Goin' Places   The first time I ever saw Mr. Emmett Crawford, he was hunched over a bed of red and yellow pansies, smothering them up to their necks with damp sawdust while autumn leaves covered the rest of the ground.

  “Morning, sir!” I hollered, “You just move in?”   “Yep, just this past weekend. Pretty nice place. We moved up here to be close to my son. You lived here long?”   “All my life, actually,” I sighed. “I can't imagine what it'd be like to move to a new place.”   “It’s kind of fun being in someplace new,” he replied, briefly cupping his hands around each flower like he was wishing it good luck. “Everybody needs a change of scenery now and then. A body gets tired of staring at the same painted walls and plots of earth year after year.”   “I don't reckon I'll ever get to move. My mama and daddy are just about cemented to this town.”

How come you planted those flowers already with winter coming and all?”   “You plant pansies in the fall, you'll have blooms all spring. He stood up and tried to pat down bits of his white hair that were sticking out like the bristles of a used toothbrush. “And being outside helped me to meet my very first friend in this town. I'm Emmett Crawford. Nice to meet you.” He reached out his hand to me.   I laughed. “I've never shaken hands with anybody before.”  I grasped his hand in mine as hard as I could so he could see how strong I was. “I'm Caroline.  But I gotta run for supper. Bye for now.”   I saw him again about a week later. This time he was sitting on his front porch with a bowl of green apples resting beside him, a knife in his hand, and a metal garbage pail wedged between his knees.

  “Hello, Miss Caroline. Got time for a visit?”   “I think maybe a short one. Mamma's gonna call for lunch real soon. You gonna have apple pie for dinner?” I asked.   “Thinking about it. Mona likes apple pie a whole lot. Have you met Mona yet?” He took his knife and sliced me and him a thick chunk.   “I guess I haven't. Who's Mona?” I sank my teeth into the sweet apple.   “Mona is my lovely wife, love of my life, traveling partner, and pretty much my best friend. She's been feeling a bit under the weather lately, though. I think maybe some pie might make her feel better.”   “Did she go to the doctor and get some medicine for whatever she's got?” I asked as sticky apple juice slid down my chin and dripped on my knees.   “Oh yeah. She's got plenty of different kinds of pills that are gonna make her better. Soon as she gets back on her feet again, we're going take a trip somewhere, someplace warm where the sun shines a whole lot. Mona and I just love goin' places these days.”   “What kinds of places have you been to?” I licked the last bit of juice off my fingers and watched as a coiled snake-like sliver of green peeling slithered into the pail.   Mr. Crawford sucked in a deep breath and looked out over at the line of mountains that rose up like a camel, hump-backed and bald, on the edge of town. “Well, Mona and I took our trip of a lifetime just last year. We set out in June and drove from one edge of the U.S. of A. to the other. On the road for two whole months. We stared up at the great Rocky Mountains that would make this ridge here look like molehills. We went swimming with dolphins once in the Atlantic Ocean down in Florida, and even woke up one morning in northern Montana with buffalo all around our camper. Yeah, Mona and I discovered how much we love traveling on that trip.”   “We studied all about the Rocky Mountains in school,” I said, “but I've never met anyone who's actually see them. Tell me where else you went.”   “I'll do better than that. Tomorrow, Mona will probably be feeling better, so why don't you come on over and I'll show you some of the pictures of places we went to. Got four or five albums full. Mona and I were just looking at them last night. They were the first thing we unpacked.” Mr. Crawford stood and picked up his bowl of peeled apples. “I'll save you a piece of pie, too.”   I ran back to my house real fast. I couldn't wait to tell Mama about our new neighbor being such a traveler.   I can still see the inside of Mr. Crawford's house as clear as if it were yesterday--neat as a pin and about as shiny. Rows and rows of books stood rod straight on shelves, with big ones ahead of little ones, like children lined up according to age. Pretty flowered curtains outlined every window. Four polished picture frames decorated the mantel and a blue vase of fresh cut flowers stood on the waxed kitchen table.  A new brown suitcase stood waiting by the front door.   “I'm glad you could come, Miss Caroline,” he said as he led me into the living room. “First thing we need to do is make proper introductions.” He gestured over toward the end of the room I hadn't had a chance to check out yet. “Miss Caroline, I'd like you to meet my lovely wife, Mona.”   My gaze followed his outstretched hand. If he heard me gasp, he didn't let on. In the back corner of the room was a bed—the same type I had seen in the hospital when I was visiting Uncle Taylor after he'd had his stroke. Its shiny metal frame looked as if it'd just been polished like everything else in the room. Ironed sheets were tucked in neatly at the corners. Everything gleamed so that the sight of the rumpled old woman lying in the center of the bed caught me by surprise. Sharp outlines of bones were visible beneath the pink nightgown that lay about her shriveled body like an empty potato sack. Saggy rows of skin seemed to drip from her eyes and cheeks. I could see the blue veins in her hands under flimsy, yellow parchment.   “Mona, Caroline here is interested in hearing about our trip.” Mr. Crawford motioned for me to sit down on a stool beside the bed.   “Lovely trip,” the old woman whispered in short, shallow breaths.   I edged cautiously down on the seat Mr. Crawford was still pointing toward. Clearing my throat a couple of times, I croaked out, “I think it'd be real fun to travel.” I looked back at the other half of the room where those pretty flowers sat safely on the shiny table.   “Well, I think our trip across the country was one of the grandest things life has to offer, don't you agree, Mona? There were so many different places just waiting to be savored, like Thanksgiving dinner.” Mr. Crawford brushed several stray hairs from his wife's face. “Traveling is the best feeling in the world, isn't it, Mona?” He bent over and lifted his wife's limp hand, holding it between both of his.   I thought I saw a brief smile, like a shadow, flicker across her face. “Wonderful feeling,” Mrs. Crawford murmured as she stared into her husband's eyes.   I brushed the hair away from my own face and bit my lip before blurting out, “We might go to Lone Mountain State Park this summer on vacation.”   Mr. Crawford looked at me and laughed. “See, you must have traveling in your blood, too, Caroline.” He turned back toward his wife. “Mona, what was your favorite place on our trip? Grand Canyon, maybe? Or what about the coast of Oregon? All those jagged rocks rising up out of the water. Oh, I know. You liked that little town on that island in Michigan. What was it called? Oh, yeah, Mackinaw. That was one of your favorites, wasn't it Mona?”   Right then, Mrs. Crawford started coughing---deep, heaving coughs that seemed to shake her whole body. I watched as Mr. Crawford held onto her hand and rubbed her back, still talking about the places they'd been.

  “Let's see. I liked the White Mountains in New Hampshire a whole lot. Remember how peaceful it was there, Mona? 'Course, I bet you'd like to be back in Florida, right now, warming yourself on that white sand. Mona doesn't like to be cold, Caroline. I think that's where we'll go, first thing, soon as she's back on her feet again.” Mr. Crawford got up and walked over to the bookshelf and pulled out a stack of albums. “Let's show our visitor the pictures, Mona.”   Mr. Crawford laid one of the albums on top of the stiff white sheet draped over his wife's frail body. He opened it and placed her right hand below a photograph of a smiling couple. “Tell her where we were when this was taken, Mona. I know it was one of your favorites.”   Mrs. Crawford's bony fingers slid off the page as another coughing spasm spread through her. I sat mute on my stool, wound my feet around the bottom rung, and wondered why the air in the Crawford's new house had begun to feel heavy and suffocating. I wished Mr. Crawford would open a window.   My new neighbor continued his descriptions of places I could barely imagine while his ill traveling partner seemed to sink down lower beneath the sheets with each gasp of breath. Tears began to fill my eyes as I watched Mr. Crawford firmly place his wife's hand back on the album each time it slid off, as it was repeatedly shaken from its place by her heaving body.

  “Personally, Caroline, I liked the coast of Maine the best. The smell of salt in the air is so strong it can bring tears to your eyes. You can even taste it on your lips as you talk. Remember when we took the mail boat over to that little island, Mona? What was the name of that place?” Mr. Crawford held his wife's hand and looked at her, waiting for her to answer. When no response came, he continued. “It was right off of Stoneybrook, wasn't it, Mona? Had kind of French sounding name. Oh, I know, Isle Au Haute. That was it. What a beautiful place it was—but not as beautiful as you, Mona. Remember when we walked up the path to the top of the hill where you could see all of the water surrounding the island?” Mr. Crawford's voice seemed to crack. “I know you remember what you said to me then, Mona. Say it, Sweetheart. Tell me what you told me at the top of that island.”   Mrs. Crawford's eyes were closed and her breath loud and uneven. Her husband squeezed her hand and her eyes fluttered open briefly. “Say it, Mona. Say it for me again. Tell me what you told me on Isle Au Haute. How you and I would never stop goin' places. How you would never leave your favorite traveling partner.” Mr. Crawford held his wife's hand up close to his face, then lightly kissed the thin skin stretched loosely over fragile bones. The three of us sat silent for what seemed like an eternity, with only the sounds of Mrs. Crawford's raspy breathing and the ticking of the clock. I let myself out the front door, pulling it softly closed so as not to disturb the misty-eyed man hunched over the polished bed.   Three days later, I watched as the hearse from Stoney Ridge Funeral Home parked next door. While the two men in black suits were inside the Crawford's house, another car arrived with a younger man whom I assumed was their son. I sat down on the grass and knew it was Mrs. Crawford's body, wrapped in a black bag, that was carried out to the waiting gray hearse. I ripped bits of grass out of the damp earth while I gazed at the younger man standing with his arms around the shaking body of the old man.

  I didn't see Mr. Crawford for a long while after his wife died. Mama said he was probably staying with his son. Every time I went outside, I glanced over to see if he might be out tending to his pansies or peeling apples on his porch. One day, after the spring thaw, I looked out the kitchen window and saw him hunched over the spreading red and yellow blooms in his garden. I raced outside, excited that I would finally get to talk to my friend again.

  “Mr. Crawford, I've been looking for you every day. Are you doing all right?”

He looked at me for a long time before speaking. “Well, yes, yes, of course I'm fine. Thank you for asking. I'm afraid, however, that I've forgotten your name.”   “I'm Caroline, Mr. Crawford. You know me. I live next door. You told me all about your trip, remember?”   I can still see the strange look in his eyes. Like it wasn't him answering my questions. Like he had gone somewhere else and left only an empty shell to move and go about his day.

  “Trip. Oh, yes, I remember all about my trip. We're going on another one, did I tell you? Up to Canada this time. Mona and I have never been to Canada. So, I'm finally going to take her. Had to wait 'til the weather warmed up a bit, don't you know. Mona doesn't like to be cold.”   “Mr. Crawford, Mona—I mean, your wife is.....I mean, she can't go on a trip,” I stuttered out the words, not really knowing what to say.   He looked straight at me with hollow eyes and said, “What do you mean, Mona can't go on a trip? She and I are traveling partners. We're leaving in a couple weeks, soon as the weather is warmer. Right now, I've got to tend to these flowers, though. We'll be gone for a while. Don't want them to die before we get back.”   Mr. Crawford turned away from me, stooped down, and began pinching dead blooms off the pansies. I stood where I was for a while, then backed away, and ran toward my house.

  After that day, I avoided Mr. Crawford. He had scared me so that I didn't know what to say to him. I wondered where he had gone, behind those empty eyes. I just couldn't figure out where he had traveled to. I remember Mama telling me that sometimes when people can't handle something, they lose their mind. I didn't think that Mr. Crawford had lost his mind, though. He'd lost his best friend.

  About a month later, a moving van arrived next door. Two men, dressed in blue jeans and white cotton shirts loaded up all of the Crawford's furniture and drove away. Mama said she thought Mr. Crawford might be moving in with his son. I knew I would never see him again, but I remember being thankful that he had somebody to watch over him.   I didn't think about Mr. Emmett Crawford for many years. The day-to-day events of growing up took precedence over occasional fond memories of childhood acquaintances. Best friends, parties, and new romances lead to high school graduation, college, and finally my own marriage. I never left my hometown, though. I have not traveled, like Mr. and Mrs. Crawford, on a special trip across the country. I have not filled photo albums with pictures of sights I have visited. But he must have left a legacy of some sort. Every weekday morning, I drive from my house to Stoney Ridge Middle School to teach unsettled seventh graders world geography. I keep hoping they can channel some of their energy into a thirst to see the world. I want to awaken in them an awareness of the many different places just waiting to be savored, like Thanksgiving dinner.   Several months ago, on my way to school, I passed by the Ridgeway Nursing Home. As I rounded the bend in the road, I was startled to see a man stumbling along the graveled shoulder. He carried a worn, brown suitcase in one hand as he trudged on the wrong side of the highway. A faded green coat hung loosely on his hunched shoulders. Bits of wild, white hair stuck out beneath his cap. I slowed my car as I passed by, then pulled over to the side, just a short walk ahead of him. I started to get out of my car, then paused, and watched from my rear-view mirror as two nurses came up to each side of the man, gently turned him around, and guided him back toward the nursing home. One of the nurses tried to take the suitcase from his hand, but the man held it tight, as if it were priceless.

  I see him frequently now. He totters along the side of the road with that tattered suitcase in his hand. The nurses must realize when he's left, and they usually come to guide him back before he gets too far. I always pull over and wait, just to make sure. Though his face is more wrinkled and worn than I remember, I know without a doubt that it's Mr. Crawford. He has continued to travel far since I knew him as a child.  And I'm sure his Mona is with him while he travels.


I was on top of a hiking trail when the world ended. It was ending, but dammit, why did it end so beautifully? Because it was, you know, beautiful. The asteroid, The Famous Asteroid from Channel 7, talked and tweeted and posted about, was finally hitting and there was nothing we could do about, and maybe that's why, standing there with my foot propped up on a dusty rock, my water bottle dangling between my index and middle finger, mouth gaping, sweaty in my workout-gear, watching the world end, it was so, so beautiful. The colors, for one. The asteroid skidded across the sky, scorching everything in its path and leaving behind a big, scorching red-purple-blue-red-yellow bruise, and wow, it was beautiful - (I need to stop saying beautiful) and all I could do was think that I would die but at least the sky looked stunning while I was at it. I had never thought skies could bleed. I was wrong. It bled, and it collapsed. Because then the asteroid hit. The heat rolled over me like a ´tsunami-wave. Trees erupted below along the hillside like match-sticks. The ground moaned and shook like it was in pain, like it was pleading with somebody, begging for something, anything, to make it stop. Tiny specks of rubble dug into my skin, it felt like rain, only it was needles, not water. I remember falling. Then the world didn't dissolve, nothing cinematically faded to black, and I felt no Angel of Death reaching for my hand. No, my vision just shattered. I went numb. It happened so fast, I didn't realize it was even happening. All I know is, I woke up here, my mouth feeling like the inside of a chimney, rubbed raw, aching, my chest covered in dust, head spinning and wondering, why was I alive, why did I survive, why is there air flowing in and out of my lungs when I should be charred and burned and nameless, covered in the wreckage of what used to be the world. I opened my eyes. I reached for something to grab onto - and low and behold, there was a chunk of granite I could use to haul myself to my feet. Heart pounding. And now I'm here. I'm alone. It's hitting me. I've survived. Me. Teenage, awkward, red-haired, chubby-armed me. That's how you know the universe does not care - anybody could have survived, the mayor or the president or, I don't know, a scientist. Instead it was me. The odds... I stare at my surroundings for a long time. Everything is gray. The air is not air anymore, it tastes like acid or sulfur, like it's mad at me that I dared to survive. The forest is gone. The town below is gone. Just like that. Funny. All those roads and power-plants and elections and med labs and big ideas and even bigger plans we made, you know, like, humans, I mean, and now it's all just this blurry gray Something in the distance, a pile of ash, and I'm looking at it, trying to swallow mouthful after mouthful of angry air. I want to cry. I'm not the type of person who survives this kind of situation. Heroes survive. Not random kids who climb up hiking trails at 7 p.m. at night, because they get teased for their lower belly fat and don't wanna show up to prom looking like a beluga whale in sheet. Anyway, the town is gone, the forest, the roads, the hills, everything is flattened out. Like someone took a knife and sliced off the top layer. So I do what I would be doing if the world hadn't ended, if I was still on that hiking trail with my water bottle. I start walking. As I do, snow starts falling. Only, it's not snow, it's flakes of pale-gray ash, like little dust motes, drifting down from a sky that I can't see anymore, because its wrapped in dark clouds of...i don't know...some sort of dark matter. This isn't what they taught me in physics. I guess it's just me now...I guess it's just me...two steps...keep walking...one, two, one, two...what do I do now?...one, two, one, two...there's no way anybody survived this, there is no way, I''m alone, I can feel it, I'm alone, there's nobody here, not my mom or my dad, or my brother or my dog or anything, I can feel it all closing in on me now, the ground is crunching beneath my feet, it feels soft, God knows what I just stepped on, don't think about it, keep walking, one, two, one, two, watch your step, that's a boulder, go left, I think that's neighbour Patty's dresser, just. Keep. Walking. But I'm alone. I'm alone I'm alone I'm scared I'm alone I can't breathe why me why me WHY ME? - "Susie?" My heart stops. My ears are ringing. "Susie!" It can't be. "Susie, it's me. Aaron. Holy...I thought I was the last person on earth." A hand comes out of the fog, then a face, more specifically, the face of my biggest tormentor from middle school to senior high. I know his face from the cafeteria - right before he smacked a tray of pudding into my face in 8th grade. I know his face from chemistry class, when he compared me to the pig's heart we were dissecting, in 9th grade. I know his face from The Spring Dance last year, when he stood me up in front of the whole school and my world ended (for the first time). This was not someone I wanted to be alone in the world with. And here he was, the Class Clown everyone adored. He looked different without his minions glued to his side. Grief didn't become him. His dark skin looked paler, covered in dust, his hair was unruly, sticking out at weird angles, his clothes were tattered and burned. He looked like he'd been to hell and back, which I figured wasn't far from the truth. The ringing in my ears faded slightly. I said nothing. Just surveyed him. Somewhere in the depths of his face I made out two wide, black, glistening blotches: his eyes. He looked terrified. And somewhere in those eyes, I sensed relief. Hope. "Susie," he repeated. His voice cracked. And he hugged me, even though we were both sweaty and grimy and dirty, and even though our limbs were shaking, and holding up myself, let alone Aaron, was enough a challenge as it was. But we stood there. The ash-snow falling around us. So this is what if feels like to be last two people on earth. It feels like ash-snow and pain and terror and forgiveness.


“Aren’t you tired?” Aki asked.

You give a small laugh, “Of course not, I’m not that weak you know.” “Hmm, is that so?” The sound of your lonesome footsteps echoes throughout the empty city. It’s been quite a while since you’ve looked at a calendar or watch, time now flows like a fluid, an ever changing mass— no longer linear. Some days you wake up at it seems like the Impact had happened just yesterday, and some days it feels like the world had ended a millennia ago.

“Do you think our city looks like this one?” High rise buildings and dominating structures no longer existed. Everything that tried to reach the stars was knocked back down, toppled, and turned into debris. You and Aki were walking directly in the middle of the city, and around you were certainly buildings and old cars, yet it all seemed like nothing— meaningless mementos. Everything was buried in ash and grays, like an old memory left behind by Earth itself.

“Our city wasn’t even as big as this one, I’m pretty sure it’s wiped out clean.” “That’s sad to think about huh,” Aki remarked in their sing song tone, “In the back of my mind I still sometimes think that perhaps the time capsule we built somehow survived.” “A meteor crashes into Earth decimating the strongest standing structures known to humanity and the cardboard time capsule we made with hot glue gun some survives?” Aki weakly swung their fist against your head, “It’s something that would be nice if it happened.” You hold Aki closer against your back, you can feel the dampness from their bandages and you decide to pick up the pace.

“It certainly would be nice, but I don’t think we’re special enough for that.” You couldn’t see Aki but you could feel their mouth curving into that idealistic grin. “We were special enough to watch the end of the world weren’t we?” “Maybe,” you replied, “though if we were really special we’d be saving the world right now, maybe in another dimension fighting evil demons that destroyed the world.” A curious silence fell upon us as the orange glow of the sun gradually faded into subtle darkness.

“Right there you sounded just like me!” Aki shouted.

You couldn’t help but laugh. Spending a couple of years with anybody during an apocalypse would surely make you pick up some of their habits as well. I’m grateful for Aki though, their outlandish ideals certainly picks me up from falling into the tempting abyss of the world right now. You simply continue to walk the Earth because Aki would be sad if I left them alone.

The sunken city, rivers of old wires and lights slowly faded behind you as you entered a grassland. Right behind you was the wreckage of the days gone by, right in front of you was one of the few things that remained from the world you knew. Aki gave a cry of joy but it was followed by a coughing fit. Against their pesters, you force them to take a swig out of your water canteen.

“How are you feeling?” You ask.

“Kind of sleepy,” Aki murmured.

“You can rest, I’ll wake you up once we get there.”

“That’s alright, I want to keep talking to you.” It was strange, the big city clustered with buildings seemed unbearably desolate and quiet and the hill with nothing but tall grass and the occasional breeze seemed packing with the sounds of life. Normally whenever you and Aki would sleep, it felt like you could hear the world turning on its axis.

But here, the sky was painted a deep blue, no smoke shrouded this night sky— the stars seemed to be just an arm’s reach away.

“Woah! This place looks like the orphanage’s view,” Aki remarked.

You nodded. You had met Aki a lot during your orphanage visits you did just for college-sake, you guys got a long well but it was only after the Impact when Aki discovered your body that you guys started getting closer. From that point onward, Aki was the only person you had left in your life.

You walked with Aki on your back, walking towards the the peak where a single tree stood, and where the stars were the brightest in the world.

“Do you think the protagonists of the world are getting any closer to defeating the villain?” Aki asked, their voice now softer than a whisper.

“Who knows, we’ll just keep living our lives.” When books used to the common items, you often found yourself wandering what the background characters were doing while the main plot happened. You and Aki had no clear dreams or goals in this world, your story was one of an average romance. You met, you talked, you kissed, that’s all. Perhaps without the Impact you would’ve never seen Aki again. Is that love? You supposed so. “Hey Aki, do you love me?” “Yeah I do let’s make out.” Your quiet laughter was probably the first noise this quiet hill has heard in a long time. You had known of this fancy little hill for along time, you just never had anybody to invite to it before the world ended. But now, you wanted to take Aki to this place— light fire crackers— kiss, do whatever the vague dream was at the time.

You rarely did anything fancy for Aki, and they didn’t have anybody else but you to celebrate with. It was only natural that you should finally pay them back with this one pleasant day. Even with an eternity of wandering and despair, a couple nights of star gazing could’ve at least made them more bearable.

You hear Aki quietly snoring against your neck, ah you’ll let them be. “I love you…” They always had a habit of speaking in their sleep.

You laid them down on the dewy grass and laid down with them. Your were finally here. The night was speckled with bright white dots— amongst the smoke perhaps this was the brightest place in the world. Old temples and shrines still sat here, all below swirling clouds of the night and shooting stars of the universe. It was like you were sent centuries past, perhaps hundreds of years ago two lovers also looked at the same sky.

“Hey you know Aki,” You stared into the vast sky, “It’s a horrible thing to think about but I can’t help thinking about if what we feel is love.” “I’m not a great person. I don’t really have anything special about me, if you had found another body under the debris I’m sure you would’ve never even thought about me.” A star shoots across the sky.

The grass gently tickles both of your faces.

“You could live without me, I’m sure you’d do fine.” “I don’t think I could live without you though. That’s why you should stop taking hits for me. I’ll recover you just keep staying alive. Keep telling me the little fairytales you wanted to write.” Another star shoots across the sky.

“Hey Aki,” I said, “Why am I the only one talking?” “Hey Aki.” “Aki!” You cry.

Their mouth was curve upwards like a permanent kind smile.

“Isn’t… Isn’t this a little too cruel of a prank,” You laughed as your vision blurred.

Through the years you spent together, through the kisses, did you ever tell Aki you loved them? Does true love even exist? What is that shit people keep talking about anyway?

The only thing you knew anymore was that you could no longer live without Aki. You felt a pain so unbearable that you could no longer see or hear anything. You hugged their body and cry out to the universe.

The universe replies with a lonesome echo.


I saw the devil walking home from school 2day. It was bright outside. I felt so warm. The day was splindid. Sun shining down, birds doing their talkie in the trees. I don’t live far from my school, Marsh Middle, so it was a short walk. As I strolled my mind flew out into the blue, blue sky. I wasn’t thinking about much, just pleased with the beeutiful day. But then it happend. Some one breathd on the back of my neck. That made all of my little hairs jump up. BOOM. I froze on the sidewalk. And then my mind burst into a picture, telling me what was behind me. It was a man smiling at me, only he wasn’t a man. not really. He had gray skin that ooozed like rottun cake. Ms. Hannigan says practise five dollar words so here i go. His grin was t e r i f y i n g. i felt like he was saying Your Gonna Die, and happy about it. When i saw his teribl face i spun around real fast. But there was nothing behind me sept the blue, blue sky.

By Lia Riosena

Sharon stared at the words of her daughter’s writing assignment, hands trembling. She touched her greying temples, stood from the table, and went to the kitchen window to look out onto the street. The counters gleamed, smelled like lemon cleaner. The faucet dropped tears into the spotless sink. Sunlight was dying along the street when Sharon’s daughter came into sight. Lia walked with her bookbag slapping against her, the jaunt of a carefree child. A smile warmed in Sharon’s crinkled eyes. There was a pregnant silence before the bursting of the door. When Lia walked in her mother was there, ready to swoop her up and hold her.

“How was your day sweetheart?” Lia dropped her bookbag on the carpet in the entryway. “Good, I got an A plus on my vocabulary test mama!” “Oh my goodness!” Sharon held up her hands for a double high five. Lia jumped up to smack them. “Well that settles it. We’re going out to Foster’s tonight.” She launched into song about Foster’s Freeze, squealing and giggling.

“Ok sweetie, mama’s gonna finish up here in the kitchen. Why don’t you go play outside for a little while before starting on your school work?” Sharon kissed the zigzag of her daughter’s barrettes, watched her go, and then turned back to the writing assignment. It was sitting by the sink. From the cabinet she produced a box of matches. With a grunt the kitchen window slid up, paint crumbling away. Yellowing angel’s trumpets shivered in the late afternoon breeze. Sharon put the writing assignment in the sink and lit a match before dropping it onto the paper. As it burned she fixed herself a drink in a mug that said World’s Greatest Mom, sipping as she leaned against the wall, watching Lia play outside.

Time flew and Lia with it. She shot up to the sky, taller than her mother now at 17 going on 18. The fever dream of her younger days cooled. Hula hoops had shrunk down into bite-sized somethings. She put them glittering into her ears. The jump rope followed suit, lacing itself around her neck. The hopscotch squares had become buttons she pressed to chat with Tae or Jenny. She wore her colors on her fingers and toes now. And she had grown into a gorgeous young woman. Her ID showed up in the mail and when it did Lia tore the envelope open. The plastic card clattered to the kitchen table. That evening she asked her mother if she could go to a concert on Friday night. Sharon looked at her. Smiled.

“As long as you bring your cousin Isaiah.”

Isaiah was 31 but looked and acted younger than his age. He often came over to sit and chat or help Sharon with a repair. He and Lia had spent a lot of time together lately. When Friday came Lia emerged from her room in a skeleton print dress and laddered tights.

The fridge light fell on her as she scanned the shelves.

Sharon, seated at the kitchen table, looked up, peering at her daughter over her reading lens.

“Honey, I have a pair of fresh nylons in my drawer.” Lia faced her mother. The fridge closed with a rubber kiss.

“Mom, I'm wearing them like this on purpose. It’s a style.” A deep crease furrowed Sharon’s forehead. There was a honk from the street. “That’s Isaiah! Bye mom!” Lia pecked her mother on the cheek and flew out the door. Sharon watched her running out to the car from the kitchen window.

The next morning Sharon made pancakes. She stood over bubbling butter, still in her robe with a sleepy smile. Lia was sitting at the table, scrolling social media. The cakes each got a pat of butter with eggs and bacon on the side. A shriek suddenly pierced the air as Lia bolted up from her seat. Sharon was walking the plates over and nearly dropped them.

“What is it?” “He’s looking for me!” Lia danced around the kitchen. “What?” Sharon held her stomach, bracing herself on the table.

“J Cool!! The guy whose concert I went to last night! I met him and now he’s posting on his socials about me!” “Eat some breakfast before you get caught up in all that.” “Yeah, yeah, I will.” “Explain to me who this J Cool is.” Lia gave a little groan. “Moo-om. I’ve told you.” “Tell me again.” “He’s a super cool producer from Sweden who lives here and makes music and he wants to hang out with me.” “I need to meet him before he meets you.”

 J Cool painted his mustache black with mascara. The makeup would smudge and blotch in dirty looking patches over his skin and along his ears and forehead because he painted that too. Sharon didn’t like him. His eyes would bug out when he talked, his laughter was false, and he had a rotten tooth as grey as foul. Yet Lia looked at him with stars in her eyes.

“He’s so talented. He said I give him blue balls,” she sighed wistfully. “Sweetie, whatever happened to Isaiah? I don’t see you two hanging out anymore.” Lia looked down. She picked at a thread in her jeans.

“Isaiah did something to me that I didn’t like.” Sharon looked struck. She reached out to hold her daughter, but Lia tore away and shut herself in her bedroom.

The next day Sharon stomped over to the house down the street where Isaiah lived with his grandmother. Burst through the screen door, nearly taking it off its hinges. Ignored the cries of protest. Found Isaiah in his room and began beating him with her fists.

He just looked at her like she was crazy. Everyone did, even his grandmother and his mother who had come to shield him with their doughy arms. Nothing was the same after that. Sharon made angry phone calls. She cried and yelled herself hoarse over phones and doors and pillows. Lia wouldn’t speak to her. Sharon clicked through mountains of articles, blurbs, blogs, posts, and accounts. She drank tea like her life depended on it. Little spikes of alcohol here and there. She needed it on nights she couldn’t sleep. She needed it on nights she saw Lia going out. Then she started going off to see J Cool. She’d take the metro to Hollywood. He never came by except that one time.

“He’s really busy with his music,” Lia explained to her. “I don’t want you disappearing like that. It’s not healthy for a girl your age to be spending so much time with a man. He’s too old for you sweetheart.” Lia looked off, her face an expressionless mask. “You don’t get it. We’re not just hanging out. We’re making music. J Cool says I’m gonna be a big pop star.” Sharon maintained her composure with some difficulty.

“Well, I’d love to hear it sometime.” Lia played a demo for her mother in the minivan on their way to church.

A beat punched through the speakers followed by Lia’s voice which sounded like a sexy robot. Sharon kept her startled expression trained carefully on the road.

“It’s called Yo Hoe.” Lia hollered the lyrics out the window. “Girls are just a big distraction for you, you don’t wanna deal !!! I’m not gonna be yo ho !!!” “I’m glad that you and J Cool are being so creative.” “Yeah,” Lia said nonchalantly. “It’s cool.” “But honey- I hope that J Cool isn’t doing the things that you talk about in your lyrics.” Sharon’s hands white-knuckled the steering wheel. She pulled to the curb and put the car in park. “I know we’ve had…difficulties. But I just want you safe, Lia. Is J Cool hurting you?” There was no answer but a small sob. Sharon wrapped her arms around her daughter.

“My baby…It’s going to be ok,” she murmured into her hair.

Lia stayed home for a while. They watched reruns of Midsomar Murders . They went out to Costco for the five-pack macaroni and got huge ice cream sticks covered in chocolate and almonds. Lia spent her days writing new songs and hollering the lyrics out all over the house. For a while it was good. The nights were still rough, for both of them. Lia cried herself to sleep. Sharon tossed and turned. Sat in the kitchen with her mug. But the days were pleasant.

On Saturday Sharon woke up and decided to do something she hadn’t done in a long time. She made pancakes, bacon, and eggs. Lia cleaned off two plates before scooting out of her chair. “Where you goin?” “Oh, I forgot to tell you. Jenny called and wanted to hang out so I’m gonna go to her house.” “Ok sweetie, have fun.” Sharon beamed at her daughter through the window, her hands wrist deep in suds at the sink. After clearing the kitchen she tidied the house. She came to Lia’s room to put away a stray pair of underwear that had ended up with hers. When her hands parted the jumble, a thermometer suddenly appeared. Her nails rasped against the wood bottom. She held it up. She held it for a long time, wavering slightly. It wasn’t a thermometer. It was a pregnancy test.

Sharon rushed for her phone. “Hi, mom, what’s-” “Get home. Right. Now.” When she did Sharon was waiting for her in the kitchen, the test laying on the table. Lia saw it. She slowly sunk into a seat, never taking her eyes off of the test. “When were you going to tell me about this?” “I just didn’t know how to tell you. I was scared of your reaction.” Sharon rubbed her temples. Her World’s Greatest Mom mug was on the table. She took a big swallow. Lia watched her mother, eyes narrowed. “Is it J Cool’s?” Her voice was low, full of fear. Neither of them met the other’s eyes. “I don’t know.” Sharon yelped. Lia’s eyes filled fast with tears.

Her mother began to dial a number. “What are you doing?” “Calling the clinic. You’re going to need an abortion.” Lia was horrified. She jumped from her chair, tears splattering down her face. “You don’t get to make that decision for me!” she screamed. Sharon dropped the phone, shot up, and slapped Lia across the face. It was silent. When Lia righted herself she held her cheek in shock, and looked down into the mug on the table. An ugly snicker slashed her speech. “I never want to see you again.” The next day Sharon watched from the window as Lia brought her things to the curb. J Cool was there, waiting for her, leaning against the car with his arms open. He rocked Lia side to side, and then he noticed Sharon watching them from the house and gave her a big smile.


LET GO It was nearly midnight when the train pulled into Kings Cross. Ellen checked her hair in the window’s reflection. She was sure the length and colour was exactly right, but only time would tell.

Outside the terminal the pavement was wet although the rain had stopped. However, the seven minute walk to Oli’s bar was enough time for her plan to fail if moisture got to her hair. She retrieved her brolly and protected the hard-earned effect as if her life depended on it. Her life did depend on it. She was nobody without Oli’s attention, and ultimately his love was what she so desperately desired. ‘You okay?’ Ellen spun round, ready to tell whoever was poking their nose into her evening where to get off. The old woman held up both her hands, ‘I’m not interfering dear, just I don’t like to see young’uns in tears.’ Her resolve flittered away as if it had never been in place. The sigh was so loud, the old woman grinned and beckoned Ellen to follow. Sitting on a bench by the taxi rank, they shared a cigarette and Ellen her woes. For a full half hour, Ellen found she could talk to a stranger – a homeless one at that – more easily than anyone. ‘Sending him letters worked for a while; he even replied to the first two.’ Ellen pulled hard before handing what was left of their second cigarette back to Mo. ‘He’s a busy man, of course, what with managing a chain of nightclubs. But I was sure he’d want to catch up soon and tonight I’d wanted to make sure he’d be unable to resist the opportunity which was coming his way.’ ‘What’s stoppin’ ya still tryin’?’ ‘Nothting, s’pose.’ ‘Well, then.’ Mo stood up and reached for her carrier bags. ‘You’ll soon know.’ Ellen stood up too, ‘Know what?’ ‘When you get there. Whether it’s right to fight for him or not. You’ll know!’ Ellen stepped back into a shop doorway as a black cab swooshed water from the gutter over the curb. Her boots remained unharmed. They were identical to those worn by

her  so were sure to turn his head. Ellen had been secretly thrilled to notice Josy’s absence in recent months and so the plan to mend Oli’s broken heart had formed. Yet, Ellen had not rushed things. She didn’t want to be labelled a rebound, so had held back for a few weeks. The neon sign for Oli’s Late Night Cocktails swung in the breeze. Ellen breathed in the aroma of wet tarmac mixed with spilt diesel. The pavement glistened with bright colours and she cleared her throat in readiness to take the first step towards what would become an equally colourful relationship now laying within her grasp. “Alright, El? Like the hair!” ‘Thanks!” Head doorman, Mike, held the twisted red rope to one side so she could enter at the head of the queue. Ellen made her way across the packed dancefloor and up the curved staircase towards the VIP booths on the first floor. The smell of too much perfume and aftershave hung in the atmosphere made opaque with dry ice.

At the backlit bar, Ellen asked for her usual and positioned herself on a stool, her bare legs crossed and the heel of her boot hooked over the supporting bar. She checked her watch, a gift from Oli four years ago. Apparently he gave all his dancers a watch, but Ellen had convinced herself that hers represented something deeper an she’d treasured it and always wore it to work.

On the ground floor, on a raised circular platform, the DJ was mixing, one hand holding earphones tight against his ear while he choreographed the next track.

The vodka Martini slid down Ellen’s throat, clinging in firey undertones all the way to her stomach. She wanted another cigarette, but Oli hated smoking. She chewed the olive on the cocktail stick and imagined poking the end into Josy’s perfect. Oli had always been Ellen’s. She just needed a chance to remind him. The music changed tempo and more dry ice hissed against the dancers below who squealed in delight.  They raised their arms giving the impression of a large mammal with bristles writhing in the depths.

She nearly didn’t feel the tap on her shoulder, so hard was she squeezing the tiny wooden javelin. It snapped as she turned to see Oli standing behind her. He leaned forward so she could hear him above the noise, and nodded in agreement when he invited her into his office. She took her glass with her.

This was it. Behind the closed sound-proof door, the noise was dimmed to a regular thumping. Ellen stayed near the door, knowing her full attire would be more visible than if she sat in the leather chair in front of his desk. Oli sat down and looked up at her, “Come, sit.” Reluctantly, Ellen moved into the middle of the dimly-lit room. Oli didn’t look particularly happy to see her. He hadn’t even mentioned her hair.

“I’ve been doing some serious thinking.” Ellen had no idea what was on his mind, but gently pulled down her top knowing more of her cleavage would show, “Okay…” Oli leant back in his chair. Ellen stared, fiddled with her watch.

“I’m not sure how to say this.” “Okay…” Ellen repeated, feeling suddenly nervous. “I’m having to let some staff go.” Ellen’s stomach fell away. She felt powerless to reply with anything sensible. For six years, Oli’s clubs, and specifically this one, had been her life. “Not me, surely?” “I’m really sorry, Ellen. With recent difficult years and all the closures, I’ve got no choice. It’s not just you. I’m losing four or five from each club. It’s the only way I can stay afloat.” “But, I thought things were improving, with the DJs you’ve got booked, people will flock back all summer long.” She knew she sounded like a petulant child. He shook his head, “Like I said, I’m very sorry. You’ll get a payment; in your case a couple of grand.” Ellen fought the urge to hurl the rest of her drink at him before the truth of the matter dawned on her. He must be so heart-broken at being left by Josy, he can’t see the wood for the trees. What he needed was empathy and understanding. This is what the old woman had meant. She felt sure she knew what he

really

wanted. ‘It’s okay.” She stood and walked around the desk, leaning against the edge close to where he was seated. “You have to do what’s right for

you , I totally get that and respect you for it. You’re not a brilliant businessman for nothing, are you?” He laughed at her attempt to lighten the mood. She saw his whitened teeth and the crinkles near his thirty-four year old eyes. Beautiful eyes which would soon be seeking her out, naked and in his bed. Oli wheeled his chair backwards and got up. He moved to a small drinks cabinet and poured himself a shot. Ellen waited for the invite to join him and when it didn’t come, she moved closer and laid a hand on the linen covering his shoulder, “I’m sorry you’re going through such a tough time.” He gulped down the shot, poured another and downed that.

“I hope you know I’ll always be here for you, whatever troubles you’re struggling with.” “Of course I do,” Oli smiled and closed the cabinet door. “You should get back out there. Thanks for being so understanding.” “You’re welcome. You know me, Oli. Your bestie.” The slightly strained look on his face confirmed what she thought, that he was indeed struggling with the loss of Josy, of having to cut down on staff to save his business. She moved to the door and paused. “Let’s talk about it some more later.” Later never came. Her dances were appreciated by those below her podium, her moves captured on screen. But when she was helped down at the end of her shift, and walked upstairs to knock on Oli’s office door, she found it locked.

“He’s gone, love.” Another doorman whose name she could never recall was splitting his time between manning the office door and perusing activity on the first floor. “Oh,” she said simply and turned. Outside, she made her way around the building to check whether his navy Porsche was in the space for one he’d purchased for the same price as her parents had paid for their three bed semi, twenty years ago. Through the metal fencing, she could see the space was empty. He really had gone. Ellen’s blood began to bubble and she ground her teeth, trying and failing to stop resentment surfacing.

Couples spilled from the front door of the club. It was two-thirty and police vans were performing slow drive-bys in the hope their presence might deter any alcohol-fuelled fighting.

She walked away from the club and passed a shop window displaying a spiders web of cracks where someone had hurled something heavy. She knew where Oli lived and while it was a twenty minute tube journey, the walk would calm her anger. He needed to apologise for leaving without finishing their conversation and Ellen needed to tell him things. Needed him to understand that she would be there to help him, in any way she could. That she would be more loyal than Josy who’d been around not even a year before vanishing into thin air, it had seemed. Perhaps he’d not even read her last few letters. Perhaps the stupid Post Office had failed to deliver them. Yes, that would be it. What with staff shortages due to lockdowns, her letters would have fallen between the cracks and Oli was simply ignorant of what lay ahead for them. She walked faster, desperate now to tell him how she felt. How she saw their future. Rain drops landed on her bare arms. Instinctively, Ellen felt in the her bag for her brolly but it wasn’t there. What the hell? Ahead, she spotted a bus stop and rushed over to check the Night Bus timetable. Sure enough there was one due shortly which would take her across the Thames.

She leant back against the glass panel, covering an advert for Specsavers and took a deep breath. At least this way, she could arrive with decorum, knock at his door, probably find him in tears with regret that he’d walked away without speaking to her. She would take him in her arms and stroke his hair and whisper how she could save him and nothing would ever need to worry him again.

The bus pulled up next to the path and the doors opened. She slapped the reader with her credit card and walked to the back seat. The rain lashed against the side of the bus. Drips found their way through an open window. She felt them land on her forehead and swore when the window was too stiff for her to close. Instead she moved along the backseat of the bus and immediately felt something wet where she had placed her fingers. Horrified, she realised someone had been sick on the seat and not cleared it up. She sat up and flicked the gross bits from her hand, wiping it against the next seat along. In her bag were no wipes, just an old serviette from a visit to a coffee shop. Her nostrils were now full of some stranger’s over-indulgence and she made her way to the door and pinged to let the driver know she wanted to get off.

Walking the final mile, her feet ached and she paused to unzip the boots with the heels which had cost her a fortune and which Oli hadn’t even spotted. She’d never known him so unlike himself.

Finally, she reached the road he’d moved to a while back once he’d earned enough to leave the east end. Buddleja shrubs tickled the neat painted walls of Victorian houses with wooden shutters rather than the dated curtains Ellen’s flat wore. She sniffed hard, defiance against the world which might tell her she was in the wrong place. She knew he lived at  number 82. Knew because she’d followed him home from the club once, paying the black cab driver handsomely to follow the navy Porsche, then hiding in the shadows until all the lights went off in his house and she returned home. Her feet were dirty, wet and almost numb from walking across uneven concrete for half an hour. Her hair lay lank against her shoulders. Her thighs were mottled with cold. 78. 80. Then there it was. Pretty and plump pink hydrangeas grew beneath the bay window. Warm light flickered behind the slats of yet more shutters, painted in chalky grey. The street lamp illuminated her way along the terracotta tiles laid in a diamond pattern up to the doorstep. In the porch, Ellen took a sudden breath in and held it. A folded buggie was leaning against the wall. Oli must have a friend visiting, or maybe his sister. She’d had a baby, hadn’t she? She checked her watch but saw a naked wrist. Had she taken it off when she’d been for a wee after dancing? She leaned back against the brickwork of the porch.

A baby’s cry was lulled by a man’s voice. Oli. He was soothing a baby. She heard his voice resonate through the stained glass of the front door and strained to hear what words he might be using. Then a woman’s voice. Laughing. She came down the stairs and went into the front room to join him.

Ellen gripped her top to prevent her heart jumping from her chest. She held her breath but the three people inside the house were making small noises and the front door, or what might be outside it, couldn’t have been further from their thoughts.

Ellen let silent tears stream down her cheeks. She made no noise as she turned to step back on the tiled pathway and her bare feet left no footprints on the rain-soaked ground. As she reached the open gate, she saw what she’d missed a few minutes earlier. The For Sale sign, swinging gently in the breeze, the agents’ lettering shining where the light bounced from the street lamp. The old lady was right after all. Ellen knew now that she’d be wasting her energies chasing a man whose heart had been captured. She walked back up to the main road, and stopped briefly at a black wheelie bin. She dropped the boots into it without a second glance.


The teacher's lounge had a lot of scars on the wall. It served many functions. It was a sanctuary, a stress reliever, a boxing ring, and even a bunker. There was a gun threat one year, and the entire support staff locked themselves in the teacher's lounge. The walls were painted a pale white that had begun to peel. There was an old leather sofa, a microwave, and a round table in the middle with three chairs, two of which rocked side to side because the legs were uneven. In front of the sofa was a coffee table with coffee cup ring stains, and across from the sofa was a makeshift stand with an old TV with rabbit ears. The teacher's lounge even had its smell, clean over old. The cleaning crew cleaned it every day, but you could still smell the old leather from the couch, burnt popcorn, the smell of burnt coffee from being left on the burner, and the smell from the rug beneath the coffee table.  "Why do we do this, Harry?" Said Jessica, the sixth-grade English teacher of five years. She just walked into the lounge and flopped onto the old leather couch peeling at the armrest with cracks on the seat cushions that made it look like a relief map of the Rockies. "Well, Jessica, I don't know about you, but I do it because I want to make a difference." Jessica was in her late twenties; she wore her long blond hair in a ponytail, and her glasses made her look like an old-fashioned librarian. Despite the button-up look, you could tell she was an attractive lady.

"Harry, Harry, Harry, you know as well as I do that we aren't making a difference. Test scores are down, many of these kids suffer from attention disorders, and all they want to do is play games. How the hell can I make a difference with that?" Harry, a black man in his early forties, had nothing special about his physique. His readers sat low on his nose, so he always looked over the frames when talking with somebody. He had a folded piece of newspaper in his hands because he loved doing the crossword puzzle. Jessica reminded him of when he started teaching. Fresh out of college, he was ready to take on the world, and soon after, the reality that hit Jessica smacked him in the face.

He sat on the other end of the worn couch with his neat and clean blue cardigan, looked into her defeated eyes, and said. "Never give up! Sometimes I wanted to call it quits, but I hung in there and am glad I did." Harry taught fifth and sixth-grade science and was recognized as one of the best teachers in the state. He had a unique way of using a hands-on approach that always engaged his students.

Jessica removed her glasses and sat them on the table atop a teacher's joke etched into the wood. Why were the teacher's eyes crossed? Because she couldn't control her pupils! That joke had been there for years.

"Harry, I'm trying, but today, I caught two kids cheating on their test, and I gave them both an F. Do you know what they said to me? I was an incompetent teacher who did not know what I was doing. One kid said he would bring his parent up to the school, who, by the way, works at the governor's office. How do you deal with that?" Jessica began to cry. "I wanted to slap that kid!" Harry said, "Fifty years ago, you could get away with that. My dad said in some schools, that actually happened. It is a different time now. We must watch what we do and say to kids these days. You know, cheating has been around even back then, so even though the children have changed, their bad habits have not. We must learn how to adapt to the kids." "How do I do that, Harry?" "By keeping them engaged, challenging them against each other and you. Make it fun, don't be afraid to be yourself, and have fun; the most important thing you can do is find the one. There is always that one student or two that accepts your challenges. That student is usually confident and wants to impress you and the other students. That student will buy into your plan, and the others will soon follow. Jessica wiped the tears from her eyes and started to feel better about herself. Harry was right; she could do this because she was a determined teacher who wanted to make a difference. "Thanks, Harry; I feel much better now. I guess I just needed someone to talk to." "Anytime, Jessica, I am always available to you." Jessica left the room, and five minutes later, in came Felicia Jones. "I hate this place!" She said. "Whoa, Whoa," Harry raised his paper as if it were a glove used to catch her words, "those are powerful words, you know. Having a bad day?" "Yeah, a couple of my kids threw a ball around the room every time I turned to write on the chalkboard. Their game was to see who got caught first. I made the kid I caught tell me all who were involved, and I sent all three down to the principal's office." Their parents had to come and pick them up, and one parent confronted me about it like it was my fault. It's hard enough dealing with these kids, Harry; now we have to deal with their parents too. I'm not cut out for this!" Felicia turned and sat on the old couch and began to cry. Harry could tell she was upset because her hands were shaking.

"I can't do this anymore, Harry. I came into this profession to teach, not babysit, and now when you discipline one of them, you have to answer to their parents; it's not fair!" Felicia was a tall black lady with short hair cut to perfection. At age thirty, she had been teaching for seven years. She wore very little makeup because her natural beauty stood out; you could tell she cared for herself. She went to the gym thrice a week, always ate healthily, and looked like she had just graduated from college. "Felicia, you know this job is a lot more than teaching. It has always been that way. I remember when I had a student living on the streets with his mom, and I went to find adequate housing for them and got her a job with the school. That was more than teaching because the boy on the street was a promising student who went on to college and is now head of engineering with a large company. This is why we do it, Felicia." "I know, Harry; I just needed someone to talk to. "Thank you for listening." Felicia rose from the couch and left the room feeling much better. Yes, the Teacher's Lounge was many things, but it was mostly known for free therapy sessions by the professor, Dr. Harry Porter. Harry was considered an unsung hero by many because, for the last 12 years, he has been saving teachers' careers right there in his office, the old, dingy, smelly teacher's lounge.


The proverbial burning of the midnight oil ensued for the deranged medical student with his nose stuffed in cocaine; except the midnight oil was the electrical bill, and the cocaine was coffee. Words like nicotinamide dinucleotide and glutathione peroxidase taunted the medical student, who only had enough energy left to stare blankly with his eyes redder than a baboon’s ass. Biochemistry used to mean something to the man, but by this time the brain of the once brilliant medical student (the term “brilliant” being loosely used to actually mean operating at 57% capacity at least, not including caffeine and sugar) had been failing him for the past five hours. He lamented his lot in life. Why did he let his parents brainwash him into thinking this was a good idea? They didn’t even make it sound appealing. Say, want to subject yourself to nearly a decade of mental strain and torture and enter yourself into an oversaturated healthcare system that doesn’t value you anyway? Gee, sign me up! He could have been a writer, a businessman, a piano player, or a song-er (wait, that doesn’t sound write). But no. Here was the pitiful medical student, choosing to blame “the system” rather than his dreadfully shitty time management.

That said, he was accustomed to such feelings. He could say things like this all he wanted, but he could not deny that some of what he learned he found genuinely interesting. That, and it wouldn’t hurt to have a fallback occupation if ever things went south (and of course it had to be the most hassle fallback in existence). And it is due to that reasoning that he couldn’t afford to throw this exam. For the academic scholar, a feat he still wasn’t entirely sure how he achieved, failing the exam would also mean his hopes of accruing that sweet scholarship money for himself would be over (in case things ever went south-er). In 28 hours, May 31st would arrive, his doomsday (of which there were already 36). And he wasn’t sure if he’d be ready by then. He’d reached the point of saturation. The words reflected meaninglessly off his head and right back down on the page. He considered his options. The cocaine stood idly to the side of his table, staining whatever paper was under it. Although, he knew coffee would probably do more harm than good at this point. His brain had been fried for the past few days, and he couldn’t allow himself to crash into nothingness tomorrow; that was his final day of cram studying, much more important than now.

The medical student turned to his window, spotting the first signs of light in the once dark sky. Sleep would be the best option, he decided, to recoup his losses today and make up for it tomorrow. In a feeling that no orgasm could ever compete against, the medical student flung himself upon his bed, caressing the skin of his pillow, and allowing his slobber to moisten up its clothy face as he hung his mouth open. Bliss settled upon the face of the weary medical student, his mind now empty of such obscenities as catalases and cytochromes.

He heard a high-pitched moan. He smiled. Was this the beginning of a wet dream? God knew he could really use one right about now.

The moaning continued. He got excited. A bark. That ain’t right. He sat upright and erect, more so than his penis. Another moan–a female. Another bark–a dog. He gritted his teeth, realizing what was happening, aggravated more so by the fact that his britches would not be moistened tonight. This was not the first time his next-door neighbor shagged her dog. He tried to explain the situation once before to the admin office, but they brushed him off on the basis that he was the only one complaining about them. The sounds repeated themselves. It wasn’t his fault that the ears of a medical student became aware of even the most minute stimulus every time he tried to focus. No matter, the medical student thought to himself amidst the sounds of a pet owner enjoying her dog a little too much, he would sleep through this as he always had. The medical student greeted his bed once again, apologized for the interruption, and continued making sweet sleep upon it.

Awoooooo! “Son of a bitch!” The medical student moaned back. Normally, he would love to hear the moans of a female, but to have them interjected with the cries of a freaking dog not only softened him up, it made his heart punch his chest every damn minute. Unless he could sleep soundly tonight, the efficiency of studying the next day (of which it technically already was) would be ruined. This was the straw that broke the proverbial camel’s back, or in this case, his sanity. He threw on something decent and burst out his door, right down to the next room. He bashed his hand repeatedly on the door until a young woman finally answered. Her eyebrows were angled downward and her arms were crossed. He couldn’t help but notice how short her shorts were, and he had a pretty good idea why. “I’m going to say this very politely,” the medical student drawled. “Stop shagging your dog.” The woman’s face twisted. “I’m not shagging my dog, you pervert,” the woman screeched, the intonations and inflections in the way she spoke irritating the medical student even more.

The medical student slapped his hands on his face and felt the bumps of his eyebags on his fingers. “I’m going to file a noise complaint right now if you don’t stop.” “Oh please, the admin office probably isn’t open this early in the morning. And besides, they’re reasonable. They’ll be on my side because I can do what I want with my dog.” From behind her legs, a fat fluffy dog peeped its head out, breathing shallowly with its tongue hanging out to one side. Its black beady eyes met the medical student. Indeed, the dog was cute, but not cute in that way. “Did you ever think that you were so preoccupied with whether or not you could, that you didn’t stop to think if you should?” “It’s my dog, and I can play with it however you want. That’s my freedom.” “Little too much freedom. All right, noise complaint time!” Without another word, the medical student left the shouting dog owner as he descended the elevator and went down to the administration office (actually open 24/7). The staff guy (probably a receptionist, but he liked calling him staff guy) greeted him and almost jumped back upon seeing the sorry state that the medical student was in. After filling out a form and explaining the situation, the staff guy called the woman down for a chat. He had the two seated beside each other in front of his desk. They didn’t spare even a side glance to one other. “For the sake of clarity,” the staff guy began. “What seems to be the problem?” “Lady won’t stop shagging her dog.” “I wasn’t shagging my dog, and this guy is trying to tell me what to do with my pet.” The staff guy paused, mumbled to himself if he was paid enough for this, and upon realizing having two angry residents was worse than having one, continued. “I’m sorry ma’am, but he is within his rights to request you turn down your volume if it is indeed excessive. Regardless of what you choose to do with your pet.” “This is outrageous!” The woman’s ears glowed red. “I paid for that room and I am within my rights to play with my dog however I please.” “Y-yes, play with your dog, but you have to keep the volume down.” The medical student snorted. “Staff guy gets me. And is it really within your rights? Shagging a dog has to be a crime, right?” “Okay,” the woman brought her hand up. “Honestly, it’s the audacity for me. First of all, why on earth would you think I was shagging my dog?” “You were moaning.” “I wasn’t moaning you asshole , that’s how just I sound when I’m having fun.” “Oh, I bet.”

“I’m serious.” “Oh yeah? Prove it.” “Hell yeah I’m gonna—wait, what?” “Let’s hear the alleged fun sounds,” the medical student gestured to the staff guy. “He can be the unbiased third party, isn’t that right, staff guy?” The staff guy nodded slowly. “I have a name you know.” “Well then,” the medical student said to the woman. “Moan away!” “It’s not a moan,” she said with a dastardly pointer finger. “And I will show you all.” With steely determination, the woman puffed her chest out, and made the fun sound. The entire room of only three people fell silent. The staff guy bit his lip and darted his eyes off to the side. The medical student nodded with the certainty of a university professor. “See what I mean, good sir?” The woman shook her head. “Simply untrue. Surely my learned friend here knows how to get his head out of the gutter.”

The staff guy remained silent, leaning forward on his desk and twiddling his fingers, deliberating the matter with the logic, tact, and seriousness required of the situation.

“For me to reach a proper conclusion,” the staff guy said, “I would request you repeat the sound.” She repeated the sound without hesitation. “Got that? That wasn’t a moan, right?” The woman asked the staff guy, her chin pointed upward in satisfaction. The staff guy rubbed the back of his head. “How do I word this… you see, miss…” “Oh, I get it,” the woman scowled. “You’re just as perverted as him.” “I didn’t even say anything yet…” That was when a door from the back opened,

and walking in was not just a senior administrator, but the senior administrator. The click of her heels silenced any noise that would have come out, her blazer neatly buttoned over a white blouse. She rolled her eyes at the display before her. “Is this a noise complaint,” she asked the staff guy. “Yes ma’am,” he said. “All right then.” She crossed her arms and stared up at the clock over the door. “I don’t usually get complaints at five-thirty. This better be worth my time.” “Ah, Mrs. Sheila,” the woman stood from her seat and smiled. “I’m so glad you’re here.” The medical student bowed toward Mrs. Sheila. “Madam, if you can spare a moment, I forwarded said noise complaint to the kind sir over here, as my next door neighbor won’t stop shagging her dog.” Mrs. Sheila was not amused. “Is this some kind of joke to you?” “N-not at all. But her ‘fun sounds’ when she ‘plays’ with her dog have been keeping me up all night.” “Fun sounds?” Mrs. Sheila spat. “Yeah, fun sounds. I’m being serious Mrs. Sheila, watch this. ” The medical student gestured to the woman. “Go, do the thing.”

The woman lifted her head up with a grin. “Surely, Mrs. Sheila, you don’t think this is a moan of sexual implication, do you?”

She made the fun sound. Mrs. Sheila remained unmoving.

The staff guy scratched his head. The medical student awaited Mrs. Sheila’s deliberation with bated breath. This would be the moment of truth, the deciding factor between good and shitty sleep.

Mrs. Sheila opened her mouth. “You do realize it’s the volume of the noise and not the type of noise that’s the problem, right?” “Well yeah, of course,” the medical student said. “But that is a moan right?” One of Mrs. Sheila’s eyebrows twitched, and the medical student proceeded to bow and blurt out many apologies.

Mrs. Sheila turned to the woman. “For my final decision on the matter…” The woman’s eyes lit up. The medical student buried his head in his hands, accepting defeat.

“Keep the volume of your moans to a minimum, darling. And don’t try to make things complicated. You would not want that.” She nodded to the staff guy, and with a swift turn of the heel, Mrs. Sheila walked back to the door where she came from. The woman’s jaw was wide enough for a baby to pop out.

And the medical student hollered and yakked and snorted up a wad of snot that came dangerously close to kissing his lips. He had won! Good sleep was upon him! The staff guy clapped his hands together (alas, the show must end). “I do believe that concludes this enchanting early morning of ours. Sir, madam, I certainly hope this issue is resolved.” The woman never closed her jaw, words wanting to be said but never found, as she along with the celebrating medical student left the office and returned to whence they came. The medical student layed down on his bed with an impish grin on his face, savoring the reaction of his neighbor. He grabbed his phone to commemorate this moment, perhaps to share such a silly yet triumphant story to his friend, or to write it down and laugh about it the next day. Instead, his eyes were drawn to the date. May 31st, four in the morning.

Thus was the problem with shitty time management. In his cocaine-driven stupor, he had internalized the wrong date. His exam was, in actuality, to commence in four hours. In the context of all that had occurred one would expect outrage, a shock of adrenaline to pump through the medical student’s baggy sac of a heart and over his body. Such was not the case given the state of the broken man. He had nothing left in him to keep him awake. In such a state, one could seamlessly skip over the first four stages of grief in a sort of mental health speedrun, and get right down to acceptance. And that is exactly what this medical student did. He brought himself to a stand and stared at his reflection on the window. A face of pure calm, knowing fully well what he had to do. He left his room and walked a few steps down to the door of his dog-loving neighbor. He knocked on the door to a now silent room. He waited with monk-like patience. She opened the door with an ugly look on her face. Her dog—the one that started it all—peeped its head out from her legs once again, and looked up at the medical student with an adorable underbite.

The woman crossed her arms. “The hell you want? You come back to gloat?” The medical student shook his head. Slapping his arms to his sides, he bowed respectfully, all the way down so far as his aching, sleep-deprived back would let him. “I would like to apologize for my earlier actions and accusing you of shagging your dog in front of the admin office.” “I knew there was—wait, what?” “That was wrong of me to allege something so embarrassing in front of those people without evidence. I apologize.” “Y-yeah, you got that right.” The woman paused. “I-I’m just—I don’t know what to say.” He shrugged as he brought himself back up. “It’s been a long day for me. I was trying to sleep and I lashed out. My bad. You don’t need to—” “I’m sorry too,” she said. “About making my fun sound too loud. It’s just when Michelle wants to play, I can’t just say no.” The medical student nodded. The dog had since turned around, and all he could see was a droopy, furry tail wagging. “I’d imagine it’s hard to control yourself when you have a cute dog staring back at you all the time.” “Right?” The woman picked up the scruffy dog in her arms, and upon a single stroke of its fur, the dog panted happily. “Precious, isn’t she?” “Sure is.” “I actually got little Michelle here back when I first moved into the city. I mean, my first time going away from home for university? I was excited to see what was out there for me. But leaving everything I knew, that scared me. Like, this was the only university where I was able to get a scholarship, and wouldn’t you know it? None of my friends wanted to go to that university. Go figure. But I thought I could make a name for myself from the ground up. Get a fresh start. Not as easy as it sounds. In a city so big with so many different people, the last thing I expected was to feel so alone. Michelle helps me cope.” The medical student was surprised at himself for feeling something in his heart when she said that. “As someone who moved here just for medical school, I know that feeling. Out here on an academic scholarship I didn’t think I’d get, and now I have all this pressure to try and keep it because I don’t know what I want. Cocaine—I mean, coffee, helps me cope. But now I have this exam in four hours and it’s either gonna make or break me, and I’m not sure what else to do.” She sighed. “God, I didn’t know you were going through something like that.” “Likewise.” “I’m sorry  I disturbed you.” “And I’m sorry I was so aggressive.” “Cool,” she smiled and nodded.

The medical student cleared his throat. “I’m Alex, by the way.” He brought his hand out for… “Dara,” to shake. “So, Dara,” Alex said. “I actually came here for one other reason. A simple request really, since I really need to stay awake to study. Really need to.” Dara’s eyes lit up. “Fine. This is to make up for me disturbing you a while ago: what can I do for you?” “The one thing you do best.” And so Alex, the desperate, caffeine-driven medical student with a sleep debt more expensive than his rent, clasped his hands together and said, “Can you please shag your dog again?”


They say variety is the spice of life. If that’s true, then my life was as flavorful as a bag of stale flour. Keyword- was. I used to live my life from day to day. I’d wake up, go to work, only to go home and use that money on delivery orders while my eyes gloss over too many episodes of The Office. God, how time went by, days blurring into days, weeks blurring into weeks, henceforth and so on.

But I’m not that kind of person anymore. All it took was a meeting with Jenny from HR. My coworkers were worried about me. She mentioned the word apathy. It stuck in my brain like a half chewed gummy bear sticks in the gaps of your teeth. And no matter how much you scrape, you still feel like you have some left. I gave her a half smile, told her I’d work on it, took a ground-scraping rise from my chair and left the room. Looking back, she probably wanted to have a grander discussion, and possibly about how it’s affecting my work in the company, but I wasn’t in the mood. I had too much apathy to do that.

Apathy. Apathy, apathy, apathy.

The entire bus ride home, that word was louder than the cold air whistling through the seams in the windows. I mean, I wasn’t mad, because she’s right. Lately I haven’t been motivated or interested in anything except whether Dwight and Angela work out their problems. Apathy. I wish I could say I changed that night, but it took me a couple weeks before the word got too loud, before the gummy bear in my mouth got too sour. I had to do something different.

Then, one night I changed. Instead of spending more money on my double-stuffed pizza, or chicken and rice burritos, I stopped at the grocery store in an instant sting of inspiration. I was going to cook . But I didn’t cook that night, no no. I created . Coming home with a bag full of ingredients, I followed the recipe I had set in my mind. Hallowing the peppers, I felt my blood rush in a way I hadn’t felt before. My hands seemed to be moving on their own as they dashed in spices and ingredients the recipe hadn’t even called for. Inspiration carried my hands as I stuffed the peppers and towed them into the oven. Together, Inspiration and I created . My head felt a little dizzy as I plated my masterpiece. That night, I lived for the first time in a long time. I stopped at the grocery store the night after, set out to live my new life as a cook; a foodie, the one who knew exactly what flavors went with what, the one people raved about their home parties because “ their homemade frittatas are just oh-so-good”. I wanted to venture into the meat department. Maybe I’d cook up a seasoned steak, a simple burger, anything that revived that spark I felt the night before. Nothing did. I ended up making a cheeseburger. Burnt patty, unflavored bun, cheese burger. I thought I was ready, I set out all the ingredients on my counter, I took in that big breathful of air, allowing that flow of passion to enter my soul and guide my hands through my cooking. But the air I breathed felt stuffy, and everything inside me plummeted as I scraped old ketchup onto the buns. My masterpiece. Voila .

What did happen however, was miraculous. I still had some veggies left from the night before, from that one passionate night. I eyed my blender, still fresh in it’s cardboard box on the corner of my counter. The passion flew back into me and I felt my blood rush with excitement. Smoothies! Of course! I can be a master mixologist. I started that new passion, and for the next week I made a variety of smoothies, milkshakes, juices. I went even further - cocktails, crafted beers, and (after extensive research) began the process of creating moonshine. I felt like an inventor of liquids. Call me Poseidon. But once again, the shimmer and glimmer in my eyes died as I looked at my blender and the fifteen different fruits I had ripening in a bowl. Dear God, what am I doing? Was I going insane? I packed the blender back up and shoved it aside. I needed my next high, my next flurry of excitement as I found a new hobby to pursue. And listen, I’m self-aware. I began to realize what I was doing, never sticking to a newfound passion. But at the time I was too busy carving ducks out of soap, painting and sketching and drawing and coloring, registering for metalworking and glass blowing classes. I practiced singing, piano, guitar, drums (well- bongos). I took up Spanish, French, Japanese, German, learning the pleases and thank yous before venturing onto my next craft.

None of these ventures lasted longer than I week, I presume. The longest I kept up with was playing manicurist- something I found I had a peculiar knack in. And it was after I put down the nail file for the last time that I realized. I had probably gone through fifty plus different tasks all within the span of three months. I wasn’t sticking to anything. That word apathy sprung forward out of the shadows like a fox jumping on a rabbit. I’ll never find anything. I have no place in life. That night was restless and the morning after, looking in the mirror, rinsing cold water on my face, I gained a sort of defiance. You know what, who cares? Screw you Jenny. So what if I can’t find something I like. I liked finding new things to like. I enjoy switching hobbies. I guess…. It hit me. My hobby. My joy in life. What I knew would relieve that accursed ‘A’ word from my brain forever. My hobby was finding new hobbies. I broke out in a smile, which let the harsh laugh creeping up my throat find it’s escape. My hobby is finding hobbies! Hobbies are my hobbies! That Saturday, I began working on my hobby, my one true hobby. I scoured the internet. Pinterest and Wikipedia became my best friends that day. I worked on a list. I called it my ‘Flour Recipe’. I was going to craft up the most flavorful, spice-induced life I could imagine. My ‘flour recipe’ consisted of anything you could imagine- from potting flowers to sailing waters to voodoo making to beetle fighting. Those years were marvelous. I guess you’d call them the glory years… Or is it golden years? Either way, I had the most fun I’ve ever had. I would start my days off looking at my list, finding something new that called to me when the last activity died its final spark. Sometimes I’d go in order of the list, sometimes I’d roll a pair of dice, and heck, sometimes I chose whichever was closest to a coffee stain. That list was my life, and my life was in that list. But as the years passed, and as my skin began spotting its signs of age, my list dwindled. After learning and living and exploring, from hiking mountains to stone skipping at frozen lakes, I was finding less and less things to do. I was down to the wires, left with the procrastinated hobbies. I could feel my blood run colder and colder every time I looked to see another check on the list, another task already done and passed, it’s momentum gone forever. I tried repeating old tasks. I went back to cooking- the venture that started this all. But once the spark left my eyes it could never return.

I finished off my glorious escapades with tree shaping, lollypop tasting, even something called extreme ironing (Seriously, look it up). As my list fell to the last few, I looked towards the one hobby I had saved for last. Fire starting. I watched the video and learned the techniques, bought the proper materials, and started fires from scratch. I started small, little bonfires in my driveway, and worked my way up. Once I felt confident, I went camping (a hobby I had surpassed years ago) at one of my favorite destination spots (a spot where I did my rock collecting, rebuilt some of my chakras, and took up bird watching) and lit a fire. It was a beautiful fire, and all the passion I had built up for this hobby went into it. I knew as the flames died down, so would my love for fire-building, but at this time the flames were lively and grand. I took my famed list in my hands, the fire twinkled and illuminated my glossy eyes, and threw the list in. I watched as the flames tore at its corners, blackened them at the same time as it blackened my heart. I was watching my entire life burn away in the fire. Everything I had lived for and done in the last few years, now over. On fire. Turned to ashes. Gone. I had no idea what was to come of my life next. Just as the last of my flour recipe was turning into an ‘ash recipe’, an unexpected wind blew through the trees. I had been so busy watching my life burn up, I didn’t even notice the flames now growing nearly the height I stood at. The wind blew flickering remnants over as it graced the arm of some nearby shrubbery. I tried grabbing some blankets, some of the water bottles I packed away with me, but the fire kept dancing it’s groove into the dark green pines. It danced the tango and climbed up, soon cheating on the bush with a spindly, towering spruce tree. The fire climbed and climbed, burned away at the tall tree. I stared up at it, mostly in shock at what I had just destroyed. But also, a little in awe at what I had just created .

There, as I stood, petrified and frozen, my silhouette now darkened by the tall tree housed in flames, I laughed. I laughed because the damndest thought had just dropped on my brain, as if one of the floating embers carried an idea and singed its way through my mind. There are more hobbies out there. That’s it. That’s it! I hadn’t done everything, only the normal hobbies, the sane hobbies. There were more, and it started with pyromancy. As that tree flew into fire, I knew I could create more. I started small fires around neighborhoods, usually in open public trash cans. Once I lit a mailbox on fire. Then, a house. It was abandoned, on the corner of an empty street. Nobody would get hurt, and I figured it’d be a great way to say goodbye to this new hobby. And hello to the next. I went to the store the next day to begin. I picked up small, cheap items- and stealthily stored them in my pockets before leaving. I worked my way through aisles, shoplifting more and more expensive things. I almost got caught once or twice, but with all the cameras, I realized hardly anyone attempts to pick things off shelves anymore. Nobody knows that nobody watches those cameras though. Shoplifting soon turned to pickpocketing, which soon turned into muggings (not my proudest, I’ll be honest), which evolved into robberies.

I should stop for a second. You have to understand. My intention wasn’t to hurt anyone. I didn’t find joy out of being a criminal, and it wasn’t like an F YOU! To the system. It was simply my continuation of living. Hobbies were the only thing that I found worthwhile in my life. When I ran through them all, I genuinely thought my life was over. Genuinely. As in, I didn’t buy groceries that week- genuine. So when I found something I could grasp onto, something new, another light to fill my eyes with life before it vanishes, I had to grab onto it. And that’s what led into last night.

I had gone through my run of, let’s say “spicier” hobbies. From home invasions to underground pokerships, I was once again running out of things on my ‘list’. My… paprika list. So when it came down to closing time, I had made my decision. I was ready for the ultimate “hobby”, the spiciest fleck out of the whole spice jar. The ‘M’ word.

I guess you could argue that’s not really a hobby, but in my mind anything could turn into a hobby. And for some people, some few socio/psychopathic individuals, it was technically a hobby. Again, at this point I’m so far down the spice jar I can no longer see light. It was hard to breath and I was desperate for my next venture. So I finally settled on the person. I made sure it was someone, erhm, I didn’t verify as redeemable. Someone I met in the pokerships, someone who told us in private terrible things he did (he was threatening us to fold, but unlike his hand, I know the things he was telling us weren’t lies. If he was bluffing he would begin dry swallowing- his tell). This was someone who founds hobbies in things I would never allow myself to reach. No matter how far down the spice jar I fell, I’d rather suffocate than stoop to his levels.

Plus, he had no friends nor family, no one to miss him. I knew where he lived and what he had done, so he was an easy target.

So, detective, as I sit across from you while you read this letter, one that I hope I was brave enough to walk through those doors and hand you- I wish to make this my confession. I was the individual who enacted whatever horrors you found through those doors last night, and I am the one to blame for. I write this letter in hopes of explaining why I did what I had done. What sort of dark, desperate path my life took to lead me to the tainted ‘M’ word. I don’t think you’ll understand, and I wish I knew what kind of face I’ll be reading from you as your eyes near the end of this letter. But that is why I did it, and I’m ready to plead guilty to all crimes. I confess. And if I may add one last thing to this note, detective. I'm excited to see what new hobbies imprisonment will bring me.