Hugo- Day one, the hottest day in July. The kind of hot that makes the neighbors forgo underwear and plant themselves in front of oscillating fans. Feet planted in small kiddie pools filled with tepid tap water, topped off with bagged ice from the corner market. The breeze from the fan casting across the iced pools does nothing to diminish the warmth from their radiating bodies. Instead it pushes the sweat further across their faces and thighs until they are all shiny with sweat. It’s nearly impossible to forget day one. You try, yet day one is the day you’ll scramble for breath. You’ll put on the bravest of faces to give your daughter Thea oxygen as you hold the side of her head to your chest. She will appreciate the firm pressure you apply to her quivering body. The grief inundating from her youthful frame, forcing you back- one, two, three, steps until you both collapse onto the couch. Sweat and tears, they’re all the same. How can a girl live without her mother? How will I breathe without her modeling what a strong exhale looks like?

It will be all she can say. You wonder in your emotional greed, Where does she keep all of the passwords? Thea’s birth certificate? Is she allergic to anything? Raeann- Their day one is polar opposite of your day one. The body that carried you through life for the past four decades decided the narrative of living a nice long life is a lie. To find out that you’re going to die is far less painful than hearing that you are dead. The dead don’t hear pain. The dead don’t feel it either.

It’s terminal, you have weeks at best Raeann. I’m so sorry.

You are sent home with instructions of getting your affairs in order. Pamphlets titled, “How to tell your loved ones that you are dying,” as if there is a simple bullet point plan to button up all of your affairs before you go.

Step 1 , I’m dying. But I left a few lasagnas in the freezer for busy nights.

Hugo- Planning a funeral is foreboding. The weatherman says to expect more heat hazes. You don’t know exactly what that is, but you’ve already spent hours on the internet searching for a cure. What's another few minutes?

Heat haze: also called heat shimmer, refers to the inferior mirage observed when viewing objects through a mass of heated air. Relief floods your body, panic eases up. This isn’t the end, it’s all a mirage. It has to be.

Raeann- Everything after the first day is now called the in between, and that’s just how you’ve come to accept it. Call your mother more, but not so much that she suspects that there is something to be worried about. Mothers know.

Revel in the fact that the word hug happens to be the first three letters of your husband's name, as he is the best hugger you’ve ever met. Hugging him a little bit longer feels like a possible cure for the incurable. Forget the pamphlets, your family deserves a better send off than that. The blogs online say to leave a video diary for your daughter because she might forget the way the dimples tucked into your cheeks are deep enough to hold a cat's eye marble in each of them. Don’t let her forget. The idea of a camera taping your face not looking like your face is unsettling. It is then you decide on cassettes, they’re the happy medium. Even if cassette tapes are “so out of style,” they might be even more treasured due to the rarity of them. Nothing screams a mothers legacy like antiquated methods of communication. Might as well break out the typewriter and ribbon of ink.

Hugo- In-laws, they’re a mixed bag. Naturally they have known your beloved Raeann for the longest. They created her so there is ownership there. Let them visit and call and video chat. It’s all that they will get of her. You’ll be left with the daughter you share, and the smell of her lilac shampoo on the bed linens you agreed to buy at the big box store. The in-laws won’t get to smell her again, but you will, at least a little longer before the next load goes in the wash. Raeann- To make a mixed tape you have to consider two things: Who you’re making the tape for and the occasion. Remind yourself that this isn’t a John Hughes movie, and Thea won’t be walking away with the love of her life but rather losing you. Of course there are times when you hear a little melody on the radio and think to yourself, Thea would love this song . Then, add bits of wisdom and sayings to the playlists, for days when she needs advice but you aren’t there to give it. A mother knows exactly what kind of music will make her daughters eyes sparkle, even if it is followed by a tiny eye roll. It’s some kind of magic to possess this kind of knowing about a teenager even if she is your child. You wonder if anyone else will ever know your daughter this way. Hugo- She told you that there’d be tapes. That you’d have to give them to Thea, maybe one morning as you sip your coffee black and dark roasted the way that you like it.

It’s important Hugo, it’s all I have left to give her. Well, and you of course.

Those dimples, you won’t be able to say no to her and so you agree with a gentle head nod and deep hug.

Through sickness and health was the vow? What about death and grief, what’s the vow look like after that? More haziness. Raeann- Your last day comes twenty-nine days after your first. Cliche, that’s what the last thirty days will be. Like a film reel, memories click and spin for one last viewing in your mind's eye. Not in black and white, but in vibrant colors of finger painted construction paper and alabaster hydrangeas in wedding centerpieces.

Wait until Thea nods off in the corner chair of your room, wrapped in the blanket you both sewed together out of your old shirts. Absorb the tiny bit of warmth from Hugo’s hand wrapped around the frail fingers on yours. These hands spent many hours laced together over the years and now his hands will spend hours pressing play for Thea. It’s time for your strong exhale. Hugo- Pull the old cassette player down from the attic, blow off the decades of dust.

Imagine the look on your daughter’s face when the carefully curated tapes are placed in her young hands with three freckles alongside the edge of her knuckles. The freckles lightly kiss her milky skin, and you breathe out a little in relief knowing that they look ordinary. She won’t want the tapes. Her eyes might brim with orbs of salted water. A sense of begging will slip past her lips, Please daddy I’m not ready yet .

You stare at the dimples she inherited from her mother, pressing your warm thumb into one of them as you hold gently to her chin. Picturing the future, you wonder who will take her wedding dress shopping, and who will take her phone calls if she loses a baby.

It will be you of course. Press play.


One warm September afternoon, I gathered the courage to introduce myself. I scurried down the tall Oak, out of the woods, into your big backyard. I stood on my hind legs in the middle of the lawn and looked up at you. You stood alone on the deck, admiring the late summer scenery and said, “Hi, sweetheart! I’m Julie, the new tenant.” I thought you were pretty but wondered why your belly was so round. If you were forty, I’d wonder if you were having a boy or a girl. But at fifty, I wondered if you were having too much chocolate cheesecake. After dusk, I’d snoop through the trash to find out. A few days later, you began tossing peanuts throughout the perimeter of your backyard. I appreciated that they were unsalted and realized that you were thoughtful and kind. You didn’t refer to me as a pesky rodent, like the other neighbors did. I began to realize that you were special. And so, our courtship began. All was well until recently, when you carried a big, brown FAO Schwartz teddy bear into the house. Why cuddle a stinky bear that’s probably stuffed with dirty brown wet leaves and sports a tawdry gold bowtie, when you’ve got a handsome gymnast who flies through the Oaks, runs up to 20 miles per hour and performs incredible acrobatic stunts? Plus, my dapper gray and white suit is sporty and fashionable year-round. That's why my species has millions of followers on YouTube, which I see you watching all the time. I doubt you know that I peer through all the windows in your house, sometimes from far up in the Oaks and sometimes much closer. That’s how I know all about the tenants. The last tenant went missing, and you occupy her room. Have you noticed the wooden brown bat standing in the corner next to your bedroom door? Ever wonder what she used it for? I can tell you one thing. Although a sprightly seventy-two, she certainly wasn’t a baseball player. But I’m not saying she’s buried in your backyard or the attic (because I’ve been digging around both places). I’m just saying that I overheard the retired busy body with the binoculars across the street tell another neighbor that the last tenant in the house you occupy is missing. The missing tenant was a retired lady who allegedly didn’t get along well with the sixty-something guy living in your basement. I can understand why. The guy in your basement does more laundry than a murder suspect, and I can smell bleach way out into the woods. You never venture downstairs to do laundry or to chit chat with him. Who could blame you? What do you and Fred have in common? He works in a pharmacy, and you've taken aspirin. And the Peruvian guy who occupies the room next to yours on the main floor? He’s loud and rude, yelling into his cell phone all the time. I overhear too many of his conversations. Sure, he’s evading taxes in two countries. But he won’t harm you.  At least not physically. He may drive you crazy though. Don’t get me started on your next-door neighbors. They have more overnight guests than a brothel. What’s up with the massive trampoline that occupies their back yard? Are they planning to host a travelling circus? Why do all the neighbors park their cars on their front lawns, when they all have perfectly good driveways? This is not the wild west. You don't need to tether your car to your porch like a horse. Who knows what's up with these peeps. Perhaps they’re waiting for spaceships to land in their driveways and whisk them away to a suburban utopia. Your 2009 Corolla is your baby. You clean and shine it regularly and even gifted it with new plastic wheel covers. I confess that I am a bit jealous. The retired lady across the street drives a 2022 Corolla, but you don’t seem to notice her. She notices you though. In fact, she often watches you when you venture outside. At least she can’t see you through the closed blinds in your bedroom in front of the house, which faces her kitchen. And you can't see her. There’s not much to watch. It's not like she's Julia Child and Bobby Flay's love child, crafting a divine dish that's going to make you salivate and fly to the moon. She can barely make toast. And she's not missing anything either. It’s not like you’re spending late nights painting the next Mona Lisa or composing a symphony. I wish you’d stop watching so many horror movies. One night, you're going to scare yourself to death. Sure, there is a phrogger living in your attic. It’s December and it’s getting cold. My drey nest full of wet leaves is no longer habitable. Today I seized an opportunity to train you. While you were warming up your Corolla this morning, I scurried up the lonely, barren Oak on your front lawn and waved my thick gray tail at you. You spotted me right away, waved back, and did exactly what I’d hoped. You retrieved a big bag of unsalted peanuts from your trunk and deposited half of it under the Oak. Good girl. Because although I can find food buried beneath a foot of snow, I’d prefer not to freeze my ass off during the cold winter months if I don't have to. The nosy neighbor across the street was watching you with her binoculars. At least now she knows that you do not keep the last tenant in your trunk. Perhaps she keeps the last tenant in her trunk? The Christmas holidays are upon us. I can tell by the carnival of lights and obnoxious Santa Claus displays festooned throughout the neighborhood. Someone stuck a plastic Santa on their roof with a bunch of plastic reindeer. It’s a safety hazard for squirrels, and probably a scene from one of your favorite horror movies. The macabre display of superficial holiday cheer is blocking the chimney and access to the attic. Call 911. Our relationship is back on track. We’re living together. Although not a traditional pair, we understand and support each other better than most couples. I’m looking forward to celebrating our first Christmas together. I trust that you’ll bring me festive boxes filled with walnuts, pecans, macadamias and almonds. You like nuts, I like nuts and our neighbors are all, without a doubt, assorted nuts. Authors note: January 21 st is National Squirrel Appreciation Day in the United States.


They called him John, because he didn’t have a name. He’d been pulled from the Dusek estate during the raid, where he’d almost been shot because he refused to identify himself. Only later did they find out it was because he didn’t speak. Still, Ana finds there are plenty of other ways to learn about John and his past. On the drive to the ward, Ana sneaks several glances at him in the rearview, watching as he stares out the windows, wide-eyed, like he’s never seen the city before. When they arrive, he’s shaking so badly that Ana has to call for help getting him out of the car. It’s then that she learns John reacts poorly to being touched, no matter how many times the attendant explains in a soft voice what she’s going to do and that it won’t hurt. He shuts down completely, eyes unblinking as he gazes out at nothing. Somehow, Ana finds that more unsettling than the shaking. That night, Ana goes over his medical records again, a cup of hot chocolate in her hands to ward off the chill from what she finds. The hospital had declared him a non-threat, submitting meekly to even the most invasive of procedures. That, combined with confessions from members of the Dusek family, had ensured his freedom...such as it was. Ana thinks of the tired lines that formed around John’s eyes as she brought him to his room at the ward. She swallows down another gulp of hot chocolate. When she gets to the section describing the injuries he’d presented with upon admittance, her hands become unsteady and she’s forced to set aside her mug. After seven years of working at the ward, she’s not squeamish. But the implications still make her shiver. The last part she reads before falling into a troubled sleep suggests that John’s vocal chords, tongue, and Broca's area in the brain are all undamaged. The next day, Ana asks John if he has ever spoken aloud or learned sign language. His face twists, equal parts annoyed and ashamed. He doesn’t meet her eyes. “Can you write?” she asks softly. He gives his head a minute shake, the clearest response she’s ever seen from him. “Can you read?” Another shake. Ana pauses, considering. “Would you like to learn?” John’s gaze flicks up to hers, briefly, grey eyes wide. When he looks away again, he’s slightly flushed, as though he’s done something he’s not supposed to. “Give me a day to gather some materials, and I’ll start teaching you,” Ana says with a smile. John doesn’t smile back, but his confused expression is better than what he’s worn previously. Ana hopes it’s an indicator of progress. She comes back the next day with paper, pens, and a workbook. She sits with John and goes over the sound of each letter. He never repeats after her, but she catches him silently mouthing along. He doesn’t let her guide his hand while attempting to draw each character, but he does trace over the letters she writes with careful, almost reverent lines. Ana only wishes he was making such progress in other areas. It takes a week before he’ll eat around other people. The one time the staff brought him to the dining room, he almost hurt himself in his scramble to flee from the small group of people around the table - no more than nine, but clearly too many for John. It takes an hour and a half for Ana to calm him. In addition to being skittish of crowds, John doesn’t seem too sure about going outside, either. Ana can’t help but think of his behavior as catlike in the way he lingers on the threshold of the door to the garden, clearly entranced but unwilling to take the last step out from under the ceiling. So she waits with the door held open, letting him watch the fountain and flowers and insects and trees from the safety of the ward’s shadows. Three weeks after John’s arrival at the ward, Ana nearly jumps in surprise when she pushes the door to the garden open and John walks out after her. He stands for a moment in a patch of sunlight, face tilted up at the sky. Then he gives her a questioning look that Ana has come to understand means, “What now?” “Let’s take a little walk,” she says. “Do you want me to tell you about some of the flowers?” John nods, as he usually does when Ana offers to teach him something. So she guides him through the garden, pointing out her favorites and telling him what they mean in the language of flowers. When they come to a stand of milkweed, Ana spots a chewed-on leaf and beckons John closer. “That’s a monarch caterpillar,” she says, indicating the tiny green-and-black worm as it nibbles on the edge of its leaf. “When it’s ready, it’ll form a chrysalis and turn into a monarch butterfly.” John looks delighted at the notion. His eyebrows come up as if saying, “Go on.” “Then the butterfly breaks free of the chrysalis and lets its wings fill out in the sun,” Ana says. “Once it’s strong enough, it’ll fly away. I think monarchs have quite a long migration before coming home and laying new eggs.” John nods once. He looks back at the caterpillar, thoughtful. “We could make a little enclosure and bring him inside,” Ana suggests. “He’d be safer with - “ She doesn’t finish the sentence, because John’s face moves from calm to panicked to angry within a breath. He glares at Ana, hands fisted and trembling. “We’d release him once he emerged from the chrysalis,” she hurries to add. John makes a short, slashing gesture. Ana blinks. She’s never seen him so adamant about anything. “Alright,” she says. “We’ll leave him be.” John nods again, this time firm, as if saying, “Good.” Ana tells the other staff to avoid disturbing the caterpillar. After his first excursion outside, John can’t seem to get enough of the garden. He returns every day to check on the caterpillar, but spends most of his time walking or sitting to watch the fountain. Ana holds their lessons outside when the weather is nice. John is a quick study, and soon he’s passing Ana notes with simple phrases. The first one he gives her just says thank you. The next one, a few days later, says water paint. After a quick round of 20 Questions, Ana figures out what he means. She brings him a set of watercolors and other supplies, and then sits back and watches as John experiments. His motions, while hesitant at first, are purposeful, like a musician tuning their instrument. Watching him work, Ana is struck with the thought that either John has done this before, or he’s a very, very fast learner. The first thing he paints once he seems sure of himself is the caterpillar on its leaf. Ana smiles at the illustration as it dries, and catches John smiling, too. Painting becomes part of the routine. At first, John paints the things around him. His room. The dining hall. And many, many pictures of the garden. Ana brings him sticky tack so he can hang them on his walls. Then, one day Ana finds him with his head in his hands, a page of darkness on the desk in front of him. He ignores her questions about it. And as the days go by, Ana sees more paintings like it. Dark things, done in greys and blacks. A figure curled up in an empty room. The shadow of a fist against the wall. Sometimes red creeps into the monochrome pictures. John doesn’t hang these next to the others, but nor does he destroy or discard them. He lets them dry, then shuts them carefully away in the desk. When asked, he writes out, I know where they are now. Ana doesn’t understand, not fully, but it seems like a healthy coping mechanism. Some days, he’ll take out the stack of paintings from the desk and flip through them, one by one, as if reading a solemn story. This is usually followed by a trip to the garden to see how the caterpillar is doing. It’s growing fast, and there eventually comes a day when John tugs excitedly at Ana’s sleeve and shows her the chrysalis hanging from the leaf. It’s light green with a golden seam near the top. It’s all John paints for two days. They’re walking in the garden a week later when Ana sees John go tense next to her. She follows his gaze to the stand of milkweed, where another resident is crouched down. When the man straightens, he’s holding something up to inspect it. Ana realizes a split second after John does, and she’s too slow to stop him when he lunges forward. His face is set in a silent snarl as he grabs the other resident’s wrist. Ana has never seen such harsh, rigid lines in his posture. “John!” she cries, suddenly frightened of what he might do. When he glances back at her, the other resident jerks free with a curse. He shoves John away and retreats inside, leaving a handful of bitter words in his wake. John ignores the comments, already crouched down to recover the dropped chrysalis. He lifts it gently, so gently, all anger gone. His eyes come up to meet Ana’s, pleading. “Bring it inside,” she says. “We’ll see what we can do.” Ana keeps an eye on him as they return to the ward. His movements are slow and slight, his feet barely lifting from the ground as he walks. At first she thinks he’s just trying to protect the chrysalis, but then she catches a glimpse of his face. It’s blank. Completely empty as he shuffles down the hall, shoulders hunched. “Are you somewhere else right now?” Ana asks him gently. John doesn’t seem to hear at first, but then he starts slightly, as though surprised she’s talking to him. He shakes his head vehemently. They take the chrysalis to the crafts room, where Ana helps John apply a tiny dab of glue and attach a string to the little black stem of the chrysalis. Then, they bring it back outside where John ties it securely to a low-hanging branch of juniper and Ana affixes a tiny sign reading DON’T TOUCH. “There,” she says as she straightens. “It’ll be safer now.” John nods, but his expression is distant again. His eyes are glazed and absent. It takes Ana another two hours to get him to look her in the eyes, at which point she sees those tiny, tired lines again. The next day, John spends hours working on a new painting. He locks it in the desk drawer almost before it’s finished drying, but Ana still has plenty of time to stare at what he’s created. On the paper, an indistinct figure hides their face with hands and arms mottled with bruises. Around one wrist is a paper bracelet like the ones the residents wear, but this one simply reads DON’T TOUCH. The paintings over the following days grow darker. Sometimes they are stained with tear-splashes. Sometimes John doesn’t finish them, instead viciously brushing a dark wash over the whole thing. Sometimes he takes out all of the paintings in the desk drawer and sifts through them, expression unreadable. Ana becomes unsure if the paintings are still helping John or if they’re perpetuating a cycle of rumination. John shrugs off her questions. A week passes. The chrysalis outside shows no sign of change, while by Ana’s count, it should have darkened by now. She elects not to tell John. And then one day, she walks in to find John painting a monarch butterfly that sheds light on its dark surroundings. “What brought this on?” she asks, pleasantly surprised. John looks up, eyes dancing. “ Dream, ” he finger-spells. “ Garden now? ” When Ana brings him outside, he makes a beeline for the hanging chrysalis. Ana’s mouth drops open when she sees the darkened exterior and the faint impression of a monarch’s wings within. “How?” she asks John. “How did you know?” “ Dream, ” he spells again with a shrug. Ana decides not to question it. On the day the butterfly emerges, she and John spend most of their time in the garden. John frets a bit - about the weather, Ana thinks - but the overcast sky clears up nicely for the big event. They watch in breathless anticipation as the butterfly wriggles free and begins to sun itself, fanning crumpled wings. Slowly, they begin to fill out, and the butterfly starts wandering from the chrysalis to the juniper branch. “Would you like to hold it?” Ana asks John. He tears his awed eyes from the butterfly long enough to spell out, “ Safe? ” “As long as you don’t touch the wings,” Ana assures him. Cautiously, John places a finger in the butterfly’s path. It readily climbs aboard and flicks its proboscis against his skin. Ana watches the astounded grin come over John’s face with an ache in her heart. The butterfly twitches its wings. In a flutter of motion, it makes the short leap from John’s hand to his nose. His head jerks back in surprise, but he seems to recover quickly. And then he starts to laugh. Softly. Carefully. In bits and pieces, as though he’s afraid of startling his passenger. Ana covers her mouth as she stares in delight. It’s the first voiced sound she’s heard from him. The butterfly jumps again, drifting down to the path. It spends a few seconds fanning its wings, then flutters over to a cluster of red flowers for a long drink. From there, it darts up, hovers for a moment, then flits away up and out of the garden. John watches it go, and while Ana expects to see some sadness in his expression, there’s nothing but joy and a fierce, desperate pride. Ana lets the moment linger, her heart full of light at the scene. At last, she lets out a breath. “Wasn’t that something?” John doesn’t respond, eyes still fixed on where the butterfly disappeared. His expression is softer now, pensive. Ana worries he might be headed back into his head. She gently prompts him. “John?” And he says, “Call me Ciel.”


It had been 15 years since the beginning of the climate apocalypse. Today, there are few human beings living on planet Earth. The world had changed drastically over the 15 years. It hadn’t changed technologically, and instead, it’s now almost uninhabitable. The increase in temperature, the rise of sea levels, and the damage in the ozone layer was all but small parts of this change. It all started with global warming. People knew about it. But it was left unattended for far too long. Politicians denied global warming, saying we won’t have to worry about it for many years to come. But they were wrong. Storms worsened over time. Floods became the new normal. The evidence against their statements was overwhelming. But they continued to deny, and people believed them. It was only when cities started to fall under oceans when people started to take action. But by then, it was the point of no return. Cities continued to flood and many people were forced to relocate inland. The first of the deaths were simply caused by the heat. Everyone was used to living in a colder climate. Everyone was just trying to do their normal routine. However, it was hard to maintain cool. Hyperthermia cases became common. The price of air conditioning skyrocketed. Only the rich could afford one now. Riots occurred every day, just to find any air conditioning. Factories shut down as the heat damaged machinery and buildings. Water supplies started to dry up. But now, something about the air was different. It had the smell of rotten eggs. Soon, hydrogen sulfide gas filled the atmosphere. The increase in temperature caused gas-producing bacteria to thrive. The toxicity of hydrogen sulfide increased with temperature. It was only a matter of time before plant and animal life would go extinct. Nothing could stop the production of hydrogen sulfide gas. No existing technology can lower temperatures back down. Humans who could survive the heat now had to survive the deadly gas. A damaged ozone layer became a part of everybody’s lives. It had happened before in the past – from the 1930s to 1960s – but back then, humans took action. This time, nothing can slow the damage of the ozone layer. The hydrogen sulfide gas produced by the bacteria has taken its toll. UV radiation had killed many humans and animals over the years. But nobody could hide from it. As the floods continued, many scientific instruments were destroyed. Soon, scientists couldn’t collect data and the warnings stopped coming. But these weren’t the only consequences. Starvation became common even in the most unlikely places. As crops flooded and animals died, sources of food became rare. Canned food could last for a few weeks, but everything was limited. Soon, people ate animals we normally wouldn’t consider eating. Some even turned to cannibalism. In the United States alone, millions starved. But nothing could be done. Fish were almost extinct from the acidification of oceans. The UV light, higher temperatures, and hydrogen sulfide gas made growing crops near impossible. Without crops, animals starved. Without the crops or animals, so did humans. However, starvation would’ve been the least of the worries of many. Diseases were being transmitted like wildfire. Dormant diseases in permafrost were released during global warming. Diseases like Ebola spread and infected entire continents. Many medicines required to fight them were lost from the rise of sea levels. Doctors tried to help their patients, but the heat and gas proved too much. Many lives were lost to these diseases.

Humans are not extinct, however. Those who are still alive are living in bunkers. The bunkers that were made were one of the most secure areas on Earth. The environment outside would not affect those living inside. Air filtration systems filter out hydrogen sulfide gas. Indoor farms feed fish which feeds humans. They can survive even in this climate apocalypse. However, many weren’t as lucky. Only the rich who could afford a spot in these bunkers live in them. Everybody else died from the heat, or starvation, or diseases. But one place is not a place for the rich. It’s a place for research. This bunker specializes in research. They have all the things a bunker would normally have: their stereotypical thick walls, self-sustaining food supplies, and water filtration systems. But they also have scientific equipment for all fields. They are researching ways to fix the ozone layer and decrease the temperature. It will take time, but it’s progress. They will eventually develop technologies to solve this climate apocalypse. Maybe new machines to kill diseases or scaled up ozone generators to repair the ozone layer. But, not all of these bunkers were for survival. Several contain missiles and nuclear warheads, as well as other weaponry. The lower food production and damaged economies will cause global conflict. These bunkers won’t be used for survival. Rather, they will be used to attack other survivors. Unfortunately, nothing will prevent war from happening. The world has already been damaged. All of this could’ve been prevented if humans acted. If humanity acted 15 years ago, none of this would’ve happened now. Humanity would’ve been able to develop new technologies to slow or even prevent such a climate apocalypse from occurring. Alas, humanity did not act. Billions died. Only handfuls of humans can survive by living in bunkers, protecting them from UV light, intense heat, and toxic gas. But others will want to fight. They will blame others for this problem. They will launch nuclear weapons and missiles, furthering damage on Earth. All of this resulted from one simple mistake: not acting as the problem arose.

All hope is not lost, however. Humans do prevail in the most hostile environments, even these. They build bunkers with self-sustaining food supplies and water filtration systems. They build luxurious rooms and swimming pools. Humanity can adapt to these environments. Humanity will find ways to solve this climate apocalypse. The world will definitely be a different place after the climate apocalypse, but life will continue.


I have known Noah for a long time. Since we were kids he already have that "I'm-An-Introvert-So-Scram!" waving flag on his head. We actaully met on a scarlet sunset by the swing. I was reading a book I found in the playground earlier when he suddenly approached me saying that he wanted the book back. I didn't gave it to him because I haven't finished reading it. He snickered at me and it turned to bickering, then into a soil fight that resulted of a wailing Noah, who looks like an idiot losing to a girl. I gave the book to him and he started to calm down, he hugged the book and left. I stood by the swing for another minute when Noah came back running towards me and gave me the book telling that I should read it. Which I quickly accepted and it turns out Noah would be the greatest impact who made me who I am today. "You know you really did outdone yourself this time." He exclaimed with an out going smug face look, "But Becky, why do you write too many mystery novels, can you do something soft or romantic, you are a girl for the angel's sake, be soft." He added as he comb my hair using his scarred hands. Noah's been doing archery and been overpracticing himself and it worries me. "Don't you think you're over offering your self to me. Use the damn comb. Don't hurt yourself." I told him but I got kisses on my neck as a reply. I gasped as he continued to drop kisses to my shoulders and whispered "Yes my sweet writer, my sweet sweet Rebecca." When we grow up, girls flocked around Noah but he stick with me , which I find irritating. I got bullied because of him and even made as an out cast by the whole class. They actually told me how I was a bitch for seducing him and leading Noah to the bad path. Those we're the bad things and there were actually no good things about backstabbing. "Rebecca, I'm sorry if I put you through this. I promised I won't let anyone hurt you again." He cried at the hospital. In his perspective I look helpless with a dextrose. Though I laughed it out when I remembered that I was pushed and fell from the stairs. He taught that I broke my wrist and stormed out of the room. He went back to the school and gave a piece of his mind at the broadcasting room. Everyone heard it and everyone knows who was it. After that, it became quiet. I am still treated as an outcast but atleast no one dares to hurt me or bully me, just the momentary gossips ans jeering. But it was quiet and I love it. Noah did outdone himself on protecting me and I felt lucky for having him. Though I don't know if Noah worries about me or he worries about how I can't write? Eitherway, I am still lucky. "Noah, what sex positions that works best in this?" I nonchalantly asked him at the cafeteria. He turned beet red and was telling me to keep my voice low. "I want to include it to the story, I just want to know if there are any positions convenient on this?" he snorted as he laugh as I was naively ask him. People adored Noah for being diligent and responsible, on the other hand, I was stuck on reading that I sometimes forgot about the existing real world. Being an orphan makes you immune to being treated as non-existent. It turn out to be ordinary to me but Noah made me feel that I am existing. Noah lost his parents on an airplane crash leaving him and his rich coldhearted granpa that basically turned Noah as an orphan with unlimited credentials. "I love you, Becky, stay here, we can be together, please stay," he said as he reach for my shirt and slid his hands underneath and cupped my skin. He kissed me gently then hungrily, like someone who wants to consume me inside. I respond with the same pace and letting my hand wander to his body. I gasped as our lips parted. He took off my shirt and gave me hot pecks on my collarbone. He leave marks all over my body, marking me, loving me, believing in me. "Is it bad if I say that I don't want to live with you? I want to be with you, Noah, Yes, I really do. But as of now I want to know ME, more of me. Is it bad if I focus on writing, for now? Is it bad to pursue solace from my self?" I asked continuously and he heaved a sigh and hug me covering me with his scent, "If it's your choice Becky, I will respect it." People thought Noah as an out-going guy because he was one of the cheerful and easy going adviser but he turns out to be the most introverted soft boy. He sometimes sneak or rejects parties, drink nights, even meet-ups. I even caught him sneaking out with a book everytime there was a family gathering. I really don't get how this guy's mind works but deliberately he just confidently do his thing.

I sometimes loomed if he would do that if we would stay in one roof. Would he try to escape away from me? Then I noticed that Noah loved the silence between us, he loved the idea of the tranquility that courses between us and that comforted me. In retrospect, he pushes me to be an occasional out-goer instead of writing all day long. Parties, contests, book signing or publishing, it was hectic honestly. Surprisingly tiring but doing it together with Noah made it little less a burden to me. I received awknowledgements and earned a name as an author, all thanks to the dreamy Noah who keeps on pushing me to be a writer. One time he got from his work and was yelling "P-A-R-T-Y!~" . I was delighted that he initiated "Party" but alas, after bath, he took the new book that I bought and sat comfortably at his bed and read the entire series all night. Yes! Party it is! That's just how he is.

"Beckyy, give me a snuggle, I miss you my sweet sweet Becky." he sang as he barge in my apartment after the field trip at the school he was teaching. I gave him a warm welcoming hug while he planted kisses to my head. I decided to write a love story as requested by him. I find writing romance easy because I based the personality of the character to him. I fixed a decision that after I finished this book, I can let myself live with him.

I got engage with writing. Too busy that I lose sleep. I rarely visit his place and when he does barge in my apartment, I neglected him that I didn't realized that the silence was suffocating him. I didn't mean to, I just got so absorbed at finishing the book that I sometimes forgot to eat. I kept on writing holding to the idea that I can live with him after this. We will be together. This is my surprised for him. A gift devotedly made just for him. The romance book he was asking for.

But I was wrong. I received a call one evening, telling me to go to a hospital. When I arrived, I didn't made it in time. He got on a car accident, died even before I arrived. Or, I think he died after I totally absorbed myself on writing and neglected him. I didn't know if I cried. But I went to his place and slept there. I woke up covered by his clothes. I barely remember what happen last night. His room was a mess. I guess, I berserk last night and made a pile of his clothes and created a bed out of it. It smelled like him. I missed him. I accidentally slipped over a tiny red box tucked on one of his shirt. I opened it and saw a ring with an attached note-- 'For My Sweet Becky. She offer me a book, I offer her a ring.' I didn't notice the tears were that warm as I whispered his name.

I didn't know that love can bring so much pain. I didn't even have the chance to say goodbye. After that day, I move to his place, the book I've been working, I don't think I can even look at it or read it but I can't bring myself to burn it, so I put it at the stack of books and left it. Unfinished.

I continued to write. It was the path Noah had given to me. And I write perfectly, I need to write it perfectly. I don't know if I became numb but I craved to write perfectly. Well I got lost from time to time. I made mishaps. But Noah wouldn't mind, right?


“Will Ben Chemote please step forward?” They pronounced my name wrong, I think as I step forward. Stay calm Ben, stay calm. I glance at my hand to double check that it’s not shaking. You may feel scared on the inside, Ben, but on the outside you are as cool as a cheesecake. You got this. I step through the door and close it behind me.

“Welcome to the first season of The Bad Boys, Ben! First of all, I want to congratulate you on getting in!” “Thank you!” Nailed it. “Gosh, I haven’t even introduced myself! My bad! I’m Rutherford, your host this season! Hopefully you won’t be seeing me much because if you do that means that either you won or… Wa-Wa-waaaa!”

I force myself to laugh so hard that I’m positive that they will tune down the audio on that cut so that it doesn’t hurt the viewers at home’s ears.

“So now onto… rules. There are three categories of people: citizens, cops, annnnd thieves. Let’s start with citizens. The citizens' job is simple: Have fun, make money, and follow the rules. If we see a citizen joining the thieves…” Rutherford makes a slitting motion across his neck. I gulp, realizing that that has a literal meaning. “Each citizen will most likely be put in a couple or a family. Remember, your real age doesn’t matter in the City so you… how old are you?” “Sixteen.” I reply.

“So you, a sixteen-year-old may be a parent to a 52 year-old. Or a twelve year old could be the parent of you. You live in houses just big enough for your family, so it may get a bit tightly packed in there. I recommend that you try and get out of the house as much as you can. Each citizen will be given a new age. If your new age is younger than eighteen… Welp, you’re going to be going to school and studying stuff at that grade level. If your new age is over eighteen, you may be given a job. If you know nothing about this job, then you will be trained by some of our in game staff until they think that you are doing a decent enough job. And one last thing about the role of citizen: If you don’t have enough money left to pay for food… you will be kicked out of the city. So work hard! “Now onto the good guys - literally. The cops role is to get all of the thieves into the jail. There are no cars in this game, so you’ll have to run to try and handcuff the enemy. You do have access to the ‘helicopter’ though so that can be handy when trying to spot the enemies.”

I wondered why he put the helicopter in air quotes.

“You will live at the police headquarters/jail with your fellow coppers. Every cop will have a ‘gun’.” Rutherford held up a Nerf gun. “If you get shot in, say, the arm all you have to do is lay down, be silent, and wait for someone to pick you up and carry you to the hospital. If you got shot in something more fatal, such as your torso, you will be taken off the show. Same goes for citizen’s and thieves, by the way. And that’s it! The cops role is simple in words, but complicated in practice. Remember that age doesn’t matter in the City, so a cop could be 12 or 62. “And finally, the thieves. The thieves job is to get all of the money in the economy. You may think that that seems hard, but it may be easier than you think. The thieves will have a hideout that may be in plain sight, but it could be harder than you think to break into their hideout. If you are a thief, you may be given a weapon of some sort. Use that to threaten citizens and escape from cops. You may try to break your partners in crime out of jail, but may be tricky. You can do almost anything as a thief, so be creative! And finally, after talking for what may seem like ages it’s back to you, Ben. What do you make of all this?” “It’s a lot to take in,” I admit. “But I wanna be part of this. That’s why I applied of course!”

Rutherford laughs. “Ben Chemote… Are you ready to be part of the very first ever season of THE BAD BOYS?” “I am.” I say with almost as much sincerity as a fake wedding vow.

“Pick your role from the jar in front of you.”

My hand quakes as I reach into the jar. I don’t hide my quaking, because TV loves drama, and this is one of the most dramatic moments of the season… most likely. I’m not sure what I want. Well, maybe… I read the slip of paper. I say, “...” **** “Citizen.” Whew. I think that in my head, but my face hopefully shows disappointment. The people on TV really want to see cops and thieves, so I play it up for them.

“Oh well,” Rutherford says. “Lets see what age you pick out of the hat! Drumroll please…”

I unfold the piece of paper. “14,” I read. Two years below my actual age. Not bad. I wish that I was an adult, but not bad.

“So pretty close to your actual age, huh?” Rutherford recalls from the conversation that happened two minutes ago. “And lastly, choose which house and what family you will be living with.” This pick scares me. I have never had a sibling, so having one in this simulation… it might be frightening. Or amazing. I really don’t know. “House 16.” I say, fear evident in my voice.

“I believe that nobody has joined that house yet, is that correct…?” Rutherford looks at a cameraman. The cameraman nods in affirmation. “Alright, so Ben, it seems like you will be the one in your household who has to wait and see who ends up in your house. Good luck, and don’t get robbed!”

“I’ll do my best.” I reply.

“And cut.” A cameraman says.

“So, Ben, here’s your bags…” Rutherford says. It’s surprising how much his voice changed between his camera personality and his normal self. “It looks like they have been cleared. And, if you want to look at this map here,” I peek over his giant shoulder. “House sixteen is in the southeast housing complex, very close to the docks. So you will go up these stairs, go to the left, sorry, go to the right, follow the sidewalk till it hits a T, turn right at the T, and go up until you see houses on the left. House sixteen is the third down on the right. You got that?” Before I can even reply that I got absolutely none of that he says, “Good luck. Be a good personality and you’ll survive.”

“Thank you,” I say.

“Right this way.” An assistant appears out of nowhere and leads me up a pair of stairs. Right away, I see an underground building labeled “HOSPITAL.” I also note the fact that there seems to be a subway station. Not the sandwich shop, but the train-like thing. “Just up those stairs.” The assistant says.

“Thank-” I try to say, but I’m interrupted by the assistant closing and locking the door behind me. You got this Ben. Cool as a cheesecake. Cool as a cheesecake.  I take a deep breath. Why am I so nervous you ask? Because this means a lot more to me than just winning the reality show. If I lose or die in here, then I die in real life.

***** A few months ago I was in a tough spot. My mom and dad barely paid attention to me. We were losing money like crazy due to my dad’s drinking addiction. So one day, when it was my turn to drive my dad home from the bar, I made a rash decision. This loopy looking man with a goatee came up to me and said. “I (hic), I bet that you couldn’t win THE BAD BOYS.”

Normally, I would ignore people like that. But for some reason, this man intrigued me. “What’s that?” I asked. “It’s a reality TV show.” He said with another hiccup. “It’s basically cops and robbers. But if you win (hic) I’ll double your earnings.”

“HOW MUCH ARE THE EARNINGS?” my father's voice boomed across the bar.

“Ohhhh,” the man slumped against a table. “Between 10,000 and a million dollars. It (hic) depends on how well you do.”

“DEAL!” my father said, stumbling over to me and this guy.

“Alright,” the man said, “But what do I get in return?”

“Uhhh… Uhhh…” My dad said as in his drunken state he tried to think of what little we had that would match this guy's proposal. “Umm… Would my son work?”

“Dad, no!” I didn’t even know what he meant by putting me up for some bet.

“Deal!” The loopy man said as he and my father shook hands. “But let me warn you… it’s rigged! You can never win, so you better say goodbye to your son!”

After that I went home and searched up THE BAD BOYS. It turns out that it really was a thing. My dad wanted that money desperately, so I was forced to apply. I tried to research the best strategy, but the season that was coming up was the first, so I came up with nothing.

I thought about this as I was going up the stairs, leading me to the setup world of THE BAD BOYS. Up there, that’s where I decide if I win money, or if I get my life sold to the loopy man. I step up the last step and take in the breathtaking view in front of me.


The air smelled like dish soap. I gave the janitor a polite, forced nod and stepped over the disgusting soapy puddle, holding my breath. My mother had always thought the smell was fresh and lively, but to me, it was horrible. It smelled like white hospitals and washing machines and lateness, my three least favorite things. I glanced at my brand new watch, it had cost a fortune, mind you, noting that my big presentation was in 7 minutes. I had prepared a slideshow, and I couldn't help but hope that everybody else would like my presentation. I straightened my skirt, taking comfort in the fact that I was pulling off the "work-chic" look absolutely perfectly. I walked into the elevator the second the doors slid open, accidentally brushing shoulders with the man who was already inside. He looked about two years younger than me, somewhere in his early twenties. His sharp jawline was what drew my attention to him, but he didn't even bother to take a single look at me when I smiled at him. I widened my smile to show my teeth, parting my red lips. "The fourth floor," I said, widening my smile even more, and waited for him to press the button. He did nothing but glance at me, unimpressed. Perhaps he hadn't heard me, I thought. "The fourth floor," I repeated, my voice a good amount louder and firmer, but he didn't even bat an eyelash. I'm sure he heard me this time! I looked down and cleared my throat softly, now feeling like an absolute idiot, and stepped forward to press the glowing number 4 on the set elevator buttons. I heard a mumble behind me and I spun around, almost tripping in my new high heels. I hadn't quite gotten used to them yet, but I knew that I had to look good for my big presentation. "What. Do you want?" I asked, trying to make my voice sound as uninterested as possible. Sure, he was definitely handsome, but if he was rude to me, then there isn't a single reason why I can't be rude back. "All you had to do was say please," he said shrugging his shoulders coolly, like saying that to a complete stranger was okay. An involuntary scoff escaped my lips. I had done absolutely nothing wrong to him, and he has the nerve to act like this? How dare he! I glanced at the number 3 lit up at the top of the elevator. My floor was next. I could see that he had to go to the 21st floor by looking at the illuminated numbers on the button. I started pressing all the numbers starting from 5, avoiding his confused glare. "What are you doing?" he spat loudly, stepping towards me. "Stop it! Now! I have somewhere to be, you know!" I smiled sweetly at him and kept pressing, enjoying the face he made whenever he heard satisfying little clicks. When I got to number 19, I paused, looked at him, and said, "All you had to do was say please." His jaw dropped open and if we were cartoons, you would practically see the smoke puffing out of his ears. I reached towards number 20 just to tick him off even more, when I noticed something very odd. The buttons weren't glowing anymore. I shot a confused glance at the man, which he returned with a sneer, when all of a sudden, the inside of the elevator went completely black. I felt myself falling before I could even start to register what was happening. I heard ear-shattering screams, although I couldn't process whether they were his or mine as I grabbed onto the elevator bar. I felt a sharp shard of glass fly into my forearm, and then two more shards flew into my leg. Even as I was falling, I understood that they were from my watch, which was now broken Something, or rather, someone clasped my leg tightly and I screeched even louder as I was suddenly pulled down to the elevator floor. "LIE DOWN!" the man screamed, pinning me down next to him with his elbow, pain running through my arm. That's when I felt the jolt. It was terrifying, I was thrown upwards as I crashed into the side of the elevator, my knee taking the full blow. The man rammed into me and we both fell down in a heap on the floor. Tears were streaming down my face and I was shaking uncontrollably when the doors crashed open. "Are you okay? Evacuate now!" A deep voice called, but I couldn't bring myself to move. My eyes stayed wide open and frightened, and I felt like I was frozen in time. I could barely process strong arms lifting me up and carrying me bridal style out of the elevator and onto a stretcher. I was loaded into an ambulance and then I blacked out. #-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#_#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#- I was still curled up into a tiny little ball when I woke up in a white hospital bed, but at least I had stopped shaking wildly. "Water," I croaked, to anyone who would listen, blinking slowly, the bright lights blinding me. "Please," I said, my voice cracking and hoarse from all the screaming I had done when the elevator was falling. I noticed a familiar face in the bed next to me. It was the man from the elevator! He had white gauze that had turned a little bit red on his head and leg. He handed me a glass of water from his bedside table, wincing a little as he stretched over to my bed. "See?" he said, smiling slowly, still obviously in lots and lots pain. "All you had to do was say please." And for the first time in what felt like forever, I smiled back. A_A_A_A_A_A_A_A_A_A_A_A_A_A_A_A_A_A_A_A_A_A_A_ Thank you so much for reading! This is my first writing contest entry on Reedsy and it was so much fun to write! - Shriya


1208 words Rated PG; blood, gore Prompt: Set your story on (or in) a winding river. My shoe was gone. I was walking along the stream at noon when it fell in. I was trudging along, tired from lunch, kicking at all the stones in my path. One kept staying in front of me. I made a game of aiming it straight so that I could kick it again. My foot had been off one time. I had kicked it to the left.  On either side of me, fields. Tall stalks of grass shoot out of them. If I cared to venture further, if I wanted to push the grass aside, then I might have found beautiful creatures. There could have been snakes and frogs, crossing paths and nodding. I might have seen a fox, a mouse, or even an owl flying by. Then I wouldn’t have lost my shoe. Instead, I kicked at the ground in anger. I missed the dirt, and my red sandal with white trim was launched into the air. It landed in the water and sank like a brick. babbling water turned into an overwhelming force when the shoe landed. There was a splash, and instantly the waves became so big that they could swallow my waist.

It didn’t slow down. It became a typhoon, expanding onto the other shore and eating up the land. It took about 10 metres of grass before finally settling down, and going back to its calm and peaceful existence. In less than a minute, the stream became a deep river. I had to get my shoe back.

I took off my other shoe and placed it gently on the ground. I could not risk having to do the same thing twice. I removed my beige sweater. It was knitted especially for me, and ruining it would not be a good idea. I also took off my glasses. They would do nothing for me underwater. Following the actions of my shoe, I dove into the water.

I no longer needed to breathe. It wasn’t that I couldn’t--I was frequently inhaling and exhaling. However, breathing no longer did anything to help me live. The water was the only thing I knew I had to have. I began swimming down and was immediately immersed in light. I squinted. The light was warm and looked to be coming from many different spheres. They were mystical, and I had to look closer. I kicked downward just a little more to see what was going on. I was right. My glasses didn’t help my vision. I could perfectly see the scene in front of me without any help. It was unusual to be able to rely on my eyes. But I trusted them. I trusted them that I was seeing a card game, illuminated by a string of lanterns hung in between two rocks. Who was playing, you ask? I’ll tell you. It was minnows. Lake chubs, to be exact. The small fish with a black stripe and yellow and grey bodies were hovering over cards. The cards lay on the river bed and were as big as each fish’s body.

They were all extremely focused on their game. It seemed as though they were playing something of the utmost elegance. Is this what water life does while we humans aren’t watching? Engage in activities that we might not even be able to comprehend? “Go fish!” Yelled a fish. The fish in question was one with deep yellow scales that faded into black at the very bottom. They grabbed one of the cards in front of them, swam to the middle of the circle, and tossed it out of the light of the lanterns. Another fish--probably the one who inquired about what card the first fish had--dutifully turned around and raced out to catch it. The rest of the circle looked in the direction the fish rushed to. For a few seconds, the silence and suspense were unbearable. I found myself holding my breath, which still didn’t do anything.

With an ace of spades in their mouth, the fish emerged. They spat it towards the first fish. “There you go.” They smirked. I think they did, at least. It was a bit hard to tell. The circle cheered and congratulated the fish. They chanted their name--Cora--and danced around them joyfully. “You know,” Cora said, staring straight at the first fish. “There were a lot of human things down there.” The other fish quieted down. Humans had intrigued them. “A tire, a shoe, and even an old telephone.”

My shoe was close. The fish exchanged looks. Maybe. Again, fish aren’t the best at expressing their emotions. “Dinner!” One of the fish exclaimed. They were going to eat my shoe. I turned my head to where the fish had gone. As quickly as I could, I dove in that direction. My Dad would not be happy if I didn’t get my shoe back. It was darker there. I still had faint light from the lanterns, but it was getting further away with each kick. As soon as I found my shoe, I could go back to land. It would be fine. The gravel was small. I might even consider it sand. I tried to put my foot on it. It worked. Suddenly this was my gravity, walking on the river bed like a floor. I would have to go back to where I came from to escape it. My hair still floated above my head, though. I saw two of the human treasures the fish had been talking about. The tire was that of a bike, and the telephone was blue with a twisting cord and no receiver. The third thing that fish had promised, my shoe, was not there. In the place of my shoe was a monster. It had that vague outline of a fish. I could see flippers, a tail, and a fin in front. It was about the size of a refrigerator. I could make out no other details. It was painted in shadows. It reminded me of a black hole, the way it could suck up light.  It faced me. I could not see its eyes, or know if eyes were something it had, but it was facing me. It knew I was there. When I moved a bit to the left or a bit to the right, it followed me. No matter how I maneuvered it was blocking me from going forward. I started walking backwards. I slowly took steps behind me. The thing still followed. It kept pace with me. It had no concern with touching me, only to be able to feel my presence.

I had to run. I could come back later when the creature had gotten bored, and look for my shoe. Until then I could just play and talk with the minnows. As long as I didn’t have to fetch any cards. The thing opened its big mouth and swallowed my entire being. It gulped down my essence. they trapped me forever in a void in the universe. It cut off my arm, and the blood stained my existence. It gouged out my eyes, and my world was now as black as it. It turned my insides to stone, and now I’ll never recover. I didn’t find my shoe.


"What you need is trail cams. Security cameras, some floodlights set on automatic, barbed-wire fencing...that'll scare 'em off good." Grandpa Al grunts at his own solution, nodding affirmatively at my garden. Or rather, the disastrous remains of my garden.

Potted rosemary and parsley are smashed to smithereens, flossflower trampled into fine dust. Once robust pumpkins now lay scattered in gooey pieces over the marigold patch, and, oddly, only the bright heads of my shrub roses are gone.

Every single one. Pale orange, sunset yellow, and a deep fuchsia, so vibrant it was like wine. All plucked from their stems, leaving nothing but the green of foliage behind. The pinpricks of tiny, needle-sharp teeth grace the edges of the leaves. A bug or something else? "Feels a bit extreme for a few deer," I grumble, collecting up the bigger shards of broken pottery. I’m more upset about the mess and ensuing amount of work it's going to take to get everything as it was than I am at the prospect of having to fortify my home from woodland animals. Luckily, Grandpa doesn’t take offense to my snide reply. He doesn’t take offense to much of anything. "Could also be coyotes, or foxes. If it is, you don't want them hanging around, they eat your garden and pets. Nothin’ some flood lamps and a good old shotgun can't fix." Grandpa elaborates, nods again, satisfied. I groan inwardly, sweeping the rest of the detritus into a pile. He's probably right. About the cameras and lights. Not the gun. I'd likely end up hurting myself more than whatever it is I'm trying to scare off. Not to mention the absolute mess I'd be if I actually managed to shoot something. No, weapons weren't the way to go for this. Later that evening, I stand in the dim on the edge of the backyard porch, inspecting my handiwork. The bulky door cam my auntie Shannon had abandoned in a box inside the cellar is now duct-taped to the top of the standing bird feeder. It's pretty wonky, and I'm not sure how well the feeder will fare on the tape removal, but it holds up for the moment. Shannon sported six toes between both feet and required a cane to walk, and as my house was both accessible and near her work at the butchery, she lived with me for a time. She eventually migrated up to a ranch outside Vancouver, leaving behind the treasured door cam in her haste.

I'm suddenly thankful for my relatives' eccentricities. I walk the feeder into position, camera facing toward the garden. This should at least give me an idea of what critter I'm dealing with. Like Grandpa, I nod with satisfaction at my work. What wakes me up a little past dawn, I can't say. I'm not normally a light sleeper. Even someone breathing next to me can pull me out of it. My eyes slowly adjust to the dark, just as my phone pings. That must've been it. As I reach out, another alert vibrates the phone in my grasp. What's going on? I pull up the app to the door cam as my screen is slammed with notification after notification. The damn thing takes so long to load, my phone nearly goes dark again. The feed finally pops up, grainy and grayscale. The first thing I see is wings. Rounded and gossamer, translucent, akin to a dragonfly's or a spiderweb. The screen is full of them, dozens, all about the size of my hand. And even through the terrible footage, I can detect the mystical illumination. They glow. The second, not-as-fantastical-but-equally-strange, thing I notice is the discolored, shifting mass of fur attached to the wings. Ears, button eyes, and twitchy noses slowly come into shape. Rabbits. Or more specifically, fairy rabbits. Which are, apparently, real. And frolicking in my ruined garden.

As I watch, a bunny with long white ears and tiny, fluttery wings rears up on its hind legs and takes an enormous chomp out of my flowers. An entire rose head gulped down in a single, fluid bite.

At least it isn't coyotes. But how does one go about removing fairy rabbits? I wasn't great at dealing with the average garden-variety of critters, let alone the magical kind. And they seemed content with lounging about in the flowerbeds, gorging themselves on my roses. As cute and enchanting as they are, they can't stay here. Sooner or later, they'll eat or destroy everything I have growing out there. I kick the covers back, easing my way out of bed. Any trace of sleepiness that might have been lingering is gone. The old floorboard creaks unevenly as I tiptoe—ridiculous, I know, it's my house—down the hallway, stopping at the sliding glass door that leads to the backyard. I carefully push a section of the drapes aside and peer out. There they are. My pulse picks up at the sight of them. Seeing something like this emitting from a horribly pixelated screen doesn’t nearly do the real thing justice.

The darkness is broken up by the cheery glow of fluttering, pastel-colored wings. Soft pink, minty green, and baby blue lights bounce off the enclosed yard, a mesmerizing show.

I pause, watching the little bodies hop about, snuffling hungrily at my vegetables. I think of my roses. It doesn't feel fair to spook them off so coldly, being as hungry as they appear. And, honestly, I don't want them to leave, either. This is much different than catching an enormous buck drinking out of the bird bath during wildfire season—because how many people have come across a dehydrated deer versus winged rabbits? Still likely not too many, but more than those who've maybe spotted a mythical creature. But I also can't let them ravage further, either. I lean my forehead against the glass, staring out at the backyard and the fairies and flowers within. My phone continues to buzz from alerts as the camera detects their every motion. What now? What would grandpa Al say about all this? Minus the fatal means and tools, of course. There's usually a nugget of gold somewhere in those rambling, ridiculous ideas of his. Like the door cam; not technically his, but he bore the spark.

Just like right now.

I silence the alert before quickly pulling up a series of searches, plans and ideas already flooding throughout my mind's eye. It takes a few weeks to get my garden back in order, and it's at least a month after that to get the other roses flowering. The yard has transformed in that time—in the center, right where my beloved blooms and plants sprouted, is now a small glass house. A shed, really, just big enough to host everything, roses included. A pebble pathway stretches from the porch to its entry, and surrounding the perimeter of the greenhouse are thick, rapidly-growing shrub roses. What the fairies lack in restraint they make up for with a nice, magical fertilizer. So far, I’ve found it to be a fine tradeoff.

At least it isn’t coyotes.


Annie almost made it out the back door of her grandfather’s farmhouse.               She actually had the previous morning, as far as the porch steps before she heard the old man’s voice carry like a horn.               Annie paused, hand on the doorknob.               ‘Don’t pick the apples,’ he said. ‘It isn’t time yet.’               Sighing, she turned. ‘It’s harvest season. And I’m hungry.’               ‘You just had toast.’               ‘I hate bread,’ Annie said matter-of-factly. ‘I spat it in the bin because I hate it so much.’               The old man made a dismissive wave of his hand. ‘You’re too pure a little girl to hate anything. Wait until you’re older and the world gives you a good reason. Trust me, it won’t be bread.’               ‘What about a boy?’               The old man nodded. ‘Sure. One day.’               ‘I hate Jazz,’ Annie said.               Her grandfather arched an eyebrow. ‘Jazz music?’               Annie shook her head, confused. ‘No, Jazz. The boy from Penrose. He comes—’               ‘Shane’s son, the smart aleck.’ The old man adopted a smirk. ‘Could be that you like him more than you want to admit. We don’t choose the one’s we love. We can only hope they’ll choose us.’               Annie’s face grimaced and she shook her head wildly.              ‘Anyway, he’s a little monster.’ He gave her a stern look. ‘Picks my apples.’               Annie made tiger claws with her hands. ‘Roar!’               Her grandfather’s face went panic-stricken as he backed away. ‘Who are you?’ he stammered. ‘What have you done with my granddaughter?’               ‘I’m Jazz the stupid monster,’ Annie said in her best scabby voice, ‘and I tore her up. She was shredded like leftover apple peels before I swallowed her. She tasted like a juicy apple, too.’               ‘Scary stuff,’ her grandfather said. ‘But you’ve made a rash mistake. A monster like you could never keep down something as sweet as my granddaughter.’               Annie’s face contorted comically. ‘Sweet? SWEET !’ She shook dramatically and fell to the floor.               After a moment of poetic silence, her grandfather applauded.               Annie rushed to her feet and took a string of bows. Her grandfather retreated into the kitchen and returned with a rose. He threw the flower at her feet and continued to clap, smiling his brilliant smile. Annie picked the rose up, observed it, smelt it, then widened her mouth as if to say one bite was all she needed.               Disappointment flickered over her grandfather’s face. ‘Still hungry, huh?’               Annie nodded.               ‘One apple,’ the old man affirmed. ‘But we’ll need to be extremely careful.’               ‘Because of the Pink Lady?’               A firm nod. ‘That’s right.’               The day was warm and dry, ideal for picking. Though according to Annie’s grandfather, it wasn’t yet harvest season. He made that crystalline clear, spieling on steadily about how the right time to pick an apple was after a frost. It made apples most sweetened and easy to store. But it was all one big soliloquy to Annie, really. She knew the truth, a truth so true it couldn’t have been truer: Her grandfather was awaiting the Pink Lady.               You had to think about these sorts of things. First, there were hardly any frosts in NSW. They were most common in Central and Southern Australia.               Secondarily, she first heard about the Pink Lady from Jazz. Despite the boy’s shrill presence, he was full of secrets. He entertained that he picked them from his garden, which might have been the most cock and bull story she’d ever heard. Notwithstanding, his secrets were always true.               Thirdly… Well, what more was there to think about? Jazz told it, and the boy was never wrong.                Annie’s grandfather might have been old, but he moved like a mature cat. It was hard to keep up sometimes. They made a beeline for the apple orchard. The sun shone, coating each tree with golden glitter. He eyed each apple carefully like a stubborn store clerk, his face tight with solemnity.               The whole manoeuvre took a few minutes before deciding on a tree. Next was the apple. Her grandfather went quiet, so quiet that even the silence sighed. Annie performed patience by sitting and meddling with leaves and twigs in the same way a bellyful child plays with her food out of sheer boredom. A short wind gusted around her, swirling her hair, and rattling the grove. Her grandfather ran a finger across each apple, gentle as stroking a kitten, then looked down at Annie with a glimmer in his eye.               ‘Would you like to pick it?’ he said.               A grand circus took refuge on her face, and she nodded like a bobble head.

              Her grandfather lifted Annie onto his shoulders and pointed directly at a bright red apple. ‘That one.’               Annie reached out carefully and picked it. ‘Can we call it Appy?’               Her grandfather mulled over it. ‘Straightforward. I fancy it.’               She immediately bit down, and juice ran down her chin. There was nothing like an apple to stave off hunger. Nothing so charming and sweet.               The old man put Annie down and rubbed at his back with a grimace. ‘You’re getting plump,’ he said. ‘Soon there’ll be nothing left to grip onto.’               ‘Like a ball,’ Annie said mid-chew.               ‘Except you don’t let people kick you around.’               ‘A ball with spikes,’ Annie said, ‘like an echidna.’               ‘I suppose so.’               There was a moment of silence as her grandfather looked around the orchard. She saw many apples, each bright with blush. Annie took a final bite of the apple and handed the last quarter to her grandfather. He accepted it with a beam and gobbled the rest.               ‘Are you waiting for the Pink Lady?’ Annie said.               Her grandfather’s face warped with confusion.               ‘Is it true the Pink Lady will poison the orchard if anyone tries to pick her?’               The old man’s brow frowned a bit. ‘Did Jazz tell you this?’               Annie nodded.               He made the same regular dismissive gesture with his hand. ‘Bunch of bulldust. The Pink Lady is as sweet as the dusk sun.’               ‘Jazz’s secret says that the Pink Lady used to be a candy apple. She met a boy who ate her sugar candy coating and threw the rest of her away.’               Her grandfather blew a raspberry. ‘The day that boy’s pants light on fire I’m going to do a little jig, I swear.’ He stretched his back at an awkward angle, grimacing. ‘Tell you what. You invite that boy over tomorrow, and I’ll set the fib straight.’               Annie frowned. ‘Do I have to?’               ‘No,’ her grandfather said. ‘But a rumour whispered is a half-truth twisted, secrets being what they are.’               For a moment it looked like her grandfather had something to prove, but his eyes said something else.               He was distant, and for a moment the orchard paled.

Peter fell in love in the Autumn of 1956, and he was adamant on telling the world. But first things first, you had to earn your lover’s story and be as patient as stone if you wanted any part in it.               Peter was a loud person who lived a quiet life. He preferred his regular pastime of fruit picking over the social extravagance of dancing and booze. Granted, he could dance. He was like the wind. But what did it matter? Manon never noticed him. Not until the night he slipped on some beer and corked his rump so bad that he thought he’d never sit right again.               Manon was the only one who’d rushed over, her eyes bright with laughter. ‘Are you okay?’               Peter was dazed with both pain and affection. ‘Can’t say it doesn’t hurt. I think I bit my tongue at some point… I can taste blood.’               ‘Falling or dancing?’               Peter tittered. ‘You noticed my dancing?’               ‘Who hasn’t?’ Manon said. ‘You’re the talk of the pub, Busy Butt.’               How lovely it was, to fall for a woman like Manon. You didn’t pick someone like her. Attraction was not a choice. You simply did your best at giving them the opportunity to pick you.               There were others who had tried to captivate her and failed. So, he resisted showing her how he truly felt, knowing that too much truth was a blockhead’s game. But in the end, she was the one who picked apples with him, and she was content to spend the last year of her life with a man who was every bit as shy and nervous as she had first been.                It was 1957. The autumn was ending, and they were picking apples.                ‘My oncologist says we’re looking at a year or two—tops,’ said Manon.                Peter gave it a long moment’s thought, but his words abandoned him.                ‘One year,’ Manon continued, her voice oddly calm. ‘How many apples do you think we could pick in that time?’                Peter said nothing.                ‘Ah, Earth to Peter, the only survivor of the end of the world. Do you copy?’                ‘Hey,’ Peter said, ‘you’ll beat this thing.’                Manon sighed. ‘I don’t think so, darling.’

               Peter sighed. ‘That’s not fair.’                ‘I can’t speak for my disease,’ Manon said, ‘but I’ve won the historical lottery and lived a charming life. What wouldn’t be fair for the both of us is for you to leave my side. Even if you’ll be there, there’s a chance you won’t be, you know?’               Despite feeling like a drenched dishcloth, Peter feigned a smile. Manon’s golden hair beamed beneath the sunlight. She smelt of cinnamon and rosewood. She ducked under a low branch and picked an apple from the next tree. She took a bite and pressed it against Peter’s mouth, forcing Peter to sink his teeth in and bite off his share. The apple was crisp and sweet as song is to clever ears.               ‘Pink ladies,’ she said, ‘are definitely my favourite.’               ‘They’re very fizz-like,’ Peter said. His face went serious. ‘We didn’t catch its name.’               ‘Apple-ly,’ Manon said. ‘Apple-ly ever after.’               ‘Clever,’ Peter said. ‘I fancy it.’                Manon paused. Her face went stiff with an earnest curiosity. ‘Do you believe in reincarnation?’                Peter shrugged. ‘Never thought about it.’                ‘Do you think I’d make a great apple?’                ‘If reincarnation does exist, I’d think you’d make a fine apple.’                ‘They’d call me the Pink Lady,’ Manon said proudly.                ‘If so, I’ll come back as an apple, too, and go by the name of Apple-lause.’                ‘Why, because you dance?’                Peter gazed at her. ‘You make an autumn day blush, you know that?’                Manon grinned. Then she began to cry.

‘I don’t care what your grandpa thinks,’ Jazz said. ‘My secrets are always true.’               Annie scowled. ‘He says he can’t wait to see your pants on fire.’               ‘Whatever.’ He pointed an accusatory finger at Annie. ‘You go on ahead and tell the fossil that my garden never lies, and that the only thing on fire is his wrinkly temper.’               A pale, clenched fist. Annie made her short way back home.               Morning trickled into noon, and hunger befell Annie again. Her grandfather was outback minding his own business, fighting things in the shed, complaining to the half-deaf dog. Annie searched the pantry, grabbed a tin of biscuits, and went with three Tim Tams. Each one melted in her mouth, and she felt herself dance a bit.               A knock at the door.               Her grandfather was busy, so she stood upright, put on her best dutiful face, and marched down the hall. She immediately spotted Jazz through the screen door, idling like some stubborn statue.               She opened up. ‘What do you want?’               ‘The garden told me another secret.’ He fell into a conspiratorial whisper. ‘One about the Pink Lady.’               Annie heard the backdoor. ‘Your garden is full of cow poop.’               Jazz shook his head. ‘ For every lie there’s a flower dead, and our garden protects its flower bed . That’s what my dad says. Means it’s not going to lie.’               ‘Is that Jazz I hear?’ her Grandfather called. He came down the hall, taller than usual.               ‘Hi, Peter,’ Jazz muttered. ‘Mum says thanks for the fruit.’               ‘She’s welcome to it any time,’ Peter said. ‘Say, why aren’t your pants on fire?’               Annie giggled. Then stuck her tongue out at the boy.              Jazz crossed his arms and raised his chin. ‘My garden doesn’t lie.’              ‘And what’s all this talk about the Pink Lady being tossed aside like some threadbare rag doll or jilted lover?’              ‘The Pink Lady’s sugary coating was eaten by a boy,’ Jazz regaled, ‘and she was tossed aside into an apple orchard. One day she met a man whose apple orchard she’d been residing in for some time. He fell in love with the Pink Lady and promised that she’d have her very own tree. But he never returned, and the Pink Lady began to rot. Birds pecked holes into her, field mice took their titbits. Feeling betrayed, the Pink Lady vowed that one day she’d return as a big orchard and poison anyone who dared pick her before her man returned.’               ‘Come on,’ Peter said with a knowing grin. ‘Let’s go apple picking.’

On the morning of August the 12 th , 2017, Peter died of natural causes. He was ninety-three and picked apples up until his death. He was buried in his orchard.                Annie and Jazz sold the farmhouse and used the money to start up an organic grocery store in Sydney. Business bustled. They were young, ambitious, and in a position to welcome the prospect of children.               On January the 9 th , 2020, Annie made Jazz squeal. She was pregnant, and they decided to visit Jazz’s parents in Penrose, mid-autumn, to share the good news.               It was late Autumn by the end, and they spent their last day in Penrose lying about the house like rugs.              ‘I miss home,’ Annie said. ‘I miss him.’              ‘I know,’ Jazz said. ‘Me, too.’              There was a stretch of silence between them.              ‘Want to hear something funny?’ Annie said.              ‘Sure.’              ‘I couldn’t stand you once upon a time. But Grandpa always said we don’t pick ‘em. They pick us.’              Jazz rubbed at his chin speculatively. ‘If that’s the theory, then who did the picking?’              Annie shrugged. ‘Well, I like to think we both did.’              ‘You know,’ Jazz continued, ‘I tattled with the garden yesterday.’              Annie rolled her eyes. ‘Of course. What secrets, I wonder…’              ‘The apples have rotted this fall,’ Jazz explained, ‘all but two. One of them so happens to be the Pink Lady, the other goes by name of Apple-ause.’               Annie giggled. ‘Clever. I fancy.’               ‘You should visit him,’ Jazz said. His face was serious.               Annie thought about this. ‘I will.’               It was two in the afternoon, and the sky was bare blue. Annie walked along the dirt track that lead up to the old farmhouse. Her childhood corner of the world had changed, though a certain virginial finality lingered. Some old cottages had been modernized, their charming chimneys and petite fences mutated into what the oldies described as a certain four-letter word. Now they were big blocks of cement with entry points. You did not tend their gardens or light their fireplaces. You came home and frittered away time, seeking beauty through a bright rectangular screen. The autumn was lacking, dead as ditch water. Most trees were either cut down or utilised to hang small business signs from.

DAVE’S APPLE ORCHARD                                           ORGANIC APPLES $3:00 A KILO Annie’s eyes went distant for a moment, then she returned. She strolled up the dirt road, recalling her childhood fondly. She reached the old farmhouse. Three children were playing out front as Dave sorted through a large tin bucket of apples. He was muttering to himself, his face foiled with frustration.               ‘Hey, Dave.’               Dave bolted upright and used one hand to shade his eyes from the sun. ‘Annie!’ He stood up. His face riddled with enthusiasm. ‘Look at you, you’re like a potbelly stove, and for good reason.’               Annie gave an operatic bow. ‘The house treating you well?’               ‘Brilliantly.’ His face fell flat as a spade. ‘Up until this season, at least. If you’ve come for apples, you’re dung out of luck. The orchard’s dead, and the apples have rotted. All but one.’ He pulled an apple from his pocket. ‘Nice bright Jazz Apple. You hungry?’               Annie’s chest fell heavy, though she clung to her stomach. She nodded.               Dave handed her the apple.               ‘Thanks,’ Annie said. ‘And I’m sorry to hear it. Though actually, that isn’t it. Do you mind if I wander through the orchard a bit?’               ‘That’s fine,’ Dave said. ‘Something you need?’               ‘My grandfather—.’               Dave raised a hand, slightly embarrassed. ‘How stupid of me. Yes, of course.’               The orchard had an air of quietus to it, and a moment of appreciation. It reminded Annie of her grandfather’s funeral, a time for both grief and grace. Memories cuddled her mind, warm as a blanket; a time when she sat by her grandfather’s feet, awaiting the right apple. But never the Pink Lady, he always said. Not until I’m ready.               She saw it. A bright pink apple hidden amid blades of grass tall as her shins. It fluoresced like a ruby, bright and precious as a full moon. Annie sat and placed the Jazz apple Dave had handed her beside it.               ‘Annie?’               She turned, and Jazz knelt beside her. He kissed her on the cheek.               ‘Hey, Peter,’ Jazz said.               She laid her head on her husband’s shoulder and smiled her grandfather’s brilliant smile. ‘Hi, Grandpa. Hi Grandma.’