Kong Min felt it in his chest where his heart should be: a sudden strain where all his muscles suddenly contracted resulting in a sinking feeling that literally sucked in all life and breath he could barely muster anymore: like an anchor docking a ship. He struggled to breath and he collapsed for a while, a little unsure of where he was and how he got there in the first place. He could feel the flush of his cheeks and the veins in his arm bulged out. A tight knot formed at his throat. Then, pin-drop silence. A stinging noise irritatingly buzzed in his left ear and when he finally rebalanced himself and got back on his feet, recovering his breath (suddenly remembering with an awkward realisation that he was actually human), he felt a sharp and powerful tug at the collar of his shirt. His eyes opened wide open as he was pulled two centimetres away just as a Bentley with an umber brown and white convertible rocketed past. Kong Min was still a little dazed by this and despite concerns from bystanders, he merely shrugged them off and continue to walk. His condition was of no surprise to him. After all, walking around with a human heart powered by the metal palladium in order to stay alive could mess with your head in excruciatingly creative ways. “Gods above, how much I hate this pathetic excuse for a home,” muttered the 19-year-old Malaysian as he trudged through the quiet and gloomy neighbourhood cobbled with stones that jutted out of shape. Checking that his Mercedes was actually locked, he continued down a new path down the smoothly paved walkway where yellowed and dowdy leaves paid no mind to the apparent disgusting décor that they had made to it. Unlike his usual raggedy style that he used to wear about himself overseas from home, he now made sure that he was dressed at his best as he smoothed his hands over his black shirt, black suit, black trousers and even darker wingman sunglasses. He had purposely parked his Mercedes far away from Father’s too. He did not need to know he had made a life for himself in Shenzhen, China. He had no need for his busybody relatives to ask him about his private life (god, he hated it when they had done that) and with crocodile tears, beg him for a tenth of his fortune because they had debts to pay, they had mouths to feed and just because they were his flesh and blood. Something had then caught his eye: he took four steps backward and peered down into the alleyway. There, he saw the kids shouting and jeering as a buff kid with reddened cheeks puffed hard and good as he tried to wrestle another kid, but muscularly superior to him, to the ground. In a swift and flurry move, the latter one rolled backwards and pushed the other kid away from him. Taking advantage of his opponent losing momentum, the muscular kid then brought him down. Huh , Kong Min reminisced. The kids in the neighbourhood still had fights in that alleyway. He remembered when he and Maven, his Indian partner-in-crime used to come here and go into the fights as well although Kong Min was more of a co-ordinator than wrestler or brawler. He hated that place: the street where the foundation was based on was made out of sharp pebbles and sudden depressions in which one would break their nose. He did. Five times consecutively. Kong Min carried on looking at his steps, one foot after the other. Then, from the corner of his eye, he caught a tint of dullish grey on a vehicle. Looking up, he saw the plate number clearly. It was Father’s car. Oh crap. He was home. Fifteen minutes later, he smoothed his hands over his suit for the millionth time. The procession was to take place soon. He would have to go in one way or the other. He could handle the body, he supposed. It was just some forgotten cousin brother from one of his uncles on Father’s side. Not worth coming back to, but his lover, Marsya Ali forced him to. “Pay your respects to your family,” she chided him. He knew Marsya was in the house already because he could make out her silhouette by his mother’s bedroom window on the first floor beneath the balcony. But he already knew that she was going to be there anyway. He wanted to take a step forward but he could not. He was paralysed at where he was standing. His lips trembled and his chest rose high and low, heaving. The attacks were coming back again. He cleared his throat and leaned against the car, waiting for it to subside. The car felt newly waxed and smooth like a baby’s skin. Of course, Father had it waxed. The old man was rich. In a way, he was grateful because most of the thirty-somethings that he knew got successful at life had rich fathers. A sturdy house must have a good foundation, he supposed. It was such a weird thing to think about as of the moment. Nevertheless, he was glad that his sunglasses had hidden the pain in his eyes when he heard the door click open. It was not Marsya nor his mother. It was his second aunt. One thing to talk about Second Aunt was that she was all old and wilted out. All of her logical sense of the world and how it usually worked had been blunted and she knew not sometimes the difference between black and white. With the same damned buzzing sound in his left ear, he coolly pushed himself away from his aunt’s embrace that may as well have disgusted him and walked himself in uninvited. He was not going to show any of them any big tears. Nevertheless, standing there in front of almost everyone made him feel like a gigantic idiot. Faces turned and mouths gaped open. Champagne continued to pour into glasses but the hands that held them remain as frozen as an ancient statue. Some disapproving eyes turned away from him and spoke behind their hands; some gave him the hairy eyeball. This was his family. The people who play their cards close to their chests and pretend to be as sorry as sorry can be whilst throwing darts at him behind his back. Just for the sake of it. His eyes went from relative to relative and solemnly nodded. However, a rather old and slouched figure of an Asian-like grandfather walked towards a direction parallel to him but both of them: young and old stopped in their tracks when their shoulders touched. The old man held out his hand and Kong Min shook it. “Father,” Kong Min addressed dryly. “Boy,” his father replied in a gruff tone. Suddenly, they heard some scuffling at the staircase. Father and son turned to those stairs and found that it was Kong Min’s mother and Marsya there. After a solemn embrace, Kong Min couldn’t take it anymore and pulled Marsya aside from the crowd. “What’s wrong?” Marsya asked, concern glimmering in her eyes. “I am not ready to tell them,” came the monotonous reply. “Look at me,” she said sternly. He didn’t. So, she made him do so and firmly held his face looking into hers. “Even if you are not ready, who do you think could stop time and let you just dig your own grave? You can’t just go on like this forever.” Pin-drop silence. This was the same thing he told his brother before. This happened years ago when he was just ten. His own brother shaking uncontrollably in his bed as spit drooled uncontrollably from the corner of his lips. His hands bent like a dog’s; he watched his brother pitifully as he descended into madness. Then, he told him he could not go on like this. Mom and Dad existed for a reason. You should have turned to them before. You should have turned to your friends. You should have turned to me. You should. You should’ve. But you didn’t. Kong Min gave a soft kiss on Marsya’s forehead. He wanted it to go on forever. Just the two of them. But now he had to reserve more time for someone else. Father sat next to the tea table at the garden and did not bother to see his son come up to him. Yes, his son: The Great Engineer, the da Vinci of Asia. He always remembered his boy as a thirteen-year-old arrogant rebel who wanted him to give away his inheritance to him first so that he could travel to China and do some research he knew not what. He had no time to ask. His son left without a goodbye. “I know you are still angry I left when I was so young, Father,” he sensed Kong Min’s dry voice. “But I had no choice. The doctors you sent me to are all bullshit. You were wasting your money. They couldn’t fix my heart. I could have died sometime in one of those ridiculous treatments the ‘doctors’ gave me. I was not going to let that happen. “That is why I took the money and ran. I knew palladium could be the answer to my heart problem. Thalassemia is hard to just ‘cure’, especially in an underdeveloped place like Malaysia. But I did it, Father. I did it. Now, I am tall, I am healthy and I am 19.” Then, Kong Min squatted in front of his father’s unforgiving gaze. “But I am dying, Father. Palladium is intoxicating my blood and is poisoning me. I thought that I could find a way to stabilise the palladium in my chest during those six years. But Heaven has a way of screwing with you at the very last minute, right?” His father’s eye squinted a little in shock, no doubt. But his gaze remained unwavering. Kong Min sighed and stood up, preparing to leave. “I am not expecting pity or sympathy, Father. I am just telling you to prepare my funeral arrangements soon. I don’t know when and I do not know how, but it will happen. Perhaps I really am just another thing that shouldn’t have existed under natural law. I just labour at the thought of having self, thinking I was somebody when I am nobody. In fact, everyone is, in a way. Human consciousness is such a bitch of evolution. But in the end, you will see, Father. How easy it will be to just let go of life at the very last moment. That holding onto it all your years was meaningless. And I want you to look me in the eye when you do find me, Father. I want you to think to yourself, “How much did you suffer, my child? Was it painful?”” Kong Min left before the procession even started. But he made a mess of the pantry. The glassware was smashed and the porcelain was flung all over the place. No one dared get in his way. Driving away, he muttered to himself, “Fuck... Damn this place... God damn this place...”


I’m surrounded by his things. That’s what he’s left behind, things. Well, things and me, I suppose. There weren’t a lot of people at the service. Some neighbors, a couple of old friends, a smattering of relatives. Small but respectable. At least that’s what I told myself when the last of the guests arrived.

It wasn’t at all like when Mom died, when the church was packed, standing room only. She had the advantage of dying young, young enough that the sheer tragedy of it compelled people, her people, to converge in their grief. I guess the funerals are always bigger for those who die young, their friends and family not yet aged and dispersed, not yet accustomed to the natural cadence of life. It’s a strange silver lining. Mom’s funeral was big, though, even by those standards. She collected people, always had. She had a knack for making everyone feel special, because that’s how she saw them.

Dad didn’t collect people. He collected things. A lot of things. Photos are among them, particularly photos of my parents together. They hang everywhere in my childhood home, they rest on every shelf and every end table. If there is anything discernible from the decades strewn across the walls, it’s that they loved each other. I suppose they did, even though it didn’t always feel that way in the moments between the clicks of the camera. Those images aren’t on the wall. I walk into his office, the chaotic nexus of his collections, the spring from which the stuff seemingly bubbles up and spews into the rest of the house. Even Mom couldn’t control this space, fighting as best she could to prevent the peculiar assortment of items that lay within from bursting beyond the room’s narrow confines. This space is all him, uniquely him. His spirit, his very essence, feels present in this crowded room, far more than it did in that musty funeral home. I look around, It seems to me that everything anyone has ever thought to collect is here, and likely things people never thought to collect at all. There’s the usual stuff: stamps, coins, books, figurines, trading cards, toys... And there are things more unusual: garden gnomes, decorative soaps, hotel match boxes... I open a drawer, only to find it full of zesters. There’s dust everywhere. The air is thick with it, my nostrils itch with each inhale; it swirls in dancing torrents, glowing in the shafts of evening light slanting in through the windows; it blankets everything, coating the myriad of strange surfaces my dad left behind.

I feel suffocated as I slam the zester drawer shut in frustration. Overwhelmed, I wander over to the printer where I see some pieces of paper still resting in the tray, I pick them up. A receipt for a button, a $75 button to be precise. It supposedly came from the uniform of a British soldier in the Revolutionary War. The other pages are directions to some antique store in Maine, a four hour drive, five with traffic , reads my dad’s tidy handwriting in a characteristic critique of Google Maps’ assessment. I roll my eyes in irritation, I can’t help it. It was so like him to buy a $75 button and then drive eight hours round trip for it, ten with traffic. By some miracle I find the button collection, sandwiched between a crammed bookcase and a shelf full of glittering geodes. It is surprisingly complete and well organized, the buttons resting neatly on a bed of felt, a small card beneath each denotes the war from which it came. A quick scan suggests It spans the whole of American conflict, no small history. The Revolutionary War, the Civil War, WWII, Korea, Vietnam… Even wars I have never heard of, or have long since forgotten, are represented by a meticulously assembled collection of buttons. I notice one is missing, presumably the one pictured on the receipt still clutched tightly in my hand.

I can’t be in the office anymore, it feels too strongly of him, the dust is making me dizzy. I try halfheartedly to sort through other rooms in the house, but as my hands busy themselves packing dinner plates and folding spare linens, my mind is stuck in his office, stuck on those buttons. The day has been punishingly long, I feel the exhaustion in my bones. I let it guide me to my childhood room, still unable to bring myself to sleep in my parents’. I lay down on the rickety twin bed, the old spring mattress digging into my back, though I barely notice. I close my eyes and let the weariness drag me into a dark, dreamless sleep.

I wake at some point well past mid-morning. My back is stiff. I wander down the hall, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. I trip over a forgotten cardboard box I’d haphazardly packed the night before. I swear under my breath as I return to Dad’s office. It’s just as I left it, just as he left it, both of us apparently unable to sort through the mess. I’m staring, again, at the buttons, at the gap left by the one that’s missing. I’d tried to forget it, knowing it was better to let it go, to pack up as much as I could, as soon as I could, to return to my own house, my own life, my own things. But I couldn’t, I can’t. When I close my eyes I see him diligently placing each button in its place, imagining that smile that always snaked across his face when he procured some new worthless treasure.

I sigh in resignation to what I’ve known was inevitable since I found those cursed buttons. I grab the directions, I grab his keys, I grab him, or his ashes anyway, and head for the door. The car still smells like Dad, like aftershave and spearmint gum. What a strange thing to linger, to remember, the smell of a person, just invisible particles floating in the air. I pull out of the driveway and head north. I have my GPS running and can’t help but think of the exacerbated comments he would've made at each robotic direction. Oh don’t take that exit, there’s construction… traffic will be hell on the freeway at this hour. I brought the directions he printed out though, just in case. They’re sitting on the passenger seat, below the urn.

It’s summer and I have the windows down, the wind is whipping through my hair, the hair Dad always told me was too long, listening to music he would’ve hated. The scourge of the modern musician is the small revenge I exact for subjecting me to this long journey, all in pursuit of an overpriced button. We used to do drives like this all the time before Mom died, when I was young, crammed into the backseat next to camping gear or coolers or suitcases. I felt so safe then, watching the trees blur together as we sped toward some fresh adventure, my parents singing the melody to a song I wouldn’t remember, something from their time together before me. Those stopped when she died. Sometimes I wonder if she was the glue that held us together. Sometimes I wonder what it would have been like if he’d died first, not that I ever wished it, just wondered. He retreated into his collections, I ran from her ghost, full speed into adulthood, into my new life. He never said if he felt abandoned, he would've never said something like that, but sometimes I wonder... I pull off at a familiar exit, one I haven’t thought about for years, but recognized the second I saw it. I’m awash in memories of summers long passed as I pull off the main road and head down the winding gravel toward the woods. I turn off the music to listen to the trees which are rushing with excitement as I roll past. Perhaps they remember me too. The lake is just the way I’ve held it in my mind all these years, still and dark, more green than blue, reflecting the thick canopy that surrounds it. The air is buzzing with the cries of a million insects.

I grab Dad and sit with him at a picnic table overlooking the place he’d taken me a hundred times. We sit quietly together, enjoying the peace of it all, ruminating on the lazy days that passed here. They blur together in my memory, like the trees rushing past the window on those drives from before. I’m suddenly struck with the thought to scatter him here, but something doesn’t feel right. We have hours left to drive, and I can’t bring myself to let him off the hook so easily. We get back in the car. We’re making good time. That’s the sort of thing he would always say, as if time is a thing one can make. Looks like we’ll get there in closer to four hours than five, then again, we didn’t take the freeway. Even still, the drive is starting to feel long, my back aches and my stomach rumbles. I pull off at a drive through and eat something greasy and deeply satisfying. I’m watching a young family struggle with a car seat across the parking lot, a little girl watches as her parent’s gesture dramatically at each other in apparent frustration. Dad used to blow up over things like that. He’d boil over in a second, without warning, at the little everyday inconveniences that build one on top of another. I’d make myself small during those moments, trying not to inadvertently add to the pile. His outbursts would usually pass with a creative string of expletives and a sullen resignation to the way of things.

I pull up to the store at the edge of a sleepy coastal town. My GPS announces my arrival approvingly. Dad is silent. No one greets me when I walk in the store, just the faint ding of a bell which fades quickly away as if embarrassed to disturb the quiet of the place. For a moment, I’m transported back to Dad’s office as I wander through the store which is bursting with an endless selection of the most curious objects. The place is silent, reverent almost, as I walk through the labyrinthine paths left between seemingly random piles of stuff.

A ponderous little man greets me when I find my way to a desk. He barely looks up from the tome over which he’s hunched. I manage to catch his gaze, however, when I mention the button. He surveys me strangely as I pass the receipt across the counter. “I don’t know about this,” he says with suspicion as I explain my strange quest, as if anyone would go through the trouble to invent a dead father and forge a receipt to pick up a $75 dollar button from a junk pile at the edge of the world. Then again, what do I know of antique dealing? Perhaps this man’s days are filled with sufficiently duplicitous intrigue to warrant such skepticism. “Well feel free to talk to Dad about it if it makes you feel any better,” I say, plopping the urn down on the counter between us.

The man blinks at me through his glasses and then looks at the urn before him. “Very well,” he responds, apparently convinced, at last, of my legitimacy. “Wait here.” I do as I’m told. I’m not sure what compelled me to bring Dad’s ashes into this place. It just seemed like he would’ve wanted to come in. I’m glad he didn’t live to see it though. He would have taken the whole of the inventory if he could, willing it to fit in his small office back home. The man comes back with the button and hands it over after just a moment more of hesitation. “Enjoy,” he says, “it’s a good little piece of history, that.” I nod my thanks, stuffing the button into my pocket. That’s the type of thing Dad would’ve said, as if the history of an object lives forever within it. Maybe it does. I’m back in the car, driving south along the coast. I let my thoughts wander as the road winds along the jagged contours carved by the sea. I pull off at a scenic overlook and clamber down a short trail, suddenly compelled to stop and quietly watch time slip away someplace beautiful. I sit on a bench, watching the cliffs before me plunge into the sea, the waves crashing riotously against the steep unyielding stone. It does yield eventually, I suppose, over the course of centuries, millennia. That’s the type of history you can't find in a store. The sun is sinking lower and lower to my back, the sky above is painted orange and pink as an advancing darkness creeps over the horizon. It’s beautiful, the cliffs and sea so ancient and powerful, the sunset just a fleeting moment of gold. Suddenly compelled by something beyond myself, I pick up the urn and scatter the contents, this place and time as good as any. The sun is gone, the gold has surrendered to inky black, the cliffs and sea endure. I get back in the car and head for home.

The office is, of course, unchanged as I open the door and step in. It is still bursting with stuff and yet feels emptier than before, like Dad’s spirit has at last departed from it. Maybe I’m imagining things, tired from the drive. I take the button out of my pocket and run my thumb over its tarnished surface. I fasten it securely in its place amongst its peers. I feel the smile as it snakes inadvertently across my face. So this is what he felt then, when he procured some new piece of worthless treasure. I guess I see the appeal.

I sort and pack the house in the days that follow, a hard and mournful task, though therapeutic in its way. I discover some strange new piece of him with every object I uncover. I found a small historical society to take the button collection, it’s hanging up in a place of prominence beneath a small plaque that reads, “donated by a generous collector.” It was harder than I expected to hand them over, but they should be somewhere with people who appreciate their legacy, who appreciate his legacy of bringing them all together, mine too now, I guess. I’m holding one of Dad’s old sweaters, the blue one Mom bought him so many Christmases ago. He wore it all the time, the fabric is worn and stained. I take a pair of scissors and cut off a button, a fragment of his life to carry with me as I return to mine. A good little piece of history, I think to myself as I slip it into my pocket, at least it is to me.


I couldn’t get out fast enough. The kitchen sink was full, the laundry piled high and the recycling bin overflowed. It was a flight or fight moment, and I chose flight. I had nowhere to go really so I started driving towards the beach. The perky, pony tailed, Lululemon stroller-pushing runner also annoyed the shit out of me. I watched her effortlessly run up the hill that I could barely walk up and of course, she turned onto the street that I had sinfully coveted.

A small sign caught my eye. “Estate Sale Today” it read with an arrow pointing right. Since I had no destination, I turned. There were cars parked all over the street. A steady stream of people were walking in and out of what looked like the worst house on the block. It was probably still worth millions. The house looked like it had not been updated in at least four decades. I imagined it in its prime. Shaggy carpet that caressed bare toes. Small disconnected rooms including a kitchen that was completely hidden from view. Soon this house would boast a newly renovated open concept kitchen. If walls could talk. This had been someone’s dream home. I touched the dishes and knick Knacks that were strewn onto the tables. How many meals had been served on those dishes? What plans had been made? What stories were shared? “Everything on this table is a dollar.” I looked up to see a tall slender woman wearing a name tag that read: Anna, Coastal Realty. “Is the house going on the market?, I asked her. “Yes, she replied. Once the seller has settled the estate.” “The owner was a widow that left the house to her nephew who is not interested in keeping it. He lives on the East coast. Here is my card, if you are interested.” I took her business card and slid it into the pocket of my shorts.

At the next table were no less than 100 bird figurines. There were glass birds, ceramic birds and metal birds. One of the birds caught my eye. It was a sandpiper carved out of wood. It was different from the other birds in her collection. I picked it up and turned it over, looking for an artist's signature, like they do on that TV show. The only thing on it was a roughly carved W. I laughed at myself for thinking I could somehow distinguish art from junk.

The next table was covered with books. The theme of birds continued. Books on bird identification, birds of the Sierras, coastal birds, and one copy of “A Field Guide To Identification Birds Of North America” published in 1966. I decided to buy it and take it to the beach with me. I figured the birds in 1966 were the same birds we have now.

As I left behind the people scouring through this woman’s home, I imagined my own life being picked through by strangers. The dishes my mother gave me when I got married.The chipped mug that I kept because my son had given it to me when he was four. The torn hat my mom had liked to wear when she was gardening. I looked in the rearview mirror and caught a glimpse of myself. My eyes were puffy and the wrinkles on my forehead made me look perpetually worried. Like the house, I had a very lived in look. At the beach, I plopped onto my towel and took in the scene. There were a few surfers but mostly the beach was full of summer tourists. Young dads towing an array of beach toys hoping at least one would keep the kids busy long enough for him to sit in a chair and eat his sandwich in peace. Women of all shapes and sizes, tugging and adjusting their bathing suits to either hide or reveal certain body parts. On my right, a young couple stretched out on their towels soaking up the sun while on my left, a woman was completely covered up, under an umbrella exposing only her toes.

I put on my wide brimmed hat and took out the bird book to see if I could identify the shore birds. I tried to memorize them so that I could impress my family next time. After successfully identifying three birds, I put the book down to look for dolphins, which I did every time I went to the beach. I looked out towards the horizon. My mind drifted to the house, no home, I had just been in. It had felt like such an intrusion. People judging her possessions, giggling at her birds. Would people laugh at my life? I looked around at all of the shiny new people that would one day feel unrecognizable. Suddenly, I wanted to go home.

When I went to pick up the book, something slid out from between the pages. It looked like a book mark so I carefully opened it to the page. It was a black and white photo of a young man, maybe in his early twenties? He was sitting at a picnic table and he had something in his hands. I turned it over. “Last camping trip with Billy.” I put it back in the book wondering if I should return the photo to the family. So I drove back to the house. I took the photo in and looked around for Anna. As I passed the bird table I again noticed the wooden bird and it hit me. I looked at the photo. The wooden bird on the table was what Billy, William, was carving in the photo. I looked around for Anna. She was talking to a man in a suit. No local wears a suit in the summer. Anna was making large motions with her arms as if saying, “Imagine this room with…”. I took the bird to the checkout table, paid my one dollar and went home.

The photo and little bird are now on my bedside table as a reminder. A well lived life is measured by the wear of the carpet, the chips in the plates, and the lines across our foreheads. If it is still shiny, it was never important.


When our grown children, grandchildren, and spouses assemble at our house for Thanksgiving, it’s a large party unto itself. We sometimes have one of several of my wife’s close single friends join us. This year two of our neighbor ladies were coming. Thanksgiving day was here. “Great, everybody, I got plenty of digital shots with the camera remote, now let’s all go inside and enjoy a true Jones family feast.” It was chilly but fair with overcast skies near noon in Alabama. Perfect photo lighting. I finished up the full family photos on the tiered front steps to add to another ‘one-time-a-year’ photo, followed by individual family and couples’ photos who wanted them. I have been doing this many years, including days of my Nikon film camera on Kodacolor and nothing but a self-timer that I’d have to set and run back to my place in the group, to get everyone in the photo. Brisk air fueled everyone’s appetite and fresh in from outdoors, made all the smells of cooked dressing, fresh bread in the oven, and the turkey freshly removed and cooling even more delightful. So many family members came that we had to make the dining room tables into a “U” shaped with a narrow center aisle of single chairs. Just those extra five gave us the count, plus an empty, just in case. In short order, all were seated, all the bowls of food at the table, and I stood at my center position with the turkey in front of me to carve just after the blessing. Everone adjusted seats with only the single center seat closest to me empty. The gathering quieted. “Hello…hellooo, everybody,” came a loud female voice from our kitchen door, the entrance we all use at our house. “I’m here for Thanksgiving. I hope I’m not too late after twelve. Where is everyone?” Oh my God, I thought. I recognize that voice. My wife did as well and sprang from her seat on one side. She almost got to the open door of the dining room when Miss Cat appeared. She exhibited all the flair and costume of Rosalind Russell in Aunty Mame, and at least as much makeup. Waving one arm to our crowd upon entering, she said, “Hi, everyone, I’m Miss Cat, Sandra’s classmate from high school.” My wife, Sandra, now next to Miss Cat, exclaimed, “Oh my, You said you couldn’t come. I thought you’d be in New York.” “I would have, but when I got up today, I discoveered a snowstorm has completely shut the area down. I can’t travel until tomorrow, and I remembered your invitation… so here I am ,” again waving both arms outward presentation style. All the woman needs is to have one foot in front of the other and dip her knee for a perfect movie pose, I thought. I was speechless. I didn’t even know she was invited. I would never have agreed to it. Anyone but her. Anyone. “Miss Cat,” my wife said, we have one spare seat right in the middle row, upfront, please have a seat.” Other family members stood, slid their chairs into the narrow row, and moved out to make room for our last-minute guest. As Miss Cat nodded and waved to the group taking her center front seat, I remembered all the reasons I’d rather her not be present. First, the name Miss Cat. Her name was Catherine Hickock Burns and whatever. She’d been married numerous times, and several were damn fine men that I liked. She divorced them all. Then because she hated her full name and last names of previous husbands, she decided that just “Miss Cat” would do because she never liked Catherine all that much either. She felt she deserved the title ‘Miss’ and made it part of her legal name. Always had money, some from divorced husbands, who probably paid plenty just to be rid of her once she sued for divorce. She was never unpleasant to me, but she posessed an uncanny ability to say precisely the wrong thing at the wrong time and make it sound as if she were paying a compliment. With everyone seated, Miss Cat proclaimed, “Fred, don’t let me delay you, please go on,” again with the hand gesturing wave for me to continue. I’m so glad I have your permission. I said the blessing, everyone said, “Amen,” and the feast began. Even as the food was being passed around, Miss Cat’s loud voice dominated other conversations. She looked at one of my sons, “So, Peter, have you finished with your therapy for your PTSD from Afghanistan?” she said with a smile on her face. Peter froze in mid-passing of the mashed potatoes with eyes wide. He didn’t say a thing. I glared at my wife, who had a scared-dog look as she glanced around and caught my drift. After a pungent pause, Peter said, “Uh…no, not yet.” “I think it’s just wonderful you served your country and made your family so proud of you,” Miss Cat said and smiled smugly at the compliment she just made. “How’s old’s our newest grandchild,” my wife said, looking at a younger son and his wife with the baby in a back bedroom sleeping. That changed the focus of the conversation. I knew it was just a matter of time before Miss Cat contributed another gem. Sure enough. “Oh, Nancy, your momma told me you are expecting again. This is the first pregnancy with your new husband, isn’t it?” My daughter stopped her side conversation on the spot, and most of my family quieted as well. “Uh, no. That’s not what I told Mom,” and my daughter sternly emphasized the word Mom as she spoke and looked at my wife Sandra. “What I said was that we are planning to let nature take it’s course perhaps in the next year. That’s a long way from what you said.” Everyone breathed a collective sigh, and the sounds of eating grew again. All my family members seemed to glance among themselves, wondering what new gem of news or half-truth Miss Cat might spring upon us next. It was mostly self-pitying remarks about her plight as an author of children’s books and the money she’d spent to no avail to find a publisher, so she printed twenty-five copies for herself. It didn’t surprise me at all. I can’t think of anyone else less qualified to write a children’s picture book than Miss Cat,  who chose never to have children herself. Maybe she could not have children, I thought, but I doubt it, and she’d never admit it. Heading for the home stretch of the meal with plates being cleared for those wanting one of the delicious deserts, when Miss Cat struck again. “Sandra, I don’t know how you do it…looking so young with all these children around.” My wife was just beginning to smile and reply, but Miss Cat kept on talking. “I mean your face with so few wrinkles after all the years. Nearing eighty, I guess. You’ve had another facelift, haven’t you? I want the name of your surgeon.” Bingo! Crowning comment of the entire meal. I stood and said, “Cat, what can I get you for desert. I can see you can’t easily get it yourself.” “Why, thank you, Fred. Yes, I would like a slice of that homemade pecan pie. And your forgot the Miss in my legal mane.” Never missing a beat, she continued, “and I guess it can be your piece since I see the pounds you’ve added since last summer, I’m sure you’re on a diet this Thanksgiving.” “You are quite right, Cat .” I said just the name again with added emphasis, “Not only that, I have completely lost my appetite,” and I shot another exasperated look at my wife. She raised her eyebrows to let me know she understood. Dinner adjourned, and some guests left. Others sorted themselves out as one of my grown kids started a game for anyone interested. Miss Cat announced that she’d stay as long as the welcome mat was out since she didn’t have anything else better to do at home. I bit my tongue to keep from saying, Yeah, with your personality, I am sure that’s the truth , but I kept my mouth shut. The men gravitated to the den to watch a pro-football game on TV, and the others busied themselves cleaning up the kitchen, dishes, packing leftovers, and anything to help my wife. Miss Cat didn’t help, of course, announcing that she saw Sandra had plenty of help. She was one of the very last to leave as it was growing dark. When my wife and I closed the door behind the last guest, I gave an audible, “Whew,” and turned to my wife. “Whatever on earth prompted you to ask Miss Cat to our house for a meal at all, much less our Thanksgiving dinner,” holding out my hands in a questioning manner. “Honey, I’m so sorry. I never in a million years thought she’d show up. I knew she always goes out of town for Christmas and Thanksgiving. I figured I’d get credit for at least having asked her since I do claim her as one of my good friends.” I understood, and as I hugged my tired wife, I knew it’d been a hard day on her as well. “At least she didn’t make it in time for the group photo this year.” It was the one bright spot, “I’m sure this is one Thanksgiving dinner I’ll never forget.”


Shane wasn’t like most super heroes. He didn’t come from a far away planet or get bitten by a radioactive spider. In truth, he was the last person you would expect to save the world, but in his own little way he did just that.    The Parker’s, Mary Louise and Peter, had long since given up hope of having a child when Mary found out she was pregnant. The news, however, was as welcome as it was shocking. It was probably for this reason that they seemed to be the only two people not disappointed when Shane was born with an extra chromosome. From his first day on earth, his dad called him “Clark Kent” because he instinctively knew his son would one day be great.    For most kids, sharing a nickname with the alter ego of a superhero would be oppressive, but not for to Shane. He embraced his namesake and would run around the neighborhood sporting a cape he had fashioned from a red towel. His smile, as ever-present as his cape, was the kind that could light up a room. His daily responsibilities included helping old women cross the street, chasing away raccoons from the neighbors trash, and reporting any oddities to his superiors-his mom and dad. When he wasn’t patrolling the neighborhood, Shane would revert to his alter ego and do his most favorite thing, paint rocks. Shane could thank his mom for his everyday passion as she was a painter by trade and passed on that love to her only son.

All of the trees in Shane’s yard were surrounded by his brightly colored stones. His mom told him that whenever she had a bad day she needed only to look at her son’s handiwork to make her day better.

It wasn’t as easy to please the neighbors, however, as most kept to themselves. There was old Mrs. Wiggins and her German Shepard. Her face was a virtual wrinkled roadmap. If it had a legend it would reveal a hard life with many stops for disappointment. Shane’s mom said Mrs. Wiggins used to be a seamstress, but she had been forced into retirement by fingers that had grown feeble. She never seemed to stray further than her front yard and only seemed capable of saying one thing out loud, “You kids git or I’ll set my dog on you!”

It was an idle threat as her German Shepard seemed as old as Mrs. Wiggins and rarely left the front poach. Most of the neighborhood kids found tormenting Mrs. Wiggins to be a sort of local Olympic sport. They would take turns invading her privacy, forcing her to yell her catchphrase. They would then scatter only to reform to rate the success of their intrusions.

Shane, on the other hand, would have none of that. He would stop running whenever he would pass the Wiggins’ home and walk by respectfully, making sure never to trespass on her beloved grass.    There was also Crazy Man Johnson who walked the entire neighborhood twice a day. That wasn’t his real name, but it’s what all the kids called him—all the kids but Shane. Shane called him Mr. Johnson, even though the old man never responded. He would just mumble under his breath words no one could understand. Shane’s dad confided in him that Mr. Johnson used to be very friendly before he lost his wife.

“I’ll help look for her,” Shane said in his best superhero voice.

“It’s not that simple,” Shane’s dad replied. He then cleared his throat but eventually went quiet without giving any further explanation.    Last but not least was the neighborhood Super-Villian, Billy Melbourne, Billy the Kid to his band of marauders. He was the de facto leader of neighborhood boys and he bullied Shane relentlessly.

“You’re a retard!” Billy would yell as Shane ran by. “That’s not a cape, it’s just an old towel.” Shane tried to ignore the taunts because, as a superhero, he needed thick skin, but one taunt caught Shane completely off guard.

   “If you’re a superhero, what’s your superpower?” Billy’s words hit Shane like a sledgehammer. Shane knew his cape was made from a towel, but it was still a cape. He, however, had no answer for the latest unkind inquiry. Billy, it seemed, might just be right. Shane couldn’t fly, or run faster than a locomotive. He didn’t have super strength or “Spidey-sense.” He didn’t even have a cool utility belt like Batman and Robin. In an instant Shane felt ordinary and it made him immeasurably sad.

   “Those boys are just bullies,” Shane’s dad told him as he tried to wipe away his tears. “Most bullies are just scared little boys—they aren’t superheroes like you, Clark Kent.” There was something about hearing his dad call him Clark Kent that would always give Shane back his smile. He didn’t often forget that he was a superhero, but when he did, his dad had found the perfect way to remind him. “You don’t have to have a superpower to be a superhero,” his dad continued. “You just have to have the heart of a superhero, and we both know you do.”    It wasn’t in Shane’s nature to be sad for long, but the realization that he had no superpowers was a punch in his gut. Deep down he knew he was still a superhero, but for the first time in years he started to walk the neighborhood without his cape. On these slower walks, Shane contemplated how a superhero with no superpowers could still rightfully hold the moniker.

As he walked by Mrs. Wiggins house, he instinctively looked up and noticed something very unusual. Mrs. Wiggins was on her front porch, but her trusty sidekick was nowhere to be seen. He had seen Mrs. Wiggins angry before, yet something was different this time.. Even from the sidewalk, he could see she was crying. Summoning up the courage of a superhero, Shane walked up the driveway, being careful not to step on the lawn. In a moment, he was face to face with a bereft old woman.    “Are you alright?” Shane asked politely. “Can I help you?”    “Aren’t you sweet,” Mrs. Wiggins replied, trying to force a smile. “No, I just need time to be sad.. You see, I lost my dog today.”

   Shane didn’t completely understand, but he remembered what his dad had said, so he just said, “I’m sorry.” Then he left quietly once again, making sure not to step on the grass.    The walk home from Mrs. Wiggins wasn’t a long one, but it was long enough for Shane to come up with a plan. He didn’t have any superpowers, but he could sure paint rocks. His mom had told him how his rocks had always made her happy. He was going to paint a rock for Mrs. Wiggins and deliver it to her personally.    The rock he chose was a little larger than the ones he had distributed around the trees in his yard. It had to be for what he had planned. He first painted the whole rock white. Once it was dry, he used brown and black paint to complete his masterpiece. As soon as it was done, Shane ran out the door and back to Mrs. Wiggins’ home. She was still on her front porch and still just as distraught.    “Mrs. Wiggins,” Shane said, as he made his way up her driveway, “I don’t know how to help you find your dog, but I made this for you.” Shane handed Mrs. Wiggins the rock he had created for her, which had a childlike painting of a German Shepard on a white background. “Anytime you miss your dog, you can look at this rock and remember him.”    Mrs. Wiggins’ eyes welled up with tears, but this time they were accompanied by a large smile. “You wonderful wonderful boy,” she said as she hugged Shane, “You’ve made my day. Thank you so much for my gift.”    “You’re welcome!” Shane responded, as he headed back home.

He had another rock to paint. For the next rock Shane used gold and cream and blue paint. It took two days to complete, and when it was perfect, he headed out the door to look for Mr. Johnson. It didn’t take long to find the old man, as it was right at the time when he would take his afternoon walk.

Without fear, Shane walked right up to Mr. Johnson and handed him the rock. “It’s a picture of your wife,” Shane said proudly. “I hope you like it. I remember she had blonde hair and blue eyes. I wanted you to have something that looked like her so you wouldn’t miss her so much.”    Mr. Johnson, not one for words, smiled and simply replied “Thank you.” It wasn’t much, but to Shane it meant the world because it was the first time Mr. Johnson had ever spoken to him. As he turned to leave, Mr. Johnson said, “Wait.” Shane turned back to see Mr. Johnson’s outstretched hand. Shane shook it . He felt very grown up that moment as it was his first hand shake with anyone other than his dad. Shane then turned back towards home. He had one more rock to paint.    Back home again, Shane set to painting his finest rock yet. This one would take almost a week and required a mirror. Shane did his best to paint a picture of himself on this last rock. He wasn’t sure if it would have the desired effect, but he was willing to try.

It is said that courage isn’t the absence of fear, but the triumph over it. For this last rock, Shane would have to overcome his greatest fear. Knocking on Billy’s door was the hardest thing Shane had ever done, and Billy’s initial response to Shane didn’t make it any easier.    “What do you want, retard?”    “I want to give you a gift,” Shane answered, as he handed Billy the rock. “My dad said bullies are bullies because they are afraid. I’m not sure if that’s true but I don’t want you to be afraid of me.” Billy was caught off guard by the gesture and was unexpectedly touched by Shane’s gentle spirit. There were no great professions of friendship, but in the end there was also no more bullying. Shane had defeated Billy without a fight just like a real superhero would. Happy and relieved, Shane headed home to tell his parents about the rocks. Shane’s dad gave his son a big bear hug while Shane’s mom cried happy tears. “I guess I can be a superhero without any superpowers,” Shane said to his father with a smile. “What do you mean, no superpowers? You have the greatest superpower of them all, kindness,” Shane’s father said, as he too shook his son’s hand. Just then there was a knock at the door. Shane walked over and opened the door to see Mrs. Wiggins holding a gift-wrapped package. “This is for you, Shane. It’s my way of saying thank you for my gift.” Shane took the package from Mrs. Wiggins and opened it immediately. Inside was a hand-sewn Superman cape. It took only a few seconds before the cape was secured around Shane’s neck. After an extended thank you hug, he ran out the door and into his neighborhood to protect all his new friends. ReplyForward


TW: gore Before I begin my account of this story, you must know that I cannot be held accountable. My mind doesn’t work right, and I black-out. I don’t know what happens when I black-out, and sometimes I don’t even know that I’ve done it. I’ll just suddenly realize that I don’t know how I got to the other side of the room, or in the next room over, or sometimes in a completely new place.         As an example, I’ll tell you that one day, I was driving. I was just driving for hours on end until I suddenly realized that I had no recollection of me entering the car. I didn’t even remember where I intended to go. When I checked the navigation system, I discovered that I was hours from my home and in a place I’ve never even been before. But when I had the itch in my brain telling me to look behind me, I found that in the backseat of my car was a shocking amount of blood. In a panic, I pulled over, hauled the seats out of my car, and dragged them about a mile into the desert where I had found myself driving. And there is where I left them.         The question of why keeps me up at night. Why did those seats have blood on them? Why can’t I remember? Why is this happening to me? And then the what. What have I done?         When one asks themselves, “What have I done?” it is usually a rhetorical question. One simply asked out of disbelief that they could have done something so terrible. But that means that they know that they have done that thing. When I ask myself that same question, it is seldom rhetorical. On many occasions, I have asked this in genuine search of an answer. But no matter how deep I search into my memories, I simply cannot come up with one.         Now that you surely know it’s not my fault, I will tell you my story.         There has been a sizable black barrel that has sat in my basement for some time. Like many things in my unusual life, I cannot remember how it came to be there. Most people may just go and open it to ease their curiosity, but my fear greatly overrules my interest. I know that I should go down and check, but I fear that I may not be able to live with myself if I knew the barrel’s contents. In complete honesty, some naïve part of me still believes that I won’t be responsible for whatever may be in the barrel if I don’t know what’s in it. Of course, my mind still runs wild with all of the possibilities. Maybe more things like the bloody seats, just suspicious items that I wouldn’t want anyone uncovering. But shoved deep to the back of my mind is the worst, seemingly most apparent option. At night, images of decomposing organs and flesh haunt my dreams, hinting at what I don’t know—hinting at what could’ve happened when I don’t remember.

        But to my knowledge, there is no person that I dislike enough to harm them like this. I get along well with all my co-workers; I have no outlandishly painful past relationships. I have had very few past relationships. I have always been a fairly lonely man. There have been a couple of signs that I have had more than I remember due to the black-outs, but I haven’t ever blacked out for very long. I doubt my… My other side could keep up much more than a fling.         Now, as I recount these things, it is a cold December night. I hear the wind howling, snaking, and whipping through tree limbs and over rooftops. Snowfall, which should be peaceful and calm, is being slanted and pushed to the ground. I keep it warm in my home, but just looking outside makes me shiver. I can’t sleep. My back aches, my side hurts, my mattress is too hard, and my bed is too soft. No, that’s not it. I can feel that black barrel. I now feel the distinct kind of dread I get when I go down to the basement and see it in the corner of my vision. The feeling usually stays contained downstairs, but tonight I can feel it. Like it’s at the foot of my bed. Suddenly I get chills, my arms tense, my chest tightens, and my head throbs. Something out of my control possesses me to swing my legs off my bed onto the cool wood floor and stand up. At this point, I could stop. I know I can, and I probably should, but I don’t want to. I am going to settle this feud with that blasted barrel once and for all. It doesn’t matter what’s in there; what can be worse than what my head has concocted? If it’s a body, then it’s a body. There’s nothing to be done.         I reach the door and do not hesitate to open it. To the basement stairs, and I step right on down. But I stop- I need something to open it with. I climb back up the six steps I had taken.         One.         Two.         Three.         Four.         Five.         Six.         Opening the junk drawer, I snatch two flathead screwdrivers and sprint down the basement stairs, beginning to fear that my adrenaline is wearing off. By the time I’ve reached the bottom step, the tightening in my chest has become almost unbearable. I can feel the barrel almost like a heartbeat, beating once more and once more violent with every step closer I take. Finally, I reach the barrel, tucked into a corner of an unfinished room. The pounding in my ears is so profound that I can only compare it to thunder from a lightning strike just yards away; it cracks and burns in my ears.         Slowly, gingerly, I place my hands on the rim of the barrel. With one screwdriver in each hand, I shove them underneath the lip of the lid. The thought of the tip of the screwdrivers inside the ominous black barrel nearly drives me mad, and I work quickly. It takes several minutes, while intense winds howl in my ears even from the outside and the pounding still in my head, but I finally feel the lid pop up from the hole in the top of the barrel.         The tightening is now so significant that I have to clutch my stomach and breathe deeply before lifting the lid slowly. So slowly. I open the top until I am hit with a thick wall of the indescribable yet unmistakable stench of decomposition. Now I am sure of what is inside, and I toss the lid on the concrete floor with a loud ringing smash. Surely enough, there is a half decomposed corpse of a woman in the barrel. But there is something else. I reach past the woman’s rotting torso to retrieve a piece of laminated paper. I turn the note over to the written side and read: I knew that you would cave. I am you, after all. And she, after all, was your wife; whether you knew her or not. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------- A/n This story was inspired by a true story! No, I am not kidding. Yes, you should be creeped out. To be fair, only the concept of the barrel was real. There was this guy, Ronald Cohen, who owned a house that he sold to a man named Hamid Tafaghodi. Hamid asked Ronald to get rid of this big 55-gallon drum in the crawlspace. Ronald never even opened this barrel for the entire time he lived there, because there were some toxic/chemical warnings on it. When he removed the drum from the house, he opened it and found the body of 9 month pregnant Reyna Marroquin. She was in that drum for 3 decades, and was actually mummified because she was stored in the barrel. Anyways, you're welcome for my true crime story of the day. you can read more about the horrible event that inspired this story here: https://www.thecriminaljournal.com/murder-of-reyna-marroquin-body-of-a-nine-month-pregnant-woman-was-found-inside-a-barrel-hidden-underneath-a-house/


It’s been a long road and finally I am glad it is nearing it’s end. My name is Nan and Today I am 73. It’s a good number. I think I shall cherish it for another 73 years. So on this special occasion I thought it fitting to share with you my ten favourite things. I know what you’re thinking. You wander how in 73 years a person could have only ten things to call favourite. Ha ha. It’s rather simple. After so many years, things become really simple. The canvas is painted and the special things kind of stand out against the background. Know what I mean? Well here they are. I call them Nan’s Special Ten. 10. The thing I call my number ten is something many have already admired. It’s something that’s not so reliable and it never stays in just one place. This thing I love and call it number ten is the seed of so many dreamy days. It is like a mind that is never full because as soon as it envisions one thing, it wipes it away and starts with another. It reminds me of the beauty of all my thoughts and experiences but it also teaches me to let go easily. As this thing is, so is my mind; a vast reservoir of thoughts, ideas and imaginations. This thing I truly love are the clouds that wisp across the sky making their shapes and patterns and thrilling me in the process. 9. This thing I love, I call my number 9 is something that is free for all and yet we cannot all acquire. It is a pure thing and some may even call holy. Without it we are parched and our lives are not prolonged. It gives invigoration and rejuvenation purifying us from the inside out. It is a shame and I have cried many days for the babies that could not be afforded it. Shame on men who create conflict and have no respect for the need of all men women and children to have access to pure, fresh and clean water. The thing I love number 9, is water. 8. This thing I love, I call my number 8 is something that colors my world and I think maybe yours too.  The creator must have delighted himself on the day he made them in his ‘make wonderful things’ room. What could be more delightful than these? They are red, they are yellow, they are purple and sometimes crimson. I can tell the difference. The creator gave them the primary colors and they made their own combinations of pure delight. In the morning they greet me and glisten in the rays of sunlight, dripping their dew as tears of joy to see me. In the evening we both close ourselves off to the world as we take rest in preparation for a new day. My number 8 are the beautiful flower. 7. This thing I love, I call my number 7 is something that I alone can see. Well, I think it is I alone. Who knows, perhaps you have seen them too. Sometimes on a warm summer day, I lean back in my rocking chair. When the sun is in just the right angle, it streams like rays through my bedroom window. Then I see them. Dainty little particles bobbing the path of the sun ray. They move along with such ease that I get jealous. They don’t let anything hold them back and I want to follow their lead. I feel special that they let me see them on those rare moments. They represent my hope. 6. This thing I love, I call my number 6 is something that makes me feel alive. I run my fingers through it and the warm gritty feeling makes me know I am here. Sometimes there are others moving through its warm chunky texture and they are also energized by this lovely brown substance. We have a give and take relationship that I would not trade with another. I give it seed, water, and fertilizer. In return it gives me green beauties, healthy foods and joy. This thing I love is soil. 5. This thing I love, I call my number 5 is something that I can't do without. It is dark and quiet. It is mysterious with no words but I understand it’s purpose. It takes away all my anxiety and all my weariness. I look to it and it says ‘Give!’. I comply. This thing I love is the night. 4. This thing I love, I call my number 4 is something that I cherish. I can’t do without it. To be honest, no one can for very long. When it is clean, it is good. When it is dirty it can be so dangerous. When it is forged in the presence of mountains and forests, it is the best. It’s crisp invigorating essence opens my mind and my lungs. I take it in deeply and I feel like I can soar above mountains and swim a thousand miles in the sea. This thing I love is  the good crisp air. 3. This thing I love, I call my number 3 is something that is not always plain to see. There is a plot and often many characters. They are smart, they are dashing , they are sinister at times but all very appealing. This thing takes me away from my world and into another. It allows me to be privy to a grand scheme and I love the sense of purpose I feel. I love a good mystery novel you see. 2. This thing I love, I call my number 2 is something that I have grown to love over the days, months and years. At first it was black and bitter and I couldn’t understand the passion others had for it. But as I travelled the world sampling the arabica and the africas, the tunisian and the columbian flavors and spices...my taste buds were more than tantalised. Can you imagine there are those that add milk, coconut and vanilla essences, orange, chocolate and even plum to this delightful thing? I love a good cup of coffee. 1. This thing I love, I call my number 1 is something unlike all the others. It has been so many things over the years. It has been brash and naive, simple and repulsive. It later became bold and pig headed. It’s a wonder it survived all these years. But experience made it wiser. Loss made it more grateful. Life made it more respectful. Today it is my favourite thing of all but I could not say so 70 years ago. No, but today is different. My most favourite thing of all- is ME! So there it is, my list of all favourite things. I hope you enjoyed it. Maybe even recognized a few items from your list. Cherish it with me and have a grand day yourself.


A shadow moved and the chase began. Alec darted from his hiding place behind a battered chimney and dived forth into the night, landing like a cat and immediately springing up after his prey. His quarry – this time a rather plump halfling by the name ‘perrin’ – glanced over his shoulders, eyes wide with fear. Alec was used to this, and held no reservation in using all force necessary to uphold the councils justice. An enchanted obsidian dagger flew from his cloak, burying itself deep in the back of the halflings left Leg, its devilish enchantment shutting the muscle off instantly, causing the small man to crash to the cobbled floor. Alec skidded to a stop over his fallen target, then with a coy smile announced himself.  ‘I, Alec Eagle-eyes, hunter and justice keeper for the Vallywall council, am taking you in on charges of theft and treason, resist and you shall be swiftly executed’. He smiled at the last word, in his 4 years hunting criminals on the streets of Vallywall he hadn’t once had to bring the final justice, and he prayed he’d never come across a criminal evil enough, to require it of him. The halfling began to mumble his excuses, the usual sort about being framed or how he needed the thousnads of gold pieces he took to feed his children. Used to these sleezy lies, Alec grabbed his chubby wrists and with a stone cold gaze tied his wrist, just a smidge tighter then he ought too. Seeing how his excuses were falling on deaf ears, the wretch took up a new tactic. ‘don’t see many half elves like you around’ Perrin began, but was quickly cut off. ‘I suppose not’ ‘didn’t think your kind were liked around here, the council being elven they tend to look down on your lot…’ ‘metaphorically, as oppose to how they look at you’ Alec shot back with a laugh. The halflings mouth gaped, though standing at barely above three feet, less then half that of his captor, he didn’t have much of a comeback. The Halfling stayed silent the rest of the journey, as Alec half led half dragged his captive the council hall in the centre of the city, far from the shady allies he’d been caught in. The great building shone in the moonlight, its twin spires reaching high towards the stars, and a waterfall crashing behind it into a crystal clear pool. Statues of the 6 members of the ruling council surrounded the entrance courtyard, though not all was peaceful, much to the half elf’s surprise. A crowd had gathered in the circular court, mostly humans, shouting protest at something, though Alec payed it little heed, as for years the council had been accused of corruption, though when your in a seat of almost complete power (second only to the king) for upwards of five hundred years, people start to question how. With the doors shut behind him the noise faded away as Alec lead the thief down the gilded halls, a yellow carpet spread across the floor and a glass ceiling let in light from the moon and stars, reflecting on perfectly placed prisms to bathe the room in a peaceful light. No matter the criminal, no matter the crime, they always accepted their arrest here, Alec had always thought it was in some way enchanted, though the natural beauty was enchanting enough. Two sleek, Elven guards met him at the end of the hall, taking Perrin and handing him a new scroll. ‘This one’s important, half, don’t mess it up’ one guard muttered with a smile, and the other laughed. Alec stared the guard who spoke down until he shrunk back and stumbled off with an obviously smug halfling. Angered, but unfortunately unsurprised, Alec opened the scroll. He eyes widened at the first words, ‘the king is dead’. As he read on dots started to connect, the crowd outside must be blaming the council, for the council were now the sole power in Vallywall, though they couldn’t be responsible otherwise why wait five hundred years, and 23 monarchs, before striking. The scroll also said they knew who was responsible, though they had no motive. The aura from a local scholar, one Tridus who worked at the waterfall library, had been found in the kings study, and as such the council wanted him brought to justice. At the bottom the scroll was very clear, Tridus is to be considered dangerous and should be killed on sight if he shows any threat. Alec never wanted to read those words, but for the safety of the city he loved, he would follow them to the letter… Wasting no time he returned to the rooftops, still slippery from the recent rain, and charged to the waterfall library, up-vally from him, which made the travel hard as he clambered up walls and gutters, higher into the city. Once he was there he checked his long sword, sheathed at his hip, as well as his enchanted, obsidian dagger. Trisdus wasn’t hard to find, as Alec spotted him in a window still studying despite the late time, likely still too stressed to sleep but wanting to maintain his facade as a scholar, though the experienced hunter expected that his whole purpose had been as an assassin, likely from a rival kingdom wanting to weaking the throne before making an attack. Justice would be swift. Like a panther Alec slid from his rooftop vantage and leaped to the ground at the library entrance, boldly strolling in, his presence immediately noted by all those inside, though they were silenced as he drew his sword and raised his finger to his lips. He passed the stairs rapidly, before kicking the door in and giving the newfound assassin a larger than anticipated panic attack. In a rather un-assassin like manor, Tridus fell to the floor and scrambled away on his back side, not taking his eyes from the cloaked half elf in his doorway, which blocked his only means of escape. ‘Stop right there, traitor’ He spat the last word, and obediently, the human froze, raising his hands to show he held no weapon. He was certainly not like any other assassin Alec had ever come across, though he imagined that was the genius of it. ‘your under arrest for the murder of our king’ he announced, forgetting his introductions in his shock at the lack of a fight he received from the man who had killed the most powerful being in the realm. Flustered, he sheathed his sword but kept one wary hand on his dagger, while moving to take out this rope. Tridus suddenly seemed to wake up, as though finally realising this wasn’t a dream borne of his sleep deprived study session into the rare herbal remedies used by the highland folk in the nearby vallys. ‘I’m sorry… what!?’ he shouted, eyes bulging with fear Stunned, and unsure what to do, Alec kicked the scholar back, and stood over him, ‘The king has been murdered and your aura was at the scene of the crime’ Alec replied, almost shaking from shock at the way the events had unfolded. ‘If it was his study that was from showing him these’ Tridus replied shaking, then went to reach for something concealed in his bag. Noticing this Alec reacted instantly, jumping up and launching his glassy black dagger straight at the mans heart, its enchantment taking instant effect and stopping the muscle working, cutting his life of immediately. For the first time in his life Alec didn’t land with unnatural precision, instead landing like a rock fallen from a cliff, slamming hard to the floor. Over a hundred criminals brought in, but this his first kill, and though he knew the man to be evil, an assassin and a danger to all the civilised folk in Vallywall, he found it hard to see it that way. His facade was convincing, he’d give the man that. After what seemed an age he stood, quickly checking Tridus’ pulse to confirm his grim expectations, then set to retrieve the hidden weapon the man had planned to kill him with. In its place, he found a notebook. His horror rose as he opened the leather cover, for it was page upon page of evidence as to the corruption in the council, aswell as notes on a plot to kill the king and a note from the king himself granting the scholar protection from all investigators, signed by his majesty. Like curtains opening it all became clear. The council killed the king, they framed Tridus as he had been investigating them, removing an enemy while also having evidence as he had been in the kings study that very same day. With one last look at the still warm body of Tridus, a true scholar and noble citizen of Vallywall, he vowed to not rest until all was unveiled, and after slipping the notebook into a pouch, he dived to the night with a tear in his eye and an unquenchable rage in his heart. Justice would be brought to Watervally. Like a shadow he moved through the city; his new quest began.


So, once upon a time, there was a dirty word,

an abhorrent marriage and

a soiled soul and

Drake Fabian. Everyone knows a Drake Fabian.

He is the guy who would step on your head and kick your dog to ascend that ladder.

He was his mother's Christ.

On any rung he placed his foot, a sacred ground from beneath him, grew.

The child she shouldn't have had, or never should have kept, was Drake Fabian.

Her hair was always greasy, and she was beaten on the daily by her alcoholic husband.

Not pretty enough for her tiny man, and too Catholic to divorce, she took her frustration out on Drake, her dirty boy.

He was dirty because he was a boy.

He was dirty because his soiled his diaper, like clockwork, every three hours and a minute.

Her cross eyed spouse, her tiny man, would not, could not, stand the smell and for that, he would hurt her; hurt her for the stench of crap.

She made sure to tell him that, her son, whom she called out by his full name, Drake Fabian.

Simultaneously, she would chastise her baby, and lick his ego, like a sore,

or as a cow laps up placenta from a newborn calf.

She couldn't get him clean, because he couldn't ever be clean, enough.

Not in the area that he messed,

every three hours and a minute, nor in her eyes, for he was a make, like her cheating man.

Filling his diaper with green bile, he listened as she vomited verbs and nouns that no child should ever hear, but he listened too closely and he heard and he learned.

He knew when he soiled,

he was going to get beat on, and he grew frightened.

But his unformed mind, unconsciously kept a tally of every blow that struck him and every verb or adjective

of abuse thrown at him.

Over weeks, he knew it was wrong and bad to fill his pamper with green bile.

He came to hate that mess and smell that happened every three hours and a minute, he recognized it soon, as the smell angered his mother.

She beat his ass red and bloody, and wiped and scraped it clean, because it was bad, filthy bad.

He hated his soiled drawers, and his mother for hating him, for

being a dirty boy.

He remembered how it hurt to be dirty.

As he grew up,

his mother doted on him as a golden child.

He was a perfect child now, and getting more ideal every year, because he was directly to thank,

fornhwr beatings only happened at night, and not every three hours and a minute.

Drake Fabian considered only his needs, and bullied anyone who tried to tweak with his power play.

There was the time, I got sucker punched for not signing up for selective service on my 18th birthday.

The moment my life flashed before my eyes, when he told an Italian fisherman, that it was me, and not him, that stole his beer in Europe.

He routinely took more than he needed, and spent as close to nothing on anyone other than what was necessary to win friends and influence people.

His favorite hobby was watching his reflection, as a child predator would.

He made it a daily challenge to miserly pinch every penny:

telling St. Jude’s hospital to fuck off on the phone.

After years of listening to him bitch, and moan, and his daily rants of self serving propaganda,

it was time to kill Drake Fabian.

Should I kill thee for the fourth grade misgivings and all the hype you put upon the rest of us, while you created a cult around Farrah, and made everyone else a pariah near thee?

Should I slaughter thee for the minutes you stole in highschool, taking my books or swiping your backhand against my face?

Perhaps I should slice your throat for the years of drug abuse you deny to your wife and children?

There are so many ways.

Should I perhaps, take your skull and smash it with the hammer you threw at me, when we played near your mother’s pool, but you weren’t the center of attention?

Or maybe when you started throwing scissors at me when I interrupted your beating of your

girlfriend?

I could take out your knees, because you couldn't actually win on the football field, but had to find a way to make sure your privileged ass shined bright against the sun.

I remember the year in college, when we both chose Western Civ as a sure pass, and I aced the same test you failed.

The night before studying your stolen test, while I skated through to the same C.

How you plotted against me, because I had learned

in high school what you blew the TA for.

When you were busy sticking your little wicket into some 13 year old, as I excused your bad behavior.

Or the same year, when I interuppted your rape,

that you used marijuana and cocaine to ply through; her tight Jordache jeans had her sucking your fat fingers, until I pulled her out by her dignity.

Why did you suck the peanut butter off a goat's goathood bought, to ensure friends at the biggest frat, while I drank and smoke my way into the same Dean's list?

Your mother bought you edible underwear, because she thought it was sexy, meanwhile we all drank to forget the thought of it.

Your father asked you what that girl meant, when she asked to buy weed from you, albeit on parent’s weekend.

When your girlfriend, the only one you ever loved, called you out on your hypocrisy with the one word you couldn’t digest.

The one word that interrupted your little world, and made you feel like the little babyyou were, a full diaper of crap.

Did you tell your wife, Drake?

Did you tell her you married her only to breed?

Does your wife know the word that makes you shrink into a little red, white baby?

Can she sense your soft, white under belly? Because it’s dirty.

Because you can’t clean it up, like you clean up your life, at least in a whipped up rationalization.

You know your deepest fear.

It frightens you as hell shakes a minor, puny demon to IRA core.

You know, and no one else knows, that

dark, black, evacuation, if your nightmares.

It’s not the job you lied to get.

It’s not the car you wrecked and got fixed by filing a false claim.

It's not the exact measurement of your hair, ir the number of bug bites per summer and the weight of the pile of coals at the bottom of your grill, you can meet out.

In fact, even the weight of the pennies you throw at the homeless in your town, isn't within your domain.

But that dirty little back end of yours, you bad, dirty boy.

That, you cannot control.

You know that.

And only you, and I, know that.

Do you tell your coworkers about how you would purposely kill anyone who fucked up your career, even your wife, the woman who bore you two children?

Did you announce to the world, as you would announce any bowel movement to the nearest drunkard, the beer you stole throughout your youth, or the bat you kept in your pathetic B210, to pummel anyone who didn’t agree with your self serving ding a ling?

The blackened eye you gave as a gift to any non worshipping lackey.

Can you recall the rituals you went through, day in and day out?

Of walking a certain number of minutes per day, or eating a particular number of calories, or fucking every girl who entered your beer red pubic hair?

The way you showered for exactly 4 minutes each day and then took 13 steps back into the dormroom, to pull your towel off, left to right every time.

Then, taking your right hand and putting exactly two poofs of talcum powder in your left hand, to rim your asshole three times, never four, to make sure you “powdered up,” and then announce it to the whole floor.

Or when you got wet by accident and proceeded to attack poor, large Harvey; much larger than you, and someone you could not harm, put you down like a baby for a nap.

I wonder if you can see why I must kill you?

Why everything you stand for and everyone you’ve harmed, call to my soul, begging for vengeance.

People you don’t remember, times you’ve put behind you, like a fat drunkard puts a handful of

tainted, browned single-ply toilet paper into his ass, and wipes, and wipes, and sandpapers and pulls out the hairs of his ass covered in boils.

Now that you have attained this American dream, you created, nay, infested on everyone else.

All of us who dared stood near you, not even in your way.

The mother that blew little kisses on your naked behind.

So white, so privileged, your cheese droopy ass is, and soon, was.

I hated every word you uttered,

Every little lisp you tried to make sexy, every sneaker you stole from the Footlockers you worked at.

I despised every drop of every beer of every case you snuck out the back door of the IGA.

You made friendship a game.

Where love should have prevailed, you placed contempt and competition.

You tried so hard to be number one, and we all bowed in front of you, so as not

to be beaten when we weren’t looking.

But you were last, always last, never to win, fairly.

You stole the right to win, when you refused to play by the rules humanity wrote.

So on this day, this your fiftieth birthday, I must end you.

I will not tell you about it.

I will ambush you, when all is right and blissful and calm in your world.

While you sip a Scotch, you don’t deserve, or smoke a fat black cigar, you never bought, I will walk up to you, as I have a hundred times before.

I will shake your hand, while pulling you into a hearty hug, and squeeze you, as the prodigal son greets his lost brother.

You will smile, because you will think you have a moment of safety.

And another unearned victory.

As I pull away from that embrace, and your eyes lock mine, as a comrade’s should, I will look down at my feet.

Your gaze will slowly turn to a blink, as you automatically follow my head down to where I want you to be staring.

Your wife will smile like the horse faced ass she is, your children, whom I have never met will be texting their boyfriends or BFFs, nearby, and someone else you’ve fucked over in the past, will be stealing one more beer from your ill gotten cooler gains, and then….just then.

“Drake.”

“What up, Fatness?”

“Happy birthday.”

“You're still smoking crack?

“You still an ass hole?”

“Uh. I hate that word.”

“I know.”

“Why do you use that word, when you know I hate it?”

“Ah, Drake.

Ah, fucking, Drake.

May all your fears face you when you die."


Every day I paint a mask. The features shift and change with the tide of my own self-confidence but it’s always my face. The different masks of me, which I wear to avoid scaring my loved ones. I have a mask for strangers, a mask for friends, a mask for acquaintances, and one for family. I have masks for myself, depending on my mood, and sometimes they fight while I’m driving to work. These masks are not lies, merely a fraction of the truth. Every day I paint these fractions and every day I see the same face. It’s not until I show the canvas to someone that the image shifts into the fraction they find familiar. I’ve seen a carefully painted smile droop down into a stoic stare. I’ve seen an impotent scream blur into a smile so bright I don’t recognize it. I stare for hours at that smile and wonder how a painting of my own face could hold more joy than I’ve ever felt.

Occasionally, I paint to try and grasp that joy. My friends ooh and ahh and compliment my smile. They go on and on about how impressed they are with my ability to pull such joy from myself. They bemoan how they are "forever tortured artists" and “full of emotion and anxiety”. I suppress the urge to tell them how I hope every day for anxiety, for anything. I say my polite goodbyes and take the painting home to inspect every line and crease in my face. I stare deep into the eyes, windows to an empty house. I try to find something that would send their impression of me into my heart but all I find is the same dying ember, an ember too dull to feel alive but still too scared of going out to extinguish itself. I hold onto it just to fill the space. I plummet into a dark abyss of existential dread. And just when I think it’s all for nothing I realize that it’s just another mask. A mask that protects me from failure. A mask that makes everything easier. And if it’s just a mask then it must be a lie. The portrait I paint returns to a smile. It’s not as brilliant but it’s real and the ember grows to a small flame. I take that flame and use the energy to explore. I leave my home and go out into the world. I see strangers helping strangers. I see families. I see lovers and friends. The beautiful coexistence that makes up life. I take it all in and acknowledge my unimportance. My problems are nothing in the grand scheme of the world. All around me are swarms of stories, big and small. People with their own masks that they just never put to canvas.

I see a car rip down the road with no regard for others.

I see a woman stop in the middle of the sidewalk to blabber some nonsense and block my path.

The scream of a spoiled child.

The barking of an untrained dog. None of them understand how small they are. They don’t realize that their petty problems are so very unimportant. My flame burns hot with annoyance and anger and the portrait I paint when I return is one of rage. I put it on my wall in the backroom so that only I can see it. I hold it for myself. I need it to be pure, unspoiled by the gaze of someone I know who could transform it back to that vapid grin. But even as I put it up on my wall the face turns back to an even stare. My flame has burned too bright and used up its fuel. I can now barely remember the rage that was there. My painting continues and the faces stay the same. I’ve added one for the frustration that was born from my efforts. My walls are covered in half-remembered paintings. I stopped inviting friends over as the number of canvases has worried them. I played it off as a joke and told them that I’ve just been inspired lately. They think I’m getting rid of them all in a week or so. I don’t intend to. I keep hoping that one of them sticks but they never do. All I get is flashes of feeling, little sparks of something that gets lost in the void. I once threw a can of paint on the canvas in a desperate attempt to see something new but the paint just slid down the front. I ripped another canvas to shreds and it reformed in an instant. Every night I walk to bed through a hallway of blank faces. I can barely remember the spark I once had. There’s no energy for rage. My pursuit is now an addiction, a madness. I thought I had a breakthrough several days ago. The face that appeared when I pulled back from the canvas was unfamiliar to me. It had a look of contentment, of satisfaction. It also wasn’t me. I had hoped to paint a new mask for myself but a new face was at least a change from the endless blank stares. Perhaps I could learn more about my own spark by painting others? I took the painting to my hallway, emboldened by my success, and put it up next to the others. I stood back and something in my head emptied out onto the floor.

The painting was me. It had always been me.

I just couldn’t recognize my own face anymore. I felt my consciousness float to the ceiling. I was looking down on myself from above. I’m still me, but I don’t know what me is. I watch my body go back to the canvas. I watch it pick up the paints and continue with another self-portrait. The quality is better than ever before. The strands of the shirt, the individual hairs on my head, and the pores of my skin are painted in vivid detail. The work is incredible but I notice that the portrait has no face. I wait for my body to finish but it just picks up the faceless painting and hangs it on the wall. Then it hangs another. And another. The blank stares and old emotions are replaced by an endless line of faceless nothings. And that’s where I am now. Watching from above as my body paints faceless self-portraits. I no longer want to find a new mask. I have no more masks. These are who I truly am. Nothing. An empty sack waiting to be filled. Eventually, my body requires food and so it leaves the apartment. My body talks to friends and it mimics their laughs. It hugs my family and tells them it loves them only after they say it first. I float above it and watch. Not happy. Not sad. Not scared. Not joyful. Not anything.


Once there were 3 children Josh, Amy, and Martin. Their parents were on vacation in Philadelphia so they were living with their grandparents for quite a while. Grandpa would typically just lay on the couch, scratch his big belly and fall asleep. While, on the oth´t́ hand, Grandma would walk around the house and give out her freshly baked cookies to the neighbors, and water the plants in the house. One day when Grandma was about to go for a walk she saw it was snowing. Grandma was not able to walk in the snow so she called Josh, Amy, and Martin to help build a pathway around the house so, she could walk. Then she went inside to water her plants while the kids shoveled the snow. The next day while grandpa was snoring and honking in his sleep the three kids all tiptoed outside while granny was watching T.V. and ran away! The next day missing posters were spreading like wildfire around the city! Then a police officer said, “Three kids are missing please help find–” just then and banana hit him on the head and he went blurting out crazy things. But did you think granny was going to give up NO! Granny was still on the search for Amy, Josh, and Martin. She went door to door banging at people’s doors and holding them by the collar yelling “HAVE YOU SEEN MY THREE GRANDCHILDREN!!”But sadly no one knew. One day when grandma went for a walk outside in a nearby alley she saw a donkey and a horse talking about something she crept over to listen to what they were talking aboút what she heard next was breathtaking “What do you think we should do with the three children” said the horse “Let them go?” said the donkey“No you idiot why would we capture them in the first place ?” said the horse“You wanna know what was the biggest mistake of my life? HIRING YOU TO JOIN MY GANG!” said the horse that's when the grandma realized that the horse and the donkey had taken Amy, Josh, and Martin. But she had to be sure about it. So she kept on listening “Can you remind me what the three children were?, I forgot?” said the donkey“Ugh! Now you're forgetful on top of being an idiot” said the horse “Uhhhhh yeah” said the donkey “Listen the three children are one girl and two boys” Now this made grandma sure that the horse and the donkey had taken Amy, Josh, and Martin. She wanted to confront them but she knew that if she wanted to get her three grandchildren back she had to be smart. So she walked over to them and said“Have you two seen my three grandchildren? ”The donkey and the horse looked at each other and then the donkey said “Yes, your grand-” just then the horse covered the donkey's mouth with its hoove and said“No maḿ we have not seen your grandchildren” But the donkey said that he knew about my grandchildren,” said the grandma “Uhhhhhhhh............................ma'am I think itś because you have uh um a hearing problem uh yeah a hearing problem because the donkey said uhh nothing yeah he...... he was just ..........................................................uh.........lip-syncing,” said the horse“Yup I was lip-syncing,” said the donkey nudging the horse.“You can go along now there's nothing to see here ” That's when grandma felt even more determined to stand up and find her grandchildren. So she said“Your right it is probably my hearing problem but how did you know that I had a hearing problem?” Because................................all grandmas have hearing problems?” said the horse “So uh we have something to do remember horse,” said the donkey “Um yeah we do um bye!” said the horse and with that, they both ran out of there. And from that day grandma raised her suspicion and started sending police officers to every home in the town. Days turned into weeks and weeks into months but still after long days of investigation no hope. So she had no choice but to call the super-hero of the town.......SUPERNOVA! Grandma went inside took down a painting and said“SUPERNOVA, SUPERNOVA, SUPERNOVA!!!!!”And like that Supernva the centar appeared in front of grandma “Supernova my dear my three grandchildrn have gone missing for months and their parents will be coming in a week but I have no idea where they are ” said grandma “Itś ok grandma I will find them for you now tell me do you have any suspects?”said Supernova.“As a matter of a fact I do but this might sound silly its a doney and a horse ”said grandma“You mean the Animals illistration gang yeah they dress up as animals and capture kids many kids have gone missing and never seen again”said supernova“No,NO,No no no I can not lose my three granchildren please supernova do something I will give you whatever you need ”said grandma “Dont worry over the past year I have being doing some anylis on the Animals illitration gangs weakness and turns out its lemon mixed with frosting all you need to do is just disguise the frosting by putting it on your famous cookies”said supernova“Well I think I can do that thank you supernova.”said grandma and like supernova vanished, and grandma ran to the kitchen and started making the cookies and adding the frosting with lemon on. The next day she went to the same alley where she saw them before and just like that the horse and the donkey were over there She walked up to them and said “I am sorry about the other day so I decided to bake you some of my faomus cookies wih extra icing on as an apolizy ”The horse and the donkey looked at each other then the cookies and then started gobbling them up after two minutes both the horse the the donkeyś eyes glowed and said the three children are in the basement of the coordinates in 178.73600.“Thats 10 minutes away”said grandma so she took a cab and rushed to the place and when she got there she ran to the basemant the lights were so she went to switch the light on.......................................“HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU,HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU,HAPPY BIRTHDAY GRANDMA,HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU!!!!!!!”sang everyone and there grandma saw Amy , Josh, and Martin and their parents with disguies on as a horse and a donkey and even supernova.“Ahhh this all makes sense now you all faked this whole scene just to wish me a happy brithday you guys are so sweet”said grandma and with that everybody got into a tight hug. Oh, and as well for the police officer he was still running around town yelling crazy things.


It all happened on a Saturday night in July. The weather was nice, the country club beautifully decorated, but the conversation horrifying. "What do you mean you're not my boyfriend?" Jeanette asked me. She was backing away slowly, her lovely hazel eyes wide with fear. I hadn't meant for it to slip out. We were at our wedding party, drinking champagne, enjoiying ourselves. The beginning of the wedding had passed by in such a blur. Walking down the isle, saying our vows...It didn't feel real. I but then I again, I suppose, it wasn't. "I wish I remembered dating you." Jeanette had said, her face falling. "It feels like I just met you...thank you for being so forgiving. The accident took everything from me." I had nodded, trying to conjure up yet another lie. "No problem honey. Our dates were wonderful, but we can make more great memories together. We are going to have a blast on our honeymoon." I had assured her, face forcing a smile. "I downed my third glass of the fizzy drink. "Your the perfect man Brad." She had sighed, picking up one of the chocolate macaroons. I had felt beads of sweat starting to form at the nape of my neck, making my suit collar itch. I forced another smile. "Thanks honey, but you compliment me too much." I grimaced, reaching for another glass of champagne. Jeanette had reached out, putting her hand on my arm. "That's because you're my husband now." She smiled, stepping closer to me. My brain rang in alarm, my mind yelling liar liar. It was the alcohol that did it. I felt woozy with the beginning of a bad headache at the base of my skull. My temples were throbbing. And in that moment of weakness, I had let my guard down, and the truth had slipped out. "I'm not you're husband, and I..I wasn't your boyfriend.." And she was standing in front of me now looking confused, angry, and fearful. "Jeanette..." I swallowed, unsure what to say. "Brad?" She asked. "I...I'm so sorry." I say looking away. I know now I need to tell her the truth. I've loved her ever since I saw her a month ago at the gym. "Explain." She demands. "I"m sorry." I explain shakily. "I met you in the gym about a month ago. You were on the treadmill running, when you suddenly slipped off and banged your head hard on the floor." "I don't understand...." She gasped, taking another step back. "You said we met years ago." "You were rushed to the hospital. I followed you there, wanting to make sure you were okay. But they wouldn't let me see you." I took a deep breath. "So since they said only ffamily and friends were allowed in, I said I was your boyfriend." "Brad!" Jeanette shouts. "All of it was a lie? " "Jeanette please..." "You lied to me! I had no boyfriend!" She spits. By now, some of our wedding guests are giving us sideways glances. "You're right." I admit, hanging my head. "You just didn't remember because of the amnesia." My headache is worse than ever now. "I just needed to make sure you were okay! I felt responsible, I was talking to you while you were running and you got distracted by me! I made you slip!" "Brad." Jeanette sighs, trying to collect herself. "We are done here." "Jeanette..." "Please." She holds up a hand. "Just go." And even though telling the truth lifted a heavy weight from my chest, I had never felt so miserable. "But our wedding..." "Our wedding isn't real!" She cries out. "But Jeanette I love you! Even though we didn't really date once you became conscious and I got to know you I fell in love with you!" "Brad, I don't even know who you really are." She states, her voice ice cold. "What kind of pyscho would do something like this?" "But, don't you love me?" I ask, my voice quivering. "I, I thought I did." She stammers. "But I don't even know you! Our relationship is based on lies!" "We can fix this." I say, walking towards her. But she holds up a hand. "No Brad." Jeanette states. "Not for a long time." "I'm sorry!" I cry. "Please forgive me!" "Brad," Jeanette breathes, "I'm going to need some time to process this." "Jeanette, I know I don't deserve your forgiveness but please." I plead. "I forgive you." she stammers. "But, I need some time. You can't just expect me to jump back into a relationship with you after you pretended you were my boyfriend when I had amnesia!" "I know." I admit, my shoulders slumping. All of the wedding party by this time is gathering around us. Most of them are glaring daggers at me, others have their mouths hanging open from shock. "Go to court Jeanette!" "I"m calling the police this is insane." "Sue him!" The crowd all starts crying out. The police does arrive, and I tell the whole story again. Even the officers seem shocked. "Your going to jail." One of them states, setting his jaw firmly. But to my suprise, Jeanette interjects. "No, don't make him go to jail officer. I feel sorry for him." She says. Sorry for me? What? "He needs...help." She stammers, giving me a sideways glance. My chest fills with despair. Everyone thinks I'm insane. "Let me explain!" I plead, dropping to my knees. "You've explained plenty." The officer snaps. "You have the right to remain silent." "No!" I interject. "You don't understand!" Jeanette just shakes her head and walks away, her white wedding dress trailing along behind her. She hands her bouquet to a waiter and slips off her ring. What had just happened? How did it get to this? I try to go ater her but the officers stop me. "You're going to court." They say, shaking their heads. The wedding party disperses, all of them shaking their heads, and shocked. Who knew a wedding could go so wrong.