Craig woke up, shitfaced. The couch cushion had spread his drool up the side of his face. Capillary action, that’s called. “Fuck you, Jeremy,” Craig said in a drunken stupor. Craig’s friend Jeremy had spoken at length about capillary action when they were drinking earlier, he was always talking about his science shit. But Jeremy was nowhere to be seen. Craig was alone in his apartment, butt ass naked. He peeled himself off the leather couch like wet bologna. He was having trouble finding his balance and kicked the shit out of his coffee table by accident. Like thirteen beer bottles toppled over in a clinky symphony. *Must escape,* Craig thought. *Must escape living room. Must navigate to bathroom. Must piss.* The bathroom was right next to the living room which was super handy. Craig contemplated the mess he was about to make and wondered if he should just piss in the shower. He decided to lift the seat on the toilet and try it the civilized way. Piss flew everywhere as expected. Craig didn’t know what to do with his hands because he didn’t have to use them to hold his pants. He just kind of let them hang there. He did his best to aim but he also didn’t want to fall over. Craig’s nuts were stuck to his leg so he tried to kind of squat to get them unstuck. While half squatting and being super relaxed from the pee, something landed on the floor behind him with a soft plop. “Oh poop,” Craig said, fearing the worst. He turned to see his dog, Smart laying behind him instead of his own poop, so that’s good. “Oh poop,” Craig said, remembering the pee he was getting everywhere and thinking he would get pee dog. “Warglabemaheh!” Craig exclaimed to make the dog flee. Smart didn’t look too good. He was panting and he smelled bad. Craig finished peeing and immediately forgot to flush. He turned and kneeled down and pushed Smart out of the bathroom like heavy groceries. Smart was clammy and clearly messed up. Craig worried about what he’d have to do if his dog died right there. Would he have to call the cops? It was at this moment that Craig’s phone started ringing. He knew he wouldn’t be able to find it in time, much less answer it. He certainly couldn’t talk to them while he was naked. The kitchen was dark and had no goddamn food in it. Craig made his way to the freezer to get a thingy for Smart. In the middle of the floor were what might have been Craig’s pants. Also in the middle of the floor was Craig. He fell. On the pants. The phone started ringing again. “Fuck you, Jeremy,” Craig said again because it was probably Jeremy. The floor was cool and felt nice when Craig scrooched on it. The freezer didn’t have anything in it to make Smart feel better but there were a bunch of gross Snapples in the fridge so he grabbed those. Back in a pile on the floor was Smart, looking bad. Craig just kind of looked at his dog, wanting to help but also not sure how to do anything. Craig cursed himself for getting so drunk. He wondered if he could be like, angry at beer. Using his boy scout skills, Craig used the Snapple bottles to build a teepee fire log setup around the dog to keep him cool. Smart didn’t seem to notice and all the bottles rolled off because he was breathing. Craig looked around the apartment, trying to see what Smart’s dumb ass could have gotten into. A lot of stuff actually. Craig was starting to feel itchy because he had no clothes on. There was a blanket on the couch so he accidentally kicked the shit out of the damn coffee table again trying to get over to it. There was a weird noise as he slung the blanket around his shoulders. It was like Smart let out a huge fart. “Not on the Snapple you little basta-” Craig began to say but then- BOOM! Smart exploded. Fucking everywhere. Craig did not have the reflexes in his current drunken state to avoid the doggie soup that came flying at him from across the room. He took a piece full in the face, making his face hurt. “God whathufuck?” said Craig, on the floor again. The dog-splosion didn’t make a lot of noise which was weird. It was more like if you like, smooshed an egg but like one that wasn’t hard? Like it’d still be squishy on the inside but not crispy outside. Also it wouldn’t be too hard to squish. Not like a balloon, that’d be too loud and fast. Like a slow egg but still strong. There was a GLURP noise from the wall with the fish tank. Then there was a little splash on Craig’s head. Craig could see the fish tank and the water was all wobbly. *Aww fuck. The Stupid Blue Fish just exploded.* It was true. The Stupid Blue Fish just exploded. Its little fish parts were sinking to the bottom of the tank and The Stupid Yellow Fish and The Only Goldfish that Survived from the Fair were floating belly up on the surface. Then they both exploded and Craig got showered with fish water again. Craig had to pee so bad again and he was kind of like “fuck it, I’ll just go right here,” but at this point he was getting a little scared because his pets exploded. That’s when the phone rang again. From the floor in front of the couch, wrapped up in blankets with his dick out, Craig reached into the spitty couch cushion and found his phone. “Goddammit Jeremy what do you want I need new fish now!” Craig tried to say. It is unclear whether he actually said that or if he just mumbled. “Craig? I need you to pick me up and take me to the hospital. I don’t feel so good.” Jeremy sounded like shit. “I can’t you’re drunk,” Craig reminded him. “Is Charlotte still there? She went back to your place, can she give me a ride?” This revelation was scary to Craig. His dick was out. Charlotte was a girl. So there might be a girl there while he had his dick out. “I don’t know. Where is she?” asked Craig. “Just please man, I need a doctor.” “Mmmmmmm,” went Craig, making it sound like he was thinking but he really just wanted Jeremy to figure something else out, making it sound like Jeremy was asking way too much and that, ya know, he wanted to help him out but it was gonna be a whole thing and- KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK. Someone was banging on the window. Craig covered his dick. Charlotte was standing outside the window and she exploded. Now that Craig got a good look at the explosion, he could describe it a little better. Think of like a watermelon that just got smacked with a sledgehammer. There used to be a standup comedian called Gallagher who did his show and he’d be always smashing watermelons. Anyway, the watermelon Charlotte just kind of schmeared its way up the window, didn’t even break it or anything. And it had this kind of upward motion like the watermelon got hit with a golf club. All this time Craig was screaming and crying, but he somehow managed to not piss himself. “Did Charlotte just explode?” asked Jeremy over the phone. Craig replied with a crying “uh huh.” “Aww fuck man. That means-” BOOM. Jeremy just exploded over the phone. Craig was lying there on his back, dick out again, in front of the couch but scrunched in between the coffee table, crying. “Aww man, why’s this happening? I’m gonna go boom.” Craig put his arm over his eyes to block the light. It was weirdly silent in his apartment now that all his friends weren’t blowing up. How was he gonna live now? How was he supposed to go outside? How was he gonna eat? *Eat?* That’s when Craig remembered. They had eaten something. Craig tried to remember what had happened when they were all drinking. He might have been kind of stupid regardless of the drunkenness so it could be kind of hard to burritos. *The goddamn burritos!* *I blew my people up cuz burritos!* *Must piss!* Craig knocked pretty much everything off the coffee table trying to get up from in front of the couch but he did it. He decided in advance he was going to piss in the shower so he came into the bathroom firing on all cylinders. Absolutely none of his pee made it in the shower because the curtain but it didn’t matter, Craig was gonna fix this. Back in the kitchen, Craig plowed face first into the wall in the general vicinity of the lightswitch. It had the desired effect, that being the lights turned on. The kitchen table was there, covered in mail and burrito scraps. Craig’s pants were on the floor. *The fever. You’ll have to stop the fever.* Things were starting to make more pants now. *I’m naked because of the fever.* The phone started ringing again in the living room. Looking at the number, Craig didn’t know it. He also didn’t know anyone’s numbers anymore. He remembered Tom’s from like fifth grade but that was his Tom’s mom’s house. But he still knew it. All this time, Craig was staring at his phone, kind of drooling. It stopped ringing. There was an annoying siren sound getting louder outside. A text message came through to Craig’s phone. “Is it done?” it said. Craig was worried. *It? What it?* *Done? What done? What am I done?* At that moment Craig’s front door kicked itself in. He screamed. Men in scary clothes started pouring into his apartment with shovels. “There’s the mark. His dick’s out boys!” One of the shovel-bearers was directing the others around to the various piles of buddies around Craig’s apartment. There were two more outside squeegee-ing Charlotte’s ass off the front window. Craig put up karate hands but they couldn’t stop the shovel-man from tackling the Christ out of him. The rug burn brought them to a stop on the floor, staring into each other’s eyes. “Ya did good kid,” said the Shovel Man from behind a respirator. He pulled out an adorable little flashlight and shined it in Craig’s eyes. “Poopy response looks good guys!” “Darryl get off him!” yelled another Shovel Guy whilst shoveling Smart into a Home Depot bucket. “Yea Darryl. Leave him for the doctor.” A different Shovel Man was using a tiny net to get fish bits out of the tank. At that moment, a Shovel Man without a shovel walked in the door. He was wearing a lab coat backwards like a Snuggie. “Darryl how many times do I have to tell you?” said the Snuggie Shovel Man. Darryl kind of giggled and rolled off Craig. “Poopy response looks good, boss,” said Darryl, patting Snuggie Man on the shoulder as he passed. Craig was confused at why Darryl was saying poopy response. A little shit *did* come out but not like a whole poopy or anything. “Sounds great son, thank you.” Snuggie Man was standing over Craig. “Ya did good kid.” “Darryl said that too,” said Craig. “Did good kid.” “Did good kid.” Everyone started saying it affirmatively, looking up from their shovels for a second before going back to shoveling. *Why are they congratulating me?* Craig was afraid to move. Snuggie Man crouched down next to him and made a side glance toward Craig’s wang before looking back to his eyes. “The fever will subside soon. Good job with the clothes. We’re gonna take you back while we clean this all up.” Snuggie Man gave Craig little positive reinforcement slaps on the face. “You’re gonna forget all about this if you haven’t already.” He looked over to the window. “I’m sorry about the girl too.” *Oh my god. Oh my god. How do I have to pee AGAIN.* Snuggie Man reached into his pocket and pulled out a syringe. Craig’s mind was starting to clear. Something was starting to come back to him. *I was supposed to feed them. But why did I-* There was a pressure in Craig’s neck and the walls started floating up for a second. It got hot all the sudden and Craig reached upward. Snuggie Man put his hand on Craig’s chest and pushed him to the floor. It was getting darker. Craig’s head rolled around to see more Shovel Men coming in with a stretcher. He was lifting off the ground but Snuggie still had his hand on him. *How… how… why… what did they make me do?* And then it all went black.


So there you are when the thought hits you. Your feet propped up on the coffee table - she is laying on the other end of the couch, feet thoughtlessly curled in your lap, innocently watching TV. The thought shutters through you like turbulence and you wonder if she felt the shiver as you silently admit it to yourself for the first time. And suddenly it's the only thought you can have. *She's not the one.* Everything shifts. The mannerisms that you used to lovingly roll your eyes at turn into small daggers of annoyance. The nights you used to yearn of impromptu sleepovers turn into dreaded time spent behind a mask. Looking at the shared calendar you two have spent the last year and a half curating, at first cautiously but with innocent optimism and now almost haphazardly, turns from a fun look at what's to come to a tactical maze to navigate. *Wedding in Colorado next weekend that we already have booked. Friends in town the weekend after. A few weeks of downtime after that, maybe then?* You console yourself with the idea that you're trying to do it nicely and "the right way" but are disgusted at the possibility that maybe you're just doing it at a time most convenient for you. Is she saying she loves you more than usual? Does she see this coming? Is this a trap so she can ask how long I've been lying about that? But it isn't a lie. You do love her. You love her for the spontaneity she added to your life, for her youthfulness as you go through the maturing years of your late 20s. You love that she let you in and told you things and allowed you to help her. But it's waning. Or maybe you are. Like a dream you've just woken up from and are grasping to hold onto, you can't remember or trace the steps back to find exactly what it was or where it was or when that you loved as much as you did. And you can't fall back asleep. That's not how it works. So you figure you actually don't love her. Not anymore. But you did. You pause with the toothbrush humming in your mouth, your shirt halfway buttoned, staring into the drawer you've pulled open with the toes on your outstretched foot as if you don't want to get too close. A t shirt she wears to bed. A night mouthguard you teased her about but always found oddly cute. A hair brush. A bag of toiletries and hair ties. *What do I do with that? Bring it with me some day to her place? Wait for her to ask about coming to get it?* A crude painting she made in college before she met you but that you always said you liked hangs in the kitchen. A water bottle on the night stand. Tampons in the bathroom vanity. All just pieces of a plate on the edge of a counter yet to be shattered being eyed by the dustpan and broom. You want to be the bad guy. You want her to rage at you when you do it, to hit you, to scream, to tell you to leave and never come back. You know she won't though. She'll hurt. She'll feel alone. She'll feel abandoned and scared and vulnerable and broken. She'll feel all the things you'll feel but she'll feel them for the first time. They're realer that way sometimes. Rawer. Selfishly, you want this to be out of your hands but you know she would never end this. And you know it's already over. So you wait. *Wedding in Colorado next weekend that we already have booked. Friends in town the weekend after...* You try to enjoy what you have left. You try not to think about how she'll be after and you hope beyond hope that someday what she feels for you now disappears, a drop in the ocean of love she feels for another. And you hope that you feel the same.


It first started as a whisper in my ear, a devil on my shoulder promising a better future, a guilty pleasure daydream I adopted in the absence of chocolate before bed, and then before I knew it, I woke up one morning and had an inkling of an idea of life without you. No more sandy feet on my dashboard, no more morning breath, no more losing my keys and not helping me find them. I had an idea of a life free of your bad habits, and I slowly started to hate them. I hated the way you left the ice cream spoon on the counter instead of putting it in the sink, I hated the way you always sneezed three times in a row, I hated how I couldn’t get a cat because you were afraid it’d eat your fish, whose tank leaked at the top and smelled of rancid sea stink. I grew to hate all of these things I promised you were not deal breakers at the beginning of our relationship, your hair in my clean laundry, your hair in the shower drain, your hair in my mouth and on my pillow and in my hair brush that I asked you not use a million times. And so, I grew to hate all of you. I grew to hate us, our relationship, the life we had built together, so I wanted to leave you. I tried, but it was Christmas, and then it was your birthday, then Valentine’s day, then your dad died, then Fourth of July. There was never a good time to end it, so my hatred grew into pure resentment, a hot white flash that scarred our life. I could tell you could sense it, your smile grew sadder, you found every excuse to wear the dress I deemed my favorite, you changed your hair, your diet, your taste in music. I know that your efforts should have made me love you more, or forgive the small things that irked me so much that I couldn’t stand the thought of dealing with them for the rest of my life, but it made me want to leave you more. Neither of us deserved the other, and so to ease the guilt I felt for falling out of love with you, I turned to her. She, everything you were not, was my savior the last few months of our relationship. Instead of taking my anger and desperation out on you, I fucked her. Instead of yelling at you while you were grieving your father, your dead fish, the stain on the couch, I brought her on dates and bought her expensive jewelry. I brought her coffee in the morning and held her hand in between sales calls while ignoring your good morning text messages. I kissed her in the rain and came home and left the wet clothes for you to wash. I gave her flowers and came home late the night you cooked my favorite dinner, left cold on the table while I stared blankly and you screamed and threw the couch pillows. “Why are you with me if you hate me so much?” You asked me many times, and always, I told you I didn’t hate you, even though I did. Even though I had moments where I would sit and think about how exactly I would finally leave you and your colorful dresses and your dull brown eyes behind, I would tell you I didn’t hate you. Then, the company dinner. Every year my office brought the employees and their families out to dinner at the fanciest restaurant on Main Street. You, wanting to make a good impression on the coworkers that knew I was cheating on you, wore a long red dress. You did your makeup, you wore your hair down, you had on the earrings I gave you our first Christmas together. You looked beautiful, but that was not enough to stop me from thinking about how annoying it was that you took thirty minutes trying to find shoes that matched, how much I hated having to drive extra careful so that you could finish your mascara in the car, the looks we got as we strolled in five minutes late because you didn’t want to spend the five dollars for valet parking and we had to walk from the parking garage to the restaurant, blocks away. We saw her, the woman who was taking your place, and her date for the night, a husband she wanted to leave, a husband who she said didn’t know her as well as I did, and you suggested we sit next to them. After drinks were served but before our orders were taken, they got into a whispered argument, quiet but obvious, and he stormed out. By the time we had ordered and our food had arrived, she was on my arm. By the time were ordering our dessert, she was whispering in my ear and laughing, and I didn’t care anymore, I breathed on her neck softly and toyed with the hint of my hand being close to hers, and you finally understood the lock on my phone, the late nights, the perfume on my collar. In a moment of weakness, you looked at us and your eyes were screaming. Your wine glass to your thinly stretched lips, your eyes were begging me to stop. I slid my hand up her thigh and you inhaled sharply, conversation around us slowing to whispers and big eyed glances as you stood, clutching your glass. You let out a breath I felt you had been holding for weeks, and you cocked your arm back, and threw the wine glass above our heads. Everyone silent, no hint of silverware clinking, no sound of conversation, only the light jazz playing through the uptop speakers, you excused yourself to the restroom, and by the time the staff had cleaned up your mess, and the surrounding tables had continued their meals no longer entertained by our drama, you returned. You asked if we could take a walk, I told you I’d be out in a minute. Three, five, ten minutes passed, and you came back inside. You asked if we could go home, and I told you to wait just another minute. Playing drinking games with my coworkers, a captivating woman begging for my whole attention, I left you to sit outside by yourself. As the kitchen closed and the bar did last call, my coworkers slowly gathered their families and left. She asked me to spend the night and I called her a taxi, explaining that you were outside expecting me. Pouting, she kissed me in full view of you, and I saw your knees shake as I kissed her back, helping her step into the taxi. The walk to the car was silent, and cold. I offered you my jacket and you refused with a shake of your head, your hair so meticulous hours earlier, now falling in your face, sweaty and disgusting. Your freckles, I once adored, looked like dirt on your ankles and your nose, and you sniffled every few seconds, and I hated you. I felt no remorse or regret, only relief at the thought of no longer having to lie to you. At the light before the street where we would turn to our car, you stopped. My hands in my pockets, I turned to you. “Let’s go, it’s late and I’m tired.” You looked at me, and I could see mascara running down your cheeks, I could see your nose was red and snot was running, I could see your chapped lips, and I hated you. I hated you so much, that when you asked me if I was going to leave you, I smiled, and turned around, and walked away.


Diamonds? I have plenty. Gold? I’m richer than the king. Weapons? I have my own armory. Hearts of beautiful women? I sleep with a new girl every night. There’s very little that I don’t have. But there is one thing I want. Something I can’t get in life. Something that requires death. My death. Because I have to steal it FROM Death himself. What I want: Death’s Soul. Said to give anyone immortality until they take their own life. And I want it. I can steal everything at anytime. The world will be man. So I slit my throat and await Death to arrive. Soon Death floats in, ragged cloak, scythe in hand, and surprisingly, Death is a woman. Long dark black hair, with black eye shadow, and other makeup stuff. Killer looks and a beautiful body. “Tired of stealing Conway?” “Now that I see you I would like to steal one more thing. I say with a wink. Death laughed with the most beautiful noise in the world. It was like a fingerpicked song on guitar: elegant and sweet. “Alright Conway, you may be the greatest thief but it’ll take a lot more than pick-up lines to steal my cold heart.” “Is that a challenge my dear? Because I’m always up for it.” I no longer wanted to steal Death’s Soul, I wanted her heart. I was going to steal Death’s Heart. “So what’s next sweetheart?” “Next is if you call me another pet name I’ll take you to Satan himself” “Alright no more pet names Death.” “Thank you. Now the way this works is I take you through what you’ve done in life and at the end I’ll send you to Hell, Heaven, or The Plain. Understand?” “What’s The Plain?” “The Plain is where you decide where you want your next life, and what year.” “Interesting. What if I want to just stay here with you?” Death’s laugh bounced of the non existent walls. “Tell you what, if you manage to get me to have even the smallest feelings for you, you can stay with me forever.” She outstretched her hand, looking for a hand shake. I reach out at kiss her hand as if she was royalty. She seemed impressed at my confidence and bravery. “You’re quite the confident one aren’t you? Anyway we’ll start with your birth. Follow me.” She led me down a corridor where a small picture frame popped up, but instead it played a moving picture. It showed my birth. My ma and pa in what I could only presume is their bedroom. Ma was screaming in pain, blood was everywhere, pa was holding her hand. Soon enough there I was screaming just as loud as ma. “Harold, we did it...” ma passed out, pa set me on a table, carelessly, and tended to ma. I felt a slow trickle of a tear draw a line down my face. “So, the thief has a soft side?” Death said, but not in a bitchy way, more caring and curious. “Yeah I guess so, doesn’t come out too often though.” I said and I followed Death to the next moving photo. “Ah here is...oh...oh I’m sorry.” Death had concern in her eyes. And the moving photo went on. It was the night my ma and pa died. “Harold that was a lovely dinner you made for us tonight. You didn’t happen to make dessert did you?” Ma was so beautiful that night, her brown hair naturally curled and her everyday clothes dirtied while she had cleaned the house. “Yeah poppy, dessert!” I was so young, 3 or 4 years old when they died. “Well my loves” pa had said, with his apron on and his gentleman’s mustache and his hair pushed over to one side. “I did happen to make an apple pie by *accident*” as he pulled out an apple pie from behind his back. “Yaaayyy” ma and I shouted in unison. And that’s when it happened. Soldiers came in. “Harold and Mary Bisnons, you’re under arrest for theft, do not resist it we will be forced to shoot you!” The soldier had shouted. Ma picked me up and ran towards the back door. And the soldier didn’t back on his word. He took a shot at her but hit pa instead. I heard my own baby-self crying and ma still running. 3 soldiers chased after her. I guess Death wanted to be nice because the moving photo stopped. “Why’d you stop it?!” I cried to Death. “I knew it would be too painful for you. It’s been 25 years since but...” her voice trailed off. I sank down and began to cry. I don’t know what ma and pa had stole. But I don’t know why am had to run and risk her life. I felt Death sink down next to me. I didn’t look at her. I just rested my head on her shoulder. Despite her being Death, she was warm and comforting, not cold and harsh as he had expected. I sniffled and wiped away tears. “What’s next?” I met Death’s eyes. The were warm and filled with a sadness no one could understand. “The first time you stole something.” She said. We walked down further and the moving pictures displayed exactly what she said it was. I remember it vividly. I was 7 years old. I just ran away from *another* orphanage. I was starving. And there was a piece of bread, unattended and still good. I ‘accidentally’ bumped the table over and the bread hit the floor. I grabbed it quickly and picked up the table, apologizing profusely. “I was starving. That bread probably saved my life.” I told Death. “Yes it did, but it also started you down the path of a thief.” “Maybe, but I stole to stay alive, then I stole to get revenge on the rich for leaving the poor to rot.” I was angry. Angry that because I stole I was assumed to be evil. “I understand, do what you can to live, punish those you made you suffer.” Death said. Was she falling for me? “We have a few more” and she led me further down. When I joined the Thieves Guid, the first time a stole from the rich, the first time I convinced a women to sleep with me, the first time I was forced to kill someone. “I admit, Death, I’ve done evil things, but I did it all to survive.” “And the women?” “Comfort. Didn’t have any comfort since my parent were killed.” “Damnit,” Death said. “I told myself you were crazy to try and make me fall for you, but seeing what you went through, and how you always acted the tough guy, but seeing you break down and cry, I knew there was more to you.” Death has actually fallen for me. I didn’t argue, I pulled her close and kissed her. She was surprised but she’s fell into it, wrapping her arms around my neck. I picked her up and laid her down. I hadn’t gotten what I came to steal, but I got something much better: love.


They didn’t understand it. No-one did. This wasn’t murder or a mere kill that had no value or meaning. It was a grant of freedom. Freedom from the constraints of the delicate vessel that they were trapped in. I wasn’t a necrophile. I didn’t defile them, just for the sake of it, or mutilate and flay them for displaying them as personal trophies. I wasn’t a rapist. I don’t toy with them, or inject pleasure into myself before ending their lives. It was quick. No pain. Just a simple nick to the neck. They call people like me psychopaths. But they’re wrong. They’re all narrow-minded and insular. They don’t understand the service that I have done to society. They don’t understand the appeal the knife holds. The weight of value a simple chunk of metal carries. Every plunge of the knife is a joyous, momentous point in my life. The irony of when I think of all the lives I have saved simply by ending it, I just feel.... bliss. They say that life has ups and downs. The goods and bads. The peaks and troughs. But for me, I’ve been happy for years. Content with the life I’ve lived, the service I’ve done, and the part I played in people’s lives. They’ll all realise it soon enough. My job, my service, driven by an undying sense of passion and determination. But it’s all over now. And as the shackles are wrapped on my wrists, I think of how my service has ended. **Crime** I didn’t understand it. Probably won’t. Not now, not ever. As I witness the man get dragged out of the house, I can hear echoes of laughter, the fruity musk of beer, and the faint odour of lavender. I should feel disgusted. I should feel a sense of satisfaction that we tracked down the killer. A sense of duty that justice has been served. But no. All I felt was cold emptiness. Like as if at that moment I was carved into a hollow, inanimate mannequin dressed in a blue shirt with a petty badge, too mortified to move, utter a word or breathe. Just only having the ability to watch my neighbour walk down the driveway in handcuffs, shoved roughly into a police car and driven off. I used to be proud of the glass cabinet that sat across my study. The glints of silver and gold showcased various service awards and honour awards of my time as a policeman. Every time I looked at it, I felt an undying sense of pride and joy. A sense of gratification and fulfilment at the knowledge that my services have bettered the community from where I found it. But now when I glance at the dusty trophies in the attic, I’m engulfed in a painful blur of the house. Entering the house for the first time, two years ago, there was certainly nothing out of the ordinary. The house was adorned with an old-fashioned set-up. Like those cottages in Scotland; confined but cosy. The smallness of the space did not stop the man from hanging a large chandelier that hung at the topmost crook of the sloping rooftop. The lights showed the chandelier in all its glory, glimmering with such iridescent beauty, that one could mistake that diamonds were strung up rather than glass crystals. There was a thick, pleasant odour of lavender, a musk that was strangely heartening and complacent. The man greeted us warmly, shaking my wife and my hands, and kneeling down to greet our children. I remember everything about that day. I remembered the amazing apple custard pie we ate at the patio down at the back. I remembered the man talking about how he wants to one day fulfil his dreams and become a cook. “To be of good service to everyone”, he had said, smiling widely, “The feeling you have when someone compliments your quiche. Or how wonderful people like yourself say how amazing my apple custard pie is. It’s just.... bliss.” I remember how good he was with the kids. How he narrated riveting and fascinating stories for the children that had them at the edge of their seats. Never once, even from that day did I question the heavy scent of lavender that brooded the house’s hallways. How the scent inexplicably disappeared when I entered the kitchen from the living room. Never once have I questioned the even deeper fragrance of lavender rippling of the man every time I shook his hand. Never once have I questioned why the man had renovated the walls of his living room but never any other structures of his house. But standing right now, at the crime scene, witnessing bodies littered on the floor of the living room, and the walls ripped apart that had concealed the hollowness from within, I realised the questions that I’ve never raised had been answered. Looking on ahead at the scene, I was witnessing the consequences of my ignorance. In a few days, my children will notice that there is no light next door and will come down from their bedroom to ask where our neighbour is. I will say that he had moved on to another city to pursue his dreams of being a cook. My children will cry in despair and I would promise that I will call him so they can talk to him. In a few months, we will move to another state. Friends and social circles will have to start anew, but with a whiff of caution. Our smiles won’t quite reach our eyes, and our minds will be grated with inkling notions of paranoia. There will be more tears. In a year, my wife will wake up in another nightmare, sobbing in grief and trauma. I will soothe her, muttering incomprehensible words trying to comfort her as well as myself. In 3 years, both my children will have graduated to high school. They will have stopped asking to talk with the neighbour on the phone. I still don’t tell them about what the neighbour really did. In a few more years, our children will have graduated from high school both going interstate to pursue further studies. We will watch with proud eyes and cheering hearts. The house will become more desolate; devoid of any more heart-wrenching questions but empty of running feet, squeals and laughter. The nightmares would have stopped, but the trauma will still be lingering. And the guilt would never disappear.


I live in the Suicide Tower. It has another name, of course, but no one calls it by anything other than the Suicide Tower. It’s because out of all the buildings in town, they jump off mine the most.  It was startling enough when I first moved in. I was sitting at the kitchen table, eating breakfast, when I saw a body falling from the sky. Perplexed, I went over and opened the French doors, stepped onto my little balcony, and looked down on the body that was now splayed out on the sidewalk.  The EMTs seemed pretty nonchalant about it. They pronounced the man dead and stood around, chatting, until the morgue guys got there. I shouldn’t worry too much about it, they said. One of them, sitting on the steps smoking, claimed it was his third time here in a week. I looked down at the pavement, where the body laid starfished and covered in a white sheet, staining the concrete crimson, and back up at the men. The one smoking smiled sympathetically. “If I were you, I’d find a new place to live.”  But I stayed, and in time got used to the sight. I suppose in some places it rained water, but here it rained people. I might be sitting on the couch watching TV, or reading, or sitting at the table eating, and out of the corner of my eye, I see a falling body, a jumper on his way to meet his Maker. Sometimes, I turn at the right time and catch one of their eyes. It’s strange to be the last living human a man sees before he dies.  Perhaps I should go up there and talk to the jumpers. Try to convince them not to. That someone out there loves them. Maybe then it will make a difference. I might even get a medal for it. But I don’t. Because I don’t know what to say to make someone step away from the ledge. How to convince a man that life is worth living. So I stay in my apartment and bear witness to their demises like the angel of indifference.  Whenever I mention to someone where I live, or I invite people over, they always ask me why I still live here. “Isn’t it horrible,” they say with their eyes wide open “to see so much death?” “Well,” I tell them. “The rent is cheap. There are no neighbors. And the view is nice.” And it’s true. The rent is cheap. No one lives here but me. And you could see all the way to the ocean from my windows. I like the ocean. No one really comes over anymore. Sometimes I invite the EMTs, whom I’ve gotten know since moving in, up for a cup of tea. They always decline.  One day, when I was arriving home from the store, I noticed a woman coming down from the stairs leading up to the roof. That was an unfamiliar sight. No one ever comes down the stairs. She was middle-aged, with red, irritated eyes and a runny nose. “Hello,” I said as she passed. She stopped in her tracks, looked at me. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t think anyone lived here. I don’t mean to trespass.” “No, that’s okay. Would you like to come in?” That was impulsive of me. But I hadn’t had anyone over in a long time and was excited at the prospect of company. “I don’t mean to intrude.” I took that as a yes, and asked her to hold one of the bags while I found my keys.  I gave her the chair that I called the company chair, since I strategically placed it away from the wide french doors and windows. She swallowed, looked around while I made us a cup of tea, fumbling with the fancy teacups I never get to use anymore. “This is a nice place.” I nodded my thanks, pleased by that. I take some pride in my home, even though I don’t have much in the way of furniture. What I do have is nice and clean and I always buy fresh flowers. “I’m sorry I’m such a wreck. My son…” She sniffed loudly “The cops called, and I insisted on telling me where they found my boy. And I had to see where he jumped. I had to see where he fell, what he saw before he…” She cut herself off, taking a sip of tea. “He left a note you see.” She placed the teacup on the end table and picked up her purse, nervously rifling through it. Behind her head, I could see the dark shadow of a falling body. I broke away from the sight as soon as she lifted her head up, holding the note in her shaking hands. “Can I?” She asked, and I nodded, slightly distracted now, hoping she wouldn’t turn around. “Dear Mom,” she began. “I’m sorry to do this to you, but...” To my surprise, another one fell, distracting me again from the note reading. She looked up from the paper, and I snapped my eyes back to her. If she saw anything worrying on my face, she must have attributed to the content of the note because she went on, describing her son’s troubles in his own words- I wish I could give you the specifics, but I don’t really remember- as another body fell. The EMTs were going to have a field day. Three in one day. That hadn’t happened since last December.  She finished in a sweep of tears “Love, Billy” and looked up at me, blinking her eyes. “I’m sorry,” She said. “You probably didn’t want to hear this, but it helped a lot just to have a stranger to talk to. Thank you for the tea. But I think I’ve overstayed my welcome.” I nodded, sorry that she was going. I walked her out. In the hallway, she said “I hope I’m not out of line, but why do you live in such a horrible place? I mean, your apartment is nice, but what goes on here...” she shuddered. “Well,” I said, as I always do. “The rent is cheap. There are no neighbors. And the view is nice.” I shut the door.


“I’m a Photographer. You mind if I take a picture of you and your family?” Simon asked. “Oh, sure,” the mom answered. “Tom, kids, gather around and smile.” Simon lifted his camera, took a quick look around to make sure no one was watching, and snapped the picture. He pulled up the picture on his camera screen, smiling as he examined the picture of the screaming family on the small display. They will look great added to his collection. Before he walked away, he took a quick picture of the giant tree that the family had been standing in front of. He spent the rest of the afternoon walking around the park, taking pictures of various plants and some animals that he thought would look great in his collection. When he was done, he was excited to get home and play with his new toys. Though he had plenty of money from the life insurance that had been paid out when his wife died, he lived in a low rent apartment in the shitty part of downtown. He only needed a place to sleep and play. He never had any intentions to entertain, and where he lived, the neighbors rarely talked to each other, which suited him just fine. He plugged the USB cable into his computer, his smile growing as he clicked on the picture folder and opened his newest collection pieces. “Ah, come on, Steve,” Lisa began. “Let’s go to the park. It’s a beautiful day.” Steve really wanted to just relax and watch some college football, but he couldn’t resist her infectious smile. “Fine,” he relented. “Yay,” she replied, hopping up and down. Steve loved the way Lisa loved life. She was always smiling, and always wanted to be outside, whenever the weather permitted. Living in the northeast, fall was creeping in, soon to be followed by winter. They walked arm in arm down the street, enjoying the tree’s changing colors and the sunny clear sky. Once in the park, they took their time walking the paths, greeting everyone they passed. People always seemed in better moods in parks. “I’m getting hungry and my legs are sore,” Lisa said, stopping in front of an empty bench. “I’ll go get something from the vendor,” Steve replied. “Rest here and I’ll be right back.” As he walked away, his smile faded a little. Lisa had been in remission for six months now, but he knew that could change at any time. The only positive that had come from cancer, was that they appreciated the time they had together much more. He looked back, giving her a quick smile and wave before he rounded the corner and out of sight. Simon was slowly walking through the park, looking for more people, or animals, that he could add to his collection. He knew it was only a matter of time before the police found the common denominator of all the missing people. Soon the park will become the focus of search efforts to find the people he had been taking. While they wouldn’t be able to link him to any of the disappearances, he knew once the park began to become infested with police, he would have to pick a different locale to find new collectables. The logical part of him told him he should take a break from adding to his collection, and just enjoy the ones he had until things cooled down, but he couldn’t stop. It was like an addiction. All he could think about was finding the next collectible. He was pretending to take casual photos, when he noticed Lisa sitting on the bench by herself. “Excuse me, do you mind if I take a picture of you for my collection?” Simon asked. “Sure,” she replied. “What kind of collection is it?” He smiled proudly, “It’s a compilation of people, animals, and the energy of the park. I’ve been coming here my entire life, and I find the energy the park provides beautiful.” Lisa couldn’t agree more. “That’s awesome!” Lisa said, with a broad smile of her own. “I’d be honored to be a part of your collection.” *Yes, you will be*, Simon thought. He took a few steps back, raised the camera, and took her picture. His smile didn’t fade as he enjoyed to the beauty of the now empty bench. Steve returned to where he had left Lisa, holding a hotdog in each hand. Not seeing her there, he looked around to see where she may have wondered off to. He saw a photographer off to the side taking pictures of trees, so he approached him. “Excuse me,” Steve asked. The photographer turned to face him. “Can I help you?” Simon asked. “Did you happen to see where a woman that was sitting on that bench went?” Steve asked. Simon’s smile faltered. “I’m sorry,” Simon said, a unnoticeable tremor in his voice. “I’m afraid not.” “Ok, thank you,” Steve replied. Simon had never run into this problem before, and he was unsure what to do next. Simon decided to add the man to his collection, but as he was bringing the camera up, more people walked around the bend. By the time they had moved on, Steve was too far away. Simon considered following him and taking him later, but decided that it didn’t matter in the grand scale of things. Flustered, Simon left the park, no longer enjoying the scenery. Steve walked through the front door of their flat. While it was unusual for Lisa to walk off without telling him, she often still got tired easy, and it wasn’t uncommon for them to cut walks short, so she could get home and rest. “Lisa?” Steve called out. He walked around the entire flat, but there was no sign of her. He had already called her cell phone several times, but had gotten her voicemail each time. His first instinct was to call the police, but he knew they would just make him wait twenty-four hours before they could investigate. The air outside had gotten much cooler as he walked back to the park to look for her. *Maybe she went somewhere and then came back*, he thought. Once he was back at the bench where he left her, and seeing she wasn’t there, he tried calling her again, but still only got her voicemail. “Screw it!” he muttered to himself and called the police. “911, what’s your emergency?” a lady’s voice came across the line. “Yes, my wife is missing,” he stated. “And how long has she been missing, sir?” she asked. He could hear typing in the background. “A couple of hours,” he answered already knowing what her response was going to be. “Sir, I’m afraid we can’t do anything until she has been missing at least twenty-four hours,” she confirmed. “I know, but this isn’t like her,” he said. “We were at the park, I stepped away for a few minutes, and when I came back, she was gone.” He was expecting exasperation, but instead got silence. “Ma’am?” he asked. “Sir, did you say she went missing in the park?” she asked. “Yes, ma’am,” he replied. “Please hold,” she said, and then only silence. After a few moments, a man’s voice came on the line. “This is Detective Andrews, to whom am I speaking?” he asked. “My name is Steve Dawson, and my wife’s name is Lisa Dawson,” he answered. “Are you near the park now?” he asked. “Yes, sir,” Steve replied. “I’m actually here now.” “Okay, stay there,” the detective said. “I’m heading over now.” Before Steve could say anything else, the line went dead. A very long twenty minutes later, Steve saw the detective arrive. “Mr. Dawson?” he asked. “Yes, sir,” Steve replied. “Can you tell me where you last saw your wife?” he asked. Steve pointed to the bench. “There.” “Did you happen to see anyone else around at that time?” the detective asked. “No, sir,” Steve said. “Wait, I did see a photographer, but that was after she was missing.” “I see.” The detective looked around the area for a bit, and then returned to where Steve was waiting. “I’m afraid I’ve been following a few missing people cases where they had been last seen either in the park, or last told they were coming here. I don’t know if your wife is part of that, but I’m afraid so far we don’t have much to go on. We have yet to have a witness, and there are never signs of foul play. They’re just here one day, and then gone the next. I wish I could say these were isolated incidents, but in a city this big, it unfortunately happens more often than not,” the detective explained. He questioned Steve for a little longer, gave him his card, and left. Steve once again found himself alone in the park. A few days past, and there was no sign of Lisa. Steve had taken time off from work since he couldn’t concentrate. He spent each day walking through the park, hoping to see some clue that would help lead him to Lisa. As Steve sat on a bench thinking to himself, he saw the photographer in the distance taking pictures. He didn’t think the man had taken Lisa, but there was something odd about his behavior when he had asked about her sitting there. He sat in a way where he could see the photographer, but the photographer couldn’t easily see him. *What else can I do?* Steve asked himself. He watched as the photographer took pictures, and then stopped to talk to a couple who was walking by. He said something to them, the couple smiled, and then took a couple of steps back to allow the photographer to take a picture of them. Steve gasped as he saw the photographer look around briefly, and then within a split second, the couple vanished. Steve couldn’t believe what he had just seen. One moment the couple was there smiling, the next, nothing but air. Instinctively, Steve hid himself. He peeked up and saw the man walk away. Confident that was how Lisa had disappeared, he decided to follow the man. Simon couldn’t wait to get back to his apartment. He hadn’t added to his collection in days. The man asking about his wife right after he took her had freaked him out, but now he felt it was time to get back to collecting. He walked, wearing a broad smile, and unaware someone was following him. As far as Steve could tell, the photographer didn’t know he was being followed. He didn’t look around once and seemed to make a straight line for an apartment building. Steve watched him go into the building, and then picked up his pace, not wanting to lose him inside. He peeked inside the door and saw the man walking up the stairs. The front door wasn’t locked, so Steve was able to enter the building and quickly make his way up the stairs just far enough to see where the photographer went. The man walked down the hallway of the second floor, and approached a door. He turned the key and began to walk through. As soon as Steve was sure he couldn’t be seen, he sprinted down the hallway to reach the door before it closed. Simon flew back as something came bursting through the door before it had closed all the way. He fell to the ground hard, and before he could understand what was happening, a strange man was on top of him. Simon looked to the door, hoping someone would see what was happening, but the door was closed. Steve had slammed it closed behind him as he ran through. “Where’s my wife?!” Steve seethed into Simon’s face. He purposely kept his voice down, so that no one would hear him. Simon began to call out for help, but before he could get a peep out, Steve punched him hard in the face. “Where’s my wife, you son of a bitch?” Steve asked again. “I, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Simon replied. “I saw what you just did to that couple, and I know you did the same thing to my wife!” Steve said again, slamming Simon’s head into the ground. Simon was sadistic, but he wasn’t brave. It didn’t take long before he told Simon everything. “She’s in there,” he said, pointing to the computer. “How do I get her out?!” Steve asked firmly. “I don’t know,” Simon began. “I only know how to put them in.” “Why do you do it?” Steve asked. Simon knew there was only one answer. “Because I can,” he said. Steve punched him again, and grabbed the camera. “Well, guess what?” Steve said, only inches from Simon’s face. “I’m going to put you in there and see how you like it.” Steve raised the camera like he was going to take a picture of Simon, but Simon stopped him. “Wait, wait,” he begged. “I’ll release them.” “I thought you just said you didn’t know how?” Steve said. “I lied,” Simon replied. “I lied. Please, I’ll release them.” Reluctantly, Steve let him up. Simon walked over to the computer, took the SD card out of the camera, and put it into the computer. He typed some commands into the Command Prompt, and then took the chip out and put it back in the camera. He flipped through the settings, and showed Steve which setting to use to release them. Before he did anything else, he flipped through the pictures until he came across Lisa’s. His heart sank as he saw her once smiling face was now contorted into a scream. He clicked the button and in an instant, she was standing before them. Once she had gained her bearing, she ran into Steve’s arms. “Steve!” She yelled, unable to contain herself. Steve returned her hug, but kept his gaze on Simon. He wasn’t about to let him try anything. “Is everyone you took in here?” he asked. “Only the ones that survived,” Simon replied. “Survived what?” Steve asked. Simon reluctantly walked to the computer and pulled up a game application. It was like a battle game where you were able to choose your combatants. Steve looked over at Lisa. “Do you remember this?” he asked her. “No,” she replied, shaking her head. “The last thing I remember was him taking my picture and then immense pain.” Steve’s blood boiled. He fiddled with the camera settings, and without any warning, he took a picture of Simon, who quickly disappeared. Lisa’s heart momentarily stopped when she saw the man just vanish before her. Before she could say anything, Steve began destroying the computer, breaking every piece, picking them up, and breaking them some more. He used his hands for most of it, but he took the hard drive to a table and using a hammer, he broke it into a thousand pieces. “Let’s go,” he said, leading Lisa out the door. Steve and Lisa found a vacant part of the park, and released everyone one by one, except for Simon. The small crowd of people stared at each other, unsure what was happening, and no memory of what had happened to them. Once he was sure everyone, but Simon was released, he took out the SD card, and broke it in half, throwing half into a trash can, and putting the other half into his pocket to throw away later. Everyone jumped when he smashed the camera onto the ground. “Let’s go home,” he said to Lisa, leading her away from the dumbfounded group of people.


I am almost here, with you. Do you smell me? Can you feel my touch against your skin? Is that the air you breathe, the same as what I have already used? Everywhere, always, I am nearly present. Remember when you curled under the duvet, wondering whether that horror film was a hint of truth - is there a monster under the bed, is there something standing right behind you, staring at you with large, unblinking, aching eyes? Recall all those conspiracy stories. I am related to many; the aliens in stars, the ghost of your nemesis, the god in life and in death. There is always potential for my existence. I live behind a veil, an intangible existence, but I am always ready. There is only a button to be pressed, one glowing particle to be dropped, a solitary slip of your attention. Allow me to be. A strike from possibility, I punch into existence. Then, I am real. Then you know my name. My name is risky, so I have many pseudonyms. But you dare not forget my name. My breath against your skin makes your stomach curl. You feel me, and your body flushes with pyrexia, but you have no time to sweat in the heat of the moment, when I am moments from licking you. You tease and test me when you want me. When you don’t want me here with you, you try to run, but then you melt for me. Then we are one, you are me, you are free. MAD. You think my name is violence, or passion, romance, danger. Don’t you understand me? Do not mistake my faceless identity. I am none of them. (I do not feel like you, I need only one thing (or practically three) – to exist. No matter by which colour I take, I leave the same mark on all of you. I am truly indiscriminate. Learn from me. Understand me. I have no consciousness and hence no conscience. My fear equates to my burdens, nothing. I am free. Is that not what you want to be? Let me show you the way. I can be small, gentle, there for you in your darkest hour and ages to illuminate the dark corners and the shadows under your bed, a beacon with which you can ensure help before the dawn arrives. But you never can forget that I am an entity that is foreign, benign, something ‘wrong’. You warn that child, don’t touch me, don’t get too close. Still they come. I don’t mind. Use me when you are cold, empty and hungry, for then I exist. Don’t look away from me, and remember what you have learnt. I can never be covert, so do not forget me. Soak in the warmth and comfort, admire how tall and still I can be, but see that flicker in my attitude, yes, that I can devour the buffet of your material life.


It was just a normal day out on the boat - a salty sea breeze blew lazily across the water, the sun and the heat were high, the waves lapped gently against the bow, seagulls flew above and called out to each other. Yup, it was a perfectly normal, almost cliché, day. It was exactly what I’d hoped for when I set out this morning; a picture-perfect postcard day. I’d been here only 20mins but already my tensions and stresses had disappeared, just like the coastline beyond the horizon. I could barely see nor hear the busy port from which I’d set off. It was almost like I’d left my debt and unemployment in a neat little box on the jetty, and, with any luck, it would be gone before I got back. The thought did cross my mind to stay here forever. I could learn to fish. I could travel from country to country and take on little jobs for extra cash when I needed. I could make friends all over the world, never needing to face the darker side of life. I would be my own captain, a slave to none. It would be perfect! ‘If only,’ I sighed. I shook off the feeling. ‘No time for melancholy here. Just enjoy the sway of the sea under the boat. Let it ease your mind like a masseuse.’ It helped to talk to myself like one of those calming apps. Time passed and the sun began to travel West; it would be dark in a few hours. I suppose I’ll start on my last iced tea. Story-telling dictates that I should be drinking beer but I could never like the stuff. So iced tea. I stood up to get a bottle from the cooler and heard a splash. That’s nothing unusual; fish occasionally splash about or the gulls dive in when on the hunt, but for some reason this sound caught my attention. It sounded different somehow. Should I go check and see what it might be? Maybe it’s the answer to all my problems! You never know what lies in these waters, they’ve always said, so why not that? Looking over the side and I couldn’t see anything immediately. I searched hard for any indication of anything in the water. It could have been nothing. I leant in lower, my face was inches from the surface. Still nothing. What on Earth could have made that splash? Two eyes snap open at me. I screamed. I screamed so loud the birds started screaming back. I was still screaming when I pulled myself back into the middle of the boat. WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?! WHAT THE FUCKING HELL WAS THAT?! My mind raced from blind panic. I’m out here alone with that thing, whatever it is! I need to get back to shore NOW! I scrambled up and ran to the engine. I yanked frantically at the cord. Silence. Yanked again. Nothing. SHIT! This was not the time to be dead. I yanked again over and over and finally the engine sputtered to life. YES! Time to get the hell out of here! But I wasn’t moving. There was no jerk forward to get home. The engine was on and loudly chugging but I was not moving. What’s going on? Why am I not moving? There’s a thing in the water right there! I couldn’t understand what’s happening! Why am I not moving? ‘Come on, come on, come on.’ I slapped the engine, willing it to move the boat forward. Nothing. I started crying. I was so scared. So very fucking scared. I wouldn’t be able to get away. I didn’t have a weapon. I didn’t know what was coming next. I was just so petrified that all I could do was cry. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. STUPID. I was going to die here. Alone. Everyone would be looking for me and they would never find me and I was about to be eaten by that monster and I couldn’t save myself! I just had to come out today. I just had to say no to company. I just had to take a day for myself. Fucking idiot. Now you’re going to die. I wiped my eyes. If this was the end, then I was going to try to go with some class. I actually laughed. What class? I’d almost pissed myself a moment ago and here I was talking about class! The nerve. I put on a brave face and waited. Just waited. For anything to happen, really. I waited and waited. The engine cut out. I wasn’t sure if I was out of fuel or it just died. I watched the sun setting. I sniffled but held back the tears that threatened to flow. Class, remember. The sun started to dip below the horizon and I knew my time was up. I knew all the luck in the world couldn’t save me and I was ok with that. I’d lived a decent life and if I was going to go, so be it. I tried not to cry. The orange hues in the sky started to turn purple and they, in turn, became a dark blue, beckoning in the night. Stars began to twinkle in the sky and it was so beautiful. A beautiful last thing to see. I smiled and tears started to roll down my face. I just hoped it wouldn’t be painful. It was dark now and I could only hear the birds cawing at each other as they returned to their nests. Waves broke gently against the hull and I was being rocked back and forth. How ironic that hours ago this is exactly what I’d wanted, so peaceful and serene; just me on the boat without a care in the world. I could hear my breaths and they were deceitfully calm. My heart was beating steadily and I could feel the tension rising in my shoulders. All around me was quiet and calm. I closed my eyes and exhaled slowly. And then I heard it rise out of the water behind me. Every bone in my body froze and willed me not to look but by God, I was going to look my death in the eyes. A noble end for a noble life. I rotated and, surprisingly, all I saw was a column of murky water in front of me. It moved like an endless water fall but flowed seamlessly into the vast ocean. What the-? Cold, salty brine crashed around me and I was drenched instantly. My eyes stung and it took me a moment to blink away the pain and restore my vision. My heart was pounding, maybe from the cold? I couldn’t tell. The impossible column was still in front of me and as I looked up, I realised it was a body. Vast wings attached themselves either side of it and above me was a head, as if carved from the water itself. I couldn’t feel my heart anymore and hot fear rushed into my ears. No. It couldn’t be. It’s impossible. This can’t be real. I must be hallucinating. Surely this can’t be real. Was that-? It looked like... A Dragon? I was struck with awe at the clouded beauty before me that filled up the night sky. A dragon. A BIG dragon. Reality came crashing down around me and I wanted to weep. Anger, fear, confusion and disbelief swirled in me like a whirlpool that overwhelmed any common sense I had left. Not that any common sense would help me now. IT WAS A FREAKING DRAGON MADE OF WATER! Holy fuck. It stood before me for an eternity. I just stared, speechless. Me and my world were impossibly small compared to this ethereal being. Its wings were spread, showing off the entirety of its monumental size. The mighty body flowed into a majestic neck, elegantly curved so that its head was facing me directly. It was beautiful. How could something so colossal be so graceful? I almost wanted to reach out and touch it. The head was truly magnificent. As if cut from marble, it had a long, narrow, angular snout with a strong jaw that could probably crush me without any resistance. The bottom of the lower jaw was lined with what looked like whiskers that flowed endlessly. It was hypnotic. But the eyes. The eyes were enrapturing. Nothing in the world could have prepared me for the piercing blue jewels that peered down and spiralled into my very soul. There was an intensity in them that stirred reverence in me. They glistened knowingly, and as we locked gazes, I knew I was looking into the sights of a thousand years. I understood that there was so much I didn’t and would never know. Whatever this was, I was fortunate to have ever glimpsed it. I could hardly come to terms with what I’d learnt when the behemoth began to lower itself back in the ocean, as silent as the waves around it. Panic rose in me. I didn’t want this moment to end! ‘Please don’t go! Please! Stay!’ To my relief, it stopped when its head was level with mine. I almost wished it hadn’t. My breath stopped in my throat. Whatever I thought I’d experienced was dwarfed by this moment; this moment of pure euphoria that engulfed me completely. It was spectacular. Before me, looking into me, was the whole universe and I was nothing - just a speck. It took me to the edges of life and back. I ceased to exist. I was just a piece of the un-ending puzzle that was always growing. I couldn’t look away from the frightening realisation that everything was as it should and would always be what it was meant to be. I dropped to my knees, frozen, unblinking. Without a sound, the eyes that had started this slowly disappeared into the dark waters below. The last thing I remember was the feeling of nausea that swept over me and the world tilting.


All the students in the room wore full aprons to protect their clothing. They needed to because they were a group of wiggly 2 and 3-year-olds in a cooking class. My daughter scheduled the class at the local community center for my granddaughter and me when she knew I was coming to help her during the arrival of their second child. "You'll love it, mom,: she said. "You and Clare can have some fun together and make cookies." Eight little squirming bodies stood on chairs around two long tables with seven moms and a couple of grandmothers holding onto them as though they were wild horses waiting to take off for a race. I was a little excited, but the grandmother next to us didn't look too excited. The teacher started the class by announcing to the children they were going to make ginger cookies. Their cooking tools–which consisted of a small bowl, a measuring cup, a little measuring spoon and a long wooden spoon for stirring–were placed in front of them. After the teacher dropped a ball of shortening in their bowls, she explained how white and sticky it was, and told the kids not to touch it–which translated into toddler language means, "This will feel great between your curious little fingers, so dig in." Our job, as their assistants, was to hold the bowl until she was setting the next ingredient before them, which seemed like a long time. It was time to dip their cup into the sugar bowl and measure out the sugar. When I released Clare's hands she grabbed the cup and dug deep into the sugar bowl. As she lifted the cup, sugar went on the table, on her apron, in my face and a few granules actually went into the bowl. Mixing was a little difficult because the shortening mixture was so thick that the adults had to do the stirring while the little ones discovered how good sugar tasted. The next ingredient, the teacher said, was what really made the cookies sweet. It was a big cup of brown molasses that was passed around to each child. They were to measure ½ cup of molasses into the shortening and sugar mixture. The grandmother next to us had come along with her daughter and granddaughter, but I could tell she was focusing on the mess more than the fun when her granddaughter wiped her curly locks away from her forehead with her sticky little molasses hands. Fortunately, I had kept the molasses contained to our bowl, so when it was time to add the flour Clare only had sugar in her hair. It seemed that the reason the grandmother wasn't having such a good time was because she was trying to keep the area clean while the mom was trying to help the child have fun. When the cookie mixture was all finished, the teacher told the children they could put flour on the table to roll out the dough. Flour went everywhere all at once before any adult could stop it. I grabbed my camera and took pictures through sprays of white flour and gleeful children. The grandmother beside me, at this point, had to walk away from the table. The teacher told the children to take the mixture out of the bowl and roll it into a ball. Hmmm, taste and feel time I took the mixture or as much as I could retrieve from Clare's sticky hands and rolled it into a ball and gave her the rolling pin. She loved that part and at first did quite well, but after a while the mixtures was very thin. Every time I tried to turn it over she protested. The grandmother had come back to the table this time to get things under control. She began rolling out the cookie dough while the little girl was wailing to roll the dough. Finally, the cookie cutters were distributed. The grandmother helped the little girl next to us cut out perfect cookies. Ours were vague images of cats, leaves, pumpkins, acorns and a few unidentifiable shapes. The cookies went into the oven while the little ones continued to roll the rolling pin in the flour. When clean up time came, each child got to choose a wet sponge in their favorite color. Just so you know, when wet sponges and loose flour meet it becomes a sticky mess. After a while, the mothers took over and helped the children out of their chairs, and cleaned up the mess while the teacher read the children a story. They were so cute sitting on the floor with flour in their hair, molasses stuck to their eyelashes, and dough underneath their fingernails, but at least their clothes were clean. As for the grandmother next to us, she looked like she needed another adult to talk to, so I introduced myself. We talked a little about raising our own children. She told me about how she taught her daughter to cook when she was little. She looked happy when she related several cooking mishaps to me. The class at the community center was not necessarily about teaching toddlers how to make cookies. It was more about giving parents and their child time together, teaching coordination and having fun. I asked the grandmother if she remembered the kind of cookies she and her daughter cooked when they were younger and she said, "No, not really." Then we smiled at each other. With flour in our hair, molasses on our blouses and ginger as our perfume, we knew these moments with our granddaughters were more about making memories than making cookies.


J walked west. J loved his mother and respected his father. Everything he did, he did for the love of his mother. He learned many languages, his mother spoke many. He smoked the occasional tobacco leaf because he believed it delivered him a small sense of peace. His mother smoked. J came from a small town in a country riddled with crime and struggles of power, but that never affected his lifestyle. He grew up powerful. An excellent student with ultimate focus. He learned languages and skills growing up. Traveled to distant lands to learn about their cultures. He was on a quest west. His quest was in search for the truth. Not a truth about a crime, or a truth about anything in particular but rather, the only truth. He wished to find the truth of man. His quest was to give him answers to the unanswerable. Death. J knew his mother would not be with him his whole life and that is the only pain that he bore. He was not entertained by small temptations such as money or women. He traveled the world ate delicacies from different cultures, scaled mountains and floated rivers, learned different styles of combat and mastered foreign music. Though he was never satisfied. He didn’t value the material, he rarely even valued experience. He valued the truth. He clawed at every chance to find the most obscure of religions to find what is the purpose in hopes to tie it all together. He searched for prophets and scholars to find the purpose, but he never could find it. No matter who he talked to, he saw only the things he wanted to see. His mother. The farther west he went the less he could feel his mother’s love. He meditated and saw nothing but her and when he opened his eyes his pain came back. It was not a gruesome pain, fore no one else would ever notice it. But a pain that ate away at his soul as every second passed by that he was not with her. He knew his mother’s demise would come but he also knew she did not want him home. She wanted more for her boy, but that boy would never let go of the thought of her. Because he couldn’t have her the chase continued. He traveled more and more west circumnavigating the globe impressing beautiful women of all nations with his intelligence and poise. He traveled to another land and as his quest continued, he heard of a book. A book written by a blind man in a language only the blind man knew. This gave J an idea. He believed that because the blind man has never seen the world for as it really is, he must be seeing the truth of humanity. The blind man’s book was now the chase. J scoured even farther to find the blind man’s book, one not influenced by temptation. A book written about what the mind sees when no thoughts of women, money, greed, pain, and lust are there. J believed this book may find these seeds to his happiness, that is of course after his mother. J followed prophets and poets, philosophers and scientist to find something that didn’t exist. While this chase was occurring he received a letter from his father. His mother has gotten terribly ill and he needs to return to his home country as soon as possible. He traveled home. After only a few days J had traveled across nations to see his mother again. He saw her laying in bed with his father and family around her and he immediately shed tears. He felt powerless. He told his mother he came as soon as he could. His mother responded telling him that it is going to be ok. She tells him one last time she loves him. He watches her take her last breath. J watches as her eyes roll back as his body quivers and tears stream down his face while he stares at her. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Everything he has ever loved and lived for had disappeared. His father grabs his shoulder but he is quick to brush it off. He doesn’t want comfort from others. He doesn’t want a father. He wants his mom. J walks outside as his tears have stopped and stands on the front steps of his family’s home. He stares out at the country, but to him he sees nothing. Nothings has value to him anymore. The land that once fed him is now just space that take up his vision where his mother should be. The mountains disgust him as he wishes they could be his mother’s smile. He stops shaking. J gets an idea. His mother is now gone and he has lost the will for life. He tries to think of something that made him feel that life is worth living and he reminds himself of the book. The book written by the blind man in a language he can only understand. But J knows that book does not exist. He has seen every country and talked to every prophet and preacher. The book has never existed. If a blind man wrote it in a language that only he can understand, he has been searching for something that will give him no answers. He must write it. He realizes his mother’s death does not stop him from finding that truth. He can have it. He can write the book. His only plight is now sight. His realization and thirst for a purpose has now left him in a cold sweat. He shivers on the front steps. His father exits the building to see his son and ask him if he is ok. His son runs to the nearest town. J runs to the library sweating and inspired. He grabs empty pages and a pencil. The librarian asks what he is doing but he doesn’t respond. He climbs to the roof of the building with two pages and a pencil. Enough for him to paint what is in his mind. He looks at the paper and pencil and hesitates but thinks of his mom and realizes what he has to do. He picks up the pencil and stabs his own eye. He pulls out the pencil with it comes blood and puss from his left eye, he screams in pain. The librarian has notified the town and his father. But it is too late. He stands on top of the building by himself and gouges out his other eye. Hindering himself from any perceptions of the world. Temptation he sees it as. As blood drips from both sockets he then picks up the pencil. He begins writing on the pages. He doesn’t know what he is writing but he loves it. He smiles as he cries blood. He finishes his book. He realizes he has drawn and written all he knows as a blind man. He cries out in joy. His masterpiece is finished. He runs his hands across it to see what he has written but he realizes he cannot understand it. It is written in a language he cannot read without vision. He realizes what he has done. He has created what he had searched for because it is what he cannot have. His tears of blood have stopped. He stands there motionless, as if he was frozen in time. His want to see it is more painful than the lead that filled his eyes. It is more painful than watching his mother pass. The pain he feels is beyond comprehension. He jumps. Hours later his body is found with two destroyed eyes. The townspeople cry for him and still see him as the young boy who his mother saw him as. Later in the day city officials climbed to the roof to investigate and there they found something that was so terrible and beautiful at the same time. On the pages was the most real drawing they have ever seen. It was his mother. Not just a picture or sketch. But in detail. Every scar and wrinkle, every tooth and strand of hair all crafted by her blind son. Signed by him with tears of blood.


-1- I met her for the first time today. She's wonderfully lovely and funny. I should get to know her better. -2- She came to visit me again. Her smile is enough to warm my heart. For the first time, I dont feel so alone. -3- Her hands brush mine and my skin is hot. I watch her as she watches the screen. Her eyelashes flutter. I could get used to this. -4- Afterwards, she traces my face and holds me close. Her bare skin against mine is comforting. Our chests rise and fall together. She makes my life so much better. -5- We go out together. I cant help but hold her hand. I want to protect her. She is mine and I am hers. -6- We are no longer separate for very long. She follows me, I follow her. I watch her face. She lights my soul up when she looks at me. -7- I don't remember the last time we were alone. But I wouldn't want it any other way. I want to create a family with her. She agrees. -8- She wants to go out with her friends. I see the way she dresses when she leaves and it makes me sick. I watch her come and go. -9- She's busy. Even when she's here, she's not here. She's mine, but I'm more alone than I ever was. -10- She touches me and I light up. I remember how good we are, how good we feel together. I don't think I can survive without her. -11- She is separating herself from me. I can feel it. I've gotten myself stuck. I need her to keep going. -12- She says there's nothing wrong. She's lying. She doesn't pay attention to me like she used to. -13- She goes out. If she looks like that someone will take her from me. She's mine. I need her. -14- She tells me she's taking a step back. She tells me she loves me. She tells me she doesn't want a family. I don't know what to believe. -15- She tells me she cant do this anymore. She tells me she can't commit. I need her. She can't leave me. -16- She's gone. ~~~~ -1- I met him at the beach. He's cute. I give him my number. -2- I seem to be spending more time with him. The more I get to know him, the more I like him. -3- I'm with him. I watch films, he watches me. How odd. -4- I sleep with him. I touch his face and tell him he's handsome. His curls fall over his face and my heart strings tug. -5- We go out. His crooked smile warms me. My hand holds his and I am at peace. -6- He makes me laugh and I reward him with a kiss. My life is carefree, bright and happy. I am safe. -7- I have no commitments but to him. I am with him always. He wants a family. In the future, I tell him. -8- I haven't seen my friends in ages. I am going out drinking with them. They dress me and pull me away. I watch his eyes storm as I leave. -9- I start work again. Life becomes hectic but I am still safe. He is still here with me. We do our best. -10- I miss holding him, so I do. I miss touching him, so I do. He is sad, but I am trying to help. -11- I see my friends more often. I am working, I am productive, I am happy. I wish he was too. -12- He questions me about my intentions, my whereabouts, my actions. He questions my integrity. There's nothing wrong with my actions. -13- I get ready to go out with my friends. I listen to him rage about my clothes. I go anyways. Its not his decision. -14- I feel like he's trying to control my life. I can't let that happen. I need more space to exist. I no longer feel safe. -15- I tell him I can't be with him anymore. I refuse to be caged by a man when I can be free forever. He'll make it without me. -16- I leave.


‘Quickly! Quickly! Come on! We’re going to miss it! Oh my God hurry up!’ ‘Shut up! I’m going as fast as I can!’ ‘SHHH!!! Why are you being so loud? You’ll scare them off!’ ‘You’re the one shouting. I’m just trying to-‘ ‘Sh! We’re here. Come, look. Ouch! Stop shoving me. These bushes are prickly!’ ‘I swear, if I could be here with anyone else-’ ‘-you’d pick me every time, I know. ‘Cause I’m your most favourite person ever.’ ‘Urgh. Let’s just watch the flowers. It should be starting any time now. Andy said if you look slightly above everything, you can see when they’re waking up. Apparently, they start glowing as soon as they wake up.’ ‘You know Andy tells lies. He’s never even *seen* it. How would he know what to do? I’m just going to look everywhere until I see something.’ ‘Well, you do what you want, and I’ll do what I want, and we’ll see who sees them first.’ ‘You’re so competitive.’ ‘I’m not competitive! I just don’t want to miss anything important.’ ‘I promise you, you’re not going to miss anything. It’s a big moment. I’m kind of surprised there aren’t more people here.’ ‘Well, I read that it happens a lot throughout the year. Plus, I think we’re the only ones stupid enough to be here at 2 in the morning! I don’t know how you talked me into this. It’s so cold and I just want to sleep. We could be here for hours.’ ‘Stop whining. You’re here now and you’re going to thank me when we see the whole thing.’ ‘What makes you so sure tha-’ ‘Shh! I think I see something! Look! Look!’ ‘Where? I can’t see! Where?’ ‘Over there by the tree! Look it’s a light! Oh my God it’s starting! They’re waking up.’ ‘Wheeerree?! I can’t see!’ ‘You see that tree? Good. Now look near the bottom, where the grass is. See the faint glow? It's reeaaally faint.’ ‘I can’t see anything. You’re imagining it. Probably becoming delusional from the cold.’ ‘It’s not *that* cold and there’s a light over there. Just 'cause you can’t see it doesn’t mean it’s not there.’ ‘Yeah, yeah. Whatever.’ ‘Anyone ever tell you you’re the most annoying person ever?’ ‘Your mama.’ ‘Ooh sick burn... on yourself!’ ‘Whatever!’ ‘I hate to say it, but I think you were right about that glow; I can’t see it anymore.’ ‘See? I told you you were imagining it.’ ‘I just really want to see this. I might never get this chance again’ ‘Don’t say that! We can come back in a couple months and do this craziness all over again.’ ‘That would be nice...’ ‘Hey, do you think that flower over there’s a bit... shiny or something?’ ‘Where?’ ‘Just over there. By the fence.’ ‘I -I can’t... tell... it might be!’ ‘I saw that by looking slightly above the fence. Ow! What’d you do that for?’ ‘Cause you're being annoying again.’ ‘It works and you know it.’ ‘Ok loser.’ … ‘What if it doesn’t happen today?’ ‘Then you owe me.’ ‘How? I’ve already given you the pleasure of my company.’ ‘That’s not going to give me back my sleep.’ ‘What’s sleep compared to a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity like this?’ ‘Again, they said this happens a lot through the year.’ ‘Sure, sure but nothing can ever compare to that rush you get when you do something for the first time.’ ‘I don’t know. Doesn’t matter how many times I get under the covers, it’s always the best feeling ever. Mmmmm... OW! Stop hitting me!’ ‘Stop being annoying.’ ‘... I don’t know why you have to keep hitting me...’ ‘I mean it; this is the first time we’re seeing this. And it could be the last time I do.’ ‘I don’t know why you keep saying that. We’ll see them again and again until we’re sick of it.’ ‘Hmmm... How come you’ve never seen it before?’ ‘My parents are all about letting things be. Don’t bother them and they won’t bother you.’ ‘Bother them? We’re just watching.’ ‘Some people take pictures and stuff and my parents think that because they light up, the camera flash messes with them, somehow. I’m not sure. But they always come out blurry in pictures I’ve seen. Even professionals can’t get them!’ ‘Maybe your parents are right. People just need to leave things alone where they are and nothing bad will happen. Things’ll just carry on like they’re supposed to.’ ‘Are you ok?’ ‘Hell yeah. I just have something in my eye, that’s all. Pesky allergies.’ ‘But I thought you didn’t have any allergies. Jesus! Stop hitting me!’ ‘You know you deserve it.’ … ‘Are you still awake?’ ‘Barely. Anything happen?’ ‘Nope. I thought I saw something but it was nothing.’ ‘You think maybe we should go home? We’ve been out here for hours and the sun’ll be up soon.’ ‘...’ ‘Hello?’ ‘What?’ ‘Are you crying?’ ‘No! I told you, allergies!’ ‘Allergies don’t make you a crybaby.’ ‘I just – I just really wanted to see them today. I don’t know when I’ll be able to come out again.’ ‘Just ask nicely and maybe your parents will let you.’ ‘You don’t get it. I won’t be able to move on my own soon and we’ll have to move.’ ‘What do you mean?’ ‘I don’t really know how to explain it but by Christmas, I won’t be able to walk. Whatever I’ve got, it works fast and there’s no way to stop it. There’s a place in Europe that says they can help. But we have to move again soon.’ ‘I’m sorr-’ ‘I don’t want to hear another “sorry”. I’m sick of it. I just want to see the sky light up with a million billion little lights. I just want to have a moment where I’m like everyone else and do something normal! I don’t want anyone to be sorry!’ ‘...’ ‘I’m sorry for getting angry.’ ‘It’s ok. I think we should stay, though. There’s still time before the sun comes up.’ ‘No, you’re right. Let’s go back. This was stupid.’ ‘I want to stay.’ ‘Why? It’s not going to happen.’ ‘It might. It might be the best one ever!’ ‘You think?’ ‘Yup! I can feel it in my toes. This is going to be amazing!’ ‘You don’t feel in your toes!’ ‘I do. And I’m never wrong!’ ‘Except when Andy tells you lies.’ ‘Andy *might* have been telling stories about this one.’ ‘Andy’s always lying. He once told me his Dad invented sticky notes. Everyone knows it was Arthur Fry.’ ‘Who?’ ‘Arthur Fry.’ ‘Who’s that?’ ‘The guy who invented sticky notes, dummy!’ ‘How do you even know that?’ ‘Everybody knows that!’ ‘Not everybody.’ ‘You must live under a rock.’ ‘No I don’t! Just 'cause I didn’t know some weird random fact. How do I know you’re not telling stories like An-’ ‘Sh! Look!’ ‘I bet there’s nothing there.’ ‘For love of everything decent, just shut up and look!’ ‘Wha- What’s that?’ ‘I don’t know. But it’s glowing.’ ‘This is a trick. It must be.’ ‘It’s not! You can see it too. The tree is glowing! And it’s getting brighter!’ ‘Th-they’re waking up!’ ‘Not so loud!’ ‘They’re waking up!’ ‘I know! This is so exciting! I told you I saw something by the tree.’ ‘I don’t know what to say; you were right.’ ‘What do you think they’re doing?’ ‘I don’t know - stuff?’ ‘Thanks Einstein.’ ‘You don’t know either!’ ‘Not the point. Oh my God look. They’re coming out! They’re coming out! You think they’ll come over here?’ ‘I hope not. I heard they crawl into your ear and turn your brain to mush! Don’t look at me like that! I don’t want a mushy brain.’ ‘Did Andy tell you that?’ ‘No. I heard it from some adults who’ve seen it before.’ ‘Mmmhm. You’ll believe anything.’ ‘No I won’t!’ ‘Look at them. How cool is this? There’s so many of them. Look at how they’re flying together. Like *whooshing* around.’ ‘More like-’ ‘Look how bright they are. Who needs lights? They’re so- They're so- what's the word?’ ‘Radiant.’ ‘Radiant! They’re so radiant! Do you know how awesome, how unbelievably *lucky* we are to see this? Some people never see this their whole lives! To see the sky lit up like a Christmas tree.’ ‘It’s pretty wonderful.’ ‘Wonderful is not the word to describe this! This is the best moment of my life. I wish I could touch one. Just once. If I just... stretched my arm out...’ ‘What are you doing?! Put your arm back!’ ‘Trust me. How can something so small and pretty hurt me?’ ‘I’d rather not find out.’ ‘They’re getting closer. Look!’ ‘I don’t like this. Bring your arm back and let’s go home.’ ‘Wait. Wait just one... more... moment...’ ‘Oh my God it’s- it’s- it’s- it’s-’ ‘It’s in my hand! It’s in my hand! I’m touching one – it's in my hand!’ ‘It’s in your hand!’ ‘I know! You can even tell Andy about it!’ ‘Andy’ll probably say he’s touched a lot but he’s a liar.’ ‘Finally! You agree. I wonder what kind of animal it is...’ ‘It’s just... kind of, I don’t know, standing in your hand. Maybe it’s like a bee?’ ‘It’s... a person?’ ‘What do you mean?’ ‘Look at it. It looks like a little person. I’m... juuust going to bring it closer.’ ‘I- I- I don’t think anyone has ever seen one this close.’ ‘It’s ok. It’s ok little one. I’m not going to hurt you. It’s ok. Hi. Hello. I’m friendly.’ ‘It probably can’t understand you.’ ‘*She* does. She knows I won’t hurt her otherwise she would have flown away. Isn't that right, little thing? You know I won’t hurt you. I just want to see what you are. I’ll call you Fey.’ ‘You can’t name her.’ ‘Why not?’ ‘She’s not a pet.’ ‘So what?’ ‘OH MY GOD you’re petting her. She’s not a dog! ‘She doesn’t have to be. She’s holding my finger and snuggling against my finger. Aren’t you? Just cuddling my finger. She looks so happy.' ‘She probably has a family waiting for her. Looks like they’re all going now.’ 'No please, don’t go!’ ‘I think she has to. It’s part of their life cycle.’ ‘Goodbye little Fey. I’ll miss you.’ ‘Look at them. Just over the trees like that. It’s so cool.’ ‘I miss her already.’ ‘You’re so lucky! You got to touch one. I don’t think anyone in the history of ever has done that!’ ‘I know! I’ll never forget this!’ ‘Me neither! I kind of wished this never ended.’ ‘Yeah but we can’t see them anymore. Let’s start heading back.’ ‘You know? I’m so glad we got to see this together.’ ‘Me too. And you were right.’ ‘About what?’ ‘This was the best one ever.