Disclaimer: This story does not reflect my spiritual or cultural views. It attempts merely to examine the pull of faith when Man gets involved. “Merry Christmas,” John grunted. The doctor looked up from the man’s chart, and did a half-turn back into the room. “Excuse me?” John analyzed the man’s dark face for signs of offense, belligerence. He didn’t know the physician – or for that matter, at this moment, anyone in the conceivable world -- but he realized now his sarcasm was misdirected. “I’m, ah, I’m sorry,” John offered, waving the pulsometer they’d affixed to his index finger. “I didn’t mean to sound like an asshole. I’m just a little discombobulated, is all. Well, a lot, actually.” The doctor smiled for the first time since his patient had awoken to a fresh new universe. “I understand, and I empathize thoroughly. You’ve had a major trauma, and now, you have some significant blanks to fill in. I was a bit discombobulated myself. What did you say a moment ago?” This time, the physician paused, his forehead furrowing even as he maintained his bedside smile. “I just meant Happy Holidays,” John defaulted defensively. “No,” the doctor drawled, crossing his arms over the chart. “What precisely did you say to me?” Christ, one of those . John chided himself. “Look, I said ‘Merry Christmas.’ It’s just instinct, what you say this time of year. I certainly didn’t mean anything, you know, personal by it.” “I, um, didn’t take anything from it. Christmas, eh?” Something in the physician’s expression suddenly jabbed at John’s gut. “Wait a minute. What day is this?” “December 25. Why do you—“ “When did they bring me in?” The doctor stepped forward and adjusted the pulsometer that had slipped when John bolted up in the narrow Hill-Rom bed. “Here, please, just relax. You were brought in at 1:12 a.m. this morning, into the ER, with what appears to be transient global amnesia. You have no knowledge of past events, and you couldn’t process what either the paramedics or ER crew were asking you. It is not an uncommon condition after a traumatic incident like what you experienced last night. What is unusual is that your physical injuries are so minor given the nature of the crash. Of course, the police believe your passenger side took the brunt of the impact, but I might have expected more than a few broken ribs and an ulnar breakage. I can preliminarily tell you you have appeared to have sustained no significant neurological trauma.” “Dr. Giannetti, please report to the nurse’s station.” The doctor glanced up at the PA announcement. “I’m truly sorry, but I’ve been expecting results on a critical patient. “If you wish, we can discuss this further. Now, you really should relax. An orderly should be by with dinner in a half-hour or so. Hope you enjoy chocolate pudding.” “Long as it isn’t figgy,” John quipped. “I’m certain it’s not, though if you require a vegan selection…” John Doe blinked. “Joking. More shitty holiday humor, sorry.” “Well,” Giannetti nodded. ** “Sooo,” the counselor began. “What does ‘Christmas’ mean to you?” John stared at the bespectacled young woman. “Is that really relevant at this point?” She smiled as if contending with lay ignorance were simply an essential step in the intake process. “I’m sure Dr. Giannetti explained that you currently appear to be experiencing what we call global transient amnesia, which as the name suggests is often a short-term condition that can occur in cases of physical, emotional, or mental trauma or extreme stress. The good news is, GTA symptoms normally persist for no more than 24 hours, and usually less. “During an episode of transient global amnesia, a person is unable to create new memories, and the memory of recent events disappears. You can't remember where you are or how you got there. You may not remember anything about what's happening right now. You may keep repeating the same questions because you don't remember the answers you've just been given. It can be frightening.” “I’m not frightened,” John said through his teeth. “I’m confused as fuck is what I am.” “Absolutely, I get it. See, what’s interesting, and perhaps slightly concerning is that in most cases, GTA patients can’t recall short-term events, but they know who they are. You clearly possess basic cognition – you’ve identified familiar objects and can follow reasonably complex directions -- but you profess not to know your name or other basic details about yourself. Though all that may well come back to you within the next 24 hours, there are other issues as well. That’s why I asked you about this ‘Christmas.’” “This Christmas?” John echoed, trying to straighten himself while maintaining his dignity. “What do you mean?” “I mean, what does Christmas mean? To you? You see, at this point, the police haven’t been able to ascertain any details about your identity – your vehicle burned almost beyond recognition after you were very fortunately ejected through the windshield. Anything you can recall might give us a clue to who you are, how we might reach your family. So I’ll ask again, what does Christmas mean to you?” John flopped back on his pillow, more exhausted than exasperated. “What’s it mean to you ?” The shrink collected her legal pad, and shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe you could explain it to me.” “I get the feeling you’re asking the wrong guy. I don’t have the slightest who I am or how I got here, but the thoughts I have been having are kinda, well…” “Yes?” “Well, if I had to say, kinda dick-ish. I get the feeling I’m not the greatest guy, that I have a pretty poor view of mankind in general. But maybe that’s what Christmas is.” “And that would be?” “A time when we get our faces rubbed in what petty, selfish, ugly, cruel, apathetic ass-wipes we truly all are. We’re held up to this perfect ideal we can’t possibly live up to, and everything shitty in our world or this life just screeches to a halt while we pretend to be the people we can’t seem to be the rest of the year.” “Mm.” The single syllable made John want to throw the remnants of his crappy breakfast at the smug intruder. “Why now?” “Hah?” “Why now?” John wriggled in agitation, and the second slice of uneaten toast jumped on the institutional beige tray. “You an atheist or something?” She was silent. “I’m sorry. That’s none of my business, and I don’t care if you are or not. It was a weird question is all, and maybe my brain is still jumbled. I hope I didn’t sound like some holy roller.” The counselor pursed her lips, seemed to consider another inquiry, then abruptly arose. “I think that may be enough for right now, and as I said, we could soon have all the answers we need. Just keep trying to remember anything you can.” “Sure.” “I’ll send someone for your dishes. You sure you don’t want to try to eat just a little more? Protein can help accelerate cognitive function.” John glanced at the cold eggs, the dancing toast and the unopened strawberry jam and the discarded butter pack with the Happy Holstein logo that had predated his short-term recall. “Excuse me?” His head snapped up, and he realized he’d spoken aloud. “Butter Cow,” John repeated. “Sorry, just something from my childhood. Some county fair when I was a kid.” The shrink leaned back against the door. “And just what is a Butter Cow?” “You know,” John said. “One of the dairy groups hires some dude with too much time on his hands to sculpt a life-size cow out of butter, and they put it in a refrigerated display case so people can see what a cow made out of butter looks like, I guess. It’s just some dumb thing I remember.” The counselor’s brows rose, and John could see her jaw tighten, but she quickly composed herself. “Interesting. And it’s not dumb at all. Even these small recollections might give us a clue to your identity.” “Or we could wait until dinner. I see lunch is roast turkey. A little early, don’t you think?” “For what?” she asked. ** “Sounds like a longshot,” the neurologist murmured, sipping his Diet Pepper. “Though I do seem to remember some controversy a few years back.” “Well, yeah,” the shrink breathed. “How would you think people would react?” The physician chortled. “No offense, but I guess those kinds of things don’t bother me so much. I’m a man of science.” “Well, as you are fond of reminding me, I am not,” the counselor responded, light but tight. “In jest,” he emphasized, though noting her customary plate of raw veggies. “You got something?” The Google search results were reflected in her wide lenses, and as she clicked at her pad, a vaguely familiar image materialized under a reversed headline and a splash ad for some new, must-have tech. For a split-second, he got it. “Three years ago,” the psychiatrist noted. “’Thousands of Midwest faithful packed the Obulewe County Fairgrounds in Southeastern Indiana to protest what they deemed an act of ‘outrageous blasphemy’ by local farmers.’ Surprised they ran the photo, though there is an advisory.” “Ridiculous,” the neurologist said. “Insensitive, possibly; pretty boneheaded. But obviously an unintentional blunder.” “Oh, I’m sure. But it’s the only such instance I could find – not surprisingly, the art form seems to have perished -- and as I said, it took place a little more than three years ago. Three years ago. Doe referred to the ‘Butter Cow’ as a childhood memory, but he’s in, what, his mid-‘30s? It’s likely he was at this county fair three years ago.” “I took my son’s children one time to see the cows and lambs and chickens. There were no butter animals of any species. Your point?” “I believe our amnesiac may have been a local resident – Obulewe County is almost entirely agrarian, and the few towns are small – fewer than 2,000 people. If he lives there, or lived there, I would guess people would remember him. And if he had a family, doubly so.” The doctor smirked as he drained his soda. “I know you’re very excited about this patient. That crazy outfit he was wearing, the strange references. But we very well could have all our answers by tomorrow morning.” “Which would be a wonderful time to have family around.” The neurologist made a three-pointer into the breakroom garbage – a gesture of surrender. ** She was somewhat surprised by the sheriff suggesting a ZOOM call. Not as surprised by the sheriff himself – the psychiatrist had read Obulewe was a religious county, as was much of the rural Midwest. Corkscrew locks fell to either side of a hard, flat-planed face, and a silver star anchored his immaculately knotted tie. “We got the usual mix of the faithful here,” the sheriff smiled, “and usually, everybody gets along fine. But when those idiots at the Federated Milk Council decided to put that damned thing – no disrespect…” “No, I’m reform,” the shrink murmured. “Well, anyway, a few of the fundamentalist types over to the First Canaan Temple got in an uproar, decided the dairy folk were, um, mocking their religion. And I’m not sure what happened next wasn’t a sign they weren’t right.” “How so?” “Well, we got our own old-timey types, too. Had a lot of crazy revivalists and cult folks though here 50-60 years ago, and a few set down roots. Every once in a while, we’d get talk about some group called The Mass kicking up trouble. They’d meet in an old Animist lodge out by the fairgrounds, and folks would talk about seeing them in their red robes, chanting and lighting candles and shit.” The sheriff unconsciously leaned back as the headshrinker’s face nearly filled his screen. “I want to show you something – I’m texting it now. You said red robes?” “Yeah, with this crazy headgear. The leader was obsessed with some ancient Jewish prophet nobody ever heard of – some guy supposedly raised the dead and did all kind of magical shit before a crowd hung him. So, anyway, thing is, a lot of these Mass guys were farmers from outside town, thought the rest of us had lost our way, and especially the Canaan folks, who are by the way, my wife’s people. So when the old-school Canaan folks showed up to protest outside the dairy pavilion, a bunch of these red robes turn up out of nowhere with weapons, and the thing turns into a riot. Five dead, including the head of these Mass people, and they closed the pavilion until last summer. All over some dumb butter statue. Again, no offense intended.” “And again, none taken. This is 4023. Did you get my text?” The sheriff located his smartphone, peered at the screen for a moment, and seemed to pale. “Wow, yeah. Your guy was wearing this?” “You recognize it?” “Not only that,” the sheriff mumbled, looking up. “I know your guy. Haven’t seen John since his dad’s burial rites. And that’s Nick Baptiste’s Mass get-up he has on. Thought he was shed of all that after the shootings –the Red Robers disbanded soon after, and John got his company to transfer him to your neck of the woods. I’ll inform the wife, but don’t expect a guest appearance. Anything else we can do for you?” “Does the term ‘Christmas’ mean anything to you?” “That was the name of their order. The Christ Mass. What they called their prophet guy most of the time. That and, uh...” The counselor paused. “Jesus,” she whispered. “Wow,” the lawman breathed. “That is one phenomenal guess.” ** Since the relocation of Integrated Health Systems adjacent to the East Wing wards, the neurologist and the therapist reached Room 347 as the Code Indigo alarm echoed through the beige halls. The intravenous feed was dribbling its last on the tile floor, and the bedspread was splattered and pooled with the blood of stitches torn and shunts removed and flight taken without consideration for finite fluids. It was impressive that John Baptiste had been able to make it out of the room, but it had been right after shift change. “I suppose I should have anticipated something like this,” the shrink muttered. “Ridiculous,” the physician said as he skirted to the window overlooking the parking deck and Hubbard Street. “All that garble about his made-up religion and imaginary holiday had us spinning on mud.” “Neither crazy nor imaginary to John,” the counselor countered. “Sheriff Abebe told me Baptiste was raised by a religious zealot who kept a tight rein over his family. I talked to one of the profs in Interfaith Studies at The College – she told me this ‘Jesus’ likely existed, and was attributed with some seemingly mystical deeds and abilities and a message of compassion and mercy.” “Sounds awful.” She smirked. “Yeah, but Nick Baptiste had had some dark influences himself – John’s grandfather, had envisioned this Christ Mass as a racial crusade. He’d felt the Great Black Plague’s virtual eradication of Europe’s religious scholars had erased the global impact of ‘Northerners,’ and Nicholas felt spreading his version of this Jesus’ word might displace Judaism and Hinduism and the Animist denominations and elevate European Americans into societal leadership. John broke free, and in fact married a Canaanite woman against his father’s wishes. But the Christ Mass traditions and rituals Nick inoculated his family with died hard. Tunde – the sheriff – said John had started quoting this Jesus at the Canaanite temple, and after his father died, his spiritual conflict led to a psychotic break, divorce, and his moving as far away as he could get.” “So what happened? He’d made a break. Why the red suit?” “The best I can guess is some form of seasonal disassociative disorder. That John’s feelings about his estrangement from his family are particularly acute during the season he grew up sanctifying. Now that it’s all gone, he may have suffered another psychotic break. Where he was heading last night, though, is anyone’s guess. And what might have brought him back to present reality.” The neurologist, perched on the window sill, rapped on the double pane. “Might have answers to both quandaries. Take a peek.” The counselor frowned, but joined him, followed his outstretched finger down the block, toward the gastrological clinic and, beyond, the temple. “Faith has a powerful pull,” Giannetti observed. “Sometimes toward love, sometimes toward hate. That Public Safety commander, Mede, told me there was no way Baptiste’s little hydro-ionic tin can should have gone up so ferociously last night. Unless the hold was full of some kind of chemical accelerant.” But his colleague was already out the door. ** A crowd was gathered – the congregation was holding its monthly meal for the unhomed. The monument that flanked the temple steps was floodlit, casting deep shadows on both the gleaming head inclined toward the cosmos, and the failing man in the hospital tunic at its granite base. She kneeled beside Baptiste, whose face was spectral and glistening in the moonlight, and attempted to mop his cheeks with her headshawl. He smiled up, but the pain of his pilgrimage drained the energy from his lips. “The Butter Cow,” the shrink murmured. “The lights just came on down here, and that’s what brought it back, right?” “I wouldn’t have done it,” John protested weakly. “That’s wrong. I was going to do it. Then the accident – it was almost like some kind of…” The counselor glanced back at the sprawling Soggogoth Health Preservation Center, the form of Cthulhu towering over the admissions court as a symbol of the universe’s knowledge and healing potential. Then up at the golden calf that had been here since her mothers’ childhoods. “It’s all right,” she comforted, though John Baptiste was now gone to this world. “You can say it.”


The woods were spooky, owls hooting and for some reason in sync with the sound of crickets, Eddy had never been there, especially not at night. According to him, anyone with half a brain knew this was where the evil vampire or werewolf in a high school fantasy show gets you to either feast on you or turn you into a monster like him. The only thing compelling Eddy was the thought of a date, one he had been promised by his crush, Evelyn. Ever since the second year of high school, he had been madly in love with her, but she never gave him the time of day or rather never had his time, she was too busy spending time with her brother—her best friend. Evelyn told him to meet her in the basement of the abandoned house in the middle of the woods, she opened the door after hearing him knock, and he was welcomed to a room lit up with candles, chalk markings on the floor, and her in a long black dress, this one he didn’t mind because she looked beautiful in it. They say loss can change a person, and that has been no truer than in the case of Evelyn ever since Jordan died. The thirty-year-old man was not only her only sibling but her best friend, for siblings with an age difference of thirteen, you would think they were fraternal twins, they went to concerts together, restaurants, and most importantly, the cinema. “Did you bring the knife?” Evelyn asked Eddy pulled out a sharp jagged knife from a sheath behind his waist “Yeah I did” “Okay I’ll get the bunny” Eddy worked with his father, the town butcher, ever since he was fourteen, He knew the different ways to slice open different animals, but he had never killed one before. Many boys would buy flowers or read a poem or play a song from a boom box beneath a window so the girl they liked would go out with them, but for Eddy, he was to kill an innocent little rabbit who thought he was gonna have a loving home when he was brought from the pet shop. Evelyn, bunny in hand motioned for him to walk to the center of the circle where she was, of the circle drawn with chalk had three different sets of triangles and signs within it, He was not afraid to show that he was scared, what they were doing looked occult as hell, no, it was occult, he began to regret ever showing Evelyn the website, a website for juju where members claimed they could communicate and even resurrect the dead. At the time Eddy wanted to do anything( he still does) to help Evelyn feel better when her brother died, he was desperate and went searching, he came across the website on the dark web, and then taught Evelyn how to access it, thinking it would at least help her find solace but it did not, and now he has to either report her to a mental hospital or see her go through this to the end, love made him choose the latter. “Do you remember the spell?” He gulped, “I do” Evelyn held on to the rabbit’s limbs, while Eddy raised the innocent creature's head to have access to its neck, they started reciting the spell and before the second verse he slit the poor animal’s throat, the blood splattered around the entire room at first but Evelyn quickly directed its neck to the center of the circle so the blood would flow there. “It’s my turn now,” Evelyn said, putting her hair on his palms “Could you ?”

“yeah,” Eddy said, reaching for her long flowing black hair and cutting it down, then spreading it on top of the rabbit’s blood. They both recited the spell once again this time holding hands, the room shook slightly like a mini earthquake and then there was a short moment of silence and then a blinding light, and after, nothing. Eddy and Evelyn opened their eyes “Is that it?” Evelyn asked, looking around hoping she would find her resurrected brother somewhere. Eddy Screamed, and pointed towards the ceiling, there he was his back against the upper walls of the small room and his belly and privates facing the floor, he fell to the floor shortly after. “That was creepy, we agree that was creepy, right?” Evelyn felt too much happiness to feel fear, her brother was back. Eddy woke up tired and still felt weird about the ordeal the night before. “You guys woke up early,” he said to Evelyn and the previously dead Jordan “We didn't sleep” Evelyn replied “Oh” “How is he?” Eddy asked “He’s fine” Jordan interrupted, not liking the fact that he was treated like he was not there “He’s fine,” she said, backing him up “he had some issues speaking last night, but he’s good now” “Riiight” Eddy was skeptical “Hey Evelyn can we talk outside for a bit?” “Sure” she stood up and followed him out “Don’t you think this was way too easy?” “Eddy, I don’t think killing a rabbit is easy, do you?”

He couldn't tell if this was her attempt at a joke He scoffed, “That’s not what I meant and you know it.” “I don’t know what you mean then, we did what the ritual said and we got good results” “But think about it, if it was this easy” “wasn’t easy” she interrupted “Okay, if it was like this, wouldn't everyone be bringing their loved ones back to life? Come on Evelyn there has to be a catch” “I don’t know Eddy, it seems you regret winning yourself a date with me,” she said, trying to shut him up, she knew he was not wrong, it was kind of easy but her brother was here, and that was all that mattered. “I’m not” “Good then. We’ll go on Saturday be ready” He resigned “I will, and what will you do?” she looked towards the basement where her brother lay, “I’ll take care of him” “Alright. Call me if you need anything” “I will” she added “and Eddy, thank you” Jordan had completely regained his speech, he seemed a different person from the night before, he was no longer scared, cold, or stuttering, he was him, the him she used to know. Evelyn told Jordan all that had passed ever since he passed, the abuse she went through at the hands of their mother, and Eddy’s crush on her, which led to her having her brother back. “You are not going to stay with Mum anymore,” Jordan said. He knew how their mother was, he knew how nasty she could be with words, this was a woman who told him he had the face of a sex addict when he was thirteen, simply because he licked his lips, a woman who said he was in a rush to give oral sex because he wanted to go to his college inauguration. “it’ll be just like before!” She shrieked “I’ll live with you and not have to see Mum again” “Well not exactly like before” he corrected, “I do have to find a place again and a job and the issue of credit cards, I might actually need to move to a new city” Evelyn had not thought about the reactions people would have about a dead man coming back to life, she didn’t take into account how he would reintegrate into society, but that did not matter to her, she would think about it later because right now, Jordan was here, which meant everything would be okay. “We should go see a movie” Evelyn suggested “I haven’t been to the cinema since you know” “Really?” “Yeah” “Not even with the eddy guy?” He teased “oh stop that” she blushed Evelyn had to mention that she was not dating him, but he did want to date her, as a guy Jordan could relate to this quite easily. Her phone rang “Fuck” “Language” “It’s mom and really?” “What?” “you came back from the dead and you are worried about how I talk?” He shrugged, “Resurrection or not, I’m still a big brother” Evelyn rolled her eyes and answered the call reluctantly A strong unladylike voice spoke through the phone “I know you are at the age where you want to stay out and meet boys and let them touch you, but do make sure you get your ass to school” Her mum cut the call before Evelyn could reply “ugh sometimes I just wish she would die” “Done” “What did you say?” Evelyn asked “Nothing” “umm okay,” she said,” I have to go I’ll meet you later and we’ll go to the movies, deal?” “Deal” Evelyn arrived pretty late to school, but the teachers did not chastise her because they knew her predicament, at least what it used to be. Eddy came up from behind her “Hey about the date” She gasped, “Maybe don’t sneak up on me?” “I’m sorry, I just wanted to say I know where to take you for our date” “Where?” “the movies,” Eddy said, all excited “No not the movies,” she said, “anywhere but the movies” “Oh, um can we get a burger at the diner then?” “that works”. For as long as Evelyn could remember, her parents used to fight, they would argue, scream, and throw all types of objects and they did it all in her presence, at age seventeen, Jordan who had grown accustomed to his parent’s ways had pretty much become immune to their toxicity, but he did not wish the same for his sister, because the price he paid for immunity, was constant exposure. Jordan Loved telling stories, so whenever their parents fought, he would take Evelyn as far as he could, and tell her the most magical fairy tail, drama, comedy, or thriller he could come up with, this always made her forget when she turned seven, he took her to the cinema for the first time, for the first time she not only had to imagine a story but she got to see it too, the cinema became their thing, it was not only an avenue to experience stories but also a medium that saved her from her parents toxicity. Her father died soon after her ninth birthday, leaving only their abusive mother. Evelyn immediately headed for the basement the minute school was done for the day, she did not want to think about it, but she could have sworn she saw a slight glint in her brother’s eyes when they spoke in the morning, but it probably meant nothing, at least that’s what she wanted. The basement was Empty even though she had told Jordan to wait for her, there was no way to contact him since he no longer had a phone, and she could not guess where he could have gone, her first instinct was to call Eddy, the only one she’d been able to trust for a while. “Have you checked your house?” Eddy asked after she explained everything to him “No” She panted “Do you really think he’d go there?” “Well, it’s possible, people tend to go to what’s more familiar to them” “Okay I’ll check the house” She ran as fast as she could, it would take her ten minutes to get to her house from the woods if she ran. She burst through the door to the living room and it was empty, the same as the kitchen. she was lost on what to do. Eddy called this time “Did he mention anything to you or you to him when you guys spoke this morning” “I can’t really think of anything” Her head was spinning and her body gave out sweat, “wait, I was a bit mad and I said something about wanting my mum to die and he was like ‘done’” Eddy was right, it was too easy, there was no way that was the same Jordan, but this was not the time to gloat or make her feel bad. “I’m on my way,” he said. She could hear him running from his end. She heard a cry from the bedroom, she had not had time to check it before Eddy called. She saw Jordan's body on the floor, her mum with a gun in her hand, confused and crying profusely “How does he keep getting up", she asked, pointing the gun at the body "Why does he look like Jordan” Evelyn ran behind her mum, “I can explain but we have to go Mum” The pair ran outside, but not before Evelyn glanced at her brother's corpse she just had him, and now she is losing him again. She did her best to stay calm, even making sure her mum did the same “Mum can you tell me what happened?” Her mum could barely form a coherent sentence but she listened hard enough to deduce Jordan had attacked and thanks to her gun she was able to put him, numerous times. “So Jordan can’t die?” she was almost happy to hear that “He kept getting up” her mother gulped amid tears “his wounds healed themselves, and his eyes were glowing black” She fell into Evelyn’s arms for comfort and while it could have been because of the terror of the moment, or guilt, Evelyn let her. Eddy arrived on his motorcycle and immediately ran to the pair “Evelyn,” he said, showing her the PDF in his phone, it was a copy of the spell book she had used, “I asked around the forum and they said we got the spell wrong, there are two ingredients needed” “yes, I know” Evelyn replied “the life of an animal and parts of a person the dead loved” “exactly but we only got the second part right” “What?” “There has to be a balance, Evelyn, to bring a rabbit back, you kill a rabbit, do you get it?” Evelyn's eyes widened “We used the wrong animal!” “We did but there is a way to break the spell for good” “oh no” Evelyn cried “he’ll be gone for good this time” “he never came back, I’m so sorry” Eddy cried, seeing Evelyn in pain hurt him and in a way, he saw himself as the cause since he told her about the site. Jordan burst through the window and caught them outside, Evelyn saw what her brother had become, he was demonic, he was wild, he was… not Jordan. Her mother raised her gun again and with a headshot, Jordan fell once more. “Okay, we need to draw the circle again and you have to recite this spell” he gave her his phone. Everything was prepared and the irony was that the spell did not require Eddy to kill an innocent bunny, it was easier in a sense but the hardest thing any human can do: say goodbye twice. Jordan woke up but Evelyn had recited the spell, his black eyes were normal once more, he smiled, he was Jordan, she looked at her brother and remembered all the stories he told her “I love you, Evelyn” he looked at Eddy and mouthed a thank you, after which his body turned to dust. He was Jordan, but he was gone. Evelyn fell to her knees in the middle of the circle and cried the hardest any human could, Eddy hugged her, she could feel his kindness, his warmth, Jordan was gone but Eddy was there, he always had been. It was two days since the event, Evelyn and her mother cleaned up, and she had explained everything to her mum, who for some reason understood and was calm about it or she was just buzzed as usual. Eddy called to ask how she was, she was happy to hear from him, she wanted him to talk to her for as long as the sun was up “Do you still want to go on a date with me?” “I thought we already had one planned” she smiled “Eddy, I'd like to go to the movies with you” “I’d really love that, Evelyn.” THE END


The Plunge By: Danielle Zielinski            “Enu, enu, enu. Whoooop! Arrr, arr, arr, arrr.” The standard car alarm music blared through its fifteenth cycle.

           “People have gotten so good at ignoring them I find it amazing anyone still uses car alarms anymore,” I thought to myself as I dangled from the bungie cord. It was cold and I wished I had worn that sweater afterall.  I fingered the party hat that miraculously was still on my head after my plunge from the fourteenth floor and mentally went over how exactly I had wound up here.

           The morning started out warm and seasonably spring like. I had made my typical resolution to leave the house. “Today would be the day,” I told Sprinkles, my cat.  She looked back up at me from her perch on the sill, her big yellow eyes seeming to say, “yeah, I’ve heard that one before.” I have been diagnosed with something called agoraphobia. It’s a fancy Latin word for ‘fear of leaving the house’. I know it sounds silly and trivial for ‘normal’ people. “It’s easy,” they tell me. “Just grab the handle of the door, open it, and walk out.” But every time I try to do just that something stops me. I know something horrible will happen to me if I go out there. I don’t know what, but something will. Like hundreds of mornings before I woke up, watched the news with my cup of coffee, made mental notes of everything horrible that had happened over night to other people who had chosen to leave their houses, got showered and dressed, went down stairs, put on my shoes, grabbed my purse, thought about grabbing a sweatshirt, decided not to grab a sweatshirt, and paused with my hand on the door handle for forty-five minutes trying to work up the courage to turn it and walk out the door.            I was just about to chicken out and go have lunch just like every other day but for the sound of the doorbell. Its ring managed to pull me from my nervous thoughts about the many different ways I would die today if I went out that door. I could see through the window that it was an Amazon delivery person. Without thinking I turned the handle, pulled the door open, and stepped outside. Just like that, in one millisecond, I was through the door and standing on my front stoop with a package in my hands. The only thought in my mind was, “wow, I didn’t know my house had yellow siding.” I looked down at the brown box with the Amazon smiley face arrow logo on it and wondered what I had ordered. My eyes inadvertently searched for clues on the outside of the box until I realized that the address label actually read: Clara Jones, 1530 St. Augustine Ln. The address was for the house across the street.            I stood there weighing my options. Number one: I could do nothing. I could return to the safety of my home and either leave the package on the front step or take it inside and keep it. My moral compass pointed to no. Number two: I could try and find a phone number on the package and call the lady across the street to come over and pick up her package. Drat, there wasn’t one. Number three: I could take a deep breath, walk across the street, ring her doorbell, and just hand her the package. Number three it was. I inhaled deeply and steeled myself for the task ahead. Walking across the street would bring me farther from my home than I had traveled in five years. “Here we go,” I thought. “It all starts with one step. Come on right foot,” I chided myself. “Right foot, left foot, right foot, left foot,” I chanted all the way across the street and up the crumbling front steps of the house that was a mirror image of mine. “Don’t look back,” I told myself as I rang the doorbell. I knew if I looked back at my house I would drop the package and run back across the street, slam the door, and burrow under the covers of my bed and never come out again. “Please don’t answer, please don’t be home,” I chanted into the growing silence. I started to put the package down on the front stoop when to my horror Clara Jones answered the door.            She was about six feet tall, slender, medium skin tone, dark hair, athletic, and gorgeous. I was instantly intimidated. Her dark brown eyes met mine and her eyebrows raised in the unspoken question, “who are you and why are you on my doorstep?” My mouth suddenly lost the ability to form words so instead I raised the box for her to see.

           “Delivered to me by mistake,” fell out of my mouth.            She took in the address label and a note of recognition lit up her face as she translated my fragment of a sentence.

           “Hey thanks,” she said. “Not many people would take the time to bring this over.”

           Most normal people would say ‘you’re welcome’ about here. But I just stared blankly back at her.            “Do you, uh, wanna come in? I know most of the neighbors, but I haven’t seen you before. Did you just move in?”

           I remained frozen, staring at her like a deer about to be hit by a car. “Talk you idiot,” my brain screamed. “This is it; this is your chance; what you’ve been waiting for! Take the plunge, move your feet, go inside and meet your neighbor,” a drill sergeant inside my head screamed at me.             “I, uh, I’ve been here for five years now. I just don’t get out much,” I stammered as she was getting the ‘weirded out closing the door now face’.            “Oh! You must work from home.”

           “Uh, yeah,” I spit out, “Just like data entry really boring stuff really.”            “Really,” She mocked my overuse of the word in a friendly way.

           I had never been teased in a friendly way before and I think she registered the fear on my face as I braced for a helping of negative verbal ridicule reminiscent of my awkward high school days.

           “Well, lemme give you the grand tour,” she said, instantly warming to a friendly, nurturing tone and sweeping me in the door with her arm. “Obviously, you know my name now from the box. I’ve been here about seven years and I love the neighborhood. Don’t you, well you must, you said you’ve been here five years. Everyone is so friendly, aren’t they,” she happily prattled on.            I was secretly relieved that she was suffering from a bout of verbal diarrhea right now. It was all I could do to keep taking deep, calming breaths while I followed her through her home. This was too much! Not only had I left the house for the first time in five years, but I was also in the process of making a new friend, I think.

           “And here’s the half bath down here. Is that how your house is inside too? I feel like our houses are similar in style, aren’t they?”            “Yes,” I interjected.            “Hey, I’m getting the hang of this,” I thought, “this is easy. All I have to do is follow her and interject a word here or there to let her know I’m still listening”.

           “Oh, and here’s Buster,” she motioned at a large furry puddle of drool with teeth.

           Buster proved to be friendly and joined us for the remainder of the house tour and for drinks on the patio afterward. I sipped my Margareta- the first alcoholic drink I had ever had in my entire life and enjoyed the feel of sunshine unimpeded by window glass on my skin. The friendly chatter and companionship of another human being did much to calm my anxiety. The glassful of depressant didn’t hurt either. I was just about at the point of truly enjoying myself when Clara threatened to expand my comfort bubble once more today.            “So, I do have to pop into the office for a couple minutes today. I hate to leave though; we’re having so much fun. I feel like I’ve known you my whole life, you’re so easy to talk to. You must get that a lot.”            All I could squeeze in was a nod here.            “Would you want to come with me?”            The question hung in the air, but she didn’t wait for me to answer it. Before I could retreat she was putting on a pair of high healed stilettos and sweeping me into her bright red Mini-Cooper S. I mentally breathed into a paper bag as we raced off toward the city- a place that guaranteed certain death if I entered its limits.

           “Isn’t it gorgeous,” exclaimed Clara as she neared a parking garage.            To my surprise, she was right. The sky was bright blue, the buildings were a deep black against the sun and they seemed to go up, up, up forever. There were intricate fountains spraying bright blue chemically treated water for overfed green pigeons to bathe in. It certainly wasn’t the tranquil, quiet fields of Iowa that I grew up in, but I could appreciate the strange beauty of it. There was an energy to it- a pulsing of life. You knew you were never alone in the city and it was bizarrely calming.

           The next several hours went by in a blur. Clara took me up to the fourteenth floor and introduced me to her entire marketing, advertising, and public relations team who welcomed me with open arms. Somehow, I wound up trying my hand at web-based content writing and was so good at it Clara offered me a job right then and there. Promptly at five P.M. the computers turned off, the DJ turned on, catering showed up, drinks flowed. I looked down and realized that I was dancing to music and somehow glow sticks had shown up in my hands. At midnight Clara and I were peer pressure chanted into bunging jumping off the fourteenth-floor roof because Floyd- Sarah’s friends’, husbands’, roommates’, cousin was in the bungie jumping business and had rigged the whole thing up pro bono. He sent us sailing safely over the edge and then promptly passed out from too much of, well, everything and no one else either knew how to bring us back up or was sober enough to remember that we were there. The next morning instead of watching the news, Clara and I made the news as the Channel 9 traffic copter found us still dangling there at six A.M.


“You never told me what you did before the draft,” Johnny said. The light from the flames danced over his face. “What does it matter, whoever that was I ain’t no more”. Charlie replied, biting off a piece of jerky, and stared into the fire. His eyes were distant. Johnny leaned back on his hands, crossed his legs, and looked up at the starry sky. Around them the Nevada desert engulfed them, dry, desolate yet inviting strangely. It attracted the dreamer, the lost, and the searching to its vast expanse. “Come, cross me and fortune awaits on the other side.” It called. They had gone off the Bloody Canyon Road, east of Star Peak of the Humboldt Range on a dirt road into the Coyote Canyon and stowed away their choppers, both riding Triumphs with gooseneck frames, narrow ape bars, and characteristic long forks. “I was about to become a teacher,” Johnny said. “I don’t know why really, it seemed reasonable, I guess. My parents were, or well they still are but my mother has retired now. 30 years she taught, imagine that; 30 years.” “Mmh” was the only reply that Charlie could muster. Lost in his own thoughts, his left-hand index finger running along the steel of his recently “gifted” Benelli B76 9mm. A unique piece that was newly produced that same year in 1976. His right-hand thumb fingered a 1% patch on the left side breast pocket. In his mind, there was a darkness blacker than space. “Come now, Charlie, who were you?” Charlie glanced at Johnny; the flames mirrored in his eyes. “A guy who died in that jungle. Just fucking died.” “Jesus man, you need to move on.” “We killed Johnny, and we died too, Jesus? He saw our souls and thought those ain’t lookin’ right and threw us in hell.” Johnny said nothing. A thick silence fell upon them, a thick angst that stole both hope and joy. “And they all died too, Big Ear, Bugs, Charlie Brown, Lazy, Grumpy, hell Johnny, even Junior Kid blew up two weeks in fucking rice field. Jesus, man, he was fixin’ them congress kids to join him in heaven and shoving us into ten years in hell.” Charlie’s eyes were wide, black with a mix of stern despair. “I’m a ghost Smiley, just a fuckin’ ghost.” Jonny sighed. “Smiley, yeah.. yeah, you are in a dark place Charlie, you should do like me. Just leave Vulture behind in that jungle as I did with Smiley, time to move on, and see life instead of death.” Charlie stared at him as if he was unable to comprehend the words that Johnny spoke. An alien language with words and meanings that were lost to him or forgotten. Words that had drowned in a knee-deep pool of blood in a wet jungle. “Anyway, I am down to my last twenty, what about you?” The question threw Charlie off his dark mental stride. “Uh, yeah, me too.” Johnny sighed as if he had an answer he didn’t want, got up, opened a saddle bag on his chopper, and pulled out a map. He sat down by the fire again and studied it for a few minutes. “There’s a small town, probably about an hour away, Lovelock, a liquor store or two there I bet.” Charlie took another bite of jerky. “And a casino I think.” “You want to hit up a casino? Man, you are in a dark place. You would do good with a bit of Jesus in your life.” Charlie shrugged. “Why not? In ‘n out, fast, grab all’s we can n’ ride off. I bet it got more cash for grabbin’ than a liquor store.” He took a firm grip of his gun. The rest of the evening was spent in silence and anticipation. Johnny, whilst still questioning the idea felt an ethical, almost duty-like responsibility to support Charlie. He looked at the man, Charlie’s face was untidy, rugged, and beardy. Someone should pick his eyebrows even. They both had endorsed the now classic biker outlaw look, jeans, t-shirts, wrong leather vests with patches, red and white bandanas and black leather motorcycle boots. They didn’t look mean but they sure as hell looked like they were up to no good. The following morning, they set off and the sun beat down mercilessly on the barren expanse as they first made their way north along the mountain range, turned west, and then down south along Route 80. In the distance, a patrol car emerged through the asphalt mirage and as they passed made a U-turn and wailed its siren for them to stop. Charlie and Johnny pulled over to the side of the highway and exchanged wary glances. The officer stepped out clad in a crisp uniform, he adjusted his hat and approached with a cautious gait, his hand resting near his holster. “Afternoon.. gentlemen,” the officer began. “Mind telling me what you’re doing out here?” His eyes darted between the two bikers. “Just passin’ through, Officer.” The officer’s gaze narrowed, “Texas boy huh?.. Passing through to where? This isn’t exactly a tourist route.” Charlie locked his eyes and pierced through the police officer aviators. A gust of wind swept over them. The officer slowly chewed on his gum. Johnny finally broke the silence, “Is there a problem officer?” The patrolman’s hand tightened on his belt. “Not yet,” he replied slowly, “but I’ll be keeping an eye on you. Stay out of trouble.” The weight of his words settled in the still air. The three men remained motionless exchanging a tension thick enough to cut with a knife. The vastness of the desert around them amplified the quiet standoff. “Aint’ no problem from us officer” Charlie replied. The officer gave a curt nod and turned back to his patrol car. The bikers remained still. Their eyes followed him until the patrol car pulled away, made another U-turn, and continued in its previous path. "Let's go," Charlie muttered. The engines of the choppers roared back to life, shattering the stillness as they tore back onto the highway. The officer's suspicion trailed behind them like a shadow, but their focus was ahead—toward the neon lights of the casino and the high stakes that awaited them. They rolled into Lovelock, the deep thundering noise of their engines and rugged faces turned the heads of law-abiding citizens. The casino was easy enough to find and they parked their choppers at the Royal Inn across the street and sat down in its outdoor seating area. Betty Sue, a petite brunette with bright, hopeful eyes and a warm smile, approached their table. Her hair, tied in a loose ponytail, bounced lightly with each step. “Hello gentlemen,” she said, her voice sweet and clear. “Name’s Betty Sue. What can I get you? Maybe something to eat?” She lingered by Johnny, her gaze lingering a bit too long. Johnny looked up, forcing a smile. "I don't know, Betty Sue. What do you recommend?" She twirled a strand of hair around her finger, leaning in just a bit closer. "Well, that depends. Are you looking for something strong and quick, or something that lasts a bit longer?" Johnny chuckled. "What would you suggest for a man just passing through?" Betty Sue’s smile widened, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "Maybe something that lasts a bit longer?" “Alright then Betty Sue, how about you give us something that lasts a bit longer?” She winked and smiled. Her smile was warm and inviting, “Two beers and keep them coming? Two plates of bacon, eggs, and two pieces of steak?” Johnny’s gaze softened, “My kind of girl Betty Sue, you sure are my kind of girl.” Betty Sue giggled, drawn by their roughness. They came from somewhere and were probably going far away to a thrilling adventure. From behind her, the disapproving figure of her father appeared. “Betty Sue, leave these men alone. They’re not your type, they’re not anyone’s type,” he grumbled, his eyes narrowing at Johnny. Betty Sue rolled her eyes and retreated, throwing Johnny a wink as she left. Charlie raised his eyebrows. “Eyes on the prize Johnny, no distractions.” Johnny smiled innocently. They drank, ate, and observed the comings and goings of the patrons of the casino. Betty Sue had clearly been instructed to keep her distance from the two bikers and they were only served by her recalcitrant father. But in the background, she threw secret glances and winks at Johnny threw his winks and glances back, antagonizing Charlie's demand for restraint for lust and sinning in the process. They waited for a moment, that moment. That life-defining moment when a man chose a path that he can’t turn back on. When he either walks the path of the righteous or forever leaves that good man behind and becomes a true outcast of society. As the sun began to set over the horizon, a pause of movement at the casino emerged after more patrons had left the casino than had entered. “Now” Charlie stated. They finished their beers and got up and were about to exit the bar at the Royal Inn, and just as they were about to pull up their bandanas over their faces Charlie bumped into a man that was busy orchestrating the exit of his chattering wife and three children. The man looked up at Charlie who looked back. Charlie’s eyes were black as a wild death. The man’s eyes scanned Charlie's face, his eyes pondering as if he had seen Charlie before. “Hey, aren’t you Charles Cortlandt?” Charlie was clearly thrown off guard, he staggered back two steps and shook his head. “I don’t.. no I don’t know who you are talking about.” The man began to smile raised his hand up to the height of his chest and pointed at Charlie. “No no, sure you are! Charles Cortlandt! I saw you dancing on TV, oh man, that must have been what, ten, fifteen years ago?” Johnny looked perplexed, stunned. He looked at the man, and then Charlie, and then the man. Clearly, this man was not mistaken given the level of excitement. “The Vulture.. danced?” The man looked at Johnny, “Oh yeah, he did. The best twister there was, he won competitions you know. Twisted like no one else, magic it was. Charles Cortlandt, “The Twister” he was called. Yeah yeah, I know you, The Twister! What happened to you? Did you dance more?” Charlie's eyes fluctuated and stirred. “I.. dude you must be thinking of someone else” “I’m Bobby Robertsson” he pressed and shook Charlie's hand before he could withdraw it and Johnny too. “And this is my wife Brenda and those three wildlings are Bobby JR, Linda, and Paris, Brenda's mother always wanted to go to Paris but she was ill so we named her Paris..” Bobby Robertsson continued for a minute or two, elaborating on his family before he suddenly stopped mid-sentence. “Hey, you know what?” “No what?” Johnny replied. “There’s actually a Twister competition at the casino, like right now!” Bobby looked at his watch. “Five thousand for first place, me and the missus are going. Kids these days don’t appreciate the power of a good twist so this might be the last twist competition ever. You should come, Charles, I bet you’d win! Anyway, best we get going. Need to get these little monsters into bed, I hope I’ll see you later Charles Cortlandt!” Bobby scrambled together his family to the best of his ability, Paris, the youngest waved goodbye “See you later! See you later Charles!” “Imagine that honey, The Twister! Just out here!” was the last word they heard from them. Jonny smiled. Charles looked at him with defiance. “Look man, I don’t..” Johnny interrupted him simply with a shake of his head. “Charles Cortlandt, ‘The Twister’, the greatest twister there was.” He burst out laughing, smacked his leg,s and looked back up with the largest grin on his face from Nevada to Kansas. “Well look at that, the infamous ‘Vulture’ is ‘The Twister’, how good were you, really?” Charlie shifted his weight from one leg to the other, not sure of which path to go down, and which character he would play at this moment. Who was he? Really? A ghost from the jungle or a memory of an artistic expression. “I made a couple of dollars.” He replied. “Made a couple of dollars? From Bobby, it sounded like you made more than a couple of dollars.”

Charlie had no words, somewhere inside a boy’s light voice echoed through the darkness. A whisper of innocence and silent words of sadness floated into his mind. He felt a wave of guilt and remorse fill him. But most of all, an overwhelming feeling of unfairness. That boy had been forced into war, forced to kill, and forced to walk through knee-deep puddles of blood, and where that boy drowned only for The Vulture to be born. His eyes became red and teary. “Charlie, my friend,” Johnny said. “You can win five thousand dollars from twisting, or a few hundred from violence and robbery. Two different paths brother. Chose the right one.” The air inside the remote casino crackled with anticipation as the Twist competition reached its peak. The room was filled with tidy, upstanding citizens, their polished shoes and crisp attire were a stark contrast to the rugged figure who strode onto the dance floor. Dressed in his worn leather, uncut beard, dirty biker boots, and his ravaged face, Charlie stood out like filth on a crisp white wall. Whispers and raised eyebrows followed his every step, but his eyes were fixed on the center of the room. He knew this moment was more than just a dance—it was a chance to choose the path of reclamation and find that stolen boy again. As the first notes of Let’s Twist Again filled the air, his body came alive with a fluidity that seemed impossible for someone so hardened by life. Come on let's twist again like we did last summer Yeah, let's twist again like we did last year Do you remember when things were really hummin'? Yeah, let's twist again, twistin' time is here And he danced. His movements were a mesmerizing blend of precision and passion, each step with a grace that belied his rugged appearance. The crowd, watched in silent awe as he spun and twisted with an energy that transcended the boundaries of time and space. He moved as if the dance floor were his domain, a place where the past's shadows held no sway over the lost and now-found boy. With every twist of his hips and swing of his arms, Charlie painted a story of resilience and rebirth. He looked up at the disco ball's reflective colorful lights-covered ceiling and broke out in tears that ran down his cheeks and flooded his beard. His feet tapped out a rhythm that echoed the heartbeat of a man rediscovering his lost joy. The judgmental gazes, now held their breath, captivated by the sheer artistry unfolding before them. There was no need for applause or cheers; just a collective recognition of the extraordinary that unfolded among them. As the final notes lingered in the air, he came to a breathless halt, standing tall amidst the quiet reverence of the onlookers. At that moment, he was no longer the biker and the soldier haunted by memories of war. He was the dancer, The Twister. A boy with a dream that dared to dream. The boy that had captivated Bobby all those years ago. He was a man who had found a way to weave beauty and grace from the threads of his past. The competition was won, not through the points of the judges, but through the transformation of a phoenix rising from the ashes of a haunted ghost. Epilogue. Charles Cortlandt left Charlie behind on the dancefloor of the C Punch Inn & Casino. He won that competition and went on to become one of the greatest dancers in the United States of his time, reaching far beyond just the Twist. Rumba, Flamenco, Experimental Dance, and much more. He never got married but much to the detriment of his sister he overwhelmed her two children with all the love and gifts an uncle with a seemingly unlimited amount of prize money can give, spoiling them beyond her control. He retired from competitive dancing in his fifties and opened a legendary dance school. Johnny married Betty Sue her father’s protests and they both became teachers just like his own parents were and they taught at the same high school for more than 30 years until retirement. He died peacefully in his sleep after a period of slowly evolving pancreatic cancer, leaving behind his wife and three children. Betty Sue’s father eventually succumbed and eventually, one of his grandchildren took over the inn. Bobby continued managing his family and saw his three children grow up into healthy young adults. He and his wife retired in Boca and enjoyed a long retirement in the sun where she learned to play the piano and Bobby explored a newfound passion of constantly demanding that he and his wife should take care of at least one of their 10 grandchildren. The patrol officer never needed to keep an eye out for the two bikers, he continued to patrol Highway 80 keeping the lawful safe and criminals and boys that were up to no good unsafe, chewing his gum. Charlie and Johnny kept in touch and exchanged letters weekly. Charlie spent the first years writing about the war with Johnny, the only one he felt that could truly understand but eventually let it go and wrote about his dance career. They made several trips to Vietnam to visit old battlegrounds and reunited with Vietnamese veterans, burying hatchets and ghosts from the past.


An Interview With the Star-Crossed Lovers Historians poking around some old archives in Verona, Italy have made a surprising discovery. The city’s most famous couple, Romeo Montague and Juliet Capulet, miraculously survived their bungled double suicide attempt, escaped from Verona, and took up residence in a combination vineyard, pasta factory, and olive orchard near Florence. For twenty years they kept their identities secret. Not even their crazy relatives knew where they were. This was wise, because some people were after Romeo for a couple of murders. In the meantime, Juliet’s balcony, Friar Lawrence’s cell and the Capulet burial vault have become tourist attractions, generating a lot of revenue for both the Capulets and the Montagues, who have gone into the tour guide and souvenir businesses together. Their little wooden replicas of Juliet’s balcony are especially popular. Twenty years after the famous happenings, a reporter from La Posta di Verona  (“The Verona Post”), acting on a tip from an anonymous source, tracked the famous star-crossed lovers to their new home. They granted him an interview, after making him sign a blood oath that he wouldn’t tell anyone where they were, especially anyone with a sword. The reporter was astonished to see the couple, who looked nothing like their youthful family portraits. Romeo and Juliet had both gained weight, with plenty of middle-age spread. Romeo had gone bald and Juliet had a few gray hairs at her forehead. Both of them were richly dressed according to the fashion of the day, indicating a certain level of wealth. The reporter found them sitting on the veranda of their home, enjoying the evening sunset. Here is the transcript of the interview: LA POSTA DI VERONA: So you have been married now for … what … 20 years? JULIET: Yes. Our anniversary was last week. ROMEO: Last week? I thought it was two months from now. JULIET: No, dear. It was last week. You forgot again, like you do every year.  I let it pass this time. ROMEO (to the reporter) : I’m not very good with dates. JULIET: It’s hard to forget the day we had to get married in secret and sneak you into my bedroom for a quickie wedding night.  And oh yes – you killed my cousin and my fiancé. ROMEO: Do you have to keep reminding me of that? That was 20 years ago!

(to reporter)   She never shuts up!

(to Juliet)   Your cousin Tybalt was a real rat-catcher. He had it coming to him. And what fiancé? You couldn’t stand him. He was your father’s delusion. Who would want to marry a guy named Paris, anyway? Paris is a girl’s name. His parents must have been drinking too much Chianti when they named him. JULIET: Well, I always say, “What’s in a name?”  He wasn’t a bad sort, just kind of dull. I didn’t hate him, I just found him kind of blah! He never followed me home after a party, like you did. That was pretty cool. Paris was too busy talking to Daddy to pay too much attention to me. He was old-fashioned that way, which is why he was so damned boring. LA POSTA DI VERONA:

Interrupting.   So tell me, do you have any children? Romeo and Juliet laugh hysterically. JULIET: We have ten children. I stopped trying to have any kind of figure ten years ago. ROMEO: So you can tell our in-laws they have a slew of grandchildren. That’ll make my mother happy, anyway .

Suddenly looks over at window of small house on the property.   What light from yonder window breaks?

Shouts.   Hey, you kids! Put out those torches! I’m not made of pitch, dammit!

VOICE OF KID: But Dad, we’re busy playing boccie  and we can’t see what we’re doing! ROMEO: How many times do I have to tell you not to play boccie  after dark! You’ll knock yourselves out! You can’t win a game that way, anyway! VOICE OF KID: Ah, but Dad … ! ROMEO: Do as I say! I’m your father! VOICE OF KID: Odds bodkins! ROMEO: What did you say? VOICE OF KID: Nothing, Dad. Good night. ROMEO: Good night!

Mutters.   Kids today! So impulsive! LA POSTA DI VERONA: You were pretty impulsive yourself, if I have the story right. ROMEO: Yeah, we were, weren’t we? JULIET: Well, you can’t blame a girl for going gaga over a guy who crashes her coming-out party, then sneaks into her back yard afterward, right under her parents’ noses. ROMEO: I was on the rebound from Rosaline at the time. JULIET: Oh yeah. The town slut. ROMEO: She wasn’t a slut! She was … experienced for her age. JULIET: If that’s what you want to call it, go ahead. LA POSTA DI VERONA: Rosaline is doing very well for herself. She opened her own house, just up the street from the Capulet burial vault. Her girls get a lot of the tourist trade.  She’s thinking of franchising her operation and opening houses in Florence and Padua. She calls herself La Felice Puttana . JULIET: Now that’s  experienced. ROMEO: Hmmm.  I always knew she’d make a name for herself. I just didn’t know how. LA POSTA DI VERONA: So you have been living here for 20 years? ROMEO: We’re in the wine and olive oil businesses. We have our own brands: Star-Crossed Lovers Pure Virgin Olive Oil and What’s in a Name Primo  Chianti. All the best trattorie  do business with us.  We even have a couple of inns in Florence who buy our stuff. It’s made us rich. We can’t complain about THAT! LA POSTA DI VERONA: I’m glad to hear that you are so successful. Tell me, how many employees do you have? JULIET: Well, there’s Giulio the gardener, Clara the housekeeper, Antonietta the scullery maid, Arturo the butler … ROMEO: He means how many employees in the business, not how many people we have around the house! JULIET: Oh. My mistake. ROMEO: We have a couple of hundred people working in the vineyard and the olive grove and the pasta factory. We don’t believe in outsourcing. No foreigners for us. Just good old Tuscan laborers, working in sweatshop conditions and liking it. We don’t fool around. They tried to unionize on us two years ago, but we put a stop to that! LA POSTA DI VERONA: What did you do? ROMEO: We gave them all a raise and improved their working conditions. Then they couldn’t say anything more because they had everything they wanted. Clever, huh? LA POSTA DI VERONA: Yes, very clever of you. Well, thank you both for the interview. I have to run now. I am catching a donkey cart to Padua to interview Petrucchio and Kate on their  20 th  anniversary. JULIET: Say hello to them for us.  We haven’t been in touch in ages. LA POSTA DI VERONA: I’ll do that. Thank you both, and arrivederci.


To the Residents of Bloombasil Homeowner’s Association: Please join us in extending a warm welcome to our newest residents, B’leep and B’larp Greene. We will be hosting a welcome potluck this Saturday at the community center. A signup list of mains, sides, and desserts will be kept on the community bulletin. Kind Regards, The Members of the Bloombasil HOA Board As a reminder: discrimination against a resident or residents based on their planet of origin is strictly prohibited under the 2030 Fair Housing Act. Any such behavior could put the status of our organization in jeopardy, and as such will not be tolerated. ------------------------------------------ On August 1st, at approximately 1900 hours, I responded to a report of a suspicious person at 30 Marjory Drive. When I arrived at the residence in question the exterior of the property appeared vacant. I approached the home. Two notices were taped to the front door: an HOA violation letter and an invitation to a welcome party. I knocked and was given permission to enter. I confirmed the identity of and interviewed the inhabitant, a 91-year-old female named Hannah Wardell. Wardell confirmed that she was the one who had made the report. She asserted that “a Gray” had walked across her lawn. She further explained: “They’re everywhere now. Living in our homes. Trespassing on our lawns. Next they’ll be telling us what we can and can’t do. Don’t believe me? Soon enough they’ll be trotting out eviction threats, just like that Janet Stone. You want to see where the suspicious individual is? Go to the party. Everyone is celebrating it.” I continued my patrol on foot. Upon hearing music and seeing a heavy social presence at the community center, I opted to check in with the residents inside. The door was open, so I entered the premises. Although there were approximately 40-50 people inside, the room was quiet. All eyes turned to me. I had the feeling there had just been a lively group conversation which ceased upon my arrival. I was immediately approached by 56-year-old Terry Phillips with a plate of gluten free oatmeal cookies. He explained to me that the community was celebrating the move-in of two new residents. He then raised his voice as though addressing both me and the group to say that all was peaceful. Conversation between the partygoers resumed. I noticed a folding table with name tags laid out in an orderly fashion. Many appeared to have been claimed, but some remained, including that of Wardell. It read: Hannah Wardell (Homeowner) 30 Marjory Drive (105V / 15Y) I asked what the numbers meant. Phillips indicated his own name tag, which read: Terry Phillips (Board Secretary) 22 Marjory Drive (2V / 10Y) Phillips then explained: “Just a little conversation starter, and a fun way to educate new residents on the rules. The first number, you see, represents how many violations a person has been subject to during their time with us. The second is how many years they've lived here. My two violations, for example: My mom lived with us for a bit and didn't know any better. She was used to hanging the wash out to dry – that's just what they did in her day. But it was time for her to move to a home anyway. The other time our puppy, Barnaby, got out and... well, we couldn't stop him from making a mess on the neighbor's lawn. Good dog, the whole thing was a shame. But all dogs go to heaven, right? You'd think it would make people feel ashamed, but we like to keep this sort of thing out in the open. Relieves tension, makes us laugh. And people with high numbers never show up to these things anyway. And nobody has a zero. Well, nobody except for Janet and her household.” I explained that I was there to investigate a suspicious person, but there didn’t seem to be sufficient evidence to support the claim. I would have left the scene at that point, but I observed another resident, 16-year-old female Amelia Stone, in apparent distress. Miss Stone sat in a side chair. Her arms hung limp and she stared dead ahead. Her eyes did not appear to track my movement. Her mascara indicated that she had recently been crying. Phillips began to usher me out. I attempted to interview the young woman, but she was unresponsive. Her mother, Janet Stone (age unknown), joined us. She explained that Miss Stone was merely in shock after seeing the new residents for the first time. She further explained that her daughter was going through an “anti-cop phase,” and I ought to avoid upsetting her further. I asked the elder Stone to describe the new residents. She responded: “Oh! Well. I would never be so vulgar as to describe someone in detail. But they are as you would expect of a pair of Gr-, er, Martians. Thin, large eyes, skin the color of old socks. They are the first of their kind in our neighborhood. But I assure you, we are all eager to help them integrate. We don't usually hold a party like this, you know. This is an occasion. The Board believes that diversity will only enrich our lives. But! The presence of law enforcement can often create tension, don't you think? It’s probably best if you head out. Please, take a little treat on your way.” It was at that point that the younger Miss Stone stirred. Her eyes met mine and she whispered: “Blueberry crumble.” Her mother let out a brief gasp. She then addressed me: “Our family's specialty. Unfortunately, she forgot to bring it tonight and she’s quite upset about the whole thing. Now please, I think you should go.” I scanned the dessert buffet and found a multitude of baked goods and ice cream. There seemed to be a recent absence in the lineup, however, indicated by a blank stretch of tablecloth. Upon further inspection I noted scattered crumbs and a purple-blue stain. I noticed that the two Stones and a few others watched me closely. To maintain a casual appearance, I removed one brownie. I scanned the trashcan next to the table, but it appeared to contain only plasticware and paper plates. With no further evidence of an issue and a standing request to leave, I proceeded to the exit. As I walked across the lawn, I heard shouting. Miss Stone appeared in the doorway. She was immediately pulled back into the building by several unidentifiable hands. She cried out: “It was an accident! You have to help them!” I returned but found the door to be locked. I informed the inhabitants that they were under suspicion of a crime and must open the door immediately. When met without a response I scanned the premises for alternative entrances. I noticed a beam of light around the side of the building and found a second doorway open to the kitchen. Two long Martian-sized shapes lay on the floor, covered in a white tablecloth. It was stained purple in several places. The smell of blueberries was strong. Phillips opened the doorway to the kitchen opposite me, so fast that several pieces of cutlery fell to the floor. After the sound diminished, he said: “Please, it was an accident. We didn't know until it was too late. Amelia queried it on her phone.” I lifted the sheet. Two Martians lay seemingly unconscious or dead. The elder Stone appeared in the doorway, pulling her daughter behind her. “Wait! Amy, tell him what you just told me.” Miss Stone sobbed and shook uncontrollably. She held out her phone to me. The screen read: “Query: accidentally poisoned two grays what to do now Answer: Martians (pejoratively known as “Grays”) are extremely allergic to an anthocyanins, responsible for the blue pigment in blueberry skins. However, exposure to this chemical may be remedied given a rapidly administered dose of nitroglycerin, normally used in the emergency treatment of cardiac arrest in humans.” I asked if they had any such medication on site. Phillips shook his head. Stone said: “The only person in our community who has a serious heart condition is Mrs. Wardell. And she has 38 outstanding violations! We can’t ask her for help.” There was a chuckle at the door. Mrs. Wardell stood there, leaning on a walker and still in her nightdress. I began to explain the situation, but she interrupted: “Oh, I heard everything. You've gone and done it now, haven't you, Janet? Killing two of them... that's not just a violation. That's murder. Maybe even a hate crime.” Stone sobbed. Wardell went on: “As much as I dislike their kind and as much as like to imagine you running around the prison block fining everyone for not keeping their cells up to your standards, I am willing to provide what you need. IF – if . You must agree to my terms.” Stone asked: “What do you want?” Wardell replied: “I want the list of completely unfounded, outstanding violations aimed at my household to be dropped.” Stone hesitated but Phillips applied a hand to her elbow. Stone spoke: “Fine, it's done.” Wardell continued: “And I want a violation added to your household’s record. Surely poisoning the guests of honor at a community event violates some rule you've got in that made up code of yours.” Stone issued a series of expletives that indicated a lack of agreement to the terms. However, Phillips replied: “As board secretary, all record-keeping falls to me… including that of violations. Hannah, it will be done.” Stone screamed. Wardell produced a small orange prescription bottle from her nightdress. The effect of the medication was nearly instant. The two individuals of Martian origin quickly returned to consciousness and requested a moment to clean and compose themselves. All other parties removed themselves to the community room. The Martians rejoined us shortly, somewhat disoriented but otherwise healthy. When the situation was more fully explained to them, they addressed me directly: “Please, you may uncuff the Earthling named Janet Stone. We do not intend to press charges.” Stone sat slumped in a chair while her daughter now attempted to comfort her. The news appeared to have no effect. I heard her whisper the words “fifteen years” and “no violations,” but the rest of her speech was indecipherable. The Martians continued to speak to me: “Thank you for correcting the situation, officer. Although we have had conflict with your government’s executive branch in the past, it appears that the new anti-discriminatory regulation is not a completely empty gesture. We will note this to your leaders. May we record your badge number?” I assented. As they took down the number, I heard a soft sobbing in the corner. It was Stone. Terry stood over her with a Sharpie, apologizing profusely. At approximately 2030 hours I left the scene. No arrests were made as there was no lasting harm and no charges were pressed. And aside from a handwritten “1” now appearing on Janet Stone’s name tag, there is nothing further to report.


You could say he was an outsider, because he was all the wrong shape. The same shape, but different none-the-less. For starters, he was bigger than all the others, he ate more than them, was expected to live longer than them and had a wild sleeping pattern - making it difficult to meet the demands of their nocturnal raids every second evening. He would not give up even though he was still a lowly squire awaiting his induction into knighthood, because of his guinea pig upbringing. He was brought up by his furry guinea pig parents, only for them to perish fighting for the new world rodent peace pact – a raging war amoungst the rats, guinea folk, flying squirrels and porcupines alike, which ended in most of the other species of rodents to leave the Woden lands for the rats to capitalize on and build it into Rattingworth. This definitely separated him from all the other sir-rats surrounding him in the kingdom as Gawain the Guinea pig was left to Morgause and her critters as an orphan once the wars settled. “Gawain”, he heard from inside the Armory, “Come and attend sir Basil of Rattingworth immediately!” He made his way inside and saluted a few Rattingworth guard’s standing stoically, as best he could by grabbing the tufts of hair from his bottom and holding them to his forehead - a typical respected greeting in this part of the land, but it was birthed from obviously having the long rat-esque tails, which all the rats had for these types of pleasantries. Gawain was carrying a chainmail shirt and a wooden plated breastplate perfectly fitted for this specific knight, to dress him before the ceremony. He noticed that Sir Basil was chittering to the young rattish page boys, sitting on the floor and idolizing him with his broad toothy grin on his face and a mug of wine sloshing about in his gnarled left hand. He liked Sir Basil for his kindness, as this knight didn’t seem to mind the way Gawain looked and always specifically called out for him for special suiting up occasions. “Ah, Sir Gawain of Burrowin. How wonderful for you to come and visit an old shard like myself.” He said, while flashing his red-stained smile and clapping Gawain on the back. He always did make up funny highborn names for Gawain to be a knight of and this warmed him dearly. “Now you must tell me how you enjoy Lady Iso’s delectable vegetable broth… she said she just had to give you three servings so that you don’t starve!” Gawain slowly wound around the page boys on the ground and found the armoury’s writing desk to lean the heavy armour on. He cleared his throat and replied, “Very good indeed sir! Your mistress makes the best broth in the kingdom!” And this is where his stomach decided to unceremoniously growl. He looked at Sir Basil sheepishly (as if a Guinea pig could) and back down at his stomach. Sir Basil’s laughter boomed throughout the echoey chamber and with this satisfaction he downed his whole mug of wine and the page boys took this as a sign to run rat-boyishly out of the room. His crinkly aged eyes followed them out of the chamber and fell onto Gawain again, which relaxed the oversized squire. “Now then, lets suit up for the ceremony and see if we can get out of this war business eh?” He winked and beckoned Gawain over with his one good hand. Gawain dressed Sir Basil and shined his metal boots for good measure. Seeming satisfied as usual, Sir Basil gave him a respectful nod and marched to the door on the other side of the armoury, which led into the main courtroom where they were scheduled for today's proceedings. Before he grabbed the doorknob, he turned wildly around towards Gawain, so close that he felt his whiskers and smelled the wine emanating from his armour now and murmured, “Remember to chin up, pull your stomach in and be proud that you are different, but needed and that’s what gets us through this darn world in the end.” He had a sparkle in his eye that Gawain always remembered as a small guinea pig pup and he nodded at this old shard of a knight. Definitely having feelings of admiration towards him now. Sir Basil proceeded to open the door and they were both overshadowed by the greatness of the ceremonial court, stories high with crimson red tapestries clinging to the walls, which were shining with a stoney opulence. Gawain felt intimidated every time, as it was a court that he was usually barred from, but with these ceremonies everyone was invited – even the “lowly rats” from the south region. He followed a short while and took his place amoungst the other squire’s in their allotted pew, where they turned up their twitchy noses at him and shuffled a little down from him. They were always doing this sort of thing and he never decided if it was from fear or because they thought he was too different to them and jealous of the “special” attention. Sir Basil walked on and up towards the elevated stand, where he met with Lord Ambrosai of the Woden’s kingdom - in front of the large ceremonious gathering. Gawain couldn’t say what serious and ceremonious matters they were on about and felt his vegetable broth kicking in, giving him a bit of the sleepy eyes that could no longer focus on anything around him. What did catch his attention and woke him up was a sudden and violent crack at the wooden doors leading to the gardens and the whole gathering shuffled in their seats and looked around alarmingly, twitching their little noses towards the strange sound. Lord Ambrosai immediately rested his acorn sceptre that he usually paraded at these things on the ground and Sir Bazil stopped mid sentence. The doors blew open, making the wooden shards spray all about the sparking foyer, highlighting a silhouette of a parachute like membrane, stretching from wrist to ankle. This different rodent-like figure with her cape flapping in the outward breeze came strolling in. Merin had her best on today, as she sported a deep purple cloak with velvety orange slippers and had a saunter without a care in her step, through to the aisle towards the front. Sir Basil laughed to himself and grabbed another wine-filled mug from the grass-encrusted table next to him and started inhaling the liquid as if he expected all of this. Gawain had a feeling that he probably did and was always prepared. Lord Ambrosai finally announced, with an irritating edge in his voice, “Ahh, Lady Merin, enchantress of north Treetingwood. How lovely of you to join!” Sir Basil rolled his eyes, but still did a semblance of a bow towards her, which made him slosh some of the wine on the carpeted floor around him. Merin wrapped her cloak tighter around herself and pointedly stared her beady black eyes towards them both as if they were just puppets on a stage. Her orange velvet steps were sinuous and so was her voice which uttered, “You know why I’m here dear sirs. For you see I’ve needed that acorn sceptre – a family heirloom I might add - for far too long now!!” With the last words she smacked her lips closed and stopped in her tracks. The highlord handed this acorn sceptre that she was referring to, towards Sir Basil and he held it lightly in his good hard, while still playfully sipping from the mug in his bad one, without question. “Lady Merin,” he started again, while his hairy hackles began to stand on edge under his pompous frilly shirt, “This is not the time for such deep conversation…” “Deep conversation?” She cut in dexterously, “I’d enjoy nothing less!” and with that, she threw her cloak back and exposed her dangerously glowing hands, which seemed to signal a charge of similar flying squirrels to glide through the open windows and front door of the courtroom that she had already exploded open upon entry. Dressed in plain woollen dresses, very different to her own, the squirrel folk seized the ratfolk around the chamber, which made Gawain shoot up to his bare furry feet and make a still sleepy movement towards Sir Basil to act as some sort of protection. The rat squires around him looked pointedly annoyed at his freedom, while they sat in the clutches of their winged capturers, but he gallantly moved on. The enchanted squirrels couldn’t seem to get a grip on his mass even with their claws and so he batted them off of himself to stand next to the knight. Merin seemed frighteningly irritated at this and began storming her way through the wild crowd towards the three. Once her army of squirrels settled the crowds down with each lowly and highborn rat in a chokehold, she cleared her throat and set her purple electrifying magic from her hands unto the Lord and Sir Basil. The whole room of admirers and followers gasped at this scene, but did not dare move in their holds. Gawain felt helpless and scared, but she barely seemed to notice his large mass next to the highborn rats and she walked up to Sir Basil and plucked the acorn sceptre out of his hand – suspended in this purple magic, not even being able to move an eyelid at what had just happened. Her cloak brushed Gawain’s open toes and this made him automatically freeze like they seemed to be even though he wasn’t under their same spell. Merin moved towards him then and smiled a malicious smile as if she had just noticed him then, before turning to leave, but before she could round up her party to do so, a strange sound of high-pitched air sort-of trumpet filled the ceremony room and she paused. Gawain dropped his furry hands to his belly and looked awkwardly down at it. She however did not look amused about his passing of gas, even though the entire room filled with chittering laughter at this. If he didn’t feel like the attention wasn’t on him, he felt it now as the waves of laughter seemed to anger her more and she pointed her sceptre at his grumbling belly. Before she could do any further damage, her eyes opened wide and she began foaming at the mouth. Gawain was totally shocked by this absurd response to his wind, however the air around him was filling up with a rather pungent vegetable-broth smell. She collapsed soon after and the purple magic that enveloped the highbord rats disappeared. The flying squirrels one-by-one also seemed to shake her grip from their minds and all joined in with the laughter their previous captives were still enjoying around that funny and absurd sound. Lord Ambrosai and Sir Basil gave Gawain a shocked look even though their eyes wanted to smile through it all. Sir Basil clapped the large Guinea pig on the shoulder and muttered, “Must have been the missus’s vegetable broth giving your old stomach some trouble eh?” and he flashed that fatherly smile he usually did. The Lord shook himself straight and reached for the sceptre lying next to the sorceress, who was in her own farty trance on the floor. He regained his place and looked out to the sea of furry faces, rats and squirrels alike. “Thank Burrowin’s children, we and the acorn sceptre are safe!” The crowd whooped and cheered at this in jubilation. He then rounded Gawain’s other side and both Sir Basil and him lifted both of his hands up to the crowd for all of them to cheer him on. “And thank this brave um…” He thought for a second and whispered to Gawain, “What are you exactly little or rather, large sir?” Gawain looked down quickly and muttered, “A guinea pig my Lord.” “Sir Gawain of Burrowin to be exact.” Sir Basil chimed in.” And this brought some amusement to the old Lord's face. “Let’s thank Sir Gawain of Burrowin for being the smelliest, but also the bravest rodent there ever was!” The crowd chimed together. “Hear, hear!” and carried on their whoops and cheers, which made Sir Gawain the Outsider feel pretty at home in this kingdom.


“Ah! Look who’s finally here!” Rodney looks over at you, smiling and getting Jack’s attention by nudging him with his elbow. Jack looked up from the book he was reading, an odd expression on his face. “Reader! Wasn’t expecting you, to be honest. We’ve been looking forward to meeting you for some time now, y’know. Jack stuck his hand out for a handshake, but hesitated. With a sheepish smile, he retracted his hand. “Sorry, I guess that’s not really possible, huh? With us not being physical and whatnot, I mean.” “We could always ask Author to write that we shook hands, but that’s not really the same thing, is it? But, really, it’s all

unnecessary. We have things to discuss, so we shouldn’t waste our word count.” Rodney explained. He stood up from the brown leather accent chair, stretching his back. He wore a neat, brown suit with a stylish black tie. His hair was a dull red, slicked back with a bit of hairspray. A single strand had come loose, falling down across his forehead. His face was stern, thin eyes hidden behind thick framed glasses, eyebrows furrowed and lips pursed. His voice was loud and stern, not matching his appearance at all. “Author.” Rodney snapped, staring off at an empty corner. “Please, stop. No one wants to read lengthy descriptions of a character’s appearance. It's obvious you’re stalling for time.” “Come on Rodney, let her have this.” Jack interjected. “I’m sure Reader wants to know what we look like, don’t you think?” “As much as I trust in Author, I can’t have our story escape from us. Besides, it doesn’t matter what I look like. If Reader cares so much, they can make something up. We’re wasting words here. We have a limit if we want to be eligible for the contest.”

“And when was the last time Cara got even close to reaching that limit?” Jack pointed out. “She’s barely even gone beyond 2,000 words, let alone 3,000.” Rodney placed a hand on his chest, taken aback. “Don’t you say her name so lightly!” “Oh, come on. They already know her name, it’s right up there. See?” Jack gestured to the top of the page. “No need to be so damn cagey.” “Still, we must use her proper title as a sign of respect. She created us, and she can just as easily abandon us. You must know of the many, many WIPs she hasn’t touched in mouths. You don’t want us to end up like that, do you?” A flash of genuine fear goes across Jack’s face. He tries to hide it by rolling his eyes. “Whatever, dude.” Jack gets up as well, tossing his book on to the coffee table. He was opposite to Rodney in many ways, from his more casual clothing to his softer facial features. His blond hair was long and messy, and the old sweater he wore was stained with something you couldn’t recognize.

“Which is another way of saying she couldn’t think of anything.” Jack whispered to you. He felt a sudden, slight pain in the back of his head, as if he had been hit with a rolled up magazine. “What? I’m right!” he argued.

“Jack, I’m begging you, stop messing with her.” Rodney pleaded, pinching the bridge of his nose in annoyance. “Look, Reader’s probably getting tired of all this. You’re wondering when we’re going to get to the point of all this, aren’t you?” “Don’t assume that! Maybe they love this!” Jack said. “Why don’t we ask them?” “We both know we can’t do that. Since Author has no control over them, we can’t know their answer. Plus, there will be more than one Reader reading this, and they will all have different thoughts and opinions.” “Then let’s give them some options to pick from, like those old “choose your own adventure” books!” Jack suggested.

1. Agree with Jack (page 12) 2. Disagree with Jack (page 49) “This is a short story! We can’t give Reader different options!” Rodney exclaimed. “We don’t even have that many pages to flip to! Hell, this isn’t being printed, so we don’t have pages period.” “Ugh, fine, fine. I guess we can just move on then.” Jack sighed.

“Thank you!” Rodney said forcefully. He took a moment to compose himself before continuing. “Now, as you know, Author is creating this for a contest. We’re here to discuss our odds and, if I may be so bold, give some incentive to let her take the win.” “I’ll give you twenty bucks if you let her win.” Jack interjected. Rodney’s eye twitched. “Please, God, shut up. This is so important, not only for us, but for Author as well. A contest win would surely get her more commissions, which you and I both know she needs.” “Man, who cares!” Jack falls back on to his seat, flinging his feet over the armrest. He goes for his book, but Rodney is quick to snatch it away. “Why are you acting like this? What, do you not want to win? Do you just not care?” Rodney questions frantically. “You haven’t been taking any of this seriously, despite the fact that the entire reason Author created you was to be in this story to help me. Why are you going against her wishes?” “Because, the second this story ends, she’s not going to care anymore.” Jack's voice had gone unexpectedly cold. He cocked his head, supporting it on his arm as he looked at Rodney dead in the eyes.

“She doesn’t care about us, Rod. The only reason we exist is because this story needed characters, and she wasn’t going to use any of the ones from her real projects. I mean, hell, look at our fucking names even. Jack and Rodney?” “Those are fine names!” “She chose them with a name generator! They have no deeper, symbolic meanings, they’re filler, just like us.” Rodney’s face fell. A look of disbelief and horror spread from across his whole body, letting his arms hand low and his heart drop. Jack just snatched his book from Rodney’s hand. “I’m not about to waste my limited existence doing work for someone who doesn’t even care.” Rodney was frozen in place. He tried to speak a few times, but the words died in his throat. Jack didn’t seem to care as he lazily flipped through the pages of his book. “...She does care.” Rodney mumbled, barely audible. “Give it up, Rod.” “No. No!” Rodney straightened, determination and resolve flowing through him.

“If she truly didn’t care, she wouldn't have published this. She wouldn’t have edited this if she didn’t care. She wouldn’t have written this in the first place if she didn’t care! Jack, don’t you see? While, yes, we are not her most developed or thought out characters, we are still her characters! She cared enough to make us exist, to let the world see us, to let herself be judged through us!” Rodney ranted, a hopeful smile appearing on his face. Jack still looked unconvinced, but he continued to listen.

“I mean, look! Reader is proof of just that!” Rodney turned, that hopeful smile now aimed at you. “Author cared enough to let Reader meet us. So many of her characters don’t get such an amazing opportunity, but we did!” Jack looked over at you, trying to read your expression. After a moment, he just let out a sigh.

“...Ah, well, what do I know. I’m just a jumble of words, after all.”


My mom laid there on the hideous hospital bed that had taken up space in the living room for the past two months. She hated that bed. If she could have talked she probably would have said that it was the most uncomfortable bed in the world. Her head was propped up on two pillows, one over sized and one undersized. Her comforter was covering her now tiny body which was always cold. She laid there eyes open and looked up to the heavens. My mom was dying physically. She was no longer going to be here after that cool November day, the week before Thanksgiving. She gave me one last look and took her last breath. In my life there were only three times I cried as hard. I held her hand one last time and gave her one last kiss and prayed to the heavens that she was out of pain now and she would rest easy now.

That day I lost my mom and I lost myself. I didn’t know who I was anymore. I have heard that we are all put on this earth for a purpose. That you have to live your life with purpose. That you were entitled to have happiness, peace and abundance. But, here I was not knowing what purpose I had any more. I was always Carol’s daughter, the oldest of her three children. Big sister, mom to my son later in life and for the last three years I was my mother’s caregiver. I was there 24/7. I cooked her breakfast every single morning. Before she lost her voice we would talk over eggs and potatoes about the morning talk shows and how ridiculous she thought some of them were. We sipped tea or coffee together and she told me stories about when she was my age and younger. She would share with me advice about life and her struggles and prayed that her struggles would not become my struggles. We would have pineapple pizza for lunch and Chinese food for dinner. We would laugh at the stories my sister would tell about her husband.

Days, weeks, months passed faster than we wanted them too. Mom had very good days and very bad days. At certain times even hospital days. They were terrible days. Each time she went in she came out worse. The last time was the time she never fully recovered. Her body could not take any more. I was angry at first that she left me. I now had to search for my own identity. I now didn’t know who I was anymore. If I was not Carol’s daughter, who was I?

In the days and weeks following the death of my mother I tried to do all the things that I had never done. I immersed myself in taking swimming classes which I had stopped taking long ago. I took cooking lessons, art lessons, and even took a ride in a hot air balloon and almost scared myself out of this world. I spent more time in the garden and trimming the trees, counting the fallen leaves and trying to plant pretty flowers in assorted flower pots. I had a barbecue in the middle of the coldest December day of the year.

My nose ran, my face was cold, my gloved hands almost turned blue but I persisted turning that chicken trying to get the perfect color, the perfect grill marks. Mom would have liked that chicken and would have told me to bring my behind inside before I got sick. I exercised more and went from walking to running. I ran fast and hard, losing my breath at times but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t stop. I was running towards something. I was running trying towards the woman at the end of the block. I knew this woman. She was short like me, kind, long red hair like mine blowing behind her as she ran faster and faster. Then the woman was gone. I finally got to the corner and she was gone. I cried out for her to come back. I screamed for her to come back. I needed her. I needed her more than ever. I need her voice, her strength, her courage.

Finally I ran home. My new home, the home I had been living in for a year. The home I wanted to share longer with my mother. Our dream home. I looked around at the high ceilings, the skylights in the living room and wooden planks in the kitchen. I stared at the grain of the wood on the railings leading to the loft. My hands felt the wood trimming on the walls. I stared at the place where my mom took her last breath. I knelt down on that spot where the carpet frayed from the bed and I let out a primal scream. My hands were bruised from the beating I gave the wall. My knees were sore and my head was empty of thoughts and feelings. My heart was full of love and regret.

The ornaments fell to the ground as I sat at the crotch of the Christmas tree. One bulb was mother, another one a daughter, sister, aunt, niece, dreamer. One bulb had the name of all the places I had not been, Paris, Grease, Louisiana, Lake Tahoe, Hawaii and other exotic places. The bulbs went so high

that I could not name them all. It was like they disappeared into the colors of the lights at the top of the tree. The star, the elusive star which I had trouble finding every year, that star was an accumulation of my life. Every year I wished upon that star. I wished for peace, happiness, toys, clothes, health, strawberry cakes and chocolate kisses. That star was the brightest. It lit up the room but more than that. It lit up something I didn’t expect. That star, that big bright silver and gold star lit up me. My head filled with thoughts, lots of thoughts. Thoughts about the past, future, present and most of all the one thought that told me that I had found something.

That very second that thought that was like a whisper in my ear, the thought that made the hair on my neck stand up, the thought that told me that I had always known my purpose in life, the thought that told me I never lost myself that I just needed to look for me. I will be many things to many people over my years on this earth and that was part of my purpose to love and to be loved, to be happy and sprinkle happiness where it needs to be, take care of people and let people take care of me and dare to be my unique beautiful self. In that moment I learned what I was seeking was already here, in the mirror looking right at me.