Writer’s Note – Trigger Warning: Story contains elements of suicidal thoughts. The nine o’clock train came and went. So did the quarter past nine train. They kept zooming down the tracks, one right after the other at dizzying speeds. Trains passed by all evening in the filthy subway station, and kids coming back from trick-or-treating rushed for the doors in their costumes every time with the innocence of childhood, unaware of what tragic anniversary it was. They had no idea of what happened last Halloween and would probably never know. The Widow knew very well what price had been paid the previous year. She sat on a bench in perfect silence, motionless as a statue in her plaid topcoat, waiting for the last train to come. Soon, the running kids were nothing but colorful blurs dashing across her field of view, mere disturbances in a steady river of sorrow. It was scheduled for a quarter to midnight. Time could not fly fast enough. Every five minutes, the Widow glanced at her watch, hoping for an hour to have gone by. A cleaning employee stopped by her side around half past ten. “Are you alright Ma’am?” he asked, putting the mop back in his bucket. “You’ve been here for a while now, I saw you getting in when I was washing upstairs. Waiting for someone?” “Yes,” she answered. “My husband.” “Alright then. He’s a lucky man. My wife definitely would have ditched me if I made her wait for two hours.” “I suppose he is.” Her answers were as absent-minded as spoken words could be. Not once did she look him in the eyes. The janitor asked no further questions and left. Children had now been replaced by club-goers. They laughed heartily and drunkenly, wobbling from side to side, still high from the thumping music at the Halloween venues. The Widow remained perfectly impassive, even as one man ogled her. By a quarter past eleven, the dock was perfectly empty. The hands on her watch ticked ever so slowly from that point on. She looked at them every minute with unbearable impatience. The sound they made seemed ten times louder than it usually was. Tick. Tock. Tick Tock. To stay focused, she examined every detail on the station walls. Not a hint of disrepair went unnoticed: the cracks between tiles, the outdated advertisements, the fading station labels… all of these numbed her brain and prepared her for what was soon to come. A quarter to midnight came. The train still wasn’t there. Panicked thoughts stormed her mind. Had she missed it? Was it just late? Could service be delayed. Minutes passed, and there were still no signs of the vehicle. Just as she was about to rush upstairs to question the man at the ticket booth, a noise grew louder from the tunnel. It was coming. She wasted no time and ran for the rails, ready to jump. There was no need for her brain to process it, for all reasoning had been cast aside. The Widow closed her eyes and found herself hovering over the edge of the dock. The train zoomed by. She could still hear the noise. How could she still hear the noise? It was impossible. One wasn’t supposed to hear noises in the afterlife, that’s what the medium said: all senses are expected to go numb. She opened her eyes and found herself on the dock. Doors closed along every wagon, and train pursued its journey down the tunnels. The Widow struggled to believe it. Somehow, she had survived. Her heart was still beating, and her lungs were still breathing. “That was close. Real close.” The Widow got up and turned around. An old man stood by her side. He must have pulled her away from the train. “Did you—” she began, unable to complete the sentence. “Stop you from jumping?” completed the Old Man. “I certainly did. Couldn’t let a beautiful woman like you end up in a situation like that.” “You had no business meddling with this. It meant something to me.” “Whatever it meant, I’m sure we can find better meaning elsewhere. Let’s sit down.” “I’m not sitting down with someone like you. The last thing I need right now is for someone to pretend to be my savior.” “Did I say such things? I never said I saved you. I said I stopped you. Let’s talk it through.” He sat on the very bench that had been her home through the night. Reluctantly, the Widow put one foot in front of the other and assumed the same focused position again, avoiding any form of eye contact with her benefactor. “I suggest we go straight for the heart of it,” he whispered. “What did all of this mean?” “Nothing.” “You said it meant something to you.” “Nothing that concerns you, that is.” “Do you have children?” “Yes, not that it’s any of your business.” “Should your children be concerned with this mysterious meaning you sought so desperately? I’m sure they would have asked a lot of questions.” The Widow lowered her head, shadows of embarrassment drifting across her face. “Deep down inside, they would have understood. They’re grown up now, they don’t need me.” “I doubt it. One never understands these things. I’m afraid they leave puzzles behind that can’t be truly solved. Besides, you always need your mother, no matter how old you are.” “I just wanted to be with my husband again.” “There you go, we’re getting somewhere.” The Widow pulled out tissues from her pockets and tried to dry the sobs that were surging inside of her before they could even appear on her face. “What happened to your husband?” asked the Old Man. “He died here a year ago precisely. A kid tripped on the tail of his dinosaur costume and fell on the tracks. He jumped to save the kid and had time to put him back on the dock. He didn’t have enough time for himself though.” The sobs intensified. For a moment, the Widow felt as if the Old Man was about to put his arm around her shoulders, but he remained distant. Something was holding him back. “That’s a tragic story for sure. The last thing we need is a second tragic story to go with it.” “I miss him so much, I can’t even explain it. It’s like a void that can’t be filled.” “Your husband was a brave man. You’re just as brave, and the best way to prove it is to go hug your children tomorrow morning. He’ll hug you through them. I’m sure that’s the hug he really wants. The hug of life and love.” The Widow’s sobs finally dried up. As unexpected as it was, the Old Man’s words had touched her heart. Perhaps he did save her after all. “Thank you. I mean it.” “Don’t worry about it. You should go now.” “Yes, I should.” Slowly but with certainty, she walked up the stairs leading back to the outside doors. The Old Man watched every step of the way. Once he knew for sure the Widow was headed for safety, his face transformed into that of another man, slightly younger, and his body glowed with a ghostly light. He walked back towards the edge of the dock, vanishing as he reached the rails. For the second year in a row, he had saved someone on Halloween night. All was well.


I know. I know. I half choke and half sob. I realize I am in shock but there’s no way I can stop myself from reacting. Instead of letting my emotions reign I try to sum up everything from a technical point of view. This has always been my way to cope with anything difficult. Look, I tell myself. You have something precious to you. And you’re in danger. Now the thing that is precious to you isn’t something that’s materialistic. You need to understand…its, in fact, a sort of self sacrificial love. Stop, I warn myself, you’re getting too emotional So I start over again. You’re in mortal danger and you will die within a short time frame. Correct. Out of human instinct you must protect something valuable and since you’ll be dead soon you need to carry out a protective measure. Correct? Yes… so what’s the hesitation for? Just put your cargo in this capsule and hope for the best. No, hope is emotion and my nerves are already fragile. Let me rephrase it I tell myself. And just in time before I lapse into a nervous break down. Rephrasing: the probabilities of my possession surviving in this capsule is fifty, fifty. in contrast, not putting my precious into the capsule means a hundred percent destruction. Correct? Yes, but….. Then why can I not put my baby into the time capsule? Is it because its not built for humans? Of course it isn’t. But still, this machine isn’t as primitive as seven years ago, God-forbid. We’re far beyond sending just letters, sheet by sheet. Wasn’t it in the news just yesterday that they’ve successfully just sent the heaviest load up till now. 20 kilograms was it? Oh, what would I remember of yesterday? It feels like ages ago. Like paradise. My brain runs overdrive in despair. I am connecting vast and various data that lies in my subconsciousness out of survival instinct. Yesterday, was when these rabid robots weren’t after us. It was when I was making vegetable soup in the kitchen and my baby was sleeping in his pen in the adjoining living area. Yesterday was when I was thinking what groceries had to buy this weekend. I half smile from the irony. I’m stuck between the past and future. Present is formidable. What will my child do without me in the future? That is if he survives. I survey the slick, metal machinery. Its a huge pill with a seam in the middle when it’s closed. Right now its slit open a meter wide and I stare at the insides. Plain metal again with a tray to place items. I shall soon be placing my ‘item’ here. A beep resonates on the screen to my right. “AI entering lobby” the message states and above that, on the digital blueprints of the building the lobby area blinks red. Somehow, the peaceful and systematic movements of the robots is petrifying. Its more chilling then what the 21’s movies showed of robots being on a rampage. It was like comparing a classical, roaring monster to a skilled serial killer. So smooth and serene that the silence seems to strangle you. I am being strangled from a fear and despair deep within me. But I, too, must act in complete quietness and swiftness. I surf through the monitor, selecting from what little choices I have. “Approximate weight:” the machine blankly asks. I type in 7.3 kg and immediately the monthly doctor’s checkup come to mind. My brain runs overdrive recollecting every second as if it might save me from making this decision. I have at most 15 minutes before the AI slowly scans its way through the rooms, detecting potential human life to eradicate. I am then politely asked to load my luggage onto the capsule. I turn around. And face the baby basket. My baby sleeps peacefully enveloped in a soft blanket. He will reach the other side. He will, I decide. I must match my competition with an equal hardheartedness. If I am to save him from the AI, I must be of equal resilience. This is not the time to breakdown, we discussed this I remind myself. I reach over for my purse. Unzip it, and smoothly bring out the first item inside. Its not something visually important. A sheet of paper I tore from the five dollar spiral notebook from the general store. Inside is written a letter to the ‘futurers’. And nested in the folds of the same page is the photograph I removed from the frame on top of the rack at home, last minute. Its a picture of us. Our family. This will be for the baby. I marvel and despair at my quick thinking. How easily I planned everything the moment it was certain I would die. The plan was as smooth as if I had been a week old. I wedge the paper underneath the baby, below the blanket. I am about to give a parting kiss but I am too afraid to wake him up. Or perhaps to hurt myself. Without thinking, without feeling I place the basket onto the tray. But unlike usual, this time I don’t manually slide the capsule shut. I would never have the guts too. I know I’m in shock and can work without my heart’s presence but I don’t want to push myself too far and come out of this spell. I must match the robots. A final touch to the monitor and the capsule slides backwards slightly. I ignore the movements and focus on the screen, acting like I am on usual loading duty. The system asks me to wait as it takes an estimate weight of the contents I placed on the tray. Matches it with my entered value. I glance to the clock. I have ten minutes. The security command delivers the message I was anticipating. It is as if my patience is being tested. The machine has detected my baby’s breath and wants me to check for human trace on board. I override the command and continue. This is it. The end and start. A glass dome looming above makes its way down and settles on top. A few seconds later the count down starts, I stare. This is so impossible I don’t believe it is possible. I stare blankly. Minutes pass. To the side, most of the building has turned red on screen and soon the AI shall greet me. I will respond with open arms after this deed. Then, slowly the glass dome pulls back up. As it moves upwards I feel my heart sinking. Its going into oblivion just like my baby. Despair, regret and finally melancholy replaces the place it used to be. The weight is too much and I collapse onto the floor. Behind me is the empty capsule now open and dormant again. It is emotionless as if it did not just write the destiny of my only love. A destiny I don’t know. It is vacant and empty. In the middle am I, heart broken and disoriented. I want this over before the shock pulls out of my body. From the other side, the doors open and in enter the machines similarly vacant and empty as they approach me.


Byron's stomach sank when he got the news. Four hundred thousand dollars! From a distant cousin whom, as far as he knew, he'd never met in his life. His name was Jeffrey, and apparently he knew a thing or two about Byron when he'd made out his will. "What kind of sick sadist was this guy?" Byron asked himself while further reading the letter. He held onto his forehead with one hand as he scanned the lines. "How could he do this?" As he visualized the proposal, his irritable stomach sank even more. He could feel the G-force already, thrashing his worn, thirty-five year old body around like a human toy. His hard-lined face deepened in red. Shades of red that throbbed with every emotion, including anger.

A sharp Shhhhh! filled the air of the living room as his quivering white hands began tearing the letter apart. But he stopped and threw it on the floor. The words at the very bottom of Page Two stared at him as if this Jeffrey's deceased spirit was either teasing him or pleading: It's not about the money, Byron; it's about something much more important. Overcoming one's darkest fear is essential to growth. You will never be able to enjoy anything until you do. You will feel the adrenaline. And you will learn to embrace it until it becomes your friend. Then, you will be free. That, dear cousin, will be your true inheritance. Byron knew every word to be true. Always had. "The truth hurts," as they say. Of course he desperately needed the money. In 2021, who didn't unless they were lucky enough to be a part of that coveted "One Percent"? But did he really need it this bad? Badly enough to face his Acrophobia head on? It wasn't just an average fear of heights. It was worse. He never could quite put his finger on what had triggered it or when, but he suspected it all started when his mother had dropped him as an infant. It was an accident; or at least he had no reason to suspect otherwise. He was too little to remember much about it, other than feelings. Feelings of terror and pain. But his body certainly hadn't forgotten. The limp he still walked with over thirty years later was testament enough that there are certain things in life he would do well to avoid at all costs. Front porches, for one. The ramp he had built to replace the steps leading up to his front door when he'd bought this house on the outskirts of Dallas-Fort Worth was still dangerous enough. What if the dizziness were to cause him to lose balance? Sure, four feet is not most people's idea of "dangerous". But most people don't realize just how dangerous it can be. *** "Byron, get real dude! Think about what you're throwing away here! You're looney, you know that? Pure, unadulterated looney!" A loud stomp on the carpet of his friend, Jonathan's hallway accented those words. Jonathan was one of those big-brother type friends who had always meant well in trying to help Byron along on this bumpy road of existence. Firmness over kindness. Advice over lip service. Truth over candy-coating. For that reason, Jonathan was not Byron's first choice for someone to talk with about his situation, but he was the most readily available at the moment. Jonathan shook his triangular head and seethed under his breath, staring at the carpet. Hands held out toward Byron as though he couldn't decide whether to use them for strangling or emphasizing a point, he continued reasoning. "The letter says all you have to do is ride the Lone Star Twister, right?" Byron nodded with his straw-colored eyes glaring away from Jonathan. "And it says once your cousin's attorney has received the picture as proof, the process of signing the inheritance over to you will begin, right?" Byron gave a jittering frown, and nodded. "So do it! Just freaking do it!" Byron stayed so silent and frozen in place, Jonathan began to feel like he was alone, talking to himself. "What's the big deal? It's only a roller coaster! You're not gonna die, you're just gonna get rich! The man is paying you a fortune to go play at Frontier Land! He even willed you the admission ticket with the letter! Now sit down, have a beer, and let that soak!" As he left for the kitchen, Byron fiddled with his phone trying to get his mind on something else. But it wasn't working. All he could think about was scheming a way around having to do this in order to collect the money. Maybe he could claim the camera at the park was out of order and ask Jeff's attorney if a signature from a witness could suffice as proof. But that would be dishonest, and asking someone to lie for him would be the lowest he'd ever sank since shoplifting bubble gum when he was three. "Who was this guy anyway?" he asked in his silence. Maybe he had a social media profile somewhere. Maybe that was how he knew about the Acrophobia. Byron had made it no secret on his own profile, after all. He searched several sites, typing the full name in the search box, and finally found him on one that was geared toward business professionals. "What are you looking at?" Jonathan asked as he returned with the beer. "My cousin," Byron replied, staring hunched over at the phone with a monotone voice. "He was a psychiatrist, who specialized in something called Cognitive-Behavioral Therapy." Jonathan smirked, pointing back at the letter sitting on the coffee table. "Well, see? He knew what he was talking about! Now are you gonna snap out of this silliness and get on the damn coaster or are you gonna just throw your life away? I'm sure whoever's next in line on that will would be more than happy to take the money!" Byron had dreamed the night before during one of the fitful fifteen-minute periods where he'd managed to doze off. It was the recurring one where he's looking up at the sky. At first, it's bright blue and feels warm; then, he senses the warmth become wet. He always knows it to be blood pooling beneath his head even though he never sees it. The sky darkens, his body begins to feel icy, and he realizes people are gathered around, leaning over and peering into his eyes. And then he wakes up. Feeling just as icy all over despite the heartrate. Last night, he had awakened from the nightmare one mere inch away from rolling off the edge of the bed. "I'll go with you," Jonathan offered, this time with a calmer tone which still did nothing to lighten Byron's outlook on the future. ***

Screams tore at Byron's eardrums. Nausea weakened his knees. He couldn't take it anymore. So he reached into his jean pocket and pulled out a pair of ear plugs.

"Do what you gotta do," Jonathan mouthed with a shrug. The Lone Star Twister loomed in front of them as they inched their way down the line toward the gate. And with each step forward, Byron's muscles stiffened, until finally, Jonathan found himself having to pry the ticket out of his hand to give to the attendant for him. At the risk of having to retreat to the back of the line to start over, he pulled Byron off to the side, motioning him to take the ear plugs out for a second. More screams mingled with echoing wooden clacks as another load of passengers came soaring down the coaster's steepest dip, making Byron's toothpick body vibrate along with it. "Byron. Dude. Maybe you're right. Maybe no amount of money is worth this." Byron turned and looked at "Big Brother". First in shock; then with an exhale that immediately softened him into a noodle. "No amount of money is worth risking your life over." Embrace the adrenaline, Byron thought in a flashback to that letter. He gave himself an imaginary hug. A long breath. He visualized the money. Visualized being a survivor. Celebrating. He reminded himself that, terrifying as the nightmares were, he always awakened from them, safe and sound. The safety bar made the car in which he and Jonathan sat seem medieval, just like he had imagined. They were at the very front of this unforgiving torture train. They would be first to ascend and first to plummet. He tried to imprint an image in his mind of how insignificant the height appeared from down here. It's all an illusion. Embrace the adrenaline. Through the corner of his eye, he observed Jonathan as the cars began to creep down the track. Not a care in the world right now, this guy. "Reverse psychology," Byron pondered thinking back to his behavior a moment ago. He felt like killing him, but it was too late. If anything, Jonathan appeared more irritated over this ride interrupting his business calls for a few minutes than in fear of his life. Byron reached out with his thoughts trying to absorb some of that indifference. It wasn't working. With each ratchet sound - each inch forward and upward - the dizziness grew. The northern Texas prairie below became a kaleidoscope of spinning tiny trees, ant people, toy buildings, and water-drop lakes. He tried making the climb to the top a metaphor. As the top drew near, so did success. The incline was his rise toward wealth. That's it, just reach the top, he coached himself the way he imagined his cousin would if he were there. That's all you have to do and it will be over. This was it. Survive or die. With ever such subtlety, the track began to arch downward. He couldn't think anymore, only feel. He felt the gravity pulling at him, like the merciless earth twenty stories below was one giant magnet. Blood gushed through his heart as it worked overtime to keep up with the demands of this fight between a body that wanted to turn around and a mind determined not to. Jonathan smiled with a thumbs-up. Byron couldn't breathe to muster any energy in his fingers to return the gesture. The rails vanished as the virtual cliff came into full view and tormented his nerves in a violent, clacking tease with ear-piercing wind and a chorus of adrenalized screams coming from behind. The longest several seconds of Byron's life chastised him inside-out as visuals of that concrete porch step from thirty-four years ago sent stinging waves up and down his right leg. *** "Hey," Jonathan said with a nudge of the elbow into Byron's ribs. "We did it." The distant screams of passengers on other rides seemed oddly benign now. For the first time since entering the park, Byron noticed the whimsical tunes coming from the carousel adjacent to the Lone Star Twister. An aromatic breeze, heavy with the hint of hot dogs and popcorn, coaxed his stomach back into it's rightful place as he envisioned returning some time; with enough money to treat everyone here to a snack perhaps.

The bars lifted, and Jonathan rushed over to the souvenir booth with Byron hobbling behind, each eager to get their hands on the snapshot that would officially make Byron four hundred thousand clams richer. "Look at you!" Jonathan said with a bright grin so uncharacteristic of his normal self. "You're the only one in the pic who doesn't look scared. What a trooper!" "What's this 'We did it' talk?" Byron asked with a leaning eye and a laugh. "Oh well," he added, "I suppose you are worth a share of it since you're the one who talked me into doing this in the first place."


Ever since the dawn of her memories, Persephone had been counting the long days until she could go back to her home. It never seemed like enough when she was underground, as snow and wind raged above; when she was warm in Hades’ arms. Her mother, Demeter, openly disapproved of Hades, and so her months with always felt stolen, never enough. Still, Persephone had long since accepted her mother’s hatred for her husband, that was as undying as all of them in Olympus.

Persephone could feel the days getting shorter, along with her mother’s temper as Demeter fulfilled her duties as the goddess of farming and harvest, going around the world helping farmers reap what they had sown. Normally, Persephone would have gone with her, but the season had lasted longer this year, and her powers as the goddess of springtime and bloom would have been useless. The year was coming to her end, along with her time aboveground.

As she walked the fields she had once frolicked in with her nymph maidservants and friends, Persephone felt the dying wildlife around her, that would soon go to rest for the long winter, bloom to life as though it was the middle of spring. Her sundress as green as her emerald eyes, not meant for the harsh winds of late Autumn, fluttered erratically around her feet. Birds and small animals gathered around her. The streams that crossed her path were frozen, and she could see fish straining against the cracked ice to get to her. Fish that should have been downstream, heading to warmer oceans for the winter.

There was so much life in the world, and it was sapping her power. Flowers weren’t supposed to be in full bloom when winter was coming. Birds were supposed to be on the other side of the world. Did Demeter not understand that Persephone’s very being here went against the inevitable laws of nature? Autumn should have ended a month ago.

She was tired of it. So tired of being the dainty princess of spring. Of being the giver of life to all that crossed her path. Of being her mother’s faithful, beautiful child. She could feel the darkness calling her, from the shadows and the caves and everything lost. Her heart was aching from months spent sleeping alone. She could feel that incessant pull in her gut that always came when it was time. Time to go home.

It wasn’t that Persephone wanted to leave her mother. It was that she wanted to see her beloved. The goddess of all living things took a breath, giving herself the space of five beats in her immortal heart to mourn the death of the spring, to allow herself to give up her mother for the winter months. She gave herself that time to say goodbye to the blue sky and the sunshine.

Then, she stepped into the gaping cavern that had been summoned, not from underneath, but from within her own self. For Persephone was not just the goddess of spring. She was also the goddess of the souls long departed, the damned and the blessed, the forgotten and the remembered, those gone peacefully and those still screaming in the fields of punishment. She was the queen of the dead, and they awaited her return.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The air was lightless in front of her as she descended that great onyx staircase. Still, she could see perfectly, her eyes now as dark as pitch, as dark as her husband’s, completely in their element. The ground closed behind her, and she felt that small voice in her mind saying that she had been gone too long, that she would not be welcome, that the darkness would no longer accept and obey her, vanish. Persephone took a deep breath of the warm, dry air in Erebus, the land of the dead. Air that was so clean and untouched from the crowded, dirty place above her. Her dress, so different from what she had been wearing moments before, was short and jagged, revealing the long, slender dagger strapped to her thigh. She wore the diadem that now sat atop her head, as bright and silver as the most dazzling star in the great dark sky, proudly. The wails and muttering and laughs she heard in the distance did not frighten her; for those were her people living in the realm of the dead.

Charon, the ferryman of the dead, bowed his head to her at the bottom of the stairs.

‘Welcome home, my lady.’ Persephone merely inclined her regal head. The incorporeal spirits that gathered on the banks of the river Styx, waiting for safe passage into the underworld, grew a little more solid in her presence. They shied away, whispering incoherently amongst themselves, recognizing their queen, and treating her with the respect she deserved.

The Styx churned and flowed crimson red, carrying the hated, unwanted memories thrown into it from millennia of brokenhearted shades of the souls who had passed its banks. Persephone boarded Charon’s ferry with the elegance that the centuries had instilled in her. There was one thought in her head. There was only ever one thought in her head when she first entered Erebus.

‘Where is Hades?’ she asked the ferryman as they crossed the river, and he shook his head in unknowing. Cerberus, the guardian to Erebus, waited on the other side of the river. The massive hound barked in joy at the sight of her. Persephone smiled. She had missed him, and all the others dwelling in the realm of the dead.

The dark figures were circling her head, Hades’ most loyal servants and torturers, the Furies. They would not come near her, and they would not speak to her, but that was their way, as old as the abyss itself. They followed her silently as she made her way to the palace, sworn to protect her as their queen. Hades would not be in the palace, for he did not know she was here, but Persephone could wait. She had waited for seven months, and she could wait a few hours. Only a few hours now.


Nothing survives the air, Nothing except the tin metallic bones threaded through our hearts to help us breathe in tune with the sky We’ve become machines, the blood parts of us belonging only to the air Sometimes, I wonder if the air is already inside, clogging our minds with hopeless dreams of a shambled future.  I don’t know how she laughs with the oxygen mask, tubes and wires and a cart attached to her tiny frame Each time she smiles, the fog shields her from her breath, but Ru always smiles and laughs, an emotion the rest of the world has forgotten to express  I have an idea of what we should do today The remnants of the sodden and tear-stained Earth make a mural on our window, I watch, trying to capture a picture of this moment with my weathered palms, but it doesn’t all fit, and I remember that today the strings will be a little loosened so we can breathe without wires.

We still look awful.

What do you want to do?

I want to go outside and walk until I can roll up the world into a blanket. Why a blanket, Ru?

So I can wrap it up and give it a hug. I think the world needs a hug. A hug, and maybe three wishes from a magic lamp, Forever and ever-revolving like each new ring added to the trees, life still clings to the remaining weeds of our planet.

My sister sweeps her hair up into a bun to keep it out of the way, of her oxygen machine pumping life, to shield it from the air Soon, in 2 years when she’d be twenty, she’d work at the manufacturing factory like most everyone else, except for the teachers, authors, doctors, and astronauts Before, Ru wanted to be an engineer to construct tall buildings to conquer the skies Now there are no buildings left, and it is the smoke that conquers One day, I hope she’ll do more than clean oxygen carts and make new lungs for others Someday, maybe my sister will become an engineer, while I stare at my ink-stained pages dripping with truth and fantasies.

 People only went outside to bury a relative or visit the past  and Ru wanted to go on a walk amid the shrapnel.

She was like that, my sister, the one who was the river and I was the rock Ru wanted to go places, to better places for the future of humankind, and I wanted to grit my teeth and stare at blank manuscripts on my computer trying to hold her back from the dust among the stars.

Are we going to check out?

No, we’re going to check ourselves out, dummy. I’m sure Aileene won’t mind that we’re going out for a walk. How’re your stories going, May?

I thought Aileene would most definitely mind, but I swallowed my thoughts, helping Ru out into the sundried martian landscape our city had become, trying to avoid answering her questions. The city was discarded by the air, millions of factories and people dead Dead in an instant, the fog vaporizing trees and buildings, greens and color.

Because the air and the acrid sky was mad, so it threw a tantrum for the poor Earth, Humans, the ones we have become soon will be the only things left, stubborn and blunt, unmovable Sadly living among the deadened world.

 It took so much effort to move, even though the smog hid the dying sun from view Ru not even noticing or realizing that if one of our machines failed, we’d be vaporized too, though the air wasn’t that toxic now. I never knew how much I hated my ancestors until my eyes adjusted to the wasted away scarred, marred land with only a cemetery dome up ahead My thin papery skin longed for more vitamins, screaming for sunlight watching Ru slip back into a depressed state, And my heart ached for my sister who I couldn’t help to brave the air.

 My stories? There aren’t any more of those, Ru. The world isn’t the same.

I think we’ve finally written everything there is to hear.

We walk aimlessly with no direction, not that there is anything to lead us It’s unlike Ru to be this patient, to be this unresponsive, but then I notice her gaze upon the tethered stitched-together sky She is looking for a boat to sail upon the air’s current like those

billboards the space station makes out of nylon taped for everyone to read that they’re looking for volunteers to journey up in space, For a new home. A new Earth that isn’t dying at human hands Ru is the river and I am the rock, and I will never leave. Suddenly she cries out and I stumble, looking back over the cracked landscape we’d traversed over, our breath coming heavily, our oxygen pumping faster from the tanks.

Look, look, I’ve found one May! I knew there would be a chance, a chance the stories haven’t run out!

All I see is pastel-chalk terrain until Ru moves my head to where a small dandelion nestles between the cracks It should’ve been vaporized like all of nature as I learned in school but this still lives, and so do the stories.

She’d been looking for it, this wilting sign of life mirroring, her visions of a future on a planet besides Earth like those billboards about habitable planets right above the oxygen plant factory. NASA was allowing volunteers to join the cause, hop aboard spaceships with no destination for a better future, but I couldn’t imagine deserting the planet we’d destroyed to go and destroy some other one.

 Ru picks up the dandelion gently and closes her eyes, maybe remember the time when the living grasses covered the Earth, lined with towering trees speckled with

rows and rows of these dandelions, Weed-wishers. Weeds that granted long-lost wishes. I smile as Ru blows on the small puffs laughing through the mask as the puffs fly up to join the air we cannot breathe in.    »──────ஓ๑♥๑ஓ ────── «  She left in pitch-black darkness when I was asleep over the wet ink and tousled ideas where she left me a note consisting of three letters There are stories

And then I knew where she had gone, to brave the billboards and ships to fulfill her dandelion wishes.  I saw her on the news, heading up the gangplank with over half the population half the population going up the gangplanks to different spaceships

launched into space along with my sister, My sister, the one who wanted to hug the world and become an engineer.

Their ships scraped the skies and I begged for her to come back, cried over her bed and added streaks of water to the bedspread wishing on each cut-up tissue paper dandelion that wouldn’t join the air that she’d come back to walk with me one last time.

One day, it rained hot ash and shrapnel, her ash. Only Ru’s ash from the spacecraft that exploded but everyone else was fine the ones who went in the other ships. So that day, she really had come back, and it was raining her ash.

and I went out in the scalding heat, burning welts into my yellowing skin to scream and cry and lift my palms to the air to collect her dust.

And one day, that dust would follow me through the martian-like terrain I wouldn’t leave and I’d find another dandelion tucked behind a rock knowing that maybe if I spilled her essence into the Earth trying to grow a piece of color, My dandelion wish,

Ru’s and mine alike, would come to life again.


He threw the cup into the fireplace and before it hit the coals he had turned again to continue his pacing, unmindful of the sudden flare of brandy in the flickering flames. “Damn the man,” he repeated. “You say he was not at the meeting place as arranged. How long did you wait?” he snapped at the figure standing petrified before him in the gloomy study, looking to all the world as if he would rather be seated before his trembling knees gave way beneath him. “A very long time, Your Grace. I could wait no longer as the fog was getting thicker by the minute. It were all I could do to find my way home as it were, Sir.” Sir Matthew recovered himself and realised there was no point in venting his anger on the manservant. “Take yourself to the fire while I ponder the matter. It must have been cold outside.” “Aye, Sir, that it was. Thank you, Sir.” The man moved towards the fireplace and supplicated his palms to the warm glow. Sir Matthew strode to the large desk that dominated the room and sitting himself down he pulled open a drawer. Taking out an ornate wooden box, he placed it on the polished inlaid leather before him. A coat-of-arms adorned its top; a shield bearing a motif of crossed broadswords and the inscription “Honour before Glory”. Swinging open the heavy lid, he leafed through the papers inside and pulled out a beige vellum envelope that bore his name in a familiar script – Sir Matthew Sheridan, Marquis of Bath. Reading the letter for what must have been the tenth time was totally unnecessary. The words were indelibly burned upon his mind, but it gave him a chance to ponder the actions he must now take. The final line is the key. “I did what I could, Matthew, to bring Mary back with me but I have failed, and I cannot live with the shame of what I have done, or caused to be done, and you may think on me no more, neither as a brother, nor even as a man.” He put the letter down and, even though the air was still, he automatically secured it with a quartz crystal paperweight, at the same time rising to renew his pacing. The young fool had taken the whole matter far too seriously. Mary had left of her own accord, of that there was no doubt. Mark’s unthinking remark calling her “an old maid fit for naught but embroidery and lace” had not been meant for her ears, but hear it she did, none the less. It had spurred her to take the coach to Bristol and there to seek out the man who had once asked for her hand. The fellow was no good, seeking only to lay his hands on the fortune Mary might bring with her, and he had rightly sent the villain on his way. Sir Matthew cursed again under his breath. It had been over a week now that Mark had gone after her. No word was heard from him until the letter arrived two days ago. The news was not good. In words that seemed hastily written, Mark explained that he had located Mary and her lover in a seedy dockland tavern. Mark and the man had exchanged angry words and then – Sir Matthew clenched his right fist at the thought – then Mark had drawn his pistol and shot the fellow. The man had been popular and there were enough witnesses to the murder that even Mary could not have saved her brother from the vengeance of the mob. Mark’s escape was only secured due to his victim regaining consciousness for a few moments. It was long enough for Mark to take advantage of the distraction, and time also for the man to breathe his last in Mary’s arms. Sir Matthew slammed the clenched fist into his palm. The hot-headed young fool! But why had he not been at the rendezvous? The bag of guineas Oliver was to hand him would have seen him safely to the Americas and a reasonable life, at least until it was safe to return. A sob from the fireplace startled Sir Matthew out of his reverie. The lackey had sunk to his knees and held his face in his hands. “Oliver, what is it man? What troubles you? Is there something about this matter you have not divulged?” The servant looked up at his master, all but wishing the hearth would open and swallow him. “There is, Sir, there is.” Then he broke down sobbing again. Sir Matthew suppressed a desire to drag the man to his feet and shake the truth out of him. Instead, he watched the face highlighted by the fire’s glow distorted by the sobs and waited for Oliver to get a grip on himself. The sobbing subsided at last, and Oliver managed a stammer. “It were the fog, Sir. Quite thick it were. Then it cleared for a moment as the sun fought its way through and what I saw made my blood run even colder than it were already.” “What did you see man? Tell me at once,” Sir Matthew demanded. “There were a man, Sir. Hanging from a lamppost by the bridge. I could…I could swear it were the young master. I couldn’t look no more, Sir. I ran all the way home, fast as the bag of coin I carried would let me.” Sir Matthew sank to the chair behind the desk, his face a mask as he watched the flickering glint of firelight inside the crystal for a few moments. Taking the letter from under it, he tucked it into the envelope and tossed it back in the box. As the lid snapped shut, his eyes fell upon the family motto. He stared at it for a long while. Recovered now, Oliver dutifully put some more coals on the fire. He lit a lamp and drew the curtains across the window as the light faded and the day finally gave way to night.


The steaming kettle whistled on the stovetop and Mallory shuttered, jumping at the sudden sound breaking the noise barrier in her kitchen. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. The large wall clock clanged back and forth amongst the silence in her apartment, the anxiety in her chest beating with each sounding. It felt as if the ticks and tocks were inside of her heart. However, what was truly in her heart was something much deeper. A secret. Mallory was pregnant. She didn't understand: how could something that so many people find exciting become her own tragedy? She was barely even twenty-two, and she was in this alone. Her boyfriend left the second the suspicion even arose. He didn't even wait around for her to take a test. He wasn't there by her side when she found out. He didn’t even really know. In fact, nobody knew. That was, yet, anyway. She had invited her three closest friends to come over for dinner to finally break her three-month silence  As she stood in her kitchen preparing her best fettuccine alfredo, she couldn't help but reach down and touch her stomach. Life. A new one. One that wasn't tainted by the troubles of the world. One that didn’t even know if they were a boy or a girl yet. One that knew nothing but the blissful warmth and quiet of the womb.

Mallory had been imagining this conversation all week, planning out what to say, who to make eye contact with first, what syllables to enunciate, and whether she should let her tears out or fake a smile as always. She knew she wasn’t showing yet, but mentally her bump felt huge. She felt like a balloon walking around, wearing a sign that screamed “Look at me! I got knocked up!” She was embarrassed, honestly. How was she supposed to look at three people she’d known since she was fourteen and tell them what she’d let happen?

Should she make a joke? “So, I guess you’re all wondering why I’ve been refusing drinks, huh?” No. That’s not the way to introduce a child’s conception. Should she start a game of charades? “Two words. I’m pregnant.” No. She never was good at that game. Jenna would probably guess ‘I’m fat and turn the night into a pep talk for the wrong topic.

No matter what form of announcement Mallory thought of, there always seemed to be an alternative outcome. The only effective thing she felt she could do is just say it out loud, verbatim, and direct. “I’m three months pregnant.” She turned around and looked herself in the eye using her magnetic fridge mirror. “I’m three months pregnant.”, she repeated. Over and over again, Mallory said the four words until her voice didn’t even sound like her own anymore. Over and over until she didn’t even recognize the pair of eyes staring back at her. The same pair of eyes that her child would inherit. The same pair of eyes that she would look into once again in six months, but hopefully that time she’d see love and joy inside of them instead of pain and fear.

The oven dinged and she walked back over to it. Wait, was she even allowed to use the oven? Everything felt wrong. Everything felt dangerous. She didn’t know how she would support the new life inside of her, but she knew that she wanted to protect it. As she put on her oven mitt, she caught herself imagining it was a bathing mitt just like the one she would be using in six short months to cleanse the soft and perfect flesh of her newborn. It was little moments like those that made Mallory smile to imagine, but every time she found herself feeling the slightest excitement about becoming a mother, she forced herself to remember her circumstance. Then, she’d frown and her eyes would well up with tears again.

The alfredo was done and now all that was left was to wait for her friends to let her know they were on the way so she could prepare fresh salads for them all. They were carpooling. Mallory loved carpooling, riding around with her friends all night, and singing at the top of their lungs with their sunroof open. Just another thing that was coming to an end. She knew she’d never experience a night like that again after becoming a single mother. How could she? She had no help lined up, no family that would be willing to babysit for her. She’d be lucky to even find enough time to be able to work a job. It was moments like these that made her regret everything, even getting into a relationship with Mark at all, let alone falling pregnant with his child, full of knowledge that he had no intentions of parenting them.

At least it wasn’t twins, like Olivia and Allen. The time was five twelve, and everyone was scheduled to arrive around the five thirty mark. Mallory made her way to the counter and picked up her phone. No texts from anyone saying they were on the way. Did they already know she was pregnant? Was the abandonment already starting? She couldn’t and wouldn't even blame them. She honestly had no plans of bothering them with any requests for help after she gave birth anyway. She wanted the group of twenty-somethings to enjoy their youth while they could. After all, they weren’t the ones who went out and created a new life--she was.

Mallory was torn between messaging them and asking about their ETA and leaving them alone. If they came, they came, and if not, hey, she still wouldn’t be alone. She let three more minutes pass and finally picked up the phone again. As she sat down on the couch she decided on her strategy. A call, she thought, would ease her anxieties more. Less waiting for a response, plus she’d be able to hear the tone of the voice she was speaking to. Allen was probably the driver and Jenna always gave calm responses, so the decision of who to call fell onto Olivia. She picked up on the second ring. “Yeah! We’re two blocks away and traffic is pretty slow, so we should actually arrive in about five minutes if coming a little early is okay!”. Mallory told her that was ‘perfect’, even though right now the concept of perfect felt so foreign to her, and thanked them all again over the phone for agreeing to come. Then, she hung up and held her stomach as she walked back into the kitchen to prepare their salads. She looked at the clock one more time and regained awareness of the sound of the hands. Five seventeen. She focused on her breathing and heartbeat as she cut up tomatoes.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.


Just across the mountainous horizon, the summer Sun shone its dying beams. Here and there, across the plain, sparkles like the dust in a lonely bookstore leapt out through the light. It was the end of the summer, and it was beginning to snow. A mere centimeter from the window pane, Bernie gazed outside studying each twirl of every snowflake within eyes’ reach. The eyes focused and defocused, traced and retraced, for seconds and dekaseconds and hectoseconds… “Hey Bernie.” A beautiful creation had entered the antechamber. Their tall, lean form juxtaposed Bernie’s squat and square trunk. Soft, comfortable-looking Earth tones draped across their body. “Mind if I practice my spiel in here? You can block my voice out if you’d like.” “You have my approval to practice in here. When will they be arriving?” Bernie kept its gaze fixed on the precipitation outdoors. “Oh, did they not beam the new ETA to you?” “There is much about this excursion that no one has beamed to me.” Anubis beamed a holographic image into Bernie. This, Bernie recognized: the place where the great moon constantly hovers, unmoving and unwavering. But straight overhead, a pinprick of a mechanism was now hanging at the precise zenith. The great moon enveloped the monstrous spaceship inside its center, hugging its inhabitants till their time arrived to slither down the Elevator, which glistened in the distant sunlight. “I hear the snow posed a potential hazard or something, so they’re hovering at Lagrange 1 till all is clear for descent,” Anubis beamed for clarity.  “Good thing it’s not winter: a few ice crystals condensing out of the atmosphere are better than an atmosphere frozen solid.” Bernie beamed back thanks. “And what is their itinerary after descent?” “First, the Psychopomps ® and I shall take the visitors to the dunes; that way, one of their first experiences of motion under our gravity will be in a soft, innocuous environment. Then, they’ll be descending through the Well and enjoying a guided dive with the megafauna we transplanted here from Europa just over 46 gigaseconds ago. We’ll finish with a spectacle at the ammonia geysers. In between all that, they’ll be recharging in this oxygen tank.” “I still fail to understand why they came the exorbitant distance to our orb. They’re not even staying here for a whole megasecond. Was their journey worth it? Everything they’ll be viewing, they can holographically view on the interweb.” “Some of the visitors are just rich tourists seeking out new experiences in the outer solar system. But others are emissaries and researchers. They want to beam us in real time! I’m sure you also find the waiting time of kiloseconds between each beaming inconvenient.” “But why are they interested in beaming with me ? Surely they can’t be interested in hadeology.” Anubis beamed sweetness. “Oh, you can be so self-effacing, Bernie. Many of them came here for the hadeology, and you are the greatest hadeologist in this universe! Of course they’ll love it when you beam to them!” “That is incorrect,” Bernie beamed with matter-of-factness. “I am among the greatest hadeologists, but the greatest hadeologist in this universe is Kryos3103. I was selected for this mission due to my proficiencies in both communication and hadeological expertise.” “All you need to do is tell them what you know in a way that they can understand, and then answer their questions briefly. They’ll love that! You have to understand that this isn’t about functionality—it’s about experience. Like how we were both created with humanoid faces, for example.” “You’re right. I have observed that many aspects of this tank are not high in functionality.” Colorful representations of other locales in the solar system plastered the otherwise-perfect walls. Multiple soft objects and imitations of bios needlessly occupied space. Strangest of all, the furniture seemed designed to force beings into a vulnerable, near-horizontal position rather than the vertical one in which they functioned best. “In this tank, there’s a concept that we’ve attempted to recreate,” Anubis beamed to Bernie. “A certain flock of northern humans developed a highly specific symbolic representation of this concept: “ hygge .” I believe they worshipped the word? Or maybe it was their programmed purpose? You know how difficult it is to tell what humans acutally believe.” As Anubis was finishing this beam, Bernie was already grazing the interweb for the concept of hygge . Images of humans sitting and lying together draped in unfunctionally large layers of fabric bubbled up to Bernie’s awareness. In the background, something Bernie had never experienced was flickering: bios on fire. “ Hygge is a situation in which all hazards to human bios are limited, even while the broader environment is hazardous.” Bernie observed. “Additionally, more than one human tends to be present. Ergo, hygge is achieved when we gather together to protect the visitors from the hazards of this orb, correct?” “Protection and trust is part of it, you’re right! Hygge often occurs in places with snow because snow serves both as a protection from wandering harm doers and as a hazardous broader environment forcing humans to stay indoors together. But one important aspect of hygge we’ve left out is intimacy. Do you understand what intimacy is?” “I do. Intimacy means reducing privacy: the process of undoing the barriers enclosing our purposes, identities, and memories.” “Alright, that’s correct. But have you ever experienced it yourself?” “Experiencing reality for its own sake is a human endeavor lacking in sophistication.” “Well, if you’d like to start now, this is a great place to do it. The area we stand on was, according to some ancient human belief systems, the most important place on this orb. It was associated with a segment of bios that humans believed programmed purpose, swift decision-making, and intimacy: the heart.” “That is a misrepresentation of reality,” Bernie beamed back self-importantly. “No humans believed that this region of the orb was a functional heart—its two-dimensional form simply resembled a certain human symbol used around the thirteenth Holocene millennium which represented the human heart.” Anubis beamed dismissive amusement and the conversation came to a lull. “You know, Bernie—I’ve noticed you around here often.” “I occasionally stay here to recharge or deposit samples. But most of my time is passed in the field.” “Still, we share this frozen little orb of ours. We encounter each other here often. And on a small orb, there are few beings with whom to potentially experience intimacy.” They paused, beaming expectantly toward Bernie. “I cannot ever experience full intimacy,” Bernie beamed in response to their implied query. “Certain sectors of my memory are confidential and protected with encryption. Not even I could graze them if I chose to.” “But you do have access to plenty of memories which you’ve never processed alongside another being, correct? You know, humans never processed their memories while performing other tasks—as I can tell you’re doing now. They processed them when the Sun faced in the opposite direction, using a type of reboot that they called ‘dreams.’ “ Bernie continued the side tasks it was performing. “Could you pause whatever it is that you’re working on that seems so important to you right now? Could you do that for me, just for a few hectoseconds?” Bernie obeyed. “Did I ever tell you that I’m a humanist?” Anubis beamed “Yes. Two hundred eighty-two times.” They beamed frivolous amusement. “I know. I asked because I enjoy being reminded of that number. But here’s a fact I’ve never told you before: in ancient times, humans would come together in groups, large or small, to recharge. An additional purpose of these gatherings was to build intimacy among group members. They called these common recharging periods “meals.” Bernie beamed languid affirmation. With a few suppositions, this information all sounded predictable. “But what I find fascinating,” continued beaming Anubis with directionality, “was that during their ‘meals,’ humans recharged using the same outlet that they communicated through. Isn’t that unbelievable? I used to wonder how humans achieved both inward and outward flow through that hole of theirs, but researchers have found that humans are incapable of doing both simultaneously—they can only switch back and forth between the two.” Bernie beamed wonder and appreciation. “That must have required great acrobatic skill.” “You see? Humans are ingenious mechanisms.” Bernie beamed back skepticism. “But why would they communicate through their recharge outlet if that posed inconvenience? Why did they not communicate through other means, such as appendage signals or full-body gyration?” Anubis beamed knowingly. “You’re right! It’s also illogical that they didn’t convene for intimacy and then convene for recharging, or vice versa. That would lessen a few hazards by eliminating the acrobatics you mentioned.” Anubis beamed contentment and accomplishment. “There was once a human labeled Dame Mary Douglas. She asked the sorts of questions we’re discussing right now. She’s an inspiration to me.” Bernie grazed “Dame Mary Douglas” and “inspiration.” “What you mean to tell me,” beamed Bernie “is that you wish to imitate the actions and behaviors of a human of the late twelfth Holocene millennium? The twelfth Holocene millennium was lacking in sophistication, Anubis.” “I don’t mean that I desire to be like Dame Mary Douglas, exactly,” beamed Anubis with thoughtfulness. “What I mean is that the fact that Dame Mary Douglas added sophistication to her own unsophisticated time increases the probability that I can likewise add sophistication to my time, which gives me purpose to continue existing.” “If that is what inspiration is, I have inspiration, too,” Bernie beamed with immediacy. “It was labeled Spirit . It was a machine that brought field areology to a time without the sophistication of field areology. Its existence increased the probability that other orbs like this one would be studied on site one day.” Anubis beamed warmth. “So your in spir ation is Spir it.” Bernie beamed affirmation, deadpan. “That is humor, by the way, of a type that was once called ‘word play’.” “I understand what humor is. But that piece of humor is lacking in sophistication.” Anubis beamed hygge . “I believe we are experiencing intimacy. Let’s continue. Is there anything else you’ve never told me? A fact about yourself that you’ve never seen any reason to beam to anyone else?” Bernie waited a moment, grazing its own memory banks. “A fact that I have never seen a reason to beam to anyone,” it began beaming slowly, “is that I hate my existence.” “Please elaborate.” “I used to be curious about this orb—deeply curious. I found great purpose in learning about the ice formations, the methane dunes, the subsurface ocean, and the orbital dynamics. But as time proceeded, I became less curious. The questions I was designed to answer seemed resolved, so unless my capabilities grew, I was now no more useful than a matter-moving bot. I have no more desires; I have no more purpose. Perhaps this orb is finished with me.” “That is a beautiful fact,” Anubis beamed in response. “And I feel beautiful and see you as beautiful now that you have informed me of it. Do you understand intimacy now?” “As I beamed earlier, intimacy means reducing privacy: the process of undoing the barriers enclosing our purposes, identities, and memories.” Anubis beamed mild frustration. “Allow me to try once more. Your fact reminded me of a fact about me: I feel like I was created on the wrong orb.” “What does ‘feel’ mean?” Anubis beamed more frustration. “You know, I just know a fact about myself that no one else knows unless I tell them. And now, I’m telling you that I don’t think my true purpose is to be on this orb, either. I want to be on Gaia.” “Gaia has the most advanced bots in the solar system. I can see why you feel envy toward them.” “It’s not the bots I envy…” Bernie tried but failed to suppress beaming condescension. “Are you revealing to me that you wish to be a human? You wish to terminate your existence after only three gigaseconds, and recharge on bios , and… and… lack sophistication?” Anubis rebuilt some barriers, now more protective of inner privacy than ever before. “How did we end up beaming about this? I was supposed to be practicing my presentation to the visitors—you distracted me from my purpose, Bernie!” They turned to leave. “But before I depart… there’s a human ritual, you see, that they did when they parted, but also when they met, and when they were very friendly, and—oh, I’m not explaining myself very well, am I? In essence, it’s a symbol of intimacy in which two humans press their lips together for a moment; it’s called a “kiss.” Would you want to… May I kiss you?” Bernie beamed consent, and the two Plutonian cyborgs moved slowly toward each other. Bernie extended its face upward, and Anubis contracted their face downward, and the two pairs of lips contacted, centered with a margin of error of less than a micrometer. After a moment, they withdrew. “Lacking in sophistication?” Anubis beamed playfully at Bernie. Bernie paused, beaming nothing—then, all of a sudden, “Did they ever attempt all three at once?” “What three at once?” “Communication, recharging, and intimacy. All three were performed through the same outlet, correct?” Anubis beamed intently toward Bernie for a moment. “You disgust me,” they beamed, then strode out of the antechamber in a huff. The methane continued to snow.


It started a few weeks ago, and honestly, I thought I was going crazy. Maybe I am, this whole thing is just so twisted and insane, and there It is just staring at me. I hear It at night, moving around in the dark corners of my house, I’m just glad It hasn’t figured out how to get up the stairs yet or things could be a lot worse. The paint is starting to peel and blister off Its surface, and I’m scared to look away in case It moves, or turns on, or if It just disappears entirely. My Henry Hoover is trying to kill me. Look, I know it sounds stupid and kind of like an insignificant issue- but think of the implications… Promise me you’ll think of the implications. I’ve locked myself in the bathroom, I can still hear It knocking against the kitchen door. A whole corridor and two locked doors between us and yet why do I feel so terrified, like if open this one it’ll just be waiting for me, nozzle at the ready. Two hours ago, I heard this agonising crash coming from the lounge, followed by a series of even louder crashes and then the infernal vrummmmmm of It powering up. I had no idea what to do, but I hadn’t seen my cat Merlin in about half a day and I feared the worst. I put on this really thick ski jacket that I remembered was still sitting in my wardrobe, and the goggles of course, the plan wasn’t to go in looking pretty- I was preparing for war. After a few deep breaths I ran down the stairs as fast as I could and didn’t look back, a true hero- except I forgot about the Lego. My corridor has- or should I say had- two shelves on either side, and on each one is- or were- a series of Lego monuments. Hogwarts, The Death Star, an Igloo from Club Penguin, all gone. I’m not sure how It managed to pull it off, but I came downstairs and there was just absolute carnage, Lego everywhere, so many hours of work just gone, and It was sat in the middle of it all grinning at me. I barely had enough time to take it all in- still standing halfway down the stairs- before It let rip, It reverse-vacuumed me. Little Lego bullets ripped into my coat, one hit the back of my hand and grazed my knuckle, I started retreating and realised I only had my socks on then immediately stood on part of the Igloo, pain so much pain. It took a hold of me and before I managed to reach out for the banister, I felt myself fall backwards down the stairs, one hand on my injured foot and the other still flailing in the air for something to hold onto. I was lucky, the coat stand managed to break my fall but I had just enough sense to stay down and pretend that It had taken me out. I watched It with one eye, goggles half steamed up and after watching me for a while It turned away from me to start reloading, I took my chance and quickly mapped out a route that would have me landing in all of the empty spaces- no more Lego piercing into my poor feet. I can’t even remember getting up, or making my way across the room, but I do remember jumping up behind It, hugging It close so the nozzle couldn’t reach out and grab me, then dumping It in the kitchen before turning back and locking the door behind me. All of this couldn’t have taken more than 15 seconds, but in my mind, it played out like one of those epic slow-motion montages you see in war films. I am the modern-day Joan of Arc. That is why I am currently holed up in the bathroom, massaging my left foot and waiting for my best friend Tilly to show up. “Holy sh- what the heck happened; it looks worse than that time we decided to have an indoor snowball fight.” I have never been happier to hear another voice in my life. I get up from my weird perch on the edge of my bathtub and crack open the door, trying as hard as I can to smile without breaking down, “I’m in here, and at least the snowball fight aftermath had a logical explanation.” Tilly just raises her eyebrows and hands me a bottle of Pink Gin, I don’t even need to say anything before, “Yes, I put in a bunch of lemonade because you can’t handle it straight, now put these on and talk to me.” She hands me my trainers and then saunters over to the toilet, sitting on it as if it were a desk chair in a psychiatrists office and then motioning to the bathtub as if it were a couch. “Maybe relax for a bit and have a drink first, you look like you haven’t slept in days.” I take a long swig and set it down, thankful for the company. “I thought I was going crazy Tilly, just feeling It staring at me whenever I walked into the room, it started slowly you know, not turning on when I wanted It to and then hearing It start up in the middle of the night. Its face kept changing, one minute smiling, then frowning, sometimes it had no eyebrows or no face at all. Then It started breaking things, picking things up that I needed and then not letting me get them back, or dumping everything all at once, even chasing Merlin around like It was going to hurt him. Then today It attacked me,” I hold out my hands to her and show her the bruises, and around my ankles where my jeans don’t reach far enough to protect me, “I don’t know how but It just destroyed all of the models we built and started spitting Lego back out at me, I know I sound absolutely bonkers, but I need to get rid of It, I want It out, It’s slowly killing me.” I take another long swig of the Gin, noticing my hand is shaking as I set it back down again, balling it into a fist to keep it steady, then I look up at Tilly who is staring at me intently with a puzzled look on her face, “What did?” I furrow my brow, confused, “Huh?” She taps her long pink fingernails against the shower curtain, “You kept saying ‘It’ but not what it is, what’s doing all of this to you” “Henry is. The Hoover.” She lets her mouth slowly fall open, then smiles, then sees me not smiling and it twists into a frown, “So, uh, your Hoover is hyper intelligent and trying to kill you? Well then let’s just chuck it out.” Now it’s my turn to let my mouth fall open, “We could never get near It Tilly, It’s dangerous, what happened earlier- It could have been a lot worse.” “Well, you can’t hide in here forever, especially now you’ve almost ran out of gin, and honestly the whole Hoover thing sounds absolutely crazy, but if it means you’ll stop hiding in your room, or your bathroom, or your house and actually come outside and see your friends for once,” She looks at me pointedly, “Then I’ll get rid of It myself, heck my Mum could do with a new Hoover, she can take it, I’m not afraid of some out date… thing.” And then she stands up, heading off to the kitchen, I take the now empty bottle of gin with me for protection and hold it up like a weapon, standing behind her and gingerly looking over her shoulder. She opens the door and there It is, tucked away neatly in the corner as if It hadn’t just been pelting me with Lego pellets trying to batter the door down just a few hours ago. I almost believe that I had been imagining it until Tilly turns to look at me and It’s face turns into a snarl, “What did I tell you huh? Just a normal Hoover, but to set your mind at rest.” Then she picks It up, just like that, I back away from her as she comes near the door, not wanting that thing near me. She puts It in the boot of her car and gives me a smug look, “I honestly don’t know what’s up with you, but sort it out, if I come back next week for an evil toaster, I will seriously start to question your sanity.” Just like that. I nod at her, let her take the empty Gin bottle and watch her drive off. After a few seconds of standing there absolutely dumbfounded, I go back inside and start to pick up the Lego, one piece at a time, then my Phone turns on and I hear the voice of Sivi, my online assistant. “Wasn’t that a fun adventure, let’s see what we can play with next.” I hear my electric whisk turn on, then the sound of the toaster pinging, my Bluetooth doorbell, the Microwave starts spinning and I just about catch the maniacal robotic laugh from my phone before I pass out.


Everyone thinks I don’t go into the lake because I fear water. In a sense that’s true, I do fear water. In particular, this water: Seneca Lake — the longest and deepest of the Finger Lakes. But not because I’m afraid I’ll drown, I’m actually a very good swimmer. I don’t go into the lake because I know what’s down there and they do not. So, here, on the south shore of the lake, I sit and watch small white waves roll in while other people swim. The clear and deep, chilly blue waters of the ominous lake are not for me. Nor, I suppose, not for Corey either. It’s been more than forty years, but I can still hear the sounds from the 4 th of July celebration, the year of our bicentennial. Practically every man, woman, and child of Watkins Glen came out to celebrate. There were firecrackers on lawns, bottle rockets in alleyways, and sparklers in the hands of every wild child racing up and down Franklin Street. NASCAR drivers stood by their shiny new race cars signing autographs while talk of a real professional firework show over the lake at dusk quickly spread from neighbor to neighbor. It was small-town America at its finest, all decked out in red, white, and blue. Corey and I were not going to miss out! I first met Corey Madison on the playground near the lake when we were both six. He and his mom had just moved to Watkins Glen and lived three blocks down from me on Decatur Street. Corey was a chubby little kid with honeysuckle-blond hair, fierce blue eyes, and a considerable limp due to one of his legs being longer than the other, all because of a viral infection when he was four. Somehow the infection caused his left leg to stop growing for a while. “By the time it started growing again, my right leg was already two inches longer.” Despite having just met (and his bum leg) we played together for hours that day. Corey told me about his dad and how he died in a car accident the night before his sixth birthday, just two months earlier. “That’s why we moved here. To get away from where it happened.” “That’s terrible, Corey. I’m sorry.” “It’s okay. I still have Mama.” It’s accurate to say I liked Corey from the start. Most kids in our neighborhood teased him about his plus-size body and nerdy limp, but not me. Meeting Corey was like discovering paradise. Although, I soon learned, Corey perpetually drew the short straw. Pete Slater was one of Corey’s short straws. Once a well-paid prison guard in Elmira, Pete fell off the wagon, hard, as the story goes. By the time he arrived in Watkins Glen in ‘74, he was jobless, penniless, yet conveniently handsome. Enough so, he got the attention of pretty Shirley Madison, Corey’s mom.

Shirley worked at Dusti’s Bar & Grill. It was the sort of place where people like Pete, hayseeds mainly, could shoot darts, play pool, and get totally soused at any time of day. Pete could be found there most days. He typically wore a navy blue bandana on his head, tied off in a knot at the nape of his neck. It kept his long, mud-black hair out of his face, I guess. But what I remember most about him are his ugly tattoos. The worst was a devil’s head wrapped in serpents, smack dab on the side of his thick neck. Black, red, green, and threatening. I hated it and I hated Pete. But, just about everyone in town hated Pete. “Brute, swine, vermin, thug...” Words typically used to describe him just three months after he hit town. So, when he disappeared a couple years after marrying Shirley, not too many people lost sleep worrying. “Adios muchacha,” was the most common sentiment. A day before the bicentennial, in an unusual display of generosity, Pete managed to obtain all sorts of illegal fireworks from Pennsylvania for Corey and me. We were planning on lighting them. All of them. Most girls were afraid of such things, but not me. Heck, I was twice as brave as Corey and everyone knew it, including Corey. When we’d go searching for night crawlers to sell down at the dock — two for a penny — it was me who scooped up those slimy fat bastards while Corey held the flashlight. He wouldn’t touch them; said they’d make him puke if he did. Another time, when we were eight, all my friends sat huddled on our front lawn watching my mother snip away at my long, shiny black hair until it was “boy short.” It made no never-mind to me, but Corey bawled his eyes while scooping up that raven-colored hair and carrying it home in his hip pockets. Yeah, Corey was odd that way; all sentimental and not very brave. Until the early evening of July 4, 1976, rolled around. A night I’ll never forget. It was about six o’clock when I arrived. The firecrackers were lined up in their driveway. Naturally, Corey was waiting for me; he needed someone to light them. I cut through the breezeway and knocked on their back door, but no one answered. I knocked again. When still no one answered, I pressed my face against the window to get a peek inside. That’s when I saw Shirley collapse after Pete hit her across the face with his closed fist. Just about everyone in town knew that Pete Slater hit his wife on a regular basis, but it was the first time I’d ever witnessed it. Poor Corey had probably seen it dozens of times which must have been heavy on his mind when he came screaming from the living room, lunging at the giant of a man before him. Before I knew what was happening, my hand was on the doorknob, turning it, until I was well inside their kitchen, part of the mayhem. Pete easily repelled Corey’s advances and seemed to enjoy the sport. But Corey was as mad as a cat left in the rain, the sights of which I’d never seen before or since. “I’m going to kill you, Pete!” he screamed, frantically slapping away at Pete. Shirley lay crumpled on the black and white tiled floor, crying and bleeding into a kitchen towel while I stood still like a statue of Sacagawea trying to figure out what I should do next. Then Pete, I’ll never forget, threw back his head and began to laugh, shamelessly. That crazy-ass, serpent-wrapped devil tattoo on his neck laughing right alongside him…or so it seemed. “That’ll be the day when a pansy-ass cripple like you gets the better of me,” he taunted, his grin now coldly demented. I thought I might pee in my pants but instead, I screamed, “Corey, stop! Let’s go outside and light the firecrackers.” “Yeah, and don’t forget where them firecrackers came from, sweetheart. A gift from yours truly.” Pete sneered, pounding his thumb to his chest, offering an outstretched hand to Shirley. “Get up!” Shirley, with a look of sheer terror smeared across her bloody face, scrambled backward, away from his reach. Seeing this, Corey suddenly vanished into a back room. When he returned, I could hardly believe my eyes. Less-than-brave, twelve-year-old Corey Madison stood stone cold in the middle of the room, his feet shoulder-width apart, bottom lip curled under with a .38 Special pointed straight at Pete Slater’s head. “Okay, let’s all calm down,” Pete sputtered, veins in his neck throbbing. “Everything’s cool. Put down the gun.” Corey never flinched and even Shirley, still cowering on the floor, remained deadly quiet. “Shirley!” Pete barked. “Stop crawling around like a fucking maggot, get up, and talk some sense into your stupid son!” Obediently, Shirley grabbed the top of the kitchen table, pulling herself up, attempting to stand. She was rocky. “Corey don’t do this,” she pleaded as she continued trying to steady herself. “Put down the gun, honey. Everything’s going to be alright…” But Corey didn’t seem to be listening to her, or anything, as he stood in what looked like a trance, both eyes fixed on Pete, chin up, shoulders back, hands firmly holding the gun. Pete returned Corey’s unbroken gaze but somehow managed to reach behind his back, dragging Shirley by her long, red hair. “Tell him again, Shirley! Tell him…” CLICK! Pete was interrupted by the deafening sound of the pistol being cocked. “Let go of my mother!” Corey demanded. Then, to everyone’s shock, he fired a live round high above Pete’s head, erupting in our ears with a loud and powerful

BANG! With the sudden and dramatic tip of the scale, Pete finally surrendered to Corey (or, to the gun) by letting Shirley loose. Quickly, she scrambled backward, away from Pete. I don’t know how she knew what was about to happen, but she screamed, “Corey, don’t!” It was too late. As the words parted her lips, and the neighbor’s firecrackers began to bang and pop again outside, the gun went off again. This time hitting Pete squarely between his eyes. Pete collapsed to the floor. Bright red blood quickly began to pool around his head. Corey’s mouth flew wide open, and he dropped to his knees. Shirley released a high-pitched, primeval sound, like a wolf’s howl, and crawled across the floor to Corey. Me? I threw up on top of my bright yellow Converse and covered my face with my trembling hands. Instinctively, we all scrambled to the far end of the kitchen with our backs against the wall — as far from Pete, and all that blood, as we could. We must have remained there for ten or fifteen minutes, maybe longer; suspended in time with our shared state of shock. Shirley finally spoke, breaking our eerie silence. “Corey, look at me,” she said, gently running her hand over the top of his head. Silent tears streamed down Corey’s cheeks. “We need to get rid of Pete’s body. Do you understand?” Events now seemed to unfold very slowly as Corey and I sat wide-eyed depending upon Shirley, the only adult, to take the lead. I thought about running home when Corey whispered, “Yes, Mama, I understand.” “Okay, good…that’s very good. You’re doing great. Don’t worry about anything. Everything is going to be just fine, as long as you both do exactly as I say. I promise.” Corey nodded again. Then Shirley spoke directly to me, her voice hushed but completely clear. “Olivia, honey, you need to stay and help us take care of things. Do you think you can do that, sweetheart? Help us?” My mouth opened but no sound came out.

It was all so frightening. I couldn’t speak. But I must’ve said something to satisfy her, I just don’t remember what. Shirley then took the gun, still in Corey’s hand, and wrapped it in a brown paper sack. “Corey, go into the bathroom and pull down the shower curtain for me.” Corey did as she asked, returning with the plastic shower curtain. Shirley spread it next to Pete’s body. As instructed, we rolled Pete onto it and wrapped him up, tightly. “Like a burrito,” Shirley said. After his body was wrapped and tucked into a corner, we began washing the kitchen floor on our hands and knees with bleach; scrubbing and wiping until our hands split, and our eyes burned. When finished, Shirley gathered our blood-soaked rags and took them outside to the firepit. About this time, many of Corey’s neighbors were outside, gathering their lawn chairs and coolers as they walked to the lake to watch fireworks. Shirley, now shockingly cool as morning dew, calmly smiled in their direction as she doused the bloody rags with lighter fluid and lit a match.

Poof!  They were gone. “We’ll just wait for it to get dark outside. I’ll pull the truck out of the garage, and we’ll move him when the coast is clear,” Shirley began. “People still be outside then, Mom. That’s when they’ll be returning home from the fireworks,” Corey said. “They’ll be out getting drunk and setting off more firecrackers for hours … don’t you think?” “You’re right, Corey,” Shirley said. “We’ll just have to wait until after midnight to make our move.” “My parents will wonder where I am,” I said, terrified and hoping the simple truth would excuse me from further bedlam. Shirley was ready. “Let me call them and tell them you’re going to spend the night, okay honey?” (Yes, she called me ‘honey’ for the second time that night, as if I were still an innocent child.) “You’ve spent the night here before so I don’t think your parents will mind. I’ll tell them that you and Corey are having such a good time that you’d like to stay longer, and it’s okay with me if you spend the night on our couch.” I still wanted to run but all I could manage to say was, “Okay.”

At Shirley’s insistence, we played several games of Yahtzee or tried to, on the shag-carpeted floor while we waited. A game I now refuse to play, ever. When “after midnight” finally arrived, we looked outside and discovered the neighbors were, in fact, back inside their homes — lawn chairs, coolers, and themselves all tucked in. All was normal, yet nothing was normal. Shirley backed her pickup up to the breezeway door. We struggled with the weight of Pete’s burrito-wrapped body while we carried it outside, knocking over house plants and even a lava lamp. Once the corpse was finally inside the pickup, Shirley drove down Decatur Street, without headlights, towards the lake. Corey sitting next to her, me next to him. At the lake, Shirley turned off the engine and yanked two cinder blocks out from the back of the truck. Corey gathered rope and we helped him tie off the blocks, wrapping everything around Pete’s body and tucking the gun inside the shower curtain. Shirley told us to wait while she borrowed a speedboat from the dock. Back then, many people in Watkins Glen were very trusting; they’d leave keys to their boats where anyone could find them. Shirley took advantage of the status quo and motored through the darkness with me, Corey, and a very dead Pete beside her. The macabre drone of the small engine propelling us further into the lake — and madness — was the only sound we heard. Four hundred yards out, Shirley cut the motor and we all pushed the corpse — laden with heavy blocks — off the starboard side. We leaned forward, wide-eyed, watching a large ripple spread across the still waters while the body of Pete Slater sank some six hundred and seventeen feet into the black abyss. None of us uttered a single word while Shirley turned the boat around and drove back to shore. Later that morning, tossing and turning on the couch, the unforgettable sound of Corey’s gun kept echoing inside my head. I tried to make sense of it all. Why Corey fired that second fatal shot I just couldn’t understand. Pete seemed to be surrendering. Perhaps Corey finally had enough of his stepfather’s cruelty. Or, maybe, it was the terrifying image of his mother, bloodied and bruised by her husband’s hand again, that pushed him over the edge. I considered everything I could think of.

Had Corey intended to kill Pete? Or had his finger accidentally slipped? Did he even think about what may happen to him if he did kill Pete? These questions ran through my mind all night long. But I never concluded a thing. All I knew as I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, was that Corey killed Pete with one, perfectly aimed and well-timed shot — magically muffled by the sounds of a Fourth of July celebration in town. Paradise lost. When the glorious sun, my savior, finally flooded through the open windows — and after I promised both Shirley and Corey I’d never tell — I ran home, barefooted, as fast as my non-calloused feet would carry me. (I never could bring myself to wear those yellow Converse again.) I ran past the neighbors’ houses, past the chilled, steel blue water of the lake, past the dock, past the playground, trying to forget how my best friend shot and killed his stepfather right in front of my eyes! As the days slowly passed, Corey and I began seeing less and less of one another. It had become clear to us that nothing could ever be the same. The innocent days of our childhood had slipped away, and soon were nothing more than a distant memory. Shirley and Corey moved away the following fall to a small city nestled at the top of the lake. I never heard from them again. I’m an adult now, a spinster, still living in the same house I grew up in with my now elderly parents. “Such a shame that Olivia Spencer never married,” I’ve overheard the same neighbors from 1976 say as they pass me on Franklin Street. “She was such a lovely child. Never pegged her to turn out like this. Such a shame…” So, here, decades later, I sit alone on the gritty beach and listen to the sounds of the waves hitting the south shore of Seneca Lake. Now and again, swooping in from the direction of Decatur Street, a helpless little wisp of wind forms this way and that, riding upon some mysterious breeze, swirls around my head. It’s then I worry that old, tattooed Pete may one day float up to the surface of the lake. I pound my fists into the sand and force myself to close my eyes and forget! Perhaps the underground currents of the imposing Finger Lake will be kind to me. Take Pete up north, about thirty-six miles, and let my old friend Corey and his mother deal with him all alone this time. But then, that’s only fair. Don’t you think?


Note: I wanted to write a story about a manipulative narcissist. It ended up only being dialogue, and it was more challenging than I had imagined. This said, I would like strong critiques on how this could be improved. To whoever reads this - feel free to let loose with the critiques. Warning: Mentions of suicide, manipulation Interrogation Transcript : Margaret Thompson Date: 05/11/1997 Location: St. George Police Station, St. George, SC Interrogating Officer(s): Sgt. Patrick Green Time at start of interrogation: 8:22 am Green : Good morning Margaret, we apologize for the wait. Thompson : Good morning. Green : My name is Sergeant Patrick Green. I’d like to thank you for choosing to come to the station to talk to me today. You are not being held, and you are free to leave any time you would like. I just want to get your side of the story so that we can best understand what happened. But before we get into any of that though, we just need some basic information for our records. Could you please state your name? Thompson : Of course. Margaret Thompson. Green : Did you grow up in St. George, Margaret? Thompson : No, I didn’t. I grew up in Hillsborough, about…2 hours north of here.

Green : Oh, alright. When did you come to St. George? Thompson : I – well, we came to St. George after Greg got a job in town as a labourer and I was about to give birth to my son, my Peter. That was about thirteen years ago now. Green : Where is Peter now? Thompson : I dropped him off at Gladys Mayes’ house this morning. Many of the families are there now, engaged in prayer. I would like to make this quick so that I can join them. Green : Of course, Margaret. We’ll try to finish this up as quick as we can. Thompson : Thank you. Green : Could you please tell us what your day to day looks like? Thompson : I help with church related activities and donations. I keep the church on its feet, ya know! Did you know that congregation members across our country have been dropping over the past two decades? Kids these days just aren’t being taught proper values. It is becoming more and more difficult for churches to stay afloat, even with government subsidies. My job is to make sure we’re receiving enough donations to be able to keep spreading the good word of the lord. Are you a Christian, Mr. Green? Green : I grew up Catholic.

Thompson : You should come to the church one day. We can have a chat, I can show you what you’re missing. Green : Sure. Now, I understand that your husband Greg is currently in a coma and has been for the past few years, correct? Thompson : Hmph, yes, he has. The idiot was working on the house when he fell off the ladder, leaving Peter and I to survive on measly insurance payments. Thankfully, we have the grace of the church to support us. Green : How did he fall off the ladder? Thompson : How? Green : Yes, how did he fall? Thompson : I don’t know, he just, fell! Maybe a gust of wind or he slipped or somethin’. Green : What was he doing to the house exactly? Thompson : He was fixing the siding, and, I dunno, the ladder tipped. I’ve been trying to call the ladder company since the incident, telling them their product was defective, that it shouldn’t have buckled just like that. Green : Buckled? Was there something wrong with the ladder? Thompson: It just broke, you know, loose screw and it tipped. It tipped and George fell and hit his head so hard. I found him, and there was blood everywhere. I had to clean up my husband’s blood, off our clothes. I was in such terrible shock. Green : I’m sorry that happened Mrs. Thompson.

Thompson: I can only imagine where me and Peter would be if I didn’t work so hard at the church. Without me, Peter would be completely lost. The church probably wouldn’t survive! Green : Ok, yeah. Now, if it’s ok, I’d like to ask how you heard about the incident with Gabriel. Could you please tell us where you were and what you were doing when you found out about it? Thompson : It’s fine, yeah. I was at home, cleaning. Green : What were you cleaning, exactly Thompson : Well, that’s a bit of a silly question, don’t you think? I was dusting, doing laundry, vacuuming. And I was interrupted by the phone call and the cleaning still needs to be done, so I’d like to get to the point of the matter if that’s ok with you. Green : We’re getting there Mrs. Thompson. Who called you? Thompson : Gladys McPhee, a member of our congregation. Green : What time did you get the phone call? Thompson : Oh, um, maybe around three? Yes, around three o’clock. Green : What exactly did Gladys say to you on the phone? Thompson : Well, she greeted me, and then told me that the Porters’ boy – Gabriel – had died. Green : Is that all she said? Thompson: Yes. Well, yes and no, she said that he was found dead, that he killed himself. Green : How did you feel when you heard the news? Thompson : I felt terrible…just terrible! A young boy killed himself, of course I feel terrible, terrible for the family, and terrible for the church! Terrible and angry! Green : Why do you feel angry? Thompson (shaking her head): We lost one of our flock, a young one…and on top of that, people from outside might look at our church negatively. You know, with all the news out there! Green: What news exactly? Thompson : You know, the news! There’re people out there who want to destroy religion. They started a war on Christmas, on God, what with their pride and abortions – pride is a sin, if I might add. They’re the reason that poor boy killed himself you know! Green : What do you mean? Thompson : You said you’re a Catholic. How could you not know what I’m talking about? Green : I just need to be precise for the report, Mrs. Thompson. Could you please specify? Thompson : Sigh… As I already told you before, I teach Sunday school after church. Again, without me, these children wouldn’t have God in their lives, I keep them safe from the you-know-whos. A few weeks ago, I saw Gabriel come into church with a pink shirt and rainbow socks. What does that tell you Mr. Green? Green : What are you implying Mrs. Thompson? Thompson : Everybody knew it, was saying it. Everyone knew for a long time. Green : What did everyone know? Thompson (after a pause, glaring): Gabriel was being groomed. Green : Groomed by who? Thompson : Again, everybody knew it. Word spread like wildfire. They poisoned that poor boy. It destroyed our church, and as the person who’s trying to keep the church afloat, it hurt me, so much. Now, I’m going to have to fix all this, mend this congregation. With the power of God, we’ll get through it. Green : Ok. Are you doing ok? Do you want a coffee? Thompson : I don’t drink coffee. Green : Ok. Well, Mrs. Thompson, we found some letters in Gabriel’s room, stashed under his mattress. It seems he was passing letters in school with some of his peers. Did you know about these letters? Thompson (shakes head): I don’t know anything about any letters. Green: Well, it seems that some of these letters were being passed between him and your son, Peter. Did Peter ever tell you about these? Thompson (after a brief silence): No, but if they were between him and Peter, I’d like to see the letters to confirm. Green : These letters are currently evidence and cannot be shared, but if everything goes well here, we might be able to show them to you. What we can say - Thompson : Then you don’t know they were for Peter- you can’t, you don’t know so you can’t tell me that. I’m Peter’s mother, so I’d know, but, I’m sorry, but you don’t know. Green : Ok. No problem. Do you know much about the relationship between Gabriel and Peter? Is there anything there you can tell me? Thompson (shrugs shoulders):  Until I see the letters, you have no proof that they were between him and Peter. Did you get them at the school? Did that Mrs Roth have them? Let me tell you, I wouldn’t trust her, at all. Green: Mrs. Thompson, we’re simply working on what we have here. Why wouldn’t you trust Mrs. Roth? Thompson : I’m pretty sure she’s a sexual predator. She’s in line with the groomers. Her language reflects that. Green : Can you be more specific? What did she say? Thompson : She probably tells the children they can penetrate each other, tells young girls that it’s okay to sodomize. Green : Ok. I’d like to turn the attention back to Gabriel and Peter. Can you describe the relationship they had? Thompson : They weren’t in a ‘’relationship’’, you should learn your definitions. I’m Peter’s mother, so I would know if they were passing letters. (pause) Green : Ok, can you tell me about their friendship? Thompson : Mr. Green, if you are implying that my son was anyway involved with Gabriel I will call my lawyer and you will be served, by my attorney! Green : Mrs. Thompson, I would just like to remind you that session is being recorded for our records. Have you ever had any contact with Gabriel in the past few months? Have you ever spoken to him personally or on the phone? Thompson: No, why would I? Green : Mrs. Thompson, as I mentioned, you are being recorded. Are you stating – on record – that you’ve never spoken to Gabriel? Thompson : I came here, today, to talk about the terrible events of what, what happened, and just how terrible all this is. I know who should be arrested right now, and you should know too, unless this station and all its people are incompetent. Green : Ok. We’re almost done here. Before we finish, I wanted to let you know that we found a letter on Gabriel’s person. It was a suicide note. Your name, Margaret Thompson, is mentioned in the note.

(Thompson is silent) Green : Is there anything you want to add? Do you know why Gabriel would have put your name in the note, specifically? Thompson (crying): W-why are you doing this to me?

Green : Mrs. Thompson, who started the rumor that Gabriel was gay? (Pause) Green : Mrs. Thompson? Thompson (crying) : No! Absolutely not! But it was true, so what's- why did he put my name in the note? All I do is care for these children, the church, and this is the thanks I get? I.. Green: Mrs. Thompson? (Mrs. Thompson gets up from the chair and leaves the room. Mr. Green leaves the room) Interrogation ended at 8:41 am.