with my dad, until...there’s three knocks at the door. It echoes throughout the house, spreading its message. It’s rough-three hard knocks. Again.


The windowpane is freezing against my forehead as I look out at the first snow of the season. I can hear commotion from my roommates through my bedroom door. It’s been going on since Maia came gamboling into the apartment, screeching Snow! It’s snowing outside! One by one, I hear my other roommates getting home from the studio, bounding through the apartment like puppies, high off the snowfall, the weekend, the done-with-rehearsal feelings. It’s Friday night and I can tell by the sounds that they’re all getting ready for their evenings. I’m in sweatpants (my nighttime sweatpants, as I changed out of my daytime sweatpants promptly at 5pm) and haven’t been out of my bedroom in at least six hours. I wasn’t at the studio today; I haven’t been in weeks. I’m taking a hiatus , I told my boss. I blamed it on an old knee injury. The real injury is the crippling anxiety that sits like a rock in my stomach. The snow is a welcome, if flimsy, distraction. I’ve been sitting on my bed, watching it come down for hours now, looking idyllic against the backdrop of the streetlamps and freshly-strung holiday lights. I try to count the voices outside my door but it proves impossible. It sounds like a lot. Is it possible that all of us are home? There are seven of us crammed into this apartment, and I can’t remember the last time we were all home at once. As if on cue, Maia pokes her head in my door without knocking. “Hello, darling,” she says. Despite the inexplicable dread sitting on my chest like a weight, I can’t help but smile at her. She still has her dress rehearsal makeup on, glitter piled on her lids and hot pink blush packed up to her temples. She’ll go out to the bar like that and be the most beautiful girl there. I think for a second she’s going to invite me out, despite my extremely visible intentions of staying home for the night. Instead she says, in an impressively innocent tone, “Someone handsome and salt-and-peppery is here for you.” As soon as she sees my face drop, all pretenses of teasing drop. “Are you okay?” she asks, stepping fully into my bedroom and shutting the door. “Do you want me to tell him to leave?” I shake my head, standing off my bed and willing my hands to stop shaking even as my anxiety rages at me, This is it. This is what I’ve been warning you about. I told you something bad was going to happen and here it is— “No, Maia,” I say, pleased to hear my voice come out steady at least. I don’t know why I’m so certain of who’s at the door, but there’s only one handsome, salt-and-peppery man I know that would make the drive into the city on a snowy Friday night just to see me. I grab a sweatshirt from my closet and shove my arms through it. “It’s fine,” I tell her, even as my heart pounds. She follows me out of my bedroom and down the narrow hall. The apartment is warm as hell, the windows steamed from all the bodies here, coats and boots and hats strewn across the radiators to dry. A pot of something fragrant simmers on the stove, and I know it's Rosie’s cooking without having to look. My stomach growls and I remember I haven’t eaten yet today. I was right, and it is Tommy standing in the foyer—quite rich of a word to describe the tiny square of space in front of the door next to the coat and shoe racks— not looking abashed at all at having arrived unannounced at nearly nine at night. “Hello, Uncle,” I say, attempting a combination of warmth and polite confusion. His expression tells me I’m a poor actress. As I suspected, Tommy chose to arrive during the tiny sliver of time when all the planets align and each of my six roommates are home. Interestingly enough, they’ve all gathered on the mismatched couches and grin at him like hyenas. Maia tries shooing them out, looking at me apologetically when no one moves. Tommy winks at my roommates, still a shameless flirt despite being well into his forties and enjoying a blissful marriage to Catherine. Then he turns to me and tilts his head toward the door. “Let’s go for a walk, Isabel.” I’m sixteen and in trouble again, hands shaking as I shove my feet into boots that are more like slippers and a coat from the rack that I belatedly realize is not mine. He leads me out the door and I grit my teeth as I have to slam it three times before I hear the latch click. “It sticks,” I mutter. I groan inwardly as I pull on the coat and the arms barely touch my wrists, the absurdity thrown into sharper contrast next to Tommy’s coiffured appearance. If he notices he doesn’t let on, apparently more interested in the crumbling apartment hall than my haphazard appearance. “This seems unsafe,” he notes mildly, referring to a patch of ceiling that is just barely hanging on. I pretend I don’t hear him. When he stops to inspect the broken lock on the front door, I keep walking. “I should call the fire department out here,” he says irritably. “Slumlord of a—“ “Do we have a destination?” I interrupt. I’m standing in the fresh snow, glad it’s not slush yet, and wondering how long until the powder melts and soaks my slippers. “Or did you come here strictly to criticize?” He does his slow blink, the Tommy blink, the one accompanied by the deep breath where I can practically see him shove the irritation into one of the many boxes in his brain. “I did not come here to criticize,” he says firmly. “Come on.” The restaurant he leads me to is one of my favorites to order takeout from. I wonder if he remembers this from a previous visit, or if it’s just the only restaurant within walking distance that will let his sweatpants-clad, wet-slipper-wearing, too-small-coat-having niece through the door. My heart twists when he asks if I want my usual and I realize it’s the former. I nod wordlessly and pick the table I want, sitting on the bench seat that faces the window. I foresee a lot of eye-contact-avoiding in my near future and watching the snow fall will be a pleasant and welcome distraction. I’m viciously picking at the skin around my cuticles when I feel him sit across from me. I don’t look up. “Bel,” he says. I can tell from his tone that, if I look up, his face will break my heart. “Tell me what’s going on.” I’m silent. I’ve reopened a scab on my cuticle and it's bleeding. He passes me a napkin. I was hoping he’d choose to be angry instead of understanding. To rage at the unanswered phone calls and voicemails, the bland text message updates I send without rhyme or reason that don’t provide any substantive information. To demand answers, and when I refuse, to leave and swear that he’s done trying, for good this time. But of course he doesn’t. I can feel the beginnings of panic start to dig in, claws latching deep enough where I won’t be able to talk myself down. My heart is pounding in my ears again, and when I finally look up at Tommy it feels like he’s miles away. Tommy knows everything about me, and instead of that being a comfort, it makes me feel cripplingly exposed. The knowledge that he, at his leisure, can remember all of the times I was emotionally flayed open by my mother, physically knocks the wind out of me. He can remember my feigned grief when she died and my thinly-veiled relief that verged on joy that I was finally free. Free from her obsession, from her violent and erratic episodes, from her unpredictability, from the mysterious but persistent illness that cropped up when I stopped being an adorable toddler in a tutu and magically disappeared when she died. He can remember the abject devastation I tried to hide when my dad, his brother, rejected me. When he, in his grief at my mother’s death, shoved me out and never let me back in.

And, perhaps most horribly because they were the choices I made myself and can’t be blamed on anyone else, he can remember the drugs I did, the alcohol I drank, the disgustingly inappropriate men I dated. He can remember the stubborn way he and Catherine took me in and tried to heal me. To repay Tommy and Catherine for their unconditional love and generosity? I hide from them. I ignore them. I avoid them. I convince myself they acted purely out of obligation. And while it makes me hate myself, it feels better than revisiting the agonizing first sixteen years of my life.

I don’t say any of this, just stare blankly over his shoulder until the food comes. Neither of us pick up silverware, but the warmth from the noddles drifting up into my face is calming. I’ll bring them home if I don’t eat any. Julia loves these noodles. I’ll bring them home and split them with her and we’ll watch trash TV. She’ll fall asleep mid-sentence like she always does. I almost smile. I start to breathe again. “Do you need money?” Tommy asks. The question surprises me. “No.” I’ve firmly refused money from Tommy since I moved out. Depending on them feels a lot like burdening them. “Why?” “We saw that you pulled out of The Nutcracker this year.” His eyes are filled with questions, but his voice is kind. I don’t ask how he knows or where he saw this. I don’t tell him about the knee injury. He’ll know it’s a lie. He’ll know the real injury is the mind kind. “I don’t need money.” “What do you need?” I don’t answer. “We miss you,” he says. I might be imagining it, but it sounds like his voice breaks when he says it. He sighs, does his slow blink again, breathes, composes himself. “There’s an Isabel-shaped hole in our house,” he tries again, half-smiling. How do I tell him I’d rather die than ever feel the way I did three years ago? I’d rather die than even risk feeling that way? How do I tell him that, as much as I miss them too, as selfish as it is, this is the only way? He seems to realize he is getting nowhere by being vulnerable and changes tactics. “I’ve never been up to your apartment until now. Do you live with all those girls?” I nod, twisting noodles around my fork but not lifting it. “So there’s—seven of you in there?” I nod again. He's floored. “How many bedrooms are in there?” he asks, half amused, half aghast. “Why?” I ask. “Are you going to call the fire department?” His shoulders tense and he looks up. When he sees the small smile on my face and he relaxes. He switches to a safer subject. “Are they all dancers?” “Mostly.” I finally take a bite. It’s significantly cooled but is as delicious as always. “Kat and Tig are new. I don’t know if they’ll last, but I hope they do.” I twist more onto my fork. The hunger has surpassed the anxiety. “Maia is the one that answered the door, I think.” “Ah. The one that tried to save me from the horde.” “Yes,” I say. “The same.” “You’re closest with her,” he guesses. It’s an educated guess, and its accuracy is both startling and touching. “Yes,” I say. “She’s my closest friend here.” I’ve never had a friendship like the one I have with Maia. I didn’t know they existed until she started barging into my room without knocking, unapologetically nosing into my business, perching on the bathroom sink to complain about her day while I’m in the shower. Instead of shoving her away, I find myself inviting her further and further into my life. I continue without mentioning any of this. “Then there’s Rosie and Julia. They’re both in the corps.” I count on my fingers who I’ve already mentioned. “Last is Gabby. She’s not a dancer, she works in real estate.” “How’d she end up with you lot?” I shrug. “Alcohol, I assume.” He huffs a laugh like he wasn’t expecting that answer. “You like them?” he asks. “Yes,” I answer, realizing he knows me as the girl with no friends. I realize my roommates don’t know that girl. “I like them a lot. All of them.” He smiles at me in a way that makes me feel exposed again and I return my attention to the plate. I want to scream and rage against whatever inner workings of my brain make me feel like I’m underwater and Tommy is above the surface. I desperately wish I could give him a glimpse inside of the knotted wires and make him understand. It has nothing to do with you . I know I love you. My brain just won’t let me feel it. There’s silence for several minutes. I keep hoping Tommy will break it but I know he won’t. He’s a master of silence; he says so himself. “I—“ I stutter, stop, try again. “I wish I could make you understand.” I close my eyes. Breathe. I will not cry , I think. “I’ll feel like I’m getting better. I’ll feel like I can breathe. Like I—care again.” I wince, knowing those words will hurt him. “But it always comes back. It’s always worse than before.” “Bel,” he says calmly. Gently. “If you don’t take anything else away from this conversation, take away this: I do understand.” I blink. “Okay.” “No one is mad at you.” “Okay.” He takes a deep breath like he’s scared of what he’s about to say. “You’re not trying,” he says. He doesn’t say it unkindly. He says it like he knows it’s a hard truth. “You’re hiding.” He waits for me to argue. I don’t. “The longer you let yourself do this…” He sighs. “The path back is going to get harder and harder.” He’s looking at me like it hurts him to think of the hurt I’ll have to go through. What he doesn’t know is that I never plan on going through it. I will slog through this purgatory forever before I willingly return to those dark places.

We sit quietly for a few for minutes until I say, “I think I want to go home now.” I see the devastation in his eyes, but his expression remains neutral. “Let’s go, then.” I shrug on the too-small coat that’s not mine and forget to ask for a box for the food. The snow is thicker on the ground now, but less is falling from the sky. Tommy’s beside me for the short walk back to my apartment, through the broken front doors and all the way to my door with the pretty, sparkly Christmas wreath. I don’t ask him where he parked. I realize I didn’t ask him anything all night. “Come see us for Christmas,” he says. I don’t look at him. “Or any time. We’re not going anywhere, Isabel.” Half threat, half promise. I thank him for dinner. Tell him I’ll think about it. Close the door without looking back. The apartment is silent. I can’t bear the thought of being in my bedroom for another second. I take off my sopping slippers and place them on the radiator before laying down on the couch and turning the TV on. I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I know Maia has scooched in beside me and my head is resting on her thigh. I can hear Gabby and Julia drunk and cooking in the tiny kitchen behind us. Rosie is trying and failing to manage them in between fits of laughter. I can just tell from what I’m hearing that they’re making a mess. I don’t mind. The despair that I felt earlier is starting to ease as I listen to the familiar sounds. Maia looks down and sees I’m awake. She doesn’t seem as drunk as the others. “Hi, sleepyhead.” She’s flipping through channels. She can never pick one. It drives me crazy. “What did you and your hot uncle do?” “We went to Up Thai.” “Leftovers?” Julia calls hopefully from the kitchen, even as she’s cooking. “Sorry, Jules.” She huffs, then decides, “We’ll go tomorrow.” I agree. Maia is eyeing me suspiciously. “He drove all the way into the city to bring you out for counter service?” “He wants me to visit for Christmas. Or sometime soon. Whenever I have free time.” I am grateful when she doesn’t mention that I have nothing but free time lately. Instead, she gushes, “Oh, I love the country. I want to come when you go.”

Tommy and Catherine’s trendy, upscale neighborhood could hardly be considered country. Tommy would probably be incensed by the comparison. I don’t correct her and stay quiet, hoping she’ll drop it. Of course she doesn’t. “Can I really come?” I can’t tell if she’s doing this on purpose, if she’s picked up on how I’m feeling and thinks she’s helping. I feel like she is making plans for a happy life I’ll go through the motions of but never feel, but I don’t say that. When I first moved in, I felt like I’d be the outsider watching my roommates enjoy their lives, but here I am with my head in one of their laps. I suppose it’s not outside the realm of possibility that maybe there could be a day I’ll be ready to take the painful path Tommy talked about. So instead I say, “That would be fun. I’ll think about it.”