“I can't do this anymore,” Carly said “I need to get out of this room. How do you people live in this heat? It´s too bloody hot, it’s unbearable.  46c it says on my phone today.  I swear I have never been this hot in my life. I can't breathe, I can't sleep. The sweat is pouring off me. Last night the aircon went off, there was a mosquito in the room – bastard bit me. I got up at 4am and had a cold shower – I still couldn't get back to sleep. I thought you lot had money, why am I in this shitty motel anyway, there are tons of swanky hotels on the Strip with decent aircon and room service?” Kevin looked across the room at Carly. “It´s July, its Vegas what do you expect? We are in the desert. You get used to it. Just be glad you are not in Louisiana where I grew up. There it´s 37c but 80% humidity. At least here the humidity is 10%, so cool when you get out of the sun. And in answer to your question. Hotels are dangerous. People see things. Most staff are on low wages, easy to bribe. Lots of entrances and exits. You've seen the movies where people dress up as maids and steal key cards. This is crappy but its anonymous, as long as you pay for the room no one bothers you. Anyway, we have one or two more days here and then that´'s it.” “Where are we going then,” Carly said. “I don't know exactly, Petra is organising it. I should know tomorrow when she calls me.” Carly lay back on the bed and got out her phone. She was scrolling through it and he could hear music and laughter. Probably some stupid cat videos people were always sharing. Kevin tried not to think about Louisiana and his upbringing. As soon as he could he joined the police force and went to the big city. He hated the bayou and the small minded people in his town.  Firstly, he worked in Baton Rouge and then, as a result of an exchange organised by the federal government, ended up in Washington – where he had been for 7 years. He loved the city. The drug busts and gang warfare didn’t faze him a bit. He liked putting bad guys behind bars, he felt like he was making a difference. Then he worked undercover. He liked that a lot. More flexible but more dangerous. These villains were off the scale. A stark contrast to Baton Rouge, where the villains were mostly good ol’ boys who had too many bottles of bud and decided to go out in an air boat on the bayou and shoot themselves a few gators for dinner. Sadly, a lot of the time they ended up as the meat, as they were so drunk they fell overboard, and the police had to pick up the pieces, literally. He smiled to himself at the memory, as Carly looked up from her phone and said: “I’m hungry, can we eat something?”

“Sure, what do you fancy, - Italian, Asian. There is a great pizza place on the strip; they have a wood fired oven. I will go out.” “I’m so fed up being cooped up here; can I go with you, just this one time?” She pleaded. “Carly, you know that’s not possible, not yet, it´s not much longer. Once you have the op you will have more freedom, but for now it’s not safe. They are out there and they know what you look like.” “I don’t want to have a nose job,” she said “My nose is fine just as it is, can’t I get an extension or something to change the shape without surgery.” “Because it works, changing your nose shape changes the rest of your face. You will be amazed what a new nose and new hair style can do. You will have a choice, the surgeon we use is very good, and he will listen to you.” “I’m scared,” she said, “what if it goes wrong, what if there are complications? I don't want to be sick and I don't want to be looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life!” He wanted to say, “Surely you thought this through before you did it. You knew it would be hard. These people don't just walk away. You are a target and they are after you. They have a lot of resources and a long reach. You may not make it.”

But instead he said “I had a client once. He squealed on a Colombian cocaine gang. After surgery he was reborn in Toronto where he ran a small bookshop. A few years later we checked in on him. He was happy, smoking a pipe with a goatee beard looking very bookish. He had a wife and 3 children and the Colombians never had a clue. It´s a big world out there, hiding is not that difficult.”  He felt a pang of compassion for her. All alone in a strange country, running for her life. No one to trust – or at least she probably felt that way now, after what had happened in Florida. Petite and dark haired she was not his type, but she was vulnerable and it was his job to protect her. “Carly, I have been doing this for a while. It’s not a risky operation with a good surgeon and good aftercare. You will be out the same day. We will find you somewhere nice to recuperate, I promise.” “Petra said she had been doing it for a while also, and look what happened there.” “That’s why we are going down the surgery route. It will give you more freedom, more chance of making this a success.” “I don’t have a choice, do I?” she said, finally. “Pepperoni pizza it is then” he said, swiftly changing the subject. “Lock the door and don’t answer it for anybody. I will swing by reception also and report the aircon unit.  You know where the gun is. Use it if you have to. I will phone you when I am standing outside.” She felt like saying she wasn’t hungry anymore but in an instant he was gone. # # # # # # # # The door slammed behind him and she ran to the curtains to watch him get in the car and drive off. Kevin was tall, with dark hair, broad shouldered with deep brown eyes. Even wearing jeans he didn’t look scruffy. He worked out, no doubt about it. You could see his chest muscles through the tight white t-shirt and his thigh muscles pushing through his jeans. The way he spoke, that southern drawl, was really sexy, and she was sure he must have had a hard time of it in Washington, where they would have viewed him as a hillbilly. Still, he had stuck it out for 7 years according to Petra. Must be good at his job. Maybe it wasn’t so bad being “babysat” by Kevin after all. Nothing in her life had turned out the way she had hoped it would. She had a good job that she enjoyed, with great career opportunities, until that fateful day. The future that she had planned out, career, family a couple of children, was now a melancholy memory. Her life had taken a different turn, now she had to take one day at a time. The previous episode in Florida had shaken everyone up. Petra was at a loss to know what had happened to blow her cover. The Feds concluded that someone working for the airline had tipped them off, no other explanation. She had been identified and followed. Investigations were ongoing, but meanwhile she was in Nevada, just south of Las Vegas trying to start her new life AGAIN! She switched on the tv and flicked channels until she found an old episode of “Colombo” the scruffy detective from the 70’s, who is actually a whizz at solving murders and bringing the bad guys to justice. The ads kicked in after only 5 minutes, just when you were getting in to the story - it was the same on every channel. She would just have to learn to live with it. So many things here were different, not just the tv. But, it was in her interest to adapt, and adapt she would, her life depended on it. Her phone rang. It was Kevin. “I’m outside, look through the curtains, then let me in.” She did that and saw him standing there with 2 enormous pizza boxes and a giant bottle of coca cola. She opened the door and closed it quickly. There was a draught of air; it was like someone had aimed a hairdryer at her. The pizzas smelt delicious, her hunger pangs returned. “You don't want to be out there. It´s brutal. Worse bit is the heat wave is going to continue for a few more days. It's the hottest day of the year so far - we just have to hang in here!”

There were beads of sweat on his forehead, he wiped them with the back of his hand. She watched him as he opened the boxes and brought out napkins. No cutlery, or plates, she forgot that Americans ate pizza right out of the box. He poured her a glass of coke with ice and sat back in the chair; looking right at her he scooped up an enormous slice and shoved it in his mouth. She watched him eating it. He managed not to spill a drop on his pristine white t-shirt, she knew she wouldn’t be able to do that. Especially when she was nervous. This was their third night together, their third meal. They were still sizing each other up, trying to establish boundaries. Her heartbeat had accelerated but she tried to keep calm and helped herself to a slice. It was pepperoni with slices of onion topped with paprika and chilli peppers. She didn’t want coca cola but drank it anyway. It was cool and took the heat away. She already had feelings for him and hated it. She didn’t want those feelings, especially not now. Not when her life was in utter chaos. They demolished the pizza. “So tell me,” he said, wiping his chin, still no stains on his t-shirt “why did you do it. Why testify, you didn’t need to, you could have just gotten on with your life?” “Didn't you read the file?” she said, picking up a bit of pizza with her fingers that had fallen into her lap and was making a greasy stain on her jeans. “It’s all there.” “Yes, but I wanted to hear it from you. They don't put everything in the file, what was your motivation for doing it?” She sighed. “At the time I was angry, I wasn’t thinking clearly. They out of the door with the jewellery trays but then one of them turned round and came back. We were all lying face down on the floor. He went over to Mr Cohen and shot him in the back of the head. He didn’t need to do that, they were escaping and it held them up, but he did it anyway.  I looked up and he had taken off his hood so I saw his face. He didn’t need to kill him. It was so unfair. Mr Cohen was a good man – she started to sob – he gave me a break, I was training to be a jewellery designer, not just a shop assistant, he gave me a break. I decided then and there that they wouldn’t get away with it.” Kevin thought for a minute. “Was Cohen wearing a kippah, the small head cover that Jews wear?” “Yes, he always wore it, why?” “We think the shooter was a Palestinian who grew up in Beirut. Lebanese father American mother. He used to work for us but then he was turned. He works for terrorists now as a gun for hire. Mostly the PLO. The money from the heist would have gone to them.” “I thought it was odd that the FBI would be interested in a jewellery heist gone wrong in London. They were at Scotland Yard during my first interview.” “We had to neutralise him, he was becoming a real problem. He knew far too much. But these people are vicious and vengeful, but nothing we can't handle.  What about your family, they must have had something to say?” “To be honest, I wasn't that close to my parents. My dad was dead so Cohen was a father figure, and my mum and I were always arguing, so no love lost there; but I will miss my brother and sister terribly, we were very close. They tried to talk me out of it, but I am stubborn I suppose and wouldn'´t listen. I think they have some mad idea about coming to join me in the future, when things have settled down a bit.” “Won't happen, sorry. Don't get your hopes up. It's got to be a clean break.” He said. “I knew it would be hard and tried to visualise myself in my new life but it different when it happens, it’s much harder to come to terms with. Everything is so different now and I can never go back.” Her voice was starting to break. He put his hand on her shoulder to steady her as she was sobbing. He gave her his handkerchief and she made a lot of noise blowing her nose and wiping her eyes. “Coffee?” he said. She nodded. He grabbed the empty boxes and went into the kitchenette. “I got more ice, and more drinks. In the fridge if you need them. When I speak to Petra we will get the date for the surgery. We won’t be coming back to this motel after; we will go somewhere else, closer to Vegas. Everyone is having surgery in Vegas, you won't look out of place with a bandaged nose.” He tilted his head to one side and smiled at her. She couldn’t resist smiling back through her tears. “Oh and one other thing, we really have to work on that accent!” 2,397 words


I'm almost out of love. I can feel it, feel the pinpoints of searing heartache that prod my beating heart every waking moment. My whole life I'd been wealthy with admiration. My mother, my father, and my sister who had loved me so. Our affection fed each other so that we could live happy lives. My father used my mother's undying fondness to keep a roof over our heads, keep our stomachs filled, and give my sister, Tilly, and I whatever our childish minds desired. He used his children's love to fuel their college funds, which is how Tilly and I both ended up at an ivy-league school. That, and we were teeming with knowledge of the world. The other kids at school were envious of me until we graduated. Charlie is swimming in love , they whispered. Why can't he give us some? Then they grew smarter and figured if they befriended me, they would be able to chisel my love out of me through accounts of friendship. But I was too clever by half and had no trouble turning down each person who tried to strike a false conversation. Eventually, they hated me. I was okay with that. But being smart didn't mean I never did wild teenager things. I threw grand parties that cost absurd amounts of affection. People would show up just because they knew I was well-off and tossed my love around only to receive half an hour of enjoyment. I would be the first to leave - like anyone cared - and find Tilly at home, curled up with a book, a spot already open for me across from her. She knew me like the back of her hand, just as I did. Tilly was my greatest companion. But life and love only last so long. That's what I told Tilly when I attempted to take her to one of my parties. It was to be a masquerade held in a beautiful atrium. It was the talk of our entire town. I wanted Tilly to go with me. "It's not my thing, lover boy," she said, unbinding her brunette coils. "I'll read about it in the newspaper next week, though. It sure sounds fun." She put her nose back in the book she was reading, but I snapped it shut and threw it on the carpet beside us. We were sitting on a windowsill, sharing a blanket and hiding from the never-ending snowfall. When she shot me a fiery look, I gave her a pleading stare. "If it sounds fun, why won't you come with me?" "That's pathetic reasoning. Just because it sounds fun, doesn't mean it will be." " Tilly." " Charlie." I narrowed my eyes, hoping they looked as green as venom. "I'll bury your book in the snow." Tilly's jaw fell slack. "You wouldn't!" I smirked at her wickedly and toppled off of the sill, securing her book and barreling down the hall. She chased after me, but I was too fast on my long legs. I dodged the things she threw at me and sidestepped her when she got too close. I was at the sliding glass door when Tilly finally shouted, "Okay, okay, I'll go!" I thought I'd won. But I lost terribly. That night, Tilly and I entered the party hand-in-hand. I wasn't lying when I said it would be beautiful: pillars of plated gold that held up a shining glass roof, diamond chandeliers, golden platters of expensive delicacies, polished marble floors that stunning people waltzed across in light steps. I looked at Tilly, half of her sharp features hidden behind a sapphire feathered mask. There was a smile on her lips and her emerald eyes sparkled like jewels. "Charlie Knox, you constantly surprise me," she whispered, reaching a pale hand up to pat my slicked-back brown hair. "It's a good quality," I replied, and whisked my younger sister away to dance. It was a grand night. We drank sparkly champagne with sunken strawberries. Tilly made two or three friends - those of which who were not particularly fond of me and cast hateful glances. She received many compliments on her diamond-flecked dress, her smile growing brighter with each one. I'd never seen her so happy and social. I will admit this once to you, and never to anyone else. The glasses of alcohol I'd consumed were numerous. They kept piling up, a fresh flute always in my hand. I barely noticed until my world started swaying with the music, and I felt I was about to retch. I was sober enough to catch this and grabbed Tilly's arm. She was talking with a blonde girl who never bothered to look at me. "What is it, Charlie?" Tilly said, and then stepped back to seemingly get a better look. "Are you alright?" "I think we should go home," I told her, avoiding the second question. "It's getting late." Tilly nodded understandingly and led me through the crowd of dancers. I dropped my half-empty glass off at the table before the giant French doors just as we stepped into the chilly winter air. It bit at my nose and bled through my navy-blue suit. Why wouldn't I bring a jacket? I was so ignorant. I got into the driver's seat and started the car. Snowflakes crusted the windshield, but I was so tired. I didn't take the time to wipe them off, figuring that we lived just a few blocks away. It all happened in a chain of events. One moment I was squinting through the snow, the next the tires were slipping over a sheet of black ice. Tilly's scream filled my ears and pierced through every drink I'd had that night. My foot slammed on the brakes, screeching as we spun like thread. Red light swirled faster and faster, and gradually, slower. We were slowing down. We were stopping. And everything was okay. I was breathing hard, my heart pounding. I glanced over at Tilly, who was frazzled but looked okay. "I'm sorry," I said. She shook her head furiously but didn't accept my apology. I closed my eyes and rested my head against the steering wheel, letting the shock and adrenaline ease off. We were okay, and we could get back home safe. And then the red light flickered to green. I heard the whir of car engines from all angles. I jerked up, frantically looking out of the window and all around. We were in the middle of an intersection. How did we end up here? I thought we'd spun into a lone street, an alleyway, something that wasn't dangerous. I guess I never considered it. Quickly, I turned the wheel and stepped on the gas. Which way was I going? I couldn't tell. My mind was muddled with champagne and fear. I kept driving, telling myself I would find a way out by will or by hope. I prayed even though I was never religious. For one second, one measly second, I closed my eyes. That was the last mistake I made, the mistake that cost more than any party I ever held. I don't remember much from when the accident happened. It's all quite fuzzy. I recall Tilly screaming my name, two bright headlights, and the crunch of bone on concrete as our car was flipped and we were both cast onto the road. I was told afterward that I fell asleep at the wheel and a man in a truck didn't see us. I was told that the doctors had to perform emergency surgery on my legs and I would never be able to walk again. I was told Tilly was killed. They said they'd save the details of her death so I wouldn't feel worse than I already did. But they did say that she was dead when they arrived. I hate that they didn't tell me what happened. It left too many doors open, too many possibilities of the way she had gone. Her head could have been bashed on the concrete. Her body could have been crushed by the flipping car. Glass could have slit her throat. Tilly's heart - the heart that provided the love to keep me stable - was six feet under. And it was my fault. Because I didn't fall asleep while driving, even though I agreed that I did. Because I got in the driver's seat, knowing that I was drunk. All my fault. So, like I said, I'm almost out of love. Tilly was my biggest supplier. After her death, my parents closed themselves off and stopped loving. Stopped loving each other, stopped loving me, stopped loving the world. Which I understand, because Tilly was the world. And because I never bothered with friends and I assumed I would be stable my entire life, I spend each day crippled on the windowsill of my dilapidated house, rereading a worn book that still has her handwriting on the cover. Tilly Knox. I spend and spend and spend my love on useless things. If I spend enough, my heart will stop. If I could buy death with the dwindling love I have, I'd be first in line.


“Fear not my lady Abby, thy renowned confidant is here to retrieve thy mislaid soul from the island ‘The Unknown’, said Kat whilst gripping a plastic sword and pointing its sharp end towards the sky. Abby was in a seated position about a meter away. Upon hearing Kate’s hilarious statement, dissolved into laughter and leaned back. Almost lying down on her back. Amid her ceaseless laughter, she managed to word a suitable reply, “Oh, great Kate, make haste and catch my hand in yours and therefore redeem m bewildered humanity”. “Great Kate?”, Kate pointed out, “I think I like that”, she said with a smirk on her lips. Lifting her chin in pride. In classic Abby and Kate style, they were performing in public, at an airport. It didn’t bother them that people walking by stared at them. Neither did they feel embarrassed. Just before Kate could utter another iconic phrase in front of their audience, she was interrupted by the airport announcement. “THIS IS THE FINAL BOARDING CALL FOR ABBY HADE AND KATE COLLINS BOOKED ON FLIGHT 385A TO MIDDLECAM CAY. PLEASE PROCEED TO GATE 2 IMMEDIATELY. THE FINAL CHECKS ARE BEING COMPLETED AND THE CAPTAIN WILL ORDER FOR THE DOORS OF THE AIRCRAFT TO CLOSE IN APPROXIMATELY FIVE MINUTES. I REPEAT. THIS IS THE FINAL BOARDING CALL FOR ABBY HADE AND KATE COLLINS. THANK YOU”, said a female voice through the speakers. Abby snapped out of their fantasy play without delay. “You hear that Kate? We have to go now!”, said Abby and began hauling their bags. While Kate, on the other hand, dragged her feet and groaned with her back slouched. She ultimately accepted that it was time for them to leave. After all, they were late. “Come on Kate, we’ve been waiting for this moment since forever. Since high school. We’re finally going to Middlecam Cay”, said Abby in a soft voice. She put her hand on Kate’s shoulder to reassure her. “Cheer up, we’re going to the island at last”, she continued, in an enthusiastic voice. Abby noticed the change in expression on Kate’s face when the announcement came on. But that didn’t stop her from looking forward to the trip. There was something about that feeling she had. Abby couldn’t wait to arrive at Middlecam Cay. She read and heard stories about the island, such as that spirits are wandering in the area and that not everyone survived more than a few months after arriving. Only the pure in heart with pure intentions flourished. ‘The Unknown’ island was indeed a real place, although some people believed it to be a myth. It hadn’t been mapped out yet by cartographers, as they could not attain the accurate measurements of the island’s perimeters. It was rumoured that cartographers would get lost and unearth new plots of land. Thus, forcing them to retake measurements and so the cycle continued. Abby knew all this information but did not mention a word to Kate. She only told her that the hotels were hiring young people and that is why they were travelling there. She knew that Kate would change her mind about leaving home if that were not the reason. As soon as they boarded the plane, the pair was met with two air hostesses. They paged through their papers and cleared them to go on the plane. They walked straight for a few moments and found their seats. Within seconds after fastening their seatbelts, the pair fell asleep without hesitation. Kate and Abby had been best friends for more than a decade. Both told each other everything. Anyone who did not know Abby and Kate was would recognize them as sisters. Meanwhile in Middlecam Cay, ‘The Unknown’ island awaited them. Named by previous army troops centuries ago. The men claimed to have seen and heard a woman’s voice at night. No one believed them. Throughout all their efforts to ask for help, none of it worked. The mysterious woman-like spirit said to one soldier that her name was Samira. There had also been a story about some magical key. It was crucial in finding a way out and going to wherever you wished. To Abby, this was all a mystery to be solved. According to Kate, Middlecam Cay is a city full of job opportunities for young people. Following six hours of sleep from home, Bailee Town, Abby and Kate woke up just moments after touchdown. They listened through the announcement made by the flight attendant. Still drenched in sleep they rubbed their eyes to fully wake up and start departing the plane. The pair felt a force push them from behind which caused them to skip a few steps before landing on dirt with their faces. They spotted unfamiliar insects crawling around with glowing little legs. Abby and Kate stared at each other’s dirty faces in confusion. “Where’d the plane go? Where is everyone else?”, asked Kate in a tight voice. She examined her environment but still could not make out her location. Kate also received no answer from Abby, who seemed to have an idea of what was happening. She presented no sign of amazement. Lost in her thought about where she was, she had long forgotten about Kate’s questions. “Abby, hello? Answer me. You look like you know where we are don’t you?”, Kate shouted at her. “It’s not… not really like that. I-” “You what? Huh? What? Why aren’t you freaking out?” Kate stood up, shook off the dirt on her jacket and skirt, picked up her backpack and began searching for other people. Abby couldn’t let roam alone in this strange place. Not on this Island. She took her backpack and dusted off the dirt on her face and clothes. She saw a glowing ring-shaped object buried in the soil and dried leaves, but didn’t pay much attention to it, Kate was more important. She trailed on Kate’s trails. Abby then felt a tingling sensation along with a dash of warmth travelling down her spine. Droplets of seat running down her forehead, her heartbeat accelerating almost as if it wanted to evacuate her chest. Abby could not wait any longer to enlighten Kate about the information she came by. She leapt closer to Kate and caught hold of her arm and turning her around. “What, you ready to speak now?”, Kate demanded. “Yeah, I do have something to tell y-” “Well then say it,” Kate interrupted” “Okay so listen. We’re at a cursed island according to legends and myths. It’s called ‘The Unknown’ island because no one knows how big it is. Even the most skilled cartographers have been trying to map it out. They keep getting lost and finding new places then getting lost again before they could write down their findings”. Abby let out a heavy sigh before continuing. “It is also said to be a female spirit called Samira that hovers over this strange place and apparently she is the only one who can give us a key to leave this place.” “What key is that and how do we find this Sameri?”, asked Kate.  A cold wind blew in their direction, flowing with dried leaves and withered flowers. It seemed to have blown specifically in their direction. Silence. Moments later, Abby replied again to Kate with her now shaky voice. “It’s S-A-M-I-R-A okay, and I don’t know how we can find her. But she can probably see us. As for the key… I also don’t know how we can find it”, she said with her hands in the air and shoulders lifted. “Oh. Okay so let me get this straight Abby. You dragged me to this godforsaken island telling me that we’re here to get hired- “I know but- “No, no buts. You knew very well that this place is creepy, and you tell me about some spirit, magical key story. Make it make sense.’ “Look, we are lucky to have made it this far”, Abby protested. “Lucky? What do you mean lucky, we’re stranded? “Yes, I know that just listen to me. We will make it out of here soon. What I meant is that we have a shot of getting the key from Samira alright?” Abby attempted to convince Kate, but she wouldn’t listen. Kate walked away from her before she could say anything. She didn’t know what to make of the situation. It was nightfall and the cold winds blew again, this time even colder. There was no shelter for them to protect themselves. As it got darker, Abby and Kate grew hungrier. Their delicate skin shivered because of the cold and their empty stomachs rumbled loudly. Every now and then, they glanced at each other. Wanting to say something but couldn’t. Some trees had attractive fruit on their peculiar branches. The fruit looked edible, but the pair weren’t sure whether to eat them or not. The fruit did look different from the ones that they knew. It was now Samira’s time to leave her den and roam over her island as she usually does. In the middle of the night, when the moon has disappeared behind the clouds. What Abby overlooked was that Samira had long been hunted and harmed by notorious witch-hunters seeking to seize the island. They learned to conceal their auras which gave off their bad intentions. Samira had fought plenty of bad people while guarding her island. When she noticed Abby and Kate, she immediately fumed. In response to their presence, Samira sent out all her poisonous insects. One of them bit and infected Kate’s left ankle. Her scream was one with agony, she felt immense pain. Sharp shooting and endless pain. She failed to contain it. Abby was soon overwhelmed with intense worry. She couldn’t ignore her childhood best friend who was now in pain. Abby had studied some of the plants found on the island. She knew that some of them could wounds and bites. However, she had forgotten which leaves and plants to put together. Only a few could surface on her memory. Abby used what she remembered to numb Kate’s pain. This was the perfect time to apologize to Kate and mend their friendship. Samira’s ghost-like voice frightened Abby and Kate, making their hearts skip a beat. Samira demanded that they leave the leave her island. Throughout the whole night, Abby and Kate did not sleep a wink. The screeching sound of Samira’s horrific voice kept them awake. What worsened the experience was the darkness. Morning came and the second Abby and Kate opened their eyes, there she was. A pair of white glowing eyes stared dead into their souls. Abby and Kate froze in awe, allowing only their nostrils to keep the air flowing in and out. Finally, Abby gathered the courage and confronted Samira that instant, “Sa-Samira?... My name is Abby. This is my, my best friend Kate”, she paused to gather her words. “How and why were we able to enter this island? Okay… either way, we’re not here to hurt you, we just want to get to the city. You know the… the hotels and stuff. Ca-Can you please give us the key?” Abby could feel Samira’s fatiguing presence on her body. Kate had her eyes shut and faced to the side while tightly gripping Abby’s hand. Samira didn’t make a sound while Abby pleaded for freedom. She only heard the innocence in her voice. She realized that they could never harm her. A breeze blew through her long and flowing black hair. With that breeze came a kaleidoscope of pink shimmering butterflies. The dead leaves disappeared, and the trees bloomed to life. This left Kate and Abby astonished yet puzzled. Then the soil in front of the rose in the form of a mini-tornado. There a key appeared. “The key?”, said Kate as her mouth widened, “Is that the key?” she further asked. “So… you won’t kill us or make us vanish or something like that?” Abby added. Kate stood closer to Abby and cupped her hand on her ear, “Man I wish she said something”, she whispered. Samira replied, “No I shall not harm you because you did not harm me. Take this key to open the door behind you and leave this island.” A wide door decorated with glistening gold awaited them. Covered with fresh and the most beautiful flowers. Completed with the greenest leaves they’ve ever seen. “Woahhhhhhhhh, that’s so amazing, thank you so so much, Samira!” “My pleasure, and my apologies for last night. Here is some food”, Samira handed them a grass basket full of fresh fruit. Abby and Samira’s stomachs rumbled again. “No biggie, it's cool. At least now we can work at our dream hotel!” said Kate in excitement.


Americans, unhappily, have the most remarkable ability to alchemize all bitter truths into an innocuous but piquant confection and to transform their moral contradictions, or public discussion of such contradictions, into a proud decoration, such as are given for heroism on the field of battle. James Baldwin            D’Mitri stumble-limped to his door, taking mental stock of his condition and his assets in the cool and quiet aftermath of Nick’s party. He didn’t have his keys, but he had somehow acquired a cute girl, and she had his keys. Check.            He looked at his shirt and frowned. There were flecks of blood on it, and an ominous brown stain of unknown provenance. He smelled it and decided that it must either be a mixture of whiskey and gooey fudge brownies or, more likely, vomit. Check.            What he didn’t have were either pants or shoes. That was odd, he thought, for he was sure that he had gone to the party with pants. And shoes.            Check. His right leg was festooned with gauze and tape and pain. It felt like someone had jabbed several needles into his leg and it looked like whoever did the bandaging struggled with the concept of gauze-to-tape ratio; the tape went all the way down to his ankle and as high as his knee to secure a small, square piece of gauze. Perhaps, he thought, I was being mummified and escaped just in the nick of time. Check. The couple fell into D’Mitri’s bed for the night, though it was actually 4:30 in the morning. D’Mitri wouldn’t be seen again until Monday morning, dressed for success. The cute girl left in the afternoon, telling D’Mitri that she hoped they could “do this again.” D’Mitri didn’t know if she meant the party or the bedroom antics or both, but he accepted the informal invitation in the spirit that it was given. He nodded dumbly and closed the door. Double check, with some stars and doodles thrown in for good measure. Let me tell you about the party and how D’Mitri lost his pants. ___________________________________________            Nick always threw great parties because he was rich and spent obscene amounts of money on food, booze, outlandish decorations, a DJ, party favors, and cocaine. He was a third-generation Greek-American who made it big writing apps for Apple and productivity software for corporate tax attorneys. D’Mitri would often tell him that he wrote code for the predators of the American Dream, but Nick would just shrug it off and point to his Lamborghini or his house by way of defense.            D’Mitri arrived at the party just as it was getting crowded. Supermodels from the Americas (North and South), Greece (of course), France (predictably so), and one uniquely pretty one from Iceland had just arrived. The guests were indulging in the expensive seafood, the expensive beef, and the expensive booze, all prepared by expensive chefs. The actual servers, however, were more like D’Mitri: foreign, and wondering if the cocaine laid out on the table was for everyone.            All eyes were drawn towards the towering ice sculpture upon arrival. It was a 17-foot-tall replica of the Statue of Liberty. The icy behemoth was surrounded by smaller ice sculptures of people kneeling in front of the lady, hands raised in supplication. What the fuck? D’Mitri wondered. He wasn’t drunk enough – or high enough – to ask Nick about it yet. No one else seemed to wonder about it; in fact, the party guests evinced a distinct lack of wonder at the message. They commented on the size and left it at that.            D’Mitri was suddenly accosted by a bear hug from behind and the smell of vodka and caviar on the assailant’s breath. Nick, of course.            “Hello, Russian friend! You like?” Nick had released his hold and waved his arms expansively around the room. The Icelandic model was by his side, smiling at us.            “This is Helen, my woman. Helen! Say hello to this man!” Nick pushed her forcefully towards me. Helen took it all in stride, literally and figuratively, holding out a hand with amazingly long fingers.            “You have the hands of an artist, Helen. Are you an artist?” I asked, trying to be polite in the face of Nick’s boorish behavior.            Her laugh was deep and scoffing, a laugh that seemed incongruous with her profession and with the types of people that Nick usually invited to his parties. Like she had brains and a a self-effacing sense of humor.            “Yes I am. I travel the world wearing beautiful clothes for which I am paid an exorbitant amount of money. Doesn’t that sound artistic?” She laughed that deep, throaty laugh again. What the hell, D’Mitri thought, is a girl like this doing with a guy like Nick? D’Mitri doubted that Nick even knew where Iceland was.            D’Mitri wandered around the rooms, marveling (again) at the size of Nick’s house and the decadence (as per usual) of the party. A bevy of pot-bellied pigs in lady liberty costumes passed D’Mitri. It was a sign of D’Mitri’s desensitization to Nick’s excesses that he barely gave them a look. Even the nude, snake-draped dancers in cages failed to elicit more than a cursory glance from D’Mitri.            The booze and the cocaine were starting to affect the party goers. Though Nick had eleven bathrooms, most of the guests were either too high or too drunk to find most of them. Long lines formed in front of the three easily-found bathrooms on the lower floor. Some of the guests, though, didn’t deign to wait. One man took it upon himself to relieve his urinary discomfort on Nick’s back fence. That’s what started it all.            “Hey! You! Why are you pissing on my motherfucking fence motherfucker?” The man on the other side of the fence couldn’t be identified, it being dark outside and the dim security lighting did little to alleviate this condition; likewise, the angry man couldn’t identify the mystery man peeing on the fence. I mention this because it is relevant to the story. (As I am the omniscient narrator, my word is inviolate. So go suck an egg if you don’t like it.)            D’Mitri heard this exchange and laughed quietly. Hijinks and outside peeing were always funny to guys. So were farting and witnessing someone else’s pain. And they wonder why they have such a tough time getting laid. But I digress.            The man with the pissy attitude (see what I did there?) arrived at the party, but he was not alone. He had a large and intimidating-looking pit bull with him, secured to the man’s hand with an actual chain. The dog strained at his metal leash, jerking the man’s arm as if the man were a marionette.            “Where the fuck is the pissing guy?” the man shouted at no one in particular. A hundred eyes turned towards the outburst. Most of the guests shrugged and returned to their conversations, their drinks, and the man or woman they were trying to impress. This served to make the man even angrier.            Striding inside with his dog, he toured the area with all of the aplomb and personality of a general who just found his wife in bed with a corporal. The dog barked and growled while the man looked for someone who looked as if they would be the type to piss on a man’s fence. What that would look like is anybody’s guess, but the man stuck to his strategy.            “Okay you fuckers! Who pissed on my fence? I’m not asking again!” But he did. Several times. No one seemed to care about the man, but the dog was scaring people. They moved away. Not to put too fine a point on it, they abandoned the immediate area that the dog occupied, and they did it with an impressive alacrity.            And then the dog got loose from the angry man.            It was inevitable, I suppose. The man, being who he was and the dog, being what he was, forced fate’s hand. The dog rushed to and fro, barking and growling and snapping at the well-heeled ankles of the now-terrified guests. This caused a chain reaction of events that resulted in…well, you know the state in which D’Mitri arrived at his house.            The angry man tossed the food table over, the crash of expensive food and crystal creating an expensive sound. Shrimp, crab, lobster and caviar slid across the floor and came to rest quietly and serenely against walls and shoes. The tablecloths folded themselves inexpertly, gathering stains the longer they remained on the floor. Guests were stampeding outside, causing a crush of bodies in the foyer. Yep. That’s where lady liberty was chilling.            Bodies bumped into bodies, some of the collisions causing some bodies to crash into the ice sculptures. This, in turn, caused the aforementioned bodies to careen into lady liberty. Lady liberty fell. The impact with the floor was resounding; the force of the impact sent shards of ice skittering on the floor, dancing merrily in a chaotic ballet of cold, making friends with the seafood that had been left to its own gruesome fate.            And, of course, the police arrived. Several cops were trying to simultaneously secure the dog and avoid its bite. As you can imagine, their success was nonexistent. They yelled at the owner to get his dog under control or else. The man yelled back that he would, after he found the guy who pissed on his fence. The cops retorted with their vague threat of “or else,” and this had the effect of the angry man taking a swing at one of the cops.            While all of this was going on. D’Mitri was being bitten by the dog. In a display of questionable decision making, D’Mitri decided to watch the drama with the angry man and the cops unfold. Unfortunately, the dog was doing the same, and the dog spotted D’Mitri’s right ankle as a likely target for his aggressive instincts. Soon, D’Mitri was dancing around, trying to shake the dog from his ankle. In a display of good (if desperate) decision making, D’Mitri decided to rid himself of his pants in an effort to dislodge the dog from his ankle. The trick worked; the dog was left with an empty pair of pants (which it quickly abandoned) and a puzzled expression on its face. D’Mitri was now in the unenviable position of wearing no pants and thus displaying his boxer shorts. The ones that were covered with bags of cashews, almonds and the like. Yes, he was wearing boxers that screamed that they were nut holders.            A pretty girl watched as D’Mitri tried to get away from the dog and recover his dignity. He was only half successful at this, but the girl still smiled at him and gave him an invitational wave of the arm. She was behind a trellis, holding a large bowl. The cocaine.            “You escaped with your life, at least. I escaped with the coke. I guess we both did a fine job in the melee,” she laughed out the words. The pretty girl frowned at the damage done to his ankle and quickly took sensible action in the form of retrieving a first aid kit from the kitchen.            “Bixby. Bixby! Come here! We have a hero in need of your expertise!” The girl looked at D’Mitri before responding, her eyes twinkling with mirth.            “Bixby’s a doctor. He’ll fix you right up,” she said. During the time it took the very drunk (or high – or both) Bixby to meander his way to the girl’s voice, the girl had unwrapped a gauze pad and soaked it with vodka and applied a small amount of cocaine to the pad. A paste formed on the surface, looking much more innocent than it was.            Bixby applied the gauze and the tape, being extremely liberal with the tape. He was also falling over as he knelt, so the tape often went around D’Mitri’s ankle in exciting and unique directions.            “Uh. Bixby. You own stock in this tape company?” Bixby looked at the girl, looked at D’Mitri’s ankle, and shrugged as he stumbled to his feet. The girl had to catch his arm so that he wouldn’t suffer the indignity of falling over the trellis.            “Let me take you home, sweetie. You don’t belong here,” she said. She intertwined her fingers with D’Mitri’s and led him to a nearby bench.            “What do you mean, I don’t belong here? I was invited!” D’mitri sounded more irritated than he was.            “Nick’s acquaintances are all the same types. The progeny of the super-rich, the professionally beautiful, the professionally musical, or the professionally athletic. You are none of these,” the pretty girl looked at D’Mitri and smiled. She smiles a lot, thought D’Mitri, but it isn’t always a happy smile.            “No, I still sing for my supper. My 120k salary isn’t especially attractive to Nick’s friends…”            “Acquaintances. Nick doesn’t have any friends. Except you!” The pretty girl had just realized why D’Mitri was at the party.            “But I get by, you know. I own a house with a nice lawn and a two-car garage. My dog has his shots and I always walk him on a leash. I use my outdoor grill often. I have cable TV and five streaming services. I don’t have Nick’s money, but I’m good.”            “I, on the other hand, came from the seed of a billionaire. I go to parties like this one, I attend charity functions for the family, and I am generally left alone to spend as much money as I care to spend, and to use my time in any fashion I choose.”            “That’s a nice life,” D’Mitri said, rubbing his ankle. It felt numb from the cocaine.            “Yours is better,” she countered.            The police were wrapping up the party. The angry man was handcuffed, the dog was under the influence of an electric jolt from a Taser, and tired, high, happy guests were straggling to their chauffeured vehicles. There was broken furniture everywhere, and lady liberty was melting away into an ugly amorphous mass. Vomit was everywhere, looking like a gargantuan Jackson Pollock work spread over grass, floor, and wall. The pretty girl patted D’Mitri on the arm, standing him up and leading him to her vehicle.            “C’mon sweetie. I’m taking you home.”            D’Mitri turned to her. He wobbled slightly because of his injured ankle, and he was wearing those ridiculous boxers. The pants were M.I.A. He held his head up proudly.            “I can make it on my own. Really. I’m fine,” D’Mitri sounded more defiant than he was.            The pretty girl looked at him and laughed heartily. He liked that laugh. It was genuine, like the Icelandic model’s laugh.            “You aren’t understanding me, sweetie. I am taking. You. Home.” She gave D’Mitri a significant look.            “Oh!” D’Mitri finally came to the right conclusion.            “Tell me where you live, sweetie. I can’t find your wallet.” D’Mitri patted where his pockets belonged, hitting only boxers and embarrassment.            “The cleaning crew will find it. You’ll get it back tomorrow, with everything intact.”            D’Mitri looked at her and shook his head.            “Maybe missing some money, though.”            The pretty girl shook her head forcefully in negation.            “No. It is an unfortunate trait in our immigrants that they don’t steal money from a found wallet or handbag. Nor do they purloin the odd piece of jewelry laying around. Deplorable, really,” the pretty girl mused.            D’Mitri frowned and faced her after flopping ungraciously into her waiting limousine. The driver was scary by his very implacability, so D’Mitri tried to put him out of his mind. The pretty girl simply ignored the driver after giving him a brief smile.            “Unfortunate trait? I don’t…”            “No, you don’t. Think like an American, that is. Sad, because you are very American success story. This is the land of the free and the home of the brave isn’t it? Free to pursue your own interests, brave enough to do it by any means necessary. You think my daddy made billions by playing fair? Or Nick?”            D’Mitri nodded at her logic. She was, in fact, just like Nick. Or her daddy was, at any rate. Either way, it was a philosophy that was deeply ingrained in her. Her voice broke in on these thoughts.            “Yeah, I’m like Nick. But I have lady parts and he doesn’t so…” she turned to D’Mitri and kissed him on the lips. It was one of those kisses that linger sweetly, like the smell of jasmine in the back yard. D’Mitri wanted the lady parts, and more jasmine-lingering kisses.            “Home, Jeeves!” he said boisterously.            “His name’s Sancho,” the pretty girl said.            “Home, Sancho!”            The destruction of the party receded into the distance; the aftermath would have to be dealt with in due course. There would be recriminations, wounds, and costs to assume. But there would be another party at some point. And another. And another. Their vague and ephemeral allure would just grow stronger with each subsequent party because…because…            “Why are you going home with me?” D’Mitri asked, genuinely intrigued.            “A girl has needs, you know?”            D’Mitri nodded. So do guys. Even bourgeois guys like him.            “Besides,” she said, turning her luscious face to him, “you might die of rabies soon, so I want to get something out of you first.” D’Mitri wanted to be appalled, but he wasn’t.            He was, after all, an American.


Intuitivity When I received the notice, I set it on the desk with all the others. Applying for jobs has gotten to be an exercise in futility, but one I can’t afford to abandon. Not a joke, not a last-ditch effort to procrastinate my way to a better world. I needed to find work. Not just for the money, which I needed desperately, but I was turning into a bowl of Jell-O fruit salad. I was that grape suspended in the green shimmering coagulated mess of what Auntie had insisted I take home with me after our, “old fashioned,” holiday dinner. She said, “You look thin.” Only one way to respond to that. I took the Jell-O, thanked her, kissed her goodbye, and left before she decided I needed more substantial. Being bored is not difficult when your life seems to belong to someone else. I began to debate the possibility of finding that umbrella that would allow me to feel, “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious,” if even for just a day. It was during this internal struggle between deciding whether chocolate would be better given my present state, or perhaps Tootie-Fruitie given the chance I would be abducted by any foreign entity that would have me, and for no other reason than, they could.  So, as I have learned to do when experiencing stress, and no immediate remedies are in sight, I go to sleep. Not going to bed, not that kind of sleep.  More like hibernation, where you are awake, but it is as if you are watching yourself dream. The most imaginative way of escaping, while remaining, as it is at the moment, the only thing I can afford. The notice I received, although it looked like just another nebulous attempt at redefining my employment status, changed my perception of what could be mind-altering, if I remained in my self-induced limbo. #

“Go down the hall. On the left, the last door, go in, fill out the application form. An electronic screen will appear, once you have scanned the completed form, it will advise you how to continue. Please proceed as instructed.” The voice, much like the automated voice of any call center reassured me by its non-committal tone, that I was safe, we were safe. Nothing out of the ordinary would or could occur within the confines of this concrete building. Its interior complicit with its structural systems, floors, walls, ceilings, all a glazed white.

Walking towards the last door required concentration, as I began to become disoriented. The lights on the ceiling appeared to be on the floor and the wall on the left, mirrored the walls on the right, making my entombment more satisfying than I expected it would be, but then I knew, they knew that. The last door was not really a door, more a suggestion of what a door could be. I passed through to find a monitor situated on a concrete pedestal. Next to it was a folder which I didn’t see at first, because it blended so efficiently into its surroundings. The form was three-dimensional print on a single dimension paper. It took a few minutes to relate to its purpose. The questions were precise; there were only two. The first question confusingly simple: Do you believe? The second question appropriately following the first and related to its need, asked: If so, why? and If not, why not? My natural tendency when asked a definitive question, is to give a non-definitive answer, which I knew they were expecting, and therefore considered giving the answer I believed they were looking for, but didn’t expect. Upon further deliberation, I realized they weren’t as devious as I had presupposed, and answered as I would under normal conditions; I left the question blank. The why question was a bit more difficult because, it supposed I had answered the preceding question, which I had not. The conundrum I faced was not unusual, given the circumstances. Deviance I had been trained to both respect and expect. It was the way civility was ordained and order maintained. One for all, and all for one, that sort of thing. But then one never could be sure because there were no rules. Rules would have been against the rules, as Intuitivity was the only subject, or I should say, the only subject, subject to intuitive scrutiny, should one not adhere to intuitive principles. As I pondered my responses before submitting them to the scanning apparatus, a red light appeared, like that on an English Bobbies vehicle, began to spin, and the piercing sound of a siren ricocheted off the walls making concentration extremely difficult. I could only assume my reaction was being captured and recorded, for examination at a later time.  It was fortunate I had been trained to expect the unexpected. As suddenly as it had begun, the lights and noise subsided into the nothingness that surrounded me. The monitor blinked to life. A black screen with iridescent green letters, floating in a random sequence appeared. I realized, that what I was intended to do, or what they would assume I would do, was find  direction by combining the letters, to provide the answer I knew I was destined to find, and then relay that answer to the machine for confirmation.  It was all so predictable, I knew there had to be a hidden agenda buried somewhere in the façade of the disorganized colliding letters that complained loudly as they bumped into one another. Our accepted civil responses, “sorry and excuse me,” were being abdicated for more perverse and derogatory examples of the language, “Watch it buddy,” and, “try that again and I’ll,” and on and on. I had never experience such uncivility in my entire existence, which is what I realized I was expected to feel, so I pretended to be titillated by the unique situation, and the jargon that accompanied it. One thing I have learned and retained over the terms of my existence, is to always do the opposite of what Intuitivity expects of you. It is not only required, but in some corners of our universe,  is the only way to get and keep a means of employment, that is commensurate with the limitations of your programmed existence.

My predictable behavior, no matter its unpredictability, was apparently not what was predictably required. The room turned from its majestic, glazed white, to the used tire blackness and bleakness of a Monday here on Creptillian. My future had been shortened proportionately by my irreconcilable responses to our yearly assimilation test, which determines whether you are considered compromiseable because of opinions developed on your own, and with no consideration to the unpredictability of un-intuitiveness, or whether you had been paying attention at all. I was found to be in the top 1% of all those that failed the likelihood of becoming compatible, when it came to believing that hope was possible, after being confirmed by the best intuitive minds in the galaxy that it may be irreconcilable with Intuitivity.  And all because I didn’t believe in the old adage, “You can’t teach an old dog, new tricks.”


You had opened the door. He was standing there in an ugly black tuxedo with a boutonniere wilting as you speak. But it probably had been wilting for a while. You don’t think he did anything else in his life important. Except try to get you to like him.

“Too bad.” You reminded him. His smile lingered, but your eyes were rolling. “I don’t like you.” You were about to shut the door when he told you he wasn’t trying to like you—he was here because he knew you thought he was dead. You shrugged. You couldn’t care whether he told the rats in the gutters he was alive. You just weren’t interested in him. And that was that. You slammed the door and waited for him to leave. But you sensed—with growing irritation as your long, star-studded nails dug into your clenched palms—that he was still standing there, waiting for you to jump into his arms and accept him as your husband, fiancé or boyfriend even. You won’t. You wouldn’t. You don’t care. You wouldn’t care. You don’t know why you had cared. Why you wasted your time.

You opened the door and just muttered, “You can go now.” “But you thought I was dead.” Of course. His retort. You sighed, your heavily evergreen beaded tawny hand clutched firmly on the brass doorknob. You wanted to vanish, to leave with him knowing he didn’t belong to such a woman like you. But thinking he had been dead, you didn’t want—deep, deep down—to just leave him. You’re not someone who would just ditch people. You’re loving, kind. Friendly. Dutiful. You just… You pursed your lips and threw open the door. “What do you want?” Crossing arms, you held each elbow in a palm. “Why are you here?” He snorted and shook his head. “You know why.” The man scuffled a black, assumedly polished dress shoe on the finished asphalt and took a step. “You’re about to step in the wet cement.” You called. He snickered again but stopped with his lifted foot pointed downwards at the cement like a hunting dog’s paw when smelling the wind and visually tracking its master’s bird of prey. But this man was no dog. He was a weirdo. You even remember your senior picture day. Now, thirteen years later, he was even weirder. You didn’t need to know any more.

“Guy?” You dashed outside, your bare feet scratching the rough steps but then halting right in front of the wet cement pathway separating you two. He opened his mouth when he saw your bare feet, but you cut in.

“I know, I know. Just get some shoes on.” You turned your head away as he continued, saying he was going to say that you should be careful. “About what? Not stepping in the wet cement?” “No!” His persistence drew you back, almost begrudgingly. “I just don’t want you to get stuck.” You threw your head back and laughed. “Stuck?” You reached out and grabbed his cuffed wrists, him asking why you were suddenly kind to him even when you had killed those times you could’ve invited him in. “Well,” you pulled him across as he stepped dramatically over, “I’ll help you over this cement.” “And then invite me in?” He hooted, shuffling both feet around to face you. You just looked at them, mind blank. “No.” You shook your head and then bolted into the house. Crashing through the door and then opening a wooden cabinet, you grabbed a plastic container of pictures and then scurried back to the man. Suddenly, your hands shot out right in front of you and your brushed, low ponytail kissed the wet cement. Or rather it smacked a millimeter into it, and then you heard loud, instigative laughter from above. You instinctively tried using your hands to push yourself up to punch the guy but immediately felt stupid—they sunk in so your arms looked handless. Using your feet, you tried heaving yourself up. But try as you might, you couldn’t push hard enough to lift your evergreen hand bracelet out of this frightfully embarrassing situation. “Help—please?” You begged him.

Suddenly, you were in the air, and then your soles pounded the white concrete behind the cement. “We’ve got to move!” He grabbed the box of pictures you were going to show him because you found yourself wanting to reconnect over those long-lost years. You wanted to get back together—although you didn’t love him and never would even if you two were the last people on earth. “Come on!” He yelled, frantically beckoning you on. “What?” You inquired, a little oblivious. “What’s going on—” Then you heard a whining, grinding sound as a monstrosity of a bulldozer beeped and rolled extremely slowly towards you. You yelped and then scampered out of its way. It lowered and then dumped a huge mountain of slimily cement-grey cement into the ditch of a narrow pathway trenched in front of the sidewalk in the asphalt driveway. “Amanda!”

“I’m coming!” You rushed over to the man, his hand grabbing yours as you both hurried through the cracked, splitting door that creaked more than the bulldozer beeped. “I got the container!” He stated the obvious as he held it out to you amidst your eye-rolling sighs. You both were in the living room, standing in front of an ugly mustard-yellow leather couch and an ugly wooden side table. You looked at him like he wasn’t making any sense, and repositioned your arms so your palms held your elbows again.

“Why’d you bring me in here?” You questioned. He shrugged, throwing his palms up. “The quicksand—” You slowly closed your eyes. “The wet cement.” “Whatever!” His eyes bulged, but yours rolled to the ceiling. But of course, he ignored this gesture and continued. “We need to get out of here. You see that cement?” He pointed out the window, but you were already looking. “Yeah.” You turned back and half-closed your eyes. “W—“ “We need to escape!” You slouched on your hip. “What’s the problem?” “Mandy!” He was ballistic. Over nothing. Over wet cement. What was he even talking about? It was just a sunny day outside in the neighborhood with construction workers filling a ditch. It wasn’t like green slime rained from purple clouds. Or an orange orangutan dominated the empire, desiring to destroy the world all because of his selfish self. It was like it was just an average day with average people doing average things. It was just an average— A light crash swung you around. He was searching with a hand like he was trying to find his dropped glasses. “Here.” You hurried around the wooden table and relocated the half-empty plastic container onto the table. You shook and scraped off the majority of the wet cement and fell to the floor to slide some pictures from underneath this furniture. Once you had peeled the spider webs and dust bunnies away, you plopped them onto the white top and looked at the still searching man obviously not understanding that he only had to get two more pictures. You smirked and slid a toe around, pushing the pictures in circles and away from him so he had to scramble to get them. Snickering became complete hilarity until the man panicked, shooting his hand out, grasping them and swiping them up to slam them on to the table, his eyes bulging. Utterly confused, you stared at him, eyes wide. “What’s wrong?”

He bit his lip. “Amanda.” He sighed up at you, and you quickly snatched a look out the window. But nothing terrifying was going on. “At least not now.” As if he could read your mind. “I’m supposed to be dead. You thought I was dead. Now I’m alive, and they’re after me.” You scrunched your face together after eyeing him suspiciously. “Who is?” He jabbed at the outside. You tried to imagine what cement monsters or construction demons could be infesting the world outside this shabby place in order to get to your friend. After a dry explanation, he then clutched the container like a precious object of his and then headed for the basement. Barging through the door, he beckoned with an arm, and you scampered over, stomping downstairs until he hopped up on the rail. You found yourself doing the same. Sliding tempted you to scream “Wheeee!” and just ride along. You wanted to just relax from the stress of him randomly spazzing and panicking. He had started already whipping out pictures like a magician whips out a card in front of his guest. “Oh!” You gasped, pushing yourself off, leaving dry cement spots on the wooden rail. When the guy started elaborating that you couldn’t leave the handprints there, you almost fired back, “Are you—” But the guy shoved a picture in your hand. You looked over it, studying the wet cement into the asphalt driveway’s ditch. Then you bent your head forward and stepped back, covering your chest with a hand and gawking. “That’s…!” “Yep. It’s right outside.” You both locked eyes. “We’ll have to move. We can’t stay here.” He threw the picture back with the container’s others, and you ran away into the pitch darkness. Pestering him about how he obviously knew exactly where we were going, the sound of him jumping and then coming loudly down on metal flooring rudely interrupted him. It was telling you that you just had to follow.

Suddenly, a beacon of white light like that of a stage light for a solo performance appeared. You didn’t know where the light came from. “What are we doing?” You slowed down, gulping hard. “What are we doing here, exactly?” “Amanda.” He closed his eyes. You scrunched your face and then thought about it, realizing. “Let’s go.” You shook your head and walked calmly past him but noticed he stood stock-still. Stubborn as a donkey, maybe, absolutely refusing to move. A Duchenne smile formed.

“Ow! Ow!” He laughed, jerking away from your punching hand. You threw your hands in the air and said, “Well, you weren’t leaving.” “So you want me to leave. Besides, we’re safe here.” He flicked his eyebrows up and down, and you gave a rigid smile. He turned away, the stupid grin still wiggling between his round, should-be flushed cheeks. He wouldn’t quit. Maybe you should let your guard down again. Besides, he wasn’t a complete stranger. You both met back in early middle school, you dashing up to him and asking him where your homeroom class was. He just shrugged. Cute. But this time, he wasn’t. He was infuriating. But he dropped the container and repeated convincingly, “We’re safe here. The light is our safety zone—”

“I thought they were coming for us!” Your eyes bulging now, you grabbed his white, starched sleeve and tugged it. But he stayed rooted to the ground. You let yourself care about something else, calming down. “What is this?” You turned to him, but he didn’t look at you.

“Well,” he said seriously that bordered on funny although you didn’t want to admit it. “We’re here.” “What do you mean?” You probably sighed all your confusion and frustration and lividity away. Well, not away but enough for this moment. “Guy, I just…I’m sorry. I—” “Sorry?” He spun on a heel, turning right towards you. “You don’t need to be sorry. Just come over and slow dance with me.” “Slow dance?” That wasn’t in his nature. You stared at him and furrowed your brows. “Dance…?” You repeated slowly, wondering. “Yeah!” Before you knew it, you were right in front of him, his hands holding yours, his shoes tap dancing rhythmically to some beat. If there was a beat, which there wasn’t. “There’s no music.” You stated, but the man nodded his head softly.

“I got it.” He positioned your hand so you both stood before each other like a couple about to dance together. Then he started singing, softly, and then normally. You smiled a little, stepping along with his shoes, careful to shift them before they came down on your toes. But then you moved your body to the song, spinning around and twirling about. Being pulled and let go and then pulled again was actually fun. No one was there to watch you. No one mocked or pointed. Just you and him. You rested your head against his shoulder. You slow danced, you closing your eyes.

He slowed down and you almost grit your teeth—you didn’t want him to stop! You looked up at him and he asked what was wrong. “Don’t stop!” You pleaded and grinned when he just told you that he was getting to a slow part. He sang it for a while and then swung you around, singing louder and moving quicker. Twirling and spinning and then coming back against him, your smile grew big and proud, knowing you’d never get a moment like this again. So you lifted a foot and rotated yourself on the ball of your left foot as he took your raised right hand and pulled you to him. Stopping, you flashed a grateful smile and hugged him.

“Thanks.” You whispered. You slow-danced again, shoes moving simultaneously with bare feet. When he stopped swaying, you stepped back and freed your hands. “That was beautiful. Thank you!” The hands and bracelet were checked. “The cement. It’s gone.” “When you danced, all the cement stuff is gone—” “For now! But we’re here!” A growling, arrogant voice echoed a little off the walls, causing you two to flee the spotlight. While you ran, you asked your friend where you were going as you scampered around a wall and then dashed down a flight of stairs. Entering another hallway of black and blueness with very little light, you skidded to a halt. “No!” His eyes bulged. “We have to keep going. The reason why we were able to dance is because of the spotlight. It washed off the wet cement I pulled you out of.” “How far does this place go?” You looked ahead to a tunnel you entered —all black and blue. No lights except those lighting the corners of the front and end of this weird contraption. Were you going through a construction site? What was going on? Was this a maze of some sort?

You inquired, but no answer came. You just chugged on. Soon, you had run through the tunnel thing and were going through these— “Wait!” You slammed yourself to a stop, and he jammed his shoes into the ground, rolled forward and then spun around while getting back up and rounding around. “This is a trap. I sense it. We need to get out of here.” “Those cement wolves. They’ll get us.” You listened, but you didn’t hear them. You gestured in the opposite direction. “They’re not coming because we’re running. Because we’ve stopped, they’ll be onto us. But if we keep moving…” You surveyed the very dim place. Locating a piece of glass, you ran over and picked it up. Tilting it, you noticed something about the glint—lining it with other glints, you saw a bird. “Hey,” you told the guy as it flapped its wings and snapped its beak. “Come over here. I want to show you something.”

“Huh?” His dark silhouette came closer. “What’s going on?” “We’re coming!” roared the eerily intimidating voice, closer now.

“Let’s go.” The man grabbed your free hand, and you raced again through the tunnels and over rocks and under bridges. The whole time, you tilted and moved it, the bird that was made of refracted light clucking its beak and then suddenly flying out from the glass. You watched in awe as it escaped its own place of confinement.

“Guy. Let’s escape. Let’s… here.” You bent down, running your free hand under some stream water, a handful of pebbles coming along for the ride. Casting them randomly so the wolves would think you went in separate directions, you told the man to stop. He did.

Showing him the formerly glinting glass, you moved it so it reflected your faces. You looked at each other. You looked at the glass. You saw yourselves. “Trapped in the mirrored world.” He explained, scratching his head. He swallowed hard and wrung his hands. “We need to save ourselves.” “How are we going to do that?” Your glass self wrung her own hands and shook her head, asking the guy what they were going to do. The man just blinked at the ground and shrugged. Then he looked at you, but you cocked your head because you couldn’t see how he felt. Then he sniffed, and you could just see some tan against a hint of other tan. “Guy? You okay?” “I’m fine.” Some white whipped away from you, and you knew he had jerked his head away. You bent your head apologetically.

“Sorry.” You muttered. But you felt your hand lighten, and stood shoulder to shoulder with the guy as you studied the jagged mirror. Your mirror selves were panicking. You were almost crying, but he was trying to calm you down. But you wouldn’t listen. You started to sob. His face was contorted in anger but then he yanked you into a hug, admitting he was petrified as well. He also disclosed he didn’t know what to do or what you should do. What we should do.

“That’s how I feel.” The real guy’s voice quivered. You don’t know what to say. You just breathed, “Yeah.” And then hugged him, hoping this gesture would help. It did, but he shuffled away, stepping past you. You pursed your lips and stared at the blackness below you. Then you sniffled, too.


‘Can you not set the house on fire, Alfie?’ ‘It’s just smoke!’ I yelled back to Abby upstairs, over the deafening beeps of the fire alarm whilst trying to unscrew it from the ceiling. Balancing on a dining chair, I fought the device. ‘Let me try.’ Though Curtis was taller than me, I couldn’t trust him with another task after he set the timer for thirty hours instead of thirty minutes. ‘You’ve done enough trying today.’ I growled, pulling hard. The noise abruptly stopped, as if to give space to my startled gasp. I fell, but the floorboards never struck—I was caught in Curtis’ arms. Catching my breath after the scare and relief, my heart pounded in my chest with such intensity I was sure he could feel it. ‘You okay?’ he asked, his gaze as soft as his whisper. His gentleness surprised me, and I stared at him for a speechless moment, before clearing my throat. I freed myself and reclaimed the ground underfoot. Things weren’t going to plan. Tossing the fire alarm onto the sofa, I dusted his floury handprints off my clothes and inspected the kitchen. My heart sank as I took it all in, the smoking, black brownie, the flour all over the worktop and the countless bowls and utensils piling to be cleaned. I threw a tea towel at Curtis.

‘Remind me, why did I partner with you?’ Curtis shrugged, tossing the cloth from one hand to the other. ‘Come on Alfie, it was either me or nervous Norman.’ He flashed a wide grin, and I swatted at the prickling along the back of my neck. ‘I’d be willing to bet Norman can operate a timer.’ ‘Relax. We can try again tomo—’ ‘We’re running out of time. Why aren’t you taking this seriously, Curtis?’ ‘Why are you taking it so seriously? It’s just a baking contest. If you’re that obsessed with Olive Garden, we don’t need a stupid gift card to go there.’ ‘It’s not about the prize.’ ‘Then what?’ My throat constricted. Last year, Abby had baked the perfect brownie for the annual baking contest, the kind on those TV shows. It all came so naturally for her—school, sports, baking. Even relationships. Of course she’d won.

And snatched up the ultimate reward. # ‘Wanna hang out after school?’ Curtis had asked. He dribbled the basketball, weaving it in between his legs. I checked my watch. Abby was planning to practise her baking, and whilst I didn’t care so much about the brownie or whether she had a chance of winning, I wouldn’t have passed on the opportunity to see her baking partner. ‘Think fast, Alfie!’ Before I could snap myself out of my daydream, the basketball crashed into my head. My breath forced its way out of my lungs as I lay sprawled on the ground. Amidst the floaty stars, Curtis came into view, his eyebrows drawn together with concern. I groaned as he helped me up. ‘Not today.’ No longer concerned if I was skipping eighth period, I mounted my bike and rode away. The tension in my neck slowly eased as I turned the corner of our street. When I pushed through the front door, Abby’s giggles greeted me from the kitchen. Her favourite apron hugged her waist over her simple cotton tee and blue jeans, and a dusting of chocolate and flour freckled her cheeks and Toby’s nose. ‘Give this a try, Alfie.’ I plopped onto the stool beside Toby. His scent, a sinful hot fudge, mixed with the chocolaty notes of the brownie; a decadent treat impossible to resist. He smiled with crinkled eyes. ‘Going to be a tough act to follow next year, but I’m looking forward to seeing what you come up with, Alfie.’ # ‘I’m in charge of the timer today,’ I stated, tying Abby’s apron behind my back. Curtis nodded, resting his eyes on me. ‘We better get it right this time. I don’t want to be doing this every day until–’ The doorbell rang. ‘Could you grab the flour?’ I pointed to the top shelf, whilst heading to answer the door. ‘Hey Alfie.’ Toby’s bright smile turned my knees into jelly. ‘Nice apron. Is the baking competition coming up?’ ‘Y-yeah.’ I scratched the back of my neck as the heat rose in my cheeks. I stepped back to let him in. ‘Is Abby ready?’ Curtis cleared his throat. ‘Got the flour.’ ‘Thanks.’ I glanced at him, just long enough to notice his displeased look, before turning back to Toby. ‘Do you want a drink? She might take a while.’ ‘Alfie–’ ‘Sure, what have you got?’ I was halfway through listing the juice options when Curtis slammed a flour-stained glass of tap water onto the table in front of Toby. ‘Um… Thanks, Chris.’ ‘Curtis.’ ‘Sorry. Thanks, Curtis.’ Toby smiled. Curtis grunted, and grabbing my arm, dragged me back to the mixing bowl just as Abby jogged down the stairs. ‘Save us some of that award-winning brownie for later!’ she said before closing the door behind them. I stared daggers at Curtis. It better be good today. # ‘Come on, you are going to win with me.’ Curtis whisked the wet ingredients with the melted chocolate, while I set the oven to bake.

‘Let’s mix everything together.’ He pointed at the bowl beside me, a whirl of sugar, flour, and cocoa powder. ‘Bring that over here.’ Softened, I closed the gap between us, holding the bowl with both hands and trying not to laugh at the chocolate smudge on his cheek. I could never stay mad at him. Curtis raised an eyebrow, his glance a salty and sweet mixture. ‘You’ll have to sprinkle it over while I mix, Alf.’ ‘You know I hate when you call me that.’ ‘Why? I think it’s adorable.’ ‘We’re not five anymore, Curtis. We’ll be going to college next year.’ ‘Fine, Alfred. Can you tip that bowl so we can mix this already?’ I pressed my lips into a tight line, pouring the dry ingredients over the wet. An avalanche of powder plopped on top of the chocolate batter and a cloud of cocoa and flour erupted into the air. ‘Whoa! Slow down, cowboy.’ Moving behind my back, he pushed the wet mix right in front of me and his warm fingers grazed my hand as he held onto my bowl. I suppose it was better than having his elbow in my face. My scalp tingled as his body lightly pressed against mine, toned and supple, as he mixed the gooey confection. His scent, an earthly, intoxicating aroma of sweat and sandalwood, enveloped me. The air was heavy and charged; like before a storm. ‘There,’ he said and let go of the whisk. ‘Done.’ My glance fell onto his muscular arms, enveloping me on either side, his chest rising and falling against my back under his light t-shirt. I glanced up over my shoulder. Maybe it was the mesmerising way the light hit him, or how strands of hair fell into his face. Whatever it was, it… distracted me. ‘Everything okay?’ he asked, his lips tugging into a half smile as he regarded me. I shook my head. ‘Uh, I’m just… trying to remember how long to set the timer.’ ‘Never mind that.’ He looked down at me. I was still leaning into him; it was a perfect fit. Kind of like how it had always been for us growing up. Where I lacked in physical strength for sport, he made up for it with his natural athletic ability. And where he struggled in maths and science, he found a tutor in me.

The weight of his stare was the last ingredient we missed to reach the bliss point. In the world of baking, this was when the right combination of ingredients made the culinary experience both pleasurable, and…

Difficult to resist. As if reading my mind, he leaned in closer. My breath hitched in anticipation of what might happen next. The oven beeped, reaching its designated temperature. ‘Right.’ I gasped, ducking underneath his armpit. I reached for the baking dish, coated with a small layer of cooking spray and lined with parchment paper. With a quick motion, I grabbed the large bowl from in front of him, pouring the batter and smoothing it with a spatula. Curtis watched with narrowed eyes and crossed arms. ‘Uh, what was that?’ ‘What?’ His tone sharpened. ‘You just completely dodged a moment.’ ‘Don’t be silly.’ I shoved the baking tray into the oven, setting the timer. ‘Come on, Alf. You can’t be serious. What’s stopping us from—’ The front door creaked. ‘Something smells lovely.’ Abby and Toby entered the kitchen, his arm wrapped around her waist. A sinking feeling settled in my stomach, as if a knot formed to block the butterflies unfurling their wings to soar into flight.

I rubbed the back of my neck. ‘You’ll have the first taste when it's done.’ Curtis shot a bewildered look in my direction. If Superman didn’t have the ability to fire invisible lasers from his eyes, then Curtis did. ‘Seriously?!’ He stormed out of the house, leaving the mess of dirty pots and pans to be cleaned. Heat flushed up my neck as Abby and Toby gave me incredulous stares. ‘Need any help?’ Toby asked. I shook my head. Their footfalls faded as they ascended the stairs, and I worked to tidy the kitchen. Opening the cabinet to return the sugar, my mouth fell open at what I found.

Two eggs: a critical ingredient in a brownie.

Why would they be here?

In a brownie recipe, eggs acted as a binder, helping to keep the mixture together. Without them, everything would fall apart. And when the oven timer chimed, the brownie came out as expected. # I avoided Curtis the next day at school, and he too was still sulking, turning his back on me by the lockers. My stomach tied itself in knots, and by lunch he still hadn’t come over to talk to me. The events of the prior day rode a carousel in my head; replaying on repeat that one heated moment when he almost kissed me.

What if I let him?

The thought was both thrilling and tainted with guilt. I knew how it felt to get rejected in a vulnerable moment. But he sabotaged the baking. I wasn’t the one who needed to apologise.

It was after the last lesson ended, when he stood in front of my desk as I was packing my books and cleared his throat. ‘Did Toby enjoy the brownie?’ he asked, his arms crossed. I glared at him. ‘Why do you ask?’ ‘Wouldn’t it be a shame if you couldn’t impress him?’ His voice, sharp with frustration, carried a tinge of hope. I gripped the edge of my desk and leaned closer to him, close enough to feel his breath on my face. ‘Then I would have to invite you over to make another one, right? Don’t worry. It came out perfect. We nailed it, even Abby agreed. Toby said it was the best brownie he had ever tasted.’ His jaw dropped open, eyes widened in disbelief. ‘But–’ ‘I set the timer right.’ As his eyes held mine, the corner of my mouth twitched. I was never a good liar. ‘Is that it? You don’t even want to see me after–’ ‘You hid the ingredients!’ I snapped, cutting him off. ‘Was that for a laugh? This contest is important to me, Curtis. I can’t believe I almost–’ I turned away, biting the sentence in half. For a moment, I really wanted to kiss him yesterday. Why did he have to betray me to further complicate things? ‘Almost..?’ ‘I wish I picked Norman.’ I pressed my lips together. His expression, one of curiosity and anticipation, faded. ‘You don’t mean that.’ I flung my bag over my shoulder and left without a word. # Before I could unpack my bag at home, Curtis stormed through the front door, meeting my eyes with an alert gaze. I hadn’t known it then, but it was just the right amount of concern and sweetness that I’d always return to. ‘Let’s try again, Alf! I promise to win the contest for you!’ I can’t believe I’m giving it another chance. Curtis got the bowls and ingredients out, by now moving confidently in our kitchen. But could he actually bake? ‘Trust me,’ he offered a forced smile as he lifted my apron over my head, and put his arms around me to tie it behind my back. It was strange, to have feelings half unsaid, half out in the open; both uncomfortable and safer than jumping headfirst into the unknown. ‘You didn’t make that easy…’ I mumbled, hoping he couldn’t hear my heartbeat or the wavering of my voice. If we talked this through, what would come next? What if it didn’t work out..? His stupid sabotage didn’t even bother me as much as it should have. Curtis gathered all the ingredients: sugar, flour, cocoa powder, powdered sugar, dark chocolate chips, sea salt, eggs, oil, water, and vanilla. Even more impressive, he measured everything with uncanny precision, not once checking the recipe. My mouth fell open as he worked. ‘Wait, how are you—’ ‘I told you we would win the contest.’ He winked, pointing at the measuring cup in front of me. ‘Pass me that, will you?’ A flush crept up my neck. His fingers brushed against my knuckles as he took the cup from me, sending shivers up my forearm. Had I been ignoring this all along? ‘Curtis, how are you terrible at maths?’ He scratched at his cheek, leaving a smudge of flour on it. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’ ‘I mean,’ I said, pointing at the measuring cup, ‘baking is about precise measurements. Basically maths. How are you so good at this but not homework?’ He shrugged. ‘I could say the same about you. How are you so terrible at baking, but good at maths?’ He wrinkled his forehead at me, squinting his eyes, mocking. ‘Technically, if you hadn’t hidden the eggs from me, that last one would have been perfect.’ Curtis was never one who could win verbal arguments against me, so he would often resort to childish pranks to tip the scales in his favour. Before I could react, he swiped his finger into the bag of flour and wiped it on my nose. I jerked back with my mouth gaping wide open, a gasp escaping. ‘Oh no. Now you’ve done it.’ I dipped my entire hand in, and he darted across the kitchen island before I could come at him with it. I leapt forward, but he was too fast and moved out of the way, sidestepping around the table, towards the sink. I came at him again, this time successfully smearing flour across his face. Curtis grabbed my wrists. He’d always been stronger than me, so all I could do was laugh.

‘Is this funny to you?’ he asked, out of breath from goofing around. I grinned at him. ‘You look ridiculous.’ And somehow, for a brief moment, I’d forgotten all about the stupid contest. Or how I tried so hard to break free from Abby’s perpetual shadow of perfection, always failing. I couldn’t beat her grades, her athleticism, nor her baking. Hell, I couldn’t even compete with her for Toby.

Curtis stared into my eyes, and the mood shifted. Like the other day, his gaze travelled down to my lips. I held my breath. ‘Alfie,’ he whispered. He drifted closer to me, and I closed my eyes in anticipation. Abby and Toby chose that exact moment to arrive home. Caught off guard, my eyes sprung open at the sound of the opening door, and I instinctively stepped away from Curtis. Waited until they disappeared upstairs. Curtis closed his eyes and shook his head, letting go of my hands. Before I could think of anything to say to clear the air, he stormed out of the kitchen. # Curtis sat on the back porch, a solemn gaze fixed on the firepit in the yard; staring into the depths of the flames as if they held the answers to his current predicament. I sat beside him, rubbing my sweaty hands against loose-fitting jeans covered in flour.

‘Can we go back in time and stop me from almost kissing you? ‘Cause if we could, that’d be awesome,’ he mumbled. ‘Was it that insignificant?’ Curtis’s dark eyes were angry and hurt all at once, and I wanted—needed to do something. He’d been on the offensive this entire time, now retreating to defence. I didn’t want to put our bond through this tug of war. I took a deep breath, preparing myself to take a plunge into something new. But the universe had a funny sense of humour, because as soon as I shifted, the timer rang. Curtis sighed. ‘Better check on those. You know, to make sure we got the recipe right.’ He stood, but before he could go, I grabbed his hand. ‘What are you doing, Alf? We gotta get the brownies.’ I blinked, forcing myself to hold Curtis’ gaze. ‘They can wait a moment.’ ‘Are you high on flour?’ He laughed, but after all that happened, it sounded like he was on the verge of tears. ‘I–’ My face burned, but I relaxed my hand around his, and gathering my courage, stroked his palm. It was my turn to take a step. ‘We already got interrupted twice.’ Curtis’s mouth quirked up at one corner. He pushed my hand to one side, leaned close and kissed me hard. Shock rolled me; the sensation sending shivers down my spine. I never knew how much I craved this. It’s beyond me, how we didn’t burn that brownie. In the end, all it took was the right timing.