Sylvia      I sighed as I leaned back against the hood of my car. “We did it.” I said to my companion who was leaning next to me. “Can you believe it?” “ I am so tired I don’t know what I believe,” Monica replied. We both stared at the beautiful building in front of us; the new Eastbrook Public Library. We, along with a staff of thirty or so employees had just finished setting up in the new location. Everyone from the librarians to the caretaking staff had spent the last 10 hours unloading boxes and stacking the shelves. The new furniture had been unloaded a few days ago. Tonight the staff had finished placing it in its right location under the supervision of the head librarian, Sylvia Watkins. The techs had finally set up the computer stations. We were all dead tired. We had been working steadily from 10pm to 7am. That’s right, we worked overnight so that the library would only have to be closed for one day. And that almost killed Sylvia because the Eastbrook Public Library had never closed for a day in its entire 20 year history. It was open 10am to 10pm , Monday through Sunday. It was open for every holiday. A hurricane bearing down on it would never convince Sylvia that closing the doors might be the sensible thing to do. “It’s just wind,” she would say. “Or it will pass us by.” Yes, Ms. Watkins was eternally optimistic that any plan she hatched would be successful and that even Mother Nature wouldn’t dare interfere with her plans. Only the intervention of the City Manager had stopped her from staying open during the move. But, she did get her way in that the library would not close for more than one day. Meticulous plans had been made so that the packing and moving could be accomplished on Monday night and the library would reopen on Wednesday morning. And that is why thirty people worked through the night on Tuesday to unpack all the paraphernalia a library needed along with its massive collection of books, av materials etc. She had been involved in every aspect of the building’s design. This new library had been Sylvia’s dream and it would ultimately bear her name. She insisted that the new location have 2 working fireplaces and beautiful upholstered chairs in the reading area. She chose the paint colors, the furniture, the window dressings. She got her way in almost everything she set out to do for several reasons. She was a formidable opponent. Standing at five foot eleven in her stocking feet, Sylvia was intimidating looking, not just because of her stature, it was her overall appearance. Her dress was a combination of hippie and gyspy queen. Her tightly curled grey brown hair hung down almost to her waist. She didn’t just walk, she strode. But under her outward appearance was a far seeing, intelligent and very capable woman. And Ms. Watkins, despite being a tyrant to her staff, had endeared herself to the community. Under her direction the library had become the model of what every library should be. And the key was service. Sylvia insisted that our patrons be treated like royalty. If a patron wanted information on any given subject not only was the appropriate book or web site found, the exact location of the pertinent information was shown to the library user. If we didn’t have a book someone wanted, Sylvia would have it ordered. Eastbrook was a wealthy community and Ms. Watkin’s demands on the city budget were high. But she had devised a unique way of dealing with fiscal restraint. Out of the thirty people working there, she was the only salaried employee. The rest of us were casual. So when city hall told her to tighten the purse strings, she would walk through the library and tell select individuals to go home for a week. And if you were employed on a casual basis, you were only paid for the days you worked. This was how Sylvia budgeted, And for twenty years it had worked.

     Monica and I were now looking at her crowning achievement. Two stories high with big glass windows, the Eastwood Public Library was an architectural beauty. It had a fountain out front and floodlights that shone on its sleek modern facade. The old library had been housed in a downtown building that once had been, a hundred years ago, Pilgrim’s Pharmacy. It had character but this new library had class.

     Our reverie was broken when a familiar shape called out from the front doors, “Oh good, you’re still here, Wendy. You’d better go home and get a few hours of sleep. That new librarian, Susan, Sharon, whatever her name is just up and quit. Honestly, I don’t know why you recommended her for a job here. Anyway, she’s gone so I need you to work the Reference Desk in the morning. See you at ten sharp.” That was only two and a half hours away. “Sylvia, I shouted back, “there’s no way I am….” But she was gone. “I’m getting out of here before I get roped in as well.” Monica said as she ran to her own car. “I am already booked for tomorrow afternoon. Bye Wendy.” “Damn, damn, damn”, I cursed to myself as I got into my own car and slammed the door.

      Why did any of us stay? For the professional staff it was because the Eastbrook Library was a world class public library and had even been written up in “Library Journal”. But the same can’t be said for the rest of the staff, the turnover was incredibly high. Sylvia had demanding standards. If she was annoyed with someone or displeased with their work, she didn’t talk to them, she shrieked at them. I had been on staff for six years and was regarded by many as Sylvia’s second in command. All that meant was that I had stuck it out far longer than anybody else. Although she was wonderful with library patrons the same could not be said of her rapport with her staff. They came to me, often in tears, when Sylvia had been particularly hard on one of them. I was pretty thick skinned and if I happened to be the target of Sylvia’s anger, I just stood there and listened. I was also known to, on occasion, disagree with her. I didn’t use this super power very often but I think it gained me a modicum of respect.      Once in our new location Sylvia seemed more mellow. During the first few weeks she loved to show the patrons all the new features that she had added. We would see her gliding by with a bevy of followers tailing after her. Our Ms. Watkins was very pleased with herself and I had high hopes that this mood would last. The other staff also noticed the change in their boss. It only lasted until she found the body in the library. The day of the incident, as I came to think of it, I ran into Sylvia’s new secretary in the library parking lot. We walked towards the library together. “So how are you getting on?” I asked her. “It’s a lot different than my last job, “ she admitted. “My last boss wasn’t quite as …” “Demanding,” I filled in. “Yes, that’s a good way to put it.” She gave me a weak smile. I looked at her and thought to myself, “ Poor thing, she won’t last a month.” She was just a little mouse of a thing. Sylvia was going to chew her up and spit her out. We made our way up the stairs. The lights were on which meant that Sylvia was already there. She liked to get there early to survey her realm. My words not hers. Her routine was to make a coffee and then walk through the library before settling down in the wingback chair in front of one the fireplaces. It was her moment of peace before we opened the doors. As Eleanor and I walked through the doors I could see that Sylvia was not in her accustomed chair but kneeling on the floor in front of it. “Sylvia?” I queried. She looked up and madly began beckoning to me to come over. “What’s wrong?” I asked as I began to approach. “Hurry!” she said. As I got closer I could see that she was trying to blot up a dark liquid from the cream colored carpet and seemed to be talking to herself. The look on her face was one I had never seen before; she looked frightened. “Whatever is going on,” I asked. In response she pointed a finger at the chair in front of her and I heard a weak voice, a very angry voice say, “Don’t point your bony finger at me you stupid woman!” I looked over the chair. The voice belonged to Dr. Steven Jordan, a long time member of the library and a personal acquaintance of mine.

He was a well respected doctor in the community but had recently suffered a stroke. I hadn’t seen him since the incident but the change in his voice caught me off guard. We sang in the Community Choir together and now his lovely baritone voice was reduced to a low rasp. I walked around the chair and dropped down in front of him next to Sylvia who for some reason was still mopping the carpet spill with the hem of her dress. The empty coffee cup next to her told me that she had dropped her coffee cup. “Dr. Jordan, are you all right?” “No, I am not,” he said not unkindly. “Eleanor, do you have your cell phone with you?” The secretary had followed me in and was now standing behind the chair. She nodded and reached into her coat pocket, pulled out the phone and passed it to me. “What are you doing?” Sylvia squeaked. “I am calling an ambulance” I replied, “or have you already done that? “He’s fine, he doesn't need an ambulance, do you Dr? You’re just a little distressed at the moment. How about I go and make you a nice cup or tea or would you rather coffee?” she simpered as she started to rise from her kneeling position. I had never seen her like this but I knew that saccharin tone was not going to earn her any points with the man I knew. I could see him bristling. He opened his mouth to speak but I gently interrupted. Looking from one to another I said, “What exactly happened here?” Dr. Jordan picked up his cane and none too gently gave Sylvia a poke in the thigh. “This woman,” he rasped, “locked me in the library overnight!!” Oh Lord. I turned to Sylvia, “You did what?” I mouthed.

     Several years ago, someone had almost gotten locked in the old library. He, however, had made it to the front door just as the last bank of lights was being turned off. He angrily reported the incident to Ms. Watkins the next day. She had been furious with the staff member concerned and had since repeatedly reminded all of us of the necessity of looking everywhere before locking up. We were to be especially careful with ensuring that the washrooms were empty. We had a completely female staff so when it came to the men’s restroom we were told to open the door slightly, call out loudly and then flick the lights off and on. I was flabbergasted that Sylvia had been so careless.      Although I had not spoken out loud, Sylvia turned on me. “We don’t know exactly what happened,” she snapped. “He may have followed me through the doors this morning unbeknownst to me. He’s had a stroke for Pete’s sake, he may…” Then I snapped. “Sylvia, shut up!” I have never before or since told one of my bosses to shut up. My reaction was instinctive. I was sure she was about to stick her foot in her mouth and find herself faced with a lawsuit filed by Dr. Jordan. Eleanor gasped and Dr. Jordan let out an almost inaudible giggle. Sylvia started to talk but I raised my hand to stop her. “Dr. Jordan, can you tell me what happened and if you are in any distress right now?” Sylvia rose to her full height, glared at me and stomped off in the direction of the library offices. “Eleanor,” she shouted, “what are you waiting for?” The poor girl looked at me, terrified, but she trotted obediently after her boss. “Dr. Jordan, are you okay?” He tried to smile. “I’m fine,” he said, “but you are in trouble.” he said in a raspy singsong voice.. “I’ll deal with it.” I said. “Steven, have you been locked in the library overnight?” “I was in the men’s room when the lights went out. When I stuck my head out of the door, I saw her ladyship go flying through the front doors. By the time I got there the door was locked. I called after her, but my voice isn’t as strong as it used to be.” “ You don’t own a cell phone, do you?” Are you suggesting that this is my fault because I don’t own one of those things.” “I wouldn’t suggest any such thing. Our phone system shuts down at night,” I said. “I know,” he said sadly. “My dear girl, I am going to get out of here now, go home, and go to bed.” He started to get up but his legs buckled and he plonked back down into the chair. “I really think I should call the paramedics and have you checked out,” I said. He began to protest but I interjected, “What would you do in my position? What happens if I let you go and you collapse at home?” “Make the call, my dear,” he said, patting my hand. I called, and after hearing the story, the paramedics said they would send someone over. “I gave that boss of yours a fright this morning,” he giggled. “I was sound asleep when she plopped herself onto my lap. She screamed and dropped her coffee. And do you know what her first concern was, the damn carpet.” “Well, I am not sure that is exactly true and to be fair,” I said, “she was startled to find you there. People react to stress in different ways. I am sure that given a few seconds to calm herself she would have seen to it that you were alright.” At that moment I heard the door buzzer and then a couple of members of staff pushed on the door and came in. Normally the door stays locked until 10:00 am on the dot. Staff had to buzz to be let in. But guess who had forgotten to lock the door behind her when she came in that morning? Not only were staff members straggling in, our early birds were right on their heels. Then I heard a voice say, “Coming through, people,” as a policeman and two paramedics bearing a stretcher made their way into the library. Sylvia flew into the entranceway with Eleanor on her heels. “Be a doll and take these men over to where Dr. Jordan is sitting,” she said to her poor secretary, as she patted her on the shoulder and gave her a little shove in our direction. “I’d like a word, Ma’am,” said the police officer. “Of course, of course, just give me a second please.” She smiled at him and then addressed the group that had assembled in the entrance.” Ladies and gentlemen,” she started, “we have had a little medical emergency. As you can see it is being taken care of. So please, go about your business but avoid the lounge area for the moment. Thank you for your understanding.” People gawked in our direction but slowly moved off. Meanwhile Dr. Jordan had been loaded on a stretcher and was being wheeled towards the front door with me following close behind. I heard voices murmuring, “It’s Dr. Jordan.” The policeman tried again to speak to Sylvia. “I understand Ma’am that this gentleman was found locked...” He didn’t get a chance to say more. Dr. Jordan raised his head off the stretcher, pointed a shaking finger directly at Sylvia. I stopped breathing. When he spoke he said in a voice as strong as he could muster, “Thank you Ms. Watkins, if it wasn’t for your speedy intervention I might be leaving here with a sheet over me.” His audience gasped. Then without anyone else seeing it, he gave me a sly wink. I knew he could sing but I had not known he could act. The assembled crowd clapped loudly and Sylvia had the courtesy to blush. Then she turned to me and said in a too sweet voice, “I had some wonderful assistance.” Everyone beamed at me. “I smiled graciously and looked at Sylvia and said, “I am going to accompany Dr. Jordan to the hospital. See you tomorrow?” “You have had a traumatic morning, Wendy. Why don’t you take the rest of the week off.”


Tuesday night, 10:24 PM sharp, Little Collins on 667 Lexington Ave, New York. Same place, same time for five years, all without an interruption in the weekly tradition of Sam’s. How could there have ever been a hiatus in their promised meetup? It would not be of Sam’s character to allow such thing. After all, the value of friendship to Sam has never changed within the course of all these years from the very beginning when Sam and Mort first conversed. And while, after high school, their pathways have diverged—Sam to Rice University and Mort to the University of Houston—never once did their friendship disconnect due to their differences and demanding schedules. And so, Sam arrived at Little Collins, ordered the usual pair of Tall Caramel Ribbon Crunch Frappuccino for himself and a Grande Teavana Chai Tea for Mort. Today, Sam was especially excited. There was news that he had been waiting for two weeks to announce.          As usual, Sam would spot Mort sitting by the window-side with an opened binder packed with messy papers and notes. And, as usual, Mort would lean against his arm, read over his notes before occasionally glancing longingly outside the window, past his own reflection and into the colorful lights of the bustling city. He had always acted like this, something Sam had labeled as “romantic,” of which Mort would deny. Sam smiled at the sight of his friend before making his way through the labyrinth of people to Mort.  He set the drinks down, catching Mort’s attention.          “A Grande Teavana Chai Tea for, hmm…Mr. Price?”

         Mort smiled at Sam’s terrible impression of a waiter, but, like always, he would play along. “Yes, that would be me. Thank you so much.” He took a sip of the black tea before setting it down, letting out a long sigh of content. “My, Sam, the fact that you still remember my love for bitter things…”          “How can anyone forget such a thing?” Sam laughed as he took a seat beside Mort. “Wouldn’t need a research conducted to know that most people prefer sweets over whatever the hell you’re drinking.”          “I feel rather attacked.”          “Oh shut up, Morty.” Sam took a sip of his Frappuccino. “Besides, it’s only been a week. Of course I’d remember what your favorite drink is, you incompetent man.”          “Feels like five years,” Mort said with a sad smile.

         Something pained Sam’s heart, but he looked away and disregarded the feeling. “I guess.” There was an uncomfortable pause before Sam cut in. “Five years, huh? Are you still studying to be a lawyer?”          Mort smiled and gave the binder a glance. “Of course I am, Sam. What a dumb question to ask.”          Sam’s smile widened. “You’ve never changed, huh?” The two men chuckled. “Always so dead-set on a certain goal, it’s like—it’s like you don’t realize there’s other options available.”          “There are no other options, Sam.” Mort took a sip. “I’m going to become a lawyer no matter what.”          Sam stayed quiet. He had wanted to tell Mort that it was no use trying at this point. Mort had failing grades in the majority of his classes. At this point, he wouldn’t even be able to graduate the University of Houston with a bachelor’s degree, and yet he wanted to get into Law School? The way he was studying so vigorously for the LSAT was almost sickening by how pitiful it looked…yet— yet , Sam knew deep inside that this was what he had admired the most from Mort. He was always so dedicated and determined, it was enough to fire up anyone in sight. He’d go so far as to say he held a crumb of jealousy towards Mort. Sam, after all, hardly lived for any purpose other than to live in of itself. Junior year and Sam still didn’t know what to do with his life. Mort did. Mort always did.          That wasn’t the case now.          “You’re not going to become a lawyer, Mort.”

         He gave Sam a sharp look, one Mort had never done before. There was a sting of hurt in his eyes but mostly, sudden shock. “How could you say that?”          “You’re just not.” Sam sighed and avoided Mort’s eye contact. “Look at where you’re at, Mort. Be realistic. I’m twenty-six years old, and you’re still an undergraduate chasing after the moon! Where have your senses gone, Mort?”          Mort turned away as well, a bit of impulsive anger coursing through his veins as they spoke. Outside the glass window, outside his own marred reflection, was the first droplet of rain. “It’s not like you to say something like that. No. No, Sam would never say anything like that. He was always so supportive to me, what happened within the past week to make you say—”          “I’m saying it now because I couldn’t say it then!” The café seemed to hush after Sam raised his voice. Sam’s eyes widened when he realized his surroundings. He cast the other customers a glance before dropping his shoulders and looking at Mort apologetically. “I don’t mean to hurt you, Mort. You know that. We’ve been brothers since high school, remember?”          “Of course I remember.”          “I just…I don’t want to see you like this anymore, knowing that there’s a high—”          Mort gave Sam a look.          “— a possibility that you won’t become a lawyer. That’s all I’m saying.”          Mort gave a huff, that childish huff that followed him from the day he first threw a tantrum. “Give me a break, Sam. I may be failing my classes, but at least I know what I want to do with my life. Look at you. You’ve never had a dream. Wandering around aimlessly, changing your desired major at a quicker pace than my heartbeat. You may be smart, Sam, but where has that taken you?”          Sam grew quiet. “Well your dumb ass isn’t taking you far either, is it?”          Their eyes met, and instinctively, the corners of their lips rose into a laugh. How incredibly silly of them to be arguing at this age. It would appear, Sam thought, that time never really changes people. Mort chuckled. “Watch, this dedicated dumbass is going to beat smart Sam in this race to a life of contentment.”          Sam smirked. “Oh as if, Mort. I bet you still haven’t figured out what the Pythagorean Theorem is.”          “And I bet you still haven’t figured out what job you should get huh?”          “Actually…” Sam paused, leaving Mort in a state of surprise. He rose his eyebrows at Sam.

         “Actually?”          Sam smiled, looked over at Mort, broke their eye contact, and sighed, before smiling again. “I got a job.”          “You what?!”          “I got a job at Paul Hastings. You know, that international law firm you’ve always wanted to go to.”          “You’re…you’re a lawyer now?”          Sam frowned upon hearing the ounce of pain in Mort’s voice. “Yes. Yes I am.” He had been preparing to deliver this news since the past two meetups, but he had no idea how he was going to deliver it. It was exciting, for sure, but…          “I’m proud of you.”          Sam raised his eyebrows at Mort. “You’re…proud of me?”          “Of course I am.” Mort’s sad smile transformed into a wide one, full of celebration. Mort’s energetic air made a sudden appearance as he threw his arm around Sam and laughed. “You fucking did it bro! You’re a lawyer! Holy shit—how?”          Sam smiled at Mort’s supportiveness. “I studied, passed the LSAT with a perfect score and got into law school. Graduated, then landed an interview just a couple of weeks ago. It was a success.”          “You made a 180 on LSAT?”          “Yeah. I sure did.”

“I made a 120, Sam.”          “There’s no way you did. How? How did you make a 120? You studied so hard! Every time I see you, your head is burrowed into that stupid thick binder of yours—how the hell did you make such a low score? That doesn’t make sense. They botched it. They definitely botched the scori—”          “No. Sam. They didn’t. I made a 120. I’m not going to law school.”          “Mort?”

“I’m proud of you, Sam.”          He smiled at this phrase. To receive admiration from someone Sam himself had admired for so long left a warm feeling of contentment. “I did it for you, Mort. I did it because you couldn’t.”          “I see. Fulfilling my lost dreams, huh?”          “Yeah.” The single droplet of rain from earlier had become a light drizzle with occasional thunder. Audible, still, was the angry shouts and car honks just outside in the streets of New York City. “You want to know something else I’ve accomplished for you?”          “What’s that?”          “I quit drinking.”          “You what?”          “Yeah.” Sam smiled at the thought. “We used to drink all the time, remember? It took me four years, but I finally gave it up. Every time I drank, I was left feeling discontent and empty. I’m sure you felt the same way then, right?”          Mort hesitated. “Yeah. Yeah you’re right. Truth be told, I had always put up a face in front of you, just because I didn’t want to look weak, but in reality, my grades were really getting to me. My mother was hospitalized at the time, remember? So my father had to pay for the hospital bills and my college expenses. I didn’t want to disappoint them, waste their time and effort. Didn’t want to waste my efforts either.”

Mort reeled back with his shot of whiskey before letting out a sigh.

“You were never a disappointment, Morty. I hope you realize that.”          “I didn’t then.” Mort chuckled. “It’s like you said that night. I studied so hard, yet I made a 120 on the LSAT.”          “You should’ve been content.” Sam paused. “That’s what I should’ve told you, instead. But I was drunk, too. We both were.”          “How could I have been content? My mom died a few weeks from that night, Sam. I’m sure you remember me telling you that.”          “I do. I still do.”          “So how could I—”          “YOU CAN ALWAYS BE CONTENT!”

Sam wiped the drop of whiskey off the corner of his lips.

“You can always be content, goddammit, Morty. You’re always trying so desperately to reach satisfaction when you know that even if you get there you wouldn’t be satisfied anyways! So why couldn’t you learn to just be happy with yourself? Your failing grades meant nothing! NOTHING! And you let it define you, and you let your failing dream define you!”          Mort slammed the table with his fists. Suffocating silence wrung in the air of Henke & Pillot. “You wouldn’t understand, Sam! You’ve always been so damn smart! You don’t have the same problems as I do! You don’t have to deal with the feeling of having studied for months just to receive a fucking 120! You would’ve made a perfect score on the test had you set your eyes on the legal field! Fuck it! You would’ve made a perfect score on any test you wanted to! You want to be a doctor? You’ll be a doctor! You want to be a professor? Well goddamn, you’re going to be a professor! I’m sorry I’m not as gifted as you, Sam! I’m sorry I can’t be content like you!”

“I never was content.”          Mort drew a cautious breath. “Why are you crying, Sam?”          Pain shot up from the back side to the front of Sam’s chest, a burning fire that boiled in his stomach to his brain. There it was, the familiar fury of fear, regret, anger, and sadness. He held his face in his hands, shamed that he should be crying in front of Mort again when it should be Mort in tears. Sam muttered shakily under his breath before repeating what he had said more clearly. “I never was content, Mort.” He let out a wail, one so pitiful that any bystander would turn away at the sound. It was a choir of years-worth of pain, gathered together in a discordant harmony that fused and scattered and danced a wicked, crooked dance. Every broken voice represented every broken piece of Sam’s heart, so damaged and cracked beyond repair. Years had it took for him to gather the courage to mend it up after the accident, yet within a few seconds, his futile efforts had become evident. His heart was in pieces again.          “I-I’ve n-never b-been content, M-Mort…you k-know that b-better tha-than me. I-I’ve always w-walked blindly i-in fear of t-the f-future, not know-knowing where I was g-going…b-bbut you’ve al-always known. Y-you always k-knew where you-you were g-going. But I w-wish I can t-take that b-back! I know the truth n-now! YOU CAN BE CONTENT MORTY! Anyone c-can! In any c-circumstance, anyone c-can!” Sam wiped the tears away with the sleeve of his white-collared suit. He looked at Mort in the eyes. “I’m a lawyer now. I have a wife and two beautiful toddlers. Every day, Mort, every day , I tell myself that I’m happy. And I feel it. I’m happy with the way things are.”          A sad smile surfaced on Sam’s broken face. “I wish I could’ve told you that before.”

The sirens pierced the night as first responders gathered at the scene. A small crowd of bystanders watched from a distance, covering their opened mouths, unable to shield their widened eyes from the horror just a few meters away. Sam had stood there, frozen. He was twenty-one years old, a junior in Rice, and yet, he was still susceptible to fear immense enough to plant his feet firmly to the cold concrete beneath. Mort had ran out of Henke & Pillot in an impulsive, drunken rush to throw his life away in the face of his problems. Sam, well. Sam was trying to stop him. But, time, as we all know, is merciless. Because a delay in a few seconds, Sam could not reach him. Before his body could react, the ambulance was there, carrying away a bloodied, limp body.

         It was all Sam could do to watch in gripping fear as his best friend disappeared from the chaotic scene and the first responders attempted to clear the area. Did Sam forget? Did Sam really forget? How could he? No. It was crystal clear. The wrecked car, brake marks on the road, smoke from its wreckage, the city lights that illuminated the puddles of blood—no, no. Sam could never forget.          Like a little boy, he began to cry.

Mort pulled him into a hug, followed by a long sigh and a subtle chuckle. His embrace was warm and brotherly, full of what felt like forgiveness to Sam. He let Sam cry and cry and cry, all without a word. When Sam calmed, Mort spoke up without pulling away. “I’m proud of you, Sam.”          “I—”          “No. Let me speak.” Mort held Sam tighter. “I’m proud of where you are now. You’ve come so far, farther than I could ever imagine myself reaching. I’ve been watching over you, Sam. You really are so much happier. I was there for you when you studied for the LSAT. There when you sat in the lecture hall in law school. There when you fought off Ricky at that moot court.” That made Sam chuckle. “I was there when you met Michelle on campus. There when you proposed, when you married, when you had your first daughter, Daisy. Then you had your son. You named him Mort after me, huh?” Mort chuckled.

         “I was there when you visited my graveyard. I was there every time you replaced the olden flowers with new ones. And I watched with content that you were living a life that I struggled to get, one I could’ve gotten, but one I could never now. Don’t you see, Sam? I’m happy. I’m happy that you’re happy.”          “I’m content, Sam. Are you?”          “Yes.” Sam paused. “Yes, I’m content.”          “Then let go of me.” Mort pulled away.          “You’re dead, aren’t you?”          “Time of death. 10:24 PM. Tuesday, 9 th of March, 2010.”


The sun hung low in the sky as Sarah Mitchell pulled up to the heavily guarded entrance of the BioTech Research Facility. As a seasoned investigative journalist, she had covered her fair share of groundbreaking stories, but this one promised to be her most significant yet. The rumors surrounding the research conducted within those walls were enough to send shivers down anyone's spine. Today, Sarah had been granted unprecedented access to the lab, a chance to uncover the truth behind the top-secret work carried out there. Stepping out of her car, Sarah adjusted her notepad and checked her camera equipment. She was prepared to document every detail, determined to expose any wrongdoing that may be lurking behind the lab's fortified walls. A security guard approached her, scrutinizing her identification before finally granting her access. Inside the facility, Sarah was guided through a maze-like corridor, taking note of the reinforced doors and surveillance cameras at every turn. The atmosphere was tense, with scientists in white lab coats scurrying about, engrossed in their work. The air carried a distinct smell of chemicals, hinting at the complex experiments being conducted. Her guide led her into a spacious laboratory filled with state-of-the-art equipment. Sarah's eyes widened as she observed the rows of high-tech machinery, each with its own purpose and intricate design. She struggled to comprehend the magnitude of what was being developed here. Dr. Rachel Lawson, the lead researcher, greeted Sarah with a warm smile. "Welcome, Sarah. We're delighted to have you here today. I hope you're ready to witness something truly groundbreaking." Sarah reciprocated the smile, her curiosity piqued. "Thank you, Dr. Lawson. I've heard so much about the work conducted here. I'm eager to know more." "Follow me," Dr. Lawson said, leading Sarah toward a sealed chamber at the far end of the laboratory. The security measures surrounding it were seemingly impenetrable, indicating the significance of whatever lay within. As they reached the chamber, Dr. Lawson scanned her identification card, and the heavy doors hissed open, revealing a sight that left Sarah speechless. Inside the room was a massive enclosure containing a lush, verdant landscape. Towering trees, vibrant flowers, and a winding river coexisted within the glass walls, creating an ethereal oasis in the midst of the sterile lab environment. Sarah's eyes widened in disbelief. "What is…? How is this possible?" Dr. Lawson beamed with pride. "Welcome to our Biosphere Project, Sarah. We have developed a revolutionary system that replicates entire ecosystems within a controlled environment. It's a breakthrough in sustainable agriculture and biodiversity conservation." Sarah's mind raced, realizing the potential impact of this discovery. "This could change everything! The possibilities for food production and environmental conservation are immense. Why hasn't this been made public?" Dr. Lawson's expression turned somber. "The project was classified due to the potential misuse of such technology. We wanted to ensure its safety and ethical use before revealing it to the world." Sarah's journalistic instincts kicked in. "But what kind of misuse are we talking about? Are there any risks associated with this project?" Dr. Lawson sighed, her eyes reflecting a mixture of concern and responsibility. "There are several potential misuses we have considered. One of the key concerns is the possibility of using the Biosphere Project to create controlled environments for the development of dangerous biological weapons. The ability to sustain life within enclosed ecosystems could be exploited to cultivate and engineer deadly pathogens, posing a grave threat to global security." Sarah's mind raced, realizing the magnitude of the situation. "So, the secrecy surrounding the project was to prevent such misuse?" "Yes," Dr. Lawson confirmed. "In the wrong hands, the Biosphere Project could unleash unimaginable devastation. We had to ensure that the technology was fully developed, with safeguards in place, before considering its release to the public." Sarah's journalistic instincts kicked into high gear. "Dr. Lawson, the world deserves to know about this project. Its potential benefits are immense, but the risks must be brought to light as well. We need transparency to prevent any clandestine misuse." Dr. Lawson nodded in agreement. "You're right, Sarah. We have been deliberating on the best way to strike a balance between sharing the breakthrough and addressing the risks. We understand the importance of public awareness, but we must also proceed with caution." Sarah contemplated the situation, realizing the weight of responsibility that rested on her shoulders. She knew she had the power to expose the truth, but she also had to be mindful of the potential consequences. After a moment of reflection, she made up her mind. "Dr. Lawson, I would like to collaborate with you on this. Let us work together to devise a plan that ensures the responsible disclosure of the Biosphere Project. We must inform the public about its potential benefits and the risks it carries. By doing so, we can foster a global dialogue and ensure that this groundbreaking technology is used for the betterment of humanity." Dr. Lawson's eyes shimmered with gratitude. "Thank you, Sarah. Your willingness to approach this with caution and responsibility reassures me. Together, we can make a difference and shape the future of this remarkable project." Over the following weeks, Sarah and Dr. Lawson collaborated closely, carefully crafting a strategy to share the story of the Biosphere Project with the world. They engaged in extensive discussions, consulting with experts in various fields, assessing the potential risks and benefits, and establishing frameworks to ensure the technology's responsible use. Finally, the day arrived when Sarah's exposé on the Biosphere Project was published. The article detailed the groundbreaking technology, its potential benefits for sustainable agriculture and biodiversity, and the risks associated with its misuse. It ignited a global conversation, prompting governments, scientific communities, and environmental organizations to come together and establish regulations and oversight mechanisms to safeguard the technology's ethical use. The public's response was overwhelming. Many were captivated by the possibilities the Biosphere Project presented, while others expressed concerns about its potential risks. Yet, the conversation fostered by Sarah's article allowed for a balanced and informed dialogue, leading to a collective commitment to responsible innovation. As time progressed, the Biosphere Project was gradually integrated into society, with stringent regulations in place to ensure its ethical use. It revolutionized agriculture, enabling sustainable food production in regions affected by droughts, extreme temperatures, or limited arable land. It played a crucial role in conserving endangered ecosystems, allowing scientists to study and protect fragile species within controlled environments. Sarah's collaboration with Dr. Lawson continued beyond the publication of her groundbreaking article. The two worked tirelessly to address the concerns raised by the public and to refine the regulations governing the Biosphere Project. They became advocates for responsible innovation, traveling the world to speak at conferences and engaging with policymakers, scientists, and environmentalists. Their efforts led to the establishment of an international committee dedicated to monitoring and regulating the use of biosphere technology. This committee consisted of experts from various fields who worked together to ensure that the Biosphere Project was used solely for peaceful and beneficial purposes. Under the committee's oversight, the Biosphere Project flourished. It continued to enhance food production and conservation efforts, transforming arid regions into thriving agricultural centers and contributing to the preservation of endangered species and habitats. Sarah and Dr. Lawson's collaboration also sparked interest from other scientific communities and research institutions. They began to share their knowledge and expertise, collaborating on similar projects around the world. This global collaboration further advanced the field of biosphere technology, expanding its applications and ensuring that the benefits reached far beyond the walls of the original research facility. As the years passed, the Biosphere Project became a symbol of responsible innovation and the power of transparency. The public's trust in the technology grew, and the regulations and oversight mechanisms put in place served as a model for other groundbreaking scientific advancements. Sarah and Dr. Lawson's efforts were recognized with numerous awards and accolades. They were hailed as pioneers who had not only uncovered a remarkable breakthrough but had also navigated the delicate balance between progress and caution. Sarah's experience with the Biosphere Project had a profound impact on her as a journalist. She realized the importance of responsible reporting, understanding the potential consequences of revealing groundbreaking technologies without careful consideration of their risks. She became an advocate for responsible journalism and used her platform to raise awareness about the ethical implications of scientific advancements. Dr. Lawson's dedication to the Biosphere Project never wavered. She continued to lead research and development efforts, ensuring that the technology evolved responsibly and with the utmost regard for the environment and humanity's well-being. The legacy of the Biosphere Project lived on, not only in its contributions to sustainable agriculture and conservation but also in the lessons it taught about responsible innovation. It served as a reminder that groundbreaking discoveries could shape the world positively, but their potential risks must be addressed proactively. Sarah Mitchell and Dr. Rachel Lawson's collaboration became a symbol of the power of partnership and the importance of ethical decision-making in the face of groundbreaking scientific advancements. Their story inspired countless others to approach innovation with responsibility, shaping a future where progress and humanity's welfare walked hand in hand.


(TW … depression, suicidal thoughts) “I honestly don’t know why I should even care anymore.” It was an unpleasant thought. She knew that. It was a thought to fight off, to wrestle to the ground and beat senseless, walking away the victor. She knew that. “Why do I bother? There is no point.” These thoughts, as if best friends, seem to show up together. The power of two makes it harder to fend off, needing a one-two punch to knock them both out. She had fought this demon many times in her life. It was an entity that lurked around her, above her, swirling and taunting. At times it had retreated to the background in silence. Out of sight and out of mind? Almost. The recent isolation had opened the door for the depression to enter her life again. Like an invitation to a birthday party but instead of balloons and streamers it decorated the space with darkness. She walked down the aisle without choosing anything. Forgetting to grab a basket on her way in, she held the few selected items in her arms. Protein bars. They make a good meal at her desk without requiring any prep or thought. That’s a plus. Cereal. A staple to be eaten for breakfast or a late night snack. Another plus. Stopping in the hair care aisle she stared at the vast array of products. Absentmindedly she twisted a piece of hair round and round her finger and then let it go adding to the mass of curls that did their own thing despite her efforts. She fantasized about getting a new hairstyle, walking past a reflection knowing that she looked good and felt good. Then she remembered the discomfort in the salon seat, the cape making her feel small and unattractive with her wet hair slicked back, the stranger’s hands pulling a comb through her knots. She grabbed a conditioner for curly hair putting an end to the fantasy. Struggling to hold her meager collection of items she again wondered, “Why bother”. She still didn’t have anything picked out for dinner despite roaming up and down the aisles. Looking at the meats, she was reminded of her mediocre cooking skills. She stood rooted to the spot staring at the choices for who knows how long. It just wasn’t worth it, she decided. It really wasn’t worth the effort. Walking to the front of the store in a trance-like state her thoughts went to the place that she would never allow them to go. A surprising calmness seeped into her as she considered the possibilities; the calmness turning into relief as the thoughts grew stronger and more defined. She was young, had no children for whom she was responsible. That in itself was a blessing and a curse. Otherwise, she would rise to the occasion. Drifting away from friends over the years, she resorted to commenting on social media posts and the occasional text. It became a better alternative than making plans, which she would inevitably cancel. As for coworkers, her home office allowed her the luxury of solitude. She really could just slip out of this existence unnoticed. Her thoughts went to her mother. How would she find out? The news would be devastating enough to destroy her. Would she recover? If she were able to find the words she could explain that it wasn’t her fault, that she had done nothing wrong as a parent. It was within herself, this depression, this monster that threatened her very life. Maybe she should write a letter while it was on her mind just in case. If the enemy won she didn’t want her words unsaid. Suddenly a flashback of herself a few years prior came to mind. As a teenager she had built up the courage to let her mother in on her feelings. It came out all wrong, she remembered, sounding spoiled, petty, ungrateful. She hadn’t been able to draw the picture of her emotions. And then the quick response came. “Snap out of it.” Oh, if it were only that easy. Snap out of it. How she longed to Snap Out Of It. Her turn at the register, the cashier asked the perfunctory questions. Did you find everything you were looking for tonight? Yes, thank you. Cash or charge? Charge, please. Would you like a bag? No, thank you. Maybe she should have chosen the self-checkout line.

“Let me know what you think of that conditioner. I’ve been meaning to try it.” “Oh yeah.” She looked down somewhat surprised that she had picked it out. She felt like she was just waking up, a bit groggy.

“I love your curls by the way. My hair just turns to frizz no matter what. No fair.” She looked at the young cashier with her hair pulled into a ponytail. “No, it’s cute. I like it.” “Yeah?” She brightened up, smiled.

“Yeah. Definitely.”

After swiping her card, she laid the cereal box down flat in the bagging area and arranged her items on it. As if it were a tray, she picked up the box and turned to walk toward the exit. The cashier smiled, commenting, “You look like a waitress.” Always quick with a comeback she replied, “Would you like fries with that?” The two women looked at each other and unexpectedly laughed. Something clicked inside her with the release of endorphins. She felt lighter, healthier, awake.

How did her mood change so rapidly, going from the depths of despair to laughing in the blink of an eye? Was the most basic conversation, just a few lines of banter back and forth, enough to bring her back from the brink? One small compliment, one silly off hand joke. The automatic door opened, and she walked through into the evening catching the tail end of the sunset. The cool air felt good. Her thoughts returned to the letter for her mother. Should she still write it just in case? She could tuck it into the drawer of her night table to be easily discovered. She thought of the one simple gesture, the cashier choosing to converse with her, that changed the outcome of the evening. Looking back into the grocery store as the automatic door was closing, she caught a glimpse of the young lady. She was smiling warmly at the next customer. This time the one simple gesture was a smile. As she turned away she saw the customers at the self checkout going through the motions, looking alarmingly similar to how she had felt just moments ago.


Autumn in Canada is my favorite time of the year. How everything around us becomes beautiful and cooler, providing us a relief from the heat. The beautiful transformation of tree leaves in stunning shades of yellow, orange, red and brown blows my mind. Currently sitting in a coffee shop which have just introduced a new line of autumnal drinks, having a hot chocolate. Trying to make my sullen mood a little better. “Good evening.” A old lady nearly in her 70's stood in front if my table. “Good evening.” I said “Can I sit with you, if you don’t mind. I was seeing you from a while and you seem a little sad to me. So I thought you would like to have some company.” She said giving me a wrinkled smile. “I won’t mind, please take a seat.” I said and thanking me she sat comfortably in front of me.

“Oh how rude of me, I am Luna by the way. Nice to meet you.” She said taking her hand out for handshake. “Hailey, nice to meet you too.” I said copping her actions. She looked at my almost finished hot chocolate before saying, “They have just introduced a new line of autumnal drinks. They are amazing, have you tried any?” she asked “Um, no I haven’t. But-" she cut me off “Ah! You should try their classic pumpkin spice latte. Wait I will order them for both of us.” She said and immediately ordered for us. I smiled at her ebullient nature. She had pale and wrinkled skin but her eyes and smile shined bringer than the sun. “You have the same smile like my granddaughter.” Her eyes twinkled when she talked about her grand daughter.

“Do I?” I asked with a smile. "Yes, you know once Charlie Chaplin said 'You will find that life is still worthwhile, if you just smile'." She said and I nodded “You should meet her some day. You both must be of same age. She is a lawyer in New York, what is your profession?” she continued “I am a CA, Chartered accountant.”

“Oh that’s amazing, your parents must be proud of you.” She said and I nodded my head as yes. Our conversation was cut off by the waitress who bought our ordered drinks. Their latte had two difference from others which was they used honey instead of sugar and using more pumpkin which added a good different taste. "Isn't it amazing?" Luna asked "Absolutely amazing." I said and we both smiled. “Why were you sad Hailey?”

"Just had a bad day." I said trying to drop the topic. "You can tell me the reason for your bad day, if you don't mind." She said looking calculatively in my eyes. I took a deep death before speaking, “I.. I had a argument with my mother this morning.” I said looking at my latte as tears started to well up in my eyes. “Talk to me, share with me. They say sharing with the strangers makes you feel a little better.” She said, giving her a week smile I told her, “Me and my mom had a fight this morning. She wants me to go back to Italy and help her with her boutique. She wants me to leave this job as a CA and help her with her work. But I don’t want to leave my job and go there. I love my job, but she doesn’t understand. Infact she doesn’t want to understand.” I exhaled deeply. Luna took my hand in her fragile hands saying, “Do you want to know Luna's autumn theory?” she said and I was confused. "Luna's autumn theory?" I asked “Its my autumn theory.” She said smiling at me. Before I could even reply she continued. "I don't really care what your answer is. I was going to tell you anyways." She said and we both laughed. “Autumn season is know for its beautiful change which it brings with it. The weather getting colder; changes of green leaves into yellow, orange, red and brown shades; days become shorter and nights becomes longer. It’s the season of changes, maybe for good or bad its up to you. If your mom doesn’t understand or don’t want to, you change your style of explaining her. Make her realize what you really want to do. Autumn teaches us to change. Change you ways my child, and everything changes.” She said and I was speechless. I was just staring at her with a smile. She is right, I need to change my ways of explaining my mom and she will understand me hopefully. Luna's phone vibrated, looking at the screen she smiled and looked at me. “Its my time to go. Have a good day my child. God bless you and smile more often. You have a beautiful smile.” She said and my smile widened. Hugging me goodbye she left the coffee shop. Meeting Luna in this coffee shop and her telling me ‘Luna's autumn theory’ was a life changing event for me.

Sometimes things happen which we don't even expect. When we think all the doors are closed and we don't have any choice, maybe the closed doors aren't locked and waiting for a knock. Maybe we just have to knock the doors and seek for a perfect solution. Maybe what seems so difficult isn't that difficult. Maybe its just your power of not losing hope and keep trying. Deciding to change my way of telling my mom what I want, I smiled. I have an idea how to explain her. Victor Hugo a French poet, prose writer, dramatist, essayist and politician once said, 'There is nothing more powerful in the world than the idea that came in time.' This autumn have bought a change in me which is a life time lesson. I took out my phone, dialing my mom's number I waited for her to pick up my call. After a few rings she picked up the call. “Hey mom" “Hello" “Mom, next week I will be coming home for a few days.”


I never questioned what my mother had told me. She didn't know who my father was. I only knew that somehow I would become something great, and he would know I was his son. My mother had come to America from Argentina when I was young. I was without my mother for a few years, living in my village with my aunt. The town was small but enough for a boy of five years old. I have fond, although very few memories of my family and I outside, all the time, considering we didn't have glass windows, just holes in the walls. One night, a snake was in my room, having climbed through our open windows, and no one was worried. A way of living, usual for us here in our bungalow and sleepy village. This way of living was how we all lived there in that part of Argentina. We had electricity but no running water. We would collect water from the streams nearby. I remember watching my grandmother catch our chickens to kill for dinner; I was always so hungry, especially for chicken, for our diet was consistently rice and beans. Poverty was why my mother went to America; to save me from this life.

However, to leave Argentina meant I would never see my father, a father that I didn't even know his name. A man that I would one day grow up and look like, and yet the face would be mine but carry a resemblance to a stranger. I had visions and daydreams of what would happen if I met him. I wanted to be something great, I wanted to be somebody, make a name for myself so he couldn't ignore me or pretend he didn't know I existed. I wanted to become more than the boy from Argentina. I didn't feel like a piece of me was missing by not knowing my father. Not knowing him had given me the resolve to become a fantastic athlete, to pursue a better life, and not waste the gift of being in America. The ironies of my life would occasionally beset me. I can watch people complain about the modern conveniences in this world while many starve and live on pennies a day. While the only way I escaped a fate as tragic is my mother's persistent need to give life to her son, a life that is better than the one she knew.

I supposed that was why I didn't ask more about my absent father. She had little emotion about him, so minimal feeling. I chalked the idea up to her, not knowing who my father was. I liked to imagine him as the kind of man I want to be. Present, persistent, and powerful. I tried to imagine that I could become somebody he could be proud of, whether he knew of me. I couldn't bring myself to ask my mother more. That is until I became a father. I had a son, and I didn't know what it meant to have your heart live outside your chest—this feeling of holding this child and knowing that I will be the role model in his life. I will be the one to show and give him a life that I hope is as good and better than mine. My mother could tell by the look in my eyes; I was terrified. I didn't know how to be a father. I had mentors who took me in and gave me advice throughout my life, and helped me along my journey. Yet, to be a father to this little personality in my arms, how could I do it and not have ever had a father?

These questions lead me back to Argentina, as I stand at the edge of finally knowing my father. My wife had found him with my mother's help, and they thought it would help me. I embarked alone to where he was. A trip as a young boy, I had only dreamed about. Finally, as I stood there, all the questions In my mind carefully aligning themselves together, with everything I ever wanted to tell him piling up in mind. I find that all the questions and all the mystery would remain. As I read the epitaph on his headstone, it said, "I was somebody," and his name. A name I had only learned days ago. He had died young, only a few years older than I was at that moment. At that moment, I realized I was granted a gift by my mother to have not been told a single thing until that moment. I was given a chance to hope that my father was out there waiting for me. And he was, he was waiting for me on the other side of this life. I had a feeling he was there with me as I kneeled by his grave. I would never know him, and I would never know what his voice sounded like, or even what he looked like. I know his life will be carried on through my son and all those who come after my son. I am somebody, just as my father was somebody. He was an idea to me, someone to strive for and to make proud. While I was sad, I was hopeful. I had the opportunity to be in my son's life and be the dad I had wanted in my life. I had a rare and so beautiful gift that I would continue to live my life to make my father proud. I put my hand on the grass, as the warm Earth gave me strength. The only thing I had was this moment with him—this one moment with my father. I didn't say anything, and the silence was speaking more volumes than anything I could try and say. I knew he would wait for me on the other side, and he would live on in me. I finally stood up and took one last look at the inscription. "I am somebody"-yes, Dad, we are.


That’s the thing about this city; is not eco-friendly. And has no bike lanes. The traffic is horrendous. Many families have like two cars, at least. One for him and one for her. Why should they use public transportation with all kinds of smelly dudes when they can go to the office with a car? Even if they stay at least one hour in the car for just 6 kilometers driving distance. This is one reason this city is in top ten of the most polluted in Europe. But living here is a necessary evil because here I can make a decent living. I am talking here about money, of course. The money I will spend later on trying to treat the diseases inflicted by this polluted city. Good thing we can’t afford two cars. So, I use a bike to do my deliveries. I work for a company where people order things through an app and I deliver them. A cubic box is flapping gently against my back as I pedal, zig-zagging next to pedestrians on the sidewalks (and they curse, most of the time), or among the cars (and they honk also most of the time). My wife is using our car for her job. She is a massage therapist and I won’t expect for her to carry the massage table on a bike. Right? Now I arrive in a residential neighborhood. Duplex houses with a small backyard, and ornate cement tall fences upfront, the house of choice for the emerging middle-class. Usually, these guys are good tippers. I drive slowly now on the narrow street to find the number of the address. Okay, riight there. Still on the bike’s saddle, I push the button of the intercom. A female voice blares, “Yes…” “Good day, madam, I am here with your order,” I say. “What order?” she asks, a bit bored. Gee, how many things these guys are ordering at once? “Your apple pies order, madam,” I specify. “Why don’t you say so?” Tzzank! The metallic door lock is released, and I open the door leading to the front yard. I also drive the bike inside. I can’t know for how long this lady will keep me inside and if I let it on the street for sure someone will steal it. Even in this pleasant neighborhood. I don’t trust people anymore in this city. This is my third bike. The other two “left” me for some slicker masters. A middle age woman exits from the main entrance of the house and her face is not happy at all. “Why have you brought your bike inside? Nobody will steal it in this neighborhood!” Good thing it’s a sunny summer day and my bike doesn’t leave muddy traces behind. One scolding less for me to hear today. “Sorry, madam, but I don’t know well this neighborhood so I can’t be sure of anything.” “Yeah, right. You, young people, don’t know good values anymore. Just drunkenness and stealing, that’s all you see and do all day!” Oh, man! I have to endure this too. For sure she will not tip me. I unstrap the box from my back, unzip it, and hand over to her two cases with the pies. The payment was already done, so I move backward slowly to the exit, keeping eye contact with the grudging lady maybe, just maybe, she will tip me. Oh, Lord! It’s a miracle. She digs her hand in the pocket of her house robe and hands over three small bills. It comes to my mind that joke from some movie “Gee, now I can go to college!” but I take them anyway, and say “thanks” with a small voice, followed by “have a nice day”. Exiting the duplex neighborhood, I am greeted by larger boulevards flanked by taller buildings. This time I cannot ride among the pedestrians, so I use the right edge of the asphalt road. At some point, a red station wagon Ford is passing by my side being in a hurry. But suddenly it slows and goes again in front of me on the first lane. The bus lane. I see a bus coming from behind, so I speed up to pass alongside the red Ford. Just when I am near it, the driver abruptly stops and opens the door. I was looking back, worried by the approaching bus, so I miss this reckless move. The collision with his side door is unavoidable. I fall down, my knees are all an open wound, also the left side of my face is scrapped. I am in pain, and I hope I didn’t break a rib too. The plastic helmet protected somewhat my head. My bike glided partially under the car. And my delivery box is still strapped to me but is creased like hell. “Look at you!” exclaims the driver, a guy in his fifties with grey hair and a significant belly. “What came to you to sneak in like that?” “You’re the one to speak?” I ask, boiling with rage. “When you are the one who stopped so suddenly and opened the door in my face?” “Okay, let’s not get wind up here! I’m sorry, Okay?” “And what good that makes to me?” I ask, trying to stand and evaluate the status of my delivery box. Fortunately, the pies I just delivered earlier were the last for the day. Otherwise, now I would have to pay for my cargo as well. The man, driven probably by a shred of guilt, helps me recover my bike from under his car and offers, “Let’s put your bike on top of my car and get you some band aid on those wounds!” “Ah, so nice of you to take me to the hospital,” I retort ironically. “Nah, you don’t need a hospital. Just a woman’s hand. Let’s go to my place. It’s not far and my lady is expecting me and she is a nurse of some kind. She will patch you up. Hah? What do you say?” I look at him cautiously. He doesn’t have a face of a serial killer and I was confident that my thirty years will overcome his fifties if situation may arise. My riding pants are a mess, same is my T-shirt. And the blood keeps dripping from the wounds at my knees. So, I accept. “But you will repay me for my torn clothes,” I demand in a serious tone. “Sure, how much can they cost, anyway?” answers the magnanimous driver. If the wheel is not spinning, the money won’t flow , says a colleague of mine. But it seems that for me today the wheel will not be spinning anymore. And for sure the bike will need a check-up at a bike shop I frequent in my neighborhood. This guy must pay for the trouble he caused.

“Wait just a tiiny little moment while I go to that liquor store to get something,” continues the man. “That’s why I stopped here, anyway. I wanted some champagne for my lady, if you know what I mean.” Great! Because of his bacchanal celebration, I am in such a mess? But what can I say? I put my bike on the metal supports on top of the station wagon and fasten it there with the locking cable, while my box goes to the backseat. I stand in the passenger seat and use some paper tissues to tend my bleeding knees. The man returns pretty quick with two champagne bottles and hands them over to me. I guess those are safer in my hands since I am sitting on the passenger seat. “I am Dan, by the way,” he said, starting the car. “Mircea,” I reply, not so happy about getting to know new people this way. Dan is a chatty guy and his mouth almost never stops while he drives to his house, that proves to be an apartment into one of those tall buildings. “Let me tell you from the start,” he says in a conspiratorial tone. “The lady I am speaking about, is not really my wife. My wife is out of town. This one is a dear of mine. She says she’s a massage therapist, but she does everything if you know what I mean.” My heart sinks into my stomach. “Please, God, let it not be my wife!” I say in my mind. It will be a disaster for our marriage and a too much of a coincidence. “Here we are!” says Dan after driving for a few minutes. The bike is locked on top of his car and my box is still in the car so I follow him slightly limping to his apartment, with a raised pulse and waiting for the moment of truth. The elevator is leaving us on the seventh floor. And soon Dan (Dan, the Man!) opens the door of one apartment yelling, “Honey, I’m baack !” And he takes the champagne bottles from my hands and puts them on the coffee table in the living room. “Honey” is a young blonde with a naughty nurse outfit and everything. Her massage table is forgotten in a corner of the room and she stays relaxed on the sofa. I let out a relieved breath. She’s not my wife. It’s Alina, her good friend. Wouldn’t have been nice for this city to have dedicated bike lanes?


My feet met the cold stone floor, sending shivers up my spine. Seemingly I wasn’t the only one, I could hear gasps coming from the crowd that surrounded me. A few murmurs as well, probably comments regarding the unpleasant feeling. To be completely honest, the cold stone was the least of my worries if I could call it that to begin with. I wasn’t concerned, not really. Not about our presence here at least but the anxious aura surrounding the crowd I was part of could barely go unnoticed. I let my eyes wander around, pushing the people around me into the background to fully focus on the walls that surrounded us. They were black with red ruby gems decorating them in various patterns. The symbols they formed were well known to us all, the symbols of our Gods. However, not many of us believe in their existence anymore. Despite this, we still carried out this ‘ceremony’. A ritual, some called it, but that always sounded a bit bizarre to me, way more sinister than it was but the word ‘ceremony’ didn’t seem fitting to me either, therefore me and my friends call it Krvozwem. It means blood pool, bloody pool, or pool of blood, whatever translation you pick really. The language is known only by us though, we made it up when we were little which also explains the simplicity of the name Krvozwem as we were limited by our childhood minds. Despite the simple name we have chosen for this ceremony, the building where it was carried out was far from simple. The pillars were detailed, carvings decorating their surface, and the walls I mentioned earlier held balconies that were filled by people who came to witness Krvozwem. Our parents were in the front row but some of them were on the balconies as well. I noticed a few familiar faces up there, their hands anxiously gripping the railing that prevented them from falling, though some seemed to be uneasy with anticipation that made them fidget with their fingers, clothing, or jewelry. Anything they had in reach. It was pathetic, I never understood why there is so much anxiety when it comes to this. Wasn’t it an honor? To be chosen as the one. To have all the eyes on you. On me . Yes. Me. Of course, they would choose me. Who else is there to choose? The girl who throws up at any minor inconvenience? Or the weakling that dares call himself a man? I glanced their way to check their faces, and as I thought, Rina looked like she would throw up and Hel’s knees were practically shaking despite him trying to put on that ‘confident’ expression of his. Of course, they were my friends. Or rather steps to my victory. I don’t care for them, not really. As soon as this is done, I’ll toss them aside like the pitiful beings they are. Not that I feel pity for them. I don’t feel anything. They are just tools to me, just like my parents are. All the people in my life have one purpose, to serve me to get me to the top. Once their task is over, they are no longer needed. And what better purpose could there be than this? They should be grateful I let them be of use to me. My eyes met the gaze of my parents, their pride shining through to me. They have been speaking of this day ever since I learned to walk. It was my bedtime story, my dreams, my greeting in the morning, and a lecture during lunch. Krvozwem. The highest of honors. You see, our world is dying. Has been for years now. There is no food, not for the Kos’Vies at least. That’s what the lowest of the lowest get called. Poor. Dirty. Disgusting . They survive off of each other now, in the most literal sense you can think of. Cannibalism. They reproduced as fast as rabbits though, or that’s what grandpa said. No idea what a ‘rabbit’ is but it must have been repulsive if Kos’Vies got compared to them. At least they never run out of stuff to eat. And water? Ancient legend at this time. Blood. That is all we can drink now, nothing else will give us enough energy to fully function. Some people resist the customs but they are not seen often. Most of the time, if you would come across one on the street, shouting their chants in protest, they’re gone the next day. A curiosity but a welcomed one. Keep your ‘pure’ thoughts to yourself. As for us, we are the higher-ups, the Sno’Egoï as we like to call ourselves. We are the better ones, the ones who will prevail. Most of us at least. The Elder Kri was the founder of Krvozwem, she believed our world could be saved. That’s why we do this every year, gather here in The Zoufpij where the ‘ceremony’ takes place. I got picked when I was 3 years old, others got picked around the same time and some later but they usually don’t go past 8 years old. The Elder Kri formed a unit called DiVon for this very purpose, they choose the ones who show the most potential to be Lek’Ká, the one who is prophesied to save us all and bring us to a better world. ‘Under their rule, we shall prosper. We shall not know pain. Ascension will be brought by The Mighty and all the Gods will owe us fealty.’ As one of the ones who got chosen, I attended classes that were meant to prepare me for the role of Lek’Ká if it ended up being me. It will . But let others hope, their crushed spirit will make it even sweeter. It felt great already as one by one of my ‘companions’ got called forward, getting soaked in the crimson liquid in the middle of The Zoufpij. A big pool of thick blood. None of them came out as Lek’Ká yet. Nobody has. Ever since The Elder Kri introduced Krvozwem to us, there has been no one who was The Mighty but that’s simply because I wasn’t born yet. In all honesty, nobody knew what would happen when the person who stepped in was Lek’Ká. We’re about to see. They called me, my turn. Finally. After so many years. Started when I was three, and I am 16 now, the little me would be proud. I stopped at the edge of the pool, looking down at my reflection in the liquid. This is it. My foot sank, and the other followed. I walked to the middle of the pool, covered by blood from the waist down as I tilted my head back, my eyes closed. “Bohgen búzu dlusch náon vétro,” I whispered the phrase we get taught as soon as we say our first word. It’s the last phrase of the prophecy. ‘Gods will owe us fealty.’ Some call it the trial of Lek’Ká as it’s supposed to ‘reveal’ them but to me, it feels like more than that. More than just a phrase. It feels, right. Like home. Nothing. Nothing happened. How? How is this possible? It’s me . It has always been me ! I am Lek’Ká. I am . I wouldn’t get out. They can’t make me. I will stay until my true self is proven. Until they see. They will all see. The DiVon grabbed my arms with force, about to drag me away but… they couldn’t. I wouldn’t budge. I couldn’t budge. It was as if I was glued to the bottom of the pool. The crimson liquid began to swirl around me as if someone had begun to drain it. Murmurs and gasps of surprise echoed from the walls, DiVon let go of me and stepped back, rushing to hold back all the others who tried to get to me. I didn’t see them anymore. My eyes were closed, arms spread out as I embraced the thick liquid that crawled up my body. It covered me whole, almost suffocating me before it forced my mouth open. Sharp pain appeared in my throat as it entered my mouth, my eyes shot wide open, tearing up at the sensation. The people who were trying to get to me stopped struggling, watching me instead as I closed my mouth again. I wiped my mouth, trying to catch the breath that was almost taken from me. When I looked down, the blood that surrounded me just seconds ago was gone. The pool was empty. It all went… inside of me. A scoff left my lips before I straightened up, my arms by my sides as I looked over the other— My subjects . The DiVon yelled my name for the whole Zoufpij to hear. “The Mighty! Lek’Ká!” Then I watched them all bend their knees, bowing to me. To me . Their Mighty . Their savior . I basked in the feeling. Most of them couldn’t even look at me, not feeling good enough to gaze upon me. They weren’t of course but I wanted them to see. To see what I am. It was so much. Everything I deserved. So much. Everything I worked for. So much. Everything I dreamed of. Too much… My head felt like it was about to explode, and my vision got blurry until I could barely see. The ache made me fall to my knees, hitting the stone ground with a groan. DiVon rushed to me but soon retreated. That was the last thing I saw properly before the black blur in the center of my sight began to spread, leaving me in darkness. I wanted to scream out and yell for help but I couldn’t. Every time I opened my mouth blood began to spill out. My arms felt weak as I leaned on them, my palms on the stones beneath me but the weakness soon faded out of my mind. As soon as the blood from my mouth touched my hands it was like acid, eating on my flesh and not stopping until it reached the bone. Screams of terror filled The Zoufpij. I couldn’t see anyone but I could hear their footsteps as they ran towards the exit. Leaving me behind. My subjects. Leaving me . Leaving their Mighty . Lek’Ká . The agony I felt throughout my whole body was indescribable. It was like I was being torn apart just to be put together and then torn apart again before I even got the chance to recover. But the crimson liquid didn’t stop at my hands. It spread. Slowly eating at the flesh of my body. Biting away at my skin. Tearing apart my muscles. Ripping out my nerves. At the end of it all, I was lying in the middle of the pool. My eyes stared at the dark ceiling as I felt my life slipping through my now skeleton fingers. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. I was supposed to be Lek’Ká. I was supposed to be worshiped. Praised. Looked upon. But instead, I am here, alone. Dying. The prophesied savior. But, perhaps this was what it meant to me Lek’Ká. A sacrifice. For my subjects. A sacrifice that will bring them a better world, with food and water. And perhaps even the repulsive rabbits. A subtle smile appeared on my lips, though I wasn’t sure I had any, my brows furrowed as a tear rolled down my cheek. “ Mighty …” Was all I managed to hoarsely whisper before it all fell into nothingness. The beginning and the end of The Mighty Lek’Ká. The savior. The believer. The gullible.


The ground shakes but not in a pretentious way. She isn't bitter; she's not mad at any one person. There is no need to feel angry when you are already dying. What's the point? Ending your time while thinking of the last person that hurt you. The ego that gives them, even if they're dying too. Her demeanor is soft, but her builders are vicious. The ocean, the land, the rivers, the sand. All break their silence, and in doing so, hurt each other. She'll watch as her creations tear it all apart. Nothing we could do, "where would we even start?" Nothing can be done when no one wants to change. Nothing can be done when someone says the problem is common, natural, and discreet. But it can. It could have, anyway. We can go back and try again. Still, we'd of learned infrequently. Even if we knew what we faced before we were sent back for another round, we'd convince ourselves that evil could not strike twice. It's ironic calling someone evil when you have been the one torturing them endlessly. Day after day, we humiliate and punish her for merely being. We own her; she belongs to us because she can not speak. We can do what we want because who will stop us?

We can destroy an anthill because there is no consequence. We fear no vengeful ant. A thousand ants are no match for one hose. We may expect nothing from the ground, but the ants' creator will have the last laugh, even in her demise.

Felicity releases her tight grip from the sycamore and falls to the shaking ground. Her notebook flies away as if destined to transport the final word to the last decider. If only Felicity had more time if only her creator could place a hold on her destruction. The tree moves forcefully, the roots coming out inch by inch. Felicity feels feeble, though she's surprised to find she feels anything. She looks up at the suicidal tree, which is beginning to lean towards Felicity. Her exhaustion won't allow her to move from danger; just as well, there are hundreds of trees encompassing the young woman, hanging on despite its numbered days. Felicity wills herself to begin rolling right at the very moment the tree comes crashing down. She screams at the 30-foot tree as it falls with little regard for the panicked human. Her roll picks up speed and just barely evades being crushed. The tree strikes against the ground, making a frightening noise in the sea of ominous sounds. Joining the variable stars exploding in the sky and onto land, the city buildings a mile away collapsing to the pavement. How much longer will this last? Felicity stares at the sky, red and furious. She hates the smugness of its demeanor. How confident and sure it is of itself.

The wind howls through Felicity and makes a screeching sound that can not be ignored. Her fingers fork into the grass and dirt, trying to hold on while nature sings her 11 o'clock number. Felicity covers her ears with her shoulders, pressing them against her creator's wondrous creation. Her fingers, covered in mud, are now free from the ground, and therefore, free from stillness. Felicity rolls violently across the forest, hitting toppling trees and piles of leaves. Her hands try to lessen the impact and protect her face. Branches stab at her and hit her cheeks. She yelps, but against the wind's music, she may as well have said nothing. Thus begins the end for Felicity. She hangs onto a tree when she lands high on the hill overlooking the city. In the brief moment the wind stops its ballad, Felicity looks out to her old life. What used to be full of skyscrapers and flare is now filled with debris and fire. Collapsed buildings turn into fireplaces for giants, and parks turn into the wood. As the ballad of the wind picks up instruments, it's itching to bring Felicity with her. At first, Felicity fights it, holds on with all her strength. But as she looks out at her helpless home, she wonders what she's even holding onto. To see more death or to die more painfully? What we all thought was a distant potentiality is now a lugubrious reality.

She looks at her right hand clutching the soon-to-be-dead tree, takes a breath, and releases her grip. She submits herself to Her device and lets nature gobble her up. "It's unbelievable," Clara lets out a sigh as she puts the coffee pot back on the hotplate.

"Two weeks of gloomy clouds and rain. It's infuriating". Clara groans and grabs a seat beside Felicity, who's filling out a crossword puzzle from an old New Yorker magazine.

"Eh, what can you do?" She asks with little interest.

Clara huffs, "I tell you what, if this keeps up I'm moving out of this exhausting town."

Felicity breaths out of her nose and looks up at Clara without moving her head.

"Clara, city council didn't put this weather into legislation," she says with a smirk.

"I know that! But it's gotta be better anywhere else, right?"

Felicity looks to the side and considers her following statement. She debates the impact her hypothesis would have on Clara. So she chooses to agree, "right," she replies with a poor attempt at a reassuring smile.

What Felicity knows, however, is that Clara will not be leaving this town. Though not because of logistics or change of mind. But because there won't be any point. It will all be the same. Manhattan will host the same fiery clouds as Seattle. Tampa Bay will light up from the same type of fire as Ontario.

Felicity feels it when she walks outside and slowly chokes on the air. She sees the growing amount of dead bodies of homeless people on her commute to work. New York officials will say it's the heat or an overdose. Most will believe them while still yelling for them to do better. Yet Felicity sees through their efforts for them to remain calm. She notices how billionaires have begun constructing barriers and air filters on their mansions. Or how actors' Twitter accounts have vanished and have now dropped out of future movies and television engagements. The public figures it's a strike for noble causes. Felicity knows those people would never leave the spotlight willingly. She knows they're preparing for what comes next. Well, they're making other's prepare for them.

It's when the clouds turn red that the notifications begin to report.

Weather watch: unhealthy air alerts spread across the U.S from this record-breaking heat. Air-related illness and death are reported across the country. Citizens are instructed to remain indoors as much as possible and to wear facemasks when outdoors. U.S President reports the air quality is set to improve after the heatwave. It never did improve. The clouds that smothered the sky were not the result of nature but the result of selfishness.

Americans across the country began to suspect the reality, though they managed to convince each other it was a temporary inconvenience.

 Clara puts the cream back in the refrigerator, grabs her mug, and takes a sip of the burned drink. She grunts and says, "I swear, there is nothing worse than burnt coffee."  	Felicity looks out the window and see's hell inside the dark clouds. She could swear it was a fire. The sky begins to open up, clouds disperse rapidly from each side, leaving a hairline of the sky. Only the sky is not blue but a dark red and orange.

Heat absorbs the room instantly, and Felicity comes to realize this may be it.

Clara sighs, "they have GOT to fix this air conditioning," as she waves a paper plate across her face. Felicity sees objects shooting into the sky. She wishes it was only war. And in a way, it is. She walks to the window and closes the blinds. A few more minutes of ignorance is what she craves. Her desire to be as clueless as Clara, to believe anything that gives her zero responsibility.

Felicity takes a deep breath as Clara adds sugar to her coffee.

Feeling an inevitable end, Felicity thinks to do only what she has the power to do, pretend. Play the innocent and ignorant. Be insolent and impotent. Pretend there is no end. Hold that Earth will not scold. Believe you can pull off naive. Be angry when you die and ask the world 'why?'

Felicity breaths as best she can. She grabs her plastic bottle of Diet Coke and takes a big sip. Her last, it will be. The heat gets worse, the noises outside are weary. The wind is haunting and irregular. For a moment, the floor shakes in the break room. Clara looks down and tells Felicity, "I don't know why they don't just do construction on Saturdays."

Felicity shrugs, completely ignoring what Clara had to say. She takes another large gulp of her Diet Coke.

"You know, you're really not supposed to use plastic anymore," Clara snides, looking almost annoyed. It'd be a fine thing to critique if you didn't work for Chevron.

Before Felicity thinks about replying, a sudden rumble of the floor begins to grow stronger. Glasses on the counter start to shake. Clara holds onto the counter, furious at the construction workers.

Felicity decides she would hate to die in the office of the sinners. She is one, of course. But maybe her silent disapproval will give her amnesty.

She sits up from her chair and begins to walk through the shaking room.

"You should leave the building with me," Felicity tells Clara. No one should have to die that way.

"It's just some construction babes," Clara tells her with a hint of irritation.

Felicity doesn't object; she just grabs her purse and walks out.

The stairs are across the break room. She expects a crowded stairwell, but instead, Felicity's met with just herself.

She races down the stairs as the grown growls. She stops herself from falling several times, holding onto the fragile handle for dear life. Though the goal is only to have a better end.

She get's to the main floor, where the front desk worker stays submissive to his char.

"Tony, you should leave the building, it's going to fall." She can barely convince herself to find the point.

"They told me to stay, Felicity," responds Anthony.

She was going to ask by who, but she knows it's the executives in space, riding it out.

She hears a loud noise from above, almost unbearable. It's happening. She doesn't yell for Tony; she just runs out.

She sprints for her life, for her death, for her identity. She hears the building being returned to its original landlord. She doesn't look back; there is really no use.

Felicity lays on the grass in the park. She breaths and cries as she looks for her old office building, though only dust and debris fill the air. Felicity gets up and walks further out of the city and into the park. Alone with only her thoughts, Felicity grabs a notebook and a pencil from her purse. As the winds sing and the ground shakes, she writes its lament.

The Ballads of the Wind - Felicity Von Brandt Play the innocent and ignorant.

Be insolent and impotent.

Pretend that there is no end.

Hold that Earth will not scold.

Believe that you can pull off naive.

Be angry when you die

then ask the world, 'why?'

The ground shakes but not in a conspicuous way. She's not bitter, not any more than yesterday. Why be angry when you're already dying? Ceasing your time while they continue lying. Concluding while recalling the person that hurt you  The ego that gives them, even when they're dying too.