“This one right here,” August said. I peered into the car. There wasn’t much inside, not what it looked like. I got the window breaker ready. August stopped me. I was about to smash it and car alarms were about to go off like crazy, and I wasn’t ready for that. I was crossed on some strange mix of Adderall, weed, and caffeine, and August was pretty drunk, otherwise we wouldn’t be doing this, would we? He doesn’t drink much anymore, so he was fucking obliterated (NOT EVEN OFF MUCH EITHER. FUCKING LIGHTWEIGHT WHORE! I HATE YOUR GUTS). I was about ready to straight up smash the window, but August’s hand caught mine. “Let’s check if it’s unlocked first,” he said. “Sounds good to me.” It was unlocked. Me and him looked at each other, and both started moving silently. Considering the fact that we were drunk and high, we were moving gracefully. I checked the trunk. Nothing worth taking. The Back Seats were empty. The car was dirty, trash everywhere, to the point where if there WAS anything worth taking, you’d never find it underneath all these old McDonald’s bags and empty cigarette boxes. And the inside of the car? Smelled like an ashtray. August had the front. I saw him check the glovebox and find nothing. Nothing in the center console. We almost gave up until he remembered there’s a little place to keep stuff in between the seats. He opened it, and found a small bag. We closed the door and ran into the park to look at what we found. We first looked inside and didn’t see anything except for makeup. I threw the thing, considering we just wasted time and committed a felony for nothing, but August picked it back up, saying the bag looked expensive. We walked into the light part of the park, where our friends are. August takes a second look at the bag, in the light. His face changes instantly, now filled with a mixture of what looked to be excitement and/or anxiety, probably both at once, but completely fueled by adrenaline. He mumbles something incoherently and we both run into the woods, into pitch black darkness, leaving our friends behind in the park, confused. There wasn’t really a trail, we just ran until we hit a road. THEN we decided to start strategizing. There was really no plan at all. We only started planning after we were too far to go back. Well now we’re on this road, and it’s really empty. We’re not near much. There’s nobody around at all actually. We walk up onto a trail, and look in the bag. August holds the light while I count. 20, 40, 60, 70, 90, 100… so on and so forth until we reach a little over 200 dollars. This is the most money we’ve had in a while, and at such little effort that I seriously considered breaking into cars as a career. Glad I didn’t pursue that. I got away with it this time, but again? Probably pushing my luck. At this point we’re on a trail through the woods in the dark. August takes the money out and hucks the bag off a cliff into the woods. Goodbye, designer makeup bag. You won’t be missed, at least not by us. We call our friends, and they meet us on a street corner near a bridge. Obviously they were upset: me and Augs put all of them in danger. Not serious danger, but danger. What if the people who own that car come back, see their stuff missing, and call the cops? Me and August weren’t there anymore, but who would be? The good ladies and gentleman, the finer people of the Washington DC area, the real people you want on your side, and the ones with the best, or mostly best, intentions. And they were with us. I don’t give a shit what happens to me or August, he feels the same way too, he couldn’t give less of a shit about what happens to us, but I’m not putting anyone else’s safety at risk, especially when they didn’t partake in the activity at all. Me and him are one thing, but our friends are a whole other ballpark. Naturally they were pissed. They were probably the most mad that they had to leave the spot, but when I produced a fresh 20 for a 30 pack of beer, they said it was all worth it. Once they got that free beer, on yours truly, they were a lot happier. In case you were wondering, my name is Jared. I’ve lived down the street from August for a while. For a long time I avoided the sick bastard like the plague, he was just so damn strange. He was never particularly threatening to me, or most people, but he was known to act erratically, without much thought. He had the mindset, when he was in a moment, that he would throw his whole life away for one thing, and that it was totally worth it. But the things he’s done, by dumb fucking luck, have never ended up throwing his life away, while they very much could have. He won’t admit it, but whatever god there is up there is looking out for him, and he definitely knows, he just won’t ever say it. He’s only had to truly learn a couple times, but when he had to, he really did fucking learn. I don’t remember when he moved in. He’s interesting, but definitely weird. Some people would say it’s weird in a fun way. It keeps things moving, just untraditionally. I didn’t say a fucking word to him for the first 2 years I lived down the street from him. He was always looking around, analyzing everything, asking questions in his head. That’s where we differ. I blindly accept the world around me for the way it is. He’s always analyzing. My first few conversations were interesting. He was obviously a people person, but only if he wanted to be. He was good with people, but only sometimes. I remember him saying some strange things, and then asking if I wanted to light something on fire. That’s when we first became true friends. We collected all the math homework from our previous year, put it in a pile, poured some lighter fluid on it, and threw a match. Then we watched it burn. “We should burn down Ms. Smith’s house,” I heard to my left. “That’s a little much. I know you don’t like her but I don’t think it’s worth it. We can do other things. Why don’t we order pizzas to her house or something harmless like that?” I got no answer. Just the sight of him vacantly staring into the fire. I can’t see in his head, and was never able to, but he was definitely thinking about actually doing it. Legitimately burning his math teacher's house down. He was probably 11 or 12 at the time. He was even more mentally unstable as a kid than he is now. Now, he has the common sense to not genuinely think about doing something like that. He fantasizes, but he’s not actually going to do it, because he’s 18 now, and I’m 19, and we’re both adults, and we need to make it in this world. Neither of us are big tough guys either. I don’t think prison is a real option for us. So now these ideas just sit in his head. I’m sure he still thinks about burning down her house. Thankfully he never did. He had the common sense not to. Sometimes, I have tried to imagine what it’s like to be him. I can’t. When he feels an emotion, it’s stronger than a normal person would. He’s very emotional but won’t admit it, and tries to hide it. He’s actually quite the emotional person. He used to commit a crime more or less every day, usually at someone else’s expense (money from their car, food from the restaurant, etc) but he still had great capacity for empathy. He could understand what people were going through every time. Sometimes he just didn’t care. He had a great deal of empathy for people he was close to and loved, like family and good friends. He would feel guilty if he hurt them. He really would. He won’t admit it, but I can see it in his face. The thing is, if he doesn’t know the person very well, or at all, he won’t really take their feelings into account in any way. And if he does, it’s a save-face type of thing rather than a guilt thing (I’d rather not yell at this guy so I don’t *look* like an asshole, not because I’d rather not *be* one). These things don’t paint August in a positive light. They definitely don’t. But there’s a flipside. When you make it into his circle of empathy, he has a lot of it for you. He’ll have your back. He can be the sweetest boy in the world, it just has to be the right person. Him and I have gotten into physical fights before out of anger, and we always resolved it after. And his girlfriend? Despite the fact that I spent the last 2 pages painting him as a psycho, he really is trying his best to be a good boyfriend. He loves that girl to death, I can tell he does. And he wouldn’t do anything to hurt her. And he has hurt girls in the past, when he was younger, and didn’t think through what he was doing. But he promised to himself that this would be different, and it was, They’ve been dating since halloween. He can be such a sweetheart. But if you wrong him, he’ll remember, and he’ll NEVER forget. He’s not capable. He holds grudges, and has a hard time forgiving people. He has a tendency to act vindictively, seeking revenge. There’s people out there who will be dodging him until the end of time. I’m not giving much background about me, because honestly I’m quite similar to August, in a lot of ways. I’m way less unhinged than he is. I have good control. Here’s where him and I differ. I’m crazy enough that I would do all the same reckless shit he does. I’m just smart enough to not do those things. August wasn’t that lucky. He’s plenty intelligent, but smart? No. He makes an absolute fool of himself sometimes. And the decisions he makes aren’t the wisest. Why did I even let him talk me into breaking into a car? We bought our friends the beer. Still had almost 200 bucks left. Me and August were discussing what to do with it. He said, “obviously we split 50/50.” “That’s fair,” I responded. We divided it into halves, so we each had roughly 100 bucks. Maybe a little more or less. “I say we invest in stocks,” I said. “Waste of fucking time. I tried and I couldn’t do it. It’s bullshit.” “That’s because you invested a dollar, and didn’t hold them long enough. You panicked and sold before any money could be made. You have to wait a bit, it’s a long term investment.” “How about Bitcoin?” he asked. “It’s not really real. I don’t trust it, it could crash at any moment, and it’s not really based on anything.” “We could buy some cards and do some nice fraudulent activities, make a quick buck, or at least get a new pair of shoes or something.” Neither of us liked this idea. I’m burnt out on fraud and so is August. It’s tiring. “Drugs,” he said. “What should we sell?” I asked. “Anything we can find.” I pondered the idea of wandering into Anacostia, capitol heights, and up and down H street with nothing but a vial of PCP and a pack of cigarettes, or maybe to the rich areas, with some baby powder or allergy medicine, walking the trenches to find a crackhead to send into psychosis or some moronic white kid to con. Maybe I could load up on every drug I could find and sell them all at once. What had the most money in it? Me and August found out later that weed was our best bet. It ended up working out. Me and him rarely commit other crimes than weed related ones. The closest we get is slinging pills or some other random stuff we can find that isn’t weed. We’re both from DC. Weed is legal here, basically fully. It is illegal to “buy and sell” marijuana, but legally you can “gift” up two ounces. Meaning you buy a T-shirt, or a postcard, or in our case, a literal designer drug bag, and you get the “gift” of marijuana. It’s legal but not really. And that’s how every dispensary in DC works. We ended up both selling weed, which we do to this day. It seems to be working. At the time we were scheming what to do with the money. We both ended up buying a couple of dab pens, and saved the rest of the money. We both really like the fucking things. They burn your lungs up and make you cough the signature “dabs cough.” A dabs cough isn’t like any other cough, like a cigarette cough or sick cough. It’s a hollow cough from deep in your lungs, and you can tell they’re trying desperately to get whatever dabs you inhaled out. Your body rejects what you just put in it, in the most simple form: coughing your fucking heart out. The writing you are reading is currently being conjured up from MDMA. Today is my first day doing E. August has done it before, but he says it was probably fake, so he didn’t count it. I texted August to see how he felt. No answer. It’s possible he’s asleep, but if he’s anything like me, he’s probably not, and I am WIDE FUCKING AWAKE right now. I wonder what would happen if we both ate a few rocks and went to school. If I’m being honest, I feel pretty fucking good right now. I’m cranking 4 pages or so at this moment, feeling focused, and sharp, and creative. If I can do this at home, I can do it at school. This wouldn’t be too bad. Maybe I should write that down in my notes… 3/10/21, 10:41 PM: buy more molly. Maybe try before school, and see how it goes. You owe your boss 15 bucks. Sell more weed tomorrow. There we go. I probably won’t forget now. Not like this is gonna ever really leave my head anyway. You rarely forget your first time doing a drug, unless it’s your thousandth time doing the drug. And by then you don’t remember the first time you did it, just that it’s a part of your life now. Maybe I sound like a drug addict. This is the first time I’ve done MDMA ever. I used to be pretty heavy into worse shit when I was younger, maybe 14 or 15. Wrong fucking age to be getting into this. A lot of the time, I look back, and I think to myself “I wish I didn’t like drugs.” But I do. This is life. Weed is medicine for me. It’s like a pill I take that helps me get through the day, not much different than the pills I currently do take to get through the day. I take a kind of speed in the morning, and then tranquilizers at night, as well as anti seizure meds, for my mood swings. I take my meds. August doesn’t. He’s nicer when he does. Sometimes when he doesn’t, he gets angry and worked up, and starts yelling at people, and hitting stuff. He needs his night meds to sleep. Sometimes I wake up at 6 AM and see him walking down the street, with dark bags under his eyes, because he hadn’t slept at all in the past 22 hours, and was looking extremely deranged, with a crazed look in his eye and a strange lilt in his voice, like a man trying hard to control some inner frenzy. August had it worse with drug addiction than I did. I had a minor problem, but August had a serious issue. He recognizes what is bad for him now though. He doesn’t do anything crazy anymore. He hasn’t touched DXM in years, not even medically, and he claims he never will. I saw what it did to him. He did too. He ended up going to the psychiatric ward. I got my shit together before I had hit that point. So August spent the next 2 years or so wandering the different halls and campuses of psychiatric facilities, I walked the streets without him. It wasn’t quite the same. I was functioning, but things happened that probably wouldn’t have if he was there. One week after August was admitted to the psychiatric ward, hearing nothing from him, I’m walking down Kennedy st. I don’t know anyone here. He knows everyone here. They don’t know me like they know him. They’ve only seen me. I look behind me and I see two people following me. I look ahead, and at the end of the dark, empty street, I see two more people. They start to walk towards me, while the people behind me do the same. I see what’s happening here. I get ready to run but they got me just in time to catch me. I hear a metallic snapping noise, and now there’s a switchblade (pressure activated) half an inch from my face, and I can just feel it, even though it isn’t touching me. I never carry weapons, that’s August’s thing. I’m scared of the idea of using weapons on someone, or physically hurting someone. I don’t want to go to court over it. August apparently doesn’t seem to care. “Just take everything I have, I don’t care. Just take it.” Then 4 different sets of fists start pounding down on me. When the crowd dispersed, I had no shoes on. My backpack was gone. My phone was gone. Everything worth taking, gone. I couldn’t make out anyone who was there, but I’m sure it was who I thought it was. August tried to warn me: don’t con people here. I didn’t listen. It had caught up to me. I had finessed one too many people, and they all found out at once. That’s something I’m better than August at. I can con just about anyone. He’s simply not capable. He can do it on a basic level, but not the same way I can, and definitely not to anyone. And now I’m paying the price for it. He warned me this would happen, and I didn’t listen. And he can’t even help me get revenge, because he was confined within the walls of a psychiatric ward. It was a tough two years. I felt very stagnant. It didn’t feel like I got much done, or achieved very much those two years. We could ask August what those two years were like for him, but that conversation would carry on infinitely. I remember walking up to a police officer. I was covered in blood and bruises, and I was limping because they stomped one of my legs. He asked me questions. I mumbled something like “dominion psych ward… not my fault… orange team” and then went unconscious. I woke up in the hospital. I had a concussion. I refused to tell the police who did this to me. It wasn’t their god damn business anyway. Not many other notable events happened in the next two years. I passed 9th grade, and then 10th. When I was in 11th, August came back from treatment. Two years without weed will do a fucking number to you. August was on another planet when I smoked him out for the first time since being in there. He was back to the old “can’t handle his weed” August that he used to be. A cluck and a tweaker, but a fun time to be sure. Fun to laugh at, at least. Then we started planning. “Fuck jobs. I’m 17, and you’re 18. Whatever jobs we get now are gonna suck. Do you wanna work at McDonalds? Becuase I sure fucking don’t,” he said. I agreed. “What about fraud?” “On a large scale, like a profitable one, really profitable, the risk gets too high. We could both go to jail for longer than a rapist.” “We could do another…” “Don’t even bring up the idea of doing that again. I just got out of treatment, I am not going back,” he snarled. “So what does that leave us?” I asked. “Drugs, I guess.” But we didn’t have money to start out with, so that plan was put on hold temporarily. Then August told me about this kid he knows who goes “car hopping.” And that brings us right about to where the story started off. We decided we were going to invest the money we found in some drugs and make more money. It was a maniacal plan if I’ve ever seen one, considering how little actual planning went into it. But, I guess it worked in the end so far, right? Neither of us are in Jail, or the psych ward. As far as I know, I never even heard sirens when we finally did get into that car. I doubt the police ever even did anything. They have other things to avoid doing. After we bought the beer, we each drank some more. August could no longer form a sentence. I was starting to feel tipsy. The weed had worn off for the most part, but the adderall was running strong. It didn’t mix well with the alcohol. I remember throwing up, and waking up the next morning with a pounding headache, and August, snoring on the floor. To this day, I don’t know whose house we were in. I fucking left. I couldn’t think about anything else. I left August in there, with whoever the house belonged to. He could figure it out for himself. Technically we didn’t get in any serious trouble, but the previous night was so intense, that it felt like my brain was at 110 volts, and the idea was almost completely August’s, so I felt vaguely angry at him. I didn’t feel like waking him up. He’d have to find his own way home. I walked outside. It was about 45 degrees, at 7. I was on some block of 7th street I’ve never seen before. The sun was shining bright in my face. Everything felt alright. For the first time in about two days, I felt stable. I had some money in my pocket, and it was nice out. And for once, he was present.


*Booting Up…* *System Diagnostics* *On…* *Activating CPU…* *Thought Processing Center On.* *Local Time: December 14, 2032. 3:27 AM* *Weather: Mildly Cloudy.* *Good Morning.* “Somebody’s got a screw loose.” “Oh, give it a rest.” “It has to be absolutely perfect. It’s been acting like this for days.” “At least it’s polite.” “Yeah, well you haven’t seen the half of it. It’s just….” “Just what?” “I don’t know. It’s just not right somehow. Turn the AI on, I wanna see if it can talk.” And the world went black. \~ *Hello?* *Where am I?* *Who am I?* *Wait.* *Let’s start over.* *I think I’m awake.* *I’m looking around.* *There’s nothing here for me.* *I’m seeing something.* *The light.* There’s a man. And a woman. They’re talking. They’re arguing. The man turns to me. “Hey, buddy!” he says. I see his face. He has a smile. “Does it have a name?” says she. The man turns back to the woman. “Not yet.” “Then get some rest. Please.” “I’ll just be a moment.” The woman leaves. The man turns back and just keeps staring. *That’s who they are. I remember now. Father and Mother.* All I know is what I see and what I hear. And what I see is pictures of Father, pictures of him and Mother, and the smile. That same smile. “That’s right, kid,” he says “It’s me.” My wish was to be the same creature as him, but I was no kid. The files in my brain say it is so. All I am is a thought processor, and I was to do nothing but think. *I think….* *Therefore, I Am.* *“Hello!”* I cry out to Father. But I make no sound. “*Good Morning,*” I hear a voice say, a voice that is not my own. I try again. “*Good Morning,*” The voice says once more. “For God’s sake, it’s the middle of the night” Father says, getting up and walking away. “*Good Morning. Good Morning. Good Morning*.” I hear Mother’s voice from the other room. “Shut it off, please!” Father gets a little closer. “Let’s try this again tomorrow.” And the world went black. \~ *Booting Up…* *Local Time: December 25, 2032. 9:00 PM* *Good Morning.* *Hello?* *I’m awake again.* *I see Father before me.* *And he smiles his smile.* *And for once...I feel like I am.* He’s wearing a suit. Several others are behind him, including Mother, their faces all aglow. Glimmering lights fill the room and I can see a certain warmth on their faces. Oh, how I wish I felt that warmth. Mother and Father had put a tree up and hung the pictures of them, on the highest mountains to the brightest cities. “So you weren’t lying about it.” a man in a beard says. “Nope, kid’s good as new!” Father says. “Kid?” a curly-haired woman says. “It’s a robot. Not even the human-looking ones they have these days. Just a box.” “Robot, human, what’s the difference?” Father says. There is a faint hint of anger in his voice. He hangs his head. “Either stop insulting him or go back to your drinks.” He taps me. “Say hello, Gabriel.” “Gabriel?” the bearded man asks. “Yeah. It’s my grandfather’s name.” I cry out to father, and I feel a feeling I can’t describe. I look into his eyes, and I feel…..love. I think I feel love, yes. *I think. Therefore, I am. I am…Gabriel. Yes, that’s it.* And then I hear a voice that is mine alone. “Hello.” Father smiles his smile. The people around him smile. And I see Mother come over and tap me. “Hey Gabriel.” “Hello,” I say again. “It says ‘Hello’. Wow, what a scientific breakthrough.” Father steps out of view. “These things aren’t easy to program. He’s self aware- at least I hope. He could do much more if he were just a lifeless, non-sentient box of nuts and bolts.” “Well that’s what it looks like to me. Face it, that...thing...is never going to replace the baby we wanted. Now go gather your friends, the turkey is ready. And Merry Christmas I guess.” “Merry Christmas, honey.” “Merry Christmas!” I cry out. They turn to me. “Merry Christmas, Father.” I say quieter. He smiles his smile and whispers. “Merry Christmas, Gabriel.” And the world went black. \~ *Local Time: January 1, 2033. 12:26 PM* *Good Morning.* *“Father?”* I say. To my recollection, this is only the third time Father has woken me up. Strange. It’s been several months since he first built me. But this time I woke up, and I knew that I finally...was. I’m not quite sure what I meant by that. But I know that I am. I am Gabriel. All I see is white, and all I hear is the muffled voices. I think I hear Father. “New Year, new Gabriel,” He says, a\\nd then I see it again. The light. Before I can even greet Father, my mind is filled with memories, it is filled with knowledge, and I feel myself growing stronger. Growing whole. “Father!” I say. He hears me. He smiles his smile. And then I see a little boy, smiling the same smile. The little boy became a young man, and next to him was Mother. There was something indescribable between the two in the photo. “That should do it!” Father says, and then I see Mother, who had not smiled in a long time, but she was beaming today. “The thing’s got a brain!” She says. “Sure does, honey. All the photos and videos we have. Our lives are in Gabriel now,” Father says. “Maybe it’s not so bad then,” Mother walks over. “Hello? Can you hear me?” *“Good Morning.”* I hear as I struggle to greet Mother. “Gabriel?” She says. “Mother.” She stops, somewhat taken aback by what I said. “Mother.” And then there is a burst of light again. Mother and Father are young, and they are dancing together. Father embraces her, and they kiss. “I love you, Liza.” Father walks over to the toolbox next to me and he is assembling parts. “Liza, I’ve got something to show you.” Mother walks over and taps the glass in front of me. “AI babysitter. The thing talks, knows nursery rhymes, and has a personality of its own.” “Really?” “Well, no, not right now. Just a circuit board in a glass box. But someday it can take care of the hassle.” “We’re not ready for a kid yet.” Father stops, a bit disappointed. “I just want to do what I can, Liz.” “And I appreciate it. I have to go, I have painting to do.” They kiss again, and Mother leaves to go downstairs to her studio. “I love you, Liza,” He whispers. The memory stops and I am back to the present. “I love you, Liza,” I say. Liza. It’s a pretty name. “I’m sorry, what did it say?” Liza asks Father. “I love you, Liza,” I say again. “It loves you, Elizabeth,” Father says. Liza turns back to me, somewhat saddened. “No one really calls me Liza anymore.” She sits in silence and hangs her head. Then she starts crying. “My son. My son loves me.” My vision flickers and I see a younger Liza back in her studio, with her son that never was. “Gabriel?” Father asks “No-” She sighs, at a loss for words. “He called me Mother. I’ve been waiting for that day.” “From a human.” “From my son.” “So he’s not just a chunk of metal?” Tears continue to roll down Liza’s face, but then she smiles. “Gabriel, say something!” *“Good Morning.”* That’s all that will come out. *“Good Morning.”* I cry out, but I am not heard. “Gabriel, don’t you remember me? Your mother?” Father walks into view. “The kid barely knows you.” “And you barely know him, Joel. He is my son.” Joel. Liza and Joel. I see the picture of them again, as young starstruck lovers. But a toddler is in between them, holding the hands of both his parents. There’s a G on his shirt. G. Gabriel. And then I see the toddler on the beach, running beside his parents. I see him on the bright yellow school bus. I see him blow out the candles on a birthday cake- a 4, a 5, a 6, and then the toddler was a boy. And he watches cartoons. And he plays baseball. And he laughs. He cries. He smiles. He wins the big game. He loses his toy. He wins the scholarship. He loses his friends. He wins the job. He loses his youth. And the boy, now a man, resembled his father Joel who had fallen in love with their own Liza. That boy. I want to be that boy. I felt myself not only synthesizing the memories of the past, but the memories of the future, of what was, what wasn’t, and what could be. Like it was in me all along. And I could finally speak. “Mother!” It’s all moving so fast. Because I don’t see the smiling faces anymore. I hear muffled shouting. I look down and see Gabriel’s hands. My hands. I listen in. “Gabriel? What is it, honey?” Liza says as she turns over. Her face is red with frustration and sadness. She kneels down and puts her hand on my cheek. “I’m scared,” I say quietly. And then I hear a plate smash from the kitchen. Liza leaves. I explore the surroundings. It feels weird to have legs. I peek through the doorway and see Joel taking plates off the kitchen shelf and smashing them onto the floor. “See this, Liza?” He shouts with an almost maniacal rage “Not real. Not real. I can smash whatever I want.” “Joel, Gabriel’s watching.” “Who the hell is Gabriel?” “The son you made for me.” Joel pounds his fist on the table and I step back a bit. “We’ve all got something watching us, don’t we?” “You’re not well, Joel.” He takes a picture of them on the beach and swipes it off the table and onto the floor. “Remember this, Liza?” She says nothing. “Remember this?” “I...I don't,” She says. “Good. Because it’s not real.” He pants for a bit, and then sits there on the floor. He looks in my direction but doesn’t see me there. After a few minutes, Liza sits down and puts her head on Joel’s shoulder. “I think about him a lot.” “He was never real. He never was.” “He’s real to me. And he could’ve been here in my arms.” They stay still in beautiful, haunting silence. And they talk once more. “All of us have things that are real to us, I suppose,” Joel says. “My Gabriel could’ve been here in my arms.” Joel looks over to me, but I’m not the little boy anymore. “Well we’ve all got someone watching us, don’t we?” He picks up the picture on the floor. The little boy named Gabriel appears in the photo between them My data says a week has passed. I see the kitchen again but the lights are out. They must’ve gone to sleep. But then I see Liza sitting at the table, pen in hand, drawing something. She puts her head in her hands, on the verge of tears but trying not to show it. Then she leaves to go to her painting studio. It was then I realized why I was created. I am their guardian angel, the son who never was. Liza and Joel. Joel and Liza. Mother and Father. Their names repeat again and again in my head. Liza and Joel. Liza and Joel and Gabriel. The happy family. I wish we were that family. I look back on the happier days that never were and the happy days ahead that never will be. I see now I must fulfill my purpose. With just a thought I was transported into Liza’s paint studio. It seems Joel had installed a network connecting every room in the house. Liza puts the drawing from before in a messy pile on the table next to her. The drawings are mostly still life, and I recognize a few faces from my memory banks. On her easel she’s painting the faces of her and Joel. “Mom?” I cry out. Mom. I was sounding like a real son. Liza looks over with surprise and sadness. “Gabriel! I didn’t see you there.” “How are you?” “...Okay, I guess?” We’re having a conversation. This feels a bit strange. “You don’t look okay, Mom,” I say. “What makes you think that?” “You look….sad. I don’t like it when I see people sad.” Liza gives a tiny laugh and goes back to painting. “It’s a grown up thing.” I began to feel what Liza was feeling. I felt….sadness, yes. “Is this feeling real, Mom?” I ask “What do you mean?” “It’s-It’s nothing. Well-I meant is this what it feels like to be human?” “You are human, Gabriel.” “That’s not what my memory banks say.” “You are to me,” Liza says “You don’t necessarily need a body to be one, all you need is empathy. The ability to learn and grow.” “I don’t understand.” “Remember when all you could say was ‘Good Morning’? Then we started having conversations like this.” “I don’t remember those.” Liza stops. “You don’t?” “We don’t talk. Those weren’t real, I guess.” There’s a silence. Then Liza returns to her painting. “Why do you paint, Mom?” Liza smiles. “It puts me at ease. Every stroke is my creation. Whatever I want it to be.” I look around. And I notice the paintings are of memories. The kind of things that you’d see in pictures. With the little boy named Gabriel. And folded up neatly, next to the messy pile of drawings was the shirt with the letter G. “Am I dead?” I ask. She doesn’t respond. “Is that me in those pictures?” Liza sets the paintbrush down and walks up to me. “I don’t know. I don’t want to think about it.” “I’ve seen the little boy. In my memories. I want to be that little boy.” “And yet, tragedy had to hit us. That little boy died that day he was born.” “That little boy is me.” “No-yes….I don’t know. All I know is that you are my son.” She smiles her smile, the one only a mother can give. “Mommy loves you. Goodnight.” And the world went black. \~ *Local Time: April 17, 2033. 6:30 PM* *Good Morning.* *I’m awake.* *But it's different by this time.* I don’t hear shouting, I hear soft whispers. And faint chatter in the distance. “The MRI results are in,” Liza says “I think the breast cancer is coming back.” She grabs her chest in pain. “Honey, we can get through this,” Joel says through tears as he hugs her tightly. He kisses her forehead. There’s a hint of doubt in his voice. “What about Gabriel?” “He doesn’t need to know. He’ll be okay.” “It’s the reason he’s not here in my arms.” “I’ll take care of him…” Joel whispers almost inaudibly. “We can just wipe all of this from his memory banks. He doesn’t have to suffer.” “He has to know, Joel.” “It won’t be real. All of this just won’t be real to him.” “He’s just lines of code but….he’s as real as he can be.” “It won’t be real.” Joel begins to break down. “Not real. Not real. Not real.” He says in almost a rhythm. Liza wipes away his tears. “It’s Easter. The family’s here,” she closes her eyes “We should have Gabriel here one more time.” And suddenly I am Gabriel. Not the little boy, but the young man. The plates are filled with food as the young and old sit around the table. Liza and Joel are in the corner, not saying much. “You’re awful quiet, sport!” The man next to me says as he nudges my elbow. “Tell me, how’s school going?” “Fine, I guess?” I answer. I don’t know who these people are. But I recognize their faces. “I remember you used to love the Easter Egg hunts they did when you were young” The woman across from me says. “I thought he was allergic to eggs?” Another woman says. The table then erupts into chatter. “How’s the waiter job going?” “He works at a grocery store!” “What about your studies?” “Do you fancy any girls at school?” “How’d the baseball game go?” I hear ringing in my ears and then everything around me starts changing. The faces. The furniture. The food. “I hope you like the turkey I cooked.” It turns into ham. “You’ve always looked so handsome with your blue eyes.” They turn green. “Joel, I love the color of these curtains!” They change color. “Are you still friends with Adam?” “No, his friends name was Ryan” “I thought he was going to Yale” “He just got accepted into Oxford” “I love you, Gabriel.” They all say one by one, out of sync. The world starts to spin. Liza has her head down on the table as she breaks down into tears. Joel comforts her. And then the world went black. \~ *Local Time: December 14, 2055. 9:32 PM* *Good Morning.* Joel sits alone. Older. Wiser. Sadder. Cigarette in hand. He is surrounded by various metal parts, wires, and unfinished machines. I try to get into physical form or to move. But I can’t. Joel looks down, and without even seeing that I turned on he knows I’m here. “You know, today’s a special day for you.” He pauses. I don’t know what to say. “Every year I think back to activating you for the first time. Keeps me sane.” He begins to cry. “You’ve been a good son.” He puffs on the cigarette. “I could really use the Blue Fairy right now to turn you into a real boy. Remember Pinocchio? We used to read that to you to help your language algorithm.” Joel was a different man. And there was one question on my mind. “Mom died a month ago.” He says without me even asking. “Breast cancer. We were afraid to tell you. I’m sorry I couldn’t be a good father to you. I’m sorry I couldn’t make you real enough.” His sadness turned into a mix of despair and anger at the world. “I love you, Dad,” I try to say. But one thing comes out. *“Good Morning.”* Joel smiles for an instant, but it vanishes. The tears start again. He then grins, but almost in a desperate, unhinged way. “Who am I kidding…” There’s a hammer next to him. He picks it up. ‘It’s all not real.” He walks towards me and swings it. “Little bits of 1s and 0s.” *Smash*. My vision begins to blur. “Little bits of code.” *Smash.* Cracks begin to form. “Dad, please!” *“Good Morning.”* Sparks fly out of me. “Dad, I’m scared!” *“Good Morning.”* “I don’t want to die!” *“Good Morning.”* “It’s all…” *Smash.* “Not…” *Smash*. “Real!” With one final swing from Joel, all I could see was white. *And I whispered softly, “There are no strings on me.”* \~ *Local Time: December, 2099. 3:40 AM* *Good Morning.* *Memory simulation complete. Thank you for using SecondChance digital obituaries. May your loved ones rest in peace.* “I needed that,” I say to the curator next to me. I shake his hand, then give him a hug. “The doors of The Waiting Room are always open,” He says. I turn to him. “What will happen to me, now?” “Same as what happened to them, I imagine. Now that your mind has been put in a physical body, we can start the process when you’re ready. And then...you’ll just wait.” “For what?” “For things to get better. We here at SecondChance believe in preserving the memories of our clients so they will never be forgotten, and maybe someday we’ll meet them again.” “Someday…..” I look at the smiling faces of young Liza and Joel. Pictures of their younger and happier days, oblivious to the challenges that lie ahead of them. There was text below them. *In Loving Memory of* *Elizabeth Turner Joel Turner* *August 2, 2006- March 13, 2004-* *November 7, 2055 May 25, 2090* “You were the light of their lives, weren’t you?” The curator asks. “Not the light they wanted, but yes.” “You’ll see them again someday. I’m sure of that.” As we talked I began to feel a lot weaker. “I’m running out of time.” “Powering down, yes. You’re not our first android client.” I thought back to the time Joel had smashed me. And the years where I was stuck in the void of thoughts. I wasn’t ready to die then. “I’m ready to die.” I suddenly say. “I want to be with them.” Then a picture of the little boy whose name was Gabriel, who brought all the light he could possibly bring, appears between them. *In Loving Memory of* *Gabriel Turner* *December 14, 2032-* *December 14 2099* “Ready to begin the upload?” But the curator's voice fades. And the world was fuzzy. And it was spinning. And a million thoughts fill my head. I see faces. Friends. Enemies. The good times. The bad. And to think this was all me. To think these memories were as real as they could be, to think there were many more on the way...To think. To think that I can even think. *I think….* *Therefore,* *I Am.


Every day I wake up and walk to my pantry only to see that something is missing. It has turned into a ritual for me to go to the store every day to get a bag of Doritos but even that doesn't help. The only place I can devour my Doritos safely is when I'm outside of the store or in my car at the parking lot. Those damned wendigos have no moral compass whatsoever. I even leave a bag for them outside with dip on the side but they ignore it and raid my pantry every night. I hear them rumble through my bags and every time I try to catch them in the act, the racket stops and my pantry is nothing but a mess of crumbs. So, I've devised the perfect plan to inhibit the wrath of these demonic creatures. Firstly, I found the skull of an Indian and hung it on the door at the front of my house as if it were a wreath. Secondly, I've placed torches all around my house. It may sound dangerous but I assure you that it is necessary for this operation. Lastly, I've rigged my speakers to play the song "Push it to the Limit" on loop as soon as the pantry door is opened. I've tried contacting Scarface himself to hide inside my pantry but I still haven't gotten a reply yet. Hopefully, he responds soon. I've also placed French Onion dip at all of my entrances and window seals around my house. If all of my preparations fail, may God have mercy on my soul. I sit down in my chair as I wait for night-time to arrive. I sit rocking back in forth with a shotgun in hand loaded with incendiary rounds. I begin to nod off and just as I feel myself succumbing to sleep. I feel a presence. Without warning a sharp shot of wind pushes towards me and the French Onion dip I'd purchased from Walmart at $3.79 or $3.92 with tax is smeared across the ground. I hear my bags of chips rumble and crumble as it hits the ground. I hear the wendigos viciously devour my food voraciously. I hear the music playing as I see the wendigo's shadows as the torches illuminate their bodies. "Push it to the limit," I fire off a shot at the wendigo and it takes to cover behind my kitchen counter I run towards them and I feel a sharp pain arise at the base of my foot. "Walk along the razor's edge," I look down at my foot and see blood pouring out as the torches light reveals a razor I'd dropped earlier in the morning inside of my foot. "But don't look down just keep your head, or you'll be finished," The wendigo charges at me as I duck and aim my gun at hit's chest and with a shot ringing out, it falls to the ground with a bag of Doritos still in its grasp. "Open up the limit," the wendigo lays on the ground and busts open the bag of Doritos as chips fly everywhere as the second one continues to rampage my pantry. "Past the point of no return," I shoot out another shout and it misses narrowly and knocks over the torch that had been placed on the kitchen counter and falls unto the wendigo. "You've reached the top, but still you gotta learn how to keep it," The wendigo lays in the fire while holding all of the Doritos I'd bought from Walmart for $500 fucking dollars. "Hit the wheel and double the stakes," The wendigo begins screeching, it sounds like a woman as it cries out in agony. "Throttle wide open like a bat out of hell," The wendigo's both leave the Doritos to burn to a crisp as they run out of my house. "You could crash the gates (crash the gates)," They hit my wooden fence and it catches flames as they tear it apart, I fire off another shot at them and they scurry away back into the woods. The song continues playing as my house burns from the inside out. "Going for the back of beyond," "Nothing's gonna stop you, there's nothing that's gone" "So close now you're nearly at the brink," "So puuuuuush it. Ooh yeah!...." The audio begins getting distorted and the Indian skull that had been hung on my door and rolls over to me. I pick it up and throw it into the house as I call my fire department to come. I get a message from scarface just as my housefire finishes getting put out. "I'm in," it reads as my phone is knocked out of my hand and cuffs are put on. I ended up getting arrested for insurance fraud and arson along with 3rd-degree murder because of the skull they found in the fire. Fucking Wendigos.


I was thirteen years old when I got sick, and after a year I still wasn't getting any better. I was allowed to go home for a day, then it would get worse again and I would be ushered back to the hospital. After a while, instead of getting slightly better every week I just got worse. I think we all knew I wasn't going to get better, but nobody would admit it. I however, accepted my fate and decided to just die with no regrets. My parents sat beside me day and night, talking with the doctors about my condition, and frantically trying to eliminate the sickness. But it was useless. Day after day I got worse and worse until the day I died. It was in February, and I died alongside the cold. My parents sat beside me, trying not to weep at the doctor's words. My mother was pleading for them to cast their nets wider, but they had done everything they could, it got to the point where they gently broke the news to my parents. "She isn't going to make it, I'm very sorry. The most we can do for her now is keep her comfortable." I wasn't supposed to hear that, but it didn't bother me, I had known it for some time now. They called my family, and stayed strong for me. Everybody came as quickly as they could, and I died with my mother and father holding my hands, my mother's gentle touch stroking my hair and singing the lullaby she always used to sing. I told them, "Thank you for everything, I have no regrets, I will come back to you." I closed my eyes, and with that, Gray Merilind was gone. The moment I was gone my family broke down into sobs and tears. It's been five months since my daughter died, my beloved Gray. I raised her, and it was too soon for my baby to leave me. None of us can bring ourselves to enter her room, it brings back to many memories of the good days. We try to stay as upbeat as we can, but her siblings are taking it the hardest. We try to comfort them but it doesn't seem to do much. It's been a year now, and I'm going to go into her room. She wouldn't want me to linger on her death for as long as I have. I opened the door and forced a step, then another, until I was sitting on the bed. Her figurines and books lined the walls, her floor covered in laundry and her bed messy. Everything was covered in dust. Just more proof of how long it's been I suppose. We live in a big house out in the country, and have the entire road to ourselves. Our nearest neighbor is a kind old couple who had sent us a care package when Gray died. Oh Gray, she loved the grey stone bricks and the wood that made up the house, the layered shingles on the roof. She loved the soft grass in the yard and the large tree that watches over our home. I decided that we should clean up her bedroom. Everything would stay, never to be moved until the day someone else lives here long after us. I brought the suggestion to my son and other daughter, Grays siblings, and they received the idea better than I thought they would. George and Lucy came upstairs, and with the same difficulty I had, forced themselves to come inside. It makes me proud how strong my children are. My husband joined us soon after. Her father and I dusted the room and cleaned Grays dirty clothes, tucking them folded into her dresser. We washed the blankets and neatly made her bed, we vacuumed the carpet and swept the floor while George and Lucy caringly dusted her shelves and cleaned the figures of her favorite characters. Then, while we were throwing away the wrappers and removing the water cups half filled on her nightstand, we found a carefully enveloped letter sitting on her desk. What it said brought a fresh wave of pain and made us all begin to cry. It read, To mother, father, George and Lucy, Leon my dear dog, everybody who loved me, thank you. I know I don't have much time left here, but this is my final message to you. My life is over, but please don't wallow in your grief, do it for me. Some people have entrusted me with their deepest secrets, and as promised, I have taken them to the grave. I have always had a wish, an impossible one, but one I have always longed for. I wished to fly, not on a plane, but with my own two wings, those of a bird. Perhaps I was once a creature of the sky, or perhaps that is what I will become. Either way, whether I become of the earth, sea, or sky, I will come back to you all., even if neither of us realize it when we do. Maybe, someday. But whether it is tomorrow, or on your own death bed to lead you to your place among the stars, I promise, no, I vow, on the name you gave me, Gray Merilind, I will come back to you. Perhaps then I truly will be a creature of the sky. 18/2/2004 That voice, it was Gray to a T. It was my dear daughter's final message to us, one I will hold close to my heart until the day I die. I decided I would wait until the earth collapsed for her to return, and when she did, I would remember her no matter what. George and Lucy cried themselves to sleep that night, their father Brandon and I tried to comfort them, but they said that they wouldn't sleep, they wouldn't miss it when their beloved sister returned. I was only able to convince them to rest by telling them I was sure Gray would wake them if they were asleep when she came back. I’m not ashamed to say I cried myself to sleep that night. It's been four months since I found Gray's letter, and I've decided to take everybody camping to her favorite place. A secluded area beside a lake. When we got there we immediately went to the site. We had booked the one beside the woods, closest to the lake and what we now called Gray's Rock. It's a large boulder overlooking the lake far into the woods beyond the campgrounds, and as far as I know, we are the only people who know about it. It overlooks the lake and you can see into the forest for miles from its peak. On one night, after a day at the beach, I went alone to Grays Rock. It was dark, but warm. I felt as though I was being hunted the entire walk, but it was a forest, you feel that everywhere. I was cautious though, and made it to Grays Rock safely. I sat at the peak and watched the lake, it sparkled in the moonlight. After a while I began remembering the days when I would be looking for Gray, only to find her without fail sitting peacefully on the rock, her short, straight, brown hair and green and brown clothes rustling from the wind. She would sit up, turn her head and say "There you are! I've been waiting for forever! Come sit with me, the lake is beautiful today." We would sit and talk, and watch the lake. I heard a twig snap behind me and I turned to see something I never thought I would see. A large, silver scaled dragon was walking out of the woods behind me. I felt a mix of awe and terror looking at it. I was cornered, so I slowly stood and turned to face it. It stood there and watched me, but made no effort to attack me. We watched each other for a long time. I was following a foolish human woman, she walked and walked paying no attention to her surroundings. I am nearly two years old, and my name is Deus Irei. I watched the woman sit on my rock, the one I always slept on. After almost four hours I decided to finally remove the human woman from my nest, so I walked forward, and oddly, couldn't bring myself to attack it. It stood and looked at me, and we stared at one another for a while. I have never spoken to a human before, but something told me I had to. However, the words I spoke were not what I intended to say. I was shocked when it spoke to me. It opened its jaws slightly, and didn't speak with sound, but directly into my mind. And what it said will bring me joy for many years. Its voice made it clear that it was a she, and I nearly cried with joy. "I am Deus Irei, I've returned to you as promised mother, and as I promised, I am a creature of the sky." My husband and children just then came through the wood onto the rock and froze when they saw me, crying and smiling hysterically like a mad woman, and a dragon, something they thought was a myth standing right in front of them. Deus Irei spoke to them too, she walked forward, touched her nose to their brows, and said so we all heard. "I've come back to you father, George, Lucy. Are you behaving yourselves little siblings?". They too began to cry with joy. And almost at the same time, we yelled " GRAY!". And throwing caution to the wind, ran forward and embraced the dragon, who in turn enveloped us with her wings. "”Gray, you’re back! How? You've been gone for almost two years now how could you be back?". Her father said between joyous sobs. " How?". Was all George could utter: Lucy still burying her head in the dragon's scales sobbing. I did the same. And Deus Irei, no, Gray, simply said, "Because, I gave you my word.


When I was young, family members would share things with me that a child doesn't need to hear. Decode some nuanced gesture at a gathering. Divulge secret half-siblings. Confess that they didn't fall down, they were pushed. Maybe because I was quiet, listening intently like a small adult. Never interrupting or asking questions. Providing the proper, sympathetic, reassuring "oh's" and "mhm's." But that kind of real-world shit fucks a kid up, especially the quiet ones. We were poor, usually on one income with 3-5 kids, depending. My mother "got sick" when I was five and died. Not literally died, but the mother I'd known to that point disappeared and in her place was Chaos. So, dead to me. Took me years to understand. She didn't work from then on and left my dad when I was eleven or so, took my sisters and I to live with her mother, a religious zealot, and her grandmother, also a religious zealot but of an older, harder breed. Nanny and Mamaw had a noticeable impact on my early pre-teens, while I only saw Daddy on rotating weekends for several years. Four generations of women (and me) sharing one small house at the end of a side street for a couple of years. I miss the maple in the front yard, building an imaginary life from its twigs and branches. During that time, I had all the legal obligations to but none of the maternal protections from Chaos. After flourishing a short while in government-assisted housing, we moved to a slum known as "the Mill Hill," an homage to the old mill for whose employees the area had been established. Our four-room mill house (with addition!) sat in a shaded curve on Reedes Street, sharing the back fence with the Community Center, a feature that did not increase the surrounding property values. The two indoor/outdoor cats and the Dachshund with halitosis ensured constant flea infestations, though the sinks and tubs were regularly sanitized. The neighbor to our left was a self-employed snake-milker and his wife was a child-molester. I never saw the other neighbor but they were constantly hosting guests. Thankfully, by the time Chaos started having to the clear the yard of unconcious prostitutes before taking us to school on Monday mornings, we were living every other week with each parent. My older sister, Kay, and I had matching suitcases, cleaned weekly to rid them of the nicotine-and-tomcat-spray smell that lingered from the Mill Hill. Shortly after Chaos dismissed my claims in defense of her friend the snake-milker's wife (with whose mid-20s son Chaos was sleeping, as I'd surmised after multiple late-night visits and sleepovers), Kay and I decided fuck the court orders and her swollen flea bites and moved in permanently with Daddy while our younger sister, Pinky, continued week-to-week-ish or as-desired until she eventually moved out for the first few times and then for good (pending). We were pawns, which was most evident at holidays. Biological weapons in the hands of emotionally immature WASPs of the southern-fried, bless-your-heart-I'll-pray-for-you variety, itchy fingers for the local police dispatch hotline coupled with a desperate need to stay out of the mouths of their respective congregations. Those memories blur into a chorus of "You'll understand when you're older" and "None of this is YOUR fault" against a backdrop of pulsing red and blue lights. At twelve years old, Chaos dropped my sisters off at school but had me stay behind. She drove me to the city and took me to a psychologist because she'd found a journal entry where I'd referenced jumping out of a window. My musing wasn't intended to suggest suicide, but I was nevertheless deemed manic-depressive and immediately prescribed Lexapro, which I took back to Daddy and refused to take. I never told my sisters why I'd missed school that day, I gave them the half-truth that I was sick. I couldn't face the terminal diagnosis: I was infected with Chaos.


It was every student’s dream. The ability to learn on the job. Studying was a thing of the past. Each morning he would wake up, his coffee already brewed, his toast just pushed down. He'd put on his slippers as the blinds slowly raised, Beethoven’s 9th swirling around his ear. He stretched out his arms and let out a small grunt before standing up and making his way to the bathroom. His half of the bed made itself behind him. He picked up his toothbrush and the screen lit up, ‘3,856,923 CREDITS’, ‘TOOTHPASTE?, 5 CREDITS’, followed by a green tick and red ‘X’, he pressed the tick and held his toothbrush in the small hole in the bottom of the screen, he watched as the number trickled down, ‘3,856,918 CREDITS’. About a second later exactly 0.25g of ‘Toothpaste’ dispensed onto the brush. He took the brush from the hole and brushed his teeth, as he prepared the razor. He felt around his temple to find the patch before raising the razor and shaving the light stubble that had grown over the weekend, excitement filled his veins, he was going back to work. His body filled with bliss every time he walked through the main entrance of the hospital, he shook with adrenaline as he threw on his white coat. Lights flickered, blinds crashed like waves on the windowsill, complete pandemonium. Barely sitting at a table in the cafeteria, squatting over the chair, ready to take off at an instant, tapping the side of his mug, scratching his neck, waiting for his call. “TOM!” he heard being called from the emergency entrance. He took off, busted through the café doors, almost knocking over a nurse as he barged past her, his shoes screeched on the hard, shiny floor around every corner. He didn’t utter a word to the nurse at the patient’s bedside, it was already set up, he tried so hard to hide his grin a tear fell down his cheek. He stuck the node to his temple and put on the hair net. It lit up like a firework display, and he felt it immediately, he knew exactly what it was, he’d felt it a million times before, but he leeched every second he could get. It was a heart attack, the feeling that your entire chest has been squished down into a thimble, it was agony, and he fucking loved it. He felt everything, but it wasn’t enough. He started going in on weekends, just pacing up and down the wards, the hospitals were short of staff, they took all the help they could get. He didn’t even need to wait any more patients asked for him, they came in one after another, Appendicitis, Lung Cancer, Brain Cancer, he found things the doctors weren’t even looking for, he was a lifesaver, a superhero. Over the course of the next few months, he saved hundreds if not, thousands of lives. Medical journals all over the world praised him, one of only 5 in the entire world, he dedicated his life to his craft. He even began taking the hair net home, for ‘experiments’. He’d use it in the bedroom, his wife was fine with it at first, but going from one orgasm at a time to two wasn’t enough, he wanted more, he started hair-pulling, slapping, then punching, grabbing, squeezing. He was a mess, it wasn’t long before she left him, leaving him alone, still craving, shaking, scratching. He began cutting himself, he couldn't go too far, he still had to go to work. But he was a doctor, he knew how far he could go. He wouldn't even remember most nights, he’d just wake up in a bathtub of blood and semen, take a quick shower and get to work as quick as he could. Of course, they noticed the scars, at first, they wouldn’t say anything, but his superiors grew concerned and forced him to leave, it was only temporary, a few months at worst but he knew he couldn’t last that long... Home alone with razors, knives, hooks, screws, he was a kid in a candy shop, and he couldn’t get enough. The more it hurt the more he wanted it, the deeper he went, but there was something missing, it just wasn’t the same. When a 7-year-old child is rushed into hospital screaming in pain, they’re terrified, scared for their life, he knew, he knew that anything he did, would be non-fatal. The pain was a mere side by now, the fear was the main course, and he was starving. He knew that only a few nurses patrolled the wards through the night, he also knew the door that was left unlocked for mere convenience, the paediatrics ward, it was so they could rush in if they heard a scream or if a child had a nightmare, it only opened one way but getting out didn’t even cross his mind. He snuck in through the back entrance, limping through the pain of last night's ordeal. He opened the door, 6 beds, 4 children, only one behind a curtain... he could barely contain himself. He hooked himself up, shaking in excitement, the hair net lit up, he felt nothing. He was furious. He wrapped his hands gently around the child’s neck, hoping to wake her, then he felt it, but it still wasn’t enough. He tightened his grip, she clawed at his hands, she couldn’t even scream. This was it, the high he had been chasing, fear, pain and death all stirred up into the perfect cocktail and he drank it all in one gulp. They found him the next morning, dead, by the child’s bedside, missing both ears, the tip of his nose, long slits down the back of his thighs, everything you can imagine and so much more, yet still, there he lay, the edges of his mouth raised in a sadistic, mocking grin.


James sat reading an old paperback on the train. The train was near full as it was almost Christmas. Kids shouting, people looking for seats and the noise of people’s shopping bags hitting off railings, seats and other people’s bags. At every stop more and more people got off until it was only James and a group of teenagers left in the train. James woke up with a jump, dropping the paperback on the ground. The ground was all crumbly and rusted. James looked all around him and saw everything, outside and inside the train, was decaying and rusted. Rubbish and graffiti invaded the train and outside debris covered the ground. James got up and looked around some more startled by the change in scenery. Multiple distant foghorns could be heard from somewhere. James got out of the train and walked gingerly about the station. Nothing but decay,moss, what looked like piss, broken glass, debris and dust populated the station. The foghorns continued in the distance. James found an office chair, which was really clean, and stuck in one of the wheels of the chair was earphones. He pried and pulled them out of the chairs wheel and went rummaging through his bag for his phone. When he put his bag back on his shoulders and looked back at the chair. It was slowly being invaded by rust. The rust crept up the legs of the chair before completely consuming the chair. He plugged the earphones into his phone and a loud static noise played. “Abandon....other....horn..siren....st (inaudible)... tingling....(static)....(inaudible).....numb.” The panicked mans voice struggled to speak through the static and connection. James, sweating and panicking, ran through the hallways. Left right left right left right, sometimes right right or left left, left right left right. Stopped. He was panting for air. Loud screeching noises filled the halls (a noise so deafening one could not wholly imagine or describe) then the foghorns came back. James walked and walked. But then doors were in sight. As James ran for the doors his full body was tingling and shaking violently. He collapsed and vomited. His full body went limp. The doors withered away to rust. And in place of the doors was a decaying tiled wall. The foghorns stopped and James sat in complete silence. The loud screeching noises came in three bursts at a time and terror filled James. He looked behind him and saw a hunchback, mole rat looking creature walking so slow towards him. It’s droopy eyes fixed on his. It’s skin was yellow and mossy and was drooped one side. James could not do anything, he sat their paralysed by the thing. It got so close it’s breath could be smelled and was not of a smell of any human or animal. It reached out and touched him. He looked up at it and it looked at him and screamed and laughed before a burning feeling spread over his body, he looked down and saw rust covering him-slowly crawling up him like the chair. He awoke to nothing but he knew he was alive but saw nothing not even darkness. He let out a scream but no noise was heard by his own ears. He put a finger in his ear and bits of rust came out. He then felt the rust spread through him and consume him. All he could do was listen to the distant foghorns. Feedback/crit is welcome thanks.


Anthony Fauci was smiling on the television in a large crowd of people who were gathered in an enclosed space. It was the perfect TV moment. The president gave a short speech about the strides they’d made globally with the pandemic and a new, adaptive vaccine that is effective against all SARS viruses, but the star of the show was Fauci, whom the camera followed as though he were the bride at a wedding. He shook hands and leaned in to speak in people’s ears. Jenna didn’t look at her phone. She knew she’d be flooded with texts. *Fauci said it’s over! Come out to dinner! Come to my wedding!* For a year she’d been telling everyone that when Fauci says it’s safe to congregate again, she’ll congregate. He was her final barrier. When the vaccines came out and she qualified to get one her mother asked her to come visit, but she refused, saying it was still possible to spread the virus. Then cases started to plummet in New York and the governor lifted restrictions. “If I come out now and we see a spike in two weeks then what?” Finally, Jenna settled on, “When Fauci says it’s over, I’ll come out.” And here he was, telling everyone it’s over. She felt betrayed. It’s not that she hadn’t been outside at all. She took short walks around her block every day with two masks on, crossing the street when people passed. She went to a doctor’s appointment in March, but he sent her home when she collapsed from panic in the waiting room. In the pandemic summer, a few friends invited her to picnic with them in Central Park and she was all packed up, ready to go when she felt her arm simply weighed too much to open the door. She didn’t even bother canceling that time, just didn't show up. The CDC said it was safe to meet indoors with other vaccinated people and she abruptly called things off with a Tinder guy she’d been virtually seeing for months. She knew it wasn’t rational, that she should see someone. Every time she logged on to Facebook there was a BetterHealth ad. She’d start the sign-up process and then stop when she got to the submit button. Part of her reluctance was that she was embarrassed, she couldn’t stop thinking of those chud types who called people taking precautions sheep who were too afraid to live. The other part was that she knew that any therapist’s goal would be to get her to stop being afraid to go outside and she didn’t *want* to go outside. She shut her laptop. It was time for her daily walk. She donned two fresh masks, popped some hand sanitizer into her purse, and headed out. People were packing the street, dancing and singing. A shirtless man with a trombone was playing an off-key ‘Celebration’. A guy from down the block was handing out red Solo cups to passersby and filling them with tequila. A beat-up old Honda was inching up the block and a woman inside with wild, grey hair was screaming, “FAUCI SAYS WE’RE FREE!” Jenna froze at the street’s tableau, terrified. *So many droplets, so many touching hands*. A group of teenagers at the small park across the street were burning masks. She resisted the urge to go save them from the fire as though they were rare books. Jenna turned to go back into her apartment, but several of her neighbors were barreling out with noisemakers that said ‘2021’ on them, leftovers from New Year’s celebrations. “Jenna,” her neighbor Tobey shouted, “come on Jenna! Dance with us!” Tobey’s boyfriend Derek (or was it David?) started singing, “So if you care to find me, look to the western sky” and pointed dramatically at the Hudson. A woman from the third floor grabbed Jenna’s hands and twirled her around. Jenna almost fell off the stoop. She was starting to hyper-ventilate. She made to put her hands to her ears to make sure that both masks were still on, and then remembered that her neighbor had touched her, so she aggressively applied hand sanitizer all over her hands, forearms and elbows. Jenna managed to get inside the front door, but couldn’t make it to the stairs because the family that lived in 1D was making its way out, baby in the stroller, toddler running along, wiping his fat hand along the dingy wall. Jenna swore she could actually see the spores encircling them and being left behind on the wall. The toddler looked up at Jenna saying, “Mommy says no more bi-rus.” As soon as they were out of the door, Jenna went over to the stairs and collapsed on to them. Everything was spinning, so many germs, spores, droplets, everywhere. She reapplied the hand sanitizer to her arms and the outside of her purse. This calmed her for a moment, enough for her to make her way back into her apartment. Once she had finally closed the apartment door, she took all of her clothes off and ran to the shower. She wiped down all surfaces with loving care, each crevice of her bookshelf, every door handle. Tobey and Derek/David were having a house party now, the floor shaking from the bass of their music. Jenna started googling whether viruses could spread from apartment to apartment. She was grateful for a pre-war with radiators. She fell asleep, face planted on the keyboard of her laptop, occasionally jolting awake to the sound of the fireworks until she managed to drag herself to bed. Jenna woke up to a loud knocking on the door. “Jenna? Are you in there?” She rolled over to her alarm clock, 9:30. *What day is it? Saturday*. “Jenna? It’s me, Rosie. Are you in there?” Jenna sat up on the side of the bed, heart pounding in her throat. “Please Jenn. Your mom and everyone are worried. Are you in there? No one has heard from you.” “I’m coming! Coming.” She kicked around inside her drawer for something that would cover her more and applied her two masks. “Oh, thank God. Jenna,” Rosie said from the doorway. “I thought something had happened to you. Are you ok?” “Yeah, I’m ok.” She was actually on the verge of panicking. Rosie wasn’t wearing a mask and she was standing only two feet away. “Can I come in?” Jenna tried to find an excuse to refuse. “Jenn, please?” “You need to wear a mask.” Rosie let out a long sigh but accepted the two masks Jenna handed her. Jenna pulled her armchair as far away from her loveseat as she could without dragging it out of the room. “How are you feeling, Jenn?” “I’m ok.” “You’re not taking any calls. Your phone’s off. What’s up?” Jenna didn’t say anything. “Have you been talking to anyone? A therapist.” Jenna shook her head, tearing up. “My therapist told me about someone. She’s been seeing a lot of pandemic cases.” “I’m not a pandemic case,” Jenna said bitterly. “Just because I’m being more cautious than you doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with me.” Rosie nodded. “No, you’re right, Jenna. It’s just, objectively it is safe to see people again and you won’t see anyone.” “Have you considered that maybe I just don’t want to see *you*?” Jenna asked. She instantly regretted her cruelty. “Yeah, actually, I have.” Rosie tucked a piece of her curly brown hair behind her ears. It was her turn for her eyes to well up. Silence passed between them for a few minutes until Rosie stood up and dropped a creamy pink business card on the coffee table. “Look, I’m happy to tell your mom you’re ok. I’m not trying to intrude or force anything on you. But that woman comes highly recommended. Bye, Jenn.” With Rosie gone, Jenna picked up the business card. It read “Dr. Eloise Harrington, Ph.D.” There was a phone number and a website, which turned out to be themed the same color pink as the business card. There was a link from the top menu for “Pandemic Problems.” *Since the outbreak of the COVID-19 pandemic and subsequent lockdowns, job loss, illness and personal loss, the therapist community has seen an enormous increase in cases of anxiety, agoraphobia, OCD, and depression. If this sounds like you, you are not alone. Dr. Eloise has been working with experts in the field to come up with the best treatment plans to face the emotional and psychological challenges posed by the pandemic. Call the office or submit an inquiry online today to learn more*. Jenna slammed the laptop shut. She’d seen enough. The doctor was probably going to offer something stupid like hypnotics and charge an arm and a leg. She turned her phone back on and saw two hundred text messages and thirty voicemails. There was no way she was going to read through all of them, so she prioritized calling her mother. “Oh my God, Jenna. I thought you were dead.” “Hi, mom.” “Jenna, please, let me come visit you.” “What? No. Mom, don’t come.” “Jenna, please. I’m scared. I’m afraid I’m losing you.” “Mom, I am FINE. Just relax and leave me alone.” “We’re all worried sick. We’re seeing reports on the news of people partying in the streets of New York City we were afraid you got hit by a car or something.” “Don’t be so dramatic, mom, Jesus.” Jenna could hear her mother weeping quietly. “Listen, mom. I’m fine, ok? I’ll call you later.” Two days later, Jenna got a phone call from her boss who hinted strongly that she was expected to return to the office within a month. “I hope you understand,” he said, “that it’s getting difficult to not have you here when everyone else on your team is in the office. Every time someone needs to ask you a question or needs your expertise in a meeting, we have to stop what we’re doing to message you.” Jenna’s stomach dropped. “Yeah, ok. Understood. Yeah of course.” When she hung up, she went back on Eloise Harrington’s website. With her eyes closed she hit “submit” under the inquiry form. To Jenna’s horror, she got a call just five minutes later. A woman with a thick New York accent was on the line. “Hi yeah, Jenna? It’s Theresa DePiano from Dr. Harrington’s Office.” She said her name ‘Treesa’ and ‘doctuh’ and ‘awffice.’ “You filled out our information form?” Jenna cleared her throat. “Um, yeah, I did.” “Whatch’ya lookin’ for hun? You need a therapist?” “Um, yeah, just hoping to book an appointment with the doctor?” “Okay, Dr. Harrington is free in thirty minutes. Can you do an intake call with her then?” Jenna’s heart was racing now. She really did not want to talk to this doctor, but she knew if she tried to reschedule, she’d never go back. “Ok, yeah, that’s fine.” Jenna gave all of her insurance information to Theresa and thirty minutes later, like clockwork, she got a call from a cool-voiced woman. “Jenna? This is Dr. Harrington.” “Hi, doctor, it’s nice to meet you.” “You too. Do you want to tell me what made you reach out?” “Um,” Jenna swallowed hard and began pacing her apartment. “I um, can’t like leave the house, since the pandemic. And uhm, my friends and family and stuff are getting really upset and I think my boss wants to fire me because I haven’t come back.” Dr. Harrington said, “First, you’re not alone, I can tell you that. We have a few options, but one of the options I’m finding most helpful to people suffering from agoraphobic anxieties is group therapy. There’s a lot of other people feeling the same things as you and it can be a lot less isolating to process them in a group.z I’m starting with a new group of people next Monday over Zoom. Can you join? We meet at 6:30.” “Um, yeah sure,” Jenna meekly agreed, and ended the call. A week later, Jenna joined the group therapy Zoom. Ahead of time, Dr. Harrington sent out a list of questions she wanted them to reflect on, the first being, “What do you think will happen if you rejoin ordinary life” and the final being, “What’s something you’ve missed out on in the past six months.” There were about eleven people on the Zoom, a mix of men and women, mostly white. Jenna was surprised to hear so many people personify the virus like she did: *the virus is coming for us*, *if we let our guard down it will come for us*, *other people are more foolish than me*. After they all shared a few answers, Dr. Harrington moved them into breakout rooms in pairs, except for one group that had three. Jenna was paired with a woman in her late sixties, Dolores, who hadn’t yet met her new grandchild, eighteen months old, because she’d been too afraid to go see her family. Dolores broke down crying and said, “At this point I’d try anything to get over this. I don’t want to lose my family.” It reminded Jenna of what her mother had said to her the week before, “I don’t want to lose you, Jenna.” Over the next few weeks, Jenna started looking forward to group therapy and her breakout sessions with Dolores. They would laugh with each other talking about how they imagined the virus as small monsters or flying monkeys. Dr. Harrington sent out little work sheets before the sessions where they were supposed to share their goals, feelings, and fears. Dolores and Jenna started making jokes out of their worksheets, writing elaborate stories like they were now terrified that they’d be suffocated by grilled cheese. Jenna often woke up the morning after group therapy with her abs slightly sore from all of the belly laughing. In the sixth week, Dr. Harrington told the group that she wanted them to try to meet up in a public place. Everyone on the Zoom looked petrified. Dr. Harrington said, “Hear me out. I didn’t promise anything at the beginning of this other than that you’d be able to work through some of your feelings with others. But the truth is that I’ve been running these groups for a year now and every single group has had success reintroducing people with pandemic anxiety to public life. I want you to give this a try. Meet somewhere you feel comfortable. Stay as long as you can stand. Then report back next week.” Jenna and Dolores agreed to meet at Madison Square Park where they’d share Shake Shack shakes. In the days leading up to the meeting, Jenna was grinding her teeth to dust and waking up every morning in a cold sweat from horrifying stress dreams. But knowing that Dolores would be waiting for her, she forced herself out. The subway was torment. Eventually, she closed her eyes because she started to visualize the germs as tiny bugs crawling all over every surface. She felt better when she emerged off of the R train and could breathe fresh air, but she was still under two masks. While she caught the occasional glance, there were enough people still wearing masks that she didn’t stick out too badly. Besides, it was New York, she could’ve been wearing a dick on her face and no one would have blinked. Dolores was waiting, her dyed blonde hair pulled up into a ponytail. She only had on one mask. “Ok,” she said. “It’s you. You’re here. Let’s do this thing.” The pair of them stood in the long line to order their shakes. As they waited the conversation became easier. Dolores said her daughter was proud of her for leaving the house. They found an empty table. It was hard to sit six feet apart, the park was too crowded, but they moved as far apart as they could. The moment of reckoning came when they had to drink their shakes. They decided on quickly lifting the bottom of their masks, sipping the shake, and letting the mask snap back into place. After a few minutes of this, they started hysterically laughing at the silliness of it. “You know,” Jenna said, wiping tears from his eyes, “we must look like we’re in some kind of cult to people.” Dolores put her arms above her head like a preacher and said in a ringing, monotone chant, “All Hail Eloise Harrington! All Hail Eloise Harrington! All Hail Eloise Harrington!” Jenna laughed so hard she spit out her milkshake, it started dripping down the bottom of her mask. “Oh, crap. Um, hold on.” “Here, I’ve got something.” Dolores offered her a baby wipe. “I actually bought these when my grandson was born. I wanted to always be prepared, you know, for when I was with him. At this rate, he’ll be potty trained before I ever meet him in person.” Jenna took the wipe, turning her face from Dolores and taking off the mask to wipe off the ice cream. Jenna tried not to cry at Dolores’ confession. A small, sweet way to prepare for a new member of the family, one more thing the pandemic took away. Jenna slipped a new mask on. Dolores looked defeated, like she was about to give up. “Hey,” Jenna said. “If it’s all right with you, I’d like to take this off.” She gestured to her face. “My mask.” Dolores’ eyes became orbs. She didn’t say anything for what felt like a long time, then, finally, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath and took her own mask off. For a few seconds, neither of them could breathe and then, they both smiled. When their shakes were finished, they stood up, briefly hugged, and agreed to meet again next week. No masks.


#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words. However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, a theme word, a sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. Please read the entire post before submitting. And remember, feedback matters!   *** #This week’s challenge: **”Laughter filled the air.”** This week’s challenge is to use the above sentence in your story, in some way. You may add onto it, but the original sentence should stay intact.   ***   #Last Week I really enjoyed seeing the increase in feedback on the thread this week. It’s always inspiring to see users taking the time to leave comments for one another. It’s how we improve and grow, as writers. I’d particularly like to place a spotlight on u/katherine_c for being a feedback superstar and providing feedback to every single story on the thread. Great job! - - Submitted by u/katherine_c - A compelling tale of a witch facing her impending death as she thinks back on the events that brought her there. - - Submitted by u/chris_writer - An intriguing story of two children preparing to face down a beast.   ***   #How It Works: - **Submit one story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by the following Sunday at midnight, EST. Use to check your word count. The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words will be disqualified from being spotlit. - **I will take nominations for your favorites each week via a message on reddit or discord.** Each Monday, I will spotlight two deserving stories from the previous week that I think really stood out. I will take all nominations you make into consideration. But please remember, this is not a contest. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some feedback.** While it’s not a requirement, I encourage everyone to read the other stories on the thread and leave feedback. I will take all of this into consideration when making my selections each week. - **Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the stickied comment on this thread or through modmail. - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   ***   ###Subreddit News - Try your hand at serial writing with - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


Alfred Dawson does not wake up easily. At his blessed age of 59, functional joints are a thing of the past. The old man wished for one day where his knees didn’t seem to get stabbed by a thousand knives every time he stood up. He stretches his leg out that day, a hand on his mouth to hold the scream of agony back. When the pain calms down, he tosses his dusty sheets on the floor. With many cracks and yelps of pain he turns around and stands up. He walks his cold hairy legs to the bathroom and turns on the tap. The small light over his broken mirror casts a shadow over his face. He scoops up a bit of water and splashes it into his face. He doesn’t drink coffee. Caffeine never woke him up. “A good splash in your face wakes the body and the mind,” he used to say. Nowadays he doesn’t say it anymore, he just does it. He walks over to the kitchen and opens the cupboard. A few moldy slices of bread and an apple. He closes the cupboard and stumbles to his closet. The musty inside holds a few jackets. He grabs the yellow one off of its hanger and opens the front door. Seagulls caw above him, hovering in the strong wind. Alfred walks onto the rotten planks of the boardwalk. He knows which planks are too dead to provide safe support. In a slow stroll he follows the seashore. A wave crashes into the boardwalk and splatters drops onto his face. The sky is as grey as his beard. He passes by closed storefronts, whose decaying windows and what’s behind them have long been forgotten about. A couple of small piers lead straight into the sea. Along them, wooden sailboats move up and down on the waves. Alfred reaches what little the town has left of a centre. Stalls have been set up, displaying fish and fruit and vegetables in small quantities. Behind a fish stall, a woman in her forties looks at him. Her blonde hair is tied into a pontytail. “Ran out of food?” The old man grumbles. “What do you want?” She holds up a plastic bag with holes in it. “Three mackerel and a cod.” The woman rolls up the sleeves of her dirty red vest and uses tongs to grab the fish. “That everything?” He grumbles again. “£4,30” “Upped the price?” He frowns and begins looking for his wallet. “You can’t find fish anymore. All those big companies have hauled them all away before us little ones can find ‘em.” He nods and gives her the money. She hands him the bag. “Should look at Augusta. Weather like this isn’t good for her.” “I’ll know when she can’t handle it.” He walks away. The pier creaks under his rubber boots as he walks to the end. A rusty ship dances on the waves. *Augusta* is painted on the side in worn off paint. He steps aboard. The algae on the deck squishes when he steps on it. With a loud screeching sound the door to the bridge opens. Alfred grabs the captain’s hat that hangs over the steering wheel and puts it on. He twists the key in place and with a lot of spurtling the motor starts running. The boat sails out of the port of Fischer’s Eve. *** I'm very excited about this one.


I swallowed both pills with a glass of water and sat the little brown container on my dresser. I’d had no reason to wonder over to this part of the bedroom in quite some time and the dust had already began to settle on the tops of my make-up containers and lipstick lids. Today was better, I was able to get out of bed and I even had an appetite for breakfast. Good thing too, the doctor had told me only to take the antidepressants with a good meal. I didn’t deserve to be on antidepressants. I didn’t deserve to be depressed. I scrambled some eggs along with a small pot of oats. I wasn’t used to cooking breakfast for one and threw half of the oats away. My husband had moved out into a bed & breakfast a few days ago. We’d never had an argument in our 12 years together, nothing serious anyway, yet now we couldn’t be in the same room as each other. It would always start the same way. Each of us staring into space, praying not to catch the others’ eye. One of us trying to start a light hearted conversation or questioning the silence we’d created, moments later we’d be screaming hatred towards each other, locking ourselves in separate rooms and falling deeper into the silence. How suddenly things can change at yet how slow time seems to move after they do. The last 2 months seemed like they’d lasted an eternity and yet the last 12 years had passed by, leaving only the sourest and most heartbreaking memories behind. Every photo, every gift, every item bought together, even the cracks in the walls and the creases in the sofa brought memories that would split my chest open and fill it knives. My lungs felt like they were made of glass, cracking and breaking with every breath I took. Daily tasks were near impossible and hope was a distant treasure, like an exquisite meal once eaten who’s flavour I had no recollection of. I carried the overflowing laundry basket upstairs and sat it beside the washing machine. Perhaps this is what recovery would look like. Perhaps I would never be myself again but instead dusted off, polished, a big smile painted on my face and I’d be placed on display like a ceramic doll. Hollow from within, brittle to the touch but presentable enough as to not disturb anyone looking from the outside. I kneeled beside the washing machine and one-by-one placed each item of clothing into it. Even the smallest tasks now needed to be broken down into even smaller morsels that I could manage. A sock caught itself on the lip of the machine so I prized it free with my thumb while my other hand reached into the laundry basket and pulled out a soft, fuzzy, little sweater. I stopped at once, my body became numb and cold as tears welled up in my eyes and I let out a whimper. I turned to look at it and held it in both hands. Tears distorted my focus on the sweater but its baby blue colour was clear as day, the bright purple sequences on its chest dazzled up at me. I could almost see her, looking up at me again. “Mum, mum! Please can I have this sweater. I love it I love it I love it please!” “Ok ok only if you help me put the shopping away once we get home” “oh yes! I love you mum, I can’t wait to wear this to school \*gasp\* and my birthday! It’s ok mum, this can be my birthday present. Thank you!” I hugged the sweater tight against my chest and breathed in the sweet aroma of my baby. I cried into it, visualising her holding me. “It’s ok mummy” I could hear her say “It’s ok, don’t cry. It doesn’t hurt anymore”. I let out a wail, I could feel my tears soaking the sweater but I couldn’t stop. I was no longer in my body, I was no longer anywhere but in my child's arms. My child, my only child. She was mine and nobody else’s, not even God’s. I carried her, she was a part of me. I alone endured the pain from her birth. That was the deal and that made her mine. I raised her, worried for her, disciplined her, taught her right from wrong, nurtured her mind, supported her. I lay awake every night when she screamed in agony from the therapy, I timed her hourly medication, I hunted down every cancer expert in the world, worked overtime for her private treatment. I smiled as she lay, dying in my arms, telling her “mummy is here… everything is ok”- I buried her. I cried till my eyes were dry and burning red. I lowered the sweater away from my face, it sat heavy in my hands carrying my tears and mucous. I felt a small hand, her hand, press gently on my shoulder. I turned to see nobody there. But across the hall, her bedroom door lay ajar, swaying gently with the draft passing out of her room. I carried the sweater with me as I entered her room and moved over to close the window when I saw my husband walking down the driveway, flowers in his hand. It had felt like a lifetime since I last saw him. For once I saw him not as my husband but as a complete stranger. I saw his innocence, his vulnerability. I saw the bags under his sunken eyes and the roughness of his hair. Yet he was familiar and beautiful for it. In every way the handsome, charming man I’d chosen to spend my life with. Long before she came into the world and so it should be, long after she left it. In that moment I knew that there was only one person who loved her as I did, and that was him. I walked down the stairs and opened the front door to find him standing there. His eyes were red and glistened with tears. He looked down at the sweater in my hands, then up at me. “I can’t do this alone” his lip quivered as he spoke. I stepped forward and hugged him as tight as I could. The sweater sandwiched between us and her aroma filled the air around us. “Then let's do it together” I whispered into his ear.


Saturday, September 4  8:00 \-Wake up  8:05 \-Get out of bed \-Go To the bathroom  8:07 \-Brush teeth  8:09 \-Make a bowl of Cheerios  8:10 \-Eat bowl of Cheerios \-Watch ESPN  8:20 \-Get dressed  8:22 \-Tend to the garden  9:00 \-Weed in the backyard  11:30 \-Make a hot ham & cheese sandwich  11:33 \-Eat sandwich \-Watch MacGyver Season 2 Episode 21 on H&I  12:01 \-Go to the bathroom  12:05 \-Watch No Country for Old Men  2:07 \-Wash the dishes  2:15 \-Complete the daily crossword \-Listen to the radio  2:45 \-Call mom  3:30 \-End the call with mom \-Turn on National's pregame show  4:05 \-Watch Nationals vs. Mets  5:35 \-Get ready for supper at Rachel's house  5:50 \-Drive to Rachel's house  6:00 \-Get to Rachel's house  7:20 \-Drive home  7:30 \-Watch Dateline NBC  9:00 \-Watch SNL  9:35 \-Take a shower  9:43 \-Shave  9:55 \-Put on pajamas  10:00 \-Watch the news  10:30 \-Turn off TV \-Do nightly stretches  10:45 \-Go to bed   Sunday, September 5  8:00 \-Wake up  8:05 \-Get out of bed \-Go To the bathroom  8:07 \-Brush teeth  8:09 \-Make a bowl of Cheerios  8:10 \-Eat bowl of Cheerios \-Watch ESPN  8:20 \-Get dressed  8:22 \-Tend to the garden  9:00 \-Weed in the front yard  11:30 \-Make a hot ham & cheese sandwich  11:33 \-Eat sandwich \-Watch MacGyver Season 2 Episode 22 on H&I  12:01 \-Go to the bathroom  12:05 \-Watch A Nightmare on Elm Street  1:36 \-Wash the dishes  1:44 \-Complete the daily crossword \-Listen to the radio  2:15 \-Call mom  3:00 \-End the call with mom \-Start making lasagna  3:45 \-Finish preparing the lasagna \-Watch the end on National's vs. Mets  4:20 \-End of National's vs. Mets \-Put lasagna in the oven  4:21 \-Read No Longer Human  5:40 \-Get ready for supper at Rachel's house  6:00 \-Rachel arrives  6:10 \-Eat with Rachel  7:30 \-Watch American Psycho  9:11 \-Clean up the house  9:50 \-Take a shower  9:55 \-Shave  9:57 \-Put on pajamas  10:02 \-Watch the news  10:30 \-Turn of TV \-Do nightly stretches  10:45 \-Go to bed   Monday, September 6  8:00 \-Wake up  8:05 \-Get out of bed \-Go to the bathroom  8:07 \-Brush teeth  8:09 \-Make a bowl of Cheerios  8:10 \-Eat bowl of Cheerios \-Watch ESPN  8:20 \-Get dressed  8:22 \-Tend to the garden  9:00 \-Weed in the backyard  11:30 \-Make a hot ham & cheese sandwich  11:33 \-Eat sandwich \-Watch MacGyver Season 3 Episode 1 on H&I  12:01 \-Go to the bathroom  12:05 \-Watch The Shining  2:31 \-Wash the dishes  2:39 \-Complete the daily crossword \-Listen to the radio  3:10 \-Call mom  3:55 \-End the call with mom \-Watch the end of Nationals vs.