On cue, color palettes from LED lights splashed the stage, adorning it with the spirit of a concert. Three high-floating, massive projector screens bore the scene for all to see. Those in attendance could sense that the mystical exhibition was creeping towards its climax as devoted members of the congregation began to hiss spirals of spells to other realms. "Holy Spirit, you are welcome here!" cried a faithful voice through the loudspeakers hanging from the rafters. The carving of tongues and chimes of chants came to rock the place. Then the setting was accented by a familiar sequence that the uninitiated fellow may have considered bizarre as a man (who was later whispered to have been touched by The Lord himself) ran headlessly back and forth behind the pulpit in a sort of transcendental frenzy. A few brothers and sisters halted their devotion to track their sib until he was was secured in a coddled, sobering embrace. And when the crowd of mere mortals could perceive the presence of the heavens and all her angels to be no closer, a body disappeared, quite like magic, submerged underwater, saved by grace. But magic is not of God. Actually some would argue that magic is actually something quite contradictory to God - something demonic. At least that is what Joseline would always express (quite plainly) to her daughter Leslie. "Think about it," she'd say, "Harry Potter, voodoo, tarot cards, Stephen King novels . . . Let me tell you something - all that stuff is working with dark magic, evil spirits." Leslie had a brimful reservoir of childhood memories of being forced to change the television channel whenever any so called incantation or magic word was uttered. Oh the unprocessed embarrassment of having to throw away certain gifted toys because they carried the "spirit of evil" like some sort of anime talisman . . . cringe! Leslie caught on early that her mother eagerly adopted these and other arbitrary (and borderline compulsive) measures from like-minds in her women's ministry group at the church. Leslie was just happy that her mother had a group to socialize with. Joseline, heathen turned God-fearing pastor-in-training, was the single mother of a bright, (and by her own estimation) naive, and expecting, young adult. Naturally, Joseline's present and most principal concern involved the preservation of Leslie's soul, so it was necessary for them to attend service at least weekly together. Joseline's hope was that Leslie would one day catch the spirit and rise from her seat in the pews. That she would approach the altar patiently but purposefully, denounce evil, and feel compelled to partake in the ritual of purification and renewal. Joseline's fear of the day that the universe had a chance to impose its will on Leslie swelled in intensity with each passing day void of the successful conversion of the girl's faith. Death drew nearer with each passing day, and Leslie's soul tally was currently held by dark forces. But whenever Joseline's efforts fell the flattest and her daughter's apprehension seemed the dullest, she would channel the divine and necessary perseverance from the rallying words of Pastor Lyon's call to service for concerned parents like herself . . . "The Church is under attack. It needs the Lord's champions . . . Your household needs a champion - your children need a champion! We must reverse the trend . . . the self-medicating . . . the undisguised participation in the mystical practices! Won't you derail this generational manhunt for false gods and masters. Enlist! The Lord is drafting YOU! Dedicate yourself to the crusade to enlighten those who know not what eternal pitfalls their disobedience and lack of discipline fates for them . . ." Pastor Lyon had a way about inciting faithful (especially if the shoe fit.) For Joseline the words echoed from memory despite inhibitions that sometimes left her feeling unfit for such a monumental assignment. Joseline traced her unease directly to her conscious recognition that Leslie was perhaps her most formidable challenge yet - one she was destined to confront. You see, Joseline was quite familiar with the consequences associated with being jammed on rewind, caught up in the same unfavorable experiences. If Leslie continued to walk this earth unsheathed by the absolute protection of The Lord then she was fated to be trapped within an endless dust devil of her own making. Joseline would know, for if there was ever a cosmic weighing of her deeds in this lifetime, one would surmise that she was no saint by even the most unassuming of definitions. Although, Joseline certainly be the first to attest to the idiocy of her past transgressions. "Now I was caught up in a lot of questionable crap in my past, and I always knew The Lord, but I chose not to do right. I was dumb, but that don't mean you have to go through the same path if it can be avoided." "Do as I say and not as I do," was both an unspoken rule and a household mantra for Leslie growing up. But Joseline had vaulted a hundred times the days of when she would succumb to the unrelenting temptations eroding society's insatiable palate. She survived some of the most traumatizing and provoking of beginnings produced by the infinite cosmos. Long before Joseline's inaugural years of adulthood she was rather unresisting to the insensible lure of substance misuse and the muddled bliss of impassioned sex. These and other deviances were modeled with emphasis and annotation in all her areas of nurture (not nature.) Joseline never claimed to be a saint. But she knew was blessed because no federal detention stint or near-death experience was required for her to align with herself and her self's purpose. She wanted the same for Leslie. The Lord was with her now just as he'd always been. But The Lord needed to understand one thing about his champions: it was one thing to raise their kids to be kind and productive adults, but quite another to ensure that their souls would be spared an eternity in hell. Joseline reckoned that the soul of her daughter Leslie was bound for limbo at best. That girl was just so naive! Despite all sorts of attempts to empower her daughter by urging her to venture on the path of least resistance, all she had to do was say a few words, take a dip underwater, and submit her life to Jesus - simple! Joseline prayed over her daughter, encouraged her participation in prayer missions, and required she attend service weekly (at minimum) in hopes that one day Leslie would approach the altar patiently but purposefully, denounce evil, and feel compelled to partake in the ritual of purification and renewal. Yet Leslie was stubborn and remained slightly half-involved in religious affairs. But whenever Joseline's efforts fell the flattest and her daughter's apprehension seemed the dullest, she would channel the divine and necessary perseverance from the rallying words of sisters who would encourage her just as they needed encouraging . . . "Leslie is not that unlike these countless other unimaginative kids running around here needing saving," assured Sister Tiffany in the women's ministry one night. The other ladies were always supportive of Joseline's efforts. "We have the most profane of all generations on our hands," interposed another sister empathetically. "Remember what Pastor Lyon was preaching on the East? The uncultured influences with their meditations and birth charts? Disagreeable forms of all kind are being used to build a wedge between our kids and Christ. We have to be patient, but firm in dealing with these issues." Leslie perceived her mother as being more firm than anything. The question of the day was usually, "do you follow God or do you follow your pseudosciences?" Leslie did not see it as her mission in this life to engage in a battle of words with her mother about religion or the occult. Older folks were usually pretty settled in their ways and viewpoints. So, when Leslie's patience for her mother's time-honored viewpoints grew the thinnest and her craving for engagement swelled to the brink of implosion, she would lie in bed rubbing her squishy stomach, communicating with the hallow gurgles. "Don't you worry. You'll arrive with your own capacity for divinity," she vowed. Leslie would speak to her baby to remind it of its own magic, but also to prevent herself from reminding her mother that her own parents had once tried enforcing their own demands in the form of certain familiar and often overly-excessive, devout parameters. "Grandma means well, but I don't know why she can't realize she playing the same, old exhausted tune." In the end, Leslie active listening when her mother preached without interruption usually guaranteed Leslie would survive another day without erupting. While Joseline had trouble reaching Leslie, the girl outwardly acknowledged her self-inflicted dilemma. Leslie's pursuit for sensual pleasure usually contradicted her search for self knowledge, diverting her from practicing the spiritual exercises that she silently criticized the church for not promoting. Such a nauseating routine. Fastened to a pendulum swaying to and from detachment, in and out of cognitive dissonance. "I know what I need to do to set a good example for you," she'd say rubbing her hard, bloated belly. "Mommy is just stuck in her ways sometimes." … The two ladies settled into their respective routines shortly after arriving home from the evening. Before descending the stairs Leslie could clearly make out trumpets and drums coming from the living room. On her way to the kitchen she confirmed that the gospel was coming from a music video on the Christian Rock channel. The room was empty while light pierced through the cracked door to the garage. She assumed her mother was knocking out another set in her workout. Leslie moseyed to the kitchen, her eyes fixated on the screen. She microwaved her dinner and sat at the table just as Joseline entered the kitchen muscles pumped, chest sky-high, eyes loud and of ice. She nodded at Leslie and stood beside the entertainment center in the living room. She paused there suspended in a celestial stupor her hands on her hips. Leslie ate with her head down. "Let me ask you something, love," Joseline said meeting her daughter's eyes. "Me and the ladies in the ministry were discussing this in our group. You know, any one of us can go at anytime. Think about it . . . would you be spared from an eternity in hell? When are you going to get saved?" Leslie stuffed her mouth, pondering the thought. "I know it's heavy stuff, but we have to have this talk." Trumpets and drums presided the room. Joseline was kindled. She approached Leslie and braced on the back of an adjacent chair. "Now God forbid, but if you got into a car accident tomorrow, do you know where you would go? Where the baby would go??" she asked mournfully. Leslie swallowed softly and shrugged her shoulders. "I don't really know mom," she replied. A conceding exhale escaped Joseline, and she returned to the garage with a little slouch in her posture. Leslie stomached a couple more bites of food while the clanking of weights pealed through the door despite the trumpets and drums.


Taking her hand, They guided her through the crowd to the front of the horde. Their grip was strong. Not enough to crush her hand, but enough to feel the bones press against one another uncomfortably. Weaving in and out of the random asteroidal persons, they came to the frontline. There, in front of them, She saw what everyone was gathering to look at. "What is it?" She asked. "Can't you see it?" They responded in a monotoned. "Its right there in front of you. Just reach out and touch it if you don't believe me.". As She stood there looking outwards. She saw nothing. Expanse of nothing. From top to bottom, left to right, there wasn't just nothing in view, but absolutely nothing. No color, wind, shade, smells or anything perceived by earthy beings. A void. "Touch what?" She inquired "There is nothing there to touch. There is nothing there at all. How am I to touch nothing?". They looked at her with no expression. "If you see nothing, you see something." They responded. "Do you not trust me?". She never doubted Them as long as She had know Them. They always explained what She did not understand and took the time to make sure She was safe in her understanding. "I trust you." She replied. With her right hand, She began to move it up and towards the void. Extending her index finger, and ever so gently and tapped the nothing. It wriggled like jello, causing a chain reaction of electricity and colors unknown to her and her comprehension of reality. She quickly pulled her hand back, but found it stuck against the invisible wall. The crowd stopped surging. The mass all stopped moving. They turned to look at her simultaneously and pointed at her. A low, guttural hum resonated throughout the congregation and a slight sway back and forth, commenced. Hmmmm... Hmmmm... "I can't break free!" She exclaimed "My hand is stuck! You lied to me! Break me free! Why are they doing that?!? STOP MAKING THAT NOISE AND HELP ME!" They looked at her with a half smirk and looked forward. The colors and lights began to pulsate; slowly at first, but then in speed and intensity. Shapes began to take form and they were terrifying to look upon. Turning her face away, They reached over, took her face in Their hands and raised it level with Theirs. "It is nothing." They said "How can you be affected by nothing?". "It has my hand!" She pleaded "I can't let go! Help me!". Tears began to pour down her face as She spoke. They just held Their gaze directly into her eyes. That same smirk appeared on Their face once again and this unsettled her. Before She could speak, They turned her head back forward to watch the turbulent, torrent of chaos and beauty She had created with her touch. She started to feel something different; something raw and connected to this explosion of life. "Do you see?" They asked. She gazed forward, no longer resisting the pull of the wall. At this point, the strange ooze, coated Her hand, just to the wrist and slowly creeping up her arm. As She looked ahead, Her eyes were captivated by the swirling colors, lights and shapes. Then, right before her eyes, a familiar face began to appear within the mix. The face looked like someone She knew, but could not place where from. The face was too distorted for her to clearly see. It was a man, but so familiar to her, it hurt her heart. They turned to her and over the hum of the crowd "Do you See?" They asked "Do you See?". "No I don't!" She replied "Where am I? What is happening to me? Please tell me. I trust You and want You to help me break free!" "You asked Me to bring you here." They replied "You asked for this.". "I don't remember anything before coming through this crowd." she stated. "I know You, but nothing from before." "Think deeper." They suggested "Remember your desires." She sat and thought. Tried to focus on the task They explained was necessary in order for her, to find clarity. Closing her eyes, She turned into her unconscious to seek the answers. Flashes of faces and moments began to flood her mind, too fast for her to definitively identify the face in the vortex. The cold from the translucent liquid crawling up Her arm, took her out of her meditative state. Her eyes opened and pain shot through her stomach and groin. She looked down and to her horror, the liquid consumed her whole arm and now, it was spilled across her midsection. She bellowed in absolute terror and pain. It felt like it was trying to rip her open. She reached with her free hand, to find it bound by this same invisible geist. She raised her head to see the mass violently exploding and morphing into a body. The edges sporadically jutting out and inward, like seismometer and the world's largest earthquake. Arms, legs and a head could began to be seen more clearly. The shape of a man was taking shape, but the face was distorted still. She looked through her tears, towards the place where his eyes would be and suddenly, they opened. Two oval beams of light, with blue center, shot out from the sockets. As bright as the sun, from waking morning, she gazed directly into them. It didn't hurt. Actually, quite the opposite. It brought a sense of calm and peace. It reminded her of being at her Grandma's house, as her Grandmum would pick her up and hold her against her chest, before falling asleep in her arms. Or her Father, looking into her eyes on her graduation day saying how proud of her he is. These thoughts caused her mouth to open and a small gasp escaped. Tears began to fall down her face. Her body convulsed from the sobs of joy and understanding. Memories of her first boyfriend, kissing under the deck at Her Aunts farm, to taking her dog Ethos, to the vet to be put to sleep cause she was hit by a car. Losing a bestfriend to cancer, to her trip to Europe and the Italian boy who stole her heart and married her. Through tear filled eyes, She stood, transfixed on the being in front of her. "I remember!" She exclaimed "I remember!" They turned to her and said nothing. Only smiled, turned and walked through the crowd. She called out to Them, but They never turned around. This was destroying her. "Wait!" She cried "Don't go! I can't lose you.". But They were gone amongst the horde. She never saw Them again. The hum of the crowd began to rise and fall in frequency. It sounded like music now; like a heavenly orchestra. She could hear the brass, strings, drums and it was growing in intensity. She looked back into the beings eyes. The entity began to develop facial expressions that She knew. She smiled and wept as She remembered She did want this. She wanted this her entire life. Coming to her realization, She began pushing her hands and body further towards the being. An explosion of light and pain shot from her hands and belly causing her to scream in agony. She pushed through; above the pain, She passed through completely and silence came with a clap. No light. No sound. She was standing in a space unknown in size and depth. She stood there for some time, saying nothing. Doing nothing. A spot light appeared above her, illuminating the area around her. She looked up and shielded her eyes. She couldn't look past the light, so began to scan the area around her. Vast of black nothing lay before her, just passed the edge of the light. This caused her to cover her body with her arms from insecurity. "Hello?" She asked, voice cracking. A door of light opened in front of her. A silhouette of a man stood in the doorway. The man passed through and door closed behind him, bring back the dark background. The man walked into the light and stood a few feet in front of her. "You know why you are here?" he asked. "Yes." She replied "I'm here for you. You are supposed to come with me." He smiled. "Yes." he said "Yes I was meant to." "Meant to?" She asked unsure "I did everything I was meant to, in order for you to come with me. Did I do something wrong?" "No you did everything you were meant to..." he paused "and more.". "Well surely we can leave this place and you can come with me." She hastily responded "I have so many things I want to show you.". "You have shown me." he reassured her "Through you thoughts, memories and dreams, I've lived through you. You have given me your everything. Including...". He trailed off. "Including what?" She inquired. "Including your life." he explained. She stood there, locked in his gaze. A single tear filled down his face as he said this. "But how?" She asked. Her emotions brimming the point of loss of control "I don't understand.". "You died." he said remorseful. She could see the restraint of his sadness visibly cross his face. "Like I said, You gave me everything... and more.". She took a step forward. "So this is It?" She asked. "Until the next time, yes." he replied, also taking a step forward. Continuing her momentum, She moved within arms length. "You know I love you more than any one person can love another." She said softly. "I know." he said. Tears began to fall like large rain drops, just before a storm. "I've always known.". They stood, inches away from each other. She raised her right hand; he his left. They embraced, interlocking their fingers, never looking from each other's eyes. He released Her fingers and pulled her into his chest and squeezed. "Thank you for my life." he said. "Thank you for making my life have meaning." She replied. "Now go make me proud." "I love you Mom." said her son. "I will." and disappeared. "Until we meet again." She said "Until we meet again.


The Grand Coastal Route locomotive came careening through the tracks high above the red rock canyon. The locomotive engineer was trying his best to outrun the train robbers closing in on the passenger cars but these efforts were proving to be worthless. Due to the train’s high speeds, dust clouds had formed around the cars and dirtied their windows, impairing visibility outside. The civilians, unaware of the situation outside, harshly critiqued the driving of the engineer. “How preposterous!” A wealthy gentleman exclaimed to the passengers of the last car, “Is the brainless bastard steering this machine purposely trying to kill us?!” Many of the others, dressed in similar upper-class garments agreed with the gentleman’s comments. All but one were caught in the wave of unrest; he sat peacefully in a velvet-lined booth towards the end of the car. Lengthy unruly hair and a light, brown beard indicating he hadn’t crossed paths with a razor in months, the bolo tie worn above his simple white collar shirt and charcoal black vest with a duster revealing he was a native to the west. He stood out among the crowd of elites on the train, his dress only semi-formal and his hygiene typical of the west. Although the man sat silent, he was well aware of the immense danger the passengers faced. Along the train rode a masked figure garbed in a stone gray vest, black denim jeans, and a pristine white dress shirt. Speeding along on a brown-spotted white horse, the train bandit reached the leading car of the train. Aggressively, he drew his single-action revolver from it’s holster and waved it about in the air, hoping the glare would catch the attention of the engineer. Once the engineer looked to his left, he knew it was all over. “NOOOO! Don’t! Please!” the engineer begged for his life, but futile these efforts would prove to be. Without haste the robber fired his sidearm, planting a hunk of lead in between the elderly man’s eyes with blood spurting from the exit wound. As his body slumped to the ground and fell from the train, the bandit stood up from his horse and daringly leapt to the controls. Without hesitation, the ruffian finessed the controls, adjusting all the right levers to slow the train down. Finally, the heist could commence. Noting the speed of the train had begun to reduce, passenger unrest had declined.. Many had gone back to casual conversations, mainly pertaining to events happening back east or their enthusiasm for land development here in the west. However, like dynamite tearing through the rough granite of the Sierras, the peaceful mood was abruptly killed by the storming of the cart. Four armed figures all donning black masks and bandoliers rushed into the cart and shot towards the ceiling, signalling a hold up. The gentleman who originally led the outcry against the driver, foolishly filled with a sense of heroism, exploded from his seat and attempted to hold one of the bandits up at gunpoint. Faster than his exploits, the shotgun wielding robber pumped the man with shrapnel moments before he could reach for his gun, eviscerating what was once the man’s abdomen. His blood decorated the red velvet seats and wooden floors. “Any otha coot wanna try dey hand?!” The lead bandit shouted, brandishing a six-shooter. He got nothing but terrified stares as a response. “No? Aight den. Men, go collect da goods.” The highwaymen began to clear the passengers of all their cash and expensive glittery goods with little resistance. The large shotgun wielding thug reached the quiet stranger’s seat, him leaned against a window with his hat slightly tipped over. “Ay! Are you deaf are just stupid?” He slurred out in a thick southern accent. The stranger instantly leapt up and drove his knife into the thug’s throat while knocking him to the floor. The stranger then quickly unholstered his black iron revolver with his right hand and fired two shots which tore through the foreheads of the other two robbers. Amid the passengers shock and gasps, the lead bandit aimed his gun at the hero but a black gentleman in the front seat leapt at and punched the bandit in his jaw. With this opening, the stranger shot the gun out of the robbers hand and shot him in the arm and side causing him to kneel. The gunman walked up to the robber, crouched down, and asked, “Zhelang’s on this heist, ain’t he? Unless you good for nothins changed the plan.” “I can’t believe you’d betray us, Kellan, you damned dirty snake!” the robber replied angrily. “That don’t answer my question, Kenny. Besides, y’all were holding me back.” Kellan proudly claimed. The robber continued his silence, making Kellan splatter his brains on the wall. He stood up, took Kenny’s repeater from his back and tossed the rifle over to the rebellious passenger. “I want you to shoot any armed bastard that comes back here who ain’t me or badges, ya hear?” He questioned the passenger, who nodded in compliance before cocking the worn repeater. With this cabin cleared, Kellan proceeded onto the rest of the train looking for his former companion. As soon as he opened the door to the luggage cabin the three outlaws within unleashed a flurry of bullets upon Kellan. Immediately, the lone gunman dove behind a makeshift fort of boxes and barrels but not before one bullet grazed his right arm. “Well boys, call me an 8 day clock in June but aint dat Kellan I just saw?” One bandit remarked. “Griggs! I always look forward to seeing how much heavier you are each day, ya overfed hog.” Kellan playfully replied. The robber, extremely offended by this jab, cocked his pump action and began charging towards Kellan’s position but the cowboy exploded from the back of his cover; sawed off in his left hand, revolver in the right. He first erased Griggs’ face from existence via sawed-off, replacing it with a crimson fleshy mess. Next, Kellan planted two bullets in the chest of one bandit and kneecapped the last before ending his agony with a bullet to the heart. Taking a breather, Kellan sat down to reload his guns and tend to his minor wound with some rum he saw on the floor. After 5 minutes, he was ready to continue his onslaught but first liberated Grigg’s gun, feeling he might need some more firepower to win this war. Exploding into the next car, Kellan kicked the door in into the dining car and instantly blasted one robber out the window with his new toy. The other robber quickly jumped behind the bar as Kellan dove into a dining booth and both began firing at each other as Kellan pointed civilians out through the back. While the bandit’s revolver kept Kellan from advancing, Kellan’s shotgun was tearing away at the bandits cover which could only withstand about two more shots. The bar was becoming a stack of toothpicks and right when he needed one more shot, the gun suddenly jammed. “Me and my got-damn luck.” Kellan grumbled as he inspected the gun. The bandit continued firing into the booth but Kellan, fed up with this back and forth, devised a better plan to deal with his foe. Unholstering his revolver, Kellan fired at the wall of alcohol behind the bandit causing it to cascade all over him. Then, the heroic gunman snatched a match from his baroque-engraved cigarette case, lighting it in the process, and flicked the burgeoning young flame towards the liquor soaked robber behind the bar. Instantaneously the bar was enveloped in a crimson blaze as the bandit, also caught aflame, danced back and forth whilst unleashing a blood curdling scream that could pierce the heavens. Once the screaming stopped and the bandit’s shriveled corpse collapsed, Kellan emerged from the booth with his guns reloaded and ready. With most of the train robbers disposed of, Kellan easily blasted his way through the remaining forces in the rest of the cars. Eventually, he reached the engine and the mess left by the poor engineer. He approached the controls and attempted to stop the train when a small knife lodged itself in his right hand making him pull back from pain. Turning around to spot his attacker, Kellan looked up to see his former leader and friend, Xin Zhelang, glaring down at him with a piercing murderous intent not even his flowing hair could interrupt. As he ripped the knife from his hand, Kellan shouted, “You brought this mess upon yourself Zhelang! It was YOUR decision to use me as bait to save your skin! You knew I couldn’t sweep that under the rug!” The Chinese gang leader stood perched over Kellan, statue-esque in his form as if the gunslinger’s words couldn’t penetrate his anger. Finally, Zhelang turned around and responded, “Your words won’t settle this, pestilent snake!” as he walked towards the back of the train. Kellan, now aware that the true challenge of this mission has begun, followed the gang leader to the top of the train. Standing atop the green and black locomotive, Kellan looked around to see the barren desert of the Mojave occasionally sprinkled with some greenery on his right and the massive canyon painted with layers of red rock the train straddled to his left. Zhelang stood at the opposite end of the roof, fixed in a combat ready pose. The two outlaws stared each other down, the rest of the world drowned out by the deafening tension pouring from atop the train. The scene stood frozen in time until suddenly both men went sprinting towards each other with violent intent. Kellan landed the first blow with a clean punch to the leader’s jaw but it left him unphased as he immediately retaliated with a few kicks to Kellan’s stomach and a sharp elbow to the face. The hero staggered back trying to recover but Zhelang was merciless in his assault. He continued with a flurry of kicks and strikes before a beautifully executed spin kick laid Kellan out on the ground. Underestimating his foe, Zhelang stepped over and began lifting Kellan by his shoulder but the downed gunslinger swung around and bashed the revolver’s rosewood handle into the Chinaman’s temple. With his target staggered Kellan exploded into action, slamming the gun straight down onto Zhelang’s skull which caused him to slump down to his knees. The cowboy was ready to land his finishing strike when Zhelang, whose face was now decorated with streams of blood, blocked the gun’s handle with one of his knives. Kellan, mumbling with annoyance, jumped back to avoid any other knife attacks as Zhelang picked himself up and brandished a second knife. The two engaged each other once more with Zhelang’s mastery over knives keeping the cautious cowboy from ending this fight soon. Sustaining cut after cut, Kellan knew if he couldn’t figure out some tactic to deal with Zhelang he’d be calling the canyon his new home. That’s when he realized there’s only one way to be triumphant. The Grand Coastal Route locomotive-now a shell of itself with frightened passengers, dead bandits everywhere, a burning dining car, and no engineer-began it’s crossing of the giant bridge extending across the massive canyon below. Kellan and Zhelang, still locked in mortal kombat atop the train, paid little attention to their surroundings and kept at the battle. Now, with everything in position, Kellan could put his plan into place.After being kicked and pushed back by Kellan, Zhelang charged towards his former friend and drove both knives deep into his abdomen. The pair stood in place, as if God himself were preserving this scene, soaking in what just transpired. Kellan then, through the blood accompanied coughs and cold steel invading what felt to him to be his liver, let out a slight chuckle and embraced his enemy. “What is there to laugh about, snake, this is the end for you.” a confused Zhelang inquired. “Well, that’s because you put yourself in the perfect position to receive some sweet southern justice.” Kellan asserted through coughs before headbutting the Chinaman and throwing him off the side of the train to be swallowed by the depths of the Mojave, his hysterical wails of horror marking his last moments on earth. With a wave of relief washing over him, Kellan took a moment to bask in his hard fought victory, still surprised he was even able to make it this far on the train. As the locomotive finished crossing the bridge, Kellan slowly made his way to the controls to stop it, wincing with every movement. Bringing the train to a complete stop, Kellan turned around and walked back to the closest passenger car, vacated by the folks he sent to the back. The hero then took a seat in the fancy velvet booth, pulled out a cigarette he blood stained with his hands, and lit it; puffing himself into unconsciousness as law enforcement approached from the eastern horizon.


Guys, this is my first time writing something. I want to get into writing short stories so I thought I will get the best cretiques here. Anyhow, have fun reading.  ....................................................................  The void, what a beautiful place. If you have ever been there, let me share the experience with you. You see, to get to the void is not so easy, yet not so hard. There are many ways to reach the void, but here is my favourite one. First of all, you have to be sure that you want to go to the void. Then you can just pack your things, actually don’t pack anything. You just have to go to the deepest place in earth, it’s called Mariana Trench, and it exists in the western Pacific Ocean. When you reach it, all you have to do is just jump into the water. You don’t need to worry about breathing, you don’t need to breath there. All you have to do is jump and let yourself drown. After some time you will start to notice that the water starts to get colder and darker, and sounds started to disappear. Don’t you worry, you are in the right path. All you have to do now is just relax and enjoy the journey. You might see some silhouettes of some big fish, don’t be afraid, they know you are going to the void so they ignore you. After some hours, yeah hours, because the deepest place on earth is over 11 000 meters deep. So it might take some time to reach the bottom. After you hit the bottom of the ocean, all you have to do is just lay down and close your eyes for a moment, then open them. Congratulations, you are in the void now, you might start to notice that there is air around you, and you are no longer wet. Also you will be able to see some colours, precisely a dark purple. You can’t hear anything, and it’s kind of cold there. Not winter cold, more like death cold. You might start taking a walk and enjoying the view. Yeah there is a view, if you look up, you can see a lot of lights similar to the stars you see on earth. They are not stars of course, no one what they are, but they are beautiful. After a while, you could see some giant monsters. Don’t freak out, because they can smell your fear, and if they smell even the slightest sent of fear from you, they will attack you and devour your soul. Just keep your cool and walk past them. You can look at them if you want, there are some that are kind of cute. After walking for a while, you get to the pit. It’s the final destination in your journey. It’s a pit to the abyss, and endless abyss. When you feel like ready, you can jump and enjoy an endless fall. After you jump in, it’s all dark, a little chilly, so you can just close your eyes, crawl upon yourself to stay warm and enjoy the fall. Since it has no bottom, you will be falling for quit a long time, so might as well sleep. After some time, you will forget that you have been falling, you might think you are ascending. If you stayed conscious long enough, your will reach your ultimate destination; you will stop falling and you find yourself in space. Now look to your left, you will see nothing, that’s the void, if you focus a little bit you could see the dark purple colour of that place you were in just and eternity ago. If you look to your right, you will see the “real” world, the cosmos. All the galaxies and the universes that there is. If you focus you could spot the Milky Way, our galaxy. If you focus a little more you can see our solar system, and then the earth. You can see that beautiful blue planet that we call home. You can stay there as long as you want, it’s your reward for going that far. After you feel you have been there enough, and you want to go back home. All you have to do is wake up, yeah that’s it, you just wake up. You will find yourself floating in the same place you dived before, because the human body’s density is smaller of the density of sea water, that’s why you float. You might think it was just a dream. But deep down, you know it really happened. And this is how you can to the void, I wish you luck in your journey. And don’t forget to help someone else to have that astonishing experience.


I almost forgot about a young man outside of the grocery store. “Hey Buddy, do you have an extra quarter?” He shouted from across the parking lot. I knew this was coming by the way he rattled the coins in his Starbucks cup. He seemed like he meant the buddy part. I gave him a few pennies and a nickel from my pocket. Wait… This is my shot. My one opportunity. This is everything I’ve ever wanted. Do I hear Eminem? Can I be the hero? “Do you need any clothes?” I asked. “I have a bunch in the back of my car that I was going to bring to goodwill.” He knows I’m a good guy. His youthful face exploded with tremendous excitement. “Are you kidding me?” he stammered while staring through my soul. I was intimidated. Am I dumb? His composure degraded from an explosion of life to a crumbling soul. He broke down. He was already broken. Ashy fingers extended to his bony ankles revealing layer upon layer of dirty sweatpant, upon layer of torn sweatpant, upon layer of dirty torn sweatpant. “Do you have jeans?” he excitedly asked as we skipped side by side down the aisle of the parking lot. “What size are you? 33-44?” 44? What was he talking about? That look of life and enthrallment never left his eye. Have I even looked him in the eye? I look up searching for an applause from a nonexistent crowd in the parking lot. I think the guy with the beard who was fixing the shopping cart reservoir saw. I’m a hero. We arrive at the supply caravan. A dirty 2007 Pontiac G6 convertible coupe with a salvage title and a backseat overflowing with Goodwill goodies. It was sweet in college. “This one has some athletic gear!” I’m sure to let him know. “Here’s some sweaters in this bag, there’s Nike and everything!” He won’t like my pastel shorts from when I was paying for my friends. I am the great provider of this man’s needs and I am supplying everything that he is searching for. I’ve lost sight. I’ve forgotten about those tattered sweatpants. Did he call me “Buddy?” Whatever, I’m the man. Do you see all of the clothes in the backseat? I’m saving his life. “I’ll just take this one” he said while crouching his butt to his heels and elbows to knees with a hoodie masking his face, fingertips clutching a cardboard grocery bag with a fresh pair of size 33x34 black Express jeans folded on top of other garments. Those were sweet jeans. Oh shit. He needs those! I’m the fucking man. Time passes. More time passes. 45 minutes had passed? He’s still crouching between my Pontiac and another car parked slightly over the line. Can I be done saving your life now? “…… I needed you today.” “What was that?” Somehow shocked, I asked to reaffirm my heroism. Eyes peered from around the corner of a hoodie and a few layers of black dreadlocks. “I NEEDED YOU TODAY.” He ghasped and quickly hustled to collect himself. Exploding images intrude my brain. Dirty sweatpants. Torn scarf. Does he have a kid? He’s my age. “Thank you so much” he said as he gazed with eyes that were seeking permission to leave. “Take care.” Wait, did those words even leave my mouth? He trounced away. Finger tip-tapping side to side as if over a tiny fence as he sang a tune that I had never heard. Probably some of that 21 Savage or Lil Yachti. Who was this man singing in the parking lot? Why did he only take one bag? I WISH I GOT HIS NAME. I wish I got his name.


Hey y'all. I'm normally more into academic writing but had an idea for a story so I thought I'd give it a shot. As usual I probably over analyzed a few parts of it but any thoughts or feedback is appreciated. The Seducer “I think it’s time for you to go,” he said as he rolled over to face his latest conquest, “I’ll call you a cab.” This had become somewhat of a nightly routine for him – go out somewhere, anywhere to scout and recruit potential targets, satisfy himself and send them on their merry way. The whole process had become somewhat of a banality; while at one point he used to get some sense of euphoria after successfully completing his task, after so much repetition it eventually lost its force. As she eventually made her way out of his apartment, he reflected to himself on why, despite its lack of lustre, he persisted in this same nightly routine. After some careful consideration, he came to the conclusion that he had no real reason to do anything – nothing ever really mattered and it just so happened that seduction was what he did. It was no different than an alcoholic pounding back beers after a long shift or a couponer leafing through flyer after flyer to find all the best deals. None of this mattered to him or to anyone; it was all just what they did. By this point in his life, he was convinced that love was merely a façade. After going through hundreds upon hundreds of partners, he saw no way that some how love was a real thing. The most he ever felt was a twinge of disgust as he rolled over and saw that his flavour of the evening had yet to begin to disembark. But, such is life. Falling in love to him had no more meaning than any other thing he did and thus he had no desire for it. He was a seducer, not a romantic, that was just the way it was and the way it would continue to be. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ As he occupied his stool at the bar, he peered across the room, looking out for his next victim. That’s when he saw her – her beauty took him aback like nothing had in years. After being so convinced that banality was simply the way of life, one look at her made him reconsider what he had thought he knew.  He slowly approached her across the bar and made her acquaintance. Not only was she the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, but also the elegance with which she spoke was captivating. He could not believe what he was feeling – after years of treating this exact process as routine, finally it felt meaningful. Finally, after years of running through this exact scenario in an automaton-like fashion, he finally felt alive.  He slowly made his way through his arsenal of skills he had spent years cultivating, he began to feel her reciprocity. This was going to be it. This way going to be the night that he could roll over after completion and feel a smile creep onto his face. This was what he had been waiting for without even knowing. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ As he and her traversed back into to apartment his apartment, he was struck with anxiety – what was going to happen the next morning? After all of these years of practice he had never prepared for the contingency that was this; a pervasive feeling of lust that extended beyond merely physical attraction. All he knew for sure was she was not like the others, but this was not a moment he had ever planned for. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ After their session had concluded, he turned over to face her, and unlike with the others, felt a warmth overcome his entire being. This was not just lust, but something more. As he pulled himself closer to her and wrapped his arm around her body, she rotated her head slightly to face him and spoke:  “I think it’s time for me to go.


You take a walk on a cool autumn night. The wind blows against your warm face and the crisp air lifts the cloud from your mind. The sound of traffic in the distance, resonates in your ears. The soft tap of your feet against the sidewalk create the cadence you walk to. You view the homes around you. So beautiful. So bright. So empty. You glance in uncurtained windows and take in the designer furniture. The custom lighting. The real wood floors. Just a small glimpse at how the other half lives. There is no one inside enjoying these material items. Only the paintings stare down at the stark sitting rooms and dining rooms. Untouched by human beings; only for show. The headlights of Mercedes and BMWs flash in your eyes. Important people. Returning from important previous engagements to their beautifully untouched homes. To rest their heads in pressed sheets or to recline in their oversized leather sofas. You certainly do not belong to this world. Your place is somewhere else. Your feet continue to move you along and your mind is free of anxious thoughts. The distance or destination does not matter tonight, only the clear headedness a fall night can provide. A lonely dog barks off in the distance, mimicking the call of your own heart. “Hello?”...”Hello?”. Yearning for a friend, another soul to be near in the dark. Your only companions tonight are the leaves crunching beneath your feet. The stars above your head that occasionally wink your way. The solemn jazz music that seeps through cracked windows. The wind hugs you, coolly. Pushing you back towards your empty apartment. The night is still young, but you are tired. So tired. Your body becomes heavier walking home; bracing itself for the emptiness that will greet you. The warm darkness that will envelop you as you walk into your desolate home. Your key eventually finds its place in your door and you are once again in your fortress. You tap your boot on the floor, just to make a sound in the deserted living room. The boots and clothes are removed as you easily slide into chilly sheets and the lights go off. You lie on your back. Staring at the ceiling. Listening to the faint voices of TV coming through your walls. Is it Big Bang Theory, maybe? Is whoever is watching it, also alone? You close your eyes and take in the silence of your own space. Your hand snakes over to the other side of the bed to find it empty. How quickly that void became a normalcy. The presence of another human being, no longer a necessity to fall asleep. You bring your hand back to your own chest. To the feel of your heartbeat thumping into your palm. That beat knows that you aren’t completely alone. It knows that its partner is out there; somewhere. Maybe feeling as incomplete as you feel, lying alone in bed. Does one’s heart need a companion? Can you truly be whole alone? Your mind pokes at that impossible question. The thought continuing to pop open like a cupboard door that never fully shuts. You roll onto your side and hug one of your many pillows closely. You close your eyes tight and hope for sleep to come fast, before the thoughts suffocate you in their avalanche. “Alone is….alright?”, you ask to your empty room. No one replies to this quandering. You squeeze the pillow tighter and bury your face into it. “Alone is alright”, you whisper again, “alone is alright”.


THANK YOU IN ADVANCE FOR READING AND ANY FEEDBACK. Edit: I couldn’t find a list explaining abbreviations in brackets. I made a guess FN meant fiction. This is not a fantasy story. Or is it?/r/ Across from our fourth-floor unit is our one-legged neighbor on his balcony, perched by a small black metal grill. I don’t know his name, so I will call him Bob. With a yellowed and weathered crutch, he pivots from one side of the covered cement to the other. The lower-middle class backyard. His blonde, hay-like hair receding from his frameless glasses. Eyes as blue as the paint of the community pool below our units. He yells to someone inside, “Hey, Rocket, can you grab me the salt?” Moments later and without a word, a pale arm reaches out of the apartment with a salt shaker. “Thanks”. Slouched on a puffy cushion atop a wicker chair, shoulders forward over parted knees, I watch Bob to my right from my own cement slice of fresh air, iPhone in hand. My unshowered black hair falls as clumps in front of my eyes, like thick palm tree leaves frame waves at the beach. I pound invisible keystrokes into Google search. “Can employers access your private accounts when they run a social media check?” “What makes you fail a background check?” “What is sexually inappropriate content?” “Rocket, can you find the sesame oil for the salmon?” I see Bob hold the frame of the balcony door as he leans his head into his apartment. A train goes by down the too-close tracks. A hand appears to pass a dark bottle. “Thanks, Rocket.” Eyes back to iPhone. Search results provide little comfort when the motivation to look is anxiety. Never once have I Google’d a concern better queried to professionals and thought, I’m going to feel better after this. And that is not because Google is designed to terrify, but because I will hone in on the worst possible search result, the one that justifies my worry. “OK,” I turn to Graham through the open balcony door to my left, “apparently employers can’t use anything posted over seven years.” Some simple mental math. “Oh, that’s just perfect. I was the worst from 2013 to 2015. I’m going to be unemployed. No one will understand and I won’t have a job.” I lean against the black metal railing, the sharp edges cut into my tanned skin. Bob brushes sesame oil against a dead fish. A siren blares from the center of town, is carried through the thick July air and, saturated by it, arrives warbled and dull. The pond beyond the train tracks is slime green with algae. Entire ecosystems layered like birthday cake. Humanity a fork that hunts the sugary cream cheese frosting jackpot, that scrapes the carrot cake structure to the edge of the plate, just a pile of crumbs. A husband might be expected to calm his wife as she spirals, but not after she has gone down the same rabbit hole four times the same day, the same hour. An endless echo of doubt that results in a cacophony of catastrophe. Graham is inside on the couch. His limber legs, one over the other. His eyes widen and his thumb pulls the news up, up into the ether on his Android. His exhale a sigh that says, “Whatever I say right now is going to be fuel to some fire that burns inside your head that was set a long, long time ago, that you refuse to extinguish, that my love and support cannot extinguish, that you walk into when bored and that you blame for the blisters on your feet.” I stare at him. Wearing a Manchester United shirt, his black beauty marks scattered like a series of volcanic islands across his pale skin. Thick black eyebrows a bird in flight, eyes so big eyelashes so long. His long fingers bony. “Graham, I’m freaking out.” His long neck bends back, eyes toward the ceiling, back of his head rests on the grey fabric couch. He looks at me from the bottom of his eyes. I jump as if an idea has landed in my lap. And it has. A glorious new idea! One more vein to pump poison into until it collapses. “I’m calling them.” I bring the phone up to my ear. “You are calling who?” “A background check agency. One of the ones that has published most articles on why it’s so important employers scrutinize not just quality of experience, but quality of character.” “What are you going to ask them?” I’ll ask them to pacify the malignant worry. Code the neural network inside my head with inputs that process information without bias and outputs that don’t derange my environment. All information is new information. All information is new information. All information is new information. My eyes follow the sound of metal on concrete. “Shit.” Bob balances on one leg, his right hand holds the railing, he does yoga. Downward bending war veteran. “Rocket, I dropped the knife.” Bob grunts. He has the sullied knife in hand and hops toward a chair to sit. A lone breeze hits us both, and the obese summer air is lifted. “Rocket? Rocket can you come here?” Bob looks defeated, the tip of the knife about to touch the floor again, barely held between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. “Del, what are you going to ask these people when you call?” The breeze seemed to mute all other things. The train that had been inches away from view, a journey that would take it east across my line of sight, faded to silence before it could mimic the roar of a plane. The road behind the other side of the building, the side that completed the “U” shape of our complex, the chalice, holding the pool as a sacred serum which we sat around like pilgrims and worshiped the sun, made no sound. I could not close my eyes and trace the path of commuters. The children below, silent film actors. The water that splashed as they kicked and flailed, stage decoration in a vacuum. “Rocket, can you please come HERE.” Rocket is Bob’s wife, maybe. But whatever he is, he is not her first long-term partner. There is a 12ish year-old boy that comes around, her son. He spends his time there watching Bob barbeque spiced and marinated dead things. Bob prefers books to a Kindle, a landline to a mobile phone, a drive to Target with his metal leg installed over Amazon. The son likes video games and Bob will spend the time it takes to roast ribs at war with the idea. Bob does not care if childhood is now defined by continuous immersion in alternate, false realities. He does not preach children should be grateful for grass and both legs to run along it. Bob spends the time it takes to roast ribs to impart his hate for the seclusion modern convenience enforces on us all. “You just sit on your ass buying things from The Steam instead of walking yourself down to The Gamestop.” This always followed by some version of, “go tell your Mother to get me...” Graham places his phone in his lap and leans toward me. “Del.” And what about Rocket? I think of their apartment, where Rocket sits for the brief moments she is allowed. Before she is summoned to provide the next needed thing. The unit line they have is two-bedroom. Does she escape to the corner farthest from the balcony? I imagine she has a lone chair just at that spot. She placed a basket next to her chair and filled it with skeins of yarn - a color for every time a stitch has been interrupted - that she added basket after basket, so many baskets that her chair is a tomb. She has been knitting the same sock for years. “ROCKET!” “Del?” I shrug. My reflection in the sliding balcony door glass confronts me. Unplucked eyebrows an acute reminder of my priorities, the dirty glass unable to spare me the clarity. I click the hyperlinked phone number and dial across the continent to a 415-area code. My right foot taps a balcony covered in flecks of cigarette ash, fresh basil and parsley, flower petals, a Stella Artois bottle cap, things still present from the previous night’s storm and drink. Graham stares. I point to the phone and yell-whisper, “IT'S RINGING. IT'S GOING STRAIGHT TO A PERSON!” My nails are under my teeth and Graham’s mouth is agape, with a slight turn up at the right. He thinks I’m so funny, ha ha ha ha. “Hello? Hi. This is probably super weird but I was wondering if you could explain how your service works.” “I DROPPED THE KNIFE, ROCKET.” “No, I am a potential employee.” “...DROPPED IT ON THE FLOOR, ROCKET.” “I understand you don’t typically speak with job seekers but that doesn’t mean you can’t.” “I NEED THE OTHER CHEF’S KNIFE, ROCKET.” “Please. Just a few questions, nothing specific.” “ROCKET, I NEED YOU.” “...do you use some unavailable to the public software to view private or deactivated accounts?” “ROCKET, I NEED THE CHEF’S KNIFE.” “...but surely there’s a way around a private account. What about if I was @’d on Twitter?” “THE KNIFE IN THE DRAWER.” “...or a retweet of me saying something...” “THE KNIFE. IN THE DRAWER. ROCKET, I NEED THE KNIFE IN THE DRAWER BY THE OVEN.” “...so to confirm, you can only report back on publicly shared, active content...” “DAMNIT, ROCKET. I HAVE ONE FUCKING LEG.” I end the call and turn to Graham whose eyes are on Bob as he disappears inside his apartment. “You know who doesn’t have to worry about passing a social media check? The President.” Graham looks at me. “You don’t have to worry either. You think too much.” Too much? What if the world were to fall apart and no one looked at each moment with the scrutiny required to see it coming? All a bunch of somethings ending in ruin. My constant rationalization for being abso-fucking-lutely consumed by anything that could, potentially, if- looked-at-this-way, end in crisis. “I hate that ever even had a Twitter account.” “We met on Twitter.” “But what if I fail this background check?” “You won’t.” “But what if I do?” “Not going to happen.” “You can’t know that for certain.” “No, I can’t know every possible outcome of everything you worry about.” “See, it might happen.” Graham’s eyes close and his jaw clenches. I stand up and stomp into the apartment. I make a show of getting a beer out of the fridge. I yank open a drawer and bang things about, grab the bottle opener. From a posture of exasperation, Graham says, “It’s 10am.” “Well, you’re not helping.” “There is nothing to help with. All this panic and things will be fine.” But it doesn’t matter. I am faced with the unknown. I am vulnerable. I took a risk to get myself a job out of the city, the mania, the 12 hours days and two hour commute; to start a life that I want. That allows me to be with him. Be present. I stand with the cold beer in my hands, in the tiny kitchen. I drink the beer to leave reality and not be present. The old appliances left by the previous owner, the dishwasher we have to replace. I tip the bottle to my lips. Again. And again. Because I am not in my kitchen, I am lost in my mind, on a strip of land just shy of the rocky shore. I stand here every day and watch the blue ocean be pulled forward and away by the moon above me. I watch the water crash and chip away, and the strip of land gets a little narrower, the shore a bit farther. My thoughts fall about me as messages in a million bottles, every honest need for help lost in the waves. I don’t know how to get to land, how to feel safe. The days unfold and an email arrives while I stand on the balcony, American Spirit cigarette at my lips. I have passed all of the background checks. Before I give Graham a chance to hold me and say, “See, all is well,” I have permits, hard hats, and a crew at work to construct my next labyrinth of panic. Bob is at his grill, he yells inside for teriyaki sauce. Rocket is in her chair, as out of earshot as she can be.


Nagoro is a small village in Japan, situated in the tumbling valleys of Shikoku. I was nearing the end of my journey at the time, with three days left before my flight back to Australia. I was on my return from Minokoshi, a beautiful place, relatively close to Nagoro. A friend had told me about the strange little village, almost entirely abandoned, so I thought I would pass through it before continuing home. Apparently, a woman who grew up in the village returned there to care for her dying father, only to find the town almost empty. Once he had passed, she constructed two life size dolls of her parents. She then continued to re-populate the village with more and more of these human dolls, each one representing a person she once knew that had either passed or moved away. There was still a tiny living population there - mainly people who were born there and never moved away. I had caught an odd single-carriage train, being the only train to pass nearby the village. Devoid of any other passengers, the carriage deserted me at a lonely station from which I caught a bus to the outskirt of the town. As I approached, the village seemed to be flourishing with life - I could see people working in the fields, a family at a bus stop, a school full of children. A picturesque village lying against a backdrop of lush forest and clear skies. It was only as I got closer that I noticed the villagers were motionless. The people I saw, were in fact life-size dolls. I knew they would be there, but I didn’t think the place would be so infested by them. From a distance they were so life like it felt as though they could turn and wave to you at any moment. This feeling wasn’t helped by the fact that the buildings were all intact. It felt as though everybody in the village had just decided to up and leave the day before I arrived there. As I wondered through the streets, I passed a group of cyclists; frozen in time, balancing on their bikes. An old man sitting by a creek had caught a fish made of fabric on his rod. He was dressed in human clothes - green boots, khaki pants and a red coat. His button eyes were dark and wide, his canvas skin smooth and plump. I walked over to the school I had seen as I approached the village. The door stood open, the hallways empty. My footsteps echoed like water dripping in a cave. I turned quickly as I noticed somebody staring at me in my peripheral vision. It was just another doll - a teacher standing in the corridor, hidden behind a wall. I wondered how the people that lived here got used to that constant feeling of being watched. I continued down the corridors and noticed the clocks had all stopped at the same time - 2 p.m. I reached a class room completely filled with the life-sized dolls. The children sat at their desks; some working, others staring out the window, while the teacher leant against the back wall. The scene reminded me of the La Brea tar pits - the dolls paused and trapped in time, like the mammoths trapped in tar. The whole village reminded me of a video on pause that I was free to walk through as though I was the master of time and space - a fantasy that I found to be quite lonesome in reality. I approached a large vegetable patch full of worker dolls, bent over tending to the plants. They were dressed like the others in human clothes; gardening boots and overalls and large sun hats, their chubby hands like stuffed mittens. Each of them had a unique expression sewn onto their face. It was uncanny. I observed one kneeling over in the middle, just as I saw it’s arm twitch. It was facing away from me looking down. It twitched again and then, to my surprise, it rose up and turned around. I was relieved to find that it was a breathing human. An older man wearing a brown-buttoned shirt, holding a garden trowel. He smiled and waved at me. The first human I had seen so far. “*Konbanwa*!” ‘Good evening!’, I called out, overly excited to see another person at last. The man bowed his head in response and continued gardening. Spending time alone in Nagoro is nothing like spending time alone in other settings. When you walk alone through a forest, you can find peace in the serenity. Your thoughts can wonder and you begin to reflect on yourself. You are free to admire the natural beauty. Nagoro on the other hand, although charming in it’s own way, is not a calming place. Because you are not actually alone when you are in Nagoro. You are surrounded by bustling life, only you are just not apart of it. It feels as though you have been exiled from a happy place; a joyful, simple village life that many would envy. I found myself constantly thinking about what the dolls were doing. I wondered who they represented and how it would feel to be apart of their lives. The sky began to blend into pink and orange, so I decided to head back to the bus stop. I weaved through the masses of empty vessels, passing a shop full of dolls holding baskets of real, rotting fruit and a park where a stuffed dog raced a ball back to its owner - both of them frozen in time. When I reached the giant elm tree that towered above the bus stop, the timetable informed me that there were no buses coming through until tomorrow morning. The last one had passed through half an hour ago. I considered walking to the train station, but it was much too far away and it was already getting dark. I would have to stay the night. I lugged my hiking bag back into the village and searched for an abandoned house that I could sleep in. Nagoro doesn’t feel the same at night. It doesn’t feel right. It’s not a big city that doesn’t sleep; it’s a tiny village which, at the fall of night, you’d expect everybody to return to their beds. But the village dolls don’t retreat to their homes. They stay about their business. They become black shadows - ghosts, everywhere you turn. Compared to the day in which the village feels warm and full of life, the night is haunting, the dolls completely out of place. I entered a street lined with houses, all of them abandoned yet not a single one empty. I walked into the first house I came upon, the door carelessly open. I didn’t bother taking off my shoes out of respect, as there was no one living there, but I still felt guilty when I walked in to face the resident family. I could make out three dolls in the dark - a father, reading and two kids holding toys. Much of the furniture in the house was gone. The walls and shelves were bare, not a signal piece of memorabilia left behind. Even the toys that the kids held were fabricated to match their own design. It was like the family had just stayed here while everything was taken away from them, refusing to acknowledge it. The only item that stood out was a clock on the wall. It had stopped at 2 p.m. Just like the one in the school had. There was a futon in what I assumed was the parents room, where the mother doll was sound asleep. She was turned on her side so I couldn’t see her face. I walked around and poked her just to make sure I felt soft, cold material and decided to sleep in the kids room, on the floor. I set up my sleeping bag, had an energy bar, and cautiously drifted to sleep. There is nothing comforting in trying to sleep in an occupied house, of which the residents are unaware of you. … When I woke up the next morning, I was startled to see a doll standing in the corner of the room, opposite me. He was looking straight at me, holding books to his chest. I mustn’t have noticed him, hidden in the night. It was unsettling, but I didn’t dwell on it as I planned on leaving the village straight away. I packed up my things and left the family behind me - the father stuck on the same page of his book. Outside, the village was back to life, the dolls trapped in happy memories. I walked through the streets until I had left the village behind and continued toward the bus stop. But when I reached the giant elm tree, the bus stop was nowhere to be seen. The wooden shelter and the timetable had vanished. I looked up at the tree. It’s leaves rustled far above me like an expression of sympathy. I was sure it was the right tree. I hadn’t seen another one like it. I stood there a while, completely bewildered. I was certain this was where the bus stop had been yesterday. I turned around and looked back at the village. It seemed as though it was looking straight back at me. The dolls were far away but as I squinted, it looked as though all of them had turned to face me, all in the same position. I shook my head. No, I knew it was all in my head. I was just tired and disorientated from all the travelling. There were real people living in that village. I had met one the day before. I must have retraced my steps the wrong way. I decided to return to the village and talk to the man I had seen in the field. I walked quickly along the lone path, realising the dolls were still in their individual positions as I came nearer. They hadn’t been staring at me - I knew it was just my imagination. I didn’t expect the village to have such a strong effect on me. I passed homeless dolls, asleep on their benches, and a row of very patient fishermen until I saw the elderly man in the distance, working in his vegetable patch. I reached the fence and called out to him. “*Ohayou*!” ‘Good morning,’ I called out. He was surrounded by the working dolls, some bent over, others leaning against the fence. He was turned away from me and didn’t seem to have heard me. I opened the gate and walked between the rows of vegetables, getting closer and closer until I realised something. His hands. They were swollen. I finally reached him and tapped him on the shoulder. My hand sunk into soft body. I walked around to his front, confronted by the soft smile sewn on his face. It was just another doll. But it was wearing the man’s clothes. The same garden boots, the khaki pants, the brown buttoned shirt. It was even holding a garden trowel, the same one he was holding yesterday. Where had he gone? Was my mind playing tricks on me? Did I wave and speak to a doll yesterday? No. I was sure I hadn’t imagined it. He had waved back to me. I remembered it precisely. I ran over to the house that seemed to be joined to the patch of land. The door was open and a single doll sat inside. A woman, staring up to the ceiling, her pants grey and her white shirt hanging loosely. I didn’t know what to think of it. I just wanted to get out of there. I ran back through the village to the giant elm tree where the bus stop had vanished. I checked my phone. It was stuck on 2 p.m. Friday. But it wasn’t Friday, it was Saturday. I tried to unlock it but it wouldn’t let me in. It kept saying I was entering the wrong password. I didn’t know what to do, so I followed the road. If I remembered correctly, I was progressing in the direction that the bus had continued. It would have to lead me to a neighbouring village. A thick forest bordered the opposite side of the road, so dense and dark it was as though the night slept among it’s branches. I continued along, keeping to the opposite side, away from the looming trees. I had walked for what seemed like at least an hour before the road turned and entered the forest. I stood before it. The morning light barely penetrated a few metres in. But what else was I to do? I had to keep going. I let my bag down to consume another energy bar before continuing on. No buses or any other vehicles had passed through the road yet. The forest was completely still. Not a leaf rustled as I entered. Deeper inside, I noticed a young girl sitting beneath a tree. She was crouched next to the road with her head between her knees. When I walked up to her, I felt something change in the air, as though I was being watched. I turned around and there leaning against a tree, was another doll. A man with a hat on, his arms crossed and his head tilted to one side - staring blankly at me. I turned to the young girl and grabbed her arm, only to feel the soft distortion of fabric. Her limp body rolled to the side, slumping onto the road. Her morbid expression piercing into me. I stumbled along the road, looking back at the man that had appeared behind me. The forest grew darker and darker, adamant in its silence. Until, I saw someone in the distance. “*Tasukete!*” ‘Help!’, I shouted. They didn’t move, only stared back at me. As I got closer I realised it was another doll. It was positioned to face me, just like the one I had encountered earlier. My skin shivered and I grew cold. I turned around, overwhelmed by the identical trees, every leaf completely silent. And then I noticed them. More of the dolls. At least ten of them, all spread throughout the forest behind me. Some crouched behind bushes, others peering out from behind the trunks. All of them were staring at me. I turned and ran into the darkness. Twigs snapped beneath my feet as I suddenly realised I was not on the road anymore. I was lost. Completely lost. And I was being followed. I continued running, swerving through the trees and climbing over monstrous roots. I didn’t know where I was going. I didn’t have a plan. I just needed to get away from that village. I ran and ran until I fell upon a clearing, relieved to finally be out of the forest. The daylight poured onto the grass and wildflowers. In the centre, a little cabin rested beneath a pink myrtle tree. I raced over, knocking frantically on the wooden door. “*Tasukete! Tasukete!*” ‘Help!’ I yelled. An old frail woman answered the door, startled by my frenzy. “*Gomen nasai*” ‘Excuse me, sorry,’ I said. “Do you know where I am right now?” “Yes, you are near Mount Miune,” she replied. “Are you alright? Please, come in.” The old woman opened the door as I obliged and laid my bag on the floor. “*Arigato*” ‘Thank you,’ I said. She lead me into the kitchen and gave me some water. “Where are you from?” She asked. “Australia. I just passed through Nagoro on my return from Minokoshi.” Her eyes widened. “Nagoro?” She stood up and hurried to the door, locking it. “How long did you stay there for?” She asked, as she came back into the kitchen. “Just one night. The buses stopped so early.” “You spent a night at Nagoro?” She said in shock. “Oh, no. You shouldn’t have slept there.” “There’s something wrong with that place, isn’t there?” I said. “Those dolls. Those human dolls. They followed me into the forest.” “The village is cursed,” the old lady whispered. “Once you sleep there, the curse takes hold of you. You become part of their world, you begin to freeze in time.” “What do you mean?” I asked nervously. “I’m so sorry, dear. I’ve seen this happen so many times. People think it’s some kind of fun place to visit, as though it’s just some novelty they can tread through.” I felt my arms and legs lose sensation as she spoke. “People think the villagers left,” the old lady continued. My whole body grew numb until I couldn’t feel the chair beneath me. “Nobody has ever left that town,” she said. I wanted to speak but my mouth wouldn’t move. I couldn’t move at all. “Nobody ever will.” I watched, completely paralysed as she reached beneath the table and placed a basket of needles and fabric in front of me. “Well, my dear,” she smiled, while threading string through a needle. “We better get started.


Alyssa dreamed of feverish lights and dancing swarms. Her feet covered in sand, her heart beating to a song that rang familiar and yet unknown. The crowd around her, lost in blissful euphoria, blended and fused, turning into an amorphous shape. They could not know what was about to happen, she thought as her heart beat and faster. How the fluorescent lights by the beach would be overshadowed by a skyward gleam, blinding and encompassing all. How they would all be lost in that light. She woke up to the sound of her vibrating phone. Had she not put it in silent mode? Her boyfriend lay asleep, his snoring unaffected. *No, I am not going to check it*. A minute passed and the phone vibrated again. And again. She sighted and clumsily searched the bedside table. A few messages from the same number stating: “*BALLISTIC MISSILE THREAT INBOUND TO HAWAII. SEEK IMMEDIATE SHELTER. THIS IS NOT A DRILL”* It gleamed before her eyes, like a lighthouse on the evening shore. After a few seconds, the phone’s screen turned black and she had to press the home button to check it again, make sure it was real. Alyssa scratched her eyelids, partly convinced it was a prank being played by one of her boyfriend’s friends. Her phone suddenly rang, but she did not pick it up. Then another message, but now from a friend: “Omg Ali they said it will come down in 25 minutes. PICK UP THE PHONE” Alyssa suddenly realized she had not breathed since checking the cellphone, that her lungs would not constrict nor expand; only stood still. Thirstily, she gulped for air. It took a few moments for her to overcome the feeling of asphyxiation. It couldn’t be true. She thought about checking the news, calling the police, anything to disprove those messages. Yet something deep inside her convinced her otherwise; a muffled voice crawled from her belly up towards her throat and escaped her lips ringing: “It is real” She thought of her mom who was thousands of kilometers away in Pará. They’d have a call every two or three days but didn’t last night. She imagined her mom alone watching the evening news, drawing internal anecdotes about how things never improved in Brazil. Repeating old sayings to herself as though they were mantras. She remembered her at catechism wearing a humble beige dress whilst standing at the church’s entrance facing a small march of children in white garments and dark shoes. Her face wet with tears but bearing a warm smile. Alyssa looked at her phone again – 21 minutes remained.  . . .  While Alyssa still slept, her neighbor laid awake. They would exchange pleasantries as they bumped into each other on morning jogs, but Alyssa did not know the man. His name was Silvério - he was older, quieter and had a certain sad demeanor about him. Right then, a few houses down from hers, he grunted at fixed intervals, his torso moving up and down. His cheeks red, his back damp with sweat. He was about to do the fiftieth crunch of the set, which would then be followed by twenty-five push-ups and thirty squats. The muscle pain and rigidity of his body were clear reminders of his age. Nevertheless, it wasn’t to keep fit that Silvério exercised but rather because he felt like drinking. Over the past three years or so, he discovered that exercise kept old demons at bay. It was weird, but a mix of sweat and endorphins worked better for him than any other measure he had tried before. His was a specifically difficult case because he was – and deep down prided himself being – a highly functional alcoholic. He kept his job as a health science consultant for several years while ingesting a ridiculous amount of alcohol on a weekly basis. It didn’t cost him his career but it did cost his two marriages and a son. The awareness of his problem only came to him four years back, when his ex-wife told him that his youngest son did not want to see him anymore. He had already alienated an older son, and his own father had been a stranger to him at best. The glimpse of yet another nauseating cycle about to repeat rushed through his eyes. It was then that he decided to, for the first time since early adulthood, get his shit together. He joined A.A and moved to Kaunakakai to be closer to his son. Ever since then he had had not relapsed and overall managed to almost feel proud of himself. Sure, it was not great to deal with his ex-wife’s coach surf partner but he could be in his son’s life. When he considered it, there had been mostly good days in his alcohol free life. Only rarely did he feel tempted to drink again. Today had been one of *those* days. Days when his progress seemed futile and his senses would deceive him. When he smelled gin though there was none in the house; when he drank coffee and tasted a hint of whiskey. When he remembered that the closest bar was only two point eight kilometers from his house; that he could drive there in no time or even get a jog out of it. His lips would feel dry and he would see a bartender smirk as he placed the glass on the counter. Trying to lose sight of that smirk, he finished the last set and rubbed a small white towel against his sweaty face. In his kitchen a few moments later, he filled a water bottle and drained it with delight. His Adam-apple drew an arch with each gulp and, seconds before the bottle was empty, he heard his phone ring back in the living room. “Gotta be Jim again” he grumbled to himself. But it wasn’t. His mobile screen showed the same message that Alyssa would read a few seconds afterward: “*BALLISTIC MISSILE THREAT INBOUND TO HAWAII. SEEK IMMEDIATE SHELTER. THIS IS NOT A DRILL”* Silvério checked the number – it was a government one. Search results on his mobile led to forums filled with anguished posts debating the message’s veracity. Was it real? What could be done? When the U.S president openly antagonized a dictator in hold of atomic weapons on a platform reaching 330 million, what else could be expected? A new Pearl Harbor. What a legacy to leave behind. There could have just been some glitch or cyber terrorism, Silvério pondered. His heart beat fast, his white tank top still wet in cold sweat. But what if it wasn’t? What if his timer was really set and he had but twenty minutes left? To his eternal shame, upon facing that possibility, it was not towards his son that his thoughts went but to his Belgium neighbor’s cabinet. Silvério hurried outside, leaving the lights on and the front door opened. He took anxious steps, moved by the forgotten frenzy and immutable smell of alcohol that wasn’t there. The grass under his feet felt soft and humid, the air warm and calm. He paused before his neighbor’s backdoor. *I am better than this. I should be.* He sighted, crouched and lifted the mat which read “Welkom” in bold. Underneath it shone the house key against the moon light. *Bingo*. The door opened silently, a damp stain left on its handle. It was not necessary to turn any lights on – he knew he was in the kitchen and that the silhouette of the door ahead led to the living room. From there, taking the right he could go to the room where the cabinet stood. While having coffee with his neighbor, he often lost his gaze at that very room, pretending he did not know what it hid. The Flemish man would laugh and resume his tales, but, to his merit, never had any alcoholic beverages at display when visited by Silvério. The timer on his mobile phone showed he still had 18 minutes. How many bottles could he down in that time? *One thousand and eighty seconds don’t seem like that long*. His hands trembling with excitement, Silvério grabbed the first bottle he found. It was rum and he quickly drank over half of it. Dark liquid ran down his lips, his neck and stained his tank top. The first time he ever drank rum was at a house party when his fifteen-year old self tried to impress a girl. It tasted pungent then just like it did now. That taste, accompanied by the dreamy buzz and the warmth of her body had been ingrained in his memory. Bitterness, excitement, youth. A better version of himself. He paused for a moment, coughed a few times and finished the bottle. The second bottle he chose was a vodka one. It tasted bitter and heavier than remembered. For a single moment he was caught by a future image of himself lying unconscious amidst empty bottles, just before being disintegrated by an explosion. He stared at the two-thirds left of the vodka bottle, thinking of his youngest son as he took another sip.  . . .  The deep beat reverberated across the beach. From afar, kilometers of emptiness from left and right converged into a crowd dancing bathed in a mix of moon and neon light. Every so often a subtle breeze blew, drawing waves at the near sea and lifting sand particles that stuck against wet shirts and damp bodies. Tim danced with a girl he had locked eyes with a few moments before. Her body swayed from side to side. Her mouth mumbled the song’s lyrics in an almost smirk. With more clumsiness than charm, Tim tried to follow her dance tempo whilst sipping his beer. He placed the plastic cup on the ground and took a single step towards her. Her smirk grew larger. From the small bag that hung on her shoulder, she took what appeared to be a pill and gently placed it in her mouth. To his surprise, she came closer. Then a little closer – just enough for a kiss. Her lips were sweet and soft. As they kissed, she delicately placed her hands on the back of his neck and played with his hair. He moved his mouth from hers to her neck and back while trying to control his own hands. Eventually, she stopped, took another pill from her bag but this time placed in his mouth. It was then that a wider range of feelings emerged for Tim – a combination of anxiety, arousal and release. They resumed kissing for a while, lost in an ecstasy of sensations and the never stopping beat that trembled their chests. Before he took a break to ask her name, a stranger bumped against them, almost making the girl fall. It was then that Tim noticed that something had gone wrong – those who had been dancing around them were now staggered checking their phones. A couple appeared to cry while others started to push against the crowd in a desperate frenzy. When the music went momentarily lower, Tim could hear a scream: “Die, we are gonna die!” Fear spread across the rave like wildfire. It engulfed and surrounded much of the crowd, even those who were not fit to comprehend it. As many began to run in incidental directions, some were trampled and screams ensued. A handful drunken fights emerged and a small group headed towards the water while taking their cloths off. A couple held closer together, exchanging inaudible words. Once the mass had divided into scattered and less violent groups, a myriad of cigarettes were lit and smoke flew up to the night sky. There were some people who even resumed dancing as though the chaos had been nothing but a transitory nightmare. Tim hugged the girl whilst the violence broke down and took her away from the larger groups. As the pandemonium subsided they went back to kissing and feeling each other’s body. Neither bothered to check their phones. The ever so loud beat never stopped.  . . .  Alyssa gave herself three minutes to cry. She was cold enough to time it. Once she was done, she dried her face and took a deep breath. Her boyfriend was still snoring as she walked to the kitchen. Once there, she placed the coffee pot on the sink, added water, four and a half teaspoons of Kenyan coffee and took a package of sugar from the cupboard. Then, she placed it on the stove and waited for the water to heat. She thought about leaving her mother a voice message but could not define what she wanted to say. When the familiar smell began to pervade the house, her mind went blank. As she stood there unaware of which thought might come next, she felt a slight touch on her shoulder. “Hon, it is almost three in the morning” her boyfriend said in a voice both tired and confused. She turned to him, smiled and their lips touched for a second. She then put the coffee in two cups that had been drying. Followed by his perplexed gaze, she added one tea spoon of sugar to each and mixed it. She kissed him again but now for slightly longer. “You are crazy” he declared after a yawn. Alyssa laughed a sad laugh, as far as she knew her very last, and took a slow sip.


A car was approaching. I stood beside the road with my thumb out and turned my head as the car rolled past me and pulled over about 50 yards away. My belongings, such as they were, I kept in a small trunk of rough pine I had stolen from a barn some weeks past. I picked up my trunk and hobbled over to the car. It was a very old car with not one part of its surface free from rust. I placed my trunk down and stood upon it to see into the car. A naked man with a great beard that pooled into his lap and a cape of hair that went further sat at the wheel. A dog slept on a large mattress where the back seats used to be. “How old is your dog?” I asked. “Not mine. Where you tryin’ to get?” “North and or west.” The man said nothing but leaned across and opened the passenger door. “Where shall I put my trunk?” “On the mattress, but don’t wake Javier. He needs his rest.” I very carefully placed the trunk behind my seat and sat back as the man pulled back onto the road. There was a messy pile of empty plastic bottles beneath my feet and the air smelled sourly of sweat and a nameless mixture of odours no doubt relating to the dog’s presence. “Where is Javier’s master?” I asked. “He ain’t got no master nor never will.” “How come he to be named Javier?” “That were his name when the others introduced him.” No-one spoke for a long while. I decided to cough. “I don’t want any sickness,” the man said. “Oh, I assure you I am very healthy. There was a lot of dust.” “I can’t help the way the dust works. Don’t you have a mask? A cloth of some kind?” “Would that I had a beard like yours to protect me!” The man said nothing and shut his eyes and frowned. He shook his head in brief bursts for a while, still frowning. The beard slithered like some mystic python. I flushed in shame at my apparent faux pas, cursing myself inwardly. I could not afford to make such errors, not a man like me, not in this neck of the woods. “God damn beautiful country isn’t it?” I said. The man sighed a long sigh. Could I do nothing right? “A blasphemer…” he said. “Forgive me,” I said. We drove on in silence for perhaps half an hour. We had entered one of the world’s great arboreal regions that continued unabated past the hilly horizon. The dog slept on, snoring heavily. Finally, I mustered the courage to say: “I apologise about my reference to your beard, I assure you it was of a wholly complimentary intention. And I assure you also, I avow that I have the fear of God within me or let Him smite me down in this vehicle.” “There’s no good in apologising. Just a waste of words. What is said is said.” I noted his hypocrisy silently. I wished to write of it in my notebook, which I fetched from my trunk. I fumbled through the various objects and found the notepad under my copy of Survivalism in the Nuclear Age, on top of which sat my sustenance, an apple. The dog, Javier, stirred with a great snort and the man groaned weakly and squinted. I raised a conciliatory hand and the man nodded once, seemingly appeased. I pulled my pencil from my ear and very faintly noted the man’s hypocrisy in the notebook in a loose cursive scribble, almost, even certainly, unreadable, but serving as a memory trigger for this most abominable social lapse. My memory often fails me, you understand, so I must have some technique to augment it, if only in the form of scratchings and marks. A disturbance in the white of the paper that will allow me to re-live, or at least, re-feel the experience for which it stood. “You’re not one of them filth-sketchers are you?” the man asked. “Come again?” The man sighed and gave me a dismissive wave. “I am no sketcher. Alas, I was born with few talents. I merely like to scribble. The feel of it calms me,” I said. “What’s there to be not calm about?” “Many things. But sometimes it is what is not there which is dis-calming,” I said. “I suppose my scribbles fill that gap.” The man nodded. We drove on through the trees. Javier snored breathily. “If my nakedness dis-calms you, why did you get in the car?” I had forgotten that the man was naked. I don’t think it would be correct to describe him as naked, for his immense beard and hair covered him better than many of today’s garments. Truthfully though, when I thought of it, his nakedness did disturb me somewhat, but I was in no position to be denying rides at that time. “I hadn’t even noticed,” I said, “Why, you’re veritably jacketed-” I winced. The man squeezed his face tightly. He exhaled in a long wheeze. Again he shook his head. “Pass one of them bottles at your feet.” They were beyond my reach. “One moment,” I said. I turned around to my trunk and carefully slid free a children’s toy gripping claw that I had found in a garbage dump at another time in my life. It was very useful to a man like me, and quite possibly my most treasured possession. I held the claw out over a bottle and gripped the lever to clamp the bottle and raised it up and grabbed it with my free hand. “Sorry, I forgot-” the man said. “No, it is fine,” I said as I passed him the bottle. I carefully returned my claw to the trunk and fetched back my notebook to etch into my memory this second case of hypocrisy. The man took the bottle and plunged it deep into his beard and urinated for a long time. I sat frozen and stared straight ahead. Let him do his filthy business, I cannot afford to be left behind, I thought. “I’m gonna need a second bottle.” he said. He began winding the window down with one hand, holding the bottle in place with the other hand and the steering wheel with his knees. “Quickly,” he croaked. I turned back to the trunk and snatched the claw and in doing so hit Javier on the snout. The man appeared not to notice and I pincered a bottle and passed it over to him using the claw. He plunged the new bottle into his beard to continue his improper deed and at the same time poured the other bottle out the window, the foul liquid spraying in the wind onto the side of the car, spattering on the rear window. He passed the empty bottle back to me which I took with the claw and then he poured the second bottle out and returned it too. “I usually need three bottles. All this talk is dehydrating. There should be a bottle of liquids down there. Pass that.” I picked through the pile of bottles with the claw and found one at the bottom that was full of water, presumably, and holding my tool with two hands transferred the liquid over to the man. He glugged it all in one attempt and threw it down aimlessly into the pile. We drove on in silence. “Lemme see that claw,” said the man. I turned around to my trunk and saw the yellow eyes of a dog looking at me. Javier was awake and lay with his head down. “Um,” I said. “Come on now.” I turned back and reluctantly handed the man my claw and he examined it with what I am sure was feigned indifference. He pulled the lever twice. “Huh, is that so,” he said. He reached over with the claw into my footwell and clamped a bottle and brought it up and then released it. “That’ll do,” he said. He laid the claw down on the centre console between us. When I took it back I hid my concern and anxiety behind a face of stoic resolve. “I could use that there claw,” the man said. “It is very useful, especially for a man like me.” “Save me riskin’ mine and Javier’s life” “I’m sorry?” “Keep my eyes on the road better with that there claw” I turned to place the claw back in my trunk but the man put his hand on it. “Let’s keep it out here just in case.” The sounds of clattering objects and moist eating filled the air from behind. “What’s he doing? Did you wake him?” said the man. “He doesn’t wake this early, ever. What did you do to Javier?” “Um…” The eating sounds turned to a gagging, gasping sound. “Help him God damn it!” yelled the man. I am an avowed animal lover, a trait you might find strange for a man like me, and as such I am embarrassed to admit that my first thought in this moment of action was not of animal rescue but of this accursed man’s continued hypocrisy and then secondly my regret at having to delay its recording to lay my hands upon a foul beast. I turned around and saw Javier with his head in my trunk, which in a moment of rushed urinary assistance I had forgotten to close. My apple! How dare that vile hound sink his slobbering fangs into my lunch! In a moment of rage I lunged at Javier and pulled him from the trunk. The two of us tumbled over the mattress intertwined like lovers as I pulled at his jaws, not to free his air passages but rather to get back my apple. A man could go days in those parts without seeing a town so if I had to eat regurgitated apple I would. “What the hell are you doing to him?” cried the man, stealing glances behind him as he drove. I worked my hands into Javier’s slobbering mouth, pulling bits of apple out as he choked and snorted. His tonge was soft and slick like raw chicken and his breath smelled worse and was hot on my face. Suddenly Javier went limp and the choking noises stopped. The man braked hard and pulled over. “Javier?” cried the man. “Javier? Is he alright?” I turned back to the man with a look of unconcealable shock, my face and hands covered in dog saliva and bits of apple. The man looked past me to Javier’s stillness. “I don’t-” I said, not sure of what to say. I stepped towards my trunk and reached for it but felt myself yanked backwards. I just managed to grab one handle of the trunk and held onto it as I was pulled through the car by the man and tossed through his urine sprayed window and landed on the road, my trunk clattering after me spilling my possessions. I could hear the man howling from the car before he sped off down the road at an unconscionable speed. I gathered my belongings and limped from the road. After gathering my breath, I noticed that I was in fact very hungry. I looked about me so as to appear to any observers that my next act was not performed without seeking alternatives. I was very hungry. I pulled the two pieces of slobbery apple from my face and put them in my mouth and chewed. It is important to release the juices, see, it improves nutrient absorption. I read that in Survivalism in the Nuclear Age and it hasn’t failed me. No less than two hours would have passed without a single vehicle passing. My stomach was pining for sustenance and I was growing weak. I figured I would spend the remains of the day to seek out some food, perhaps some fruit or if He so gifted me, some fresh roadkill. But of course, there must be cars to kill the animals for me. I walked for a time up the road dragging my trunk behind me. I did not wish to stray far from the road but I spied a small pond through the trees nearby. Water leads to life, and so on. I reached the pond and looked about, spying atop a rock formation what seemed like a fruit tree. When I reached the rocks, I saw above me my salvation! A cherry shrub, bursting with hundreds of sweet red balls. I bent down to open my trunk to fetch my- “Noooooo!” I cried. That filthy naked man had stolen my claw. How had I not taken it with me? I was sure if I had seen it, I would have grabbed it. I last saw it on the centre console but when I was dragged out it was gone. Where could it have-? I realised then that the man had hidden my precious claw in his accursed beard as his dog choked to death.