The Water Babies She has become my shadow; haunting me with her dark, mournful eyes, huge in her pale face. Her withered body, that glides rather than walks, and skeletal hands, twisted into hooked claws. She never says a word but she’s always there, those glassy orbs in their shadowy sockets, boring into me whether I dare to look at her or not. * Kate and I had always loved the water. We could swim before we could walk. Mum called us her “water babies” and the house was full of photos of us at different ages but almost always in the water. Our parents were always really supportive, both encouraging and enabling us to fulfil our potential.  One or other, or both, of us won every award offered at our local pool, going way beyond the “rescue a rubber brick in your pyjamas” level. It was then that our instructor suggested we make the most of our talent and train to compete at county level. We were the youngest pupils ever to do so.  From that point on, if we weren’t asleep or at school, we were in the water. * I don’t look at her but I know she’s looking at me. She’s always looking at me. I go to the wall to do a few warm-up stretches, hoping that her stare won’t follow me. Before I tilt my head to see her in my peripheral vision, I know she’s looking. I can feel it.  She never moves or makes a sound but she’s always there. * Long course, short course, solo, relay, breaststroke, backstroke, butterfly or crawl, we were fast and sleek like minnows in our matching silver swimming costumes and we were never out of the medals. We even earned a slot on local television, named “The Water Babies” after Mum’s nickname for us, where we promoted the sport and encouraged everyone to learn this life-saving skill.  I can only remember one race that we didn’t finish because whether we were swimming with or against each other, we had an almost telepathic awareness of where the other was. It was my fault. I should have known better than to eat before a race but I missed lunch and I was starving. One sandwich I might have got away with but secretly wolfing down two was asking for trouble.  The starting pistol fired and we were away. The first length was okay; Kate was out in front of me but I was making good time.  As I kicked off the side into the second length, I was gripped by terrible stomach pain. I knew what it was but I’d had it before and just pushed through. But this time… The next spasm took my breath away. My body doubled up and my gaping mouth started to take in water. I couldn’t wave my arms, I couldn’t shout, I couldn’t even breathe.  Nobody seemed to notice, watching the clock and caught up in the action. Everyone was looking at the leaders who were at the other end of the pool. Even the lifeguard!  My body stopped writhing and I felt myself sinking. My life didn’t exactly flash before my eyes but I did feel a sudden sense of peace. If I was going to die here, now, at least it would be doing something that I loved. I could-  Kate’s face was suddenly in front of mine, her wide brown eyes full of fear. I opened my mouth but only managed to swallow more water. She hooked her arms under mine and kicked off the floor of the pool. The journey back to the top seemed really slow, the way that time elongates in a risky situation, but I remember feeling safe in my sister’s hold.  As soon as we broke the surface of the water, the silence was shattered by shouts and screams and strong hands lifted me up to the side of the pool where I vomited and coughed up all the water I had taken in. I could hear my father berating the lifeguard, as well he might, but Kate was the first one who knew I was in trouble.  My twin sister saved my life. * She is relentless. Being haunted all day, every day, is hard enough but the night is worse. Trying to sleep when you can feel yourself being watched by this pale ghost is almost impossible. I try not to peek at the lifeless eyes, the grey hollow cheeks and the blue lips open in an endless silent scream but just knowing that she is there, feeling impotent rage radiating from her, is enough to keep me awake.  She may not be resting in peace but neither am I. * As if swimming virtually 24/7 was not enough, when we were teenagers, Kate and I decided to add a little variety and start diving too. It was the refresher we needed and we were in and out of the water like a couple of kingfishers. By now we were already winning at county level swimming events so it was good to have some new skills to learn.  And to show off in front of the boys.  Our parents thought, probably hoped, we wouldn’t have time for boys but, as they say, love finds a way. We weren’t competing against them so we had time to loiter in the stands and admire them. And vice versa!  My eye was caught by a lean, blond Adonis named Sam. He was gorgeous and he knew it, preening and posing poolside. Kate laughed at both him and me but I was hooked. Her attention was focused on a taller, darker guy called Tom. Even though we were twins, we had very different tastes in men - or so it seemed.  We finally plucked up the courage to talk to our crushes and soon we were both dating. As our boyfriends were both swimmers, our relationships didn’t detract from the sport and as both seemed to be, in Mum’s words, “nice enough boys”, our parents didn’t object.  Kate and Tom didn’t seem too serious; they were both happy to flirt with other people. However, Sam and I got very close, very quickly and, despite, or maybe because of, the fact that he was my first proper boyfriend, I was totally smitten.  For the first time in our lives, Kate and I were moving in different directions and it felt really weird, like we could no longer read each others minds. We didn’t let it interfere with our swimming though; we were still The Water Babies, “as thick as thieves.” That’s a strange phrase and, as it turned out, a very apt one too…  I’m not sure why I was so surprised. Kate had been acting strangely for a while - and so had Sam. Perhaps I just didn’t want to believe it but Kate and Tom’s relationship was breaking down and both of them were now seeing other people. In Kate’s case, it was Sam!  Although I loved him, Kate’s betrayal was harder to deal with because, well, we were twins who’d always been on each others’ side. I didn’t know what to say when I caught them kissing by the cloakrooms. So I didn’t say anything. Ignoring his smirk and her cry, I turned tail and, needing somewhere to think, I climbed to the top of the diving boards. It didn’t take her long to find me. Of course she knew where I would be.  She was in tears, apologising profusely, saying that Sam had come onto her and it meant nothing but I didn’t even acknowledge that she was there, let alone grace her drivel with any kind of response. Desperate for a reaction, she changed tack. She adopted a nonchalant attitude, telling me that the faithless Sam was no great loss and, in fact, she had done me a favour by proving it.  I remained silent. If there was one thing we couldn’t cope with, it was being blanked by the other. Unsure of what to do next, Kate retreated to the other end of the diving pool and waited.  And waited.  There was nothing to say. What words could possibly bridge that yawning chasm of betrayal?  I stood and walked over to her, without knowing what I would do next. She tried to defuse the situation with a smile - and that was it. I pulled back my fist and punched her squarely in the face.  I can never forget that last scream as she fell from the top board and hit her head - hard - on the one below. Her neck snapped and she dropped into the water, silent and still. * I hang my head in shame, trying vainly to offer penitence. I hope that she can read my face, see the sorrow in my guilty countenance. Looking into her eyes, I wish she would at least acknowledge me. But there’s nothing. Worse than nothing. A vacant, thousand-yard stare. * To bury her body and mourn her may have brought some kind of closure.  But Kate didn’t die.  Instead, she now lives in limbo between life and death; brain-damaged and paralyzed but still drawing breath.  She doesn’t need a finger to point or a voice to condemn. Everyone knows who the villain of the piece is, the one who stole her sister’s life and now appears to carry on as if nothing has happened. Still swimming, still competing - the heartless bitch!   But I don’t know what else to do. Kate is now my eternal accuser and I feel myself chained to her lifeless body, dragging the weight of condemnation everywhere I go, all of the time. Mum and Dad bring her along to the swimming events, hoping that she can get something, anything, from what was once the centre of her life. Tucked up in her wheelchair, her head lolling, her eyes rolling and drool dripping from the side of her mouth, it’s impossible to tell what she makes of it. Where I always used to know what she was thinking, now there’s just a terrifying void.  My twin has become the dead version of me or I, the live version of her. If I hadn’t pushed her off that diving board, she’d be doing everything I am doing or will ever do; get married, have children, even an Olympic win. Kate will be the spectre at my every feast.  Mum asked if Kate could ‘sleep’ in the same room as me, to provide company and a familiar environment for her during the long, dark hours of the night. How could I say no? I lay in bed, trying not to look at her looking at me. Can her staring eyes actually see me? Can she think? Can she feel? I no longer know but I hope to God she can’t do any of those things.  She could live another fifty years like this and when Mum and Dad have gone, it will be my responsibility to care for her, my due penance. The doctors have warned us that when her death comes, it could be slow and painful as, ironically, she may drown from the fluid built up in her lungs.  The worst thing of all is that I know she wouldn’t want to exist like this. Her silence screams it at me. The horror is not that I killed my sister - it’s that I didn’t.  And that will haunt me for the rest of my life.


Kayla Johnson and Ashley Hawkins hearts were racing as they packed their bags for their sleepover. Mr. and Mrs. Johnson believed that the girls were staying with Claire Mitchell, which was not the case. They were going to be spending the night at a graveyard, not just any graveyard either. It was the graveyard where Amber Blakely's ghost was said to roam. It was six of them: Kayla Johnson, Ashley Hawkins, Claire Mitchell, Xander Mitchell, Hexicah Pittman, and Nehemiah Reynolds. The group of friends wanted to test this myth to see if it was real or not. ******* On the way to the graveyard, everyone was walking in pairs, about three feet in between each one of them. "I'm actually kind of scared," Claire expressed to Hexicah. "Ain't you like the adventurous one?," Hexicah asked her. "At first Ashley was the crybaby now you are." "Just stop talking to me," Claire said suddenly annoyed. And why was Hexicah suddenly bringing up Ashley so frequently? Last time she checked, they couldn't stand each other. "Miah?," Ashley asked to get his attention. "What?," he asked giving her all of his attention. "Can you stay with me the whole time?," Ashley asked him. "Of course I will," Nehemiah told her, putting an arm around her shoulder. "Any specific reason?" "I just don't feel comfortable," Ashley replied looking at Hexicah before looking back down when she realized both he and Claire were looking at her. "Did he do something to you?," Nehemiah questioned her. "Can we talk about it another time?," Ashley inquired. Nehemiah nodded and they moved on to a happier topic. "So when are we going to tell them about us?," Kayla asked. "As soon as you're ready," Xander replied. "I think I am," Kayla told him. "I just told my friends that I'm never going to be with you, now look at us." "You're worried that they're going to judge you?," Xander questioned with raised eyebrows. "This is my sister and Ashley we're talking about. To be honest, I think Ashley knows already." "Me too," Kayla laughed. "I see y'all back there boo'd up," Ashley told them. "And yes, I took a picture." "So we're sleeping right beside her grave?," Nehemiah asked once they arrived at the graveyard, The Cursed Cemetery. "I think," Ashley replied, "but I'm scared." "Just stay by me," Nehemiah told her. "Look at the cute wittle couple," Kayla cooed. Ashley blushed while rolling her eyes and walked off with Nehemiah. "Still not cuter than us," Xander stuck us tongue out at the pair before giving Kayla a peck on the lips. "Okay so it will be two people per tent," Claire said. "Everybody better hurry up and partner up." Quickly, everyone partnered up. Nehemiah and Ashley, Hexicah and Claire, Xander and Kayla. They began building a fire and toasting marshmallows. Everything was going very well for the group until about half past midnight. I'm comiiinng. Soon, scratching noises could be heard from the general direction of the grave where Amber Blakely lay. Almost ten minutes later, the noises stopped. Suddenly, a black figure could be seen in the distant shadows. This surprised the group of teens as they knew Amber Blakely was a white woman. They expected to see a pale person, if anything. Upon knowing this, they originated a plan to see if this was really the ghost of Amber Blakely or not. "Amber!," Claire yelled out. The shadowy figure slowly began to turn making Claire run away. If it was really Amber, she would not chase after Claire as she only chased after homophobic people. If it wasn't Amber, they had a trap set up. Not only that but she also didn't respond to her name. She only responded to Mrs. Blakely. Claire hid and the ghost began looking for her. Except the ghost was met by the drop of a net. Immediately, the three boys went to tie down the net which trapped the false ghost inside. Pulling off the hoodie the "ghost" had on, it was revealed that the ghost was none other than the biggest bully at their school, Brad Chapman. "Brad, you've got a lot of explaining to do," Ashley said crossing her arms. "I ain't telling you jack," he spat. "You ain't going nowhere either," Kayla retorted. They waited for a moment but he said nothing. "Alright, time to go!," Claire said brightly. "Okay okay," he mumbled. "I'm related to Amber and all people keep talking about is her. Ain't none of that stuff y'all saying true either. She wasn't transgender, she just believed in gay rights. And she didn't only respond to Mrs. Blakely, she only responded to Amber. That's why I started coming here at night and scaring people away. Don't nobody wanna see they relative's gravesite be turned into a tourist site. I used a sound record to make the scratching noise. It lasts by itself for 9 minutes and 47 seconds, which gives me enough time to get into costume. Which is why you see me wearing black cause she ain't white. Basically, I was just trying to give people the right information but nobody wanna listen to me." "I can't believe I'm saying this," Kayla started, "not to you anyway, but I'm actually very sorry." "Wait a minute," Hexicah interrupted abruptly. "You never told us how you made that I'm coming noise." "What are you talking about?," Brad asked, genuinely confused. I'm comiiinng. "That!," Ashley cried out. The group of teens began running out of the cemetery, leaving behind all of their belongings. They would come back for it sometime, maybe. Meanwhile, back in the graveyard, Braylin Chapman laughed to himself. He was the culprit of that noise. Like father, like son. "Wait until I tell Joanne about this," Braylin murmured to himself. He knew it would give his wife a laugh although at first she would do a little fussing. Braylin was about to pull out his phone when he got the strangest feeling someone was watching him. Quickly, he turned around but saw nor heard anyone or anything. "Kids?," he called out thinking that the kids were still here but they were long gone. The only reply he got was the sound of the wind picking up a bit. Although Braylin wouldn't admit it to anyone, he was feeling very spooked at the moment and believed that he should go ahead and go on home. As he walked out the graveyard, a black woman in her mid 30's hovered in the air above him, disappearing right before he looked up into the sky. Picking up his pace, he got home in five minutes flat.


“Professor Delorian, why does it matter which theory may or not be correct?” asked Trainee Patterson, adjusting his tie self-consciously as all the eyes in the lecture hall stared at him, some judging his good looks, others scoffing at the ignorance of the question, while those closest to him nodded their heads in solidarity. Even here, in a place that shouldn’t exist, the cliques of yesteryear still somehow held sway. The professor, a tall woman with short hair just starting to turn gray, looked up from her lectern mid-speech and took off her glasses. I felt my spine push back into the hard wooden backrest in anticipation. I knew what that gesture meant. “Trainee Paulson, is it?” “It’s act-” “I’m so glad you’ve asked this question, because, and I say this with all honesty, it is one I rarely hear anymore. But, since you’ve decided that the pleasure of my voice is preferrable to the dull scratchings of the required readings, I feel obligated to rid you of your ignorance in a manner most befitting the austere hall in which you now sit.” She smiled then cleared her throat before taking a sip of water from the crystal glass perched delicately next to her notes on the lectern. “So, why does it matter which theory is correct? Okay, let’s put forward a simple scenario and look at three ways it could possibly play out. For brevity’s sake, a formerly dormant volcano explodes and destroys a colony on New Vega. But you’re able to return to the past to attempt to stop it. First, you warn the people, but they don’t listen and die regardless. You try again, this time heading straight to the volcano and throwing some concoction into the fuming magma, which, to your surprise, causes the volcano to erupt. And so on and so forth. Now, can an enlightened trainee tell me what-” “The ‘Fixed Timeline’ theory,” I blurted out, before shrinking back into my seat. “It seems we have a class of interrupters,” Prof. Delorian said, “but yes, that is correct. In this case, everything we would try to change will either resist our efforts or our choices in the past will actually result in the disaster we were trying to prevent.” “Wouldn’t that make time travel, and all of this, pointless?” asked another girl from the far end. “If changing the past is your primary goal, then I suppose it would be. But now, getting back to our volcano dilemma, let’s say you threw your concoction into the volcano, and it worked. No explosion. And you head back to the present. What are you going to find when you get back?” “There’s two theories on that, one more destructive than the other,” I said again. This time the professor did take notice of me. “And what is your name, pray tell?” “Trainee Cordelia Adams,” I said automatically. Being a military brat could have its downsides, but it definitely set you up for a quick response time. “Adams… Adams, why does that sound… never mind. Please, share your knowledge with us. Tell us about the destructive one.” “Oh, well, of course.” This hadn’t happened the last time. “The Dynamic Timeline Theory posits that there is only a single timeline, and any changes to the past will alter your present. The destructive part comes with not knowing how much a single change could alter. The Butterfly Effect, essentially. And then there’s the Grandfather Paradox, whereby if you alter your own timeline in any way, such as by killing your own grandfather, you’d create a paradox where you’d never be born, potentially destroying the entire timeline, past and future.” Prof. Delorian nodded thoughtfully. “And now we start to see why it matters. And, just to round out Trainee Parklands education, what is the third theory, Trainee Adams?” “Me, again?” “Yes, you again.” “Alright. That would be the Multiverse Theory. We’re not actually changing the past of this timeline. All we’re doing is creating a new timeline. In essence, stopping the volcano won’t help the people already killed by it. And by traveling back to the present, we’d have no idea if we’d be returning to our original timeline or the new one created.” “And there we have it. Multiple theories, each one potentially leading to destruction if we’re not careful. Has that satisfied your curiosity, Trainee P-” “Patterson. Yes, Ma’am, it has.” “Good, and I would hope…” She went quiet for a second before turning back to me. “Trainee Adams, I’m curious, which theory do you hold to be true?” I scratched my nails into my palms as I felt a bead of sweat cross my brow. This was new. “It’s impossible to tell, isn’t it? I mean, I know which one I’d prefer was real, but…” “Let’s start there, then, shall we. Which one are putting your hopes on?” “The Fixed Timeline.” “Interesting choice, and not one most go for. Why would you choose this?” “Because I know that humanity can’t be trusted, and so when we do eventually jump back into the past, we won’t be able to screw it up more than it already has been. It would also mean we wouldn’t be able to use time travel as a quick redo for our mistakes.” Prof. Delorian put her glasses back on and smiled. “That’s surprisingly honest and refreshing to hear.” “I’m not finished, though.” “Well, perhaps we can discuss-” “I need to apologize to you.” “That’s really not necessary.” I stood up. “I’m afraid it is. You see, I lied when I said it’s impossible to tell. Are you at all familiar with Colonel Ted Adams?” “Ted? Of course. Uh, that’s why the name was familiar. Are you two related?” “We are. I’m his daughter.” “Oh? That’s not possible. She just turned three, if I’m not mistaken.” “That is correct.” Professor Delorian collapsed onto her lectern, knocking the crystal glass onto the floor. Somehow it did not shatter, which surprised me, as it always had before. I turned to aim my weapon at Patterson and pulled the trigger a second time, somewhat disturbed that I no longer felt any remorse. I touched my earpiece with my left hand. “I’m ready to come home, Barney.” “Post haste, milady.” ### Each time my body reintegrated into a new time, my mind was left adrift at the theater of memories. Moving backwards was different to moving forwards. Going back in time forced me to relive every crucial turning point in my life. Each moment would have lead to a separate branching timeline, and I was allowed a glimpse into what could have been. At times it was clear I’d made the right choice for all involved, but other choices had been selfish and lead to someone else’s demise. After my fifth trip back through time, I’d come to accept what I couldn’t change, and there was a peace in that. Moving forward in time back to where I’d left was different. I got to watch the new timeline I’d just created play out. I tried to soak in as much information as I could, but sometimes it was too much for me to hold on to. Regardless of the success or failure of my mission, I would always return to my original timeline, and hoped that the new world I’d help create was better than the one I was forced to live in. Because while back then time travel was all still theory, here in my time it was fact. There was a multiverse and each choice would branch out into new realities, but the time traveler could never exist outside of their original time. When each molecule in my body was in its right place, I jumped out of the chair and rushed over to Barney. He slid a bucket over to me as I did so. I grabbed it mid-run and threw up as I moved. Wiping my mouth on my sleeve, which always elicited a looked of disgust from him, I fell into the chair beside him, swiveling to face the array of screens before us. “The computer’s just starting to acquire the new timeline’s information,” he said, pushing a glass of water toward me. I drank in down in one go. “Were you able to tell if you’d succeeded?” he asked, referring to my theater of memory. “It was a bit hazy this time. Maybe it was the adrenaline. But I definitely made some ripples. I remember my father being brought in for questioning over…” I paused, swallowing hard. “…uh, the professor and Patterson’s deaths. Of course, me disappearing right in front of them caused a stir for quite some time. Even at three, I remember it being all over the news. It seems like I grew up mostly with my mother after that. I don’t know what happened to my dad. He disappeared from my life soon after.” The computer started beeping, and the two of us turned towards the screens. ‘New timeline Kappa created,’ read the scrawl at the top. ‘Twelve years from the inciting incident, time travel tests begin. Due to Patterson’s death, Colonel Ted Adams takes his place and successfully jumps into the past. Timelines Lambda and Mu are now in existent.’ “Damn it!” I grabbed the glass in front of me and threw it at the nearby wall, having enough wherewithal not to throw it at the screens. “How is this possible? I killed Delorian. And with Patterson gone, I thought…” “She must have completed enough of her research for them to get it running,” said Barney, putting his hand on my shoulder. “And whatever your dad did in the past, he somehow created two new timelines. That’s more than Patterson managed.” “So what do I do now? Go back even further and take her out before she gets further in her research?” “You were what, three years old, when you killed her this time? You know you can’t go back before your birth, so do you really think three years will make much of a difference.” “Are you kidding? Look what we managed to build in two. Of course it can make a difference. That’s not the point. It’s if it’ll make enough of a difference. I honestly don’t think so. If we’re going to stop the spread of these timelines, we’re going to have to make a surgical strike. We need to take out the lynchpin.” Barney took his arm from my shoulder. I could tell he knew what I was talking about. “Your father.” I nodded. “At some point after that lecture he got hold of her research and completed the chair. And it’s clear now that he can do it with or without her help. Patterson’s misleading as well. I honestly don’t think it matters who uses the chair first, the consequences don’t change.” “So it all depends on your dad. What are you going to do, Cord? Kill him like the rest?” I hesitated, but then looked back at the percentage displayed on the lower right screen. ‘Multiversal Collapse at 72%’. “It’s a race against time itself,” I said. “Whether or not I keep going back to change things, the Agency isn’t going to stop, and that number’s going to slowly tick forward.” “True, but we can’t even be sure that stopping the creation of time travel in one timeline will make any sort of difference.” “It might. Besides my meddling, how many more branches have appeared?” “Just one for now.” “Exactly. It’s slowing down, which means we are making some progress. We might not be able to reset the clock, but we can slow it to a crawl.” I got up and walked over to the exit. It was time to get some sleep, and do this all over again tomorrow. “You don’t know that it’ll stay like that forever,” Barney shouted. “We could end up accelerating the process. Why not just-” “Quit?” I asked, shocked that he could suggest such a thing. “You of all people know what this has cost us, Barney Delorian.” ### I sat in the chair, waiting for the light to envelope me. I’d been considering how far back to go this time, and decided it was time to push Time to its limit. “Okay, Barney, start it up. If I do this right, we won’t have to go through this again.” He didn’t say anything, and I could feel his doubt from across the room. “Alright,” he said finally. “Initiating.” The needle entered my lower spine and I immediately went frigid, trying to ignore the cold sensation slowly spreading throughout my body. I breathed out slowly, watching as the air in front of my face turned to mist. “Okay,” he said. “Coordinates set. And you should arrive in three, two…” I blinked, and immediately grabbed my head as the migraine hit me. I sat up, head in hands, breathing in and out slowly as the pain dissipated. I finally lowered my hands, taking in my sterile beige surroundings. I swung my legs out of the bed and pulled the curtain away. There was only one other patient in the room, judging from the other closed curtain, and hopefully they were asleep. I moved quietly to the door and walked out into the hallway, almost immediately bumping into a nurse. “Excuse me, young lady, what are you doing here? Visiting hours ended twenty minutes ago.” “I’m sorry. I dozed off and didn’t notice the time. I’m leaving now, I promise.” “Alright, but try not to let it happen again.” I walked to the end of the hallway and left the recovery ward. I made my way to a floor plan and found the delivery rooms. Fourth floor. When I arrived, I walked up to the nurse’s station. “Good afternoon, my, um, aunt is supposed to be giving birth now. I wanted to come and wait with my uncle.” “What’s her name?” “Shelley. Shelley Adams. And my uncle is Ted Adams.” “Okay, one second. Your uncle should be just down the hall in the waiting room. Over there and to the right,” she said, pointing. “Thank you.” I made my way there slowly, hoping I was making the right decision. But every time I hesitated, that ever-increasing percentage helped me focus. I touched the side of my wrist and my weapon materialized in my hand. I stopped at the end of the hall, and, steeling myself, turned the corner, raising my arms to fire… and froze. My father was pointing an exact replica of my gun at me. “Cordelia. It’s… nice to see you again. If only for a brief moment.” “Dad?” I took in his disheveled beard and blood-shot eyes. This was no young man. It was then that I noticed the body on the floor. “What…?” “I can’t let you continue destroying the multiverse,” he said, his voice raspy. “Your meddling has set us on a path to destruction.” I touched my earpiece. “Barney, what the hell is going on?” “Barney? You have a Barney, too? I guess that explains this,” he said, looking at their weapons. He touched his own earpiece. “Barney, did you get that?” There was a sudden crackling sound and the both of us suddenly grabbed our heads. “Aah,” I screamed, yanking the earpiece out and throwing it on the floor. My father did the same. “What the hell?” he shouted. “Barney?” The twin earpieces began to crackle before flying toward each other like polar opposite magnets. They floated up into the air, emitting a holographic image of Barney. “You know, the two of you were surprisingly easy to manipulate. It really didn’t take much to turn you into cold-blooded murderers, even going so far as to killing your own family. But now I’m afraid it’s time to end this charade.” “Barney?” My voice was slightly more threatening. “What have you done?” “What have I done?” He chuckled. “I’ve saved the timeline, that’s what. I must say, the fact that you were both mislead by some graphics on a screen into believing there was a multiverse says more about you than I. But, well, that was a lie, too. You see, there is only one timeline, and it’s extremely malleable. And the two of you have helped me put everything in place.” I lowered my gun. “But, the memories, and… I killed your mom. If that’s true, then you shouldn’t…” “Professor Delorian? Oh, she’s not my mother. You really should have done due diligence on that one. She was just another obstacle to be removed. And you two are the last. So, here’s to one final teary farewell,” he said, raising a champagne glass before his image disappeared. I looked at my father, seeing the sudden fear and anger in eyes, then glanced down as the earpieces started to beep. I thought about trying to escape for a single moment before reaching down and picking them up. “Run!” I screamed at him. “Save Mom. Save me! Don’t let him win.” My dad looked at me for what seemed an eternity before nodding and barreling through the doors behind him. I took off running in the opposite direction, hoping that my last words would become a new reality. “Protect us, Dad. Don’t let him win…” I whispered, the words evaporating before they left my mouth.


I gently untie the rope that holds the figure underneath me in place. "Soon you will be free.", I whisper. The figure looks up to me, still in shock from the rough fall. I see some open wounds. "Let me help you with that." The figure nods carefully and holds out their hands towards me. I lift them up with no effort at all and soon they are standing right in front of me. I see the fear in their eyes slowly be replaced with hope. Big, blue, hopeful eyes that glimmer in the faint rays of sunlight that shine through the trees above us. "Yes, that's right, there is no need to be afraid or to despair. You will soon be saved." Now I see a hint of confusion pass the figure's face. Don't they understand what will soon happen to them? Are they really that clueless about their path? I shake my head and proceed to neatly roll up the rope and put it into my backpack. Then I turn towards the figure again and look them straight into the eyes. "Are you ready?" "Ready for what?", I hear a very soft voice say after some while. "You really don't know?" The figure shakes their head, hands trembling ever so slightly. "I will show you.", I say and take their hands. We are moving through the forest, me, with a clear goal in mind, striding purposefully, and the figure, passively following my lead. Soon we reach the edge of the forest. The sun breaks through the clouds. "Soon you will be free.", I promise, using the same words that I used the moment I had laid eyes on the figure. My eyes follow their soul as it flies out of their body and disappears into the heavens. Another one saved from the torments of life. Another night where I can sleep sound with the knowledge of having helped a helpless soul. ~ "They have found you brother." Alyia stares silently at her aunt who has just entered her small cottage. "Is he-?" Her voice breaks. "He's dead." Alyia feels several things in that moment. First unbelievable sadness. It tears through her heart and leaves her breathless and unable to shed a single tear. Then longing. The need to see him, to hold him in her arms. And then the hot breath of anger fulfils her, her sight turning red, every inch of her body aching with the need to rush out, to find the thing who did that to her brother and strangle it with her bare hands. Alyia lets out a scream that travels through the whole village until it reaches the edge of the nearby forest and echoes from the mountains surrounding them. She puts everything into that scream. Her pain, her grief, her longing, her rage. Nothing matters any more. The person who was dearest to her, just gone. Never to return. "I will find it.", she swears. "The creature that killed my brother. I will find it. And by the heavens, it will regret it. It will." They set out the following day. It is early in the day, the morning dew has not dried yet. They assembled a whole combat troop. Alyia had gone from door to door the other day and found her brother's friends, acquaintances and anyone really, who was willing to support them in this endeavour. Now they are all assembled, facing her, looking almost as determined as herself. She cries out again but this time it's a battle cry. The others follow suit and soon they can be heard throughout the whole valley. Alyia imagines the creature that killed her brother hearing this cry and hiding inside its hole and the thought brings a smile to her face. "Just hide or run while you still can.", she thinks, "But we will find you anyway. And woe betide you when that moment has come." She raises her fist one last time and then turns around and begins marching towards the forest. She doesn't look back to check that the others are following, she knows they will. They are loyal people. Brave people. And first and foremost, vindictive people. If anyone had a chance of getting revenge on the thing that killed so many of their friends and relatives, it would be them. ~ A couple of hours after the saving, I hear a scream. It's faint but I can make out the violence behind it. It seems to come from the village of the lost souls. "There are so many more to save.", I say to myself and scratch my head in sorrow. No more time to rest. I must build more traps. Determined I grab my tools and head back into the darkness of my forest. ~ The forest is a dangerous place. Every Manki knows that. Most of them don't even venture into it and leave that to the few brave gatherers that search the forest for food. Some of the people in the group have never entered the forest before. They nervously scan the environment for threats and panic with every small noise. Alyia would laugh at that, were it in any other situation. Instead she scolds them, reminds them to be quiet, to try to not make any sound. They look a little embarrassed after that but they seem a bit calmer at least. Alyia has no time to be afraid. Not that she would be otherwise. She knows the forest as it was a part of her cottage. She is here on every day of her life. As a kid she used to play here, with her brother. They would play a lot of hide and seek and she remembers their mother being quite worried for them because she thought they might get lost. But they always found their way back home. As they got older they became gatherers. Her brother proficient in finding all kinds of berries while she developed an extensive knowledge of edible (and perhaps not so edible but very enjoyable in small amounts) mushrooms. When her brother hadn't come back from a berry picking trip she had known something was wrong. And she had felt a sense of foreboding, of terrible things to come. Her aunt had tried to calm her down but she had known something was wrong, she had had that feeling that her brother would never be coming back home again. And she had been right. Alyia feels tears trickling down her face. "I will revenge you, my brother. I swear to-" To what? What is there to still place faith in? She always had faith in her brother. But he's gone. And her faith in the world, in the heavens, in any divine being... Gone with him. They hear it before they see it. A cracking sound. A scream full of terror. And then Arjim is gone. "Stick close to me.", Alyia commands in a quiet but stern voice. Her people form a dense cloud around her. There is a deep hole where Arjim used to stand. Alyia approaches it carefully. In it, unconscious, lies Arjim. Like an animal, like prey. Alyia almost lets out another scream of rage at that sight. But she composes herself as she remembers what this means. "The creature, the one that took my brother. This might be how it traps its victims.", she whispers, "If we stay close to the trap we might be able to catch it in surprise." The group members nod in understanding and soon they are hiding in the nearby undergrowth. After a while of waiting, to Alyia it feels like an eternity, a shadowy, ethereal-looking figure appears. Its ghostly black form is floating towards the trap where Arjim lies. Alyia feels a panic rising in her chest. How can they defeat a being that does not possess a tangible body? But before she can form any strategies in her mind, Maniam, Arjim's closest friend, is running towards the figure, their axe raised above their head. They let out a battle cry mixed with anguish and hack into the creature. The creature turns and has a surprised look on its face, mixed with something else that Alyia cannot quite decipher. "Friends", it begins and Alyia can no longer hold it in. She lets out her own scream, with all her pain, her sadness and her anger. And then she steps out of the undergrowth, not even paying attention any more to Maniam's reckless attack. She looks the creature straight into the eye, determined not to let any emotion shine through and asks: ~ "What did you do to my brother?" I look questioningly at the figure that just burst out of the dark. They look similar to the figure that I saved just the day before. Brother... They must be associated in some form. I can see a deep sadness in the figure's eyes. Sadness? Why sadness? They often express sadness, the ones I save. They cry and beg. I don't understand them. Don't they understand that there is nothing to be sad about? They transfer to a purer, a more peaceful, more beautiful plane of existence. No more pain, no more sadness, no more resentment, no more fear. They should be grateful! Instead of begging, they should fall on my knees to thank me! "I can take your sadness away.", I say finally. I smile at the figure, trying to reassure them. The figure cries out again. "Could you please be more quiet? You are disrupting the calmness of the forest.", I respond. "You killed him, didn't you?" "Killed?", I ask. Such a weird word to describe what I did. Killed . I don't kill. "I saved him." The figures head turns red. "Saved?!", they shout. Still so loud. I see a couple of animals fleeing into the distance. I shake my head sorrowfully. Then I extend my hand. "Shall I save you as well? So that you may be together with your － eh － brother again?" Instead of taking my hand, the figure hits it. Then they reach into their bag and take out an axe just like the one that is now lying on the ground, to hit me with it as well, I assume. I just smile. They don't know that they already sealed their fate by touching my very being. "You are being saved.", I whisper, "Whether you like it or not."


I meet Maud Lancaster for the second time on the steps of Pembroke College in early September 1962. She’s easily recognizable with her characteristic argyle vest and braided hair, but I must not hold the same level of memorability because she asks, “I’m sorry, have we met?” And I tell her that we exchanged pleasantries at Convocation, and that we’re also in the same American History course with Professor Peterson and I’ve seen her from across the lecture hall. And that’s that, all the basic requisites for a friendship apparently fulfilled. The next time we see each other, it’s Maud who approaches first, jogging up to me on my way to calculus and asking me how I’ve been and hasn’t the weather been great lately and what other classes I have today. We have lunch together on the green and discover that we live in the same dorm, only one floor and half a hallway apart. Her roommate is “disastrous” and mine seems to only come back to sleep and shower, so she’s soon started inviting herself over to my room, occasionally at first, more often than not before long. By sophomore year, she’s both my new roommate and easily one of the most well-known women on campus. There aren’t all that many of us to begin with and we’re all intelligent and studious, working hard to preserve the Pembroke reputation of outshining the Brown University men, no matter how apparently undateable that renders us. Still, Maud seems to shine brightest amongst us, fearless and forward, her name known by every professor who has had her in his lectures, already a shoo-in for class president come senior year. She becomes the pinnacle of the Pembroker that one Ought Not To Date, but eventually some of the boys come to their senses and stop chasing after the nearby Wheaton College girls to chase after her instead. She dates a few, breaks the hearts of several more, and all the while she’s living with me, coming back every night to our room, her bed only a few feet away from mine, close enough for us to whisper secrets deep into the night. A few weeks after the start of our senior year, she meets Paul Kilmer, a fellow Poli. Sci. student and pompous prick of a man who, for some incomprehensible reason, decides that he should like to try and convince Maud of the female gender’s inherent unsuitability to politics. I’m not present for their discussion, but she gives him a most sound verbal thrashing that is witnessed by several other students and recounted to me later with glee. Over the next few months Paul becomes an increasingly frequent topic of conversation, mostly by virtue of their numerous arguments and hardly ever in complimentary terms, but by Thanksgiving there’s an odd gleam in her eye when she talks about him and I experience a sudden jolt of panic. She’s invited to his home in Greenwich for Christmas, comes back with a delicate amethyst pendant and talks of “maybe”. It’s all happening so fast, too fast, and all the thoughts I’ve never voiced suddenly come clawing up my throat before I’ve even had the chance to recognise them for what they really mean. For a brief and feverish moment I think that I should tell her exactly how I feel about her and Paul fucking Kilmer, but then I notice the hope in her gaze, the aching desire to hear me say that I am happy for her, and I cannot bring myself to let her down. I try to think of her as Mrs. Kilmer. I can’t. Mrs. Kilmer. Mrs. Kilmer. It feels viscerally, objectively wrong, but I’m pretty sure I’m the only one who thinks that. Mrs. Kilmer. • • • The two of them move to New York City shortly after graduation, and I linger in Rhode Island for a little while before heading in the opposite direction, up to Boston. I find myself a condo in the South End that’s nice enough; much too small for the nuclear family my mother is eager for me to procure posthaste, but more than sufficient for my needs. One and a half bedrooms, white walls, a small kitchen, bay windows onto the street, a stoop whose landing has been anointed with an indelible stain of undeterminable origin. I try dating on for size and find I can’t get it to fit. I do my best to make it, I really do, but there’s always something missing, something I can’t quite articulate. My time spent with men is pleasant for the most part, but struggles to grow into anything more. The butterflies in my stomach remain dormant, the desire for physical affection never manifests itself, the inevitability of breakup is hardly upsetting. When my third boyfriend, in an eerie echo of the two before him, begins to complain incessantly about my lack of intimacy, I give up on dating altogether. Maud calls often, at first. I visit her and Paul in New York several times, and she returns the favor whenever Paul travels to Boston for work. She wears her hair loose now, long and fair and feathered, has graduated from her argyled college look, transitioned from skirts to cigarette pants now that she’s no longer constrained by the Pembroke dress code. The feelings that I used to ignore with such ease, their true natures having since been uncovered, now refuse to be disregarded. It’s impossible to look at her the way I used to, as an ex-roommate or simply another young woman my age. Her laugh is too intoxicating, my name from her mouth feels like something unspeakably precious, her rapt gaze as I talk drives me to distraction, the way she crosses her legs demands my attention. She asks me to promise I’ll be her maid of honor when the day comes, and I do, of course I do. They get married in October, scarcely two years after they first met. I make good on my promise, standing next to her in a sage green chiffon number in almost every photograph, and there are nearly as many of just the two of us as there are of the two of them. Maud is unaware or perhaps indifferent to Paul’s apparent displeasure at this; I find a strange satisfaction in the knowledge that he perceives me, to some extent, as a threat. In these moments, it almost feels like nothing has changed and it’s still just the two of us, Maud’s boyfriends bearing no greater significance than the late-night anecdotes they inspire. But at the end of the day it’s now Paul to whom she returns, not our dorm room, and in the weeks after the wedding Maud’s calls become increasingly infrequent until they cease altogether. Paul answers the phone every time I ring, tersely informing me that Maud is unavailable and that he’ll tell her I called again, but I never hear back from her. • • • The next time I meet Maud she is standing on my doorstep, hair escaping from her chignon, suitcase in hand. It is half past ten at night and I have not seen or heard from her in three and a half years. I stand frozen for a moment at the sight, then let her in without a word. She’s silent at first, clearly exhausted from her trip. I brew her a cup of chamomile, make up the sofa bed while she showers. She asks me to join her under the covers, like we used to at Pembroke when in need of comfort, and I oblige. In short, she tells me, she is no longer Mrs. Kilmer. I hold her close as she talks about what he did to her and why we haven’t spoken in so long, powerless to do much else.

We upgrade my twin bed, which I previously had no good reason for replacing, to a king, large enough to fit the both of us and then some. It feels strange at first, a slight but unshakeable misgiving that we’re doing something wrong, but Maud says that she always sleeps sounder in my presence and feels relieved to wake up beside me, and I’m certainly not about to try and convince her otherwise.

She's out of sorts for those first few weeks, but ultimately Maud is nothing if not resilient. Before long she's found herself a new job, and with it comes a fresh pool of romantic prospects. I watch her primp for every new suitor, welcome her back home only a few hours later and listen to an exhaustive list of their shortcomings — not that she’s specifically looking for flaws, she says, she just can’t help but notice anyway. Still, she always gives them the benefit of the doubt, gives them numerous opportunities to redeem themselves, but they never do. The men here, she laments, seem to be quite substandard. If only they had the sensibilities, the kindness, the sophistication of women, perhaps she would not be so unlucky in love. After the fifth or sixth round of hearing her quip about how she should like to date a man with a woman’s soul, my nerves have become so frayed that I can no longer hold my tongue. She won’t find a man like that, I tell her, so she should either lower her standards, or date a woman instead. And then I make the bold — and perhaps unsubstantiated — claim that I would be a better partner than any of the men she could possibly meet in Boston, maybe even the entire country, if only she would have me. Silence. I can’t look at her. Voice quivering, I begin a half-hearted recontextualization of my words, when she lifts my chin and kisses me. • • • In the following months, I can hardly tell if I’m dreaming or awake. We are hesitant at first, unsure how to approach a situation neither of us is at all familiar with. But there’s something that clicks, has always clicked, and whatever reservations we hold soon burn off like morning mist. Our relationship remains fundamentally unchanged and yet evolves into something intrinsically different. We become a series of “but now also”s: we are still friends but now also lovers, still sleep in the same bed but now also “sleep” in that bed,  still mean the world to each other but now also are each other’s world, are still as we were but now also more. And that more is ineffably glorious in the potential it holds.

Unsurprisingly, my twenties never yield the marriage my mother so desperately desires for me, nor do my thirties, and by the advent of my forties even she can no longer will away the implications of Maud’s perpetual presence in my life — Maud, who is also, what a coincidence, happily unmarried. Maud’s parents are even less receptive to our relationship, which stings, of course it does, but we are too busy being happy for it to sting overmuch. In our mid-thirties we pool our finances to buy a brownstone in Back Bay. We decorate it whimsically, with colorful wallpaper and the most bizarre pop art prints we can find and a patchwork sofa and far too many lamps. We hunt down strawberry-themed crockery in thrift stores and garage sales, take pottery classes and display our misshapen creations as though they are Ming vases. We watch the Boston Pride parade one year, march in it the next and every year after. I write the occasional article for the Gay Community News, while she lends her legal expertise to the Gay & Lesbian Advocates and Defenders. We travel to Spain and France and Greece — Lesbos, of course, quoting and misquoting Sappho the entire time: Sweet Maud, I cannot weave – slender Aphrodite has overcome me with longing for you. We go down to New York one year to welcome the start of a new decade; watch the ball as it drops, cheer when the clock strikes midnight, kiss long and slow among the throng of people doing the same. Later, as we’re making our way out of Times Square, someone says, “Maud?” She almost doesn’t hear him, but I do and we turn to see who it is. He’s older, paunchier, and balder, but the man in front of us is unmistakably Paul Kilmer. His eyes flicker down to her hand where it rests snug in the crook of my elbow and something sours in the set of his mouth. Maud doesn’t even twitch an eyebrow, just regards him coolly and says, “I’m sorry, have we met?” And before he has the wherewithal to respond, she whirls back around, pulling me flush against her and leaning her head on my shoulder as we continue to weave through the crowd, giggling like schoolgirls. • • • She is seventy-eight and I am making my way up the ramp of the nursing home to see her. The home is tastefully decorated and sunny and the staff are always kind, greeting me by name and telling me to go on through, that she’s doing very well today and has just finished her breakfast.

Not for the first time, I’m attacked by the guilt, the fear that I might have stolen something from her. I can’t help but wonder if, were it not for me, she could have happily remarried, experienced the joys of motherhood. If now she would have had her children or grandchildren visiting her, taking care of her, telling her about their lives and sharing accomplishments. Instead, the only family she has left is an old biddy who may very well be bound for the nursing home herself in a few years. And then who will be there for her? I find her sitting by the window, her usual spot. She smiles when she sees me — 60 years on, and her smile is just as beautiful as when we first met. We sip tea and contemplate a jigsaw puzzle; I update her on the status of my latest manuscript, show her pictures of the neighbor’s cat.

As always, it happens without warning. I see the confusion cloud her eyes for a moment, the change in the way she looks at me. She blinks twice and, polite and warm and charming as ever, asks, “I’m sorry, have we met?” And I tell her that we have, and she asks me to remind her, and I do, again.


The impending challenges that burdened the trek across the border eased with timely reconciliation to my new land. Swept up in the migratory tide to Hamilton, Ontario, Canada and suitably ensconced two years later,   I now share the experience to assuage the many others in similar transit. I had been renting in adjacent Toronto and sought to purchase at hand, but real estate values hovering just north of the Pole Star motivated a search elsewhere. I thus set forth for “Steel Town”, the gritty, industrial neighbor to Toronto’s west. The boundary between the municipalities is as palpable as the mills upon which Hamilton was built, the cultures as different as chalk and cheese. How I have managed to flump nicely in said circumstance is best understood in context, so I wind back the clock to begin. My journey actually originated decades prior on the east side of meager Port Colborne, Ontario, Canada, in a very ethnic, working class neighborhood, essentially a ‘Little Italy’. Its laborers, factory and skilled trades workers, former miners and soldiers, all began their lives in poverty and hardship.. My father, for example, took to laboring at age twelve, eventually emigrating to Canada to work in factories. Though mind numbing, alienating, and soul crushing, never once did he complain about his toils. My father was a Man of Steel.  With that as a measure, his older brother was of Kryptonite. One day, the story goes, while working at his garden in Villa Santa Lucia, Abruzzo, Italy, Uncle Tony was delivered a draft notice. He immediately ceased and departed, only to soon find himself a prisoner of the British, and remained so for five years. Often near death by malnutrition, he survived by proving himself useful to his captors as a mechanic. The moment he returned home from the war he proceeded directly to his garden, picked up his shovel from where it remained untouched and proceeded farming, barely uttering a word thereafter about his ordeal. And then, there is my mother. At least as strong willed as her husband and brother in law, she to this day remains the only person in the world of whom I am fearful. Being of Italian heritage in Port Colborne east I was not alone, and felt safe in an otherwise intimidating environment. And make no mistake, it was a tough place, I mean, as Charlie Callas quipped about his town, you could walk ten blocks and never leave the scene of a crime.  But I was always alright, thanks to acquaintances, really tough guys, like Ape, The Bear and “Lucky” Tony Testadurra, so designated for one day while assisting at his father’s construction site had an anvil fall on his head and the anvil broke. I was tagged “Noodle” or “Joey Noodles”, in acknowledgment of my academic abilities and also because I was considered otherwise soft. So, the deal became that I helped the guys with school and they watched out for me. I marveled, for example, at how often disappearing bikes, hockey sticks or patio furniture would mysteriously reappear intact. They knew the neighborhood and the neighborhood knew us and me. All told, my parents, peers and immersion in street culture schooled me in vigilance, humility, respect and discretion, while my literacy skills primed me for analysis and rhetoric, a weave forging, among other things, an acute ability to size a person or situation at the drop of a hat. So now, decades later and in a cut throat housing market, my lawyer, not unfamiliar with my story, put me in touch with a “friend” of his that I would be “comfortable” with and who would “take care” of me in my pursuit of a home. Understanding that real estate dealing had become wildly lucrative I ventured that many were leaving their usual professions to become agents, and upon meeting Rico, replete with a Lanieri suit, Bruno Magli shoes and a Borsalino fedora masking eagle baldness, I figured him exhibit A. With Rico, everything was a drama or secret. A typical conversation would be; “ Interesting place Rico. What do you think about it?”  “Listen Joey”, he would say while looking suspiciously over each shoulder, “this is what we’re gonna do...” He was always telling me what we were “gonna do.” “You’re gonna walk out the door and turn right and walk down three blocks, see? Then, you’re gonna go into the back alley and go twenty feet and stop”. “What? Really?” “Listen, just listen”, he would direct me with a clasp of my upper arm while pointing at me with his other hand, “A black car’s gonna pull up after five minutes.” “Ya, your car.” “Never mind whose car, you just get in for a little sit down with everyone.” “Who’s everyone? There’s just us.” “Never mind, now that’s what we’re gonna do.” I humored him and respected his rituals and nostalgia. My suspicions on what his real lifestyle actually was were confirmed

 when after mentioning to someone my agent was Rico they rejoined with “Rico The Cue Ball? He’s out now?” Indeed. Anyway, just like the fellas from back home, Rico protected me from being taken advantage of but he was hardly proactive. So, when it came to prospecting homes I had to fend for myself, finally zeroing in on a property in the small neighborhood of Homeside in east Hamilton. It was love at first sight with an east side Portuguese beauty. Having more crosses than the Calvary, circumvented with the finest concrete this side of the Pantheon and finished upstairs and down, this masterpiece was my desire. Despite strict legal restrictions securing confidentiality during the offering process, Rico managed to advise with curious precision (“I like a thousand more...”) and she was soon mine. Homeside consists of modest size homes closely crammed on narrow streets and dating predominantly from the nineteen forties to the eighties. No two homes are alike, and there are small parks and walkways dispersed throughout making for interesting walking tours. All that, along with its numerous “mom and pop” businesses, give a Homeside an authentic neighborhood feel. Immediately upon arrival I made a point of it to circulate and get to know the locals. Handshakes, smiles, invitations, sharing of garden bounty and a beer or two now and again began that process effectively. Correspondingly, life was quite good for many months and then, well, a certain someone moved on to the street and here we come to the crux of this tale... “WOW! What is that?!” I shouted to myself in my inner voice one day. “Can it be a... Lamborghini ?” It was! A jet black Lamborghini, set directly in front of the most recent sale on the street, and on the sidewalk was our newest neighbor whom I approached hoping to introduce myself. Upon my nearing to within a few meters of him, his attention was instead drawn to Sal, our local councilor, approaching from the opposite direction and coming to welcome our new resident. I approached closely while the fellow addressed Sal. “Is this a dedicated parking spot?” he asked straightaway. A curious question, with a tone of expectation inconsistent with the absence of reserved spaces signage. I already figured what this guy was about and where he was coming from, and this first encounter continued to degenerate. Although we were already acquainted, Sal didn’t even look at me let alone do the introductions. His concerns were in politicking with someone apparently more important. “Fine, Sallie”, I thought, because I also understand the character and priorities of those with title and ambition. So, I left them only with the same information with which I began, that buddy had a Lamborghini, and he thus became “Lambo”. So, we have an arrival who is not interested in introducing themselves and feels entitled. If not checked, the course is inevitable and in a few weeks - not more because they wouldn’t be able to bite their tongue for that long, and not less because they need some time to accumulate evidence against others and let their anger build - they will make a poorly judged, selfish, arrogant move. Guaranteed. So I, and my neighbors, waited. Eventually, as my street sense prophesied, the day came. One afternoon upon returning from work and checking my mailbox as per usual there was, low and behold, a note: Can everyone take care when around my Lamborghini? And, can you better supervise it? I have seen some of you just walk away while people passing through the area stop to look at it. And, there have been marks on it - fingerprints and scratches. Please do this because it seems anyone can park anywhere and so when others use the spot in front of my house and I have to park elsewhere and cannot always watch out for it. Voila. Apparently Lambo was oblivious to facts like that in our neighborhood many can not afford to have a car, let alone have a luxury one. As for damage, well, welcome to life and public spaces.  Self absorbed and disrespectful, Lambo had erected a barrier between us and him. Could this just be jealousy on our parts? Not likely, for we are not communists, after all. We understand that some have more because they made their bones in good faith through education and hard work. We were once ready to hear Lambo’s story and celebrate his achievements, new home and fancy toys, but not any longer. As no one was going to respect Lambo’s letter he was certainly going to have follow up in likely an even more inappropriate communication. Sure enough, in due time, it also came. Lambo apparently escalated his concerns to Sallie the Councilman and Sallie, during a town hall meeting, says to us: Can you please not use the parking spot in front of _______’s house except as a last resort? A “last resort”? On a public street? So much for leadership. The last thing he should be doing is playing favorites. Well, that pretty much charted Lambo’s future and it wasn’t going to be bright. You see, Lambo’s and Sallie’s requests were unjust. Not in the legal sense, but socially and politically. That justice would be served there was no doubt, only its form was as yet unknown. . Objectively, a long time passed, a few weeks. However in the timing and logic of the street it was just right because you never want someone to see it coming.

One fine morning Lambo stepped out to his precious curbside spot only to find that someone had gone medieval on the arse of his beloved Lamborghini - and no one knew anything about what happened. Many years ago, in the initial days of my first full time teaching gig, I would tag along with three other male staff to a nearby mall for lunch and we would gather at a four-seated round table. Each day, they insisted I sit in the same chair, one facing a blank cement wall, instead of in one of the others that had a better view of the mall. So I asked colleague Bob, who consistently occupied the seat with the best vista, what was up with this and he said that over time my position would get better. Prying further, I asked how long it would be before I had his seat, to which he replied, “Ten years."

I understood that, you see, because of my upbringing and its immersion in codes of honor, respect and manners. Acceptance, respect and privilege are things earned, not just granted because you show up, or just taken because you want it or are used to it from having had it somewhere else. So, prospective settlers, we in the highly sought Homeside area await you with open minds and arms and we trust that you will bring the manners, care and appreciation worthy of our community.

See you soon!


"It will all be over soon." the voice said as I awoke from my dream. I was overcome with despair at the realisation that I was still in this cabin. I got up and pulled my jacket around me tightly. I glanced out the window and saw a hint of white. I stopped, realising what I had seen. I turned around and ran towards the window. Snow. The last thing I needed was snow.

I ran down the stairs, tripping on the last step. I needed to wakeup, I had things to do. I brushed myself off and walked over to the fireplace. Three blocks of wood left. "This is my life now," I muttered. I walked into the kitchen and went through the pantry. No food. We were running out of the essentials. I knew we would get snowed in. Every winter we have been snowed in. Every day it snows. I walked upstairs and went into the second bedroom. Lily was still asleep. I had met Lily five years ago when this all started. She was only ten. I can't forget it. You see, five and a half years ago something bad happened. I remember asking my mum what was wrong. I was only twelve, and whatever it was, she didn't want me knowing. Everything was fine for a while and then it happened. The outbreak. People started getting sick and losing their minds. I don't want to sound too cliche but it reminded me of a zombie apocalypse movie I had watched. My family fled towards the woods on the side of the mountain but we got separated and I've never seen them again. I travelled for days looking for food or shelter and that's when I met Lily. I had crossed a small bridge and heard a child crying. When I saw her I planned to leave but she begged me to help her so I did and we later found an abandoned cabin which we live in now.

There was a tiny town nearby and we went there to steal food and other items. That's when we learned about the power outages. All the sick people who were attacking the cities were causing so much damage that power was out all over the country meaning we had no service. We also met a lady there who worked at the daycare before the outbreak. She had about ten kids with her. Every week she would update us on the outbreak. I felt bad for her. Every few months we would turn up and there would be one less child with her. Without proper food and water, no one was going to survive. One graze or cut could mean death. That's when we took in the twins. We had gone down to get an update and found she had passed. By then Cora and Kaiden were the only kids left. Lily wanted to leave them but we ended up taking them back to the cabin. Now the five of us live in a cabin on a mountain with no power, no service and we are living off river water and canned food. Not the greatest scenario. I sat down next to Lily and grabbed her shoulders. "Can't you leave me to sleep Hannah?" she begged. "No. It's snowing and we are not taking any chances of getting snowed in and starving to death. Now get up, we're going." I stated. I went downstairs to find the twins sitting on the couch. "We are going out. Lock the doors and don't leave," I said as Lily joined me at the door, "and don't let any strangers in." Lily and I walked through the snow. We never spoke. It was a subtle agreement. We weren't doing this because we are friends, it was because we wanted to survive. The town was only ten minutes away so it was pretty easy to get to. We arrived and walked over to the supermarket. I assisted Lily as she climbed through the broken window. Once we got our trolley in we walked through the isles. We only took what we needed. I grabbed the bottles of alcohol and put them in the cart. They were very useful as a disinfectant for cuts and grazes. After grabbing as much canned food as we needed we left the store. After about thirty minutes we had gone through all the stores. We had gotten over 50 cans of food, books, coffee filters and many other items. As we started our walk home I knew I had to talk to Lily. "So...how are you?" I asked. I knew the answer. "We don't have to talk," she replied. I stopped walking, causing her to turn and face me. "Look, I'm just a little over all of this. Can't we just find a way to travel down to the city.?" Lily asked, "We heard on the radio that the outbreak has been partially contained. At least we can try to find out if any adults we know survived. Please?" she begged. I knew what she was talking about but it was dangerous. "Go back to the cabin and cut some trees down for wood. Enough for a few months." I replied. Lily nodded and headed towards the cabin. I turned and walked back through the town. I knew that everything she said was true but I wasn't taking any chances. Police would take anyone under 18 without parents or guardians to homes underground where they would be 'safe'. Only one person could help me. Joe. Joe lived in a little cottage on the outskirts of the town. He was an old fat man who looked like Old McDonald. A true farmer. He made it clear not to talk to him unless it was an emergency. Probably just wanted us to stay away from him. I knocked on the door. The door opened and there he was. "Whatcha want kid, better be good," he yelled.

I explained the problem. He nodded every once in a while. "The only way 'round this is if ya birth certificate got destroyed. All four of ya's, so you little lady can re-register as family. That's all I got." he stated, "now out ya go" he said as he pushed me out the door. I started walking. He was right. All documents were destroyed in the attacks and most digital copies got deleted when the electricity stopped working. If I re-registered, the government would give us money and get us food if need to be. The little town was close to being empty. I needed to go to the city before the snow hit any harder. I ran back to the cabin. Lily was putting the logs of wood next to the fireplace. She turned and looked at me. "Did you think about it?" she asked. I relayed everything to her and waited for her reaction. "So what's the plan?" she asked. "We get the old truck behind the house and fill it up with the emergency fuel and go to the city," I stated.

Time Skip We had gone down and found that none of us had living relatives in the city so I took the liberty of re-registering us meaning we would be siblings. While there we were given a new radio and lots of donations to help us survive in the cabin. Turned out they had found a potential cure and had, at the very least found a way to contain the outbreak. With that everything was going to go somewhat back to normal.

We got out of the car and went into the cabin. It had snowed while we were gone. I wasn't surprised, it snowed most of the year except for a few weeks in summer. I sat the twins on the couch. I didn't love being stuck in a cabin with no power but it wasn't the worst thing in the world. I turned towards Lily as she walked through the door. "Hey Hannah, why did you pick the middle name Snow for us and why is our last name Resort?" Lily asked. "Because the name of this cabin is Snow Resort. I took the name plaque off when we first came here to use it to make a lock for the door." I said. I smiled. I knew we were never going to get our full life back but I kinda like our Snow Resort and I wouldn't change it for the world. Diary Entry #1829 Hannah S. Resort 16/12/2037


If digging graves was easy, then everybody would do it. It wasn’t the first time the thought had crossed his mind, and certainly wouldn’t be the last. If he were a brave man, he’d stand up to his mother and tell her just that. Jack was no coward, but he’d known better men who’d gone toe to toe with Nettie Sims. Their only consolation had been divorce papers and a bus ticket out of dodge. Instead, he solemnly took the lasagna pan, from her gloved hands, rinsing the remaining bubbles and a stray bit of burnt noodle down the drain. Jack’s mother blabbered on. “You were a terrific police officer. Could have been a detective by now if you hadn’t thrown it all away. It’s sad really. Embarrassing even, to tell my friends that my fifty year-old son moved back home.” “I’m sorry you’re embarrassed of me, Mother. I’m doing the best I know how.” His words were clipped, just as they always were when the subject of his old life inevitably crept into their after dinner conversations, especially since he should have left fifteen minutes ago. “I know it, Jackie. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. Will you be home late? I can wait up, and we can play a round of Scrabble before bed, or listen to a book on tape.” She always took extra care when drying her antique bakeware, so she didn’t notice as he took two brown paper sacks down from the top of the fridge. He stowed them both in the waist band of his Wranglers and adjusted his quilted flannel to conceal them from view. Mother would not approve. In fact, she’d given him a list of rules he had to abide by if he wanted to live under her roof, and Jack couldn’t think of a single one he’d left unbroken. No drinking, no swearing, no guns, and worst of all, mandatory attendance at the early service every Sunday. Nettie had gotten the misguided notion, Jack’s soul could still be saved. The thought was laughable, but she meant well. He crossed the kitchen, and planted a quick kiss on her temple.

“Please, don’t wait up for me. And make sure you remember to lock up before bed.” “I’ll do it for your peace of mind, even though there ain’t no point in it. This isn’t that kind of town.” He grunted his disapproval, and she rolled her eyes. It was that kind of naive thinking, which made small towns the perfect target for criminals. It’s why phrases like, “Until that day, nobody locked their doors”, had become such a cliche in true crime specials. Everyone was capable of wearing two faces, and it was impossible to know who was prowling the streets at night, especially in sleepy little towns. Jack had first hand knowledge of that.

He started up his truck, letting it idle so the engine had a chance to warm. The past couple of weeks had brought the first hints of Spring and the warmer weather to come, but the night air still had a bite to it. Jack didn’t mind the cold, just as long as it didn’t penetrate the ground. Nothing was worse to dig through than frozen earth.

He settled in, taking the paper bags from his pants. The sack crunched beneath his fist as he put the bottle to his lips and took a long drink. He swiped his sleeve over his whiskers before replacing the cap and wedging the bottle between the seats for safe keeping. He carefully slid the pistol and holster from the second bag, and made quick work of securing it to his hip. By the time he finished, the truck was warm and ready, and so was Jack, now that he had a nip of whiskey in his system. It was time to go hunting.

Everyone has their own personal scent. And, no, not a fragrance that can be purchased behind a department store counter. This is the scent unique to every individual, due to biology or their environment. Jack’s signature scent was graveyard dirt. Most normal people would be hard pressed to describe it. If jack was ever asked to do so, he’d say the smell is a mixture of freshly turned earth, the mustiness of the worms which wriggle beneath, and a subtle brightness reminiscent of grass clippings.

He’d been thrilled when the preacher man offered him a job as a grave digger. It was the perfect cover, because no one batted an eye at his dirt covered clothes and truck. Even Nettie didn’t seem too concerned when he left for work at all hours of the night. Although he’d never been asked to dig a grave for the cemetery after dark, people tended to conflate the meaning of, graveyard shift , with how Jack made his living. When that happened, he never corrected them; instead, choosing to use their confusion to his advantage. The hole he’d steadily been chipping away at for the last two hours was nearly complete. Jack stepped back, leaning on his shovel to survey his handiwork. He ran a hand over his sweat drenched face. Using his own height as a measuring stick, Jack decided he’d dug plenty deep. He scooped out a few remaining shovelfuls of loose dirt, before hoisting himself up and out of the hole. He checked the time on his burner phone. It was nearly eight, and he needed to make a call before the real fun could begin. Not that Jack minded digging. He enjoyed working with his hands, because it gave him an outlet for the unbridled anger he’d been accruing over the last two years. Even before he’d become, The Body Man , Jack had struggled with aggression. After years of sitting behind a desk, toiling over a never-ending mountain of paperwork, he was glad to finally be out in the world. Glad to be sweating under a crescent moon, instead of fluorescent lights. He felt lucky even, to have banished the part of himself that once cared about promotions and paychecks. Revenge was a better motivator than ambition.

“9-1-1. Where is the location of your emergency?” Jack went through the same song and dance, he’d done a dozen other times. He gave his exact location to the dispatcher, refusing to provide his name.

The dispatcher’s voice was timid, as she asked, “Is this the Body Man?”

Jack hung up the phone.

Back when he’d still been Officer Jack Sims, he’d known guys who were willing to sell their souls just to see their names on the front page of the Sunday paper. Guys who got off on the notoriety. Jack wasn’t in it for that. He’d gladly let someone else take the credit for his deeds, if it meant he had one more night like this. One more opportunity to stalk and trap and torment.

Call complete, all he had left to do was wait. He’d done this enough times to know, he had about ten minutes before the blue light cavalry would make their valiant entrance. Now, it was his time to play. He glanced at the hog-tied stranger in the back of his pick up, and grinned. He retrieved his hockey mask from the cab, securing the elastic band behind his head. The worm realized the digging sounds had ceased, and was screaming. Howling like a wounded animal before Jack laid a single finger on him. Overcome with adrenaline, Jack turned his face up at the moon and howled along with his prey. An hour or so later, Jack stood with Detective Rick Daniels, as a second officer shoved the handcuffed worm into the backseat of the squad car. It pleased him that the man was still trembling. He hoped his efforts would be enough to fuel the worm’s nightmares for the rest of his miserable life.

Jack remembered when he’d first gotten the idea for his Body Man persona. He’d been tired of sitting behind his desk, unable to do anything about the backlog of unsolved cases. One day, he and Rick had been passing a bottle of whiskey after work, just like they were now. Rick had looked at him and said, “If I only had a body, I know I could solve this one.” He had been referring to one of the many missing girls. One of the many cases that went unsolved each year. It was a catch-22, and although the idea made Jack sick, he understood too well that closure was better than not knowing. Better than the plague of constant worry. He felt a kinship with the families of the missing, because, unfortunately, Jack understood the torment of being unsure if your loved one was gone for good, or if they were still out there suffering, waiting for someone to save them.

He hadn’t actually expected anyone to answer when he’d placed the add on the dark web, offering his services as a grave digger to those who, for whatever reason, needed to dispose of a body. But, he offered and they came. That’s when his work truly began. The blue lights faded into the distance, and Jack was happy knowing that another family would find some measure of peace tonight. That the girl, the one the worm tried to throw away like trash, was safely in the back of the coroner’s van. He liked knowing she would get a proper burial. Rick passed the bottle to Jack as he asked, “Do you ever get tired of digging those holes only to fill them in later?” Jack shook his head. “No. It’s effective. Making those sickos think they’re being buried alive is a better punishment than they deserve.” “You ever worry you’ll go too far one day?” Jack stopped mid drink, raising a brow at his friend. Rick continued, “I mean, do you ever worry that one day you’ll become like them? It seems like a slippery slope.” Not that he’d admit it to Rick, but Jack spent countless hours contemplating this exact question. Where was the line between vigilantism and criminal? But the truth was, he didn’t actually give a shit anymore. He would do the work until the work was done with him, because this was his calling. He wanted to ask, Who Cares? Instead, Jack simply said, “No.” “It’s been two years since Caroline disappeared. If you’re still looking for her abductor, I think he’s probably long gone. Maybe even in a new state by now.” Jack bristled at the mention of his daughter’s name, and images began flashing behind his eyes. Jack holding up his daughters picture. Jack screaming at the worm to remember; that he would stop filling the hole with dirt if the worm would just tell him where she fucking was. He’d done the same all thirteen times. Some of the worms lied, giving him random locations or fake names, but Jack could always tell. It didn’t matter how many times he’d been disappointed; he would keep searching. Jack would never stop looking for his Caroline. The Body Man was nothing, if not patient, like a spider waiting to trap his next meal. He smiled sadly and said, “Rome wasn’t built in a day, Rick.” Jack felt his friend’s wary eyes trained on him, as he walked around the truck to the passenger side, and opened the glove compartment. Rick called out to him, clearly not finished with the conversation. “You know you don’t have to be an unsung hero. There’s always a job waiting for you with the force. All you have to do is ask.” His only answer was to pop in the cassette tape and press play. Jack turned the dial, and Neil Diamond’s, Sweet Caroline, drowned out anything else Rick had to say.

The Body Man returned to his weapon of choice—his beloved shovel, and began the satisfying work of filling the empty grave.

The next morning, Jack attended Sunday service with his mother, dutifully singing along with each hymn, and mouthing the words to every prayer. After driving them home, he helped set the table by setting out her favorite china and silver. “Your detective friend, Rick, was in this morning’s paper. That boy is doing the Lord’s work, I tell you.” Jack did his best to sound attentive, between mouthfuls of biscuits soaked in sausage gravy. “Good for Rick. He deserves that recognition.” His mother crossed her legs under the table, and used her knife and fork to ruefully saw through a biscuit like it was a porterhouse steak.

“He doesn’t seem to think so. He was quoted saying as much.” Jack’s brows shot up, sheer panic gripping his chest.

“What is that supposed to mean?” “He said that all the praise should go to the unsung heroes. The stubborn ones who refuse to take credit where it’s due.” Jack smiled at that, silently adding, “And to those who aren’t afraid to get their hands dirty.” Soon enough, a new worm would come along, and the Body Man’s shovel would be ready.


Let me introduce myself. Zing! I am Special Agent Rex Roget. Bazing! I am in the middle of a shootout with enemy agents. Baringa! This is my fifty-ninth case in which I somehow manage to solve the problem without getting my head blown off.

Crrumpa!

I do not know what they were thinking when they invented that last onomatopoeia. Chabunka! Or that one. Anyway, my name is famous and often mispronounced which really makes me angry.

Roget, like the Thesaurus which makes my name easy to pronounce.

Right?

Argh, if only it was that simple. Excuse me.

“You over there, come out with your hands up.” I yell at some shady guys by the dumpster. “Boss, I’ll cover you.” Officer Yamashima tells me with her gun drawn. “Very good.” I run and squat behind a car.

I hear the zing of bullets overhead. I pull out my Glock and fire off a few rounds just to let them know I mean business. “I’m hit!” One of the bad guys shouts. “That’s it.

We give.” Shouts the second bad guy.

When I look over the hood of the car I was hiding behind, I see one bad guy on the ground and the other with his hands held high in the air. Officer Yamashima is racing toward them wrapping up yet another Roget case.

Just when it looked as though the planet was in peril, I was able to bring justice to the unjust, right to those who were in the wrong and a happy ending as I have in my other fifty-eight cases.

When the bad guys come around, I will stop them cold in their tracks.

I am dependable that way.

I love being a private eye.

“Another Agent Roget thriller is done.” I gloat sitting at my laptop.

I have written over fifty pulp fiction stories about this agent.

Hollywood has done three movies starring Robert Downy Jr., but during contract negotiations with his agent, he decided he was done with Agent Roget.

I can’t say I blame him, because I have run out of fresh ideas for him.

To be honest, I haven’t had a fresh idea since book number forty.

Who am I kidding, I haven’t had any fresh ideas since episode number twenty.

What you will be reading is a rehash of several of my previous books.

I do not know how Stephen King does it to tell you the truth. “Percy, I have your lunch.” Mrs. Gibson begins her walk up to my office on the second floor of my famous log cabin in the middle of the Minnesota woods near one of their ten thousand lakes.

“Thank you, Mrs. Gibson, just set it on the table over there.” I point. “Yes Percy.” She does as I have requested, “I hope you don’t mind, but the weather is looking a bit rough out there.

I was wondering if you’d mind if I left a little early.” “Nope, we are all caught up.” I nod. “Bless ya sir.” She smiles as she puts on her overcoat that was hanging on the hook on the wall. “It does look like quite a storm is coming in from the north.” I peer out the window and see the black clouds rumbling across the sky.

January is usually a heavy month for snow up here.

“If ya need something, please call now.” She shakes a finger at me like my mother did many years ago. “I should be fine, Emma.” I pat her on the arm of her coat as she slips into her boots.

There is about a foot of snow already on the ground with the promise of another foot on the way and since my cabin is isolated, it is a good idea that Emma Gibson leaves early today.

I will most likely sit in my easy chair in front of the fireplace and read some Walt Whitman before I drift off into a much-needed nap.

From my office, I watch Emma pull out of my unshoveled driveway before turning onto the gravel road, now covered with snow and disappearing into the thick spruce woods. Alone at last. I am not hungry, so I leave the tray that she had set on my table.

I pick up the tray and deposit it in the kitchen after descending the steep stairs. My cabin is already cozy from the blazing fire she had started when she first arrived over two hours ago.

I kicked my shoes off and leaned back in my La-Z-Boy and took my cell phone out of my pocket where I had my eBook of Whitman poetry.

First, I checked my texts and saw that Astor had left a text.

Opening the text he has left two words, “CALL ME.”

All caps.

I know that he has some bad news, but if I don’t call him, he will call me and screw up my day. “Hey Astor, got your text.” I say before he can say “Hello” The snow is beginning to fall with big fluffy flakes. “Hey Percy, I just wanted to let you know that Bridgeport Publishing is not going to publish your next book or number fifty-nine as you call it.” He sounds agitated. “Why not?” I shrug knowing he won’t see my lackadaisical gesture.

“They are tired of Rex Roget.

They claim the last two episodes did not sell.”

“What are they suggesting?” I ask, checking my cubicles as I try not to yawn too loudly. “They want him to be a spy.” He reports. “Are you crazy?” I feel that the question really answers itself. “Rex has always been a keen private eye.” “We both know that, but Anton King, the publisher, happens to crave spy novels like Fleming and le Carre.” His voice has reached it’s highest pitch. “How ‘bout it?”

“I don’t know if I want to cater to the whims of publishers.”

“Just this once for me, Astor.” He is pleading which warms me a bit. “We have a chance to get Ben Affleck to play Rex.

Whadda say?” “Affleck?

He’s as flat as a board.” I huff. “C’mon.”

“Alright I will do my best.” I shake my head. “You are the best writer-” “Aw cut it, Astor.

I will give it a shot.” I grimace just before I press the red button.

Putting down my cell phone where I have my Whitman, I march upstairs to my office and open my laptop.

It won’t take much to change a few details changing Rex from a private eye as he has been for over fifty-eight books and into a spy like James Bond.

I must admit the genre is a bit convoluted, but I will add my name to the list of authors of spy novels.

I open the manuscript and begin to type: “Rex Roget was sitting at a cafe in Vienna when two enemy agents…”

I smiled as my fingers flew across the keyboard changing the private eye to a lethal spy. Snow is falling harder now as it does during this time of year.

Silently the snow falls on the spruce trees that surround my isolate cabin

Rex is making his way through Vienna when I hear a knock at the front door. “Who the hell could that be?” I grumble as I walk down the steps to answer the door. “Probably some moron who got lost in this snowstorm and…”

I open the door and standing on my porch is a man dressed in a suit and tie. Though he is dressed in formal attire as the snow continues to land on him, he is a complete stranger to me. “What’s the big idea?” He asks in a hostile tone. “And who are you?” I ask, squinting at him as the cold air rushes into my small cabin. “You know who I am.” He raises an eyebrow as if I am a villain. “I most certainly do not.” I shake my head. “You created me.” He pushes by me and walks into the cabin. “I created you?” It is a question.

“Yes and until now, I have been quite content being who you made me to be.”

He cocks his head. “Why are you here?

Did you forget to take your medications?”

“Very funny, Percy McIntyre.” He coughed to clear his throat. “I will call someone if I need to.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “My card.” He presented me with a small business card. I read it half amused until it hit me.

The card said, “Rex Roget, Private Eye.”

There was a phone number in small print. “Is this some kind of joke?” I asked, tossing the card into the fire. “Apparently it is.” He said in an accusatory voice, “I am no longer a private eye?

I am now a spy.”

“You are Rex Roget?” I swallowed hard.

“In the flesh.” He held his chin up, “And you sir have betrayed me.

You have turned me into a spy.

I have never intended to be a spy.

A spy is one who stays in the shadows, hidden, like a coward of which I have never been, I assure you, Percy McIntyre.” I was flabbergasted by this unexpected encounter with the main protagonist for fifty-eight of my pulp fiction books of which three had become box office hits in the movie theaters.

How could he just walk off the pages and walk into my cabin in the middle of a snowstorm in upper Minnesota?

“Why have you changed my occupation to spy?” He sat in my La-Z-Boy and folded his hands under his chin. His face was strikingly handsome just like I had written him.

He was dapper like Bond, but from his attitude did not wish to be employed as a spy in his country’s service.

With my chair occupied, I was forced to sit on the stool near the fire I used to stoke the flames. “It’s a simple thing, you see-” “It was the money, wasn’t it?

It’s always the money.” He brooded.

“You don’t understand-” “Oh but I do, my good man.” He continued to glare at me, “You created me the way I wanted to be and then you changed me without notifying me first.” He was doing his best to shame me. “It was nothing personal-” “You must realize that everytime you open that laptop of yours, whatever you put down affects me directly.” He inhaled deeply, “This is what fictional characters go through without the author realizing what they are doing.

For over thirty years, I have faithfully done your bidding.

I have found myself in some pretty tight spots you understand.”

“And haven’t I always gotten you out of your predicament?” I shrugged. “Using Machina de Deux? A poor man’s device if ever there was one.” He huffed. “What happened to you?” “What do you mean?” I scowled. “What I mean is that thirty years ago you were the young up-and-coming writer.” He looked at me with an expression of pity, “What happened to you, Percy McIntyre? Where did you stray from that dream?” “I have been published almost as much as Stephen King.” I held up my finger to make a point. “And he has had a roomful of best sellers.” He stroked his chin, “You?” “Three movies.” I held up three fingers to emphasize my point. “Starring Robert Downy Jr.” He scowled, “I bear no resemblance to him.

You wrote me that way.”

It was true, the character of Rex Roget was a much larger, more substantial figure, but Downy played him like a less robust character. “I did not complain when he was cast as me, but now this abomination.

I cannot stay silent any longer.” Once again, he crossed his arms across his chest, “I will not be a spy.”

“You can be a great spy.” I insisted. “Baahh, rubbish.” He grimaced, “What will you have me do?” “I will have you save the world from the bad guys.” I answered.

For a moment he seemed to be appeased by the idea. “It does sound appealing, but I have spent thirty years being the hero of the downtrodden.” He shook his head, “The rewards warmed my heart.

I could see where I made a difference to someone who had lost hope.”

“What about saving the world?”

“What about it?” He sat back in my chair. “How would it feel to save humanity?”

“I dunno.” He shrugged, “When I find a lost soul, I can see by the expression on the face of the person I have saved, what my effort has yielded. Why after all that, do you wish to change me?”

“Alright, I’ll be frank with you.” I took a deep breath, “My agent called me and said the publisher said I lack fresh new ideas.”

“What does that mean?” He asked, leaning forward in my chair. “It means readers are finding you…boring.” I sighed. “And whose fault is that?” He asked, peering at me with one accusatory eyebrow raised. “Mine, I guess.” I sighed again. Was Rex correct in blaming me for the recent failures.

My books did not sell like they used to.

When I was young and full of energy, I was famous.

For a short time, I was on the A-List and seated with honor in places I frequented, but then at some point, my fortunes began to sag. It was right around the time my wife Lois passed away from cancer. That was it.

Her passing drew out my creative soul.

She was my creative soul who was now ten years gone.

I began to struggle to write a decent novel.

Sometimes, I would see her spirit walking through my cabin.

She had a sorrowful expression on her face as she faded away.

I would call out to her, but by then it was too late.

“I’m glad we had this talk.” He smiled, “I knew you were a talented writer, but you needed someone to remind you of that.

Do not make me something I was not supposed to be. You tell your agent that Rex Roget is still on top of his game.” “I will.” I promised as he came to his feet.

He was dashing and filled with good intention as he made his way to the front door.

“How about Hugh Jackman?” He winked as he put his hand on the doorknob. “I beg your pardon.” I shook my head. “I think Hugh Jackman would make a wonderful Rex Roget.” He opened the door. “Wolverine?”

“Whatever he is, but I must be going.” He tweaked my nose before turning and vanishing into the falling snow.

I watched the sky darken as the snow continued to fall.

In the morning the land would be reinvented into a crystal white landscape, but for now I would have one last glimpse of what was to be. After the first movie, I had enough capital to buy this cabin, because I was overwhelmed by the natural beauty of this place.

I was never disappointed.

I would go back to my laptop and write as I had thirty years ago when I first started.

“That’s the spirit, Percy.” Lois would kiss me on the cheek as I ascended to my office.