I caught the tree branch in my padded black hand, using my newfound strength to propel my body towards the sky. Swiftly latching onto the next branch of the overhead canopy's, I rolled in the air to leave myself dangling from only my tail. This left my hands free to swat at the juicy fruit hanging nearby. Just as my fingers were so nearly touching the prize, my best friend Miki flew past me in one giant leap, snatching the fruit from in front of my eyes and disappearing into the foliage. Despite being the same age, he was larger, faster and stronger than me in everything we did together. We had both just recently passed the one year mark, and our Mothers allowed us a certain amount of freedom in the forest together. Consequently, we spent our juvenile days foolishly chasing each other, leaping from great heights and bouncing from tree to tree, competing to find the very best fruit and seeds. We spent hours on the alluring forest floor, desperately attempting to copy our older group members in their remarkable skill of cracking nuts on the rocks we found around us. We were never quite able to replicate this talent, but we had such entertaining times trying. Sometimes we would play fight and wrestle boisterously amongst the bushes; Miki always winning, until our energy would waver and we would rest together, enjoying the paradise around us. Despite pushing the boundaries of what our Mothers would deem acceptable behaviour, there were certain rules that we followed as the law, for we had been told of the deadly consequences. The elders and highest ranking males and females of the group strictly forbid us from venturing towards the new coastal resorts near to our Atlantic Forest. The recent gigantic development on the coast that we had forever called home had happened before I was born, but the elders had terrifying tales and memories of the human folk. We would never know why the humans decided to take this land from us, but the structures they built were hideous and seemingly pointless, taking up vast amounts of our space. No longer were there the endless trees and canopy's and swamps that our ancestors had enjoyed; we were confined to a much smaller sparse homestead. Always we had to mournfully look out upon the human destruction of our paradise. Later that afternoon, Miki decided to entice me into a game of chase. Although my lazy brain wanted to wait with the group and be groomed, I could not resist. He took off at speed and I saw a flash of his ginger tail as he disappeared into the trees. I followed dutifully, all of my senses coming alive as I followed his shrieks and calls to play. The smell of the fruit in the trees above my head were nearly enough to tempt me away, but I darted after him, picking up speed as I negotiated between my hands and my tail; throwing me faster and faster through the forest. This time I would catch him and I would prove to him how capable I was. I followed his calls for a while, not yet catching sight of my friend. Then my ears picked up on the change in sound, and I tilted my head in bewilderment as I halted on a branch. Miki's calls seemed to be getting further away. I looked around hurriedly, annoyed at myself for losing once again. I let out a hoot and waited impatiently for his call in return. There was no answer from my friend, just the vibrant sounds of the rainforest around me. The birds darting from the trees and then off into the vast sky, and the hum and vibrations of the lower forest levels of small beasts and insects living unknown lives. I decided to head back in the direction I had come, hoping to catch a sight of the slightly larger capuchin and be mocked for losing face yet again. My brows furrowed in annoyance, I took my time heading back, not ready for the domineering mockery from Miki. I headed towards the forest floor, expecting to come across him lazily picking at plants just off the ground. With an explosion of noise and frantic energy, a golden blur shot out from a nearby cluster of bushes and leaves. My muscles tensed and readied my body to take chase, before I noticed the size and familiar shape of the creature. My mother! She let out a quick succession of high pitched warning screams as she leapt into the air with her arms reaching out, heading for the nearest branch to lift herself back up to the trees. The world blurred and slowed to an almost complete stop as her leap took a decline and her body fell just short of the branches. I noticed the deep red smears across her shiny golden coat as I stared at her transfixed and puzzled. As I was trying to comprehend the meaning of this strange situation, I heard the familiar terrors of humans approaching. Heavy footsteps as they came hurtling towards us on their clumsy two feet, deep shouts back and to. A group of men screaming in their foreign tongue. This could only mean trouble. I watched as my Mother lay still on the lively canopy. I listened for her calls to me, but they never came. The sounds of man drew closer still, yet I could not look away from the lifeless body of my Mother. Then, the world around me grew unnaturally small. I tried to leap backwards to reassure myself of reality, but I fell against a strange contraption. I appeared to be caught in a bizarre nest made of something I had never felt before. How I had got myself stuck in this thing was a puzzle to me. There was surely a way out so I thrashed and twirled and became only more trapped. Then a sharp pain in my lower back taught me that I had somehow injured myself in the fight against this new part of the rainforest. I pushed against the net with arms that grew heavier by the second. The brilliant greens and browns of my rainforest home blurred into one giant lake of life. I tried to scream a final fruitless warning to my Mother but my mouth was numb and made no sound, or my ears were not working and I couldn't hear my own desperation. I realised that this was the moment the elders had all warned us of. Those rumours that our kind were being hunted for food and youngsters were being taken from the safety of their family's for reasons we would never know. My eyelids drooped as I wondered why I had been chosen for death when in all the story's we knew, the young were taken far far away. In my nonsensical drowsy state, I remembered a time when my brother Toko had become sufficiently independent and left our group for good. I had never seen him again but I knew he had found happiness, for he was strong and wilful and would likely have children of his own by now. Reassured by this, I took several deep breaths and readied my mind for that same wonderful future for myself. I awoke some time after. Slowly, I became shocked at the presence of my limbs and my slow beating heart and my working mind. Life still held me. My head rested awkwardly against a hard surface and my legs touched the opposite side of the very same shape. The smell of a damp wet animal covering the cold box jolted my senses. My eyes shot open to complete darkness, before rolling back into my head and once again offering me to death. For the second time in my short memory, I awoke abruptly. This time to a bright light that my eyes refused to open fully for. The smell of faeces and chemicals was overpowering and my empty stomach rolled upon itself, threatening to release the contents that were not there. I was prodded suddenly in the side of my body and my ears became quickly aware to the sounds of human men grunting to one another. My mouth was too dry to scream at them and scare them away. So I lay there like a plant on the rainforest floor and I existed alongside all the noises of this strange new world. The human smells were overpowering and their language was extensive but made little sense. They spoke of a human man called America; seemingly their dominant elder as their voices cooed with respect and awe. My barely operational mind assured me that he must be a great and important leader challenged by no one. The rocking motion of whatever beast was carrying us away from my natural home lulled me to sleep as I waited to meet this great human man. After many hours of prodding and rolling my aching body, the monsters had left me alone and I slowly recovered. Before long I realised I was being held in the arms of a foul smelling human. Too scared to open my eyes and discover what strange new fate beheld me, I lay there like a rock and hoped they would assume me dead. I was painstakingly caressed for almost an eternity as what sounded like a crowd of humans spoke in low, purring voices and carried me like the new born infant monkey that I was not. I was highly affronted by this, yet too tired and sore to warn them away. With an overwhelming feeling of dread and resignation, I opened my weary eyes and took in the scene around me. Four bright white faces peered down at me, showing pearly sharp teeth that promised attack in soothing voices. I realised that the lower half of my body was wrapped in a bundle of white plastic material, ensuring that I couldn't do as nature commanded for the man-made trap would capture everything that left my body. What strange logic this was to take away everything natural and coat it in artificial wrappings to deny what Mother Nature had gifted us. The humans conversed in their mysterious tongue whilst not once removing their eyes from my terrified face, repeating the same word over and over like some kind of tribal chant. Family. Family. Family. Sure that this had been given as my new name, I realised that yes I had been taken. Our elders were perpetually correct and I would forever be told as a warning story to all the young blond capuchins that would come after me. I came to learn that my other name was Pet Monkey, for they held me up to many a new face and proudly presented me under this false human name. I was no longer me, and my world was not sane. A new commodity to man made life was what I became. A life of unsettling unease and unnatural attacks on every sense I possessed. Peeling my eyes from the glowing box that painted strange images and shouted obscenities, I closed my eyes and smelt the rainforest, felt my Mothers touch and tried to forget my new name.


Jonesy paused outside Sinclair’s Antiques shop and double-checked the address on the business card. It was an elegantly embossed business card that only bore the name Sinclair’s and the street address; apparently the owner didn’t bother with anything as modern as a phone number or website.

The young man hoped he was not on a wild goose chase. Taking a Sunday off work was a luxury he rarely indulged in – but since he had found the business card lodged under the windscreen wiper of his work truck, he’d been consumed with curiosity. Jonesy hoped to find answers beyond the stained glass door. Sinclair's Antiques was a treasure trove of beautiful works of art, and furniture which had been made in an age when people took pride in their work.  Such a contrast to the sad, modern, disposable mindset of the world.  Jonesy had been taught to always take pride in his work, whether it was in the rush of modern home-building or his side-hustle of bespoke carpentry.  He walked slowly through the displays, taking time to appreciate the skills of the long-dead craftsmen, until he arrived at the back corner of the store, and a set of shelves which held smaller items. A box caught his eye. It was of a simple design, but nevertheless beautifully made by a talented carpenter.  The dovetail joints were perfect, as was the fit of the lid.

   In fact the craftsmanship showed a level of skill that the man dreamed of someday mastering.

Someday , when his daily focus was on more than just trying to pay the rent and put food on the table.    As he turned the box around in his hands, he noticed the burgandy tone of the varnished wood, and smelled the faint tang of lemon and beeswax polish.  And yet, the closer he looked, the more he was convinced that the box was newly made, despite the old-school techniques.    Front and centre of the box was a keyhole, which was positioned directly below a small, plain brass plate engraved with the name: Erasmus Jones.    It was his name.

   A few days earlier, when he had shown his best mate the Sinclair's business card, Erasmus "Jonesy" Jones had assumed it was an elaborate joke. His mate was infamous for his practical jokes - but this one was at a whole new level.

   And yet, what other explanation could there be?

Why on earth would there be a faux-antique wooden box with his name on it? It had to be an elaborate, and obviously expensive, joke.    Jonesy was still deep in thought when the proprietor of the store materialised beside him.

   The gentleman obviously relished his role, dressed as he was in a perfectly tailored suit that created the impression the wearer belonged in an earlier century.    "The box is exquisite in its simplicity - don't you agree?"    "It certainly is," the younger man replied.

   "May I see some form of photographic identification please?"

   Jonesy was surprised by the request, even though he knew his clothes clearly announced his financial status to the gentleman. Still, he was determined to leave with his dignity intact. As he gently placed the box back on the shelf and turned to leave, the proprietor touched his arm.     "I apologise if I offended you. The box was entrusted to me - on a consignment of sorts - by a very important client. If you are - as I suspect - Mr Erasmus Jones , then the box is for you."    Jonesy had already seen a couple of very discreet, handwritten price tags on what he guessed were the least expensive antiques in the store. So he knew he wouldn't be able to afford the key to the box, never mind the box itself.    "May I see your driver's license?

Please? "    Deciding to play along with what was obviously an elaborate joke planned by his mate, Jonesy produced his licence.    The proprietor carefully checked the identification, and then broke into a genuine smile. "Excellent."

   He carried the box over to a large table, which was beautifully decorated with inlaid wood; Jonesy guessed that if the table was for sale, the asking price would be more than he had paid for his truck. The shopkeeper unrolled a length of black velvet fabric and put the box upon it. He then wrapped the box in tissue paper, before sliding it into a cloth bag which had the store name elegantly embossed upon it.

   "Ah ... how much do I owe you?" Jonesy asked.    "Nothing, Mr Jones," the shopkeeper replied, sounding slightly taken aback by the question. "As I said, the box was a special consignment. It was entrusted to me to keep for you," the man said as if that explained everything. "And many happy returns for your thirtieth birthday next week."    Jonsey reached over and picked up the fancy carry bag.

   The proprietor had vanished.    Jonsey glanced around the shop, but the older man was nowhere to be seen, so he shrugged the strange encounter off and hurried home.    Jonesy put the bag containing the mysterious box down on the two person dining table. With one step he was standing in the tiny excuse for a kitchen, and made himself a coffee.    Mug in hand, he sat down and reached into the bag.

Although there was no receipt, his fingers found a small velvet bag.

   Inside was a key.    Amused - if slightly confused - by the elaborate joke, Jonsey unlocked the box and raised the lid.    He half expected to see a plastic turd from a joke shop, but instead, the thing on top of what appeared to be a pile of papers, was a photo of himself leaning over a birthday cake adorned with four candles.

   There were three more birthday photos, recording his seventh, tenth, and twelfth birthdays.

   Each one evoked warm memories.    His parents and grandparents smiling and proud.

   The simple birthday cakes his mother made.

   The small gifts his loving family saved all year to buy for him.

   Beneath the photos there was a mix of documents: a few school reports; his first driver's license; and the passport he applied for when he was eighteen years old, when he still had hopes of overseas travel.

But the pages he had dreamed would be filled with visas had remained stubbornly empty.    Abruptly, Jonesy's intrigue and amusement over the box gave way to bitterness and annoyance.

   He cooked and ate dinner, even though every bite tasted of regret.    After he washed the dishes, curiosity forced him back to the box.

   He uncovered a few bank statements and tax returns which only served to remind him that he'd been working two jobs for half his life but still had nothing to show for it. However, his income had never been wasted, but rather used to support his family. Even though his parents were hard-working, salt of the earth type people, they had never bothered with insurance.  Like most people, they had never considered the possibility of a life-changing car accident... The young man rubbed his temples.    Although Jonesy had never regretted his choice to help his family financially, as he occasionally joked to his best friend, he wouldn't have minded being born into a wealthy - or even middle-class - family.

   At that moment a lotto ticket slipped from the papers he was holding, and landed on the table.    The paper was rather crisp to touch, and the date on the lotto ticket around was six weeks into the future. Jonesy had never wasted money gambling, so he had no experience to draw on, still, he assumed that the advance ticket could only have been purchased sometime in recent weeks.    And even more bizarrely, one line had all the numbers circled, as if someone had already checked off the winning numbers...    Jonesy was ready to put the strange box in the cupboard and forget it, at least until he could get his best friend to confess to the complex, if annoying, practical joke. Then he noticed a large envelope which had been folded in half and wedged into the bottom of the box.    He pried the envelope loose and opened it.    There was a folded sheet of paper taped to a second, sealed envelope...    He unfolded the letter.

Greetings Erasmus,    Congratulations on finding the box. I'm very pleased.    I know you have countless questions; unfortunately you will have to wait for the answers. Simply put, if I told you what you so desperately want to know, it would change your future, and I cannot risk that.

   However, there is one warning I need you to believe without question.

   Keep the lottery ticket safe, as if your very future depends upon it.

   Warmest regards,    A friend.    He tossed the letter on the table.    The only people in the world who called him Erasmus were his parents; everyone else knew him as Jonesy. Although the box was beautiful and definitely worth keeping, the contents were a massive invasion of his privacy.

   To say he was angry was an understatement.    He reached for his phone with one hand as he turned over the sealed envelope with the other hand.    The command: DO NOT OPEN UNTIL AFTER THE LOTTO DRAW which was handwritten across the large envelope, was the last straw.    Jonesy dropped his phone and tore open the envelope.

   He pulled out a bundle of A4 pages.

   The first page bore the words:

How to Build a Time Machine.

 Copyright ©2057 Erasmus Jones

   Jonesy rubbed his eyes, then picked up all the photographs and documents and the crazy 'time machine' blueprints, put them back in the box and turned the key.    The lotto ticket, however, he tucked into his wallet, as he murmured, "Just in case..." Six weeks later, he became am instant multimillionaire.


Your odds of being struck by lightning in any given year are 1 in 700,000. Your odds of being killed by a tornado are 1 in 5 million, although those odds rise to 50 in 5 million if you live in a mobile home. Not even probability is free of classist influences. Your odds of dying in a plane crash are 1 in 60 million—much lower than your odds of dying in a car accident. Your odds of winning the lottery depend on how many people are playing, but they hover around 1 in 300 million in most cases. What if you could change those odds? Not just for yourself, but for anyone in the world? I can. I started noticing my power when I was a teenager. The likelihood of getting shampoo in my eyes? 100 to 1. The odds that the cafeteria would still have dessert left by the time I made it through the lunch line? 1000 to 1. The odds of me hitting a red light on my drive to school? 4 million to 1. Unless I want to hit a red light. That’s how I learned my luck was something I could control. At first, I thought it was just traffic patterns which, as far as superpowers go, is a bit underwhelming. It’s not terrible, but there are definitely better options out there.

Then my volleyball team went to state and won for the first time in thirty years. The boy I liked asked me to the winter formal. I aced the SAT, then aced it again when I had to retake it to confirm my score. I think I earned the score both times. I hadn’t changed anything beyond the likelihood that what I studied would be on the tests. I got acceptance letters followed by scholarship offers from every college I applied to. There’s no such thing in life as a guarantee, but being able to manipulate probability is the next best thing. Unfortunately for me, there’s no such thing as actions without consequences either.

Increasing the odds that something good happens to me means that it’s less likely to happen to someone else. Maybe someone that needs it more. Decreasing the likelihood that something bad will happen to me means that it’s more likely to happen to someone else. I can’t make luck, just change it.

I learned that the hard way.

“Hey, darlin’” a man’s voice drawls, and I turn to look at him. Numbers flash through my mind. Odds that he’s dangerous? 1 in 3. Odds that he’s going to bother some other poor woman in this crappy bar if I shuffle probability and make him leave me alone? 7 to 2. Not great.

“Hi,” I say. Friendly, but not encouraging. Polite, but hopefully not projecting any interest. “Can I get you a drink?” “My night as the designated driver,” I say, smiling apologetically. It’s not technically a lie—I’m alone in the bar and driving myself home. I’m also working, but I’m clearly not a bar employee. I don’t want to have to make up a lie about what I do.

“Quit flirting and pay attention,” a voice snaps from my earbud. “The target will be here any minute.” I would like to tell Alex that I know and that I’m not flirting, and if he hadn’t insisted on putting me in a dress to fit in with this bar’s normal crowd none of this would be happening, but I can’t with the man looming over me. Alex really ought to listen to the woman that can see probabilities. “A shame,” says the man, leaning closer. He smells like cigarettes and I have to fight not to wrinkle my nose.

“You know how it is,” I tell him vaguely, scanning the room. Alex is right. The target will be here soon if everything is going according to plan.

“Target spotted,” says Alex as if on cue. “Ten o’clock.” Ten o’clock is directly behind the man leering at me. I force my lips into a smile and crank up the probability of him having a bathroom emergency as high as I can. He immediately goes green. “Pardon me,” he mutters and makes a beeline for the restrooms.

My line of sight is clear, but the target is nowhere to be found. “Alex,” I hiss. “Where did he go?” Static from the earbud and nothing from Alex.

“Alex,” I say, slightly louder. “Where is he? I don’t see the target.” Still nothing. I clamber off of my barstool and hobble toward the parking lot as quickly as I can manage in my ridiculous shoes. This is the last time I let anyone talk me into stilettos. I only have to be able to see someone to change their luck, which means I don’t normally have to run during an op. Occasionally though, while the odds aren’t good, something does go wrong.

The surveillance van Alex inhabits is parked at the back of the gravel lot. Even in the dim light, I can see that the doors are open and equipment is scattered everywhere. “Damn it, Alex,” I sigh, and approach cautiously to look for bloodstains.

There aren’t any, which is good news. The bad news is I hear footsteps behind me and a man’s voice says, “Hands up. I’ll shoot your friend here if you turn around.” “I’m fine—” Alex gets out, but the man must hit him because there’s the sound of a fist meeting ribs and he goes quiet.

There’s nothing I can do to change the probability of the gun misfiring or my attacker suddenly having a heart attack if I can’t see him, which he must know. “Would you be Arnie Gulheim?” I inquire, numbers and scenarios racing through my mind.

“Smart and pretty,” Gulheim says approvingly. “Such a shame you came after me tonight. I’m a bit busy, you see.” “Threatening federal agents?” Alex grumbles. “The federal government does seem to take offense when one of their own disappears,” Gulheim muses. “Never anyone from your particular department though. Imagine that.” Because people from our department, even the name of which is classified, often disappear in ways normal people simply don’t. The government doesn’t want anyone asking any uncomfortable questions about agents turning into beetles, columns of marble, or puddles of goo.

The odds of Gulheim shooting Alex are high if I try to move. The odds of Alex dying if he’s shot at such a close range are also very high.

I should have rigged the lottery ten years ago, consequences be damned, and gone to live on my own private island somewhere far from other people.

I hear the click as Gulheim turns the safety on his gun off. I start to spin at the same moment. My dress rips and the roundhouse kick I’d meant to get Gulheim with misses, but he’s startled enough that the shot he gets off goes wide. It hits one of the van’s tires rather than Alex and I use the opportunity to grab all of Gulheim’s health-related probabilities with both metaphorical hands and yank on them.

He has a heart attack, an aneurism, and a pulmonary embolism all within five seconds. He hits the ground two seconds later, already dead.

“Well,” says Alex as he brushes imaginary dust off his shirt. “The briefing only said they’d prefer if he was brought in alive. It wasn’t a requirement.”

I gingerly remove the gun from Gulheim’s slack fingers. “There is that.”

Alex dials the clean-up crew’s number. “Tangerine alpha,” he says, which is the code phrase for a single dead body. Then he gives the address, waits a moment, and hangs up. “ETA fifteen minutes,” he informs me. “Want to get pancakes after this?” “I could go for some pancakes.”


It had been twenty-four years since she’d last seen it, but the place looked exactly the same. Although in possession of a full set of keys to the house she had remained for some time on the front porch where the heavy front door still held a mosaic window of lead-jointed obscured glass. The window permitted light but so distorted the shape of any person on the door’s other side that identification was quite impossible until the door was opened. Once the antique bell pull had been drawn down, it was only possible to tell that the summons had been heard, but not by whom. Now, as she stood there with no reason to pull the bell on an empty house, her mind sluggish with fatigue, Shirley Jackson’s sinister story of another empty house returned to her. What utter crap, she said out loud, her voice returning to her ears crookedly after percussing from a thousand vitreous faces. While she-who-was-me decides how best to proceed, and with a solemn promise to return, allow the she-who-is-me to step away for a short while ..

For nearly a year Hank has pursued the project of collecting stories from each of the people in our small clan. LiV, a colleague from Hank’s university days has been hired to compile the material. Hank shrugs and smiles when I ask about the project’s purpose. Call it a living group autobiography if you need a name for it is the answer I get. In spite of my doubt and non-participation, the project has not only succeeded, but appears to be accelerating.

When Hank introduced the rather plain and stolid figure of LiV, I barely concealed my annoyance. If others in this canaille wished to have their stories recorded and my consent was desired, I would give it so long as the specifics were obscured. As the months have passed I have learned that Emmie and Bunny forward their email communications, that taped interviews with Hank have been transcribed, that Kit has copied off portions of a journal, that even taciturn Griff has shared the contents of text exchanges with Bunny, all this while I myself have found no reason to contact LiV. How could I do justice to the need which has driven the direction of my life for nearly three decades now and, while having celebrated small victories, now seems ruined, already half in shambles? I have done nothing to advance the notion that within groups of humans, ethical practices, evolving systems of agreement, and absolute transparency might produce lasting cohesiveness.  I was wrong, and it is too late to change my topic. So why would I wish to share failure? I have casually studied impersonal objects or moments which find in us receptor sites and flash into brief reactive phenomena as well as ongoing dialectical of relationship between our selves and others, learning little. As to the notion of self-contained personalities, cross-contamination makes it impossible for any one of us to claim true originality or to accurately grasp the full causation of the holograms we call selves. Therefore, if I am nothing more than an ever-shifting cluster of internally viewed images, how can I ever hope to describe myself in ways both meaningful and trustworthy?  I cannot, and I must suppose that it is the same for everyone in this group, acknowledged or not. Nonetheless, they have apparently begun making contact with LiV to share the moth-eaten fictions of themselves. Contrary to my own expectations I have uncovered within myself a similar desire to mete out something of my life, no matter how small.

Is it LiV herself, this unremarkable person, or is it simply the opportunity to participate in this project of us , the energy of which can be felt even hours after she has gathered up her materials and driven away? For it now seems to me that we are on a path toward something unseen, and if this work is to be representative of the entirety of us, mine must be one of the voices.

I shall begin, then, with the window. From earliest childhood I understood that Matters of Great Importance went on inside that house, as unknowable as the figure of whoever stood on the other side of the front door. In the adults who came to the house to conduct business with Grandfather, I detected a starching of personal space among the suited civilians standing at attention, while I found my way behind his desk to wrap my arms around him. At those times there was no one else, simply he and I, old friends. He never failed to be delighted with me, and in me was a secret door which opened only to him. Later as I came to understand that he headed an empire, I never felt unwelcome no matter how urgent Grandfather’s affairs.

Kept in a lawyer’s vault for a quarter century before the letter was placed in my hands along with my unlooked-for inheritance, Grandfather opened up for the first time about his wealth: .. without someone like you, Joey, all of it means nothing at all. You can’t eat it, sew clothes from it or feel truly safe.

You can only imagine a child’s future with a reflected brightness, how that child will find many paths open to him, hope that he will take confidence from that and stride boldly forward into the world to make it somehow better. This I wanted for your father, yet somehow things went badly. Never mind how or why, for there are few things more tedious than an old man’s regrets. All you need know is that you have always been my single chance for redemption. The fact of you kept me from becoming ossified and complacent. A rich man does not have to adapt or to evolve into a better person, for his money buys any number of plots of land in which to bury his mistakes. This tendency of hiding and turning away from errors is so common that most rich men do not even know they do so and that all they buy is premature death. What gold buys the wealthy is a delusion of significance, when in truth we are no more significant shooting into the world covered in blood than when we are at last sewn into our shrouds, silver spoon or no silver spoon. All a rich man really has is the means of commanding the attention of others and shiny coins for the hiring of musicians, the trappings of theater; we make religions of ourselves. For my ignorance I could weep from now until death comes to claim me, which will not be long. I have had and have wasted a thousand times more than the average man, a million times more than any poor man. This now-failing body, of which eyes and hands and tongue long ago became servants to acquisition and to the have-ingness of objects, in which no god could ever be felt even if it did exist. I cannot claim that I was not shown the way; in love, in poetry, in the early wonder of being a father I again and again beheld transcendence. Now, it seems that all that is left to me are my fears for you, Joey. And my hopes.

Soon enough I will be sewn into my last suit and my mud shall join that of the planet. Poised on the edge of that precipice, desperate to leave just one thing which is not matter but energy, my thoughts turn to you. As I realize the true insignificance of all of my successes, I am left in shock. I have been a man admired, emulated, sought after and written about; my obituary is already typeset. But none of this is real. You, Joey, are the only real thing in my life. And I pray to what gods there might be that by the time you read this you will still be real. I fervently wish that I could be there to watch your face as you read this letter. There is a force in this fifteen-year old you which gives me hope as I write this that I would recognize this you in even your thirty-nine year old self. Thirty nine is old enough to know oneself and young enough to still have many beginnings ahead, to be nearly ready to undertake learning the kabbalah of yourself.

While I cannot begin to imagine you in another quarter-century, eyes do not change, and yours at fifteen are vast unknowable universes, containing humor and ridicule, fascination and condemnation. Your eyes radiate not only intelligence but agility.

There is drive in you, but as for what persons, ideas, goals that passion will attach to remain to be seen. If I know you, whatever occupies your adult life will be original, principled, daring. You will expect too much from people and be disappointed in them. I hope that you will open to love I feel that for you this inheritance, this sudden having-ness will bring only good. By now in your adulthood, you know who you are and will have honed and refined the means of making a living. Perhaps you will be a parent, what a thing to imagine! Your grasp of cause and effect will be solidly in place, guided by justice. You will be merciful and self-effacing. You will hold your success with equanimity and not rest upon laurels previously given. Your restlessness will cause you to remain a searcher until the end of your life.

Despite my many mistakes, I clearly see these possibilities in you.

So do what you will with all of this: the house, the properties, the businesses or what remains of them if they have been well managed. The cabin.

You have my gratitude for what has turned out by far to have been the most significant relationship of my life. We have always seen one another, you and I.

If as the poets say love never dies, then as you read this feel me once again. Grandfather Let us now return to the porch where the then-me stands uncertainly. I did finally unlock and enter the house, but I did not stay any longer than necessary. I had by then come to settle in another part of the state, and my grandparents’ home was sold with most of its furnishings.

I kept only a few pieces of furniture for my study, and from the massive door I saved the window with its many textured panes, having it installed in the west wall of my study. At certain times of the year late afternoon sunshine warms me as I worked and I can easily imagine Grandfather looking over my shoulder. Well can you imagine, then, my reaction to what I found after returning from a conference this June. It was already past dark when I finally unpacked and sat down to catch up on email. Only when I was seated at the desk did I notice what appeared to be gritty powder on the blotter. Brushing it aside I felt a tiny stabbing pain and stared rather stupidly at two drops of blood welling on my fingertip. I turned on the overhead light and saw a spray of glass shards across the desktop.  At a slight draft on my neck I spun in my chair to see that one of the Grandfather’s windowpanes had been broken, leaving an irregular oval hole which let in the night. The hole - no larger than a fist - certainly would not have permitted access to anything larger than a squirrel, and that impossible, for from the outside the damage was at least seven feet above ground level. Nonetheless I was deeply bothered, quelling a hot dark emotion as Griff looked around the room. Of course, citing security concerns I had called him in the morning. He studied the ground beneath the window outside, finding no footprints, stooped, crawled and took pictures.

No disturbance inside? asked Griff. None. Nothing taken or disturbed. Just the window. It is very old, came from my grandfather’s house.

Can it be fixed? asked Griff I am sure I can inquire with the historical preservation society and find someone who works with leaded glass.

Don’t think you need to worry about someone breaking in. Doubt that’s what happened here.

Do you think it could be from the landscape company? A rock kicked up by the lawnmower? Uhh, no. Think I know what happened said Griff. You gonna be around later? I will I said I’ll be back maybe an hour. We’ll get this sorted, as Bunny likes to say. An odd expression crossed Griff’s face before being replaced by the speculative lawman squint. I was at the desk working an hour later when Griff returned, tapping on the open door. Got a minute?

Of course I said. Griff came in and I noticed Hank’s apprentice Kit’s angular shape in the doorway. What is this? I asked. Kit has something to tell you said Griff. Come in and sit down, both of you I invited. Kit slouched into one of the two chairs that face my desk. Griff closed my study door and came, depositing something on the desk with a meaningful look at me.

What is that, a slingshot? I asked. And - is this a BB? Wrist rocket said Griff. Found that pellet on the floor under the desk this morning. Standing almost over Kit, a steely-faced Griff nudged a leg of the girl’s chair. Go on. Tell her. What was this now, I wondered. Why bring the girl in here? I broke your window said Kit. You broke my window I repeated, a statement. Why did you break my window? Kit shrugged. Griff scowled. I’ll pay for it said Kit. I can. Well and good, but I really do need to know why. Were you trying to break in here? Was there something in here that you wanted? When did this happen? Confusion angered me. Over the course of more than a year I had gotten to know the girl Kit and none of this was making any sense, least of all her apparent unconcern.

Have I somehow offended you? I asked. The question surprised both of us. She looked directly at me for the first time. Her face underwent a rapid change, and I saw a minute glitter in the corner of one eye. The plumwine stain over one cheek, usually obscured by a fall of dark bangs, stood out prominently.

No she said. Please don’t think that. All right I said. Then why, Kit?

She covered her face with one long hand. Griff made a sound of exasperation. Fucking explain yourself, you little punk. That window came from Jo’s grandfather’s house, ya know that? Say something, goddamnit! I don’t know said the girl. She lifted her face. I seriously don’t know. She and I regarded each other across the desk for a long while. I’ll pay for it Kit repeated. Is there no way you can help me understand this? It really is quite strange I said. I do feel that I deserve an explanation. She shook her head slowly, staring down into her lap again. Her neck looked tender and unprotected; I feared any moment Griff would hoist her up by the scruff and shake until answers fell out like loose change. Kit looked up past me suddenly. Can I see it? The window? Here, I said, pulling off the cardboard patch.

She studied it systematically while I watched. My Grandfather collected the pieces from different historical buildings in Europe I said. I like the design said Kit, her eyes still taking in details. She turned to me.

But I don’t get why you’d want a window you can’t see out of. After they left I realized two things.

The first was that she had never actually apologized.

The second was that she was not wrong.

Those lovely bits of glass carefully searched out and purchased, wrapped and shipped or carried across the ocean, arranged by a no doubt underpaid artist into a pleasing mosaic for the door - each is a cataractous eye.

The view from this window is of foggy shapes; the trees outside are blurs of bright yellow-green, changing to dark green in summer.

The color moves gently in breezes, agitatedly during storms; I can make out nothing of the trees, only their moods. Each autumn there come hazy reds and oranges followed by black stippling of bare winter branches.

I spend a great deal of time at the desk, and if I were to only take my reality from behind the desk I would never know what a real tree looks like.

An artisan was found to replace the broken pane, an elderly man who has traveled the country doing so for longer than I have been alive, most of his commissions coming from synagogues and churches. He treating the lead chemically to accelerate oxidation so that old and new appeared to be of an age.

It was a summer afternoon with the sunset coming through warmly when I called Kit in to see what her reparations had paid for. Once again I watched her, noticing how the light refracted beguilingly through the tawny eyes. She looked at the repair and turned to me, her face open with wonder.

But you just put in regular glass she said. Yes I did, I said. I decided after some thought that you were right, and that there was limited value in a window I cannot see out of. There are trees out there; I want to see them clearly.

The new piece would keep out the rain and the wind while allowing me to see the outside in a new way, and that, I told her, was all that mattered.


I looked in the mirror to check my hair. Straightened, just the way they liked it. My nails were painted a soft lavender, and my lips shined with a pear flavored gloss. I had a on a white and blue striped blouse with anchors going down along each side of my torso. God how they loved nautical shit. It had been six months since I last saw them. Texts had gotten scarce and calls were almost non-existent now. They had called me to say they were coming back to town this weekend, and it’s been wrecking my brain ever since. I moved to the kitchen and pour myself a glass of white wine. It was the cheapest stuff I could find, but it didn’t taste that bad, and it got the job done. I walk over to my sofa, and land down heftily. Tom wakes from the blanket he was sleeping on and walks over to my lap. After circling a few times, he finds the perfect spot, and curls up. I run my fingers through his new, thick winter coat. “Where would I be without you,” I say smiling down at him. He purrs, content. Six months… what am I even going to say to them? What could I say to them? I want to see them, but the I don’t think we can go back to how it was before they left. Especially not after the last time we talked. What even are we anymore…? There was a knock at the door, and Tom jumped up and ran off. My heart began racing, trying to keep up with my mind. It’s time – what do I say – what’s going to happen – what if things aren’t the same – what if we fight – I don’t want to fight – do I even want this – was this all a mistake – should I have just ended things over the phone? Three more heavy knocks fall on the door. I stand up, down my wine, and take a deep breath. Stop worrying, and just see how it goes. I walk over and open the door. “Gwen! Oh my god, I’ve missed you so much.” Sam wraps their arms around me and gives me a tight squeeze. The type of hug you’d expect after not seeing someone for six months. I barely had a chance to lift my arms up before they let go. “I missed you too,” I responded, not nearly as enthusiastically as Sam had said to me. “I got these for you.” They handed me a bouquet of blueish-purple lilacs. “Oh, thank you,” I take the bouquet, “you remembered how much I loved lilacs.” Sam moved into my apartment, closed the door behind them and started taking off their jacket. “Of course, I remembered. How could I forget after that time at that park downtown?” “When the florist was out of lilacs, but you saw some on that island in the lake.” “So, I swam and picked you some fresh ones.” Sam smiled, and then hugged me again, this time giving me time to wrap my arms around them as well. “I also got you this.” Sam reached down for a bag they had set down, and pulled out a small, palm sized object. “You said your last one died, so I got you a new one.” Revealing what was in his hand, I saw a little owl, with green leaves sprouting from its head. “A succulent. Thank you, Sam,” I said, stunned. Was I just exaggerating all that had happened in the past six months? Maybe we could go back to how things were. I think I’d like that. Sam placed their hand on my arm and leaned in to kiss me on the cheek. “I really have missed you; you know. I know these past six months have been hard, but I’m here now, and I want to work on us.” Sam looked at me with big, soft brown eyes, and I felt like everything he said was with sincerity. “You said that last time you were here too.” I said, moving myself away from Sam. They frowned. Picking up the bottle of wine I had set down next to the couch, I gesture toward Sam, asking, “Wine?” “Yes, please,” Sam said, with a drop of disappointment in their voice. I walked to the kitchen and grabbed an extra wine glass. Entering the other room, Sam was now seated on the couch petting Tom. “I missed this little guy,” Sam said, gently stroking Tom’s fur. I poured both of us a glass of wine and offered them one. “Thank you.” Sam sipped the wine and looked like they were deep in thought for a moment. “You always know how to choose the best cheap wine.” Sam smiled at me, and I let out a little exhale. We sat without talking. Sam petting, and Tom purring. Me, sipping my wine, trying to keep my cool. I wanted to just down the whole bottle, and not have to think about what’s best for me, or us. So, I sat, and slowly drank my wine, staring into space, trying to detach myself from this situation I put myself in. It seemed like we sat there for at least 30 minutes, only sharing the occasional glance. Sam leaned over and gave me a little push. “So, what are you thinking about?” Sam asked, just wanting to say something. They were always like that; always needed to be talking or hearing someone talk. This must have been unbearable for them. “Not really anything.” I responded. “Come on! You’ve got to have been thinking of something. We’ve been sitting here for twenty minutes.” “I’ve been… I’ve been thinking about how we could… you know, work.” “What do you mean? We’ve always worked. Why should that change now?” “The past six months has changed both of us Sam. No matter what happens, things can’t be the same as they were back then.” I rest my head on my hand, and look away from Sam, but still facing him. I should have prepared more for this conversation. I knew it was coming, but… “I’m trying to tell you they can. If we just work at it hard enough, we can be as happy as we were.” Sam had finished their wine and was getting fidgety. “I need a drink,” Sam said, without looking at me. “Do you want some more wine?” I offer the bottle to them. Sam waves it away. “No, I mean a proper drink.” “I think I still have that tequila from the last time you were here,” I said with a mixture of worry and disappointment. “That’s fine.” Sam leaned back on the couch and propped their feet up on the ottoman. Tom was no longer by his side. I searched the kitchen, racking my brain on where I could’ve put that half empty bottle of tequila. Then I remembered Jaime had come over a few weeks ago, and cooked shrimp using the tequila. I looked in the spice cabinet, and sure enough Jaime had put it there. I grabbed it, and poured out a small glass for Sam. I stuck a lime on the side, hoping they’d see this as some kind of peace offering. I walked back into the living room and handed Sam the tequila. “Thanks,” they said, taking the glass from my hand without looking at me. We sat in silence for a few more minutes before I decide to break it. “What were you hoping to get out of tonight?” Sam turned to me, and with those big, sincere eyes said only one word, “You.” I blushed, and almost fell for them again, like I had when I first met them four years ago. I closed my eyes and sighed, then took another big swig of my wine. “How can you say that so easily? After everything that’s happened?” “I apologized for that. I thought we had moved on.” Sam took a long drink of their tequila. “Moved on? You had me fund your addictions! And that was only three weeks ago!” “Well, I’m three weeks sober.” “You’re drinking right now!” I said with frustration, and tears beginning to well up in my eyes. “I’m only drinking because you offered,” Sam said dismissively. I wasn’t ready for this conversation. Every fiber of my being was screaming at me to just apologize for even bringing it up. Why couldn’t I just deal with it? For all I know, this was Sam’s first drink in three weeks. “You hurt me Sam. You hurt me bad, and if we’re going to be together, I think I need more than three weeks to just, even process all this shit.” After a pause I said, “I think you should go.” The tears were coming now, and there was no stopping them. I sniffled, and put my face into my arm, praying that Sam would just leave. I heard Sam take another long drink of tequila, then a weight lifted off the couch. They took their coat off the hangar, and I thought I would finally be alone. Sam put their coat over me, then sat down and wrapped their arms around me. It felt good. Having an intimate moment like that. Six months was a long time to go without that physical aspect of affection. Words can be so powerful, but so can a hug. I gave in and shrunk myself into Sam’s arms. “I don’t want to hurt you again. And I’m sure as hell not leaving again,” Sam said, stroking my arms. They had rested their head on mine. “I can give you some time. Some space. If that’s what you want.” They had now begin stroking my hair. I missed them stroking my hair. We sat there for a while. Me, trying to calm down, and stop crying; still hiding my face. Sam, petting me, and breathing in a slow, rhythmic way. Sam’s hold on my body was firm and supportive, but they weren’t squeezing me. I hadn’t been this physically comfortable in god knows how long. Despite being an emotional wreck, and having a bad brain, I felt relaxed and comforted by Sam’s presence. The ones closest to us hurt us the most. All this pain had been caused by Sam’s vices. They drank. They did coke. They had even cheated on me once. They said they couldn’t even remember that night, but they couldn’t remember most nights in the past six months. I knew this. I had never felt so betrayed, broken, and unwanted, then when they told me. Over the phone no less. Would all of this have happened, had they just stayed here? Why did they have to move away? They said it was just temporary, but if we couldn’t even do six months, how were we supposed to do two years? Yet, Sam just being here made everything better. I felt like we could fix things, and that they were serious about working on themselves. I’ll always have that pain, that hurt that Sam caused me, but I can also have this. This comfort and support I feel right now. My last partner left after they found out my bad brain caused me to have trouble sleeping, and the one before that left after one of turns. Sam had never shied from those dark parts of me. In fact, they were always the first one at my door when I stopped responding to everyone’s messages, and they always understood when I wasn’t able to do things for days at a time. They were there, and they got me out of bed and got me to brush my teeth, and take a shower, and made me food for the day, even if they were busy. Things were so fucked now, and I did want to believe Sam, that if we tried hard enough, we could go back to how things were. I wanted to believe in them. But the pain remains, even as it subsided, and gets buried under other trauma, and happy memories, it remains. Just like the shells of old hermit crabs at the bottom of the ocean. And every once in a while, those shells can wash up on the shore, and be found again. I don’t know what I want to do, and I don’t know if I want to be with Sam, or even if I can be with Sam. So, I will lay here, in their arms, for as long as I can, trying to stave off the inevitable question. The inevitable questions. What are we? What are we going to be? Can we still be friends? Who gets Tom? I try to shut my brain off before I start crying again. “Hey,” Sam said in subdued voice. “How are you doing?” “I don’t know.” My voice muffled by talking into this cocoon Sam made for me. “Well, that’s okay.” Sam patted my head. “Look at me.” After a moment, I pushed myself up, wiped my eyes, and looked at Sam. They placed one hand against my cheek, still was red and hot. “I love you,” Sam said with earnest. “And I am willing to do anything to be with you.”            I put hand against their cheek and kissed them. I was sick of crying. I was sick of thinking.            Sam pulled away and looked deep into my eyes. “Does this mean –”            “I don’t want to talk anymore,” I cut him off and kissed him again.            We ended up in the bedroom, and spent most of the night entangled, with scarce words exchanged, until we both passed out, holding each other. I rubbed my eye and tried to get the dust out of it. I managed one eye open and checked the clock on my bedside table. 4:37AM. Sam and I were no longer entwined, and I had to pee, so I got up from the bed, as carefully and quietly as I could, and headed to the bathroom. I abstained from turning on the bright, yellow light, and manage my way around through touch and memory. Once I was done, I walked softly bad to the side of the bed. Sam was sound asleep. I sat on the side of the bed, and my bad brain started up again. Was this a mistake?


Hestia and her young neighbor slide the oak sapling into the gaping hole dug in the earth. “Hold it straight, now,” Hestia says gruffly as she shovels dirt around the root ball. “I can do this part, if you want? I’m younger and, uh,” the neighbor trails off as Hestia gives her best scathing look. They finish the task in silence. --- 40 Hours Ago Hestia opens another Diet Coke, the crack and fizzle a welcome sound to her ears. She knows it will be the death of her, but it is her vice of choice, and she will gladly take it to the grave. When the acidic bite of the first sip fades, she raises the binoculars with one gnarled old hand and peers Westward between the cracked blinds of her bedroom window. It is a good window, an upper story window that faces her back yard and more importantly, her neighbors back yards. She pays a neighborhood boy to haul his 10-foot ladder over and clean it from the outside once a week. Nearly a year ago, while on a walk with her dog, Peanut, she had seen him cleaning out gutters. Now, she gives him 2 dollars a week for the single window. The others she can do for herself, as they are all on the first floor. Once, he’d tried to dicker with her, but she'd whopped him on the back of the head and told him to respect his elders. He’d glared at her then but nodded, and the deal was struck.

She needs the binoculars to see the house two down from her, number 17. A family lives there, a nice one if you didn’t know any better; a couple, two small children with angelic blonde hair, and a big dumb dog. As it is, the dog likes to chase poor Peanut and the kids cause an awful ruckus when they play out back. Plus, children are not interesting. She’d written them a very pointed letter where she suggested a shorter outside play time and a shorter leash for their menacing mutt. Yet, the Heathens ignored her letter, and the snot-nosed brats continue to do whatever they please, to Hell with everyone else. The new generation is doomed, she is sure of it. Hestia had then spent several satisfying weeks tipping over their trashcan until she noticed that the tell-tale red light of a security camera had appeared on their front porch, and now she is forced to consider alternative methods of punishment. Currently, their yard is empty, and their windows are dark. She belches loudly and turns to yell for Peanut, who either can’t hear her or ignores her. He is getting old, 14 or 15, so she can’t tell if he is hard of hearing or is being purposely disrespectful. She narrows her eyes, mutters, and turns back to the window. The house sandwiched between the Heathens house and her own, number 18, is quite boring. An old man lives there. He is older than her, single, and he has no discernible family or friends. No one ever visits, and rarely does he leave. His groceries are delivered to his front porch once a week– very new age of him . His name is Arthur, but she calls him Humpty because he looks like an egg. Humpty likes gardening, and more than once she’d had a go at him for letting his rose bushes creep between the cracks of the fence that separated their properties. Honestly, she doesn’t care much about it but wants to see him riled up. He is, unfortunately, unflappable. She spends the least amount of time watching Humpty and hopes he will die soon so that someone else will move in. She takes another gulp of Diet Coke and calls again for Peanut. This time, the elderly chihuahua pads into the room and lays down on the threadbare dog bed near her feet. She croons to him softly and nudges the bowl of Old Roy’s towards him which he sniffs, unimpressed, and lays his head down. Hestia rolls her neck several times, finishes her drink, and tosses it in a white trashcan overflowing with identical cans. She peers out the window at her own back yard. It is overgrown and unkempt. Her husband, may he rot in Hell, had been crazy about the lawn. He’d worn spiked shoes when walking on it, lest he leave any footprints, and he forbade her from ever stepping foot on it. He would often go out just to prune a single branch and then come back inside and stare out into the back yard as if willing everything to grow just so . After he died, she’d taken great pleasure in watching the yard become wild and unruly. The dickering window boy had offered his services for that as well, which she’d declined acidly. She lifts the binoculars and peers Easterly to the house two doors down in the other direction, number 21. It is a vacant house which has been on the market for eight months. Hestia concludes that the woman who is selling it mustn’t be desperate for money since she has been too stubborn to lower the outrageous asking price. So, the place has fallen into disrepair during its lengthy inoccupancy. The yard is cut once a month by persons unknown, but as it is summer, it often looks as wild as her own. Finally, she turns to her most interesting neighbors, number 20. A young couple moved in a year ago and things were quiet at first. She guessed they were 30 or 35 years old. The woman has bright red hair and likes to read on the back porch when the sun is low in the sky. The man has a dark complexion and looks foreign -- Serbian? Columbian? -- she doesn’t know, all foreigners look the same to her. She calls them Jack and Diane. Diane occasionally waves at her from the front porch when their comings and goings coincided. Hestia appreciates the neighborliness and decides, magnanimously, not to send them a letter about parking their car so cattywampus. They don’t play loud music and they don’t have kids or dogs. The man keeps the lawn short and the bushes meticulously trimmed and shaped. But no one knows better than she the darkness that hides behind the costume of a carefully manicured lawn. Eventually, the fights began; huge blow outs that spilled through the screen door where she can clearly hear them when she cracks her window. The general flow of these goes like this: Diane, who seems generally quiet and reserved, will argue whatever point she is trying to make. Then, Jack will inevitably start yelling over her, and Diane will take it for a while until eventually her composure is lost and she starts screaming in this high-pitched psychotic tone where Hestia can barely understand what she is saying. Sometimes, there is the sound of breaking glass or slamming doors. Occasionally, the sound of a car door, an engine revving, and a car speeding away from the house. Those are becoming more common place, so Hestia greedily watches number 20 whenever she can. Hestia hopes Diane gives as good as she gets. There had been a particularly nasty argument about money earlier, but all is quiet now. When nothing happens for several long minutes, Hestia sighs and resigns herself to another lonesome night watching CSI with Peanut. She makes her way downstairs to the kitchen and retrieves a frozen dinner from the icebox and heats it up. She settles into the dingy couch in her living room and watches reruns while she finishes her dinner and promptly falls asleep as the sun retreats beneath the horizon. --- She dreams that her dead husband is alive and standing at the foot of her bed holding his beloved hedge trimmers, a dark substance dripping off their sharpened tips. She awakes sometime later startled and disoriented. Peanut is snoring lightly beside her, his tongue hanging out the side of his mouth where several of his teeth are missing. She listens intently, but the only other sound is the quiet tick tick tick of the kitchen clock. She can’t fathom what time it is, but it seems preternaturally dark. She groans from standing and makes her way up the stairs to her bedroom. She peers outside and sees that the moon is barely a sliver in the sky. A glance at the bright red numbers on her bedside clock tells her that it is 2:59 AM. Her neck is stiff, and she gingerly turns her head this way and that to try to ease the ache she knows will still be there in the morning. Clink She jumps, still on edge from her nightmare. She brings one hand to her racing heart and wills it to slow. Clink She edges towards the window and waits for her eyes to adjust to the nearly moonless night. There. She sees the vague outline of a hooded figure in the yard at number 20. They are near the edge of the property line where carefully tended grass meets suburban woods. What are they doing? Is it Jack or Diane? It is impossible to tell. Clink Hestia’s hand flies to her mouth in sudden realization. Her eyes are fully adjusted to the scant light now and she can see that they are digging, the metallic glint of the shovel appearing and disappearing beneath the earth with each successive clink . Now, why would someone be digging a hole at this hour? There is only one reason she can think of, and it isn’t to get a leg up on the gardening before the summer heat rolls in. She knows it instinctively, not just because of the couple’s explosive fights, but also because she herself has thought about doing the same thing to her husband a million times before the scoundrel had the gall to drop dead of his own accord. The real question is which one of them is doing the digging? Hestia watches, transfixed, as the person continues to dig. An hour passes, then two, then three. She nods off in her chair twice only to snap awake moments later, unable to stop watching the crime unfold. It takes much longer to dig a grave than I thought, she thinks . And then, what a stupid place to bury someone. Just before dawn, the figure walks back towards the house and disappears for several long minutes. When they return, they are dragging a misshapen bundle slowly towards the too-shallow pit. When the figure reaches the grave, the hood of their jacket slips back revealing red hair so vivid that it is impossible to miss even in the darkness. Not realizing she has been holding her breath, Hestia lets out a gasp of delight. “You naughty girl,” she says, a Cheshire grin spreading across her face. It is unfamiliar, the smile, and she realizes it is the first one in a long while. She lets her mind wander into a daydream where she is the one doing the digging. The grin slides off her face, however, when she realizes that Diane is sure to get caught. One didn’t report a person missing and get away with a fresh mound of dirt in the back yard, did they? But perhaps Diane wouldn’t report her husband missing. No, she quickly casts that idea aside. Hestia knows that Jack’s mother stops by regularly – she drives a horrible little minivan that backfires obscenely—and she occasionally joins her son in casting noisy aspersions at poor Diane. The woman would unquestionably look for her son, no doubt about it. Diane’s goose is as good as cooked. Unless… The rusty cogs in Hestia’s mind turn more quickly now. Unless someone else intervened. --- By 3 PM the next day, Hestia’s yard is looking more like it did in its previous life. The hedges are trimmed, the grass is cut and watered, flowering shrubs are planted, and one dickering neighbor boy is $100 richer. Hestia complains aloud to Peanut but is secretly quite satisfied at her progress. Like clockwork, Diane’s car rolls into the short driveway of number 20 at 3:45 PM. This pleases Hestia, who had been worried that Diane may have done a runner when her car pulled out of her driveway at 7 am. Based on the time, Hestia concludes that she must have gone to work to keep up appearances. Smart girl. Now that she is certain that Diane will be around to appreciate her thoughtful plan, she collects her notebook and makes a draft of what she will say to the police. --- That night, Hestia creeps into the silent back yard of Number 20 and digs up Jack’s poorly concealed body and drags it back to her own. She rolls it into the deep hole she had the neighbor boy dig and covers it with a layer of dirt and then a layer of manure, leaving a foot of unfilled space which she will address the following morning. --- The redhead hands her strange old neighbor her spare suitcase. “Here. Where did you say you were going again?” “Florida. Airport broke my old luggage,” Hestia says, waving a hand. “And now you want me to help you plant a tree?” Diane asks slowly, trying to understand. She has never spoken more than a quick greeting to her neighbor in the entire year that she’s lived next door. Hestia thinks Diane looks like Hell has swallowed her and spat her back out. She has a cut lip and a black eye and Hestia speculates if she went to work after all. The redhead’s eyes are dull and her clothes are a wrinkled mess. Hestia has no doubt that if Diane was her usual self, she would be more suspicious. “I’m an old woman,” Hestia says by way of explanation. She is, in fact, quite sore from the previous night’s activities. “Er, I’m a little busy,” Diane says. “It’ll only take a minute. I just need someone to hold the tree steady.” “Okay,” Diane says reluctantly. Minutes later, Hestia and her young neighbor slide the oak sapling into the gaping hole dug in the earth. “Hold it straight, now,” Hestia says gruffly as she shovels dirt around the root ball. “I can do this part, if you want? I’m younger and, uh,” the neighbor trails off as Hestia gives her best scathing look. They finish the task in silence. When they return to the front yard and Diane turns towards her house, Hestia quickly offers to make some fresh lemonade –well, the powdered kind, anyway – to thank her for her help. Diane shrugs noncommittally. “Great!” Hestia says a little too loudly and quickly makes her way to her kitchen, stashes the luggage in the hall closet, and promptly phones the police. She makes the lemonade slowly and comes outside just as two police cruisers park in front of Number 20. Balancing the tray with lemonade and a stack of plastic cups, she shuffles over to Diane, who looks like she is going to be sick as the police officers exit their vehicles. Hestia leans closer to her neighbor, imagining that she is in one of her favorite crime dramas. “Listen to me. Get a lawyer, say nothing. Follow my lead,” she mutters under her breath, barely moving her lips. Despite her apparent terror, Diane turns to look at her shrewdly, her eyes narrowed into slits. “Good morning officers,” Hestia says brightly, wondering if she sounds as fake to their ears as she does her own. “Would you like some lemonade?” “Ma’am. Miss,” one of the officers says, nodding his head. “No thank you, we’re here on official business.” He turns towards Diane. “Do you live at this residence? Number 20?” Diane nods, not trusting herself to speak. The second officer turns to Hestia and says, “Ma’am, this is a private matter. I’ll ask that you return home now, please.” Ah, so you’re the Bad Cop, then. “Well, you see, I’m the one who phoned you, actually,” Hestia says sheepishly. Diane looks at her, one eye wide, one eye swollen half shut. “Is that so…?” Bad Cop sends Good Cop a conspicuous look. “We’ll talk to you both separately, then. Ma’am, would you kindly lead me to your place of residence?” Hestia catches Diane’s gaze one final time, makes a subtle zipper motion over her lips, and allows the officers to lead them in separate directions. This isn’t exactly the way she had planned for things to go. She thought she’d make a big stink of things in front of Diane, explaining that Jack was abusive, and Hestia couldn’t take the fights and didn’t want poor Diane to get hurt anymore. That Jack had run off on foot and she had seen him with a suitcase walking that way ( the direction of the bus station). But now they are separated and there is no time to get their stories straight. Hestia bites her lip hard enough to draw blood and hopes that Diane doesn’t incriminate herself or all of Hestia’s careful planning will be for naught. --- In the end, something Diane says or does is suspicious enough that she is labeled a person of interest and carted off to the police station. Later, more officers appear and search the premises of Number 20 where they find blood, but it is almost all Diane’s. They also find the freshly churned dirt in the back yard and a team is sent with an excavator to dig it up, where they turn up nothing but worms. After two days, the authorities are forced to release her due to insufficient evidence, much to her confusion. In time, the tiny sapling in Hestia’s backyard grows into a beautiful Oak tree and no one is the wiser, not even Diane, as to what lay beneath.


Mr. Butterfly longed for the days before metamorphosis. Back when he and Mrs. Butterfly lived the humdrum caterpillar life. A quiet leaf dinner and an early bedtime. But they were social butterflies now. Either hosting a gathering or fluttering off to one. He didn't care for it, and as Mrs. Butterfly went on and on about that evening's dinner party, Mr. Butterfly snapped. “Enough, Muriel!” Mr. Butterfly screamed. “Enough!” “Aren’t you tired of always fluttering about?! Ever since we’ve been butterflies, it’s been go, go, go with you. How about we stay, stay, stay home for a change? Enjoy a quiet leaf dinner. Maybe an early bedtime.” “But, Clarence, we’re butterflies now," Mrs. Butterfly replied. “And, it’s time you started acting like one. Besides, our guests will be here any minute!" “Well, I’m tired of acting like a butterfly,” Mr. Butterfly said. “I’m tired of being a butterfly. In fact, I’d rather us both be struck dead right this instant than live another day as a butterfly.”

“You be careful, Clarence,” Mrs. Butterfly warned. “Keep talking like that, and you might just get your wi—" SPLAT! “Oh god, what have I done?!” Mr. Butterfly wailed in anguish. “What damned, spiteful wrath have I wrought? Take me, foul being! Take –" SPLAT! -- Connor wiped the dead butterfly juice down the front of his sweater vest, after first smelling his hand. As the bell for morning classes rang, he shuffled into the massive building that he had been sitting in front of for the previous 30 minutes. He shuffled down the hallway. He shuffled past his classroom. He shuffled up to a large wooden door, with the name "Professor James Robinson" plastered right in the middle of it. Connor slammed his head several times into the door. "Come in," said a voice from behind the door. Connor turned the knob, while forcing open the door with his head. "Hey, Mr. Robinson." "Hello, Connor. You may begin." To put it mildly, Connor was out of his element as an eighth grader at Thaddeus R. Wellington School for the Gifted and Talented. Frankly, he would’ve been out of his depth at most academic institutions, but TRWSFTGAT was the most prestigious kindergarten-through-eighth-grade school in the entire city of Boston. With that in mind, he was especially unqualified. So, what was a child like Connor doing at a place like the TRW School? “So, then what had happened was, and this is actually at least more than a hundred years ago, but there was this guy John Adams who shows up...” Let’s interrupt the beginning of Connor’s history class presentation for a more straightforward explanation. As it turns out, Connor was the great-great-great-great-grandson of Thaddeus R. Wellington himself. So, while wholly unremarkable (and that’s being generous), the kid got a free pass. Now, how did an individual from the same gene pool that produced Connor get the most prestigious kindergarten-through-eighth-grade school in Boston named after him? “My quadruple-G grandad liked to drink a lot.” As Connor put it, Thaddeus Wellington was a frequent imbiber. He was the town drunk, which was a fairly impressive title to hold considering he lived during colonial times when alcoholism was more of a necessity than a health risk. One day Thaddeus was drinking at his favorite tavern, The Rusty Pecker, when, just as Connor mentioned earlier, in walked the second president of the United States himself, John Adams. Now Adams was somewhat of a renowned drinker, so he plopped himself front and center of the ale-slinging establishment right alongside Thaddeus, and, without exchanging a word, the two went ale-for-ale. Finally, after several hours had gone by and dozens of beers were consumed, Thaddeus decided to challenge His Rotundity to a friendly wager. “Listen up, good sir,” began Thaddeus, who, this entire time, had not realized it was John Adams who he had been drinking with. “I challenge you to a contest. A competition, if you will. Whoever can smash the most pint glasses on their head is the victor. If I win, I get that fancy wig you’re wearing.” “What if I win?” Adams asked. Instead of even bothering to respond, Thaddeus simply started grabbing pint glasses from behind the bar and smashing them on his forehead, to the shock and horror of the barkeep, but to the delight of everyone else in the near vicinity. A large crowd formed. Passersby poured into the tavern as Thaddeus smashed glass after glass on his apparently rock-solid cranium.

Seven. Eight. Nine. It was a gruesome scene, as blood gushed from several points on the front of his skull, but the crowd hooted and hollered in a frenzy akin to the gladiatorial games. Finally, Thaddeus flourished the 20 th – and final – pint glass like a skilled magician. He placed the glass in front of him, and, in one fell swoop, smashed it into smithereens. The crowd erupted into cheers. Then, suddenly, a hush fell over The Rusty Pecker, as all looked to John Adams to pay his debt. “I’ll take that ridiculous head piece now, old boy,” triumphantly proclaimed Thaddeus, pulling a massive shard of glass from out of his lower-bottom gum line. “To be clear, I never did agree to your wager, my good man,” Adams responded. “But, I did very much enjoy this wild, if terribly unseemly, spectacle. And, while I dare not part with my trusted wig..." A beat. The suspense was almost too much. “I shall start a school in your honor.” The crowd looked over to Thaddeus. “Well, it’s no fancy wig, but I’ll take it!” The crowd broke the silence with thunderous applause and cheers. They hoisted Thaddeus on their shoulders and paraded him around the town square. “And, that’s how this whole school got built. The end.” Connor concluded his presentation, while his teacher, Mr. Robinson, looked down at the papers he was grading. “How’d I do, Teach?” “Very good, Connor,” Mr. Robinson responded dismissively, lost in his work. “You get the usual passing grade. I’ll see you on Monday. Have a good weekend.” “Hey, Mr. Robinson?” “Yes, Connor?” Mr. Robinson replied, looking up from his work. “Do you think it’s all just a stupid, silly joke?” “Do I think what is all just a stupid, silly joke?” Mr. Robinson echoed. “The story. About how this school got started. My story, too. Me being here. Doesn't it seem pretty stupid and nonsensical?” Mr. Robinson was taken aback by Connor's rather insightful question. He also didn't realize the boy knew the word "nonsensical." "No, Connor, I don't think it's stupid." "How did you think it will end? The story, I mean." “Don’t worry, son. Things have a way of working themselves out. In a way, the end will mirror the beginning.” "Thanks, Teach." Connor shuffled out of Mr. Robinson's office. He shuffled passed his classroom. He shuffled down the hallway. He shuffled out of the front door of Thaddeus R. Wellington School for the Gifted and Talented. Then, the strange boy shuffled his way over to a nearby playground, plopped himself right in front of where all the children were swinging on the swing set, pulled out a smushed peanut butter and jelly sandwich from the back pocket of his dirt-stained jean shorts, and began to eat it. Connor calmly ate the sandwich, despite cries of “Move! Move!” from the swinging children. Suddenly, a butterfly landed on Connor's nose. He smiled. New beginnings. A fresh start. Connor smashed the butterfly.


I believe reality is relative, especially when what you see from behind a screen is designed, produced, and created by someone else.

Our visitors come searching for the real world, a place where the sun shines, and they can touch the reality around them. We were going to give it to him, though he won't like what he’s going to get.

Sally and I sat in our usual spot, the weight of the slow summer afternoon heavy on our shoulders, almost forgetting we had a job to do, when he finally stepped off the train.

Long and thin, his hooded sweatshirt hung loose over tight jeans, his shoes so white they were hard to look at. Not that Sally and I looked up. He would find us we knew, eventually. “Hello?” The man said, a smirk on his bearded face, a black rectangular bag rolling behind him. His hands danced around him, a constant blur of touching, his fingers rubbing his flat front pocket.

Long practiced at sitting, we didn’t move. Just a middle aged man and woman in overalls and flannel shirts, we weren’t much to look at, and on the wooden bench, in that rattling old train station we fit as if we had been carved from the same tree as the bench.

“So this is Stillwater?” The man’s feet moved, a step backward, his hand on the bag’s tall handle, opened and then closed over it, adjusting its placement next to him. He cleared his throat. “My name’s Zach, I was supposed to meet someone? ” The words, crisp and sharp, bounced around the faded wood walls of the waiting room, before falling to the floor unanswered.

 “I had an appointment. Zach?” His anxiety ,that something went wrong, pulsed as palpable as the throbbing at his neck. “Um, Yes.” The word left my lips with a puff of air, almost a breath.

Sally, next to me on the bench of the Stillwater train station nodded her head, finally acknowledging him.

Zach smiled, looking around. “I can’t believe this place. You both are just perfect. Just like the TikTok reels. ” He breathed in, and then out. “Smells like peace, and nature! No notifications, no calls, not even texts. This is going to be the best weekend of my life. Let’s go!” We lived in Stillwater, a spot on the map where a quirk of geography, an accumulation of elements, reached up creating a dome of magnetic resonance to disrupt compasses, fry most electronics, and block cell phone signals.  Mountains surrounding the valley kept the weather fair, windless on most days, and even more so today, when the air sat thick and stagnant, and even the smallest insects stayed home.

We stood up and stepped outside. Zach paused at the curb, his head twisting up and down the empty street. His frown only lasted a moment before his face cracked into a grin. “We’re getting our steps in!” He said, stepping forward, the rolling bag clicking on the rough and cracked street.

“Only way to get around.” I said, not looking back. We passed gaping doors and empty windows of store after store. Stillwater had a thriving main street once, but now the toothless smile of a dying man.

For some people this had a certain appeal, a place where the rush of commerce and modern technology had passed by, skipping over Stillwater like a spinning rock on a pond. The golden hue of nostalgia had turned the neglected buildings into ‘old timey', our lifestyle ‘vintage’, the broken furniture into ‘antiques’.

Visitors from these big cities came to experience what life could be like if they could just be still. They talked about ‘modern technology’ in grand words, wide eyes, and dramatic gestures.

But underneath they were searching for something real.  Burned out trying to keep up with their neighbors, they wanted the promised dream, but didn’t want to pay the price of running on the wheel of commerce like a rat in a cage. In Stillwater nothing happened and for some, that had value. They stopped outside the old hotel, and Sally gestured for Zach to continue in.

Sally joined me at the bench outside the door, watching the empty street, motionless as a photo.

“Think he’ll make it? ” I asked her.

She kicked the wood of the hotel porch with her boot. “Doubt it. But he’s cute, so...”

Only a few minutes later Zach appeared at our side again, a bright sparkle in his eyes.

“That's a tiny room! So, what do you all do for fun around here?” He said, bouncing on his toes.

Sally nudged me with her elbow as she stood up, and we continued down the street.

Sally and I did what we could to get by, lately playing tour guide to these lost souls, our once promising careers crashed into evils of capitalism.

 Years ago an entrepreneur had taken advantage of the nearby lake and the deep deposits of iron ore to build a thriving factory town. But a leveraged buyout, and the collapse of the only jobs in town drove the businesses and most of the people out to find a life in bigger, busier cities. Not too many of us stayed, and I have to say I liked it.

We walked down the small path toward the rocky shore of Lake Stillwater. Sally and I pulled over to our favorite spot overlooking the lake, the high mountains just beyond.

“It's so nice to just sit!” Zach said, standing at the edge of the lake. He picked up a rock and threw it, an awkward parabola curling into the water. It landed with a soft splash and then was gone, not even a ripple in its wake.

“I can't believe this place really exists. He tapped his empty pocket again, and then rubbed his hand down his thigh. “A video of this, the post would get a hundred likes, a thousand.

If I hadn’t deleted TikTok....” Zach spoke more to himself than us.

“But, someone must’ve taken a video. I saw this exact scene on a TikTok reel. ‘A place to get away’!’’” Zach spoke, light and high pitched. “I wonder how…” “An old camcorder.” I said, with only a hint of pride. “That’s how I heard about this Town.” Zach nodded over his shoulder to us, another rock launched into the water. “This was the right decision, I needed a break, I was losing my mind. Just jittery all the time, always on a screen.” “I had to leave my phone, can you believe that? I mean I knew they would, there were warnings. And it wouldn't have worked anyway, I guess. But I didn't believe it. How can people live without a phone?” Zach turned, a sheepish grin.

 “I guess you do, but you don’t need it, don’t even want one do you? I mean you live here, with fresh air and… I haven’t been this long without my phone since-”  He tapped his pocket once more. “Well, a long time.” “OK then.” Zach turned, hands on his hips looking back at us. “Is there a hike around the lake, or something?” I looked up, confused. “Hike?” “You know, a hike, a walk, around.” He gestured, spinning his arm in a wide, flat circle toward the lake. I usually go to Golden Gate Park.

OK, I follow a TikTok'er who goes to Golden Gate Park, and I go, well sometimes." Zach made a full turn, his arms wide. “Nature! This is my chance right? To experience the natural world, to see new plants, animals…” “We walked here.” I shrugged, and then put my head back down. The sand didn’t stir. The leaves on the trees didn’t tremble, but lingered, limp in the dry heat; no breeze drifted in to cool our brows. Stillwater lake lay flat, a glass reflection of the hot, desiccated sky above.

“OK, no hike.” Zach sat down next to us. “I can do this, just relax, a beautiful lake. We can just talk, like a group text, but IRL.”

Zach’s hands were flying around again, touching his knees, his shoes, itching at his close cropped beard. In a sudden motion he stopped his hands, carefully folding them together. “Mr. BetterLife, the therapist App I use, texted me to just breathe, and to listen.” He breathed in, then out, a long slow breath. “So, are you both from here, or-?” Zach looked over expectantly.

I’m always amazed at the power of silence, the space that slowly opens up when a person expects an answer and it doesn't come. I watched to see how Zach would do. After a moment, I could see him settle in, his face went slack preparing himself to wait us out for a response. Zach, just an amateur at this game, of course had no chance. Working with the visitors, I’ve learned there are stages to how silence impacts these technology addicts. It started with an itch. I saw Zach begin to move around, a slight irritation in his shirt had to be adjusted, something on his nose, and a rock pulled out from underneath him. Then it becomes a need, an urgency to see if his ears still worked, his mind demanding some sound to fill the silence. Zach kicked a rock, then smirked at the click- clack as it bounced off another rock. A pistol shot of a cough, once then twice.

Finally it became too much, the wide open silence needed to be filled, a yawning, open crater that threatened to swallow him whole. His face began to change, tightening, fear creeping in as his eyes darted at the nothingness threatening him.

“-I’m from Wisconsin originally-” Zach gave in finally, his voice loud and sharp, a sword against the monstrous quiet. “After college I moved to San Francisco for a tech job, UI work at first, user interface.” Zach turned to see if we understood. I stared back, blank and confused.

“Now I work from home, backend software coding, for an online dating site.” Zach’s chest puffed out, a smile on his face. “You’ve probably heard of it…” His smile faded. “Ok, maybe you haven't heard of it." He picked up a rock and dropped it. “I actually spend most of my time on TikTok. I never leave the house, I don’t have any friends. That’s why I’m here…”

 He dried his cheeks with his palms. “Maybe we should move on to lunch.”

Zach stood, brushing his pants, dust falling straight down onto his now dirt-brown shoes. He took long strides along the rocks.

“Like a 'greasy spoon' restaurant or maybe a chuck wagon?” He laughed, a few short chuckles until the sound faded to nothing in the dead air.

“There’s a diner.” I said. “It serves both hot dogs, and hamburgers.” Zach stepped back, his hands at his throat. “But I’m vegan. “I read there are vegan options?” I turned to Sally, confused.

“Potatoes.” Sally said. “Baked, or boiled?” Her head tilted in a question.

“My god.” Zach put both hands on his head. “You know, there is a great world out there. His long arm gestured to the horizon.

“I could take you to where there is real food, where there are, movies, social media, and cars!” “OK, let me explain so you can understand.” Zach got onto one knee, proselytizing; his face bright red, eyes blazing coals. “These cars, metal beasts that roam the cities, can drive you places, you don’t have to walk everywhere! And phones- technology in little boxes that display images, you can make calls, text your friends. Take photos!

There is an opportunity for you two to make something of yourselves, to get a job like mine, a software engineer! I can show you, and if you don’t like it I can bring you back. What do you think?”

Sally and I stared back, open-mouthed at this outburst.

“I can't live like this!” Zach shouted. “Nothing happens! You sit, and eat -potatoes, and then sit again!”

 Zach turned. “I got to go, I can't take another minute-” I tilted my head, a train whistle in the distance.

“ A train leaves soon, you might make it if you go straight there.” Sally said. Zach stepped toward the road, and then turned back. “My bag,” his hands out, pleading. “Can you FedEx it?” “fedecks?” I gave him a blank stare.

“Oh goddamn it, I'm done. I need to get back to reality, and people and TikTok.” The train whistled again, louder, closer. Zach took off in a full sprint.

Sally looked at me and nodded. We turned back to the lake, a comfortable silence until we heard the train leave, taking Zach back home.

I pulled out my satellite phone, and tapped a few buttons. “They should pay a bonus if they don’t last the day.” I said.

Sally nodded. “ I got dibs on his bag. “on the last one, I made a fortune selling the clothes on Depop and Ebay. People will buy anything.” Sally gave me a wide smile. Hungry? “ I asked. “I’m thinking Sushi. TikTok is buying!” I held up my phone as we began walking back down the path. I stripped down to my Nike t- shirt and Lululemon shorts.

“I hate flannel, so itchy. The visitors are getting more and more desperate. It’s sad really, they can’t handle reality. “  “Reality?” Sally smirked, pulling out her own phone from her overalls. “I’ll get the Uber.”