The truck jolted over another crater-like pothole as the pungent odor of rotting fish filtered into the cab, mingling with the salty air scratching at the back of my throat. I grabbed my grimy steel travel mug from the busted cup holder and took a swig, gripping it tightly to protect the precious brew that had been cold for hours. As much trouble as the old diesel gave me, she could navigate anything but a sinkhole. Over the years she evolved into a fortress of jagged rusty metal, deterring thieves and most everyone else, too. I named her Matilda, after my great aunt who carved her birthday and initials in inconspicuous places damn near everywhere she went - restaurants, public bathrooms, doctors' office waiting rooms, church pews. She said she wanted to leave proof she existed, that she was here, but “without drawing too much attention”. One night after Christmas dinner and too much port wine, she giggled conspiratorially between sips and hiccups as she relayed the stories of her quest to be remembered by strangers among the general populace in the most obscure manner possible. I was eight, and I found it to be a simple but heroic act of rebellion; a bit of salve applied to the burning need to be seen in a world designed to overlook, devalue, and underestimate her. The next week, I carved my multiplication facts into the little table in my bedroom where I did my homework. My father dragged me out of bed that night when he got home and gave me a bare-assed beating for “ruining” the table.

The chunks of asphalt gave way to a mostly dirt road where crews had not yet gotten around to repaving. Matilda groaned as I shifted into third gear and picked up speed. The ocean appeared over the horizon, a brilliant blue-green I once spent hours trying to replicate with acrylic paints. My version never seemed right - too green, too blue, too light, too flat, too something. I liked to think the real ocean was undergoing its metamorphosis and healing, and maybe that made it difficult to recreate, especially from memory. Perhaps the ephemeral essence of such an expansive body becoming whole again belies witness or recording. Or… I just suck at color theory. I needed to walk into it, to put my face in it and feel it envelop my body, like in those classic cruise commercials that showed smiling tourists swimming in clear bright water, intermixing with all that life . Maybe by immersing myself in its vastness, I could capture its shades and hues. The Landback Agency put out a green notice six months ago, saying the water was once again safe for people, but I had not dipped a toe in since our last family beach trip when I was nine years old. We always stayed at Matilda’s beach house, which used to be in the fifth row, but as the Atlantic rose, it graduated to the second row. It was the same trip in which my father pulled me out into the water on a blow-up raft until I was too short to reach the bottom. When a wave flipped the boat, I remember spinning and panicking, certain I was drowning, until I felt him grab my arm and pull me out. I coughed and gasped for air while he laughed and dragged me toward the shore. The agency introduced the red/yellow/green protocol by the next summer, and the whole southern coastline was in red for over two decades. I remember the weight that settled over every aspect of our existence when the oceans became hazardous. The effects spread far beyond the predicted industries and communities; even the deniers came around when they could no longer talk past the growing mountains of evidence marking them as the fools they had always been. They still fought against the landback stewardship decision, but in the end, they had no solutions, only arguments and egos.

I glanced over to the passenger seat at the green mask and snorkel I picked up two years ago at a yard sale for six dollars. It was all over the news that oceans were moving to yellow protocol; Aunt Matilda died a week before the first pronouncement, and shocked everyone by leaving the now second-row beach house to me. When I saw the snorkel peeking out from underneath a pair of Birkenstocks on a table piled high with unwanted possessions, it was as if she was prodding me from her perch in the afterlife.

As I rounded the sharp bend, the wooden “Welcome to Palm Breeze Bay” sign greeted me, freshly painted pink and standing upright for once. I saw testimony everywhere of a hibernating town waking from a too-long slumber. A man emerged from a room at the Sea Horse Motel, pulling a boxy gray wagon that carried two giggling toddlers wearing matching hats, and he began to maneuver the patchy chunks of sidewalk toward the public access point. Across the street, a pop-up flea market had taken over the Wings store parking lot. The sounds of construction rang out from every direction. Hope planted itself in my chest and thrummed.

The old gas station on the corner that still had a full-service option was packed with construction vehicles and two food trucks. My stomach growled despite the rank odor hanging in the air, so I turned in and found a spot to park on the side of the store. As I climbed down from the truck, I heard a woman’s voice with a more southern drawl than mine call out.

“Hawttttttt dawgssssss! Fresh dawgs here!” The smell of oil and salty cured meat emanated from the window she poked her head through. She smiled as she caught my eye and winked. I swallowed. Her brown hair was streaked with silver that sparkled when angled just so in the sun, and her smile beamed in my direction, creeping over me like a warm hug I didn’t know I needed. Struck by an intense craving for a hot dog, I made my way to the truck that flanked the parking lot. “Hey there love, you hungry?” She addressed me with a sense of familiarity, almost intimacy, as if we were best friends and I had stopped by her house to visit. I noticed as I moved closer she had freckles across her nose and cheeks, and a small paw print tattoo behind her left ear.

“Uh, yes, I am, those hot dogs smell amazing. Could I get two, all the way… and… some fries?” I had to yell a little to be heard over the clamor behind me.

“Sure, love,” she said, turning to someone I couldn’t see. “FRY!” She faced me again. “What brings you to PB?” She waited for an answer I wasn’t prepared to give.

“I, um, I’m going to check on a house, see what kind of work it needs.” This was the part I could say out loud. The rest wouldn’t hold up without the weight of my entire life story. “Interesting…” She peered at me, considering my answer. “Whereabouts is your place? I live over off 32nd Street, near the sandwich shop.”

“Oh. That’s close to me, I’m off 34th, down the road from there, in the house that used to belong to my aunt Matilda, but I guess… now it belongs to me.” I was adjusting to the idea of owning a home, let alone something as extravagant as a beach house, while I knew so many were struggling.

“Well how ‘bout that? Welcome home then… I’m Evie.” That damn smile. I was having a hard time focusing. She grabbed the tongs and assembled my hot dogs. “Hi, Evie, nice to meet you. I’m Asha.”

“Asha! A pretty name for a pretty lady.” She glanced sideways at me as she piled on toppings. “You plannin’ on having any fun while you’re here?” “Umm, I’m not sure really, I hadn’t thought about it. I want to check out the ocean, it’s… been a while.” She nodded knowingly and reached into the space behind her, returning with a red and white paper boat overflowing with fries.

“It can be intimidatin’ the first time back in. I’ll give you my number in case you want some company, I’m a strong swimmer, and maybe even above average company.” She winked at me again. Evie was full of herself but it was oddly comforting, like her confidence could be depended upon when not much else was certain. “Sure, that sounds… nice,” I said, and I meant it. She scribbled numbers on a white paper bag and placed the assembled hot dogs and my fries inside, folding the top over twice. When she handed me the bag, I carefully placed my hand where it would not touch hers to retrieve it. “I’ll call you. No… probably text, who am I kidding?” Evie let out a light, musical sort of laugh. “Either way, lookin’ forward to it.” There it was again, that easy sense of acquaintance. I waved awkwardly and walked back to the truck. As I drove away, Evie stood in the window, watching and smiling.

Eight blocks from the house, the road became more overgrown and treacherous, bouncing me haphazardly behind the wheel. As a kid, I always knew we were almost there when the gray house on stilts came into view, where my beach friend Beth used to live. Condemned now and barely standing, it refused to be taken into the sea that lapped at its foundation daily. I rounded the final bend, and Matilda’s parting gift appeared before me. What remained of the once hideous bright purple exterior had faded to a dirty pastel hue that reminded me of an Easter egg left behind after the hunt. Two palm trees sat on either side of the gravel drive, both taller now than the one-story house; they fluttered in the wind, greeting me as I approached. The roof beams sagged ever so slightly, making the entire building look tired and overwhelmed. Shutters were missing from one of the front windows and hanging off the second window like my sister’s false eyelashes at the end of a long night of bartending. I parked, stopping short of the single washed-out flamingo standing watch by the front steps. 25 years ago I watched as Matilda cackled to herself while sticking four of them in the ground. She named them Fred, Fanny, Frank, and Buddy. This must be Buddy.

I grabbed my lunch and snorkel set and hopped down from the driver’s seat, landing on the soft sandy dirt. As I slammed the truck door, a black and white cat shot out from under the steps, disappearing into the Mexican feather grass at the corner of the house. I walked around to the backyard, and there stood the remains of the gazebo where we had dinners in the summer. The roof was entirely gone, but a bench remained, so I sat down to eat, taking care to fold up the paper bag with Evie’s number and put it in my pocket after removing the contents. I devoured the hot dogs, then scooped up my French fry boat and walked towards the beach.

The day was overcast but comfortably warm, and there was no one around that I could see, just the seagulls and me. I fed them Cheez-Its as a kid, and my mother got angry because they refused to leave us alone. One of them took a shit on my father’s head, which was the funniest thing I had ever seen, but I had to hide my giggles behind the sandcastle I built. From then on, I regarded seagull poo as the great equalizer, and Cheez-its as my favorite snack.

I stripped off the clothes I wore over my bathing suit and sat in the sand to soak up my surroundings, licking salt from my fingers between fries. As a child, I spent countless nights lying awake in bed and trying to remember all the beings, places, and things that made up my disappearing world. I kept a scrapbook of each species as I learned of its extinction, pasting images from old encyclopedias and nature magazines. Even if the world forgot, I would remember, and if I ever had children, they would know from my records the full breadth of life that once inhabited our home. With every volume I assembled, my despair mounted. I became afraid of hope, of the lies it might tell, and how it would inevitably disappoint me. I worried it would make me delusional, that I would lose touch with my devastating reality, as inviting as that seemed in moments. Humanity was too stubborn, too attached to made-up rules and the illusion of control. I came out of the womb with one eyebrow raised, according to my mother—a born cynic. When the various climate agencies were established, and for years after, my discouragement only grew. We waited too long. No… They waited too long. The yellow protocol notice was the first time that hope found its way to me. I wondered now if Matilda was the opposite—born with a sense of possibility that the world slowly excised from her spirit. I put on my mask and adjusted the straps, watching as a seagull waddled in my direction, curiously cocking its head. I tossed her a fry and stood, leaving the remaining morsels for her approaching friends. The waves rushed to greet me as I walked, the bubbly water tickling my feet and ankles, the coldness anchoring me to the moment. The water reached the middle of my thighs and suddenly, the sun peeked out from behind the clouds. Almost as quickly, it retreated. The squawking of the seagulls dimmed as the sounds of the ocean filled my ears. I took a deep breath and dove underneath the water.


Break into a Thin Ocean Place Drawing breaths between gritted teeth, in response to more up ended bins, rubbish strewn wide and broken windows. Sonya also noticed still wet graffiti daubed on toilet walls and tried to ignore Faberge egg shapes morphed into sharp edged phallic looking shapes as she walked down to the water. And wondered about necessity to appreciate this daubing as art, no matter how she looks, nothing artistic jumps out and bites her. There, as if an ultimate contrast to her mood, she saw a vision of happiness. A young woman was throwing a stick for a big, handsome dog. He tore back and forth on narrow shores, bounding and leaping with pleasure. As if this tripled any other euphoric canine experience. Dog body language said, beach, walk, best day ever! Rather than harbour thoughts of dog joy, Sonya forced herself away, kept her lips pursed, almost bit her tongue. Conceded she missed owning a dog, unconditional affection, canine happiness vibes and simple dependability. Another thing her ex had removed. She gathered herself inward, instead of speaking, else her anger at yet another vandal attack gets loose on some poor innocent dog walker. Thin edge of a wedge pushed more positive vibes as Sonya felt water curl around her toes. Warm and welcoming, liquid did not cut, punish or destroy. Instead licked her ankles. Salt in the air caresses her stomach. Ocean rolls, connecting with her belly. She looks at minute details in the sand, tiny undulations and high water marks. Not far away from the woman and her dog, was her neighbour, John. For the umpteenth time, told herself their relationship possessed more dimensions than proximity. Once again, with his tripod set up close to water’s edge. When he noticed Sonya, he waved. A grateful acknowledgement, stronger than earlier visions of hooligan damage. Feet propelled her in his direction. As if repelled by opposite magnets she associated with still dripping graffiti. ‘They’re always changing,’ John said, enamoured by watery weeds. ‘Light, current, wind, way they float and move, fluttering on all sorts of rhythms. I’ve taken dozens of pictures and each one is subtly different. Can’t decide which camera aperture captured image is best.’ Something about his manner, broke through Sonya’s negativity. To her, John brought good vibes; a token photography magazine in her letter box, or tiny, still warm pancakes, delivered on Shrove Tuesday. Little things, a smile, and raised eyebrow of recognition, visible through a crowded meeting hall. John embodied more family member traits than a orbiting merely as a neighbour. Indeed, less judgmental, because she could talk more candidly with him, than to her own brothers.

‘My dad believed we’re made up of invisible currents. He used to say there were ‘thin places’ where we’re closer to unseen worlds.’ ‘Name a thin place.’ John asked without looking up from rock puddles and weeds. ‘Ocean side. You stand next to seas and you’re in touch with longings and losses.’ ‘Longings and losses. Does sort of sum up ocean side sensations.’ Her mind swung back to a time when no excitement competed with a beach arrival. In a loaded-up van, full of siblings arguing about seating arrangement. Soon about to glimpse blue waves in gaps through bush, out a window past her father’s sun spot flecked arm. Heavy wheels, produced new divots on well-worn tracks, which pushed through thick Banksia trees and lower growing melaleuca shrubs. ‘Won’t be long before I can bring my hives down here.’ Her father scanned vegetation more than actions of his offspring. ‘Be a mass of flowers in no time.’

All about blooms, seasons, hive sites, according to Dad. Whereas back then Sonya lusted after empty beach sands, shifting waters, salt spray and next best-ever-special shell discoveries. A twinge of nostalgia for a more pristine coast needled. Too many people, houses and cars pushed in these days. If only she might travel back to, so much easier, childhood days. ‘So much easier now cameras recognize low-light algorithms. I can past water surfaces.’ Interrupted John. ‘You’ve crossed another thin place barrier.’ Words released while Sonya maintained her nostalgia. Driving in as kids, many corrugated minutes after they’d left smooth highways, it was possible to note subtle differences. Top sand which faded in two long wheel spaced strips, first grey, edged with wild oats and twigs, turning to paler as dunes dominated. Big trees decreased until low scrub took over. Ought to be clear lines on a map to mark zones. Smells of salt, open water expanses, rushing waves drifted into wound down windows, as deeper breaths were drawn. As the last hill was crested, full views of the beach visible. Blue of water and sky almost melting into each other. Just as quickly hillocks enclosed again, sometimes they caught sight of swamp reeds in a low depression. Dad often said, ‘some years reeds flower. Each bloom has male and female parts, you know. People call them Cat’s tails. But when they fluff up and explode into a mist of flakes, more like tiny flea infestations. Useless to bees, though.’ Words only wafted like those seeds until hidden ocean blues were revealed. Further away, before the family car vanished down unsealed tracks, closer to highways where tiny shops encouraged those here for surf activities to partake of fresh fish and crisp fried chips. Tantalizing glimpses of ocean vistas. Promised ride-able waves and cooling swims. Now any distance between buildings, commercial businesses and beach drastically reduced. As if dunes and coastal shrub had been chewed away by some introduced predator. Dad, sure to comment, bee sites so much further away now. He did keep struggling until he sold remaining hives to a man who marketed, via face book and websites, coastal honey (whatever that meant) at grower’s markets. Sonya recalled coastal flowers glossed only by rising, or setting suns. No need to take out phones, post on Instagram. And John’s photographic activities weren’t they just a step up from juvenile, takie-photos. Childhood arrivals meant a laden station wagon being embraced by sand hills, followed by expectations displaced by sheer joy of being near this tumbling blue goddess. Father’s words, ‘everything’s changed.’ As if citing a thin edge, evoked sensations of lust for ownership strong enough to preserve swaths of coast and grieve for environments lost. John broke through Sonya’s memories touching a cold finger to her wrist. Leaving her wondering, how does he do that? Sonya looked around and concluded, current arrivals didn’t provide similar sights nor anticipation. Especially when she need only glace to see evidence of constant vandal attacks. Shading her brow, looking at this view, she took in a narrow beach, captured by rock pools soon to be refilled by incoming tides. Tides, time and rising oceans, along with crowds stolen those remembered wide shores. Recalling how even on the grayest of days water glimmered a most extraordinary blue, as if generating its own light. Possible to follow line of shores, see hills rise around quiet bays, detect summer green grass slowly fade toward winter brown. She wondered, how long before local marauders launched projectiles into those ocean edged pools, rubbish tipped from bins, plastic bags, broken surfboards and random shrapnel collected into crevices. While she was happy to linger, John again interrupted. ‘We best make a move, before we need water boots to make the car park.’ As they walked John’s camera gear clunked. ‘You really have to stop getting so cross about things.’ ‘It’s that obvious.’ ‘Look on your face, gave things away.’ ‘And here was I thinking an encounter with dog and stick brushed clenched jaw and wrinkled brow away.’ ‘Not quite. Besides you seldom beach walk when you’re calm and collected.’ ‘Again, you’re right. I hope for better therapy, thin edges to take me away, confirm longings, give me ability to ignore losses.’ Rain out over the ocean obliterated a stretch of ragged cliff with squally grey sea beyond dissonance between rock and water. While she looked Sonya craved her tempers breaking like a thunderstorm, just so she could relish a post-tempest freshness. A metallic aroma lifting in wafts of released moisture equal to one-time aggression. A toughness of existence is battled out here. Evolution harsh on lands edge which drifted away form a great southern continent, breaking up under liquid pressure. Boundaries established with flora defined like sea and land – no millimetre surrendered without a battle of will. Each layer of land from the ocean to mountains is defined by the ability to conform to atmospheric pressures. A drop in wind is a moment to be savored as precious time before the next front from our closest star or celestial circling rock decides to wreck equilibrium of our floating oasis and create majestic chaos. Here is a place where you just exist and feel lucky to witness. Buff-green swellings indicated elevation and magnitude of land-ocean edges. In one dimension, water appeared to be part of land, while obviously and entirely two separate elements. Yet residing on a thin edge, longed to be one in the same and shake off their separation. As if another dimension existed only in this place, where water and land met. Sonya hears again her father’s, ‘closer to unseen worlds,’ belief in the fantastic. What if she could vanish on those invisible currents? Or devise a way to make stronger connections with shifting waters and sand to push away her tempers. If so who’d shout at Councillors, who’d write to newspapers and ultimately who’d keep powerful developers away. Gulls, dark headed and greedy, spun on thermals above cliff edges and then dropped away, like bit parts in some conjuring trick. Seemed to be more birds lately, or maybe they stuck closer to beach side all-you-can-eat rubbish bins. Perhaps envoys from more pristine shores sent to warn, if only tone-deaf humans learnt their idioms. Heading back towards houses John and Sonya encountered butterflies dancing in a depression between low scrubby sand hills. Moments later, before John could swing his camera into use, these insects were gone. ‘Damn, missed a calendar shot, right there.’ As if the extent of any interaction with scenery reduced to a monthly portal only available free from the local chemist. Glare from white sand edging an estuary below cliffs made Sonya squint as if walking from a darkened room out to a whitewashed courtyard. Her shoulders stooped, and sweat gathered underneath Sonya’s shirt.

‘All very beautiful,’ John said, looking again out to sea, ‘in some ways more real than anything I’ve seen.’ ‘So how do you preserve this serenity? ‘I try not to think about big things, focus instead on minuscule elements, weeds in a rock pool resembling green hair floating in tiny currents, butterfly wings, a dog chasing a stick.’ ‘Yet, look out there, its huge. Makes me feel helpless, as if I can’t possibly fight against so many negatives.’ John reached out, held his hand lightly over her shoulder. Almost touching, for the umpteenth time Sonya noticed yellow flecks in his eyes. ‘What is it you want to change?’ ‘I’d be happier, calmer if council members would listen to suggestions, especially about development applications. Be fabulous if policemen they send down here, during summer’s influx did something more pro-active about willful damage to change rooms, toilets and beach rubbish bins. But those fly in, fly out authorities don’t care. Shouldn’t be so hard to identify, they keep daubing repeated symbols. You’d think officials track down who is Tap’n Dude? ’ ‘At least the Council purchased some of my prints to display in public buildings, and ensured an annual arts festival. I feel affirmed, as if I’ve broken through what might be damaged.’ Sonya smiled. ‘You are my best friend John. But I get angry. Willful destruction of facilities and the environment are issues more than recoverable by pretty pictures and art works.’ ‘Maybe we could organize groups of those kids to daub artistic creations, not only along foreshores but within the age care village. Might take a while, but things may change as those kids grow up. Encourage more people to visit your father’s thin place.’ ‘Maybe then they’d fall through and vanish into unseen worlds, along with broken shorelines and ugly graffiti.’ ‘A tad cruel to wish on another person. Besides I think I’ve worked out who is Tap’n Dude. Got to be Saltant’s boy, Joel.’ ‘How’d you figure that out?’ ‘Crosswords, it’s another word for leaping, jumping, dancing. Sort of a puzzle, shorten words, sometimes reverse their names, I’ve been watching, guessing, making connection. Plus other tiny bits of evidence. ’ ‘Such as…’ ‘Spray cans out in their rubbish, same name on the back of his cap.’ ‘I know you focus on small things, but I’m not convinced, photos, murals and art work can make a difference.’ ‘No matter, Joel will be the first one I approach. What d’you think?’ About to reply, too slow, lips moving but words not ready. John continued. ‘Seems to be a creative force. Possible to be channeled. I’ll ask if he wants to be part of an artistic project, to splash new images and pictures around. Worth a try, I reckon.’ Sonya stamps her foot. Believed John needed to fix a wide angle lens to that camera of his. Take some images to demonstrate intensity of increased storms. Show less run off and flushing of estuaries and rising tides eating away at the very bedrock. Only then would he be able to appreciate how loss functioned. No matter how much nostalgia Sonya evoked doors to unseen worlds were creaking closed. Thin places growing scarcer by the minute.


Patient X425-15: Issaac, Edean. Breathing slow, but regularly irregular. Pulse 83. Blood pressure 156/95. Lung liquidation 8.5%. “Any irregular developments in your internal body, Mr. Issaac?” “Since 10 minutes ago or 10 years ago?” Groggil sounding voice; projected .15 ml of mucus coating throat. “Cause, I’ll tell yah,” Patient coughs; projected .12 ml mucus coating. “Both have different answers.” “Whichever was most recent.” Laughter as projected, though small and lasting 2.4 seconds. Further, heavier coughing immediately after, lasting 3.8 seconds. Projected .03 ml mucus coating. Lung liquidation 8%. “Ah ha, oooh.” Clearer voice, projected .03 ml mucus coating more than likely. “It feels like 10 minutes ago lasted forever, but 10 years… 10 years went by so quick. Gone,” patient still able to lift and wave right arm and hand with controlled mobility. “In a day. How does that happen?” ……. “I do not understand. Try rephrasing the question.” Patient still able to move his head back and forth, minutely. Elbow and wrist are capable of fast, flipping movements. “Don’t worry about it, JAX. Just the ramblings of an old man, musing on time.” “Time; a concept measuring the rate of change in quantifiable units.” Patient still capable of smiling on both sides. “’Spose that’s one way to look at it, yeah.” Slight laughter and cough; lung liquidity and projected mucus coating unchanged. “Are there any irregular developments or further symptoms in your internal body you can determine, Mr. Issaac?” “I’m fine, no new irregular developments . Internally, anyways.” Patient adding specification: Internally , no new developments . “Externally?” “I’m pretty sure my roots have grown out an extra millimeter.” Roots… Patient is running left hand through head hair. No obvious signs of pain, discomfort, or struggle. Hair is silver/white close to the scalp where fingers are touching. Roots of hair strands. “A naturally occurring bodily function.” Laughter occurring, unprojected. Chest constricting, excessive coughing projecte- occurring. Occurring. Patient must be sat up, prepare Oxygen. + Crap spewed from his mouth, out of his throat and blessedly out of his lungs. The relief of such an exercise of his body’s poisons was nearly orgasmic as he breathed a huge, clean gust of air. He didn’t even notice the rust color anymore that driveled out his chin and pooled into the issue. He took an inhale of the Oxygen mask before taking it away, overriding JAX’s strength and clearing his throat with a few small chuckles. “Oh, if only that weren’t the case.” “…If only what weren’t the case?” JAX questioned. Edean spared a look over the bot’s metal frame and hovering head. In a way, it almost looked JAX was tilting it in confusion, though still keeping his hands ready with the mask at a moment’s notice. A true nurse. Edean chuckled silently at the thought. “Mr. Issaac? Can you hear me?” “Yes, yes. I can hear you JAX.” He replied, relieving the poor thing. “I was only thinking, how very nursely you are.” “Thank you, Mr. Issaac. It is part of my design to be so.” “Yes, you’re very good at your job.” Edean nigh on mumbled, adjusting himself in the hospital sheets as he disposed of the orange-stained tissue in his hand. “Now, tell me what is your pain level from 10, being the worst pain you have ever felt, to 0, being no pain felt at all.” “Aaaah, I’d say today it’s somewhere between 4 and 6.” “Which is it closer to now?” “As of 5 minutes ago or 5 seconds ago?” “Whichever was worse.” Edean chuckled softly. He swore sometimes it felt like JAX was trying to make him laugh, though he did find the robot’s clear and to the point affect as much a comfort as a comedy. “Well, then I’d say 5 minutes ago. Far closer to an 8 in those few seconds I was hacking out my lung’s capillaries.” JAX tilted it’s head down then, lights flickering over it’s panel in accelerated patterns. “No capillaries were lost in the last attack. Your lasting alveoli are still accounted for and in place.” “If not clear of toxins trying to infuse themselves into their membranes.” Edean jested, resting his head against the top pillow. He suddenly was feeling quite tired. “This is correct, Mr. Issaac.” Edean sighed a long breath out, willfully ignoring the rumble it pulled through his chest. “Will say though, I felt a load better afterwards. Pain went right down to a 5.” “Is it accurate to describe your overall pain over the day as being closer to 5 or 6?” “Yeah, that could be accurate.” Edean nodded. “Is it definitively accurate, to 5 or 6?” Damn . He forgot they needed simpler, direct answers. “Yes. I’d say yes, 5 or… well no. 5 is definitively accurate, for describing today.” In more ways than one he realized, looking over the blue and grey walls of his resting place. The only real break from the monotony being through the view in the window, but even that was only worth looking through after dark when the city lights were out, speckling the dark with diamonds, rubies, warm stars and the occasional rain of amethyst pulled from a passing security blimp. It made him long for a time, when he could touch such beauty. “Splendid, Mr. Issaac.” “Yeah, not how I would describe it.” He stayed staring at the gray sky, wishing for dark to come sooner. “Your pain level is far lower than it has been, with most of this week averaging at a 7 or above. Is that not splendid progress, Mr. Issaac?” “It’s a splendid reprieve, JAX, sure. However, you and I both know the only progress I’m gettin’ anymore is to my gravestone.” He looked off to the hospital door, wondering what was going on beyond it. If anything was going on beyond it. “This is correct.” Edean rolled his eyes. The plain but still slightly upbeat voice they gave JAX didn’t ordinarily bother him. In fact, usually it made the machine all the more humorous, creating the illusion of a dry or occasionally oblivious wit. However, in this moment, it only made the truth of what his life had become that much more hammered in. That much more bleak. “Do you have control over what you sound like, JAX?” “I am programmed to have three different voices. One of human male dissonance, one of human female dissonance, and one of neutral dissonance.” “Right, and I’m guessing I’m hearing the upbeat male dissonance?” “This is correct.” Edean nodded. “Anyway, you can turn that off? Go to neutral or… whatever that is?” Edean gestured vaguely to JAX’s middle, where a person’s heart or upper chest would be.  “I can bring your query to the supervising team as a request. They are the ones who pick which dissonance I am set in.” Edean shook his head and waved his hand, as if he could dismiss the idea like a fly from his head. “Course, damn supervisors. No need for that.” Edean thought for a moment. “Can you really not change it on your own?” The question seemed to put pause in JAX’s circuits, its lights dimming. “… I could send an email to them as a request. They may respond promptly if still awake.” “So, you don’t need them to do anything manual to make the change?” “No.” Edean nodded. “Well, what’s stopping you from doing it anyway?” There was another pause in JAX’s circuits, its lights not even flicking but for the one at it’s base. “The supervisors are the ones who pick my dissonance setting, based on their wants and needs.” “Yeah, I understand that, but I’m the one their serving ain’t I? Aren’t my needs what should be counted here in this regard?” “You are not the only patient I observe in a day-“ “For Christ’s sake I know that, JAX! I’m just trying-” The yell barged out of him unexpectedly. He wasn’t expecting it, didn’t even realize he was particularly angry. However, the anger had unleashed itself anyway, and brought his lungs out with it. The pain returned as the tubes in his lungs began to cease, his chest bunching up, closing in on itself, then bursting, pushing, dispelling anything it could. Which, unfortunately, would never be enough. Before Edean knew it, there were two cold ‘arms’ on his chest and back, and the oxygen mask once again being pressed to his face. “Breathe slowly, Mr. Issaac. Breathe slowly.” Edean did as he was told, turning away from the mask in effort to cough something he felt was coming up, burning up his esophagus – but unfortunately nothing came. JAX let him, then lightly pushed the mask back to surround his nose and mouth when he returned to it. “That’s it, Mr. Issaac. Breathe slowly. Breathe slowly.” He could’ve done without the repeat in tone, as well as words. Wasn’t its fault though, he knew the thing was doing it’s best. “Very good, Mr. Issaac…” Calmness returned slowly, relaxing his chest, expanding his lungs slowly, and letting the last trickling of coughs rumble out what was left. Occasionally he took his face away from the mask to spit out whatever rust-colored substance he could muster, but otherwise he stayed breathing, per JAX’s instructions. “Breathe slowly. The Oxygen will help you.” Edean chuckled smally at the obvious. “Really, JAX? And all this time… I thought it was just here… to make me high.” “That is purely myth. Most likely made by medical students looking for a reprieve from their studies much like a mother would from their child, and thus gives them a sugar pill to incite sleep.” Edean laughed lowly, tiredly. “I can see that… especially with… medical students. I ever tell you my… husband was one?” “You have told me of your husband, Dr. Lucon Mikaen, yes.” “He used to… he used to love teasing me about… all the things I thought of medicine. Things, you just grow up hearing as a kid and… you believe, because everyone else… says their true. Get a bloody nose… hold your head back. Get a concussion… don’t sleep for 24 hours.” “This is not correct.” “Hehehe, no. It’s not. That’s the point.” There was a small pause as JAX’s lights went dark again. “I do not understand.” Edean smiled. “Yeah, I’m sure you don’t. It’s okay, buddy. You’re probably another thing he would tease me about.” Edean chuckled. “Never was good at taking comfort. Not from people, anyways. Always better at getting the facts, then just going off from there, making jokes, laughing through the darkness and gettin’ things done. Of course, a robot built to diagnose me and nothing else, that’s what would get me going… every day.” Edean became silent a moment, looking through memories of a man once bold, once at peace, once adventurous, once loved… once living a life that would get him going ever day… “I do the best I can.” “Yeah… now that he’s gone. Our friends are gone. Our kids are off, exploring the universe, making their lives worthwhile… I don’t have anyone to make mine… worthwhile.” Edean looked down, his fingers now wrinkled and weak feeling against each other. “I’m all alone.” Silence fell like a blanket of heavy snow amongst them. The cold weight of it all made him shiver, then look further into a hole in space no one else could see. A hole that not even he could truly ‘see’ with his eyes, but he could feel it with his heart. With his soul. A hole in the world, that no one would ever notice. “… you are not alone.” Edean looked in JAX’s direction, the words seeming far away. “I will be here, everyday and night, to check that you are not dead.” There was a moment of silence, and Edean broke into small, silent laughs. Eventually he closed his eyes, he couldn’t help it. The sentiment, the voice, the blunt word choice. JAX had changed his voice to something he could only assume was the neutral tone because it sounded exactly what personal robots used to sound like, back in his elementary school years when they first began to teach you the basics of these things. No wonder the supervisor’s never chose it, it made the machine sound incredibly outdated. Pretty soon he’d be coughing again, it was just so damn funny. “Mr. Issaac, are you alright?” The male tone of dissonance was back in JAX’s voice, and Edean couldn’t help but hold the metal claw of the machine as if it were a hand, wiping his chin of whatever toxin had left him with the other. “Ooooh, yes. Yes, JAX. I’m alright.” He looked up at the machine’s panel, wondering if it could see him the way humans saw each other. The way he saw that hole. The way he saw JAX, in that moment. “Thank you, my friend. For everything.” + Patient is still able to smile. Is holding JAX 45 unit right outer extremity, likely patient is in need of comfort. Patient does not wish to have a comfort unit. Patient does not wish to have any psychological units. Patient is still in need of comfort. ……. Moving right outer extremities to hold patient’s hand. Patient vitals calming. “You’re welcome,” Patient smiling. “Friend.”


Flashback to our lives many years ago, our mixed emotions and different feelings on the summer of 1989. We were married by then and really felt excitement and joy to think that we would be able to see my parents in States. We were eager and curious for our first trip to another country. Then comes another feelings of fear and fright, knowing that this travel isn't for a holiday ,after mom told us that dad was diagnosed with stage 4 cancer on his big intestine. It sent me goosebumps and shivers ,scared of losing a dad who gave us everything a child ever wants with their unconditional love. It's another feeling filled with terror and somehow transfixed with fright having this experience for the first time of our lives. Every little thing bothered another sister who was denied on her visa in which we never knew the reason why. We had the desire of travelling together and our intense desire of having our family complete where my parents are. It wasn't what we expected to hear from the US consul that interviewed her but we couldn't do anything but pity . Our aspiration was our intense desire to be in one plane with 3 of us preparing for a trip that none of us have ever dreamed of. If only everything went well as planned then our family would be reunited even for daddy's last days of his life. All I know is that my sister Connie felt like the world was conspiring against her. As inspiring as it seems, both me and my other sister, Mariedes flew together , not looking back at one sister who just wished us luck, and wanting us to kiss everyone,waving us goodbye and a happy and safe trip. She always reminds us to tell dad and mom, how much she wanted to be in this travel. Wow... the flight was long and tiring.Travelling from Cebu to Manila then waited for hours till our trip for Japan. Got off at Narita international airport and waited hours again for JFK international airport in New York. It seems unreal . Exhausted and tired but felt a sigh of relief when we heard that we are almost at our destination. There we we saw dads pale and sickly figure as we stepped down from the plane. Seeing him and mom, together with 3 of my other siblings who migrated with them I can't hide my tears the moment I stepped on the grounds ,since it wasn't like dad that I knew. He lost so much weight and knew that he was wearing a suspenders for his pants,not wanting the pants to slide off. He no longer resembles what he was before since people say how cool my father was with his styles and neatly tailored suits with matching ties, ironed shirts that goes with extravagant brands , and wearing shiny shoes . His attires makes him unique cos he goes with matching pants and shirts that usually has the same color for his shirt and socks, that he wears for the day.His almost hairless bald head makes me more sad. A cap that he wore, trying to hide his bald scalp. We were a family once more even with my other sister who was left behind. Dined in a classy restaurant with lobsters and steaks for dinner made me remember those younger years .Then headed to a grocery store, filled carts with foods ,meats, fruits and chips that I've eaten for the very first time. I had so many first times on that and will never be forgotten. Then came dads schedule for chemotherapy, blood test ,laboratory and medical exams which me and Mariedes took turns guiding and holding him so my mom and other siblings be able to work. At first I felt eager to accompany dad, the sooner he starts the better so he would get well. Dad felt sluggish, more weak and sick. It didn't turn out for the better because things took a thing for the worse. This made us mad in some ways since what we had on our mind is getting the best medications and being treated by the best physicians in the world. All we ever wanted was wanting to fix everything for dad because we had hope and having a dad sick with cancer that i thought would be cured . My brother would take some time researching on this but never knew what to expect. I sometimes hear from friends and telling me that it's not the cancer that's scary but the chemotherpy and the aftermath on this. I noticed that dad had a persistent dry cough and that's how everything started. We would see him throwing up, and hated seeing him that way. His skin got paler and saw some black spots on some parts of his body. Then came his fever and the difficulties of talking to us and letting us know what he wants and what he feels at the moment using some sign language. It's the chemo that really kills, the medicines were so strong either one can make it or not .And too sad, dad never made it. It may sound painful but happy to be able to take care of a person we truly love, be able to talk to him and letting him know how precious he is to us, his children. . Taking what seems to be the longest train ride from New Jersey where my family lives to get down in a Manhattan hospital and walking on streets,, avenues and parks, where dad was admitted. The dark nights of travelling, frightened to have on that train homeless street guys with eyes that stares on us. The unholy hours being in a subway station scares us a lot, wanting to get home and sleep, then back again on the next day. Dads last hours while holding his hands, seeing his tears fall down and all of us in tears for his last breath. We assured him that we will remain as a family and to walk in peace . After his death , be there to support mom being alone on lonely nights after dad passed away. Our family and friends ralied around throughout dads ordeal. I don't know if this is insensitive to those who have lost someone, but we had good times enjoying happy moments with them, just like when we were kids way back in our native land, the Philippines. We had the best moments, the best conversation and the best laughs before dads final journey. There's so much to be happy about and even shares funny stories and incidents to each one of us when it was only one of us who watched on him at the hospital. That summer had been so great despite the pain and sadness we felt, and still we think and talk about it as years go by, everytime my siblings comes home for their vacation. It's a memory that we all will cherish, maybe until we get to be with them when our time comes. It was the best times of our lives, the summer that we will always treasure forever.


You'll think this is plain corny and would want to gorge your throat out and I won't blame you but hear me out. You waltz into a party, skin all over the place and I mean it. Girls throwing their bums on stranger's members, their thighs and cleavage on display, sensualizing there every move. Perfumes of every scent invade your nostrils and make its route straight into the mind, into this one section of the brain that causes individuals to lose all mental abilities and make them crave a person, paying no mind whether they got bunny teeth or droopy lids. Early in my twenties, I can still vividly remember Mister Harry during one scorching afternoon of Sex Ed class explaining that segment functions, the hypothalamus, to bunches of lascivious teenagers. Old Missy was squirming in her seat right in the back, blond strands framing her lovely features, I’ll bet all my liquor that it had to do with Jay's rugged-looking hand. That bastard... You turn some corners and pick a green jug from a cooler and them scanty hair on your nape stands up, the darn house ain't heated and now you can't feel your fingers. You look around, and naturally, it's Sodom and Gomorrah which is expected, it's a New Year's Eve party and people lose all brain function throughout.

The air is dense, seems almost electrified. You find a few comrades and catch up. Their lives are as shit as yours and you're glad, patting their forelimbs to comfort them-i’m-too-cool-to-shave bums. Smokes are blown into your face and your blood boils but you grit your teeth and take another sip, i'll-bred sons of a.... Bunches of sniff, sniff are coming from the shadowed corners, exhibits are being given for free on a pool table and a dramatized play is being performed in the living room, punches flies and drops of blood adds color to the expensive cedarwood. And you lie to yourself that you love it. It's a paradise here, ain’t a place you rather be. This woman marches towards you, hands on her hips and chin held high, your malachite orbs are locked on her dainty breast, she wraps you in a blizzard of cotton candy and drags her hands over your body, starting from your neck and you held your breath, tightening your eyes and swallowing down the acrid vomit. Lady strokes your chest and biceps and tiptoes her locked-set lips to your upright chin, bestowing a wet kiss. You bury your face in her hair and inhale the scent of her shampoo, coconuts. She straightens your head, her acrylic nails stab delicately at your neck as her cold slender finger caresses the skin. She bats her cartoons lashes and you knock your lips firmly onto hers tasting the women’s dawn-tinted lipstick, sucking it clean off and exploring her warm mouth. Having enough you sever the heated embrace, her lips are left swollen and throabing but you pay no notice, you've lowered and spat it all off near her crimson corset heels, wiping your mouth in disdain. Her drew on brow furrows, causing wrinkles on her nose as she gives you a sparkly finger and walks away balancing her assets.

You rotate your eyes and settle against the wall, shivers spread throughout your body, the coldness pierces your half unbutton faded blue Oxford shirt. Hands in pockets you rummage for a cigar and awaits the next girl to come to you. Having another twenty-five years or so of women throwing themselves at your feet without lifting a finger, you intend to enjoy it to the fullest. Sticking the slender roll between your lips you reach for a messy counter with scattered liquor, bunches of it dripping on the hardwood kitchen floor. You grasp whichever seems the strongest and downed it in one huge gulp, the burning sensation spreads in your mouth and down the windpipe and you feel alive.

You screech profanities, boosting your arm up putting the liquor on display, everyone copies you and it’s ensued with applauses. You take another great gulp and you swear that instant you felt your heart bleed and your lungs shut and it wasn't due to the booze. You shake it off and test your limits taking on another four or five bottles, certain to meet the next day with your nose flaring in a dumpster.

The room stank and the voices were gonna burst your brain any seconds now. Everything being too twisted and ugly you bulldoze through the sea of people, elbowing whoever stood on your way and steps unto the patio in relieve, you inhale but it makes your mind spin, and your ribs ache. Your stomach thunders and you retched up of a thick stream of vomit in a flower pot. Your choking and avidly coughing, eyeballs are bulging and turning red and your knuckles are drained of blood from holding onto the steel railings so darn hard. This is it you tell yourself I'm out of here. I'll give the cheating bastard a call and accepts the job at his god-forsaken company. Mom will bounce with joy over the thought of her son living like them pitied dull-minded characters, you repeated that lie to yourself over and over again. You hear a giggle, it is lengthy and warm and irritates the skin oughta you. With a thorny voice, you mustered "Does my pain amuses you?" The volumes rose and tenderly stream over you dialing down the frantic battering of savage boar going mad in your head "Quite actually" You exempt to twist your head to see which boorish person...and another set of puke down the pot. "You're all right?" a faint tone of amusement linger in her voice "So now you care" you scrub your teeth and lips with your tongue and spits, using your sleeve as a cloth.

"I just don't want the plants to be overwatered"

A chuckle burst from your sore mouth and takes you aback, staring into the vomit a sudden weariness slumps you. You march towards the lonesome figure in the far end of the patio and sat facing the women who had her back rested against the railings while you establish yourself by the wall. She throws you a bottle which you coarsely catch and take pleasure as the liquid clears out your mind and rejuvenating your organs back to life. "I have never experienced that before" you say, putting the bottle down. She raises an eyebrow. "Being given a water bottle at a party" you explained.

She smiles, those warm smiles people rarely give. It was tender and sweet which was queer because she wasn't attractive. She wasn't unpleasant to look at but has clearly not been elected prom queen. A dimly lit lamp lighten your side of the patio while the rest was coated in darkness. The sounds from the house were muffled and the numberless stars shone bright, the wind seems to stand still while the leaden clouds came and went by the full moon who hang detailed and brilliant. You felt like spitting on it.

"I kind of want to trample on the moon" You turn your sight to her in wonder, she was gazing at the sky. "Bad day?" She fixes her nectar brown eyes on you and gives a tight nod.

"Same" "Seems like it, I was a witness" You smirk as you question how she was able to do it. It was a chilly night but as her rosy lips extend into a beguiling smile, made only to you, it gave way to the same feeling as being sheltered in blankets.

You both sat on the austere concrete in silent, none passing meaningless words. You stare at her, her face was slightly curved, resting on the railing, broadcasting the translucent skin of her neck and it’s thin cerulean veins. Her eyes were set on heaven and her lashes glisten under the yellow torch. The longer you watched her, the more she seemed beautiful and you felt like punching yourself because this only happens in movies. She parted her lips "You're an asshole you know,"

Startled, "Why is that?" She stayed silent for so long, it seemed she was not going to answer "I saw what you did to my friend" You find yourself scouring your mind for any memories that could relate to what she was speaking about, finding none. With a sigh "The bond girl who you kiss and spit right after"

"Oh!" you crack your knuckles "Well...Umm" She turns away from the endless sky and faces you, bursting in a peal of gentle laughter. "You don't seem like someone who gets tie-tongue" And she's right, you always have a response, nasty as it may be.

You swallow and lose yourself in her eyes, the curves of its shape and the mellowness surrounding it. Her cheeks were flushed to the tip of her nose. "Are you cold?" "Well..." she rubs her hands "It's a bit cool it's all"

By the time you thought of how idiotic you might look, you had opened up your arms. She stares and you wouldn't blame her if she made her way through the french window and out of the Mediterranean house and mocks you to her friends, the thought dwindle your heart and cut your breath short. For reasons you couldn’t quite explain, it is a sunless evening back in sweet old hometown and the sky, through a cracked window is threatening to pour. Your lips are slit and red drip down your chin, it burns and the blood vessels of your eyes has been jagged, the overlying skin is discolored and is slowly turning into a bleak purple, your ears reverberate with your father's voice as he twists himself in sick laughter. The unforeseen memory is replaced by a strain of laughter as the women draw close and embrace you. Her hands joining behind your sturdy back, making you break the promise of never having butterflies because of old Missy. She hid her face on your chest and you see her ears turning red. Your arms surround and held her, she had a petite figure and fitted quite well in your hands, you ran your crooked finger through her chestnut hair and gawked over the softness. This was disarming and you question the universe in complete puzzlement.

"You make me feel safe," she whispers, as she causes friction on your chest with her jowl. You swallow and hope along with the saliva went down your tongue as not to reply anything stupid.

"You make me feel warm" the words brushes against her face as your heart races. She opens her eyes and you feel bath in honey, if they are truly a reflection of the soul, you’ll bet all your money that her’s is pure. Softly she exhales and sinks into you as your grip tightens. It was in these manners that you pass the night. Before the birds begin there twittering and the city awakens and went on with it’s mundane day to day activities, she had left, leaving behind the sensation of a soft kiss on your cheek and the fading warmth on the curves of your scalene were for a few minutes she had rested her forehead as her hands held onto both sides of your waist, knowing well you were conscious as she didn’t care for subtly. You didn't dare to pursue her and ask for a number or an email or anything that might make you see or hear that enchanting laugh of hers again. You somehow understood that she has the potential to truly break your heart, you went through it once and the result? You stood on the edge of a cliff, waves crashing on colossal sharp-pointed rocks, tasting the salty breeze in your throat. And you somewhat knew that she would be more detrimental than all the women you ever been with. She made it painfully obvious that she did not want to remain in contact also and you guessed her heart was damaged as well.

You open your eyes and face the rising sun, it’s rays lands on you through the iron rails as her footsteps fade, serene and mellow. You let out a sigh as you run your fingers through your hair, gripping it, feeling so darn cold again. Hardening your jaw tight and shaken with the emotions that had once laid dormant, you inhale her fleeing rosemary scent. You sit still and let her slip through your fingers, both of you being too damn broken already.


Kratos C. J. R. Isely Sitting above that slim track of earth in the crowds, my fingers clench and unclench in my lap. Around me, there’s that hum of voices, all buzzing with excitement. None if it really seems real, though. They are voices that don’t exist. Not for me. No. For me, the only real thing is that slam in my chest, each beat an ache for something I’ll never have again. This has to be the nearest thing to torture that has ever existed. This is some glimpse of hell. For the first time since I agreed to this, I realize that I’m not strong enough for what’s to come. I’m not strong enough to face this. But, glancing at the woman settling herself into the seat beside me, her long brown hair pulled back, her eyes fixed ahead, I grit my teeth. She’s sat by me through so much, she’s shown so much strength. The idea of telling her I’m too weak to be here, that I want to leave, burns in embers of shame in my stomach. I push it down. Taking deep breaths, I try to calm. I rock forward and turn from her to look down again, shifting to get as close as I can to the rail. My knees press against it but, just like the sounds around me, that pressure isn’t real. It’s just a restraint, a barrier that insists on reminding me that I don’t belong down there. My eyes travel along the fences below, white and pristine. They travel to the starting gate, where track workers are hurrying to prepare for this moment. Without my bidding, they finally move to the shifting movement to my left. Half-ton athletes are led to the track from the parade ring, strutting and arching their necks, fighting to break loose of the riders who restrain them from stouter horses. The sight makes the air thick around me, like inhaling cold water. Watching their movements, the colors of the silks, I again question why I came here. I thought I was ready. I really did. But I’m not. I’m too weak. My hands begin to shake in my lap. “Did you want to go, Eric?” Amber reads my mind from my left. I turn to her and I see her eyes are shining too bright. Those beautiful green eyes that have been by my side for so long. She reads it all in my silence. She sees the struggle. There’s a piece of my heart that wants to beg her to save me, to take me away. I feel it choke in my throat and burn in my eyes. That weakness again. Instead, though, I force myself to shake my head and I feel her hand close over mine in my lap. There’s no point trusting my voice and she knows that. My breath is too tight and it only constricts more when another horse is led onto the track. That animal pulls away the last of my strength and I don’t have the power to beg to go. I can only stare at him with my mouth open to catch the suffocating oxygen. Bright blue and yellow silks shine under the sun on the blanket and the jockey. The big bay tosses his head and prances sideways, already anticipating the break from the gate. His white blaze shines like a beacon, his eyes fixed on the horses who’ve already been led ahead of him. The white number eleven on his saddle blanket makes my mind track backwards. Eleven on a track of thirteen. Again . I remember the last time, too. The last eleven. Memories of rain falling, of fog rolling in, the cold and the grey, and that voice above it all: “In the eleventh gate we have the favorite of this race—Kratos ridden by jockey Eric Sherman.” In there here and now, though, they aren’t saying my name when they say Kratos’s. Instead, I hear Levi Castillo’s name and I give Amber a quick and unsteady smile before turning my eyes back to the track. He’s a good jockey, a good choice. They asked me and I said he was the rider who could take Kratos out again. But it doesn’t make it any easier to sit here and watch. It’s not any easier to see the horses load in the gate. When I see them close the gate behind Kratos’s black tail, my breath catches again. Once more, I blink and my eyes to open to that other day, the grey and raining one. Beneath me, I feel the horse tighten and shift. His energy is my energy, tied together through that bond too strong for words to forge. A bond of souls, heartbeat, breath. We are one creatures, not of legs and hooves and saddle but of speed, power, and unseen wings. He rocks his weight back and forth, ears pricked forward and he lets loose a loud snort. When the bell rings in my ears, it breaks me of the loose of the bell ringing in my mind. My body jerks, expecting the rush for that split second, that feel of air in my ears, thunder beneath me. Instead, my knees are met with that metal bar and the crowds scream and I am back at the side of the track. Back where I am watching the horses surge from the gates from the sidelines. My knees press harder into the rail that blocks me and the taste of freedom. At my side, Amber is screaming herself hoarse and waving her hands. I don’t turn to her, though. I can’t look away from the streak of blue and yellow that is rushing to join the knot of horses at the rail. He broke a heartbeat too slow, hesitated that first crucial second. Thousand pound animals stretch into their strides, rushing, flying over the dirt. They surge along the first straightaway. I can only hold my breath and watch Kratos’s lunging steps devour the ground and throw dust at his wake. Part of me wants to scream encouragement, part of me wants to scream in the agony of sitting so still, but I lack the breath to scream at all. They are at the first turn and Kratos is stuck in the knot of horses in back of the pack. I see Levi trying to steer the horse to the outside, into an opening between a chestnut and a grey and…. Mud sprays over my goggles. I lean further into the black mane. Despite the wet dirt of the track that rains down on me, the blue and yellow silks of my sleeves are vivid. Just as vivid as the red and purple silk of the rider on the grey ahead of me who is drifting from the rail. And there. I see the opening. I see the smallest gap created by riders trying to break loose of the pack. Kratos doesn’t need me to tell him. He only needs me to show him the path. Power rushes in his every move beneath me, rushes us through that smallest break in the tight cluster ahead of us. Amber’s hand tightens on mine and it draws me back beneath the sun. She’s leaning forward, her eyes fixed on Kratos and the rest of the horses. I try to shake loose of the past. I try to regain the moment I’m in, this moment, where everyone around me is being carried in that hope and excitement. The horses turn onto the back straight away. A field of thirteen blaze the track with their pace, jockeys flattened against their necks, begging their mounts to give that last bit of effort, that final attempt to take the wire. Kratos has moved between two more horses, through the pocket, and is flying toward the tight group that leads the track. It doesn’t matter how hard I try to focus, though. It takes just one blink, one breath, and I’m again back. His hooves hammer a heartbeat that rattles in a different time against the slamming of my own pulse. There, the opening. That small hole on the rail taunts me. It’d be too much to ask of any other horse, but not Kratos. I know he can take it. He doesn’t hesitate at my slight thought, the twitch of my fingers in the reins. Instead, he throws himself forward with another burst of speed. We are flying into the gap and between the body of a black horse and the blur of white fence. We move from the back of the field to the middle of the track. I don’t need wings to soar above it all. The power of this horse gives me strength that no one will ever understand. “Coming into that final turn!” It’s a jolt to hear that same announcer’s voice in the here and now, saying the same words he had at that moment on that day in my past. “Come on, Kratos! Go!” Amber is screaming, her hand clenching my arm so tight that I am losing feeling in my fingertips. My mouth opens but I can’t yell. All I can do is feel the energy of the crowd engulf me like a fever. People around us are standing, shouting. Amber stays in her seat beside me but we push as close to that white rail as we can in these bleachers. The sideline is alive with mere ounces of that adrenaline that those riders feel turning that second corner. They are burning the track beneath them, coming into the home stretch and Kratos is moving out of the rail, opening wide. He’s covering ground with bounds, his ears flat to his neck, and I can almost imagine I hear Levi shouting encouragement to the horse. But I can’t be sure. It might be my own voice, yelling those words all that time ago. “Time to give it all, Kratos!” The words are whipped in the rain and the mud and the howl of wind that rushes in my ears. Hooves thunder in their own storm that has nothing to do with the darkening sky. Horses around are the only true tether to reality, the only thing my eyes can focus on. All else is a blur of grey and rain and distant troubles that belong to other people, other worlds. The hope stretch opens before us. Water glistens in the track moments before the horses tear through it, churning it. Kratos and I are coming up on the three horse pack that leads this track and I know he isn’t going to weaken. That fire that blazes in his blood is raging in my own. We are both throwing our hearts forward, rushing for the end. My fingers close on the rail before me now and I gasp for each bit of air that my lungs scream for. Those memories. They crash over me, they suffocate me. They flash between glimpses of the track under the sun. No. I don’t want to think of that moment. I don’t want to be there again. The horse leading to my left is lagging now, slowing. We are pulling ahead in each step and— On the track, Kratos is overtaking another horse and the announcer is absolutely screaming himself hoarse. “It’s Kratos! Kratos, the longshot! Kratos making his comeback on the outside! He’s past Inferno Feud, he’s coming up on Settled Score.”  Rain slams against me, there is only one horse now to pass, that white finish post looming nearer. I push myself against Kratos mane. “Can he do it? Can he make this comeback?” Something shifts in the corner of my eye and it’s all wrong. But I’m too slow in turning my head, too slow in realizing what is happening. The hooves of the falling horse thrash out and I jerk at Kratos’s reins. He tries to turn, tries to move both of us to safety. His hooves wallow in the muck of the rain sodden track. The world is thrown away from me while my body is flung upward. I’ve lost my wings in soaring. There’s one moment of seeing the bay horse flail, seeing him thrash for footing that isn’t there in this rain. Then I’m falling. I am crashing down from the height of power. Mud sprays around me, the first realization, when I hit the trembling ground. My body rolls, chaos roars, my heart slams. I try to move, try to escape. A field of thirteen horses. Eleven at my back. There’s one moment of purest fear before I’m again slammed against the earth. The hooves of horses destroy the ground around me, animals trying to leap my prone form. My arms fly over my head, and I squeeze my eyes shut. My screams are useless, my ears are ringing, my body is broken. I know I am going to die, I am going to die in this moment. The sound of breaking bones echoes over the hooves and the racing and the storm. They shatter where the thousand-pound stride collided with my body but the pain never hits. My body is jerked sideways, thrown like a plaything, and I am staring at the sky from my back. The grey clouds let rain fall over my face and nothing else is real. Nothing of the pain. Nothing of reality. No sounds. No sensation. Only the sight of the rain. But then a dark form is moving above me. His white blaze shines despite the grey, the mud, fall of the heavens above. He blots the storm. He shelters me. Sides heaving, sprayed in mud, Kratos’s nose reaches down to rest on my chest. I close my eyes. There is a moment where I hear the screaming, I hear the fear of others. Then, with my guardian above me, I know nothing. Nothing but the unconsciousness that swallows me. “And it’s Kratos in the lead! Kratos is taking the homestretch by one length, two lengths!” It takes all my strength to snap to sunshine and the track. My body is shaking, sweat is running down my skin, my eyes ache, lungs on fire. I can only stare at the dark bay horse who is a flat streak of blue and yellow silks, rushing ahead of the pack. “Go, Kratos!” My voice breaks on the scream, the only shout I manage before the horse rushes past the finish post without another horse within five lengths. Amber springs to her feet and shrieks, jumping up and down. She turns to me and there are tears running down her cheeks, rolling from those bright eyes. “He did it, Eric! He came back!” She reaches for my hands, kneeling beside me and staring into my face with her shaking smile. “He came back, Eric.” When I open my mouth to answer, I realize that the air has returned and brought tears pouring from my eyes too. Grief, pain, relief, joy—they congeal, they twist inside me, they choke me. Wiping her eyes on her shoulder, Amber tries to compose herself and I see all my emotions reflected in her face when she finally looks at me again. “They said they want you to come to the circle, Eric,” she whispers. “Are you ready to see him?” How many times has she asked that and I have ignored her, told her no, that I can never do it again? How many times have I thought it might kill me to see what I can never possess once more? But now, I know I’ve been selfish. Selfish to be afraid of hurting, of seeing him and not knowing that one of us will ever be able to fly again. And perhaps I never will. Never will feel that power once more. But I know now that Kratos still can fly. He still has his wings. And I can’t hide forever from that. I look again over the track. Some of the pain seems to have lifted in my chest. I know that I will never fly but he will always be my wings. I close my eyes a final moment and let go of that final self-loathing that has lived in my heart since that day, that fall. I let it go because he can still fly for me. He can take those strides for us both. When I open them again, I look up at Amber above me, above my wheelchair, and I nod. “I am. I am ready to see Kratos again.”


The mirror regards me coolly, telling me bluntly what I already know: The dress is too big. Nevertheless I push on, determined to look somewhat tasteful on my impromptu wedding day, and continue stuffing crumpled towels from the dispenser into the bodice that was cut too generously for someone my size. My friend, who was not selected as a bridesmaid and will be sitting in the crowd, finally declares that unless I want the horror of wearing a bra under my strapless dress I should plaster my arms to my sides and just get on with the whole mess. I agree with her, and pause only once to glance at the card that reminds me that You, Karen, are the bride, before I'm exiting the room and parading down to my carpet-and-stained glass venue where my groom will be. But I am not the only one garbed in silk and favoritism today; there is another bride. And lucky for her, her dress has straps. Upon seeing me my bridal escort offers congratulations, compliments, and confused glances-- two brides? --but no seeded questions have time to sprout answers, as the music bursts forth and the troops tromp out to the front lines. I am last, and alone, because Bride B took the fatherly escort. I lock eyes with the groom, my boyfriend, who was too indecisive to pick just one girl to vow himself to. Oh, and those dastardly vows--I expected to be repeating the standards ones but suddenly I'm fumbling over something improvised, so embarrassed that I find my eyes wavering more towards the view outside of the stained glass rather than the man I'm supposed to be vowing myself to.  The moment my lips falter can't seem to come soon enough, and inwardly I'm grateful when his vows seem as awkward as mine. We kiss--something that stirs our audience and minister--before the process repeats with a different woman in white. Their vows are only sealed with a hug, and for a brief moment my title as Bride A seems secured. Then we had pictures done while guests migrated towards the food. We assembled quite well, our bride-groom-bride sandwich, balanced in tiers on the steps up to the venue that were flanked by stout brick planters. I believe that to be that last sane moment of my wedding. My groom began to flirt voraciously with every woman, I had no seat at the bridal table to eat, the father-daughter dance was really no more than a horrid three person imitation of ring around the rosy, where one of the three dancers was constantly plagued by the looming threat of loosing ones grip on ones bodice and effectively marring all guests by the sight of the topless bride and the cascading paper towels that once served to hold the dress aloft. My period of solitary confinement, forlorn and placid at the edge of the dance floor, is only interrupted once when the friend who once helped me stuff my dress now offers a dance out of sympathy. My fate, as far as I was concerned, was utterly and irrevocably sealed as the Martha of my new marriage to Mary and Jesus. The groom is suddenly wearing nothing more than boxers as pale as my ivory silk blotted by crimson hearts; an omen of the roguish color that was to be my demise in spreading across my gown. We cut the cake--and by we, I mean Bride A and the groom; Bride B was busy sitting on the dance floor wasted. We three newlyweds finally get on with our first dance, even as the groom would constantly interchange his brides for other women who came to spectate, not get hitched. Bride B suddenly starts wandering off with another man, making me question everything this wedding was to stand for. Did the groom want his brides? Did the brides even want the groom? Who knows! Who cares! There was cake and alcohol and that's all that mattered! Well, there was a gun too. Bride B, her mystery man, and the groom immerse themselves in an argument that makes even the poor, drunken minister put down her seventh drink to listen. And yet, it wasn't one of those three instigators that tasted the tart note of repercussion upon their lips as a consequence of their dispute. No, it was me. That stupid, wasted, stunt double of a bride shot me. I could so clearly see the scarlet stains searing themselves into my expensive one day only flesh as I laid prone and destitute on the floor. I can only speculate to how pathetic the whole ordeal must have appeared to any passing bachelor or bachelorette. Through the haze that was my fading consciousness I could hear the wedding-goers, almost all paired up with someone else (somehow that list included that bridely father and mother who somehow managed to get a divorce between dinner courses), making their way past the brick planters and towards the door that ushered me a mortifyingly short marriage the minute I stepped through. I was horridly alone, or so I thought, until I heard the laugh of someone who had yet to speak throughout the entire ceremony. She was laughing at the sight of me bleeding out on the floor, which, if you ask me, is a pretty rude thing to do. "Class is almost over," my theater teacher tells me, bidding me to resurrect myself and shed the imaginary mortal wound. She had a look in her eyes that spoke to how proud she was of the cast she selected--from her card proclaiming You, Karen, are the bride, to her wicked selection of both groom and secondary bride. And as I swapped back into clothes designed for someone my size, thinking of perhaps the day some years ahead when my boyfriend and I would return as bride and groom (this time, for real), I couldn't help but laugh at the new private joke my teacher had given to me, one that would allow me to start my next set of vows with the words, Second time's a charm . . .


She notices the kitten around noon. Black cat or not, whether her friends whisper about misfortune following her in to form of an animal, Maria doesn’t really see a reason to make it into something bigger than it is. An animal. The cat’s too tiny to be intimidating, to be some harbinger, an omen designed to resign a person to their upcoming downfall. Having watched it creep forward on legs too thin to support its own paws, fur matted and patchy, there was less worry about it having hold over any misfortune other than its own. So, Maria doesn’t mind. She feels bad, of course she does, but there’s not really much she can do to help it. It skitters every time she tries to step nearer, hisses if she bends down within personal space that is not her own. The kitten watches her, weary, but it does not come closer. “Don’t you find it creepy?” Rhiannon whispers, as they both head to the greenhouses. As the creature treks beside them, leaping towards the walls and paws digging into the grooves between each brick, almost ethereal with the way it glides forward, cushioning each step with a bounce against the pad of each paw. It is almost unnatural, the grace with which it glides with. “What?” “That thing,” Rhiannon continues, “It’s just staring at you with those beady little eyes it has.” Maria shrugs, holds the door open, partly for her friend, and mostly so the kitten can dart inside, tail brushing past her leg in a way that leaves her own hair standing on edge. It feels like anticipation. “She’s cute.” “Not the word I’d use,” Rhiannon whispers, brushing her fringe from her eyes. “And she? Y ou know the moment you start thinking of it as anything other than an it , you’ll get weirdly attached.” Stepping further into the greenhouse, Maria lets the door swing closed behind her. It gasps as it closes, a rough release of air, breathless, leaving her alone to the humidity of the greenhouse. Glasses foggy, with only the sound of Rhiannon’s mistrust and the slightest hint of a mewl from the kitten, Maria rubs at the lenses with her sleeves. She stops half step, turns in the direction of the cat, and pushes her glasses back up the rim of her nose. “Doesn’t she sound cute?” “Oh no,” Rhiannon says now. “You’re already attached, aren’t you?” Maria hums. She scoops a trowel from the floor, places it with the other tools, and heads towards where the kitten is watching her. She holds her hand out, hoping this time, the creature will sniff, maybe butt a cold nose against the sensitive part of her palm. She doesn’t. The cat simply blinks and lets out another mewl. Maria glances around – shadows follow her, her own, not her own, the greenhouse blurring plant and human life together, filled to the brim with shade – and spots a small bowl. She’ll need to warn people about picking the strawberries again. “What can I say?” Maria muses, scooping the bowl up and heading towards the water line. The lever lets out a low groan as she turns it clockwise, water spluttering out in short bursts, like something is caught inside. Behind her, the kitten’s mewl increases in volume. “I really love cats.” She fills the bowl, places it beside potted hydrangeas. Mauve petals clump together, bristled by whiskers as the cat comes closer. It pauses before the plate, whiskers twitching as it sniffs, making sure the water inside the bowl is safe. “There’s a difference between liking cats and liking trouble.” “Really?” For a moment, all she can feel is disappointment. Mouth parting, Maria can’t find the right words. She removes her glasses instead, rubs at them for something to do. As if taking off her glasses will leave Rhiannon blind to her furrowed brow, the way she teethes at her lip, trying to hold off on saying anything. “What…?” “You think she’s trouble?” Maria points to the cat, to where its started lapping up water, tongue flicking out, pale and raw. It drinks with a ferocity that makes her wilt more that the petunia’s they’d come down to re-plot and try to save. “She’s just a kitten.” Rhiannon scoffs, “Please, the only people who like black cats are witches and fools. Which one are you?” There’s something about how set she is in her superstitions that leaves Maria rolling her eyes. When they’d been kids, it’d been admirable, but they’re older now, and it’s just frustrating. “Oh, because black cats are magical, right?” The concept is laughable. The colour of a cat’s fur dictating magic. So what? Black cats see the future and white cats add extra years to your life if you see one? It’s all a load of nonsense. “They’re only ever around when they’re taunting you with a poor future?” Maria asks. The concept sets her teeth on edge, molars grinding together. “They’re called omens for a reason Maria.” Logic it seems, is going out the window. Obviously, her friend is insane. “Okay fine, I’ll bite.” Rhiannon arches an eyebrow. “So lets just say black cats – not any other cat, only the black cat – somehow have clairvoyance and can see the future. Why are they only seeing the bad things?” Rhiannon opens her mouth. Maria raises her hand in response, continuing regardless. “Maybe they’re seeing good things too, and they’re symbols of great fortune? ” She lowers her hand. Still thinking, considering. “Why, even if they were stuck seeing disasters only, would they want to taunt you about it?” She’d say that cats aren’t evil like that, but when Maria had turned three, her older brother Rowan had brought home a little tabby, who’d found joy in being an asshole. “Why when it comes to seeing the future,” Maria asks, “do people assume that the creature with the foresight is intrinsically devious?” “They’re not exactly helping though, are they?” “Maybe they’re offering a warning.” She pauses. This time when she reaches forward, the kitten presses her nose against the tips of Maria’s fingers, allows matted fur to scratch against her skin. “Not taunting but letting you know that you should try a different route.” “That’s a load of nonsense.” Kettle? The pot is calling. “Well things only go wrong when people ignore the black cat, right?” Rhiannon doesn’t answer. “Exactly,” she sighs, “you can’t deny it.” Holding her other hand out, she brushes her hands across the kitten’s body. Wincing at the feel of unhealed scabs and scar tissue along its spine. The poor thing needs a vet, not suspicion. “And who knows, maybe they’re misfortune to us. But we’re fortune to them?” There’s a pause. “I’m taking her.” Maria leans forward, scoops the kitten into her arms. A quiet hiss with no fire to it echoes through the greenhouse. “I don’t really care about luck.” Rhiannon rolls her eyes. “You think you’re Mum will let you keep her?” “Not without a name.” She brushes a finger under the kitten’s chin, lips tugging upward as she feels the vibrations of a purr against her arm. Sated, safe. “Mum might refuse a random kitten, but she’s not going to leave Mallory for the street.” “Mallory?” “Yeah.” Maria sighs. “It’s kind of a fitting name considering. Don’t you think?”


  I sat across from the Job Fair lady at one of those long auditorium tables. Army recruitment was at the next booth and on my other side some creepy guy in a blazer was selling training in Real Estate. There were hundreds of booths and most were offering training rather than jobs.    “So, what have you been doing since High School?” The Job Fair Lady continued. She didn’t like what I said about school, but she had one of those nodding smiles people put on when they think they’re being nice.    “Chess.”    “Chess?”    “Yea, my uncle’s got a second-hand shop. It’s full of crap. Like electronics no one wants anymore. Oh, but he gets these computer chairs. Like, from offices that have gone out of business. These are good chairs. Cost you hundreds. And he’ll, like, sell them for fifty bucks each. It’s better than these things.” I shifted my bum on what seemed to be a cheap, unpadded, cafeteria chair.    “Chess?”    “Yea, I was at my uncle’s store and I found a chess set and it was in a tube. A tube. My uncle pulls it out and it’s got a fabric board. It’s vinyl. He flattens it out on his cash counter and then he’s got an old dusty chess clock. It’s made of wood. It’s two clocks in the same box. You wind it up the clocks and then you press the top button on your side and the other guy’s clock starts. He makes his move, hits his button, and then you’re your clock starts. You only got so much time to make your moves and if your time runs out, you lose.”    “Did you do this professionally?” The Job Fair lady interrupted.    “I got pretty far. I started playing with my uncle. I went to his shop everyday, because I wasn’t doing anything else with my life since High School. And my uncle says one day, ‘You got a real mind for tactical chess. You’re a real tactician, but you have to learn positional chess. Go to the Library and get a book on chess openings. Look at Ruy Lopez and Queen’s Gambit openings. The first five or six moves, so you’re not getting beat in the openings.’”    “Did your uncle play professionally?”    “Oh, he knew what he was doing. Like, I’d lose a game to him and he’d show me how I lost. He’d say, like, ‘Look, you didn’t develop your centre. The pieces on your Queen’s side couldn’t get out. See this? This is a Monk Bishop. You know why it’s a Monk? Because it can’t… it doesn’t…it can’t interact with the other pieces because it’s buried behind your pawns. It can’t come out and play. You see it's a Monk because it doesn’t…”

   The Job Fair lady held up a hand to stop me from explaining any further. “What skills does chess give you that you feel would benefit an employer?”    “Alright, you’re ahead of me. So, my uncle he teaches me about positional chess, touch move, openings, gambit’s, playing the man, en passant, oh, and he’d say, ‘Remember to make loud slurping noises when you take your opponent’s pieces.’ That was his joke. He didn’t mean it for real.”    “Did you play anyone beside your uncle?”    “Oh, yeah. I joined Hamilton Chess Club. They’re part of the Chess Federation. And they matter because when I started, I was an unrated player. And if you’re going to get anywhere you want to become a rated player. I played all these other guys at the Club for a while, and they said I was a fifteen hundred player. A new guy usually comes in at thirteen-fifty, but I was already at fifteen hundred player. An Expert is a two thousand rating, a Master is Twenty-Two Hundred, and a Grandmaster is twenty-five hundred. I entered my first Chess Tournament to get my rating.    “Only the problem was the guys I had to play were from out of town. It was weekend tournament. Five rounds. One Friday night, two each Saturday and Sunday. Most of us still had wooden clocks. They’re moving to these quiet plastic ones. But we had wood.”    The Job Fair lady made of face of what’s the difference.    “If you slap your button on a wooden clock you can hear it across the church auditorium. I played this guy Friday night and my nose started running. I’m going to the bathroom for toilet paper to wipe my face because my snot’s about to drip, drip over the board. I beat the guy but he was unrated like me.    “Saturday it rained. All day. My nose isn’t running anymore so much but my head is totally clogged. It’s just pounding. The guy I was playing was a fifteen hundred player and I slaughtered him. I can’t even remember the game. The evening guy had a seventeen-fifty rating. The day was going on forever and I couldn’t sit still waiting all the time.    “These guys took forever to make their moves. You had the clocks, but it was like you make forty moves in ninety minutes, and then a half hour to finish the game after the ninety minutes. If you both used most of your time the first forty moves could take almost three hours. That’s almost four hours to finish the game if you’re both taking eternity to checkmate the other guy. The games were taking forever and I was sick as a dog.   “The girl I was playing that night was taking twenty minutes for each of her opening moves. Like, if you know your openings there are only so many moves. Most players can do their first four or fives moves in two minutes because they know the openings. I don’t know what this girl was thinking in her moves. I kept running to the bathroom because I thought I was going to throw up all the time. I even went out for a cigarette in the rain. I know smoking makes most people sick, but I was smoking to stop from being sick.    “I beat the girl. Then as I was packing up, she wants to go over the game. Compare our moves. She gets real upset with me that I don’t want to relive all that crap again.    “Sunday morning, I wasn’t sick anymore but still felt awful. I brought a newspaper to the tournament. I was playing an Expert. A two thousand player, or close to. I didn’t expect to win. I tried not to trade any pieces with the guy. I tried to keep all the pieces in play and not make it easy for him. Mostly, I read my newspaper. He was another guy who took forever. There’s a strategy where you use your opponent’s time to think of your next move and save on your clock time. But I’m not that bright. I waited for him to press my clock and then I’d think about my move.    “Then something I wasn’t even thinking about happened. He got up and stood looking at the chess board like he was afraid to leave it. He was shifting on his feet back and forth. He had to go to the bathroom. It was like he was afraid to leave the game. He kept studying the board. Then I saw his clock time. Fifteen minutes left in his first two hours. He had made twenty-seven moves so far. My clock only said twenty minutes. I had only used twenty-two minutes to make the same number of moves. This Expert had only had fifteen minutes to make thirteen moves, or he would lose the game.    “He really had to go to the bathroom. I figured at this point if he was this wound up about leaving the board it wasn’t because he had to pee, it was because he had to have a sit down in the bathroom. His hand hovered over his queen but he knew not to touch it. Touch move. If he moved his queen, he was dead. He looked like he was going to burst. He moved his knight. It was the safe move. He rushed to get to the bathroom.

   “Okay, so, this next part, I couldn’t help myself. I had used his time to think of my next move and I made that move and I slammed the wooden clock button. You could hear it through the church auditorium. He stopped next the restroom like a cartoon character and turned around and ran back to the board. He tilted the cock to read his time and hovered his hand over different pieces on the board to try to make a quick move. Finally, he didn’t make any move. He walked away from the board.    “When my opponent returned from the restroom he looked like he had definitely relived himself, but he had only eight minutes left to make twelve moves. I folded my newspaper and got down to business. He slapped his moves quick now and got in under the limit. Now it was thirty minutes for the rest of the game. He beat me.    “When it was over, he wanted to show me all the ways I almost had him in trouble. Whatever. Then he shook my hand and said for no one else to hear, ‘That was very rude of you.’ He was right. I didn’t know what to say to the guy. Then you know what he says? ‘It’s rude to bring a newspaper to a chess tournament.’   “Last guy I played had a lower rating and we played to a stalemate, and after the tournament they calculated my rating as eighteen-fifty. I was near being an Expert, my first tournament. I mean, they didn’t agree, but I saw it that way.”    The Job Fair lady looked at me. “Do you play now? Are you professional?”    “Oh, no, nothing like that. You know at this tournament there were guys and girls who carried encyclopaedias of chess moves with them. Thousand of pages. It’s like they’re walking around with Bibles. I can’t do that. My brain can’t stretch that far.”    “So, this was a hobby? Nobody paid you? You couldn’t make a living at this?”    “Well, I wouldn’t know how. I wouldn’t want to.”    The Job fair lady nodded. “That’s interesting.” She said and smiled in that way that she thought she was still being nice. “Now, what have you been doing since High School?”