He was on a highway he didn't know, in a state he'd never been to, between cities he'd never heard of, surrounded by what should have been corn but was something else. They looked like a crossbreeding of sunflowers and roses, enormous heads of petals enclosing a face full of giant seeds. The sky was purple, and the sinking sun was just a crescent on the horizon. There was a life behind him, a wife who was no longer his, though no children because she had, secretly, prevented their very possibility.

A frost began to form on the edges of his windows. A chill seeped through the cracks and seams. He cranked the heat and it poured from the vents. The cold creeping in seemed to combat it, like soldiers on a battlefield a hundred and fifty years ago. A white mass like a cloud bank rolled out of the sky and a wind gust shook the body of the truck. It was all he could do to hold it in his lane. A shriek filled the air, low and constant, building until it was the only sound to be heard. Somewhere ahead, a new life awaited. He could have stayed, watched Jessica move on and perhaps marry again, maybe even have children. That would have been something akin to waterboarding. It would have filled his mind, for their lives had become so entwined that neither had friends of their own, their families merging into one cohesive unit. They regularly ate dinner together, held parties in each other's homes, spoke and messaged often. One of his cousins had even married her sister. There was no place he could exist where she would not emerge with consistency. So he had taken himself out of the picture, to ease pressure on the families as well as himself. He held no ill will toward her side, and wanted his to hold none against her.

The field of sunflower-roses ended on an exit and he took it. The sign indicated places of food, lodging and gas. There was a storm coming, and he wasn't sure he'd ever seen anything like it. He could feel it's energy, the way you could just before a lightning strike. And it was getting more than chilly. His heater was pumping at it's limit and still that cold was winning. He thought of the last time he had seen Jessica. They had been on the porch discussing the weather. Sweat poured from his forehead and she was complaining of her sticky clothes, if she didn't get inside soon she was going to faint. They had left without their keys, only realizing it when they tried to drive away. Kyra was on the way with the spare, but she lived twenty minutes away. So they had been trapped in a sense, forced to face each other after so long avoiding such contact.

The first building, a Shell station, was devoid of activity. There were no cars at the pumps nor inany of the spots along the building. He tried the door but it was locked. The place was dark, the shelvesfull. He knocked, but no one came. He turned to the rest of the little piece of the world he'd pulled into. The cold had more than crept in now, it was inside of him, like it meant to freeze the very blood in his veins. There were no vehicles in sight. He could see clear across the road to the Denny's and the Super 8, but both had empty lots. No one moved. Standing there, he realized it was more than that, no thing moved either. There was an American flag at full mast but it just hung there, like a lifeless corpse left as a warning. He moved closer, and as he approached realized it wasn't dangling, as it would if there were no wind, because there was, it cut across his cheeks, burning like a liquid flame. The flag wasn't moving because it was frozen. He spun, backing slightly into the flagpole. There wasn't a single bird to peep his movements. There were no distant sounds either, the way there always were when you made your way off the interstate, the low hum of sixteen wheels running over asphalt or pavement. The drone of lanes of traffic moving steadily along to their various destinations.

Hurrying back to his truck, he drove on, not back to the highway but continuing on the two-lane in hopes of finding refuge from the cold, and just maybe someone to explain the desertion of the businesses just beyond the exit, places which surely saw enough patronage to support round-the-clock service. Still that cold remained. Worsening. His vents were directed at his face but he couldn't feel their warmth at all. Instead, the chill which had begun only ten minutes ago was now a frost, clouding his windows and sinking into his hands until he almost couldn't get them off the steering wheel.

The first intersection came only minutes later. There was a sign which had an arrow pointing toward the town of Hyberia. It had a population of less than 2,500. That was good enough, and it was only five miles. He thought he could make it five miles, but put his foot down anyway. The truck growled but kind of sputtered before really getting up on it's hubs. He went from 50 to 70 and leveled out at 85. If he got pulled over maybe the officer could explain what was going on, and why it was so ungodly cold there. And getting colder by the minute. He had it in his mind that if he didn't find refuge soon he would freeze just like that flag, and the truck would just go on until it veered off the road or came head on with something it couldn't drive through. The town sign was large, a piece of carved wood reading Hyberia: The Only Place to Weather the Storm . It may have said something else but he didn't have time to catch it. Soon after, a small gas station appeared, a place which reminded him of the filling station in Mayberry. It may have been deserted, and he actually thought that was just the case. Beyond the station more of those rose-like flowers. It might have been the area's money crop, except they weren't like anything he'd ever even seen in magazines or on TV. If they existed anywhere else, no one was buying them. It wasn't a wonder why, there was very little aesthetic appeal, and he didn't even want to think about eating the seeds from that foul plant. Just the thought made his throat convulse. A cold shock burst in his chest and the breath went with it, reverberating from his body. It took a moment to get his lungs full again, heaving as he gripped the steering wheel. It felt like ice in his hands, or was that just the temperature in general? He couldn't decide because his brain was just then somewhat deprived of valuable oxygen. As if on it's own, his foot pressed harder on the pedal and he was going a hundred, passing those red flowers at a clip too great to even see them, merging it all into a massive blur on either side of the road. His ears were numb, and his nose, and the tips of his toes too. All of a sudden he became aware ofjust how much of his body he could no longer feel. His chest and hips were still there, but the rest was just a bunch of appendages attached, like the hoses and attachments on a vacuum cleaner, useless things he could no longer communicate with. It was almost the way he had felt with Jessica in the last months of their marriage, as though she were once something he could effortlessly talk and listen to. They had seemed so connected then, so singular. How they could ever have separated he would never know. He didn't want to think about it deeply enough to figure it out. As the flowers gave way to a small parking lot he whipped the wheel and aimed the truck at the building there. Higginson's Delicatessen and Grocery . He didn't bother with such niceties as parking spots and instead slid to a stop, almost into the red-brick wall. He threw open his door and tumbled out. His grimy hands hit the pavement and stuck, like licking a pole. For one terrible moment he was sure that was it, whatever was happening was going to happen to him and that would be the end, but his hands peeled away from the ground, a bit of blood splashing the dark surface. He didn't feel it, or give himself time to wonder how bad he'd just fucked his hands, if he didn't get inside soon, those hands wouldn't matter anymore anyway. He slammed into the glass doors. They didn't budge and his heart shot into his throat. He pushedand shoved and kicked. He turned toward the waning day, and saw what was coming. It was a wall of pure white, the clearest void of color he'd ever seen. The way some clouds looked on very clear blue days, but this was deeper somehow, like the complete opposite of a massive sinkhole. You thought you could see things in that darkness, and you could definitely hear them. This, though, this whiteness you could feel, down in the very fiber of your bone and muscle. It was coming for him, and it would fill him to bursting, it would sink down into him and form crystals of ice and expand every organ and bit oftissue until he exploded like a can of soda in the freezer. He spun, out of breath completely now, numb to his core, moving by fear alone, pushing and slamming and pulling now at the door and it opened toward him with ease. For a moment he just stood there, confused, until he felt something like ice on the back of his neck. Lurching, he stumbled into the store and fell onto his hands and knees, sliding onto his face as his bloody hands slipped out from under him. An already the encapsulating warmth washed over him, as though there was a space heater hanging just above him. For longer than he could tell or calculate, he just laid there. The floor was even warm, like one of those rich people's bathrooms. The lights above were dark, the only light that of the whiteness outside, falling in through the single door he'd escaped through. His hands began to sting and to burn. He would have to find some disinfectant and some gauze. As he sat up, he realized that door had been an exit. PUSH was very clearly stated above the handle. On the outside, he knew, it would read PULL . He got up and turned toward the store. It was mostly dark, the shelves like ghosts emerging from their unseen realm. It was just a humble little shop, no bigger than a McDonald's or Subway. There were two registers. It crossed his mind to wonder why the place was unlocked and unattended, and then it crossed his mind to search the register, but thought better of that. Just what he needed, a robbery charge to go with the divorce and his near-death experience. Near freezing-to-death experience. Everything outside was white, and he thought of that movie The Mist . He hoped that wasn't what he had found himself facing. As he watched, ice crystals began to form at the edges of the glass. They seemed to build one on top of the other as they spread, moving inward like ants, ants devouring some piece of food dropped onto the ground. He thought that if he kicked that glass it would shatter, and that cold would find it's way in.

A thump from the darkness. He whirled, but it was murky still, no more than edges and vague shapes. “Hello?” he said, and told himself that was a stupid thing to do. If it was some criminal, or monster – No, he shut that thought off immediately, a storm so cold it formed ice in seconds, on pretty much any surface, that was one thing, he was not going to entertain the idea of monsters. Something answered him. Some thing being the only way he could describe it because there were no words, only a few guttural mewls like a little animal struggling into the world. He moved into the darkness toward that sound, telling himself this was how all the stupid white girls died in horror movies and slasher flicks, but too curious to stop his forward progression. He heard something else, like water dripping, and realized that his hands were leaking onto the floor. He wiped them on his shirt and pain flared into his wrists and arms. Yeah, he was going to have to deal with that soon. The mewling came again, so much closer yet no more intelligible. It could have been a puppy ora deer or some unimaginable freak of a thing no one had ever seen before. But of course that was more ridiculousness. There were no monsters or creatures scurrying through the darkness. Whatever it was, he'd likely come across it before at one time or another, his fear addled brain just hadn't recognized that sound yet. Out of the darkness, something did come crawling, but it was no monster or horrible creature or anything else he'd been scaring himself with. It was a baby. It saw him and sat back on it's butt. It was half-wrapped in a blanket, and had on a onesie with little paw prints like a pup had trekked all across the thing. The baby had bright blue eyes and starkly blond hair. It cocked it's head. “Hi, little baby,” crouching as he moved a little closer, “where is your mommy? Or your daddy, I guess. That seems more likely, leave it to a man.” The baby reached with one clutching hand, as if wanting something. He looked down at his own neck and found the bandanna he had been wearing, in case he should need to go into a place requiring coverings. He untied and offered it. The baby snatched it away and smiled. It made a giddy little yeeing sound and started swinging the kerchief from one side to the other. He finished closing the distance and picked the baby up, careful not too get too much blood on it's clothes, wondering if it was a boy or girl, and asking again where it's mommy was. If the baby knew, it wasn't saying, though it didn't take long to find out. Just a few feet away was the entrance to the little grocery. The door was held slightly open by an arm, the PUSH stark just beside it. He could just see a woman's face through the white haze building on the glass. Her other hand was firmly locked around the outer handle. As he watched, those crystals moved up her arm, forming even more rapidly than they had on the glass. Almost the way an animal will switch meals when a meatier prey presents. Through the space provided by her arm, the cold was creeping in, forming it's little crystals already on the magazine stand just inside the door. He knew what he had to do. If he didn't, that ice would continue spreading, and their warm little cave would no longer be much of a haven. In fact, it would be a tomb. He took the baby to the registers and placed it in the space between them. “Stay here, little baby, you shouldn't see this. I shouldn't do it,” he mumbled turning back toward the entrance and the woman who had tried to reach the safety the other side of it provided. The woman who had thought to save her child even as the cold crept into her. How much of her had frozen before she had gotten it to safety? How difficult that must have been. He had only felt the first wave of that chill and his mind had nearly shut down. He found the magazine rack almost completely white. He wondered if it would spread from there or if it needed the chill from outside to maintain itself. If he got the door closed, would that be enough to keep them from freezing as well? The only answer that mattered was, that it didn't matter, because if he didn't close that door, that woman's efforts would be in vain, and so would his own. So as much as he did not want to do it, he lifted his foot and kicked that door as hard as he could. The woman's arm didn't severe so much as shatter. Like a meat Popsicle, it hit the floor and burst into frozen red chunks. The door closed and the magazine stand began to thaw, though he could tell it would be quite a while before the pages of the periodicals there would come apart, if they ever did. Before those pieces of what had once been a hand and part of an arm could start to look like what they now were, he faded back until the whole scene was obscured by the comforting black of lightlessness. He found the baby, still between the registers, and sat down to wait for the storm to pass. He hoped it would be quick, but if it wasn't then at least they would have plenty to survive on. Pulling the baby into his lap, he reveled in it's warmth, and hoped the little guy, or gal, was enjoying his as well. For a while, that was all there was going to be. Maybe all there would ever be. THE END


Someplace Safe Ten minutes. Jake closed his laptop and sat thinking. Cold sweat trickled down his back. I’m dead. How could the safety nets have failed Mankind so miserably? So fatally? I’m fucking dead. All had failed -- the politicians, the diplomats, the generals, the spies, the presidents. Now there was nothing left but decimation. Outside his window, the campus mall looked perfectly normal. The sun was out for the first time in days; bees flitted among the hedges. A mockingbird sat blithely on a limb. Normality. Jake’s stomach clenched as he realized it was nothing more than a mirage, a dream, a lie. He started to reopen his laptop and take another look at the headlines, but knew there was no point. Most of the major news outlets had taken themselves off the air. They were letting people go. There was nothing more to say, nothing left to report. Civilization had been canceled. Nine minutes. Jake snatched his cell phone and dialed the most important number in the world. His mouth was as dry as a bone. What would he say to Will, if his son even answered? Will had a family of his own. They would be making arrangements. Finding a place to hide. “Jesus,” Jake whispered, getting no answer. He disconnected and tucked the phone in his pocket. Will was no doubt doing the right thing: gathering his wife, Catherine, and their twins, Lindsey and Donny, into a safe place. Being a good dad. Jake might live to see them again -- if he got off his ass and found safety. His limbs flooded with inertia. His fingers squeezed the chair arm. Where to go? What to do ? Eight minutes. He clasped his throat, desperate for breath. Fuckfuck FUCK -- The phone suddenly chimed in his pocket -- the customized alert he’d assigned to Will’s number back when trivialities still mattered. He yanked out the phone and jabbed the green TALK button. “Hello? Will?” “Hi, Dad.” Jake felt instantly relieved. “Hey, kid. Wh--where are you?” “Dad, there’s no time.” Seven minutes. “I know, son.” “We’re headed down to the basement. I wanted you to know we’ll be fine.” “Yes, okay. Good.” “Are you in a safe place?” Jake glanced uneasily at his west-facing windows. “I’m at work.” “Find a place.” “I will. How are the kids?” “They’re downstairs. Dad. Take care of yourself. We love you. Have you spoken to Mom?” “No.” Wouldn’t even attempt to. No point. “Dad, I gotta go. I love you so much.” “Will-” The call was disconnected. Simultaneously, the lights went out. The AC unit clanged once, like a spoon caught in a disposal, then whirred to a grinding halt. Silence filled the space. Jake inhaled sharply, his throat tightening. He jabbed “redial,” but the cell was completely dead. No dial tone on his desk phone. Jake flipped open his laptop. It, too, was without power. His cellphone slid from his hand. “Jesus. Jesus.” EMP? An electromagnetic pulse, detonated in the atmosphere would paralyze an area the size of-- Outside, someone screamed. Jake peered out the window, eyes probing the April morning. He wished he could stroll across the mall to the cafeteria for a bite of lunch. He would sit and trade quips with Dr. Brady, the History 1 prof, or Dr. Schneider, who taught Renaissance Art. He wished he could help the young woman who had collapsed just now on the sidewalk, her legs and arms thrashing. Panic attack? Stroke? People poured from their buildings, milling aimlessly, craning their necks skyward. Isn’t someone going to help that poor girl? His pulse hammered in his temples. Where were all these people going ? They ought to be digging holes with their bare hands! Outdoor exposure would be fatal -- those who survived the initial flash would be broiled alive in a radioactive oven, reduced to bubbling, cancerous puddles. The only place safe was underground. Was there a basement in Yowell Hall? He backpedaled from the window, banging his hip against the edge of his desk. In the corridor, a melee erupted -- screams, shouts of profanity. Jake rushed to the door, then thought twice. Yowell Hall doesn’t need a bomb shelter. It is a bomb shelter. Constructed in 1939, it was your classic brick-and-mortar structure, complete with four-inch-thick concrete walls. Over the decades, the building had housed everything from a residence hall to science labs to administrative offices. Jake’s wing overlooked the campus … but there were other interior spaces without windows. No exterior walls or doors. Five minutes. Jake snatched up his cell phone, stuffing it in his hip pocket. A quick glance turned up nothing else worth saving. Nothing but -- A framed photo of his son and grandchildren. It had been taken only months ago, on the twins’ birthday. Their upturned, smiling faces gave him a flash of hope. He smashed the glass rectangle on the corner of his desk and carefully plucked the photo from its frame. As he folded the picture, Jake took one last, distracted look outside. From his vantage, he could see one green corner of the mall, a tree trunk, and the west wing of his building. There was no sign of humanity. Even the mockingbird had abandoned its post. Suddenly, a voice spoke, as if from Heaven itself. Jake startled so severely that he sat down hard in his chair. The voice was robotically grating, enormous, inescapable. “ATTENTION … THIS IS THE AUTOMATED CAMPUS ALERT SYSTEM … TAKE SHELTER IMMEDIATELY … THIS IS NOT A DRILL.” Jake ran to the door. Flinging it open, he hardly noticed he had dropped the picture of his grandchildren. He dashed down the empty corridor … past the Office of the Registrar … past Financial Aid and Career Services … to the T-shaped junction at the end of the hall. He paused, breathless, considering his options. To his left: the exit door on the east end of the building. Adjacent to the frosted-glass exit: the men’s bathroom. Jake started towards it, then realized the restroom had one exterior wall. He had to go deeper. “ATTENTION … TAKE SHELTER … FIND A STURDY INDOOR STRUCTURE … DO NOT ATTEMPT TO SHELTER INSIDE YOUR CAR ... THIS WILL BE INSUFFICIENT COVER …” Jake had worked in Yowell Hall for six years; he knew every nook and cranny. The Copy Center contained storage space, bathrooms, even a staff kitchen. He bolted down the inner corridor into the customer service area. Jake dove across the front desk, scattering pens and papers. “ATTENTION … THIS IS NOT A DRILL … THE UNITED STATES GOVERNMENT RECOMMENDS ALL CITIZENS HAVE ENOUGH FOOD AND POTABLE WATER TO LAST A MINIMUM OF SIX DAYS … STAY INSIDE … LISTEN TO YOUR LOCAL RADIO FOR FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS … ATTENTION … TAKE SHELTER …” Though muffled by the walls, Jake could still hear the PA blaring outside. Anyone within six blocks would hear it. The terror the message conveyed made him want to cover his ears. Jake yelled in pained surprise as he stumbled blindly into a table. No light reached these rooms. Good. If light could reach him, so might the fire. He slammed headlong into a closed door. Blinking dazedly, Jake seized the knob and rattled it. Locked. “Goddammit!” He tried the next door down -- also locked. “CAUTION … DO NOT STARE INTO THE BURST ... IT WILL RESULT IN BLINDNESS … TURN AWAY FROM THE BURST ...” Sprinting full-speed down the corridor, Jake tripped over an object in the dark and sprawled across the carpet, biting his tongue damn near in half. I believe that’s what we used to call a face plant . Chuckling morbidly, Jake clawed his way back to his feet, darting toward a shape he knew to be a doorknob. He grabbed it one-handed. The knob turned. Grunting his victory, Jake lunged into the black hole beyond, slamming the door shut behind. Dungeon or oubliette, it served the same purpose. His shoulder banged against a set of shelves and an avalanche rained down … reams of copier paper … ink pens and staple guns … manila folders and ink cartridges. Something that felt like a typewriter struck him on the neck, knocking him to his hands and knees. He burrowed beneath the detritus, scuttling lobster-like toward an opening in front of him -- a space beneath a heavy wooden desk. How many layers separating him from the outside? How many interior walls? The goal was protection against not only the "burst" but fallout. Everything he’d read on Hiroshima told him he would rather die from thermal heat than radiation. Not that either was to be desired. Jake folded himself beneath the desk, pulling armfuls of office supplies in after him. He might have been lining the walls of a cave. Would it be enough? One minute … maybe less. He threw his arms over his head, pressing his body to the carpet. The walls and ceiling were solid masonry, the floor concrete. Jake squeezed his eyes shut. In the darkness he saw his grandchildren at their birthday party. He heard their laughter and shrieks of delight. Donny had clambered up into his lap, a chocolate-coated grin stretched from ear to ear.

“I love you, Papaw,” the boy said, planting a kiss on his cheek. Jake had kissed him right back. “I love you, too.” Outside, the PA cut off in mid-spiel. WaitwaitwaitWAIT -- ## Silence. Jake could no longer tell whether he was awake or dreaming, living or dead. The air was thick enough to touch. How long had he lain like this, with his knees touching his chin, his arms paperclipped to his face? Time had ceased to exist. His pulse had slowed to a mere trickle; his legs might have been amputated at the knees. For days, there had been no sound. Jake counted silence as a blessing. At least the winds had died, and the explosions had stopped. He slowly raised his hand to graze his fingers across the rough underside of the desk that had become his sanctuary. Jake knew the desk was there. He did not know what else there might be. What has become of the world? A dry croak escaped his lungs. “Hello?” He stirred his legs, surprised they still responded to impulses from his brain. “Hello?” He tried unfolding his body. Ground glass filled his joints. Jake cried out in pain -- not much of a cry. Dehydration had reduced him to a cicada husk. Hunger and thirst were now his main motivators. Even here, in this enclosure, the air tasted like soot. It took 24 hours for Jake to stand without falling. ## The door to the women's restroom stood open. Jake had found his way to it by memory. The windowless Copy Center was now a labyrinth navigated only by guesswork. With a cry -- and the last of his strength -- he managed to lift off  the tank lid. The scent of the pre-war fluid inside was overwhelming. Jake scooped handfuls into his mouth. He drank until he regurgitated, then drank some more. ## Gray, murky light filtered in through the frosted-glass exit. Jake watched the light, unsure of its source. It appeared to be snowing, but it was far too warm for that. Somewhere above, a thin, piercing howl arose. He’d been hearing it for the past several days. Hornets crawled around inside his skull. It took every scrap of will not to dig his fingers into his eye sockets and set them free. The howling went on for hours, finally trailing into sobs. Jake shook himself . He treaded softly down the corridor toward his old office. The muted light -- smoky, heavy, foul-smelling -- illuminated fallen ceiling tiles and overturned furniture. There was no sign of human visitation. He found what he was looking for and knelt beside it, a small sigh of gratitude slipping from his parched lips. His grandchildren smiled up through a layer of dirt. Jake gently lifted the photo and wiped it clean. He tucked the picture in his pocket next to his dead cellphone. I will see you again. ## Jake paused at the exit door, one gloved hand resting on the handle. His son’s words echoed in his memory. I wanted you to know we’ll be fine. God, he needed that to be true. One way to find out. He pressed the bar, popping the door open. Grinning behind his mask, he exited into the world.


“Amber! Amber! You have to come see this!” Fredrick was paralyzed as he peered into his telescope, unable to decipher what it was that he saw. He had hoped that when he opened his present that he would see extraordinary things, but nothing prepared him for this.

“Fredrick, you just set it up! Did you really find something?” Amber yelled as she came running through the back door, her strawberry blonde hair already in a bun ready to see what her little brother had found. “Mom said it’s time for cake, so we have to be fast!”

Amber bent down to see, but with disappointment in her eyes she responded, “Freddy, there’s nothing here…” Frederick was in disbelief! How could she not see it? It was right in front of her eyes, clear as day! He pushed his sister to the side, she must not be looking in the right place, he thought.

“How in the…” “FREDRICK! AMBER!” their mom shouted, “if you want a piece of cake you better get in here and blow out these candles!” As much as he wanted to stay and try to find where the mysterious object went, the thought of disappointing his mother who worked tirelessly all day on his special cake made him quickly return inside.

“Find anything champ?” “Well I..” Amber quickly cut him off, “No grandpa, Freddie had me all excited to see something but when I looked there was nothing! Not even a star!” Fredrick rolled his eyes, he knew he saw something, he just wasn’t sure what it was, or how to explain it.

“Mom, when I’m done with my cake, may I please go to the west hill?” He knew that asking would probably cause a big fight, but he had to try. His mom hasn't let him do very much after what had happened to their father. “Oh honey, you know I don’t like you going there. What if you get lost or hurt yourself? Or even worse, fall?” “Yeah but I’m 16 now. When will I be able to have a little freedom? Amber will come with me!” he pleaded, “Please, I just want to check out my new telescope, and I think all the city lights are making it hard to see things.” He hoped that somehow this would convince his mom. “Fine. But you need to be home by 11. And be careful!” their mom said anxiously.

Fredrick grabbed his telescope while Amber got her keys. Her beat up pickup truck whined as they made their way up the west hill. The same hill that their dad had driven up the night he disappeared. Although it was over a year ago Fredrick remembered every part of that night.

The phone rang, Mrs. Hinderson wiped her hands from making dinner. “Hello, yes, this is Mrs. Hinderson speaking… you’re sure of it? Oh my… NO!” the phone slipped through her hands as she let out a scream. Frederick rushed away from his homework to grab his mother off the floor.

“Mom. What is it? What happened?” he begged for an answer, but through all the tears his mother was only able to mutter to get in the car. He rushed to find Amber but in the panic of it all he had forgotten that she was at the movies with her new boyfriend. By the time he got his shoes on his mom was already in the car waiting. They sped through town headed towards the hill, not stopping at any of the stop lights and flying through stop signs. “Mom, you’re scaring me… is it dad?” She nodded. Tears started to stream down Fred’s face. He didn't know what happened but he expected the worst. They finally started up the hill when they saw the lights, flashing like fireworks on the 4th of July. He grabbed his mom’s hand. “Whatever happens mom, I’ll be here for you, always.” Once they got to the top they were able to park and see what was going on. “He was standing here,” the officer pointed to where you could still see the impression of shoe prints on the ground. “That couple over there said he was standing in this spot for nearly an hour, just staring at the sky. They um… they said it looked like something pulled him over the edge… we have a crew down there looking for him.”

Fredrick’s mom didn’t speak. She just stared at his dad's empty shoe prints. So he started asking all the questions he could, “What do you mean pulled him? Don’t you mean jumped? Why was he here for an hour? Did they see anything in the sky?” “Are you thinking about him?” Amber asked, already knowing the answer. This was the first time Fredrick had permission to come up here. Even though she knew he would sneak up here when their mom went to bed.  The warm New Mexico air pushed his red hair out of his face as he held his head out the window. “Mhmm…” he responded, knowing he was going to be lectured once again about investigating his fathers disappearance. “Freddy… you know there was nothing in the sky, dad just had problems. You have to understand that by now. I know you are desperate for answers but what are you even going to look for with that telescope? All you're going to find is–” “Look,” Frederick interrupted, “You and mom have your way of coping and that's great. But I want answers.” Before his sister could say anything else he quickly got out of the truck and carried his telescope over to where the officer showed him his father last stood. Amber followed behind, worried about her brother. “You shouldn't let this consume you. I know you miss him, we all do! I hate to see you like this!” Fredrick didn't listen to his sister's words. He knew one thing was for sure, he saw something, and he was about to prove it.

“Here, now look,” he whispered as if it could hear him. “I told you I saw something.”  Once again, Amber bent down to see what it was her brother saw, or what he thought he was seeing. Except this time she saw it, and she couldn’t believe she was seeing it. “How is this even possible?” “We have to do something! We need to find help! Come on!” Frederick was yelling as he was running towards the truck leaving his sister and new present behind. “Freddy stop! We don’t even know what it is!” Amber looked one more time, trying to figure out what it was she was looking at, “Are those? Are those panels?” she questioned, unable to believe the words were even coming out of her mouth. They both stared at the sky trying to figure out what it was that they were seeing. Amber slowly walked up to the edge of the hill, reaching her arm out.

“Amber, don’t touch-” before Fredrick could even get his next word out, his sister was gone. Then it clicked. This is what happened to his dad. His dad, and whoever else has gotten close to this thing. He realized they were being kept inside this wall… or dome… whatever it was, the more he looked around the more it made sense. The stars were a pattern, repeated over and over all around him, the clouds never changing. How do I explain this? How do I tell mom? OH NO, MOM! How am I supposed to tell mom about Amber? First dad now her? He knew somehow, some way, he had to figure out how to get his sister and father back. He wasn't going to stop searching until he figured it out. Although he had driven around town with his mom, his sister's old rust bucket wasn’t the easiest to maneuver. As best as he could, he sped home, trying to figure out the right words to tell his mom, “hey mom, good news and bad news. The good news is, I know what happened to dad. Bad news, it happened to Amber, so she's gone now too. And we live in a giant hamster ball, that has sucked who knows how many people out to god knows where.” he frantically said to himself. Stupid, he thought, I sound so stupid. No matter how many times he practiced he knew he sounded crazy, and there was no way his mom was going to believe him. He pulled into his sister's normal parking spot, tears filling up his eyes, Amber. It really hadn’t hit him that his sister was gone, really gone, until now. He wiped his tears and was about to open the door when it suddenly opened. His mother was standing there with an eerie grin, “Fredrick, you’re home early,” she said. “Mom, you’re not going to believe what I have to… tell… you…?” his voice trailed off. “Uh mom? What’s going on?” He walked into his living room to see an overdressed man sitting on their couch with four uniformed men sitting around him. “Who are you?” “Hey Fred,” his grandpa said sternly, “Why don’t you go up to your room.” Frederick couldn't believe what he was hearing. It’s like they didn’t even notice that Amber wasn’t with him. The men in uniforms quickly stood, blocking whatever was on the table so he couldn’t see as he walked by. He stomped around upstairs, trying to sound as if he was in his room. Quickly and as quietly as he could, he tiptoed down a couple stairs and sat. “I thought you said this wouldn’t happen again.” the man whispered, “First your husband, now your daughter? Your family can't help but to put their noses where they don't belong! Care to explain why there’s only supposed to be one door to go in and out of, and for some reason now there's two? You're working against us.” “Excuse me, General. But we have a deal.” Fredrick had never heard his mother speak with such authority. “It’s you and your officer's job to make sure no one gets close enough to the wall to get pulled out. I haven’t Figured out how to fix that weak spot with the resources I have. And until I get it fixed it's your responsibility to keep these people in here! Now that Amber is gone I’m going to have to figure out what my next steps are for this experiment.” “Don’t act like you're out of options!” “That’s enough!” Fredricks grandpa bellowed, tired of the back and forth. He tilted his head towards the stairs. The men quickly stood and headed Fredricks way. Oh crap, he thought as he saw them getting closer and closer. He jumped up and ran to his room, piling up anything he could to block the door. He grabbed his book bag and started throwing whatever he could fit in there. She knew, all this time she knew what happened to dad, what we were living inside of. What did she need with Amber? What kind of experiment was this?

“Freddy dear, why don’t you come out so we can talk about what you heard.” Mrs. Hinderson said sweetly. And even though all he wanted was a hug after everything that happened, Fredrick knew just where he needed to go and how he was getting there.

Amber’s old truck screamed as Fredrick hit the gas, trying to get up the hill as fast as he could. He saw lights starting to flash behind him. He finally reached the top, his telescope still standing at the last place he saw his sister. He wasn't sure if this was going to work but he had to try, he had to get out if he was going to be able to reunite with his sister and stop his mother. He put his foot on the pedal and slammed it to the floor, the tires squealed as they spun on the pavement. He closed his eyes as the truck lept from the hill into the air, a flash of light and he was gone. The officers' cars skidded to a stop, their lights still flashing lighting up the trees around them. Mrs. Hinderson got out of one of one of the cars, dropping to her knees.

“Dammit.” she sobbed.


The Wind in the Willow There is a tree, a willow tree in the middle of a field near a small pond. The branches hang low, the slightest breeze will caress them, urge them to dance. When she was a child, the tree was Leena’s refuge. She could hide under the veil of branches. Here she’d read fairy tales, dream of ever after and wish for magic and her very own prince. But like everyone else, when she grew older, she had to come out from under her tree and leave her dreams and wishes behind. At the edge of the field, near the street, is an old-fashioned diner. Formica, chrome and vinyl. Orange and turquoise, generously decorated with duct tape. The diner has been here for as long as Leena can remember. After all she was born there, in booth five. The story is that her mother had brought Mrs. Fishbach her patty melt, sat down across from her, apologized and gave birth. Supposedly she then got up and went back to the kitchen. There was always someone to change her diaper, give a bottle, rock the infant seat. Always someone to admire her crayon art, teach her colors and numbers, read her fairy tales and help with her homework, till they said she was too smart for them. As soon as she could walk, Leena would carefully carry a plate to a customer, maybe sneaking a fry on the way. As soon as she was tall enough to reach she’d fill tumbles with water and ice. As soon as she was old enough she learned to flip burgers, run the cash register, do inventory and order supplies. Calculate the payroll. In the spring of her senior year her mother shoved the tax forms at Leena and two days after Leena graduated from high school, her mother packed a bag, handed over her keys and left. “She’s all yours, kid.” That was forty-seven years ago. ~~~~ Behind the diner in the single wide, Leena is remembering. Though she’s looking out the window, she doesn’t see the shadows dancing, or the lone stray dog chasing the leaves the breeze is blowing around. She should be planning next week’s menu. She glances toward the kitchen where her mother used to sit, pretending it was just iced tea in her glass. Leena can still hear her mother’s voice. “Men can’t be trusted. Take my word for it. They only want one thing and once they got it, you’re worthless. Should have listened to my mother. Don’t let a man touch you without a ring and a priest to back it up. Wish I could do it over.” “ So, you didn’t want me? ” “ Och, you’re all right. But yeah, I could-a done without you. ” Leena closes her eyes. “Yeah, mom. Your live would-a been so much better without me.” She mumbles. About twenty years ago, Leena heard from a lawyer in Las Vegas that her mother had died. She hadn’t bothered mourning her mother’s death. After all, she’d had more than twenty-five years to say goodbye to the idea of a mother. The lesson she had been taught was that she was easy to walk away from. Not worth staying around for. She doesn’t watch the willow, or how the sun and wind play with the long strands of leaves. She doesn’t notice the family return from church. She isn’t looking at the shadows creep across the street. Is not aware of another dog join the stray, the two wandering off together in search of adventure and food. She is letting her thoughts drift back in time. She shakes her head at the memory. ~~~~ “What can I get-cha, sugar?” Leena is leaning against the divider between booths three and four. While she waits for his answer, she shamelessly takes inventory of the man in booth five. Not outdoorsy rugged, but solidly built, nonetheless. An open, boyish face, a small gap between his front teeth. Unruly straw-blond hair. “Do you have a menu?” he asks, smiling. She points back over her shoulder to the chalk board behind the register. “ Tomato soup, almost any sandwich, pork chop, mashed potatoes with apple sauce, --- pie.” “May I have a club and a coke, please? ” Leena has looked her new customer over and approves. She gives him a smile and a wink. “You bet, hon.” And walks to the passthrough window and shouts. “One club.” Not that there is anyone there, but she likes pretending. Ice in a glass, soda from the fountain. “You want your bread toasted?” He nods as he drains half the glass. “I’ll go tell him.” She pushes through the swinging door, fits the bread in the toaster and assembles what she needs for the sandwich. “You new in town or just passin’ through?” She’s semi-casually cleaning an already clean tabletop nearby. “I’m the new history teacher.” He nods. “At the high school?” She tips her chin west toward the next town. He nods around a bite of his sandwich. “I was told that houses were cheaper this way.” ”You bet. Who’d live here, right?” That was Gary. They had a lovely summer. He had been sweet, considerate and, in the end married. His wife had joined him just before school started at the end of August. ~~~~ Now why was she thinking about him? Because he had been her last? She had been forty-five that summer and he had been her last. She sighs. Not her first, by any stretch. What had been the kid’s name. The first one. The one who’d touched her under her skirt. Allan, maybe? And then there had been John, they’d fondle each other, behind the movie house, rarely saying a word and then they’d each go their own way. She had found a good man. A nice man, Bill was his name. Earnest, hard-working. She hadn’t felt worthy of him, though. He was fresh, clean, she was used, dirty. He had stayed with her for five years. Why couldn’t he see that she was trash? Not worth hanging on to. Not worth spending time with. Somehow, he thought she was something. What had he seen? Finally, he had thrown up his hands. “ You keep pushing me away. You’re so convinced I will leave. Okay, I’ll give you room, for now. One day. I hope that one day you see what I see. When you do, I’ll be back.” He had walked out. Like everyone else. Oh, he was still in town. Every now and then, they’d run into each other at Walmart or Costco, He’d always ask how she was. Always had a spark of hope in his eyes. Tried to bank it, but … And she always choked up when she walked away, feeling wistful and empty. Still wondering what he saw. But her bed had been cold after Bill left. So, she put up with Thom, who had cheated on her with his ex. Then Patrick, who just wanted her money so he could gamble. He had moved on when she didn’t give him any. Jason who had to “take a meeting out of town” and never came back. Rob, who had called her a cold bitch. Mark said she was selfish. Graham who had three-timed both his wife and her with his secretary. They all had proven that she wasn’t worth the effort. ~~~~ Since her mother left, Leena had managed the diner. First with a cook and a few part-time waitresses. But by and by she had to let them go. There just hadn’t been enough business. With the new college in the next town had come fancy coffee shops and pizza parlors. Yet, she had kept the diner open. Because there was more of a need now that the mill had closed. The university didn’t hire the people who had been laid off from the mill. Staring out the window at her wishing tree, she thinks of all those people carefully eating one slice of toast and cup after cup of tea, adding hot water to the same worn-out tea bag while making sure their child had a sandwich. Couples sharing one dinner plate. They had worried her; she had wondered what she could do. But she was nothing, wasn’t she? She was just one person. She had nothing. What could she possibly do? Patrick, Tom, Jason and all the others had told her she was cold, cheap, frugal, tight. Well, it had worked for her . She had saved her tips; hadn’t bought anything she didn’t really need. No, she had no flashy jewelry or a fancy car. And hadn’t bought a new winter coat in at least seven or eight years. But she had paid off the diner, the trailer, the worn-out truck and the field with the tree. She knew she had plenty of space behind the diner. She still had the few dollars her mother had left her, and her social security. She dreamed and planned, had looked at her bank books, tax statements, receipts. Researched the costs and benefits of her plans. Could she? Sure, why not? On her own? Yes, she could, but help would come, wouldn’t it? ~~~~ Now she has a greenhouse behind the trailer and a chicken coop. Every day, before sunrise she gathers what she needs. And each day at six am she unlocks the front door to the diner. “Hey, Sam, come on in. Help yourself to coffee while I make pancakes, will you?” Others troop through the door. It is always a steady stream. She sells breakfast and lunch at cost, one choice. Take it or leave it. It will take about an hour to run out of batter. But people wait till the oatmeal is made and later another crowd will fill the place and eat the soup or whatever she’s serving that day. One man starts to walk away without paying. Leena calls to him before he reaches the door. He looks back, she smiles and crooks her finger. “Hey sugar. How ya doin’?” “Good.” He sounds hesitant. “Your breakfast, was it okay, hon?” “I know, I’m sorry, Leena. But I need bus fare to the job place.” He mumbles, holding five quarters in his hand. “Sugar. If ya cain’t pay, you cain’t. But could you please carry your dishes to the kitchen? If I have to hire someone to do the cleaning, I’d have to raise the price of breakfast…” She cocks her head and shrugs, making sure he understands. “Yes, ma’am.” The man turns around and gathers his dishes. In the kitchen he loads the dishwasher and turns it on before he leaves. “Y’all come back naw.” She waves at a young couple with two school-aged boys. Somehow, it is working. After the breakfast rush there is always someone who’ll stay to clear and wipe the tables. Most days someone is willing to chop vegetables for a while. Sam eats free whenever he tends to the greenhouse or cleans the chicken coop. It is working. With her social security, the greens from her backyard and what she charges for a plate, the extras people sometimes leave her. Together they are making it work. No, she still hasn’t bought a new winter coat. And that’s okay. Slowly, she leaves the trailer and walks through the tall grass, parts the pliable branches and settles against the trunk of her dream tree. With a smile, she looks up in the tree. Up there, way up in those branches, are the leftovers of her dreams. Somewhere up there are the wishes she had to leave behind. She used to have such great dreams of escaping town, doing something big, being a good person. She used to believe in magic. And she used to have wishes of being worthy of her prince. Well, she didn’t get out of town, and she knows she hasn’t been a good person. She hasn’t done anything big. She shakes her head and smiles ruefully thinking of her childhood fancies. No, she can’t reach those dreams, but maybe she can make new ones… Did she hear something? Nah, she's just imagining it. Probably just the wind singing through the branches. Nobody comes on Sundays. Everybody knows the diner is closed. Though, people get hungry on Sunday too, don’t they? What if she offers a bowl of soup after church? It wouldn’t be that much work to make extra on Saturday and just heat it up, would it? She wipes away the hair that the wind has blown across her face. Lifts her head and parts some of the branches when she hears someone approach through the tall grass. Sees a familiar silhouette. “Bill?” Her voice catches somewhere halfway between her throat and her lungs. “Hey,” he says as he stops in front of her. “Just wanted to come and tell you that I think what you’re doing here is big, worthwhile. And that I’m still here. Still waiting for you.” He smiles, shyly. “You do? You are?” She blushes and pats the grass next to her.


“Tim, I wish I could just tell you everything I already know. I can’t. Please, don’t be offended when I say this... You are not ready. You would just get utterly confused. Besides, I can’t because there is a lot to know, I couldn’t just give it to you in a nutshell. Patience. Everything in due time. And time, we have plenty.” “That was my next question.” Tim said. “I know my love, and the answer is yes. Yes, we’ll be together. I’ll be guiding you… just as I did in the past.” “In the past?” Tim asked puzzled. “You want to hear more about that, right?” “Yes, of course, please tell me!” Mag paused. “All right,” she said then. “For example, remember that car accident of yours on the Nevada highway one Thanksgiving night?” “The one where my car started spinning and sliding on the wet asphalt, changing direction twice, first to get out of the way of that speeding big rig, and then not to slide off the road and start rolling which would have surely been fatal not having the seat belt on?” “Why did you have to drive at hundred miles an hour in the rain?” “Well,” Tim replied, “that was really something! After the accident, the only conclusion I could come to was that a tractor beam controlled the motion of my car.” “Exactly,” Mag said, “and I was the one controlling that beam.” “You were my Guardian Angel?!” Tim shouted with excitement. “You could put it that way,” Mag said quietly. “Now, let me add that I was not your only Guardian Angel. It works a little differently. Those who had hurt you in some ways before they passed away and arrived here also joined in guarding you, and guarding others as well, of course. They did not join because they loved you, they did it out of obligation. You’ll understand later.” “I’m already overwhelmed.” Tim said shaking his head. “A lot more coming,” Mag added with a smile. “Now, you talked about the Supremes,” Tim continued. “Do you know them well?” “We don’t… In fact, we just believe that they exist. I have never seen any of them, and I don’t think anybody else has, either. However, their effect is all around us. For example, we feel we receive directives. These directives don’t just pop out of nothing. Besides, this Island must be controlled, managed and navigated. We have no idea how it functions. Of course, we don’t think it’s just an intelligent mechanism that controls itself.” “Wait!” Tim interrupted. “Let’s talk about this… this Island.” “Well, we call it the Island but it could be called this world, this home of ours or... we could call it this place, this vessel. Whatever this chamber we stand in is a part of.” “All right,” Tim said, “how about this chamber?” “Nothing special,” Mag replied. “It’s just one of the many reception chambers. This is where newcomers arrive.” “So, does everyone who dies on Earth arrive here?” “No, as far as I know only a fraction of them come. Mainly those who want to come, those who believe they can come, mainly those who can free themselves from their material possessions.” “What happens to the rest?” “Not sure,” Mag replied, “but we think they perish without a trace. I mean their soul, their mind, their identity.” “Oh, so is that what survived my earthy life, too, my soul, my mind, my identity?” “That’s about it. Although, here we do get a new almost invisible body. We don’t fully understand how it works. We only think it’s some kind of an energy body. Your person lives on not in organic flesh but rather in a bunch of photons and who knows what else. We think the Supremes made this possible.” “Sounds very high tech,” Tim said. “I wonder how much more evolved the Supremes are.” “Much more than we are, I’d bet,” Mag replied. “We think…” “Wait!” Tim interrupted. “You keep saying we. How many of you are you referring to?” “Quite a few. Of course, I don’t know everyone here, so I wouldn’t know the number, either. And there must be a lot more of us than what I’m aware of. As time goes on, you’ll get to meet more and more of us.” “Another question about our soul, mind and identity,” Tim said. “Did all my knowledge come with me during this transition? I mean… will I remember everything I used to know on Earth?” “As far as I know, yes,” replied Mag. “At least that seems to be the case with me. Of course, I can’t talk for you or for anybody else when it comes to memory. I think if some of your memories did not arrive with you here, you won’t miss them because you won’t know they are missing.” “Yeah, that makes sense,” Tim nodded. “Now, back to this Island, this place or whatever we call it. Can you tell me more?” “I will eventually tell you everything I know. Of course, if you have specific questions, go ahead and ask. I’ll answer if I can.” “For example, where are we? I mean where is this place, this… this Island? Are we out somewhere in space?” “That’s exactly where we are. And you might be glad to know that we are not that far from where we came from.” “Not far from Earth?!” Tim asked in surprise. “That’s right.” Mag extended her arm or whatever it was that Tim could see. “Come,” she said. “It’s time to leave this chamber anyway.” Tim followed the woman who then stopped when they reached the door. “As you can see,” Mag explained, “this door is now closed. It closed after I entered. Every door functions the same way, they are all sliding doors and they all close automatically. However, they don’t open unless you give a mental command. If you have no intention of passing through or if you don’t think it should open for you, you may stand here forever and it will remain closed… So, go ahead, open it.” Tim had no difficulty giving that mental command. After they passed through, the door silently closed behind them. “Wow!” Tim said. “It looks like now we’re in some kind of a corridor.” “That’s exactly what it is, a corridor. A very, very long corridor. A circular one. It goes around the Island.” “The walls…Are the walls the same everywhere?” Tim asked. “Yes, exactly the same.” “And no difference if I look down or look up? Floor, ceiling, all the same?” “Exactly.” “Wait a second!” Tim said. He stepped closer to the wall. “May I touch it?” “Of course,” Mag replied. Tim expected his hand to go through the wall but that did not happen. Mag laughed. “Why do you think we had to use the door? Those walls are impenetrable. So is everything else in the Island.” “Except us,” added Tim. “Right?” Mag nodded. “Except us, and I mean all the rest of us as well.” “I'm wondering what the walls are made of,” Tim said after a short pause. “That we don’t know.” “And what color would you say they are? I think they are gray but perhaps you perceive it differently.” “Good word you used Tim. Yes, we perceive things here. If you think it is gray, then it is gray. Basically, there are no colors in the Island, and there is no light, either.” “No light?! How can I see you then? How can I see everything around me? True, right now I can only see walls but it appears to me that we are in a well lit corridor.” “Perception, Tim, perception. However, pretty soon you’ll see real colors as well as real light, and that will be more than just perception.” Mag stopped close to the wall. Tim thought he saw the outline of a frame that did not reach down to the floor. “I wouldn’t be surprised if this was a window,” he said. “You got it. Now, open it.” “You mean…” “Exactly, just like the door.” Tim’s thought activated the window and it began to slide open. “No way,” Tim whispered in amazement. “Our home, planet Earth.” “Our previous home you mean,” Mag corrected.


1927 London, England MacTavish Theatre smelled, looked, and felt like home. I’d spent more hours within its walls and treading the boards of its stage than I could count. The revues were a blinding riot of light and colour, of sound and texture. I loved it all.

I remember the grand opening when the air was rich with the smell of fresh paint, cloth upholstery, and new-cut wood. There was no saying when that smell had been lost to a miasma of stale smoke and cheap gin, but even that was glorious. It warmed something within me every time I stepped over the threshold and saw the glow of the footlights marching along the front of the stage.

As I entered, I felt the deep, expectant hush that can only exist in an empty theatre. The cavernous darkness was broken only by a single bulb placed on a tall stand centre stage, kept lit so the blackness of the theatre would never be complete. I moved to the wall and snapped on the house lights. The door opened behind me and Cora walked in, haloed and backlit in a bright wash of daylight. I greeted her with a smile and laid a kiss on her cheek.

“Hello, love." “Hello.” She returned my greeting with a smile and linked her arm through mine as we started toward the stage. The natural lightness of our steps became a brisk, jostling race as we bounded downward, creating a breeze that billowed the fabric of our scarves and blouses as we went. Slightly breathless, I sailed up the steps of the stage a moment behind her and met her grin with a mocking pout.

“Taller always wins!” she taunted, dropping into a chair left out from the previous set up.

I plucked up another chair and settled opposite her. The deeper portion of the stage and set sat in mottled darkness and shadow while we huddled in the glow of the ghost light’s single bulb.

“Yes it does,” I retorted. I adjusted tangles of my scarf and necklace and tugged down the sides of my bucket hat. “Always has, always will.”

I was cheeky enough to wrinkle my nose at her, which set us both laughing a bit before I wondered absently where our manager was. Half of my mind, at least, was moving over the rhythms and notes of songs I’d have to coax or bully out of our sadly dilapidated piano. There was no point in hoping for better though, it was the best anyone had managed to find for our rehearsals.

A side door backstage was kicked open with a vicious slam. We both jumped, badly startled. Robert MacTavish stormed through and across the stage, his nephew Andrew close on his heels.

“Just tell me where it is! You must have it still and - ” He stopped short, seeing that he had an audience of two.

“Trust me Uncle, I’m doing only what you’ve been paying me and trusting me to do.” He was adamant, pleading. “Trust me now and let us have the box, yeah?” Robert chewed the inside of his cheek, flicking a glance our way and back to his nephew.

“No Andrew.” He shook his greying head, continuing in his high Scottish burr. “No one’s saying you haven’t done a fine job for us, boy. But the money in that box is private. It’s family property, not to be touched by the likes of you, not yet. So hear that .” Andrew brought both hands up to his face, shutting out the denial.

Cora and I exchanged confused looks. We'd heard recent bickering growing more and more heated. We hadn’t known that there was any real trouble. Not this kind of trouble. The theatre had seemed always flush, charmed from the very beginning with full houses and an eager public.

Robert waved him off in disgust and turned to attend other business. Andrew was unready to relent and grabbed his uncle’s elbow.

“Will you not see reason, Uncle?” He was whey faced and shaking, the gaunt lines of his face cast into harsh shadows by the uncertain light on the stage. He spoke in a forced calm. “If you don’t give us the loan of that cache box…” He swallowed hard, letting the thought die.

“What, son?” Robert asked, removing Andrew’s hand. “What is it you’re fearing? What have you done?”

 Andrew bowed his head, unable to speak. He stood like a grim specter with his arms limp at his sides, shoulders drooping in defeat. Cora stood to go to him. Her grace was echoed by the dreamlike way Andrew turned to her, wide-eyed and dazed. He blinked hard as she neared him.

I saw the instant his mind cleared and his focus grew sharp. I saw without understanding as he dipped one hand into the pocket of his jacket and brought it drifting upward. I saw and only began to understand as his other hand jerked upward, gripping Cora cruelly by her hair. As a brutal kick connected with the back of her knees. I saw, and finally understood, as she landed hard in front of Andrew with the harsh glint of the flick knife’s blade at her throat.

Cora cried out in pain.

 Time sped and horror rocked me, leaving me numb. Stupefied. The chilling steel of the blade touched her throat but didn’t pierce it. Didn’t part the delicate flesh. Hope surged in me.

“What are you doing?” Robert roared. “Have you lost your damned senses?!" “NO!” Andrew cried. “I haven’t. I haven’t , Uncle! If you don’t give me that money we’re all of us finished! Sure as if I finish her now!” Weeping, shaking, and desperate, he tightened his grip on Cora’s hair, squeezing a small cry from her as she fought to stay calm. Andrew’s grey stare bore into Robert’s, who could only gaze back in disbelief.

“Andrew, sweet lad. There’s no need for this. Just tell me, why?”

His shoulders heaved as Andrew struggled for breath, struggled for control. He began to speak and a fresh glare of daylight washed through the theatre as the door opened.

With a happy squeal, Darla came pattering down the aisle and up onto the stage. She launched herself at her grown cousin and Andrew caught her gently. The flick knife had disappeared. Darla blinked curious round eyes as Cora rose from the floor. “Cousin Andrew, were you playing?” “Yes pet, we're playing.” He dashed the heel of his palm across his eyes, his voice rough. “We were playing but it’s back to business for us now. He bounced Darla on his hip gently. "Where’s Emmy to take you for some ice cream, hey?” I looked to where Darla had come from and saw Emma making her way down to the stage. She was young for the post of a governess, barely sixteen, but Darla’s father Jasper earned well at the bank and had chosen to let her stay since his wife had passed. Jasper himself had arrived with Emma. He was studying the nervous tableau on the stage, and Andrew’s tears. He approached and gave his daughter a bright smile, tickling her cheek. “Do you hear your cousin Andrew, darlin'? It looks like they have to practice for their show! We'll have to go play on our own.” An emphatic pout clouded her small face and she reached for her daddy to gather her in his arms. Andrew released her reluctantly. “But I want to see Grandfather!” Jasper soothed her. “Hush child, I know you do. It will just have to wait a bit until later, yeah?” Darla sighed and slid down to the floor, plodding over to Emma and lifting a small, chubby arm to take her hand. She turned back to us all, ready to wait patiently. On the stage, still in the mild glow of the ghost light, Jasper took us all in at a glance. He strode over to his father and Robert bowed his head to his son’s while they whispered quietly. As they parted, Cora marched forward, toward Andrew. Her hand flew up to land a casual but fiercely ungentle slap across his face. Darla let out a shrill cry of dismay and several voices rose in protest. I began to advance on Andrew myself, my fingers curling to a fist until I felt Jasper’s hand clamp onto my shoulder.

  “Easy there, love. Easy.“ He called over his shoulder. “Emma! I have to stay to help these folk with their show today. Why not take miss Darla for that ice cream on your own and I’ll meet you back home?” With admirable alacrity, Emma called back a cheerful agreement and lifted Darla to bounce her on her hip. “Won’t that be fun, hey? Just us girls.” Darla gave a small nod, but left casting a doubtful look our way over Emma’s shoulder. Another blast of daylight pierced the theatre and was banished the instant the doors closed behind them. Four sets of eyes targeted Andrew as he stood, isolated. Robert's voice was a low growl when he spoke. “Alright then, let’s have it.” Andrew blinked, looking at each face in turn and finding no friend. “I…I’m sorry. I’m sorry for scaring the women. Only it’s that desperate, you see?” Four heads nodded. We did see. Jasper spoke next.                                                                “Why?” Defeated, shamed, Andrew sat. Tucked close to the stand of the ghost light with its glow over his head and his knees pulled to his chest. “It started in the beginning, soon thereabouts after we opened…” He began to relate the story. A story of being approached by an anonymous investor in the theatre whom he had never found and who had never been named. Of an obscenely large amount of cash handed over and a beaten, nameless urchin walking the city to plaster up stacks upon stacks of posters until every corner beamed about our shows. Our theatre. He spoke of expensive meals brought to him in restaurants that he never ordered and was never charged for. When making deposits on behalf of the theatre, clerks refused to take the money and insisted he be served by management instead. Never an explanation, never did his questions fall on any but deaf ears.

 He spoke of once, only once, venturing out to the streets after dark. Looking for someone, anyone, who could connect him with his benefactor. That escapade earned him several bruised ribs and a blackened eye. It was the barrel of the gun forced into his mouth that convinced him not to return. And he didn’t. Not in all the years since while his inexplicable good service in the city continued. Not in all the years while modest, anonymous deposits showed up at the theatre marked for him. The pattern was broken as recently as two days ago. Something remarkable happened in the form of a telephone call, a small novelty in itself. The call was for Andrew, which was unusual in that he was the youngest member of our group, barely twenty, and little known to have any real influence in the business, only in keeping the accounts. The voice he spoke to was smooth and mellow. Immovably confident in demanding funds of an amount Andrew knew he could never lay claim to. It was simple, he was assured. The money or the women die first. Then the child. Then the men. The amount being asked for was everything . No fixed price, every pound the theatre possessed, down to the last ha’penny. They would be checking. Unsavvy and terrified, Andrew hadn’t asked for assurances on how the threat would be made good on. He simply hung up. He withdrew everything from the bank, from personal accounts, from safes. He bundled all that he could together and made ready to deliver it. Only this morning, he’d received a second phone call, warning him. They knew about the cache box. The separate, secret stash that kept the family's private store of emergency funds and heirlooms. Andrew’s plan had been simple. Show up with real money and feign being ready to deliver it. The police half a block away would do the rest. He just needed the family’s cache box and the rest we knew.

When his voice at last ran dry, we were all of us amazed and stupefied. The first to laugh was Robert. He let out a mighty guffaw, wiping tears from his eyes. Jasper looked down, shaking his head in disbelief and mirth. Cora and I allowed ourselves polite chuckles. Andrew could only stare. “Don’t you understand, lad?” Robert asked, still grinning. “It’s us.” Andrew was still uncomprehending. "What is?" “It’s always been us.” Robert assured him. “It’s true, cousin.” Jasper added. “The money, the influence. WE are what this city fears.” His face became cold, his eyes like dead, dark stone. The hard shape of a revolver was visible in the pocket of his jacket as he shifted a hand to his hip. “But if someone’s attempting to squeeze us… that wants some looking into.” “Aye,” said Robert. “It does. Ladies?”

 Cora didn’t hesitate. “Absolutely.”

I was barely a beat behind her. “Yes, sir.”

“What?” Andrew yelped. “Them, too?”

“Certainly,” laughed Robert. "They know what they’re about, sure enough.” Andrew gaped. He rose to his feet and gave a shaky grin.

  “Well, and why not let me in on the real family business, then? It’s sure not that you think I can’t be trusted.” Robert nodded. “Well now, we know that you can be trusted, boy, perhaps with a bit of teaching along the way as to how things are. But it seemed best to us to have someone honest among our number. At least as things stood with you being still young and -.” Robert stopped; movement of the curtains backstage caught his eye. It was fast. Brutally, cruelly fast. Hardly a detail or feature could be seen of the figures that emerged, bearing down with revolvers in each hand. One, two, three. Six barrels. Countless shots. One side door, thoughtlessly left unbolted during Andrew’s mania about the cache box. Shot after shot rang, boomed, and cracked in the theatre. It’s the first sound I hear even now when I lay down by Cora and close my eyes in the dark. Robert, Cora, Jasper, and myself knew to scatter, throwing ourselves down in that too-important first second. Andrew didn’t. He alone was standing for the bullets to find him, jerking him in all directions like a helplessly twitching puppet, only to collapse when his strings were cut. Jasper rose first, followed by Robert, roaring fury and sending bullets of their own at the backs retreating into the dark. It was too quiet, too soon. Four of us knelt around Andrew as his blood and his life sped away, spreading across the boards of the stage. Shivering violently, he clutched Robert’s hand and laid his other hand on Jasper’s cheek. He met my eyes and Cora’s in turn to say farewell and then he was gone. The boy who was so ready to laugh and be loved, who was still so young and so foolish, was simply gone. With all the Celtic fire and passion in my blood, I stood and screamed my outrage to the rafters. I felt Cora’s arms come fast and hard around me. Mercifully alive and whole. I moved in a daze as the signal was given to clear out of the theatre. Others would come for him. Discussions would happen. At the top of the steps Cora and I had run down so lightly, I turned back to look at the forlorn figure of a youth cut down, crumpled and so bitterly alone in the dark. It would be dark, when the doors closed out the daylight behind us. At the very least, I thought dimly, he would have the ghost light. *Author's Note* In theatre lingo, a "turn" can be used in reference to a person's performance, a time when that person stands out on stage, independent and celebrated during that person's moment under the lights. While this story is offered under the prompt of writing an ending where a truth comes to light, my hope is that I've honoured the theme of Chiaroscuro by contrasting light and innocence with darkness in a variety of ways. Also! A special thank you to the YouTube personality Mark Daniel Patrick for introducing me to the eerie and wonderful knowledge of what a ghost light is.


It was the largest bank on the outskirts of Nashville, TN, a man was standing just inside the men’s room; he was thinking about what he had to do in the next few hours as he took a deep breath and stepped out into the wide hallway. He needed to get in and out as quickly as possible, and thought to himself, this was one town he certainly was not going to miss! The past decade had not been kind to him, he had been unemployed for years and was still in mourning, even though it had happened seven and a half years ago, it felt like he had lost the one person he loved the most in this world, just yesterday. He wore a very broad, ragged, floor length brown coat that was too big and outdated for him, but he didn’t care, it felt good and it was perfect for what he had to do that day. People on the street stared and looked down on him, they found his coat ugly and they pitied him for being poor and plainly destitute. But for those who criticized and made fun of him, mostly during his adolescence and school aged years, they would have been astonished to realize he was a kind, giving and gentle person. He had deliberately chosen this coat because of its large deep pockets, there was a hole in the left pocket, and so he kept his notepad and pencil neatly tucked away in the pocket on his right side. He noticed a small stuffed teddy bear lounging lazily on a settee in the sitting area as he walked slowly through the lobby, and randomly thought how odd it looked, so forlorn and in want of its owner who must have left it unknowingly behind; he silently reprimanded himself to remain focused as he walked up to the first available teller in the bank lobby. He was met by a woman whose nametag beamed in bright yellow letters,

‘Hi! My name is Mary, How can I help you?’

which he thought was the perfect name and tag color for her as he thought she looked just like a sunflower in full bloom, as he handed her the note he had written earlier that morning. As she read his note, her eyes grew wide as she looked from the note back to the man standing in front of her and then back to the note again. While trying to decipher it, Mary slowly became aware of a faint hissing sound, she looked around to see where it was coming from, and she noticed the air conditioning vent just behind her station was emitting something quite out of the ordinary. The smoke slowly drifted out in tiny little swirls, it was so faint, she nearly missed it, she could hardly make out what it was at first, then realized in horror as a pungent odor began to spread throughout the room. The man, seemingly unaware of her distress, motioned for his note back; it was at that moment he noticed the look of denial or could it be recognition on her face and for a brief moment, he showed his first sign of genuine concern. As quickly as it had appeared, it vanished and he looked back at Mary, his face stoic once again. The alarm was now going off, it was like a coarse, shredded needle raking over a vinyl

‘spinning out of control’ record, making it sound like skewered animals being charred alive, over an open fire pit; this is how the radio newscast would word it later on, as the man was oblivious to the deafening shrill noise, he was patiently waiting for Mary to hand him back his note. As people started running and screaming in every direction around him, he didn’t move. He didn’t seem to care, all he wanted to do was keep staring at Mary; she was yelling at him, or so he thought, or was she warning him? He wasn’t sure, as his vision was slowly fading, there was no noise at all, and everything was going black as he fought to stay conscious, he slid in slow motion down the counter into a small bundled heap within his very large coat. His head hit the marble floor with a crack and his eyes flew open,

this time he was going to watch ... He could see the fear reaching the eyes of patrons and bank workers nearby, they knew something terrible was happening as they started running for the exit door. A woman stopped and blood was oozing from her mouth as she fell face first down that perfectly manicured marble staircase he had admired when he entered the building over two hours ago. People who were running began passing out all around him, some even falling on him. Men and women alike were vomiting everywhere; others were turning black with blood pouring out of their ears and noses, dying right in front of him. His last recollection was someone running towards him with a club in hand, it was the guard he had seen earlier when he entered the bank that morning. He whimpered and tried to move out of the way as the guard raised the club over him. This enraged the guard and he winced as the club struck him hard, he tried to scream, but nothing came out, he was unable to get away from this man. The beating continued and through a deep haze, he thought he imagined Mary running up behind the guard as she tried to stop him, but as the last strike came to his head, the man blacked out. He awoke one last time to an old radio newscast talking about the bank ordeal and announcing that no one had made it out of the bank alive that day, included in the fatalities was a bank-teller who left behind a husband and infant son, his heart wrenched and he screamed from the depths of his soul. Then he faded for the last time into a welcomed darkness.                                        … The boy was jostled awake as he bounced off the back seat where he had been fast asleep, landing onto the floor of the old 1984 Chevrolet Caprice Station Wagon that his dad was driving and he bolted straight up! He looked around frantically and slithered back into his seat, his thoughts on that same nightmare he had again. He remembered the bank, the bank-teller, her trying to save him and wondered what happened to the note and to the guard that had been beating him and pretty much wondered what it all meant? Somewhere deep inside of him, he recalled hearing the hazy radio announcement, his vision instantly blurring due to the huge teardrops that had rimmed around his tired eyes, eventually burning down his cheeks; here he was, alive and breathing! It was just he and his dad now; he had just turned 8 years old and was way too young to be having these awful nightmares. The car was packed with the little bit of belongings they owned and they were moving out of Tennessee and heading to Arkansas to live with his grandparents until his dad was able to find a job and get back on his feet. He didn’t know how long they’d been driving on this long lonely road, but he was really sore and his head ached with a familiar bludgeoning pain. When they stopped for the night, he pulled out his ratty garbage bag that he kept what little clothes he owned in, as he untied the knots and opened it up, an old brown coat fell to the ground. He peered into the left pocket where he faintly remembered a hole but the hole was not there and was utterly shocked at what he found. The pocket was lined with twenty, fifty and one hundred dollar bills, which he added up later, totaling to almost one hundred and fifty thousand dollars, he was simply and soundly stunned! When he looked in the right pocket, he found an old notepad and pencil, then felt another bulge, he couldn’t imagine what it could be. He felt along the seams and deep within the pocket he pulled out an antiquated stuffed teddy bear, it stared back at him and he could of sworn he saw a tug of a smile within that furry part of his mouth and that knowing look, like he had been waiting a very long time to be found. That’s when it all came rushing back to him... The boy smiled in faint recognition. Epilogue He was in the backseat again, they were driving west on Interstate 40, with Nashville miles behind them now. His dad looked back and motioned to his son in sign language to see if he was okay, and he motioned back,

“Yes, I’m fine, dad”.


This Santa is a bit different. He brings two bags full, slung over his shoulder, and rather than using the chimney, bursts through our back door, unexpected. He leaves another knob-sized dent in the drywall and pries the trim from the doorframe as he forces his oversized load through the undersized threshold. And this Santa doesn’t arrive with a cheerful greeting, but a somber, “Hey,” followed quickly with a slightly less somber, “What’s for dinner?” The pan-fried chicken portioned for three now needs to accommodate five, since this Santa, even at 153 pounds, boasts a Clausian-sized appetite. Santa drops his load in the laundry room and proceeds to pester his mother with a series of questions about how the machines work, which detergent to use, the history of the dryer sheet and its rise to prominence, until she finally relieves him of his post.

“Hey,” I say, which I assume will garner some acknowledgment after he’s completed the pressing matter on his phone—but I’m proved presumptuous. I watch Santa shift his attention and begin scanning the room. He skulks, snoops, rummages—cupboards, closets, dark corners—nowhere’s safe. He sprints up the stairs, impressive for a jolly old soul, then down to the basement, before taking a second pass at the main floor. But what makes this Santa truly unique is his propensity to leave a house with less, and never more, than when he arrives. Year after year phone chargers top his list, but he’s not picky—pens, paper, cereal, snacks, small furniture, socks, pillows, bedding, speakers, batteries, and, of course, garbage bags. Garbage bags are especially coveted for their versatility as laundry bags, grocery bags, shopping bags, laundry baskets, dresser draws, suitcases, and least of all, garbage bags. To be fair, there is a decent chance we’ll be getting some of the stuff he swipes back, wrapped haphazardly, when the holidays actually do roll around. Once we settle in for the meal, I ask, “How are classes?” Santa is a man of few words. Scratch that. Santa is a man of few sounds, and I think I hear something that resembles, good . His answer originates as a subtle vibration in his chest that somehow bypasses his vocal cords and just happens to ride the passing current of conditioned air to my left ear before fading into the ether. “How’s Mrs. Claus?” I ask. The inside joke doesn’t register, but the question reminds him it’s been too long, eight seconds, since he’s checked his phone. My daughter has better luck. She asks Santa if he had Mrs. Silsmeyer when he went to Bradford West. It’s enough to distract him from his screen to begin searching the middle distance for a definitive answer. He returns with something that sounds like, maybe , before resuming his default position. My daughter accepts his answer and uses it as a springboard to rail against the chemistry professor for the next twenty minutes. I am her only captive audience since my wife has left her meal to cool while tending to Santa’s formidable mound of mentionables and unmentionables. This will be the third time I’ve heard of Mrs. Silsmeyer’s starring role as the Wicked Witch of West. Santa dismisses the story with the occasional huff and grunt, which is plenty to keep my daughter encouraged until I remind her that two bites are not enough to stay alive.

It’s no secret that Santa is a busy man and a popular guy, especially right after dinner. He’s engrossed in an urgent call, so much so, that my daughter and I need to repeatedly reposition him so we can clear his plate, his fork, his knife. his spoon, his glass, his napkin, and then wipe his place setting, his chair, and the floor beneath. When I begin washing the pots and pans by hand, Santa seems annoyed by the noise from the running faucet and intermittent disposal, and how it’s added to the rumble from the laundry room. The ruckus is forcing him to strain to hear his girlfriend. Graciously, he relocates to the den and closes the doors behind him. Santa reemerges just in time to find the kitchen spic and span, which I’m guessing is a rare sight from whence he’s come. I imagine he must find it all rather mysterious and magical.

With his laundry still not done, there’s time for Santa to make a pile by the back door of the goods marked for export. It’s a light load this time—one garbage bag with items we’ll only discover gone long after he has. There’s really no telling what’s in the opaque black receptacle, only that it bears no rhyme or reason. We’d be just as likely to find expensive electronics as a pair of dress shoes, or a box of Q Tips as a box of Bisquick—so random and varied, and in that way, reminiscent of the real McCoy.

Meanwhile, I’m busy tending to garbage bags of my own, that actually have, get this, garbage in them. I side-step Santa and his loot and shift sideways to tip-toe the hefty sacks through the doorway so as not to further damage the house on my way to the trash cans. When I get to the driveway, I see that his sleigh is blocking my path. It’s backed in close, anticipating a large haul. I call back for Santa to move it, but it’s my wife, with key in hand, who assumes the duties.

When I return from my chores, I find Santa, tired and weary as you’d imagine, parked on the couch, in front of the TV. And like the day I found out the truth about Santa, I balloon with shock and anger. I’ve had it with the laziness, the messiness, the disregard. This once loving, jolly, smiley, pudgy bundle who regaled us with songs and dance, overflowed with infectious joy and enthusiasm and provided such hope and promise of great things to come, year after year, is now reduced to something unbearable. I tamp my instinctual temper. I understand my pivotal role in this development and recognize my duty to set things straight—again.

Sprawled upon the couch, clicker in one hand, his phone in the other, oblivious to the storm that’s brewing, Santa scrolls and scrolls while I summon the nerve and my argument. I rehearse the lines in my head: things have to change, this behavior is unacceptable, you are better than this. I fill my lungs and part my lips. Then Santa turns to me. And speaks. Audibly. “You wanna watch the game?” He motions to the TV where he’s cued up the pre-game show to tonight’s match between the Sixers and the Nuggets, a possible preview of the NBA Finals and a matchup of the two teams my son and I happened to see the last time we caught a live game together. He says, “It’s the Nuggets. Remember when we saw them a few years ago? That was fun. We should do that again.” Then my daughter curls up next to him on the couch and he puts his phone aside to wrap his arm around her. Then his mother hands him a bowl of caramel corn and he thanks her and shares it with his sister. And then the dog lumbers over and plops himself down and my son begins stroking his fur with his foot. And I stand there, lips still parted, suspended in space and time, and figure that maybe I could find a way to believe in Santa again.