CW: violence A bear meandered at the edge of the backyard, big and brown. Bears weren’t native to the area, so this merited some wide-eyed gawking. It even earned the kids’ attention, had them scrambling over furniture—and each other—to join Liam by the sliding glass door. Emily looked uneasy. The apple tree at the back of the yard had dropped fruit in a ten-foot radius around its base. The bear gobbled them up. With its dog-like face and mannerisms, and the way it used its tongue like a spoon, Liam found it rather cute. But the cloud of dirt that flew from its fur when it shook spoiled the friendly illusion, reminding him that this was a dangerous animal. Liam ushered the kids upstairs. With them tucked safely away in their rooms, he retrieved a spear from the back of the bedroom closet, where it lay behind a row of mothballed suits, still in the box it arrived in. He took it downstairs. Emily fretted over their cat. Fumbles, chubby and orange, warmed himself on the back porch, oblivious to the danger. The bear and its smorgasbord of half-rotten fruit were a dozen yards away. Though the cat lounged closer to the door, Emily didn’t want to grab him. Fumbles didn’t like being approached when outside. He might run off, and one of his avenues of escape contained a bear. The creaking stairs sounded Liam’s descent. She took one look at the spear, at his face, and set her own face in opposition. “No. Put that thing down—what’s wrong with you? What do you think you’re gonna do?” Liam had expected the challenge, but hadn’t prepared a rebuttal. He felt ridiculous all of a sudden. What had he meant to do? “I… I don’t know.” He took the spear back upstairs, resolving to just sell the thing. When he returned, Emily had slid the patio door slightly ajar, tapping a can of cat food with a spoon—a siren’s call to which Fumbles promptly responded. The bear raised his head too, but then returned his attention to the apples. Emily closed the door. “We need to call animal control or something.” “Why? It’s not hurting anyone.” “Didn’t you just have a spear?” “Well I wasn’t gonna use it. I don’t think.” He really wasn’t, forgot he’d even purchased the thing until it showed up on his porch, and only kept it because it looked cool. Now, with a staircase separating him from the violent influence of that sleek, expensive, oversized kabob, even calling animal control began to feel too extreme. He didn’t want the bear shot just for wandering into their backyard. Fumbles ate the can of cat food as though it were his first time eating. An idea formed. During a brief interest in aerial photography, Liam bought a drone. He returned from the garage with the expensive, little-used toy. Grabbing lunch meat and string from the kitchen, he tied up some ham and attached the wad to the drone. “It’s got a camera and a mile radius.” “I think we should just call animal control.” “Let me try this. There’s nothing but marshes out back anyway. I’ll lure it away, then we can call.” Liam placed the drone on the porch, then stepped back inside and closed the door. Watching his progress through the small screen on the controller, he teased the bear to get it interested, dipping near and rising up as it swatted. He kept it low, and led the bear out of their yard to the fields and forest beyond. “What if it just follows the ham back?” Emily asked after he’d flown it half a mile. Liam hadn’t considered this. Fortunately, the problem resolved itself as the drone hit a tree and the video connection broke. “You’re not going after it. Not right now, anyway,” Emily said as she called animal control. Liam stood by the door, watching for signs of the bear while Emily was on the phone in the other room. She came back a few minutes later. “They said it’s got something to do with the climate—bears are coming further east. It’s probably going to get worse. We’re supposed to keep our cat inside and put up a fence if we want to avoid a recurrence.” Liam tried installing a fence. He’d dug latrine pits in basic training and thought the skills would translate. They didn’t. After several attempts, they paid a company to do it. * * * * Once a month, they went to Liam’s parents for dinner. Out of familial duty, the kids raked their grandparents' leaves into neat piles, then messed them up by jumping in them. Liam’s father, Frank, cooked food on the grill while his mother listened intently to Emily’s recounting of the bear story. When Emily finished, Frank spoke. “You said ‘We paid a company to do it.’ What do you mean?” Liam regarded his father. “Well, I’ve never installed a fence before. I tried but, you know, it’s hard.” “No, I get that. But what did she mean ‘we’ paid for the company? You ain’t got a job.” “Emily does, but we—” “Ah, so your wife paid for it.” “Well, it’s our money—both of ours. That’s how we’ve always done it.” “She’s been supporting you for a while now and it’s supposed to be the other way around. How long since they fired you? Four years?” “Six years, and I quit to stay home with the kids. You know that.” It might have ended there, but Emily stepped in. “It’s better with him home, it really is. He gets the kids ready for school, cooks breakfast, cleans—honestly, I don’t know how we managed before.” Frank turned away from the grill. “So he’s the wife? He does the wife stuff?” “Well, he…” her voice faded to nothing. Liam shook his head at her. Liam’s mom went inside, got Frank a beer. He took it from her and popped the cap off with the edge of the patio table. “It ain’t right for you to work and not him. Not my son. The club we go to just posted a help wanted ad for a security guard. He’s gonna take the job. Third shift, so he can still be home to cook and clean and all that other nonsense.” Liam, ever the peacemaker, pushed the conversation along. “How’s the club been? I read they renovated the gym.” By the end of dinner, everyone was joking and having fun. But as they packed up to leave, Frank grabbed Liam’s elbow and said, “You’re taking that job.” He repeated this to Emily once they got home. “He’s got a point, Em.” “If you want the job, take the job. But we both know you’d only take it because your dad is bullying you into it—and I think I finally had enough of that. From now on, they can come here to see the kids. They can come to my—our house.” The slip did not go unnoticed. “But, Em, it isn’t okay for me to mooch off you. And anyway, it’s not like more money is a bad thing.” “You quit because I got a big promotion and would be working longer hours. It made sense for us to do it that way. I make more than what we both were making together. It’d be better if you stayed home, but whatever—keep caving to your dad’s demands.” * * * * Like most humans, Liam was a diurnal creature. The abrupt reversal of his sleeping pattern proved hard to reconcile. His first night at work, he showed up with a gallon of coffee in a comically large mug and bags under his eyes that could hold watermelons. His second night was much the same. And the third. He got used to the night shift in stages. Each day got easier, but in the way lifting heavy weights got easier—through application of tremendous effort. The repetition of non-events was a waist-deep mud he slogged through nightly. So little happened around the club at night, the camera feeds were more like movie stills. One night, something triggered the motion sensors along the fence surrounding the golf course. A corresponding node on the security room's electronic map blinked red and beeped like a watch alarm. They didn't have cameras installed that far out along the perimeter, so he grabbed keys for the security golf cart to investigate. In the distance, a light scored through trees. He approached the source—a truck idling outside the fence, its dangerously bright headlights bathing a group of people with its beams. Liam turned his own lights off to surprise the trespassers. He got within a stone's throw of the group without them detecting him. It was a group of teenagers. Trees of all kinds grew along the fence, a tasteful way to disguise the chain-link that also blocked the view of houses further out. Some of the trees were apple trees, like the one he had at home, and the kids used shovels to pick up fallen apples and whip them at each other. Liam switched on the cart's lights, red-and-blue like the police, and the group all jumped and backed up to the fence. There were eight of them. Cans of cheap beer littered the ground. The kids’ surprise melted, and some mental math played out on their faces. Liam misread their sums and exited the cart. “Just stay where you are and we’ll figure this out.” A boy took a few steps towards him. “I said stay where you are, dammit!” “What’s your plan, man? Gonna chain us to the cart and drag us?” said the boy, propping himself up with his shovel. These words were the camel-breaker. Before the boy could say anything more, Liam grabbed the shovel from his hands and pressed the butt of it into the boy’s stomach. “Now, if you don’t want me to call the police, get—” The boy rocketed forward and punched Liam in the face, snapping his jaw closed and breaking a tooth. They ripped the shovel from his hand and swung it against his legs, knocking him on his face. All the kids punched, kicked, and stomped him. Liam crawled, and the edge of a shovel shattered the elbow of his right arm. He tried dragging himself with the one that worked. In doing so, he exposed his stomach—an opportunity quickly seized. They kicked him so hard, he vomited as he rolled on his back. From the ground, the kids didn’t look like kids—they didn't look like people . Their faces were stretched, misshapen, and hungry. He stopped his feeble attempts to protect himself, resolved in his mounting delirium to just let the event play out. Then, a deep roar sounded, sonorous as mountains forming. It caused the kids to scatter like a burst bag of marbles. The chain-link fence rattled as the kids hurdled themselves over it, and the truck peeled away. For a while, all was quiet save for the sounds of nearby munching. With great effort, Liam opened an eye. There was a bear. A big brown one. It nuzzled at the ground, moving away the cans to eat the apples strewn about the area. Liam groaned. The bear noticed, lumbered over to Liam, and sniffed. So cute with its dog-like face—but when its wet nose touched Liam’s own, he smelled the animal's breath, and the illusion of cuteness was shattered. Chances were slim this was the same bear. It wouldn't mean anything even if it was. Thinking he was going to die anyway, Liam lifted his good arm and pet the big head. The bear lingered a moment longer, then went back to the fruit.


“What the hell are you doing here?!” “What do you mean? I was sent here by…” “For God’s sake, I know who sent you. I’m familiar with how resources get assigned! I’m asking what you are doing HERE! You knew that I’d been working on this site for the last nine months!” “Gracey, we need to…” “No, we don’t! After what you did last time, I had no interest in seeing you ever again.” “Well, then it’s a good thing you can’t see my face. Just keep your eyes on the surroundings and the map.” “Do you think it’s funny? I will request another dispatch because I can’t deal with this right now. This research is too important!.. Do you hear me?.. Hello?!” “Keep your panties on, I’m not going anywhere, and neither are you. I have sixty minutes left in my outing so by the time you reach them and they send someone else, I will be back, safe and sound. Then you can greet me properly!” “Argh! You knew you would put me in this situation, you planned this whole thing!” “Guilty as charged. Took me a while to execute, but I’m here and I can’t wait for our, hopefully, passionate reunion.” “I wouldn’t count on that, Greg, if I were you.” “We’ll see… Didn’t you miss me?” “Not even a little bit!” “Eh, you are lying. I know you haven’t dated anyone, GG, since you kicked my sorry ass out. Do you remember our nickname – GG?” “No, and don’t call me that! The Gracey-Greg combo died exactly nine months ago when you cheated on me!” “For the hundredth time, I didn’t cheat on you! You said you wanted space to concentrate on your career! You left and told me in no other terms that I was free to do whatever I wanted with whomever I wanted. And then I didn’t hear from you for two weeks! So, what was I supposed to do! Eat gallons of ice cream in front of that ancient movie you always watched? What was it called?” “ Notting Hill. ” “That’s the one! You didn’t return any of my calls. I thought it was over! So, I did what any guy would do when they lose the love of their life. I got drunk and had a ONE-night stand. Just one! Suddenly, you are back and you want what from me?” “A love of your…are you kidding me?! You never even told me that you loved me or wanted to be with me!.. Stop. Hold it, let me check the map… you need to turn left here. Be careful! The botanical team discovered new plants there that are very sticky and toxic. If they grab at your spacesuit or boots, get them off immediately.” “Aha, see, you still care for me!” “I care about the success of this expedition and have no interest in ruining my chances for promotion because of some moron being suffocated by a couple of plants in the middle of the Martian desert!” “I’ll be careful, pinky promise!.. GG, you got so quiet. Are you picturing me right now? What am I wearing?” “A blue and white spacesuit. Very romantic!” “I know I didn’t tell you that before because I was an idiot. I thought if I told you how I felt, you won’t see me as the big strong man that I always wanted to be in your eyes. That’s the truth. I do love you. I want you to give us another chance. Please.” “Did the company’s shrink fill your head with this bullshit? Or did you come to that revelation all on your own?” “Nice sarcasm! I like your spike, that was the only thing that was missing before in our exuberant relationship. Come on, Gracey, look at what I did to get here to talk to you! Do you know how many favors I owe all around the base? They agreed to send me to this location. I had to go through three months of training so I could work in the field. I bribed the guy who was scheduled to come here today so he calls in sick and they send me instead. Think about it – would I have done all of that if I didn’t mean it? What do…” “Greg? Greg! Are you there? I have a visual, why aren't you moving?! Greg?!” “I’m here, hold on a sec. There is something weird …” “Are you in danger?!” “I’m fine, it’s something on the ground... Let me get closer, can you see it?” “No… it looks like a dried-up puddle or a pond?” “It’s neither. The shape is too weird. Let me try to take a picture and send it to you. There. Did you get it?” “File’s corrupted.” “Damn camera is acting up again. I guess not enough juice for a high-res. I sent a drone out for a quick video. It’s coming back.” “Check the footage before you leave.” “Really? I would’ve never thought of that!” “I see your sarcasm and sense of humor are on the same basic level as before.” “Ah, a loving insult. It’s downloading now. Hey, GG, do you think Mars is more romantic than the place we stayed in at the Grand Canyon? It was some weekend, ha? I almost proposed then…Do you think it’d be more memorable if I asked you to marry me with this red background and the hills? Think about it – if you like the idea, I will do it next time I’m here, I will even get on one knee if you want. Opening the file now… Wow!” “What?!” “Hey GG, I think you may get that promotion sooner than you think. Because when they see what you and I just discovered, our names will be all over the news, hon! I just... Damn, I can’t believe this!” “Greg, enough with the buildup, what did you find? A goldmine?” “Better… it’s a footprint of a very very large Martian dinosaur! So, Beautiful, what do you say? Will you marry me now?”


Fireworks were always a big to-do on the Fourth of July. Some considered the fireworks a nuisance — lights and sounds designed to wake children and traumatize dogs. Others treated them as the show going on in the background of more important things, like gossiping with friends and neighbors, kissing a new boyfriend, or keeping an eye on children in the dark. Joe Peterson was one of those children, the kind who watched the entire fireworks show from the first dinky firecracker to the final blast of the grand finale, whose only consolation as the last lights fizzled out was that another show was coming next year. He loved standard fireworks, the ones that came in reds and blues, sometimes exploding across the night sky, other times fizzling out before they could realize their full glory. As years went by, new explosives came on the market, dazzling him with golds and bright silvery whites, sparkling brightly before sinking down toward earth like the branches of a weeping willow.

But once, during the last Independence Day celebration his mother attended, he saw a green firework. He was still young, at the cusp of being too big to sit wrapped in his mother’s arms in public. But that night he let his mother fold him into her, feeling the steady beating of her heart against his back, her thin fingers tracing little circles on his forearms, and her chin resting on top of his head.

“Wake up, Joey,” she said, and Joe realized he’d fallen asleep. The field was filled with people, but all was silent. “It’s starting.” She stretched out behind him and splayed her legs in a wide V. Joe did the same, and laid his head against her stomach. An old man by the grandstand shouted something into a microphone. Everyone clapped, and then it was quiet again. Joe began to tense up a little bit in anticipation of the noise, but relaxed when he felt his mother’s hands reach up to cover both of his ears.

The show was magnificent, leading with a series of red, white, and blue fireworks that zigzagged in the sky like showers of shooting stars. That was the first summer Joe saw the weeping willows, feeling his mouth gape open a little and looking up at his mother, whose face lit up with each firework. After the opening rounds faded away, a faint circle of gold shot up into the night sky, fizzing as it rose until it exploded, revealing streams of bright green light that stretched out in a circle like the petals of a flower. Joe gasped and his mother held him tighter.

“The green ones are special,” she said. “Like Tinkerbell. I’ve never seen a green firework before.” Joey laughed. “I still like the weeping willows better.” “That’s fine,” she said. “You keep the weeping willows. The green ones are mine.” His mother never saw another firework. That fall, a drunk driver crashed into her while she was out on her morning walk. Joey never saw his mother’s face again, except in pictures, which he looked at every night before bed, staring at her bright hazel eyes, her long brown hair, and her smile, willing her to reappear next to him.

The first summer after she died, Joey went to the fireworks on his own, sitting in the back against a chain link fence. The show was the same as ever, loud, bright, red, white, and blue. The weeping willows were back, too, but no greens. It was the same every year after that, variations on the same old thing, with the exception of a new pink firecracker his little sister loved. Each show began with hopeful vigilance as Joe watched and prayed to see his mother’s favorite firework, to feel closer to her in its light, but ended in bitter disappointment.

Joe stopped watching the fireworks show eventually, letting go of the magic they held for him when he was a boy, like most grownups do. He moved far away from home, went to college, got a job, got married, and had kids — a boy, Joe Jr., and a girl, Sarah, who he named after his mother.

They spent their summers in Western Michigan, running up and down the sand dunes, hiking in the woods, and swimming in Lake Michigan. When the kids started elementary school, Joe and his wife Nellie decided they were finally old enough to stay up late to enjoy the Fourth of July celebrations in the nearby beach town. They walked along crowded streets, eating ice cream and holding hands, stopping to play carnival games when the fancy struck. At sunset, Joe and his family found themselves being pulled along with the crowd toward the beach for the fireworks. Joe grabbed Sarah and hoisted her onto his shoulders so she wouldn’t get lost, and the four of them settled on a patch of cool sand near the edge of a jagged dune. Nellie held Joe, and Sarah curled up on Joe’s lap, falling asleep almost instantly as he petted her soft golden hair and pulled unruly strands out of her face and smoothing them back across the top of her head.

“It’s starting!” Joe Jr. yelled, jumping to his feet and clapping his hands in excitement. Joe looked over at him and saw his son standing next to Nellie, with one hand resting on her shoulder. On the way to the beach, Joe had felt an anxious knot in his stomach, but it loosened and disappeared when he felt his daughter’s warm little bottle curled up on his lap. Sarah started snoring softly, but when the fireworks began she startled awake and cried softly until Joe comforted her, cradling her tight against him until the whimpering stopped and she sat watching the show, just as excited as her big brother. Joe felt he’d been transported back in time — the fireworks were just as he remembered them as a boy, the same colors, the same shapes and sizes, even the same weeping willows he’d loved so much. Joe Jr. gasped at the big ones and Sarah clapped in delight at the weeping willows. In the middle of the show, during a lull between the big opening and the grand finale, a single firework rose in the night sky. “Aw, this one’s a dud,” Joe Jr. complained. But then it exploded in a burst of jade green, its sparkling tendrils trickling outward before collapsing to the ground.

“Green, daddy!” Sarah said. Joe looked down at her face as the lights flashed in the sky and saw a twinkle of amazement, the same one he imagined he’d had as a child. Sarah sat back down in his lap, and he splayed his legs in a V, propping himself up with one arm and holding his daughter tightly with the other as she leaned into him. “The green ones are special,” he said. “Like Tinkerbell.”


Why do I write? What do I write? I was asked these questions recently. The answers are simple. There are times in life when the world purely sucks. We can either wallow in self-pity or do what we must to push through the bad times. The more this story is told, the better off this world will be. Don't believe me, read on. "Nurse Tatum, I know I need to go to rehab. As soon as I get home, I will make the necessary arrangements. She glanced at my charts, shaking her head, before handing the paperwork to the hospital therapist. "You should stay here a few weeks; we could get you on the right track. Some people don't follow through, and accidents like yours change their lives forever." There was one final chiding stare into my stitched-up face before she spun around in perfect military fashion and exited the room. Days before meeting horse doctors dressed up as medical professionals, I was happy. My plans were set. I had goals, and I followed my dreams to meet those goals. I had a purpose and career and was making the most money I had ever earned working with actual medical professionals. I had personal phone numbers of Gods; well, they thought they were gods, but…they were that good. Why not allow them their delusions while they did the impossible to save lives? My work week was always more prolonged than usual. Then, there was Houston traffic to contend with. Never pray for patience, or God will put you in Houston. Once you drive fifteen or twenty miles in first gear, you learn patience or leave Houston. Vacations are meant to be a safety release valve from those ninety-minute commutes to go fifteen miles. The sky was clear and blue, with no cloud in sight. Stuck behind a driver who constantly fluctuated between exceeding the speed limit and then crawling below it, I grew concerned about his sobriety. I decided to pass him. We had two lanes in our direction, and dividing us from oncoming traffic was an esplanade. Once beside the truck, I noticed the man was eating, using both hands. Turning my attention to the road ahead as I topped the hill, a black Cadillac was headed straight toward me. Instead of being on his side of the freeway, he was on the wrong side, my side. We closed the gap at a combined speed of 110mph. I slammed on the brakes, cursed, and all hell broke loose. Time slowed as crystalline bits of the windows shattered around me. With the force of a shotgun blast, the bits of glass dug into my skin and even penetrated my body through my clothes. The steering wheel hit me full force, crushing my chest my face, and shattering my nose. When time resumed, I couldn't breathe, much less discern the status of the rest of my body. This event, my friends, is one of those times when the world seems filled with disappointment and despair. The simple act of inhaling becomes a daunting task as anxiety seizes your entire being. Through the broken window and steam plumes leaving my truck, I watched as they pulled the old man from his Cadillac. Beer cans scattered around his car as they placed him on a yellow board. Two goofy volunteers approached my truck, using an elaborate can opener to peel the door back. I could scarcely breathe through the pain as they forcefully pulled me out of the wreckage of my brand-new car. They took me to this rundown hospital that smelled musty and neglected. The ER had brown stains on the ceiling, which showed they hadn't been keeping up with disease control. As soon as I entered the ER, I could hear the faint sounds of doctors and Andy coming from behind the thin curtain. Andy was the fool in the Cadillac. The attending ER doctor was wearing a jacket emblazoned with the logo of his alma mater. The smell of beer on his breath filled the air while they cut my clothes off. Modesty in a hospital is not a trait worth having. Since the old man was behind a curtain, I was in front of two open doors leading to a hallway. People were performing a triage visible to anyone who wandered down the hall. The doctor's young PA made it seem like I was the star of the show. I couldn't do anything to fix the situation while struggling to breathe. The investigating officer was a fat, good-ole-boy who knew Andy well. They went to the same place of worship. I overheard them chatting while the cop said a prayer for him. I thought he was a super Christian who would pray for me, right? No way. He had his ticket book in hand instead of a bible. He watched as they removed my clothes. The first responders said I didn't have my seat belt on. I voiced my opposition to their observation . I took it off, thinking it was why I couldn't breathe. Nope, it wasn't. The cop's face went all sour when they ripped off the rest of my shirt and saw the big angry bruise stretching from my shoulder to my hip. The seat belt definitely messed up a lot of ribs. The cop wasn't done yet. You're guilty until proven innocent... That's how it goes when the cop and the drunk are buddies. He told the doctors to test me for every drug they could think of. The PA kept bugging me about what I took at least fifty times. They didn't give me pain meds because they didn't know what I was taking. I told them, "I wasn't on anything," that was the truth. The PA, who was really good-looking, wouldn't stop trying to bribe me with pain meds just to find out what drugs I was using for fun. I couldn't help but wonder who that old person was that they were going all out to protect. When I thought about how cute she was, I was reassured that maybe I wasn’t as bad off as I looked. What do you think? Can you envision the excruciating pain of having multiple broken ribs, a shattered nose, teeth protruding through your face, knees in disarray, and neck and back injuries that intensify with every breath, all while enduring a novel form of torture with no relief for the agony? If I sound bitter, it's because I totally am. As the glass pierced my body, it tore through my clothes, leaving behind a trail of holes. I don't know who they were, but these young people in white scrubs were trying to remove the glass from my body without any pain relief. Andy's wife showed up, standing right in front of me and giving me a stare. She gawked at my naked body and then locked eyes with me. She didn't have to say anything. She wanted to blame me, and her body language said it all. To her, I was like bubble gum from the parking lot, stuck to her new shoes. Strutting around in her fancy clothes and jewelry that would get her robbed in New York, it was obvious she thought she was better than me, a blood-spattered mess of a young person. She changed her tune pretty quickly. Sliding behind the curtain, she asked him, "What happened?" “They said I was driving on the wrong side of the road again. I don't know why, but that place on the highway always messes with my head.” "You're drunk!" She exclaimed. "Na, I only had a six-pack." “Andy, why were you driving in the first place? You said you wouldn't drink and drive if I got you another car, right?” "It was halftime, and we had no beer left." I was just going to the store to get more." "We didn't run out of beer." You were out. You need to see what you did to that young man.” “I won’t do it again; I have learned my lesson.” I heard his wife screaming loudly in the room, scolding him angrily and disappointedly for his stupid choice to drink and drive. After a few minutes, she returned to my side of the curtain. She reached out and touched my blood-spattered forehead, stroking my curly, long hair out of my face. "I am sorry, young man. After he crashed his truck, he swore he wouldn't drink and drive. I got him that Cadillac because it's bigger, so if he gets into another wreck, he might not get hurt as bad..." she said before her voice trailed off. She didn't seem to care about the consequences of enabling a drunk. I stole a peek at her face as she looked over the damage to my nakedness again. It made me feel even more awkward when she watched them work on my exposed body. It felt as though invisible chains held me in place, rendering me unable to move. The students, or whatever they were, were painstakingly extracting shards of glass. I wanted to divert her attention. "How did he wreck his truck?" I asked as blood spurted from the holes under my lips. She glanced at my face, her eyes darting away from my lower extremities. "He ran into a tree in our front yard. It was raining…" She knew the rain was another excuse. These following few sentences unfolded inexplicably, leaving me bewildered. "How is he?" I asked. As she peered into my eyes, I felt a sense of vulnerability. "His hip is bothering him, and he has a cut on his forehead." "I hope his health improves quickly. I guess the larger car worked." She clenched her jaw and nodded. Her attention shifted to the workers who were down to my midsection. She watched as they searched the blood spatter to make sure it was just spatter and not an active puncture. We were silent as one of the women working on me glanced up to see us both watching. She pulled the wool blanket up to my waist and returned to work. "I am not supposed to tell you this, but our insurance coverage is excellent." I attempted to nod, but the pain in my neck sent a sharp reminder down my spine that any movement was ill-advised. At the moment, insurance was the least of my concerns. I couldn't understand why I wasn't consumed by a raging fury; instead, a sense of tranquility washed over me. As a painful reminder of that day, I had an ugly purple stripe etched on my skin with multiple broken ribs and a cracked sternum. The reporter in the ER had tangible proof in the form of photographs. Andy went home while I remained confined to the beeping machines and antiseptic smell of the ICU for a whole week. From there, I entered a nauseatingly green-plastered room that seemed straight out of the atomic age. While I was in the ICU, I had a team of medical professionals, including dentists, a plastic surgeon, and a cardiologist, who tended to my bruised heart. Following the re-shaping of my nose, they stuffed a bundle of cotton up my nostrils to stem the flow of blood cascading down my throat. All of this happened with no meds for pain. I guess they sent my blood work to a lab in another state, which explains the delay in getting the results. On my last day there, the attending doctor asked me, "Why is your sodium low?" I glared at him. "Is that the best you got? After badgering me for days regarding what drugs I was on and not giving me anything for pain and its low sodium?" He clenched his jaw, realizing that he had put me through hell because his friend, the drunk, was looking like he was the only person at fault. He was. "Not a doctor, but I had the flu a few weeks ago. Would that cause low sodium from dehydration?" He nodded before telling me they were releasing me. Remember that even the guy who graduates at the bottom of his class in med school still earns the title of doctor. A burly orderly brought a wheelchair into my room. I winced as I heard it violently collide with both doors. I believe he thought it was cute. After suffering a head-on collision where every movement felt like daggers twisting in my chest, I suppose his humor was to make me believe the worst was over. He handed me a local paper; I was on the front page. Not Andy, nor his beer cans. It was me being extracted from my truck. "I thought you might want this as a souvenir," he said. I glanced at the paper and nodded, "Thanks." "Most people in head-on collisions like yours end up in the morgue. How is it you survived? Do you think God was at work?" I glanced at him, seeing him wearing a silver ring with a cross on it. "Possibly," I uttered. *** After years of study and work, my career was on the line. Rehab was not an option; it was a necessity. Disability insurance alone cannot cover all the expenses. Andy and I both relied on the same insurance company for coverage. Unfortunately, that little fact didn't turn out in my favor. They fought me tooth and nail on every minute detail. Even though my vehicle was brand new, I didn't receive complete reimbursement. They paid the medical bills but disputed the value of my personal belongings, claiming they were not new or that I couldn't provide proof of their newness. Who keeps receipts past a few weeks? They're usually crumpled up and tossed in the trash. The months slowly passed as I went from one doctor's office to another, desperately seeking a way to regain my mobility. Even though the ribs had healed, the haunting memories remained. There were numerous challenges, each one more complicated than the last. Any injury comes with the genuine presence of pain. Although not immediately noticeable, scar tissue can unexpectedly cause discomfort. It didn't take long after returning to the workforce to discover that the range of motion was only one small part of a larger scenario. The more I did during the day caused me immeasurable discomfort during the nighttime. All the things we take for granted come into play. Sleep is one of them. After many missed days because of the pain and inability to sleep, I had to reinvent myself. All those classes and hours spent to be an engineer flitted away like the empty beer cans around that old drunk's car. Put yourself in this situation—what would you do? I could throw my hands up in frustration and consider filing for disability. Would that amount of money be enough to cover the monthly expenses? Would I be happy? As the days turned into weeks and weeks into months, it became painfully clear that my medical needs would require greater attention. One of my doctors glanced at the X-rays and said, "I would hate to be in your body." I thought that if Stephen Hawking could do what he did, I could bloody well do more than I was . PTSD is as crippling as the rest of the physical ailments. To this day, I resist going anywhere because, in the back of my mind, there is always the next drunk or foolish person texting and driving. PTSD can rob you of your freedom if you allow it. I face the fear and force myself to do it. The moment that image of that Cadillac comes to mind, I get my keys. You must! More classes at night brought about a new career in IT. Before too many years passed, I managed many engineers at Fortune 500 companies. As I fought the excruciating pain of my vertebrae fusing together, I realized the relentless passage of time and the undeniable truth. I would need to reinvent myself once again.

Quoting my cousin, 'Never Never Ever Give Up.' I painted a portrait of him, and started over. My unwavering dedication to writing has been like a compass guiding me through the past few years. Writing is my north star. As an author, writer, and purveyor of wisdom, I am devoted to the craft that brings stories to life. I write because even my worst nightmares pale in comparison to this brutally accurate depiction of my day in hell. Andy faced no legal consequences; his friends protected him at my expense. Following losing his wife, he sought refuge in the driver's seat of an 18-wheeler. It's true . I guess he finally found a vehicle big enough to give him a fighting chance in the next driving mishap. God helped his victim. What do I write? The possibilities are endless for what I can do. The pain is no match for my determination to climb the highest mountains and sail a yacht to Australia. Despite my PTSD, when I climb in behind the yoke of a fighter jet or scuba dive into a cave or the wreck of a ship, I feel a sense of liberation. Physics doesn't hinder me as I navigate the galaxy, searching for signs of intelligent life. In my world, I can transform into any person or creature I desire. I can be playful and cheeky, or I can be gentle and compassionate. In short, writing allows me to break free from the constraints of societal norms, defying gravity and the laws of time and space. Why do I write? Because I can.


As I watch the scene unfold around me, my melancholy is felt throughout my body… or what’s left of it. I am cold, shaking in the breeze of the dancers’ movements. Pushed further and further to the side of the room as each new attendee enters. No one can see me, but I see everyone.

Shoes stick to the floor as spilled beer is danced upon. Techno music booms through the brand new stereo system. Chatter and laughter fill the air, creating an unpleasant constant battle to be heard over the music. A mix of sweat and alcohol can be smelled from every corner of the room. I look from face to face until I finally find the one I am waiting for. Cole comes in with his group of friends, the same ones he’s had since high school. His hair has grown out some and he seems to have lost a bit of weight. He and his friends walk up to the bar and order drinks, finding seats at a nearby table as they wait for the alcohol to arrive. I watch as drinks are set in front of each of them. He downed his beer in seconds flat, grabbing a waitress by the arm and telling her to keep them coming. His friends chat amongst themselves, but he sits in silence, staring off into the distance. Soon, he pulls out his phone and begins to scroll. From my position in the room, I am unable to see what he is looking at, so I decide it’s time to move in. Carefully, I drag myself toward his table, standing behind him. To my surprise, he is looking through his photos. Each time he comes across a picture of the two of us, he stops to stare for a moment then moves on. After a few minutes of this, his friends realize he is ruminating and take his phone from him, promising to return it at the end of the night. He attempts to argue for a moment, but gives up quickly. He tries his best to join the conversation after that, but from what I could see he was disinterested.

When it seemed that sitting became boring for the guys, they took to the dance floor. Cole soon made his escape to the restroom though, hands shoved deep in his pockets as he walked. I decide to follow and see what more I can find out.

In the bathroom, two men are smoking marijuana and blowing it out the window. After he uses the toilet and washes his hands, he hands the men five bucks and takes a hit from their joint. The three of them pass it back and forth for a few moments until it runs out. Cole shakes their hands and walks back to his friends, looking happier than before.

Out on the floor, a couple of his friends have found cute dance partners for the night, leaving Cole and one other alone. The friend he is standing with soon gives him a shoulder squeeze and walks away toward the exit. Apparently Cole wasn’t the only one having an unsatisfying time at the club.

After standing alone at the edge of the dance floor for a few minutes, watching the action in front of him, he begins to head toward the door as well. I quickly follow, making sure not to miss any of the action. Just as he is about to push the door open, a girl runs up and introduces herself. She had been watching him all night and just knew they had to meet. He seems uncaring about the girl, but they walk outside together. He was always a big fan of the outdoors, breathing in crisp cold winter air and watching his breath turn to clouds. They sit down on a bench near the club and she does her best to charm him with her bubbly personality. It doesn’t seem to work though, because that’s not what he likes.

He likes a girl who is real. Someone down to earth - not afraid to get muddy, jump in lakes from tall cliffs, watch documentaries, read books, cook and eat exotic cuisines. The list could go on and on. The girl we were both looking at checked her phone at least five times in the few minutes that they were talking. He would never be happy with someone like her. I guess it’s curious how I could know all of this, the only clue provided so far being the pictures of us on his phone. We were in love. It was the greatest romance that ever was. At least it felt that way to us. We met freshman year of college. We both majored in environmental studies and were partnered up to do a project on air pollution. After working many hours together to produce the perfect presentation, we realized we wanted to spend more time together. So, we began dating.

Immediately, we hit it off as something more and never looked back. After senior year was over, we planned to move into our first apartment, preparing to spend the rest of our lives together. We had so many things we wanted to do. We were going to parasail above Hawaii and go safariing in Kenya. There were cruises to take, ghost tours to attend, horrible roadside attractions to see… we wanted to do it all! During our final semester, I began to feel very sick and went to see the doctor. After many tests were run, I was diagnosed with osteosarcoma… bone cancer. I spent months in the hospital and Cole was there for it all. He loved me and that’s all that mattered. That was until the amputation. When I needed my arm to be removed because the tumor was not responding to radiation treatment, Cole said he would never be able to look at me the same. I told him he should go then, so he could still have the image of the girl he fell in love with in his head. I never thought he would leave, but he did. I cried more tears about his going than I ever cried about cancer. I thought we were forever.

The next day, my right arm was amputated, but complications ensued. Before anyone was ready for goodbye, I was gone. My parents cried for what seemed like an eternity and when they called Cole, the most heart wrenching scream blasted through the phone. This was it. At age twenty-two my life was over before it ever had a chance to begin.

“I’m sorry, Addie. I’m sorry.” Cole spoke into my voicemail box after the girl finally left him alone. “I just want to go back. I would love you without any limbs. I need you. How am I ever going to love again? I wish it was me.” Then he hung up. He put his phone in his pocket and began to walk home, to what was going to be our apartment. I couldn’t follow him. It wasn’t my place anymore. He needed to grieve alone. I didn’t know if he could tell I was there, but I knew and that was enough. He was going home and so was I, but those places would never be the same.


“We have to stay the whole night,” Mr. X said with the determination of a contestant on Survivor. “The whole night!” Mr. Y protested. “Not the whole night! I haven’t agreed to this!” “Well, we’re already here, so you might as well try it.” Mr. X shrugged. “It’s so-o-o boring!” Mr. Y continued to behave like a little child tugging at his parent’s sleeve five minutes after they’ve arrived at an adult gathering. “C’mon! It might be fun. You never know.” Mr. X dialed up the optimism. “You’re crazy, man,” Mr. Y shook his head. “What are we supposed to do the entire night? Not a single soul here but us. Told’ya it’s not a good day to visit. We might’ve waited until the night of Halloween at least. There could’ve been spooky parties taking place. Kids in terrifying costumes…” His thought drifted off for a bit before his eyes lit up. “That could have been FUN!” Mr. X looked around. He had to admit his friend was right. The night was unusually calm. Time seemed almost still; not even a whiff of breeze could be felt. He bet that if it wasn’t for the pleasant chirping of crickets, he might be able to hear the grass growing. The wide green field before them was looking quite peaceful under the generously cast silver moonlight. There was nothing sinister about the gravestones and family mausoleums. At best, the angel statues looked like the perfect museum exhibit of gothic art. At worst, the simple headstones resembled badly chiseled garden gnomes. “Yeah, you’re right. Nothing much going around here, huh?” Mr. X sighed. “But that's kind of the point. To see what a graveyard looks like on an ordinary night.” “So? We saw it,” Mr. Y crossed his arms in front of his chest, “and I was right. We haven’t lost anything by not coming here.” “But don’t you want to get a sense of what it’s like to hang around?” Mr. X asked. “That’s supposed to be every person’s final resting place. I wonder who came up with the idea of burying the dead together. In ancient times all you needed was to dig a hole wherever and there you go – a grave! People did it in their own back yard. Must be hell of a lot cheaper.” “Who came up with the idea? Not a very creative person, I’d tell you that much.” Mr. Y snorted. “They didn’t understand anything about design. Rows and rows of the same granite stones, and if you’re lucky your family might get you a statue or two. But always angels. Or mostly angels. God forbid they did something original. Let me know, if you see anything different. Although, I highly doubt it.” “See, there’s one.” Mr. X pointed to a bigger tombstone on their right. There was a tall figure leaning over the grave – its face hidden under the hood of a long robe, its right hand armed with a scythe. “Death? Really?” Mr. Y was unimpressed. “How innovative! Are they seriously still doing him with a robe and scythe? More like a Versace suit and custom-made Rolex. Ah, some people seem to be stuck in the prehistoric era still.” He approached the statue and peeked under its hood. “Yea-a-ah, they hadn’t even bothered to give him facial features. Not even a skull. See, the stone below is completely round.” He stuck his finger into the space where Death’s face was supposed to be. “I bet he won’t be too happy about it.” “How do you know he won’t like it?” Mr. X turned to his friend. “Ancient superstitions are a classical choice. They never get out of fashion.” “Just a hunch.” The friend replied. “Nowadays Death is a stylish guy. He doesn’t strike me as someone who’d go back to wearing the trashy robes he used during the bubonic plague.” “OK.” Mr. X nodded thoughtfully. “Let’s say you’re right. What would you do differently?” “At a graveyard?” Mr. Y’s rhetorical question propelled him into a monologue. “Let’s see. For starters, I don’t like the colors. So dull. Gray on green. And come winter – gray on gray.” He rolled his eyes. “Why not red, orange, and yellow? Combined with black. Yeah! That would be a cool look for a graveyard. And no more identical headstones. How the hell are you supposed to remember or distinguish which one is yours? I think everyone should do with their plot whatever they think fits best. Ideally, it has to be something the person resting there enjoyed while they were alive. Like, I would’ve loved for mine to be occupied by a bar, and a poker table. Could you imagine? Endless games and booze. That’s the life… or, well, death.” Mr. Y paused to enjoy the dreamy sequence in his head. “And yours? What should yours be like? I’d say a Ferrari. A big red-ass Ferrari, ain’t that right? If you want, you could throw in a Ducati by its side.” “Really?” Mr. X was surprised. “You want your grave to remind you of the guy that shot you at the casino?” “Ah, that’s water under the bridge.” Mr. Y waved his arm dismissively. “Besides, he can’t shoot me twice, can he?” “Well, you’re wrong about me.” Mr. X threw him a stern look. “Being reminded of the car crash for eternity is the last thing I’d go for. I was a dumb piece of shit that believed he was invincible. Now I know there are other things, things worth living for… But it’s too late.” “OK.” Mr. Y conceded. “What would you have then?” “I think graveyards should be made more appealing and fun for the living. People tend to bury their kin and then they forget about them. Oh, to be sure, they do visit from time to time. But those visits start spreading farther and farther across time, until eventually they stop altogether.” He lifted his index finger like a teacher explaining a very important lesson. “Now, imagine if they were more like an amusement park, or if a fair was taking place every week – raffles, and camel racing, and the like. I bet that Lynn and Tyler would visit me then… And I wouldn’t have to hang around the house so much.” “See, that’s what I’ve been telling you.” Mr. Y livened up. “Graveyards are boring. That’s why no one stays here. Hell, I didn’t even come for my own funeral. I found it too depressing.” He continued. “It’s far better at the house with my ma. Watching evening game shows and stuff. Sometimes I think she knows I’m there. Makes her feel calm.” He turned back to his companion. “You don’t want to be around your folks no more? I thought you liked it in your old place.” “Well… Lynn has been seeing this guy for a while now.” Mr. X let out a heavy sigh. “Things are getting serious, and Tyler is growing up. They hardly ever speak about me anymore.” “I’m sorry, man! I didn’t know.” He tried to emulate a pat on the back when suddenly something in his peripheral vision caught his attention. “Whoa! Yes! There it is! I can’t believe it!” Mr. Y directed himself to a nearby gravestone, his smile getting wider and wider. The piece of grey granite itself wasn’t anything spectacular, but one could easily see that its borders were decorated with playing card symbols – hearts, clubs, spades, and diamonds. “It’s not a poker table, but it looks like your ma knows you quite well.” Mr. X smiled. “She does, she does…” Mr. Y’s voice started to tremble a bit. “Man, I didn’t expect to get that emotional. I thought being dead for years kind of roots this out of you.” He tried to compose himself. “Let’s look for yours. It should be around here somewhere.” The two friends kept perusing the headstones until finally Mr. X stopped in front of a white marble one with black veins. The inscription read: Xander Reed (1985 – 2017) Beloved husband and father He stood completely still, facing his grave. After keeping silent for a few seconds, he spoke. “I don’t know what I expected.” There seemed to be a hint of disappointment in his voice. “It’s short and sweet. But they hadn’t even bothered with an original epitaph.” Mr. X started to walk away, “You were right. This isn’t fun– “ He had barely made half a turn, when his friend stopped him. “Hey! Wait! There seems to be something there. Do you see it?” Tucked between the headstone and the marble flower vase next to it was what seemed like a handwritten note placed in a transparent sheet protector. Mr. X wasn’t keen on using his psychokinetic abilities, but this time curiosity got the best of him. He locked his eyes on the note and concentrated. At first nothing happened, but after a few seconds the sheet of paper started to shake violently like a scared bird trapped in a cage. Suddenly it flew out of its hiding place just to end up flat on top of the grave. The spotlight cast by the Moon revealed a messy handwriting done in blue crayon. HI, DAD. I HOPE YOUR GOOD IN HEAVEN WITH GRANNY. SAY HI TO HER FROM ME. I’M OK. YESTERDAY I SCORED MY FIRST GOAL IN LITTLE LEAGUE. I WISH YOU WERE THERE TO SEE IT. MIKE SAID TO WRITE YOU ABOUT IT. HE HELPS ME PRACTICE AND HELPS MOM AROUND THE HOUSE TOO. HE’S NICE. I JUST MISS YOU. A LOT. I’LL WRITE AGAIN. PLEASE WRITE BACK IF YOU CAN. I LOVE YOU DAD The two shadows in the graveyard couldn’t produce tears, but the air around their faces started to glow as if filled with dozens of fireflies. It was Mr. Y that broke the silence, “I thought you said they didn’t mention you anymore. You seem to be mistaken, my friend.” He grinned. “I hate to admit it, but you were right to make us come here. The place might not be my style, but now I know its purpose – it’s a communication hub between the living and the dead. And the living do visit. At least, until both sides still need the connection.” “Yes–“ Mr. X said thoughtfully. “You know, I will start coming round more. I think I might be getting some new mail soon.”


STORY CONTAINS SOME DEPICTION OF VIOLENCE, MENTAL HEALTH, PROFANITY, DARK HUMOR ASHLEY SHAFER The Cost of Healing Others Here we go again. It’s freaking 2:30 a.m. in the morning. I begrudgingly get out of my bed, taking off my comfy work shorts (honestly, they’re like basketball shorts), slide on my pants with its many pockets, and quickly shove my feet into my black boots. My boots have laces like normal work boots, but these also have a zipper on the side. It’s really nice when you’re barely awake and rushing to get out the door. I go to the bay. The bay is where our firetrucks and ambulances reside.            My best friend got me into this job. I never thought I would ever find my calling, but then he invited me to come hang with him at the firehouse. I got to talkin’ with an older guy, a veteran in the service, really. He’d been in the fire/EMS service for 40 years. Talking to him that night, I just knew that this was going to be the job that I would be in for the rest of my life.            I jump into the passenger seat of the ambulance and pick up the tablet from its dock that sits in the center of the dashboard. I look to see what the call is for. The dispatch notes say: F 73YO CHEST PAIN FEELING SICK AND IS ALONE Under that is the address, dispatch identifying number, and time of dispatch sent out. I look at my partner, Garner, at the same time he looks at me. We don’t even have to say anything, our expressions, mood, and eyes all say the same thing. We’re really fucking tired, and this is another bullshit call.            “Seventy-three-year-old and the 970 address, that’s Rose ain’t it?” I ask Jack. In the firefighter world, it can be like the military in how we talk to each other. Everyone calls each other by their last name, it’s just a thing. Don’t ask me why though, ‘cause who the hell knows.            “Yep. What a great fucking time, amiright?” Garner sarcastically replies. We drive to the house in silence. Most people are zombies in the morning without some type of caffeine flowing through their bloodstream. Let’s just say, us firefighters and EMS run on caffeine. It’s pretty much how we survive.            Arriving to the house, I get out of the ambulance and take the tablet with me because I know she’s going to refuse going to the hospital and Garner grabs some things from the back of the ambulance. We walk in and it smells like it always does, cat piss and baby powder. Everything in the house seems to have a layer of grime.            We greet her, take some vitals, ask some questions. Same thing every time. And every single time it is the same outcome, the same diagnosis: she just wants someone to talk to. After talking to her for 45 minutes, we leave and get back to the firehouse around 3:30 a.m. I take my boots off and strip off my work pants, putting my comfy shorts back on. I blissfully fall back asleep. We don’t have another run for the rest of my shift. .          .          .          .          . Four years earlier:            “So, how’s your first two weeks been?” Tyler asks me. “I think I finally found my job, my calling, man” I answer, grinning. We’re sitting outside on his back patio, drinking cold beers, country music playing in the background. “I told you you’d love it” Tyler says to me, with a smug look on his face.            “After talking with that guy, umm..” I blank, forgetting his name. “Deets” Tyler tells me.            “Yeah. Deets. He had so many stories. Him just explaining his time in the fire service was pretty interesting."            “So, how is Ellie doing? Hunter is the cutest baby around. You’re gonna have your hands full for a while” Tyler says. Ellie, my sweet, kind, and selfless wife just gave birth to our son, Hunter. He’s 3 months old and the cutest little guy. He had a full head of light blonde hair when he was born. He’s got his momma’s hazel eyes and little cute nose. He has my full lips, and a little freckle here and there sprinkled along his cheeks and nose. His cheeks are a little chubby, the same as his mama when she was born. He has a long torso and legs. Ellie’s only 5’1 in height. I’m 6’5 in height, fit but not ripped, black hair, brown eyes, black glasses. Tanned arms, or t-shirt tanned arms, and the rest of me is as white as can be. Ellie’s white but she has a nice, light tan every summer.            “She’s doing okay. She’s still sore but her c-section is healing nicely. It still blows my mind that Hunter was nine pounds and six ounces when he was born. He’s got those long legs” I say, drinking a big swig of beer from the bottle. “What sucks the most is I know I’m going to be away from home a lot and it will be just her. I know we can ask friends and family for help, but y’see, when your kid is first born, everyone is all ‘call us if you need help’ and ‘I can take care of him so you can have a break’, but ninety percent of the time it’s all BS. I know they mean well and it’s a gesture of kindness but that’s all it is. They don’t actually expect to help. ‘Cause I know if we asked for the help that we’ll actually need, it’s gonna be ‘I can’t today’ and stuff like that.” Tyler looks down at his bottle of beer, nodding his head and agreeing. It’s quiet for a moment. I look up at the sky, staring at the red and pink hues of color from the sun setting.            Tyler clears his throat and looks at me. “You know I would help you every time you asked, right? You know I would drop everything for you?’ he asks, but it sounds more like a statement.            I grin, “of course. You’re my best friend.”            “Shiiiitttt- “he says, dragging the word out. “Look at us getting all mushy and cute. I’d touch that booty anytime” he says, starting to laugh. I hear the sliding door to the patio open and we both turn to see Ellie and Cassie, who is Tyler’s wife, coming out to the patio.            “What are you two laughing about?” Ellie asks playfully. Before I can get a word out, Tyler says “butt stuff with my boyfriend.” Ellie and Cassie both shake their head at the same time, smiling at how ridiculous Tyler and I are. “Well, lovebirds, dinner is ready” Ellie tells us. She comes over to my patio chair and kisses me deeply on the lips. I love her kisses, just can’t get enough of em’. Cassie takes Tyler’s hand, and he stands up. We all walk into the house for dinner. Six months later            “Honey, I can’t do anything about it. You know that! I am sorry that I got forced overtime but being the new probie, I’m at the bottom. I don’t get priority, and I don’t get to choose.” Being a probie in the fire service basically means you’re the new guy. You get all the crap no one else wants to do or deal with. At the Forte Fire Department, there’s a list of names. If you’re at the bottom of that list, you’re the first person forced to work overtime. Once you do work that overtime shift, your name moves to the top of the list. But being the new guy, that list doesn’t really matter. At least for the first year of being at the fire department, anyway.            I don’t like arguing or fighting with Ellie. We hardly ever fight. I think we’ve only fought or argued like this 3 or maybe 4 times since being together for five years. We’re a pretty healthy couple. We communicate with each other very well and we trust each other. It amazes me how a lot of couples don’t communicate in their relationships. Right now, I’m being forced overtime for Thanksgiving. I don’t have a choice. Ellie is very upset with me about it, which is fair. I can’t do anything about it, though. They call it forced for a reason.            “I told all of our family that you would be there, that we all would be there! We had this planned out! We were going to go to your parents’ house tomorrow and spend Thanksgiving with your family. Then the day after, we go to my family’s Thanksgiving dinner” she says, her voice becoming angrier and more hysterical. “I know what we had planned. You don’t have to remind me. I can not do anything about it” I say slowly, hoping that she will calm down and understand what I’m telling her.            “I don’t want to go by myself. I already have major anxiety around big groups of people, whether they’re family or not. I don’t want to deal with the anxiety of having both of our family’s’ judging faces with how I take care of Hunter. I get overstimulated so easy. Honestly, if you work, I might just stay home instead of putting myself through that stress.” I can see tears forming in her eyes as she tells me this. Whenever she’s angry she cries. She hates that about herself.            We’re standing in the kitchen, me leaned up against the counter and Ellie in the middle of the kitchen floor. I stand up, pulling her into my arms and she wraps her arms around me. She puts her head against my chest. I can smell her floral shampoo and her Coach perfume that I got her. “I know, baby. I know. I love you so much. If I could do something about it, you know I would have already. Being the new guy sucks. But we’re getting closer to the year mark and soon I won’t be the new guy anymore” I say. She makes a big sigh sound. I pull her back a little so I can see her face, still holding her. She looks up at me. “You are the most beautiful woman and the best mother in the world. I love you, Ellie” I compliment her, admiring my messy haired wife.            She smiles softly, pulling me down to her by the back of my neck so she can kiss me. We passionately kiss for what feels like forever. I know this won’t be the last time that something like this situation happens again, and that sucks. It really, fucking sucks. ⁕         ⁕         ⁕            It’s been almost two years since the Thanksgiving disaster. I’ve missed birthdays, events, holidays all throughout the passing time. Off and on, mild arguments have taken place. At least Ellie understands now nothing can be done about forced OT (overtime) and me picking up shifts for extra money. When I started my fire/ems journey, I was young and filled with fire and I was so excited to experience everything this job had to offer. I still love my job, even on the shittiest days. What I wasn’t ready for is the sacrifices and the things that this job takes away from you. I wasn’t ready for how this job can affect your life in all types of different ways.            From home life to mental health, it takes a big bite out of you. Five weeks ago, there was a shooting. Four people dead and 6 more injured. It was a freaking birthday party for a teen girl. She was turning 17 years old. She won’t be seeing 18… ever. I can’t really talk about all of the details because HIPAA. Which, that’s basically a medical law/policy. You can’t talk about patients or about any of their personal information. But basically, birthday girl, what we’ll call her, had broken up with her boyfriend. But she had a new boyfriend. I guess ex-boyfriend, who was the shooter, didn’t like that. Obviously, because he went into the house while the birthday party was going on and just started shooting.            I wasn’t the one dispatched to that tragic call but a colleague at a different station had been. Being dispatched to call like that can mess with your head. Or a better-known term: PTSD. When us firefighters and EMS go to bad calls like this one, it can stay with us. We can be traumatized by the horrors we see. At least mental health is recognized among our line of work now. After that night the call happened, our city fire departments had debriefed with all shifts at all stations. After a bad call, we all come together to talk about it. We go over the resources available to us again.            I knew when starting this line of work, there was the possibility of bad calls and bad days, but it never put me off. I love helping people and I still love this job. TODAY            I wake up, my alarm going off. I grab my phone, hitting the X on the screen to stop the alarm. I get out of bed, stretching as I stand up. I yawn, still a little bit tired. ‘I need coffee’ I think to myself. I take off my work shorts, put them in my thin locker that is against the wall at the end of my bed. There are 3 more lockers that are like mine, beige, thin, names taped above the doors. They’re all attached together like you would see at a school. The lockers go from top to bottom, long. I put my shorts on the little shelf at the top inside the locker. I slip on my work pants, dark navy blue, and pull on my tennis shoes. I put my boots inside my locker at the bottom. I like to leave my boots at work because even though I clean them after a gross run, whether it be blood, vomit, or someone’s feces (yeah, that happens), I don’t like to take them home with me. I don’t want to bring that gross shit home to my wife and son.            I pack up my bedding and other stuff like toiletries and things I take to work. There’s a lot of us and not a whole lot of beds, so you bring your own bedding and make your bed when you get to work in the morning. I work every third day, and shifts are 24 hours. I walk out of the bunk room and into the kitchen. I fill my stainless-steel cup, that I take with me to work, with coffee that’s already been made by one of the other guys or Mason, the one girl on my shift. “Morning” Mason says, filling her own personal cup with coffee.            “Morning” I mumble, still not fully awake. The living room, dining table, and kitchen are basically in one big open room. Garner sets his stuff down against one of the walls. Guys from the oncoming shift are just arriving, thirty minutes before the shift start time. Everyone always shows up 30 minutes before their shift so a debrief about calls and information can be passed from the last shift to the new shift. We always talk about different things like the runs we had the day before or that morning, what supplies need refilled on the ambulance or firetruck, fire department information that the new shift needs to know, etc.            I look at Garner, taking a sip of my coffee, burning my tongue but not caring. “Don’t you look beautiful” I joke, Garner’s hair a mess. “Oh, thanks babe, it’s my new style” Garner replies, smirking. We both chuckle.            “Man, two weeks of no work. I bet you’re excited to have some vacation time. Don’t forget to cuddle your pillow and think of me” Garner says. I laugh and tell him “don’t worry I will.”            “But for real, enjoy that time with the wife and kid. Everyone needs a good break after a while. It’s hard enough being away from family as is” he says, looking more serious.            “I know. Trust me, I know.” We all debrief the oncoming shift, sit around for a minute and talk, then we all leave to go home. I arrive home, parking the car in the driveway. I leave my bedding and other work stuff in the trunk of our blue 2021 Honda Civic for now. I walk to the front door and step inside the house and as soon as I’m inside, Ellie comes to me, grabs me, and pulls me into a hug. I hold her as she holds me. “Good morning, baby” I greet her. She looks up at me, a small smile playing on her lips. “Good morning. I missed you” she confesses.            “I always miss you. C’mon, let’s cuddle on the couch for a little bit before getting up and doing stuff today” I tell her, taking her hand and leading her to the couch. She tucks her head under my chin, laying on my chest. We pick a movie from one of our streaming services that we pay for and settle in. Neither of us say a word, blissfully happy, Hunter still asleep. I smell her shampoo, like her own personal scent. I love it. It’s moments like this one, right here, that matter the most. Because not every day is promised, and the time that we get together is made more special because of my line of work. I love these moments. I smile to myself, happy with how my life has turned out. I have my dream job, the love of my life, and my amazing son. It’s funny how you assume or think that one thing is going to look and be a certain way, but it ends up being like nothing you imagined and surprising you even more.


Jamie slithered her hands inside the cushioned gloves, wondering how many other people had stuffed their sweaty fists inside these faded leather mitts. As she flexed her fingers, she felt the heft of the boxing gloves and stretchy tautness of the wraps wound in intricate loops around her knuckles and wrists. She took a deep breath, trying to calm the butterflies fluttering in her stomach, but the lycra workout top she’d donned for this evening suddenly felt as tight as a straight jacket. Her underarms wept with perspiration. She should have peed. Jamie’s pulse quickened when Shannon slapped on her own gloves and tightened her wrist straps like she was donning battle armor. Attired in black compression shorts and a red racer-back top, her instructor looked like a superhero ready to kick some serious ass. The look was complete when she stepped toward the heavy bag and lifted her fists to her chin. Jamie had just met Shannon a few days ago while jogging through the neighborhood and nearly tripped over her as she hauled a sandwich board sign onto the sidewalk. Chagrined, she stopped to apologize but couldn’t hear her own words over the Beyonce anthem blasting through her earbuds. The broad-shouldered, blonde-haired woman just smiled and gestured toward the placard. The Upper Cut New Member Special “We’re running a special for new members. Think you might be interested in kickboxing?” Absolutely not. Her older brother Justin had loved televised MMA fights when they were teenagers. Once, when she was watching American Idol in the family den, he snatched the remote control from her hand, flipping the channel from a glittery Jordin Sparks delivering a glorious solo performance to a brutal cage match between two bare-chested men roiled in violent combat on a blood-spattered canvas. “Um, I don’t know. I’m not into… uh… contact sports.” Shannon laughed. Her gray-blue eyes possessed a spritely quality and her face radiated with a healthy glow. “Don’t worry, no one’s gonna punch you, but you’ll get a great workout.” Intrigued, Jamie had shown up for tonight’s kickboxing class. “Ok, so this is a jab.” Shannon threw a left-handed punch at the bag. A kaleidoscopic swirl of tattoos cascaded down her sinewy arm. "And this is a cross." She pivoted and struck the bag with a hard right. “You wanna focus on striking the bag with your first two knuckles.” She pounded the bag with four rapid punches, causing it to sway jerkily from its metal chain. “Now, you try.” As soon as Jamie positioned herself in front of the bag, Shannon’s simple instructions evaporated from her mind. When she angled her elbows and raised her mitts, a loose strand of hair tickled her forehead. She reached up to brush it away but ended up thumping her face with the back of her glove. For a moment, she was ten years old again and Justin was laughing at her after he’d bounced a Nerf football off her forehead. Jamie lowered her gloves and swallowed hard, bracing for a stifled snicker or teasing comment. “Oh, I’ve done that too,” Shannon said. Jamie took a deep breath then pitched her shoulders back. She positioned herself in accordance with Shannon’s instructions, then threw a jab, feeling the knuckles of her left hand press into the thick cushioning of her glove. It was a weak punch, though, not even strong enough to cause the bag to budge. Shannon stepped in front of her and corrected her stance, nudging her right hip into the proper position. Jamie wobbled and took a step back. "You wanna put your weight into it." Shannon threw a set of jabs at the heavy bag, each strike landing like a jackhammer. A frenetic Lady Gaga song reverberated through the overhead speakers, the thumping bass matching the rhythm of Shannon’s punches. Pow. Pow. Pow. The bag bobbed and swayed. Jamie lifted her gloves to her chin and reset in her fighter’s stance. This time, she drove her fist into the bag and it landed with a satisfying thud. “That’s it! Hit it again!” Shannon urged. Jamie cocked her fist under her chin. It felt strangely satisfying, like some kind of primal release when she smacked her gloved fist into the bag. She reset and threw a series of jabs, aiming for the wrinkled leather crease just below the gym logo. “Now, throw a cross with your right hand.” Imagining herself as some kind of superheroine about to deliver the knockout blow to her arch nemesis, Jamie drew her right elbow behind her ear like she was pulling back the elastic strap on a slingshot. “That’s a good way to hurt your shoulder,” Shannon cautioned. “Keep your elbows tucked in. The power comes from your lower body.” Jamie lowered her gloves and repositioned her feet. So much for Supergirl. She tucked her elbows by her ribcage, then fired her right fist at the bag. It landed with a satisfying thwack. “Again,” Shannon instructed. Jamie threw another punch, pivoting on her back foot and turning her hips as she extended her right arm. She smiled when the bag swayed. “Now put the combination together like this.” Shannon’s muscular arms churned like pistons as she hammered the bag with alternating fists. Jamie watched, mesmerized by the blonde-haired woman who pummeled the bag like some kind of Valkyrie warrior. When it was Jamie’s turn, she attempted to emulate Shannon’s rhythmic display of power, but her punches were slow and awkward. Just like her softball throw when she played right field for one long season in ninth grade. “You throw like a girl,” Justin teased after her first game. She’d misplayed a fly ball in the outfield then shorted the throw to second base. Shannon stepped in front of her again. “Don’t overthink it. Just let your body move naturally.” Jamie felt a blush rise in her cheeks and tried to hide it by lifting her gloves to either side of her face. She stepped up to the bag, then threw a jab with her left hand, quickly followed by a cross with her right. “Nice,” Shannon said with a grin. “Now let's try a hook.” Jamie furrowed her brow, not entirely sure what a hook was or how to execute one. Shannon demonstrated the punch with a smooth, fluid motion that made it look effortless. “Give it a shot,” Shannon said, stepping back to give her some space. Jamie took a deep breath, angled her left elbow, and threw a hook, feeling the power of the punch as it connected with the bag. "Good job!" Shannon praised her. "Now let's try it again but put some more weight into it this time." Jamie nodded, determined to do better. She set herself up in front of the bag once more, and this time put all the force she could muster into her punches. Sweat trickled down her forehead as she attacked the bag with a furious left-right-left flurry. “That’s it!” Shannon encouraged. “Keep going.” Jamie threw another combination, feeling more confident with each punch. She was no longer thinking about each individual movement but allowing her body to move more naturally. For someone who had never thrown a punch in her life, she was enjoying the satisfying thuds that her glove made with each hit. “That was great,” Shannon said, tapping her cherry-red gloves against Jamie’s faded black mitts. As Jamie dropped her shoulders and shook out her arms, she caught a glimpse of herself in the reflection of the window. Her face looked as pink as a pencil eraser and unruly strands of dark brown hair curled against her forehead. Her pale, willowy arms hung by her sides, a startling contrast to Shannon’s taut musculature and colorfully inked flesh. “Alright everyone, let’s get started!” Shannon shouted, clapping her hands together. As the class of eager students gathered around their instructor, Jamie felt a nervous twinge. They must have been watching her solo workout with Shannon. What were they thinking? That she showed promise? That she looked pathetic? She’d never considered herself much of an athlete. That was her brother’s domain. "Let's welcome Jamie, our newest student, to The Upper Cut!" said Shannon as she wrapped her arm around her shoulder and gave it a firm squeeze. The students clapped and offered Jamie high-fives, their boisterous welcome boosting her confidence. She also enjoyed the comforting sensation of Shannon's strong arm enveloping her upper body. "We're going to start with some basic drills," Shannon explained, her voice carrying easily over the chatter in the gym. "First up, I want you all to practice your jabs. Remember, keep your elbows tucked in." Jamie stepped forward and lifted her gloves, focusing on the bag in front of her. She drew her arm back, then threw a quick jab, feeling the satisfying thud as her glove made contact with the bag. As she continued to practice, she felt more at ease. The nervousness that had gripped her earlier was fading away, replaced by a growing sense of confidence. Shannon moved among the students, correcting their form and offering encouragement. As the class went on, Jamie stole glances at her instructor, hoping she would return to her side and give her more pointers. When Shannon stopped at the bag beside Jamie's to adjust the woman's form, Jamie punched her own bag with renewed energy. “All right, everyone,” Shannon called out to the class. “Time for partner drills.” Jamie's heart rate spiked. It was one thing to practice her combinations on the bag. Now, she needed to do it with another human being. As the other students began to pair up, Jamie scanned the room for a partner. It was like she was back in middle school gym class, waiting anxiously to be picked for a team. Please don’t let me be the last one. She could hear her brother snickering. "Need a partner?" Jamie turned to face a middle-aged Hispanic woman with the taut physique of a gymnast. "Yeah," answered Jamie, shifting her weight from foot to foot. As Shannon called out the drill, Jamie and her partner took turns throwing punches and blocking them. At first, Jamie was hesitant, worried that she might hit her partner too hard or miss entirely. But as they continued, Jamie's confidence grew. She found that she could trust her partner, and that they moved together with a certain grace and synchronicity. At the end of class, she peeled off her gloves and grabbed her water bottle, feeling both exhausted and exhilarated. As she gulped down the last ounce of water in the plastic container, Shannon strode across the gym with a gleeful smile. "You did great today!” She patted Jamie on the back, making her heart skip a beat. "Thanks. I really enjoyed it.” "I knew you would! Will I see you at my next class on Thursday?" Jamie pretended to swig more water from her empty bottle, trying to buy some time as she considered how to respond to Shannon's invitation. She'd considered herself fit, but tonight’s class had kicked her ass. An hour later, she clomped up the three flights of stairs to her condo, feeling like cinderblocks were attached to the soles of her feet. She was going to take a hot shower then chill with a cold glass of wine, but as she dropped her gym bag on the floor, her cell phone buzzed. Justin had called and left a message. What did he want this time? She took a deep breath, steeling herself to hear her brother's voice, but the level of anger in his terse message unsettled her:

Call me back when you get this message. I need to speak to you. Jamie had left small-town life in Sidney, Illinois a decade year ago when she accepted a full academic scholarship to attend the University of Chicago. There was only reason that she ever returned to Sidney. To see her precocious niece Katie and check in with her sister-in-law Laura, who was like the sister she’d never had growing up. "Hey, what's going on?" Jamie asked, trying to sound calm. "It's Laura," Justin said, his voice choking with rage. "She's been hit by a car." "Oh, my god!" Jamie felt like she’d been punched in the stomach. "I'm at the hospital right now. They've got her in intensive care." A wave of fear and anxiety rushed over her again as she remembered her little niece. "Was Katie with her?" "No," Justin growled. Jamie exhaled and sank back into the sofa cushion as she realized Katie had not been injured. "What happened?" Justin breathed noisily into the phone. "I'd dropped her and Katie off at the soccer field on my way to work. Apparently Laura decided to walk over to Starbucks to get some coffee while Katie was warming up for the game. That's when some asshole ran the red light and slammed right into her. I will sue his ass!" Jamie could hardly believe what she was hearing. Her mind was spinning as she tried to process the news. "Is Laura gonna be okay?" "They don't know yet." Muffled voices and intermittent beeping competed with Justin's response. What was Laura going through right now? Was she conscious? Was she in pain? Laura had developed an Oxy addiction after being prescribed the drug for her recurrent back pain. While she'd been in recovery for several years now, Jamie worried that her sister-in-law would again receive heavy-duty opioids for her pain.  "She's in rough shape. They had to operate on her leg, and she has a few broken ribs. Gonna be in the hospital for a while.” Justin sighed. “And you know what that means." Jamie felt her heart sink. "What?" "The medical bills are gonna cost me a fortune!" Was her brother really more concerned about his bank account that his injured wife? Jamie's stomach churned. Her brother was too proud to ask for financial assistance, but he would find other ways to extract what he needed from her. She pushed the thought aside, reminding herself that this wasn't about money. It wasn't even about Justin. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.” "The doctor's calling me," Justin grumbled. "I gotta go." “Wait!" Jamie called out, a familiar dread nestling into the pit of her stomach, but the line was already dead.


"Hey, are you ok?" I rested my hand on her shoulder, tapping my fingers lightly.

Arin looked back to me, still fingering her fated weapon.

"As good as I'll ever be," she sighed, returning her attention to her sword. I returned a light smile, though she didn’t notice.

Her eyes ran up and down the dark bronze blade, falling into every small nick and imperfection.

She'd been given the sword the day she turned eighteen, told it was the only way to save the world.

Arin was a hero inscribed in fate, prophesied with her sword in hand.

Dread bubbled up in my chest as I grounded myself.

We were at the final step, the last line of the prophecy.

As if she read my mind, Arin mumbled under her breath, "And in the dusk of Autumn's death, the sword shall be plunged into the burdened spirit, striking the counted clock." The air around us felt still, though we were still leaning on the inn's outer, wooden wall.

We'd arrived in town the previous night, though it was still two miles out from the Spirit grove.

"And we still don't know what the 'counted clock' is either?"

I broke the silence, finally pertant enough for Arin to sheath her sword.

"It might make sense when we get there," Arin shrugged, before kicking the dirt at her feet.

"Hopefully." "Well, did you talk to Carlow about it?" I asked, trying to keep her from growing silent again.

Arin blushed, glancing from me to the inn behind us.

"I mean, we've all talked about it already.

But, yeah, they don't know either." "I though they were supposed to be the smart one," I joked, raising an eyebrow as Arin smiled slightly.

"I mean, they're the one who figured out the Spirit grove thing." Arin nodded, answering solemnly, "Of course they're a genius, we wouldn't have lasted a day without them.

But, their injury hasn't been kind to them..." her voice trailed off as she turned her body around to face the inn.

She stroked a hand on the wood siding, looking up and trying to find the window of the room we'd booked, the room where we'd left Carlow.

Chills ran down my spine as I remembered Carlow's injury.

I'd been the one to help them when it happened, when their leg was torn all but to the bone by the wolves, a few days prior.

Their leg was bloodied and mauled, so much so that they were unable to walk.

Carlow'd lost so much blood that they were barely conscious, and Arin and I had to leave them behind at the inn to finish the quest.

Carlow swam in both our minds, until Arin slapped the sword’s hilt.

“Well, the sun’s setting, so I guess it’s now or never.” “Heh, yep,” I nodded, glancing at the twin knifes sheathed at my hips.

They’d served me well, ready for our final fight.

I pulled one of the knifes out, just enough for the sinking sun to glint off the silver blade.

My knives weren’t anything particularly special, just a pair we’d picked up along the way.

I used to be envious of Arin’s connection to her sword, but I realized that being a fated hero has its own pitfalls.

I put my knife away and pushed myself off the wall, prompting Arin to do the same.

We took a few steps forward, before she swiveled around to face the inn.

I sighed, glancing at the fading sun.

“Do you want to talk to Carlow again?”

Arin nodded furiously, grinning sheepishly as she bolted back inside.

I leaned my weight on my hips, tapping my foot against the ground.

We’d already said goodbye to Carlow, but it made sense to me that Arin would want a moment alone with them.

It was interesting that they still thought I didn’t know.

As if it wasn’t obvious, the way Arin defended Carlow in fights, how close together they slept on the nights we camped out in the woods.

All my suspicions had been confirmed when Carlow was hurt, the way Arin panicked and fretted.

There was no platonic explanation for that. Arin eventually returned, taking a deep breath as she met me.

The corners of her eyes were red, and her cheeks flushed.

She wiped the corner of her eye with her hand, biting her lip as she nodded for us to head forward.

We started walking north towards the Spirit grove, each step carrying more and more anxious weight.

As the town dipped down below the horizon, Arin gripped the hilt of her sword, spinning her fingers around it as she broke the heavy silence. “Tiff, have I told you-” she started, pursing her lips and swallowing.

“That you and Carlow are totally in love?” I finished, raising my eyebrows, trying to restrain my laughter. Arin turned beet red, glancing away as she failed to cover a dopey smile.

“Well, yeah, but I- I wanted to tell you something else.” She slowed her gait, reaching a hand towards mine.

I grabbed a hold of hers, letting her squeeze my palm.

“Tiff, I just want to thank you.” Arin’s eyes welled with tears, and I felt my own start to burn.

Arin smiled, shaking her head and looking to the ground as she continued, “You stuck with me through all of this, Tiff, through the good times-” she reached her free hand up to my upper arm, running her finger down the deep scar that ran from my shoulder to my elbow, “and the bad.” I blushed, shrugging her hand off the old wound.

“Of course I stuck with you, we’re friends for life, remember?

It’ll take more than a magic sword and some blood to tear us apart.” A tear fell from Arin’s eye a she wrapped her arms around me, staring the hug that I gladly joined.

We held each other tightly for a moment, reluctantly pulling away after an long minute. We nodded to each other, turning back to the road before us.

We walked briskly and silently the rest of the way, each tensing our muscles as the Spirit grove peeked into our view, a large square-shaped temple built from fine stone.

“What did Carlow say was in there?” I asked, gripping my knives.

“They said the spirits are like ghosts,” Arin started, slowly finding her own hilt.

“Carlow said the there isn’t much known about the spirits, not even if they’re real.” I nodded, and we approached the grove’s entrance with great care.

As we found ourselves in front of the door, Arin turned to me and grinned, “You ready for one last fight?”

I returned a cocky smile, “One last time, then we’re home free.” Arin nodded and kicked the door open, drawing her sword with a final sense of might.

I stepped in behind her, whipping my knives out and flipping them once in my hands.

The room we’d dramatically lunged into was empty.

Completely, utterly empty.

“What?” Arin whispered, lowering her sword as she stepped further in.

I followed behind, though I kept my knifes raised.

We walked around the room, a stone box harshly lit by small holes in the ceiling.

Our footsteps echoed as I shook my head in confusion.

Where else were we supposed to find spirits?

It’s the last day of autumn, the sun is setting, what are we missing? We wandered through the room a few minuted more.

A large boom sounded through the room, and I jumped as Arin raised her sword.

We drifted towards each other as more booms followed, quickly falling into a pattern, two quick sounds before a pause, over and over again.

We stood defensively in the room, our ears filling with the noise, until something in my head clicked, breaking my trance from the booms. “Arin, it sounds like a heartbeat!” I exclaimed, glancing around at the fading light pouring through the roof.

“A heart, a clock-” Arin started, suddenly dropping her sword.

“A counted clock, a counted heartbeat, a fated heart-” her voice started trembling as she slowly repeated the final prophetic lines, “...the sword shall be plunged into the burdened spirit, striking the counted clock.” “Arin,” I called, worry bubbling in my body as Arin clenched her fists.

“Arin, what does this mean?” Arin stumbled away from me, turning back and looking at her discarded sword in disgust.

“Tiff, there’s only two souls in this room,” she started, moving further away from the blade.

My heart skipped in my chest, launching into my throat.

“So the burdened soul-” “Is me!” Arin cried, falling back against the wall.

Her breathing grew erratic and shallow, as she ran a hand through her dark brown hair.

Breathlessly, she stammered, “I need to stab myself.

In the heart.” Every organ in my body contorted, and I dropped my knives and ran to Arin.

“No, there has to be another way, this- this can’t be it.

Arin, no!” Arin’s body trembled as I kneeled next to her, grabbing her shoulder. She closed her eyes, inhaling sharply as she placed a hand over mine.

She gripped it tightly, before dismally pushing my hand away.

I leaned back in surprise, dumbfounded as Arin stood up and shakily retrieved her sword.

Sword in hand, Arin turned back to me, taking deep, calming breaths as her eyes filled with tears.

“I thought this could happen,” she traced a finger on the blade, “but I thought- I hoped it wouldn’t.” Arin shook her head, blinking tears from her eyes.

She masterfully spun the blade in her fingers, her outstretched hand gripping the hilt as the sword’s point floated in front of her chest.

“But I’m ready.” “Arin, you don’t have to do this,” I pleaded, my voice already breaking.

“What if you’re wrong- what if- what about Carlow?” More tears poured from Arin’s eyes as she shook her head.

“Tiff, I think I’ve figured it out.

To save the world, this place, this grove- it demands a sacrifice.”

“The sword is bait,” I finished, standing up to face Arin.

The revelation burned in my chest, and I noticed the stream of my own tears flowing from my cheeks and down my neck.

Arin nodded mournfully, looking down and lining the tip of the wicked blade up to her heart.

I froze as she focused, watching lamely as she pierced the outer layer of her skin, tearing through her shirt.

In an eerily strong voice, Arin looked to me, locking shimmering eyes, “Tiff, listen.

We haven’t seen any ‘spirits’ here, but I wouldn’t be surprised if something happens when I do this.

Tiff, look at me.” I forced my wandering eyes back to hers, reluctantly opening my ears.

“Tiff, I don’t want you to get hurt.

So, when I say the word, I need you to run.

You run, you hear me?” I nodded.

“But I don’t want you to be alone.” Arin gave me a sympathetic smile, “I’ll be ok.

It’s time for me to be a hero.”

Arin lost her smile, finishing, “Besides, I don’t want your last memory of me to be with this, this thing in my chest.” I could only nod, my throat to swollen to speak.

Arin pointed her head towards the door, and I slowly entered the doorway, though I didn’t dare leave.

Arin locked eyes with me one last time, tears pouring down her face like never before.

“Arin, I love you,” I choked, my own face hot and drenched in tears.

My body trembled as I watched Arin tighten her grip. “Tell Carlow I love them, that they mean so much to me,” Arin fought back sobs, choking one back as she finished, “And Tiff, thank you.

For everything.”

A sob broke through, and she gave her last testament, “Tiff, I love you.” I twisted away as her words slipped into my ears, hearing her grunt before I heard the sound of Arin’s body topple to the ground.

I bolted at the final sound, my cruel mind finishing the scene for me.

She’s dead.

Arin’s dead.

Dead.

  There was no room in my heart for anger as I ran from the grove.

Every inch of flesh, every vein in my body pounded with sick grief, an unending pain as I ran faster and faster to the town.

My shoes were made of lead, my head full of knives, my skin covered in barbed wire, yet I sprinted as fast as I could, finally stumbling into the outer reach of the town. I couldn’t breathe as I stumbled back to the inn, navigating through the new darkness of night.

As I finally found myself back at the entrance, I pushed through the door, ignoring the blinding of the interior lights.

I tore through the hallway towards our room, flying past the other patrons as they gave me worried glances. I almost kicked the door down, jerking to a stop as I clunked into the room.

I whipped my head around to find Carlow resting on a chair in the corner of the room, a book fallen at their side.

They looked up at me, their face melting from confusion to horror as they started to put the pieces together, examining my tear stained face and horrified eyes.

Carlow tried to stand up, failing as their leg kept them from approaching me. Instead, I tripped over to them, toppling to my knees to be at their height.

Carlow met me halfway by sliding down to the floor too, though they winced as they landed next to me.

Once they’d looked back up to me, I pitifully wrapped my arms around them, and I felt as they embraced me back.

I squeezed Carlow tightly as more tears fell from my unrelenting eyes, even feeling some of Carlow’s as they dripped onto my shirt.

I bit my tongue, spending a moment of silence with Carlow before whispering in their ear, “Arin loved you so much, Carlow.

You meant the world to her.” Carlow sobbed into my shoulder, holding me tighter than ever, as I held them back. We’d both lost Arin, our hero.

We sobbed. And sobbed.