The Pegasus sky is the color of Tim Burton dreams, the texture of crunchy nightmares. This makes me happy. A trio of dragons fly by, and I stare at the girl astride the smallest of the three. She doesn’t acknowledge me. This also makes me happy. The two angels that accompany me are snorting cocaine and imploring me to “do my duty.” This makes me unhappy. I stare at the computer screen, unsure of where to go next. I have a main theme: redemption. Which may or may not be the right theme. The angels symbolize something or other. Maybe I need some sort of motif. I hear they’re all the rage right now. The sky could be a metaphor for something important, like desires or regrets or some shit like that. Metaphors are important. Ask any English teacher. Lydia doesn’t understand the title. Good. That’s the point (I tell myself). I want the reader to see what they want to see (I continue to tell myself). I sure as hell don’t have any idea what it means. I just like the title. I have no idea where to go from here, but I’m in love with the opening paragraph. The possibilities are endless. I’m giving myself several built-in Dei ex machina to work with. A cheap trick, I know, but needs must. I write, but I’m not a real writer any longer. Lydia disagrees, but she’s my wife and she loves me, so she feels justified in lying to me to make me feel better. I don’t mind that – most of the time. I mean, it’s evidence of love. Isn’t it? Has to be. She also lets me drink whiskey on the front porch while I write, not caring what the neighbors think. More evidence of love. Spare my feelings but not my liver. My daughter calls it enabling. Semantics. We don’t agree to disagree. We just disagree. I start again, despite my love for the title and the first paragraph. I’m thinking a love story might be a good second novel. Everyone likes romances, right?                                                       ************** I fell in love with “The Pegasus Sky,” and, by proxy, with its author. When I finally met her, I was taken aback. The novel, irreverent and funny, contrasted starkly with the author. She wore a severe countenance, and she was all sharp angles and hardness. I imagined that having sex with her would be like fucking a folding lawn chair. She drank champagne demurely, as if she wanted the world to know that she wasn’t an alcoholic like her father. She dressed demurely as well, just to let everyone know that she wasn’t a slut like her mother. Everything about her screamed irreproachable and unapproachable, an unassailable vessel that would never set sail beyond the pages of her writings. And then she smiled at me. A decade of living dangerously began with a flash of white teeth and curved lips. Well…no. Not happening. I’m barely able to understand why my wife stays with me, let alone creating a love story – however tenuous – between fictional characters. I’m thinking of that original first paragraph, the one that was over a decade in the making. The fantasy genre seems doable (I like dragons), but I can’t see my way through it. Like this pitiful love tale, there just doesn’t seem to be any real fodder. I blame my knowledge of literature and my job (which I don’t consider to be a career) for this because it’s easier than blaming myself. Teaching at a private university deep in the heart of Texas has taken away much of my writing time. I know it’s a bullshit excuse but I use it anyway. The fact is, I’m blocked. I know all the terms. Deus ex machina. Roman á clef . Synecdoche. Dénouement . Can’t say that it helps me much, except when marking papers. I throw out a few of these terms and the students think I’m a genius. They never argue over a grade. I was the same way when I was a student. The thing is, I start obsessing over everything. The terms – and there seems to be a billion of them – are always nagging at me. Am I using allegory? Do I have a proper inciting incident? What about dissonance, consonance, assonance. All of the ance s.  And I used the word fuck in the previous paragraph, and that’s a no-no, unless you’re J.D. Salinger or Chuck Palahniuk. Real writers. I lean back and sigh. I light a cigarette. T.S. Elliot and Hunter S. Thompson smoked when they wrote. So did William S. Burroughs, but he usually smoked weed laced with opium. Why am I thinking of authors that use their middle initials, and why is that initial S? My middle initial is R. Lydia’s middle initial is S. Maybe she should be writing my second book. I watch the neighbors go by, walking their dogs – or the dogs walking the neighbors, I’m not sure which – chatting amicably and parting as if they are lifelong friends. Hell, maybe they are. The neighborhood is devoid of kids right now because of school, but full of babies and their mothers, still pudgy from the pregnancy. Lydia knows which ones will never get their girlish figures back and which ones will hit the gym and deprive themselves of carbs so they can fit into their high school jeans again. She’s never wrong about these types of things. I tell myself I’m not procrastinating, but I know I am. A real writer would just get down to it. I bet Stephen King doesn’t sit on his front porch and hypothesize about his neighbors’ fat asses and irritating pets. Ok. WWJDD. What would Joan Didion do? Play it as it Lays? Slouch towards Bethlehem? LOLOL Good one, right? I put out my cigarette and get back to it. Horror sounds good. The title is terrific, one of my best, so I’m not giving up on that. Yeah, horror would fit the title.                                                         ************** I smell his fetid breath, feel his sweaty hands running over my body. The room is dark, but not so dark that I can’t make out the silhouette of the man who had chained me to a cold steel table. He whispers something about a Pegasus sky. It makes no sense, and I’m too terrified to care. I scream and scream, but my kidnaper just laughs. That’s when I spot the chainsaw. I’m fucked. First-person POV. That works, but she’s gotta live, right? If I go third-person omniscient, she can die horribly and then…then I have to find a different hero. What kind of hero? A gritty, street-wise woman? Tough cop? Nerdy psychological man (or woman. Shit. Another decision to make.) who sees deeply into the manifold evils of the human heart? It’s all very trite. Maybe I can get that author woman from the previous paragraph and somehow use her. I like her! My mind wanders again. Maybe I can incorporate dragons, the author woman, and a psychology nerd into one tale. Sure. And maybe Lydia will suddenly learn to cook some decent shrimp and grits. I shouldn’t complain. She’s from Minnesota, so shrimp and grits aren’t treated with the proper respect in that part of the country. She’s a hell of a graphic designer, though. She did the design for my book; that’s how I met her. She was so cute and so enamored of my novel. Said it was the best book she had ever read this side of Bleak House . She’s got a thing for plain-looking, underdog heroines. Dickens does underdogs well. The brilliant fucker. There I go again. The no-no word. Maybe if I stop thinking it, I’ll stop writing it. The thing is, I used it 231 times in The First American Angel . My editor/agent counted. Actually, I think he used a word processing feature to find out how many times I used the no-no word. That gave him plenty of time to harangue me about writing another book. He’s retired now, but the fucker would be happy to know that I’m working on it. Shit! Will no one rid me of this turbulent word? A real horror story should contain some sort of supernatural element. A killer that won’t die. A ritual that imbues otherworldly powers upon the evildoer. I mean, it may be trite and all, but people buy that shit, right? Why, I have no idea. It isn’t real literature. Proust and his recollection of madeleines is real writing, but no one reads him any longer. Everyone wants to read about hipster vampires and pretty-boy werewolves. Ughh! Or wizards at school. Or some woman solving murders in her spare time, between baking whatever bakers bake. The First American Angel made me rich. Well, rich-ish. Lydia and I got married, bought a house in a decent area of San Antonio, and immediately produced a child. Lydia was certain that it happened in the kitchen. I believe her because I made shrimp and grits for us that particular night. There’s real magic in shellfish and dried dent corn. Lydia wanted to name our daughter Desdemona. I plumped for Madison. We compromised and named her Desdemona. Everyone calls her Des. Des left for college last month. She told Lydia to “kick dad in the nuts every day until he gets another book published.” I think my daughter loves me, but she’s starting to sound like my new agent. Don’t get me wrong. I write stuff. Articles for literary magazines. I do book reviews for several newspapers. Reader’s Digest publishes me twice a year. But that isn’t genuine writing. The First American Angel was real writing, and I was a real writer. Full stop. I have Gabriel García Márquez to thank for my inspiration. Magical realism and all that. The Buendía family. Allegorical tale of man’s origin. I mean, 100 Years of Solitude had it all. But where do you go after writing your magnum opus ? Maybe I need to go Southern Gothic. Flannery O’Connor and Carson McCullers made it respectable, all that post-Civil War depression and violence. Wise Blood never got the credit it deserved. The Heart is a Lonely Hunter has been forgotten. Maybe it’s time to revive this genre, shake it up, give it a nip and a tuck, get it a little black dress and take it out for a night on the town. Uglier girls have made it to the ball, right?                                                         ************** Jenny hauled the last bucket of water for the day back to the house. She needed it for her baby and her dead mother. She would finish digging the grave tomorrow, before it got too hot and before mamma started to stink. Pegasus Sky gurgled happily, not caring that she lay next to a dead woman. Jenny fed her baby and cleaned her mother before laying down to sleep next to them. She wouldn’t be hearing her mother snore any longer, or hear her cry out for her husband. The war hadn’t taken him, but the pneumonia had. Jenny had dug that grave as well. As long as she didn’t have to dig a hole for Pegasus, she’d be fine. I need some grotesque to come along and insert himself into Jenny’s life. Evil grotesque or Godly grotesque? I need some Catholic undertones. That should be easy. I teach at a fucking Catholic university, right? You should see the campus. Mother Mary all over the place, smiling beatifically at you as you pass. I wonder what the good mother thought of Flannery and Carson. I don’t think I can do southern gothic. I’ve written one paragraph and I already want to slit my wrists. That’s sacrilegious. The Brothers on campus would be shocked if they heard me voice that particular thought. I like the Brothers. They day drink, and all four of them have a two-pack-a-day habit. All of them offer solid, practical advice about teaching, though they hadn’t taught in decades. Best of all, they’re liberal with sharing their whiskey with me. It’s expensive stuff, too. I’m thinking maybe I’m like the Brothers. I did my thing with that one novel. Maybe I should just drink good whiskey, smoke two packs a day, and sit around doing a whole lot of nothing. They seem pretty happy. However. However, I’m not. Happy, that is. I’m anxious and skittish and unsettled. I’ve been this way for twenty years. Now I’m desperate. I owe it to Lydia and Des to write another book. I just don’t know how. I make a deal with the devil. Ok, that’s a little too dramatic. I make a deal with Des.                                                       ************** I left the mountain after grandpa died, taking little with me, for there was little to take. I would go on to kill seventy-three men, all bad. I would return to the mountain in due time, the prodigal son who wasn’t a son at all but a daughter. This is how it all happened. I look at Des and shake my head. “How the hell am I supposed to work with that?” She gives me that look. The one her mother gives me when she’s exasperated with me but doesn’t want to unleash a verbal assault on my ass. “You just do it. We made a deal.” I scratch my beard. Lydia doesn’t like my beard, but Des thinks it makes me look professorial. “And stop drinking my whiskey. You’re not even twenty-one yet.” Des defies me. She pours out two fingers and mixes it with carbonated water. Lightweight. “Get to it, old man.” So I do. I left during a Pegasus sky. That’s a term only us mountain people know. When eagles are flying closer to the ground than normal, it means they spotted a small rabbit or a rattlesnake. Since it was midday, it had to be a rattlesnake. Step careful and step quiet, grandpa used to say. I shove the computer back to Des. She reads it and nods. “You’ve been obsessing over this stupid phrase for years and now, suddenly, you explain it. What gives?” I don’t know what to say to her, so I shrug. Ok, I do know how to explain it, but I won’t. Denial of one’s faults is part of the human condition. I could tell her that but she’d eye-roll me, just like her mother does. “Oh! I get it! There’s always a way to spot evil if you know the signs. Since this bad-ass chick is gonna kill all these men, she must know what to look for. That’s kind of brilliant.” “Yep.” No need to brag. I can do that later. I have these rules that grandpa taught me. Rule #11 says that when you kill, you kill quick and you kill sure. Now, I only killed rabbit and deer and squirrel and rattlesnake before I went down the mountain, but that son-of-a-bitch Russel treated me real bad so he had to be killed. “Where the hell are you going with this?” I had to ask, right? “You write your paragraphs and I’ll write mine.” She takes another sip of whiskey, just to piss me off. She succeeded. “What did he do that was so bad?” “Maybe he raped her.” Des says this matter of factly, which saddens me. It’s a reality in her world, this sort of shit. I wish I could protect her, but I can’t. Not from everything. We trade more paragraphs, arguing about each other’s work along the way. Thrust and parry. Remark and retort. Lydia watches us and smiles. Why is she so happy about Des and me arguing? The woman is clearly insane. It had to happen eventually, living with me. It took me a few months to get it, but I got it. Keeping it to myself, though.                                                   ************** Pegasus Sky became a runaway best seller. Des used the pen name Olivia du Mugne because she admired the works of Daphne du Maurier. I argued for Lillith Longtree. Something reminiscent of the old west, and very American. We compromised and used the name Olivia du Mugne. The novel made her rich. Not just rich-ish, but fuck-you rich. Ironically, we never used the word fuck in Pegasus Sky . We now write novels together, using that stupid pen name and churning out books that people snap up by the millions. We argue about every paragraph. She usually wins. I’m not a real writer, after all, and she’s my daughter. So it goes.


You look concerned, watching through the window for hours now, and more anxious than normal. That could only mean that you saw the news. It is there, isn’t it? Terrible news, absolutely, but everything would be okay, you know that. You had been planning it for so long, that there were no mistakes. You made sure of that, there would be no problem. Could you stop? Why are you packing your clothes? Improvising in this kind of conditions is not good. You do not have a backup plan, when did you decide this? Was it today? After reading the news? You were certain that you would not be discovered, ever. This was going to reach the news any time, and it is fine, you do not need to rush. So, you are thinking of running away now. Is this for real? Is that what would solve all your problems? Perhaps the fact of you gone makes you look even guiltier. On the other hand, you should not feel bad, he totally deserved it, but that is not enough in a trial, so, okay, it is completely understandable that getting the hell out of here should be the best choice, but what if it isn’t? Giving up life is never easy, that means starting over, starting from scratch, at least take some time to figure things out in a better way, make arrangements, and sell some stuff to have money… hey! Don´t look away! Consider it, at least, for your own sake. Stop! Do not cross that door, please. Think! Who saw you? Who could know about this? They will never find any evidence that links you to that man, so, why leaving? Just play dead, you know? Keep on with your life as customary, no one has to know, no one will ever know. Case closed. Period. Put that suitcase on the ground; you are not going anywhere, okay? Have some dinner, and go to bed. Just relax; do you believe that you would be still here if they know you did it? That door, that very same door would be on the floor right now if they had a clue. Yes, the fair thing to do is facing consequences and paying for what you did, but this is your life, and you did what you had to do to protect it! For sure, you have no regrets about it, you are just afraid of being caught. That is reasonable, however, frightened people use to act mindlessly and erratically and end up messing everything up, it is like returning to a crime scene, that is exactly how people are caught. Calm down, analyze every detail of that night, and really think if you could be associated to that crime. … There are not proofs, you have an alibi, nobody saw you there, you are the only one who knows, and you are the only one who can take you down. So, what is it going to be? What else could it take to convince you? Not a step further, please! Just stop already! This situation is ridiculous. You are ridiculous! You are safe here; there is no way someone ever finds out. Look at you, you are pale, you are trembling. You are hesitating. Why are you hesitating? Please stay! Please close that door! What are you doing? Don’t… … Okay, you know what? Get out! Flee! As you constantly do! My god… Such a stubborn. And stupid! You are going to be the end of yourself, don’t listen, and just do what you want then… get out… get out! Wow! Leaving town, what a great idea! Not suspicious at all! Fool! For Christ’s sake… Hey! Hey idiot! Look back, nobody is chasing you and nobody is trying to stop you from leaving town either, that is just pathetic. Could someone be more alone? Could someone be more insignificant? That’s right, you are completely invisible, so invisible that they would never know you did it, you know you will never see a day in jail, that is absolutely guaranteed, but go ahead and mess it up like everything you do. Such a pathetic loser. … … Wait… Come back. Sorry… Please come back, let’s drink some water. Sorry! You are not a loser, you are okay, you are normal… you are not insignificant, sorry, really! But please listen, whatever you do, escaping is not an option. That would put you right in the spot. Here is what you are going to do: you will continue living your life like nothing out of the ordinary had happened, keep going to work, keep the same routine, you are going to be fine, nobody suspects anything. He sure had some enemies, a lot of people despised him, it could have been anyone! And nobody saw the two of you together, you were very careful, the plan worked, right? You were very meticulous; they will not find that out. Do you see? You are safe, here. Don’t cry. Just enter the house, leave that suitcase. That’s right, come inside. Breathe! Come on, inhale, exhale, that’s right. You are calm, you have to be calm. Breathe… Let’s unpack. Eat the sandwich. You have been so worried all day that you have not even eaten anything. Is it good? Just as you like it. It is simple to know what you are thinking at this time, and it is funny, you know? You got exasperated today that it had become news, but not the day it happened… Do you see? You are not repented, you only fear of being locked. You fear the consequences but you don’t fear the deed, you don’t fear yourself, what you are capable of, and it is impossible to escape from it. Is it ironic?

It is getting exhausting that you always go through the same process. This was not the first time, and it won’t be the last. Just accept who you are, it would make things easier. Finish your meal and go to bed. Rest. Sleep tight.


Do You Believe? Arriving early for a group therapy appointment in a beautiful home on Lake Promenade, I park my car and decide to meander across a grassy patch to the water’s edge. The early evening sun caresses my shoulders as I gaze at the distant sailboats bobbing up and down on Lake Ontario. Gentle waves kiss shoreline rocks. My grief is validated, soothed, its weight somewhat lightened by a soaring seagull.            Oh, how I miss my Peter. He is absent, stolen by prostate cancer on April 15, 2012, at the age of sixty-two. I had believed we’d have more time for our karaoke dates, our mutual love of movies and food, our shared memories, and the support we provided one another when we worried about our only adult child, a son we both loved fiercely. Russell suffered with addiction and we agonized, rescued, detached, rescued yet again, and clung to each other in the midst of our powerlessness.            Now who do I lean on? Bereft, an abandoned single parent, I struggle with ongoing crises, feeling so alone.            Inhaling deeply, I turn to head back across the fresh emerald-green field toward the house where I will find some solace. It is my safe space to grieve.            Out of nowhere, a gentle male voice whispers, “If you don’t look too hard, you’ll find them.”            Find what? I stop in my tracks to look around at the empty space surrounding me. For absolutely no conscious reason, I look down at my feet, and right there, nestled next to my right sandal, are three four-leaf-clovers. I stoop in wonder, gently releasing these treasures from the soil. As I do, I flash back to my childhood, hiking with my father through High Park, occasionally squealing with delight when he spots a lucky charm and hands it to me.            I behold my three treasures. One is big, the second a medium size, the third smaller. I recall the days when Russell was a small boy and I held such high hopes for our family-of-three.            I rush into the therapy group session to show off my beautiful souvenirs, omitting the part about hearing a distinct message in my left ear. Grief can play tricks with the imagination.            Later, when I show them to my son, he cries out and declares, “They’re from Dad!” His intense mourning and escape into alcohol and drugs are a serrated knife sawing at my heart, so I refrain from dismissing my experience as mind trickery, and open my heart to possibility. I place the clovers on a white card, write WE ARE FAMILY at the top, record the date, laminate the keepsake, and put it on my fridge.            A few days later, I Google four-leaf-clovers and learn that they sometimes grow in clusters. There’s my explanation. I return to the little field and begin my hunt. To both my disappointment and, at the same time, secret elation, there are none to be found.            For the next five and a half years, I witness my son’s battle as he moves from utter despair, to surrender, to glimmers of hope in recovery, only to cycle back down into the fierce jaws of addiction.            On November 8, 2019, I come home to a door slightly ajar. The kitchen tap has been left on. There is silence when I call out. A giant centipede of terror skitters up my spine.            I gallop down the hall and find Russell lying face down. Blood trickles from his mouth, and for a crazy moment, I worry about his teeth. His teeth, for God's Sake! Reality breaks through, and I hear a distant howling as I race for the Naloxone kit and try to roll him over. He is dead weight. I call 911 and am told to get a neighbor, who helps me turn my boy over and I scream because I am too late and he has turned blue. My shrieks echo the cries of almost four decades ago during child labor.            Paramedics and police arrive. I hear the sound of the zipper on the body-bag, the heavy footfalls as they carry my baby away from me hours later, after the coroner has arrived in the early, early morning. I am flat-lined, screamed-out, for now.            Weeks later, the voice of the coroner, a faraway foghorn, emerges from the density of a grey cloud to tell me my boy has died of a fentanyl overdose.            I trudge through molasses as I try to resume routines. I have to take care of my son’s old and sick pussycat. As I pay at the counter of the pet store, I see three dimes at my feet. I am compelled to stoop over and pocket them. Two days later, a parking machine that accepts only loonies and toonies, spits out a dime. For the next month, my bathroom light flickers and hisses, like radio static. Eventually, I have to put my son’s cat to sleep when he can no longer eat or walk. After that, the bathroom light returns to normal.            Time stretches toward tomorrows as the grief attacks ever so gradually ease. In February of 2020, during a blizzard, I hear robins singing outside my kitchen window. Impossible! I peer outside to see three of them, perched on a nearby roof, fat and puffed out, drizzled in snowflakes. I love that they have visited, but worry about their survival. Robins have always been a special source of joy in early spring, and I marvel at this unusual sighting.            A "Doubting Thomasina" and One Who Believes battle within me. So, sixteen months after my son’s death, I arrange to have a reading done by a well-known psychic. He will phone me long-distance from thousands of miles away on the prearranged date.            The day arrives. I am anxious as I hear that my parents, my husband and my son are coming through. Their deaths are described with startling accuracy.            “Your son passed very suddenly. It was an accident. He didn’t feel pain. He is telling me he never meant to hurt you. It was a slip. I see him riding on the back of a dragon. He is laughing. Does this mean anything to you?”            I explain the phrase “chasing the dragon.” Opiate addicts use it to describe the horrors of withdrawal and the relentless craving for more. The psychic has never heard this expression. In a moment of clarity, I realize my son is no longer chasing or trying to slay the dragon. He is at peace.            “Now, I am being shown a flock of robins,” the psychic continues. I feel my heart open like a flower.            “Does the number fourteen mean anything?” he asks. “I am being shown this number over and over.” I draw a blank.            “What’s with the three four-leaf clovers?” he suddenly queries. I gasp. Remnants of disbelief dissipate like fallen leaves in late autumn. I tell him my story. He laughs and says, “Bingo!” The next morning, after a sleepless night of rumination about the number fourteen, I rush to look at my good-luck charm on the fridge. The date I had written on the card was June 4, 2014.            Life is full of mysteries. For myself, I have come to believe. Do you? The following is a poem dedicated to my son: The Flying Dragon Russell rides a dragon-beast. It’s big and green and scaly. He laughs because his newfound pet, Isn’t one bit scary. Instead of breathing deadly flames, This would-be monster sings, Of winning awesome video games, And other happy things. Like chocolate bars and candy-canes, Or swimming in a pool. Or jumping up and down in puddles, Acting like a fool. “You’ll never need to chase me. Climb aboard and take a ride. I’ll carry you above the clouds, And always be your Guide.”


This story is Fan Fiction even though I have used none of the characters and only one God from Rick Riordan's "Percy Jackson and the Olympians" Universe. There is at least one barely veiled reference to Camp Half-Blood and it's Director Dionysus. Enjoy the thrill of the Gods once more! And though it is only incidental and of no bearing to the story, the Protagonist is Non-Binary. =============================================== Robin sat, balanced on the top of the bus stop bench, and watched the water slowly ooze out of and around the concrete sidewalk. They smiled a little as it flowed around the feet of their perch and tried to pile up around the iron to reach up to where they sat. One of the worst things about being a mortal demigod was when you genetically picked up traits from the divine half of your DNA. As a child of the Greek God Poseidon, water loved Robin! It followed them everywhere. Slowly, inexorbitantly it would creep, flow, seep, ooze, or otherwise follow their very footsteps along the ground, loving every contact! "This wouldn't be so bad," they thought, "If it ever stopped for five minutes." Robin took advantage of the distraction the iron bench legs were giving the rising water and jumped onto the seats, ran a step, and launched themselves up to the brick retaining wall running beside the street. They had become an expert at parkour long before it had gotten a name and publicity! A few blocks spent leaping from stone to stone and quickly across the streets got them much closer to Tibbit's Grocery. As always happened when they got too near the ocean, the humidity increased as the droplets congealed right out of the air around them. Rain was bearable but there were no barriers against condensation! That was why it had been such a disaster the time they had tried to go visit kin and seek their help. Poseidon had told Robin of a half brother living at a special camp for demigod youth in New York. When they arrived, the Atlantic Ocean was so overjoyed to have them close that it rained, and seeped up, and waves rolled in till the camp was flooded by Suppertime and Dionysus had made Robin leave. Robin finally slowed their erratic sprint a half a block from the front of their favorite Mom and Pop general store. The Tibbits had run a store of some sort here for generations and they were very fond of the family. Even when Robin was traveling abroad they managed to make it here every year on Father's Day. Yes, Robin had a good relationship with their father. Robin was aware that Poseidon had many children he rarely if ever even acknowledged and it made a warm, comforting feeling in their heart despite the rain. Sure of at least five minutes before the water started gathering up out front of the store, Robin sauntered through the glass front door and gave a wide smile to the old man behind the counter. "Happy Father's Day, Mr. Tibbit. Fine weather we seem to be having today!" "It surely is," the old man responded. "It hasn't rained here in weeks and we were all getting a little parched. How you swimming along?" "Oh, about the usual; staying one step ahead of all my troubles! Can you get me a case of your best Belgian lager, please?" "So you and your Pa still keeping the tradition up, huh?" He smiled fondly at Robin to show it was affection and not nosiness that made him ask. Robin smiled back and winked. "Well that was too interesting a day to forget. It's always worth it to come down and spend an evening with the Old Man!" They dropped a generous handful of bills on the counter and hoisted the case of brown-glassed bottles to their shoulder. "I may be hanging around a while, Mr. Tibbit. See you again real soon!" and they were out the door and sloshing through no more than a few millimeters of water beginning to flow across the street. Encumbered a bit by the weight and bulk of the box they carried, it would be more difficult to keep ahead of the water as they made their way, of all places, down to an old ramshackle beach house on the coast a half mile out of town! Sitting their load on another retaining wall Robin jumped up on it themselves and slipped out of the backpack. Pulling a thin nearly meter long board out of the pack, they then put the case of beer back in and zipped it shut. They stood, placing the pack once more on their back and smiled at yet another memory of the year's journeys they were eager to tell their Father about tonight! Robin had been part of an expedition climbing Everest and K2 to clean up trash and recover the bodies of a couple of unfortunate mountaineers. At first they were delighted with how the water had often frozen solid long before it got anywhere near them. The snow around Robin was solid and could not move. Even what condensed from the breath of the folks in the climbing party froze and fell before reaching where they stood. At this altitude and temperature there was so little humidity they had been enjoying the sight of clear skies immensely! As the flow of water building up grew, Robin lept off the wall and dropped the board under their feet to hit the water surfer style. Their balance was good and it was with practiced ease Robin used the forward push of the water chasing from behind to surf the leading edge of the wave! These were good moments when the adrenaline was high and the game was afoot! The little town itself sat at the top of a rise of land which is why it had managed to survive on the coast for so long. This made it very easy for gravity to help Robin beat their pursuit and they pulled a wide right turn onto the beginning of the coast highway. Robin laughed as they picked up speed at someone in a lorry cursing them out for being so reckless in the intersection! In the lowering light Robin could see the waves out in the ocean to their left were beginning to increase in size already. It was going to be a close thing to get to the safety of Poseidon's beach house before the road was completely flooded over! They squatted a little lower on their mini surf board more as wishful thinking than actually decreasing the wind resistance by an erg. Just as they got to the place where the path cut off up to the house Robin flipped sideways and shoved the board into the mounting wave ahead and shot up and over its crest to land with practiced grace on the open veranda floor! Placing their short board in its wall rack, Robin slipped their backpack off and sat it on the small table beside an antique bottled drinks dispenser. Taking the case out of the pack, they quickly loaded the metal racks inside the cooler with twenty-two of the clinking brown bottles. Robin then packed the remaining beers over to a side table with two chairs and put them in an ice bowl conveniently and freshly set out. They turned and leaned against the rail looking out over the ocean. The view always amazed Robin. Here the waves were commanded to stay in their place and the rain had been ordered to fall only at night. Robin always wondered what power went into this one little house where the water could not seep freely in. Though the illusion made it seem old and unkempt, they saw through that glamour to the plain but sturdy construction. It had been a gift to Robin from their father after the fiasco at the demigod camp. Here they could stop. Here they could relax for a good night's sleep without worry that the water would overcome them and literally love them to death. It was but the matter of moments before Robin saw a disturbance in the waves and a gigantic pillar of water began to rise behind the breakers. It always took Robin's breath away in amazement as the huge humanoid figure emerged from the roiling waters and began to shrink, morphing as it came, until there was finally the figure of an old man, dressed in well-worn and slightly grubby rain gear, stepping foot on the land and striding up the beach to the house. Shaking off the rain gear and hanging it on a convenient hook by the door, Poseidon gathered Robin up in a firm and loving hug. "Oh, welcome home child, welcome home!" It always fascinated Robin that Poseidon manifested to them as several inches shorter than they were. "Happy Father's Day, Dad!" Breaking off the embrace with an extra tight hug Robin offered one of the brown bottles to their Divine parent. "Here's to Beer!" Robin gave the familiar traditional toast as they flicked off the bottle caps and chinked the necks together. "Here's to Beer!" the old man replied and they threw back their heads and each took a hearty swig!


“Do you think you’ll have kids?” “Ugh and potentially turn into my mom? Probably, nah.” “I mean, you turned out pretty okay.” “That’s still TBD. The effects of forced piano lessons, tutoring, and the deprivation of a social life remain to be seen,” Monica said flatly, accepting her fate. Her mother’s strict control over her life was one of the reasons they were here at Marsling MRT station where Monica could conceivably be perennially “on her way home.” “Okay, don’t judge.” “What?” Sandy’s tone turned confessional, “Once I had a thought that I would have five kids.” “Five?!” “Yeah,” Sandy confirmed with all the confidence of a young woman who had yet to wrap her head around the process of child birthing and rearing. “So, like, the eldest is always in their own category, pseudo-parent and such, kind of close but not close to everyone. And then the younger siblings can pair off so that everyone has a friend in the family.” Monica guffawed, and Sandy smiled back good-naturedly. “That’s bullshit,” Monica countered before softening. “More siblings does not equal less loneliness.” “Coming from someone with no siblings.” “And see?” Nudging Sandy’s arm, Monica smiled, “not lonely.” Sandy smiled too as another train came and left the station. The sun was beginning its descent, turning the sky into a deep orange canvas with the purple of night seeping in at the edges. From her view on the elevated platform, she could see the hawker center across the street start to fill up with the dinner crowd. Men and women claimed tables with little packets of tissue before going to stand in line at their favorite stalls. Drink vendors made their rounds, gripping three to four steins in a single hand without spilling a drop of Tiger Beer. The platform slowly repopulated. Like lemmings, students in uniforms and corporate workers in suits filed neatly off the escalator and into the waiting lines painted onto the floor of the platform. When one line became full, people obediently sought another. There was never a line a person couldn’t join. There was never a wait more than six minutes. Singapore’s orderliness and efficiency could not be beat, and nowhere was that more clear than the mass rapid transit system.

Sandy had watched these lines fill and empty, fill and empty like clockwork for the better part of the last hour, dreading the moment when she would join them. Her school uniform would ensure she blended in seamlessly, just another cog in the machine. “I don’t want to go home yet,” Monica said beside Sandy. They sat on the minimalist block placed in the center of the platform. Whether the block was for sitting or decoration, the girls couldn’t say, but it had become their spot every week when they walked from school to the station.

“Yeah,” Sandy agreed. “But the homework! When will it ever be done?” She melodramatically threw her hands up in the air. “What good is homework anyway? Like, is writing an essay about chapters 12-18 of Moby Dick really going to help me get a job in the future?” Monica, barely out of high school, was already a cynic. “I don’t know, dude. If you ever find yourself on a whaling excursion in the 19th century, you’ll regret not doing your lit homework.”

“Ha. ha. We both know half the class is just going to spark notes the chapter and end up with the same essay anyway.” Sandy grimaced. It was an accurate description of their peers and perhaps that frustrated her more than the educational shortcut itself. Their peers at the international prep school were all ladder climbers and box checkers. Take at least 5 AP classes your junior year? Check. Participate in extracurricular activities? Check? Ensure at least one is a sport, one is an art, one is academic, and one is a charity? Check, check, check, check. Do it all while maintaining a 4.0 grade point average? Check, and thank Spark Notes for the last one.

All the requirements cut them into perfect puzzle pieces, shaped with just the right knobs and sockets to fit in the larger picture of hyper competitive, achievement driven, elite college bound 17 year olds.

It was exhausting. And friends like Monica—practical, naturally intelligent—gnawed at the edges of Sandy’s spirit. For Monica, school was easy. “Ah, yes, the masses who simply regurgitate the thoughts of other people versus the few who strive for original thought.” Which do you want to be? Sandy didn’t ask. Instead, she deflected to her classmate. “Try-hards like Sarah who you know is going to bring up some obscure line in class and completely derail the whole discussion.” Monica laughed, “Exactly! What a suck up!” Sandy laughed too, masking a deep envy of Sarah whose try-hard tendencies had carried her to intellectual success. “Though I’ll give her credit where it’s due,” Monica mused, unknowingly affirming Sandy’s envy, “her point last week really changed my opinion of the chapter.” “Right! Wasn’t it just profound?” Sandy agreed.

Pursing her lips, Monica looked at her sideways. “Sarcasm?” “No, totally serious! I wish I had caught it myself.” The confession hung in the air between the two girls, an admission of effort and failure. The machine of their schooling tolerated neither. Caring was not cool; failure was rare.

But at Marsling MRT station, a place between places, caught between the puzzle of school and the weight of familial responsibilities, caring could be given room to breathe. Sandy and Monica could indulge in girlish crushes, hypothesize about the future, and exchange critiques of everything from their teachers to anime. Here, they allowed themselves to want and demand of the world. Over slurped ramen noodles and crispy pandan waffles, Sandy and Monica passed time as if it were limitless. Mountains of homework ignored, chores forgotten, they chatted as the trains came and went. Each time a train pulled up to the station, the girls’ eyes would meet. In two looks, a question was asked and answered amidst a steady stream of free dialogue. A train approached on Monica’s side of the tracks. The sky had melted from orange to purple, and the street lamps flickered on. The universe was telling them to go home, that their sojourn at the station was bordering irresponsible, that their moms would call soon, worried about them missing dinner.

Sandy’s brain began to list all the homework assignments she had and how long it would take to complete them. 60 pages of history reading, two hours. French exercises, forty-five minutes. Moby Dick essay… “I kind of want another cup noodle,” Monica said. Her invitation tempted Sandy out of her thoughts. “We could get tom yum flavor this time.” “But what about Melville! Who will write essays of his work now?” Monica melodramatically threw her hands up in the air.

Sandy laughed. Monica’s train doors closed and left without her. A new train, Sandy’s train home, approached the station.

Grinning mischievously at Monica, Sandy hedged, “We do have a free period tomorrow.” “And there’s always lunch,” Monica added. They grabbed their bags and descended the escalators for their second pre-dinner dinner. Giggling and giddy, the girls relished in their small act of rebellion, rejoiced in their irresponsibility though they both knew they’d pay for it later exchanging texts at 3am about Melville, the Civil Rights Movement, and the physics problem set due tomorrow.

On the platform above them, the trains came and went.


 When faked psychic powers make room for real ones Mr. Rasool, a fifty-year-old father of a daughter, earned his living as a healer and a fortune teller. He convinced his clients that he owned true psychic powers that could bring them a lot of positive results. He realized them by his prayers and by the participation of his clients to whom he always asked to follow his advice. If his clients didn’t obtain the desired results, he laid the blame on the latter saying that his advice wasn’t well executed. With his fake powers, many of his clients regretted the fees they paid him. If through coincidence, a few of his clients got satisfaction, he made wide publicity of that achievement to nurture his debatable popularity. His wife Anita, an office secretary, was skeptical about his intuitive knowledge. She never discussed this issue with him. As his activity was a source of income for the family, she turned a deaf ear whenever she overheard bad reviews about him.

    Once a lady brought her fifteen -year -old son to Rasool’s place. The teenager’s sleep was significantly disturbed because of repeated daily nightmares. In the mornings, he looked so tired that he was unwilling to go to school. He was examined by a doctor who prescribed him some medicines. Three days had elapsed. The medicines weren’t effective. After noting all details about him, Mr. Rasool talked softly to him.” Don’t worry. I’ll help you my boy to chase away those nightmares. Sit down. I’ll recite some prayers.” He laid his right hand on the boy’s head. He then muttered:” My lord, relieve this innocent boy of his troubled thoughts and bad dreams.” He repeated this sentence ten times. He then took a pinch of ash from a small bottle and put it on a piece of paper. He then folded and handed it to him.  He patted his shoulder and told him that he would surely get back his peaceful sleep. He assured him that if he still had nightmare that night, he should not worry. Gradually they would fade away. When he left Mr. Rasool’s place, he felt confident that he would get back his sleep. On reaching home, he recalled Mr. Rasool’s sentence and his encouraging attitude. At bedtime, he kept the ash under his pillow. He put his trust on it. With this mindset, he got a good, undisturbed sleep. He told his parents about his recovery. The next day, he got ready and went to school.

     Once two ladies came to his place. One of them had a mental problem. She thought that her neighbour, jealous of her, was resorting to evil spirits to torture her mentally and causing her to fall a prey to all kinds of diseases. The medicines prescribed to her by medical doctors couldn’t cure her. So, she turned to Rasool for a relief. After listening to her and to her neighbour, Rasool told her that he would try to do something for her. He let her know that her case was a bit difficult. He would need several sessions to drive away the spirits. In fact, the ladies were told that each session was worth sixty dollars. They agreed for the present one. He asked them to sit in front of him. He told them that he would first try to communicate with the spirits. He brought a few jars containing several spices. Every now and then, he picked up a pinch from each jar and flung it away. He muttered unintelligible words. When he had finished, he explained that he was dealing with the spirits. They were stubborn and they would leave her after two or three more sessions. The ladies paid him and went away. They never went back to him.     Mr. Rasool tried his luck using the internet. He sent e-mails to people telling them that his intuitive knowledge could be of great help to them. He wrote to one guy telling him that he had picked his name at random. He told him that his name was linked to a certain star. That one was casting a good influence upon him. He was destined to receive a big sum of money. But another star was casting a negative spell and could nullify this fortune. The only way to divert the path of that ominous star was through his special prayers. He would offer his help for a meagre sum of forty dollars. He told him not to miss that opportunity.  In this way Rasool lured the credulous people and thus earned a living. In most cases the people felt cheated and their dream was rarely realized. If he did, it was a mere coincidence. His reply to the losers was that the negative forces were too strong to curb the interference of the bad star. If the reply from the treated person was positive, he always told them that a reward from them would be welcome. He thus strove on the credibility and ignorance of the surfers. One Saturday a former client called to inform him that he had won a lottery. He gave credit to his prayers and services. This positive review triggered more e-mails reaching him from people willing either a cure for their diseases or to seize the influence of a good star to become rich. He started having more cases to deal with and his business seemed to expand. He kept intensifying his rituals and prayers and was reaping more positive results. One morning he got a call from a person who had previously informed him that he didn’t have sufficient funds to pay for his surgery. He remembered he had told the latter to wake up at five and to indulge in a two-hour prayer session. He assured the guy that he would maintain his prayer too. The client told Rasool that one of his former clients, a lottery winner, had agreed to handle all his medical expenses. He felt proud that he was no longer cheating people.

  Another client called and gave him good news about his son Rony. The latter didn’t want to go to school because he was bullied. During his visit two days ago, the boy explained that some older classmates used to pass on naughty comments on him after school. They said that he was a weakling and girlish in behavior. Mr. Rasool said: “I see you have a big strength and you are not using it. You can face them and show your mettle. Do it tomorrow. My powers will help you”. Rony reported:” When they started harassing me, I stopped and faced them furiously. This was the first time I did so. They looked confused. One of them came near and gave me a jerk. I punched him hard on the face and he fell headlong. He got up with a bleeding, swollen face. Another one came with his clenched fist. Before he could strike me, I gave him a strong kick. He too fell down. Scared, they took to their heels”. Rony’s father thanked Mr. Rasool saying that people should trust his powers because he made Rony a courageous and confident boy.      Mr. Rasool felt energized by the positive results he got from his clients. He grew confident about himself. That very morning a lady who seemed to be possessed by evil spirits was brought by her husband. She had weird looks. Her husband said that she was displaying that behavior for two days. She had assumed a different voice. She uttered things that were almost unintelligible. He got both of them seated. He closed his eyes and through a series of silent prayers he was as if making a leap into the lady’s mental landscape. He then opened his eyes after about twenty minutes, he then laid his right hand on the lady’s head and prayed. All of a sudden, the lady’s weird looks vanished. Her husband noticed that she was no longer under any bad spell. She asked her husband: “Where are we? Why have we come here? What happened to me?” He explained to her that she wasn’t feeling well. He asked her to thank Mr. Rasool who prayed for her recovery. She did so. They paid his fees and left.  Mr. Rasool was sure that something good had happened to him. He could trust his psychic powers and intuitive knowledge as they were nearing perfection. He was frank with surfers. If his intuition revealed to him that they were not going to win a lottery or to get a rich inheritance or a promotion in their jobs, he would tell the truth. In case he noticed that they would be having health problems in the coming months or years, he didn’t hesitate to tell them. Since his services were genuine, the demand for them went up and his earnings too rose consequently. He thought:” God has given me the gift of practicing real psychic powers. I take the resolve to offer my services free to the handicapped and the poor.”


“Hello there, sir. Would you mind telling me what you are doing at this here Quick-Market?”            “Buying groceries, sir. My wife wants to make a tomato soup and she ran out of bread. She wanted me to get her a loaf. Sourdough, I think, for a toastie-“            “Good to know, sir. And would you mind giving your name?”            “James Watson, sir, and my wife’s is Anna-“            “I don’t actually care about her name right now. I’m here to interview you.”            “You’re from a news station?”            “Yes, hence why I’m standing in front of a camera and am holding a microphone.”            “Oh. I just thought you were one of those hippies.”            “Mr. Watson, sir, hippies went out of style five decades ago.”            “Well I’m sorry. There’s too many of these newfangled trends; I just want my tomato-“            “Anyway, Mr. Watson, sir, if you’re fine with beginning…”            “Yes, we can start.”            Camera ON.            “Hello and welcome to the Herald Town News; my name is Philip Bell, and I am here introducing eyewitness Mr. James Watson. Mr. Watson, sir, why are you here at the QuickShop?”            “To buy a loaf of bread—I thought you didn’t care about my wife-“            Camera OFF.            “Mr. Watson, sir, please just answer the question.”            Camera ON.            “Well, my wife wants to make a pot of soup and toasties but she’s all out of bread, so I came here to get a loaf of sourdough.”            “And tell me, did you notice anything suspicious while you were shopping.”            “Yes, yes, I think I heard a girl screaming.”            “Do you know who this girl is?”            “No, no, I don’t, but I think-”            Camera OFF.            “She’s a toddler. A toddler was screaming.”            “But I’m pretty sure I saw a cashier screaming. It sounded like a cashier.”            “Cashiers don’t have a particular sound, and even if they do, I want you to say it was a toddler.”            Camera ON.            “A toddler was screaming. She’s about two-and-a-half feet tall, I think, so maybe four years old? She could just be small for her age-“            “Thank you, Mr. Watson, sir. And do you happen to know why she was screaming?”            “If you mean the cashier then yes, I think it was something with her boss.”            Camera OFF.            “What is it I told you about the cashier?”            “To not talk about her, I know, but she’s all I remember seeing. There was no toddler.”            “There was, I’m telling you. A toddler was screaming because her mother refused to buy a cookie. Say that, okay?”            Camera ON.            “This little girl wanted a cookie—chocolate-chip, if I recall correctly, or maybe oatmeal—and her mother said no, or else she would spoil her dinner. But the poor girl had her heart set on that cookie and started to cry.”            “Would your children behave this way?”            “I don’t have children.”            “Mr. Watson, sir, do you know any children?”            “Yes, I do. My wife is a teacher-“            “And would these children behave like that young girl?”            “Would they work in a grocery store? No; as my wife says, they’re all brilliant and can aspire to much more-“            Camera OFF.            “Mr. Watson, sir, repeat to me what I told you about the cashier.”            “Ignore her. She doesn’t exist.”            “Precisely. Now, would you mind continuing?”            “Okay.”            Camera ON.            “As I said, Mr. Watson, sir, would your wife’s students behave this way?”            “I do think so. Every now and then, children get cranky: it’s what they do.”            “Would you have behaved this way?”            “I don’t think so, because I know I wouldn’t have gotten any dinner at all.”            “And here enlies the problem, Herald Town. Children these days do not receive the proper punishments, resulting in improper behavior. Mr. James Watson over here did not have a behavioral problem in his youth due to his parents’ firm discipline.”            “It wasn’t my parent’s—it was my aunt.”            Camera OFF.            “Who was it that withheld your dinner, Mr. Watson, sir?”            “My aunt. My parents both got polio, back when it was bad. Before the vaccine.”            “So your aunt raised you, I take it?”            “Yes. My aunt, and sometimes my uncle, but he was at work. Trying to treat polio, actually, so I knew that the more of his time I took, the less help my parents would receive. That was flawed logic, though, because my parents didn’t-“            “Mr. Watson, sir, I’d love to hear your personal history, but not right now. We have a news story to cover. Don’t you think more parents should treat their children like your aunt did to you?”            “No, not really. I was terrified for a few years that we were poor, and when I went to college, I purely stuffed myself, and then I had to go on a weight-loss plan, and now I’m still stressed when my wife runs out of food. That’s why I’m here, buying bread-“            “Wonderful. Well, unfortunately for you, that does not fit with the thread of the story at all, so you’re going to need to say that what your aunt did to you was good after all. Understand?”            “Yes, yes, I think I do.”            Camera ON.            “Mr. Watson, sir, didn’t your aunt’s disciplinary tactics shape you into who you are today?”            “They certainly did. Now I am a completely well-adjusted adult with absolutely no lingering anxiety. In fact, I’d go so far as to call myself exceptionally honest and moral -“            Camera OFF.            “You’re laying it on too thick, Mr. Watson.”            Camera ON.            “Thanks to my aunt, I never threw a tantrum as a child. Not once. Not like that little girl.”            “So I would be correct in my connection that parents these days are too lenient?”            “If you mean the parents of that cashier’s boss, then yes, parents are too lenient. What kind of a boss would make his employee scream?”            Camera OFF.            “Mr. Watson, sir, how well did you do in school?”            “Excuse me?”            “You are obviously lacking in basic comprehension. What part of-“            “I know, I know, don’t talk about the cashier! But I heard her scream and I saw her boss right there with her, and I think it would callous of me to not be suspicious as to why he was making her scream-“            “I literally could not care less.”            Camera ON.            “Well, um…well, I guess parents are a bit too lenient with their kids.”            “ Way too lenient.”            “Yes…way too lenient. They need to be better parents.”            “’Better parents’ is right. How, Mr. Watson, sir, do you think parents can improve?”            “Well…they can improve by disciplining their kids, and to discipline their kids without being lenient…I’d say they out to be stricter. Parents need to be firm, have confidence, and resist being knocked over by anybody else.”


Psst. Hey you. Yes you. I wanted to give you a little sneak peek into my destructive mental health, if you're interested of course. So let me start out simple shall we, by using my schedule as an introduction. It goes as follow... My scheduled appointment with insomnia usually lasts from 12 AM to 3 AM every two weeks. Sometimes my appointments reschedule themselves, I personally think that it's due to the fact that I'm so very guilty of being a procrastination expert. Don't worry my multiple personalities and I were just arranging an intervention for when we're going to address my bad habit of procrastinating (we've been putting it off for 3 months now). Everytime that my insomnia episode happens my brain immediately sprints towards overthinking and turns my emotions up to the maximum. It's so loud music couldn't even block out the noise from the screeching voices of my thoughts. I was usually using this time to stress on myself. Trying to figure out why on God's green earth I couldn't sleep for the life of me because my body was definitely tired yet my mind was chock full of memories. Memories filled with anxiety, depression and a complete overdose of insecurities (for the people who don't understand, that's what you'd call my childhood or just everything up until now). The time that went by when I have my psychotic insomniac moments felt like a jail sentence. I later on took pride in it and made it my special time. Time to have mental breakdowns, cry and slowly gliding into my demons allowing them to eat away what's left of the glacier of this thing people call a heart. Don't get me wrong I do still emote and yes everytime my insomnia kicks in my thoughts immediately scream your name. That's when it starts, our memories start to echo at high frequencies throughout the mountains of my mind's prison. The echoes triggers the avalanche and it's all downhill from there. This particular type of avalanche starts in the mountains of my mind and went down to end up snowing on this organ called the heart. My melting glacier which when melted reveals a stone in the shape of a heart. The melted snow creates excess water allowing the tear ducts to burst like a dam. With all that water from crying myself to sleep and crying in my sleep it's a miracle that I haven't drowned in my own pool of tears. Don't get me wrong I'm an emotional wreck, certified in playing it off like she doesn't have feelings and a professional in crying over the dumbest things. Thing is I don't just cry over anyone or anything...but when you called it quits I was being a baby about it. Yes I know there's no point in crying over someone who doesn't want me, not to mention someone who has as much feeling as a robot. I constantly think of the could haves. I have so many questions I'm burning to ask you, but it's useless because it's not like I'll like the answer. I want to ask you if you ever really saw a future with me, if you ever pictured me as the mother of your children and if you'd stop loving me the moment that hell freezes over? Of course I'm a fool because I know robots like you don't have hearts so you don't really feel anything. Yes I do blame myself for believing you when you claimed to love me. I still wonder if your family would've liked me or if you're mother would've exploded at the site of someone as ugly as me. She'd probably prefer it if you settled down with someone more your type, like a toaster or a smart fridge. I'm so mad at your stupidity, you are the smartest, dumb person I've ever met. I've recited and prepared a speech for you, written from a dark place, spilling mad, twisted feelings, so full of fury from the time you took my love and jerked it around, broke it and threw it away. This speech will have you crying so much you might ruin your software, you might need an oil change. Better yet I'll call the fire department because my words might probably burn a hole through your hardware. I just don't know what it is or how you do it, but everytime I see you...I'm at a lost for words, my mouth doesn't know how to speak brain words. I completely freeze up. I hate that I have to keep reminding myself that it's over and that you're not coming back, you made that very clear. Eventhough my heart is waiting and my brain gets irritated by all the crashing waves and violent floods of the possibly that there could maby. By some miracle be a chance of an "Us". It's time for me to wake up and snap out of this trance. Everyone knows that happily ever after is only how fairytales end and life is definitely not a fairytale, very far from it I might add. You're just so amazing, a handsome face that could make any woman blush. A touch that would turn me to putty in your hands. Soft lips and a kiss that would any princess feel like this was the reason why she was born into this cruel world. Arms that provide comfort and safety. A personality that would have you enchanted and suck you in like a vortex. It's like I'm possessed by the power of you. Unfortunately, my high and mighty act drops dead as soon as my soul feels your presence near me. There are so many things that I want to say to you and pour my soul out to you, but how do I do that without malfunctioning your circuitry. So I'll leave my message in a bottle, open it when you learn the meaning of those rare three little words I told you or when you grow a heart. Take care of yourself my prince charming even though you haven't yet evolved from a toad, I still have faith that our fairytale is far from over.


I eat and that’s me. The cocktail shrimp tastes like wet sticks, and I swallow it. The crackers, tasteless, damned by salt, dry my mouth. Cold and dead things; I eat and that’s normal of me. I stand amongst lifelong friends I’ve seen just today. Murky faces I talk and act to like I adore them. Lapses in normality or common gestures I quickly blame on the vomit tasting Chardonnay. I play and convince others of myself. Therefore, this new self must surely be me. “You know what, Gary? You remind me of one of those gloomy, handsome heroes from the movies.” That’s cause he made himself that way. Radiohead optimism and espresso breathe, big-rimmed glasses and hand-combed hair. Even the dark spots under his eyes were done so well that no one could tell it was makeup. It just seemed on par. “Yes.” Said the Gary actor. He played it cool enough that the cliche was seen as tantalizing. The women at the New Year’s party giggled all the suspicion away he was in for fifteen minutes. And though it was not Gary’s usual role, he knew Gary could’ve been shy sometimes. Late nights out on the balcony, oh, he knew Gary had some mysterious gloom in him. Might as well cover this Gary in all of it for the New Year’s. No one looked surprised at least. “Hey, Gary! Buddy!” He turned to the man calling him to the stage. Immediately he says his lines. “Benny Baby! God, where’d that hairline go?” Benny Jalko misplaced all his hair back in high school, something Gary knew first hand! He watched it fall out starting freshman year. There were many late nights where Gary and Benny discussed this tragedy, some with tears, but now any thought of it all was pure resignation.

They joked about it often these days. Benny took the line without a beat, steering the conversation to the paleness of Gary’s skin. He assures Benny it’s just a new low iron diagnosis he received yesterday. He told Benny about the common symptoms like a bullet list from Google. The Gary actor thought of this lie from a woman he shared an Uber with. “Iron? You’re 6’6'' and ate beef tartare by the pound just last summer!” The Gary actor didn’t inhale an atom. “Well, anyway, how’s that Sarah girl doing? You going on another date?” The Gary actor hoped to hell he couldn’t see his heart stop. Who was Sarah? He thought of all he got from Gary. He searched every bit of information he accumulated of old girlfriends, hookups, even cousins. He shot in the dark, “Sarah Fencor? From sophomore math? Benny smiled like he half-decided to laugh, “Sarah Fencor? The girl who ate kimchi in class? Nah, movie Sarah. ‘Miss Most Beautiful Girl’ Sarah!” Benny would’ve felt the stinking panic coming from his supposed friend if he reached out a hand. He would’ve run screaming if he knew the truth. A thousand Xanax couldn’t make the Gary actor blink. “The Sarah you’ve been talking about everyday. You gotta be-” “I’m joking!” Benny jumped from the outburst. “Weeell, work on your standup. Or at least ditch what you got, ‘cause Miss Beautiful Sarah just came through the door!” ***** Sarah McKellen wasn’t much of a party fan. She hated the genre switches of amateur DJs. She didn’t like having to carry around little plates of finger-food (too much of a pain in the ass). And she sure-as-shit never drank enough to indulge in low inhibitions. She was too high strung to care for relaxing. “Drinking just makes me sleepy!” She shouted to her girlfriend. Whoever had the aux was playing too loud. “I'd rather just stick with water and no hangover.” The girlfriend started to spin a sequence of boy-toys and situationships, but, thank God, her knight in shining armor was across the room. Gary had been a blessing for her. Quiet and kind, Gary never fussed over much and definitely not her. She herself admitted she was set in her ways. More than one boyfriend had enough of their girlfriend preferring her way, always. But Gary didn’t mind, and if so, he made sure to make time where his own passions could be enriched alone. He was so agreeable that even Sarah started to hear her own ridiculousness. Eventually, Sarah humbled herself to even allow Gary to buy her earrings without clear hints. And although they had not made it official, an admission of intentions after a New Year’s kiss seemed too perfect to not come true. Sarah made eye contact with Gary. He’s so cute, she thought, this man is smitten with me. He looks like a deer caught in the headlines. Stunned by yours truly! She cut through the crowd, nearly spilling one guy's beer and pissing off a group of tipsy women. Not her fault she had to grind up on them to get past; the place was backed! She got to Gary, but for whatever reason he didn’t seem to think the same about the space. He was pressing his back into the people behind him. In a room with nowhere to breathe, he made himself a good two foot bubble. “What’s the matter, Gary?” She jokingly pried. “You think I’ll bite?” Gary stiffed into a manic smile. “You? Bite? That’s funny!” “How come?” … “You good, Gary?” Sarah had to shout, they stood not too far from the stereo system. The aux-guy was trying to blow the speakers on a lub-dub, heavy heartbeat rhythm club song. Sarah wished she could punch that fucker; Gary just said something she couldn’t hear. “What?” “mmm-mmphMm-uhah.” “What?” “mmm-mmphMm-uhah!” “What?!?” Gary latched his cold, leather hands onto her arms, pulling her close, bringing his lips a half a hair away from her ear. Chills radiated from his touch. Where’d his warm, caressing grip go? Dead fish scales felt more inviting. He opened his musty mouth, “I have to go to the bathroom.” And away he scuttled. ***** How could I forget? How could I- Forget? I never forget. Never, ever in all that he’s savored. He remembers the hairs on each animal he’s met, and can categorize their size, color and texture. He knows every moment leading up to panic. He’s seen dreams shattered, and the wailing that ensues. He’d never forget a Sarah or a love for her. …but what if he had? He turned the water on and left it running. With that damn loud music, no one would hear him pacing. But you can never be sure; he had to think. Prodding each gray tile, avoiding the cracks lest someone break his neck. He fumbled with his shirt buttons, tapping each three times. Had his luck finally run out? It couldn’t have. He was so, so, so sure his wish for a new life would come true. It told me so. It was my time to be someone new. Better. He turned to the mirror. He played this Gary role perfectly. He was Gary! Every freckle and cell. But that wasn’t entirely true, though. It was Gary, but deep, deep in Gary was a great facade, a fake who faked everything. Like I have no face. No face and no life. A fake with no truth. “I- I- I just want to be h-happy.” A red tear streaked down his cheek. It was wiped away in a blink. He could start over again. Find another Gary to play. One who knew no one, not a single person that could find out this fraud. “No, no no, no, NO!” A knock at the door. He doesn’t move. Whoever knocked does, they don’t knock again. He looks up at his reflection. “How could you?” The red tears flow now, smearing when he wipes. They won’t disappear. “How could you forget that BITCH?! That- That-” And then it hit him. There was never a lapse of memory. He was sure of that. He never forgot…because he never knew. Hadn’t he prodded his artistic muse, painted and edited, cut and redrew? He saw and heard a million things about what Gary was and could be. For months! For months, he worked and finally he thought it was done when he heard everything there was to know a hundredth time. “That… bastard .” He snarled. Something wriggled under Gary’s skin. His face twisted like noodles spun on a fork. He turned the lights off. “That bastard …was supposed to be me. ” ***** The ball dropped half an hour ago. There was still most of everyone dancing about, but the wind was moving the crowd to the door. Sarah hadn’t seen Gary since their brief encounter. She squeezed past the drunk party goers. Struggling to get to a hallway illuminated by a cool green LED. It was like walking into a tunnel of irradiated moss. It was otherworldly. At the center of the hallway, across from a bare wall, the bathroom door sunk into itself. A somber number played for the couples. Sarah wondered how long a man could take to poop. She knocked.

Knock. Knock. Knock. The door opened without a creak or groan. Solid black met her. “Gary? You in there?” A moment came and went. “He didn’t mention you.” He replied. Sarah stared as if a tragedy was unfolding. “He didn’t mention you! I knew I didn’t forget!” “Gary?” “No.” He gurgled. “Sarah.” He declared. Silence in the loudness, Sarah fell back into the wall and stuck. “Gary?” From the solid black appeared a green spot. It became a nose. A forehead. Cheeks. Mouth and eyes. Plain and plastic. “Gary. Gary? GARYYYy-y-y-y?!?” The face hung mute. In sound and expression. Still like a dying street lamp. Emotionless as a gray day. Sickening as spotless porcelain. Lips spread, gaped. A toothless bite bore a wide smile. Too large and wide a smile! The face fell forward.


THE SECURITY GUARD

by Annie Hite   Thirty five year old Harold Crackwilder, otherwise known as “Bub”, short for “Bubba” due to his stocky physical development, became a security guard in a somewhat dilapidated well-known Catholic hospital.  It wasn’t what he really wanted to do.  He had started out as a police officer and was fired after two years for lying to a senior officer more than once.  The lies weren’t even very good. An example of one of his lousy lies was:  he fell asleep after a romantic entanglement and was very late for his shift.  When questioned about being late, he told his commanding officer that he had a flat tire.  The officer replied, “For eight hours???”      The hospital was desperate for security guards and hired him with the understanding that he would be on a probationary term for eighteen months as well as work the midnight shift for 4 years.  Not ideal but it was a job that provided some income and minimal benefits.  His uniform was pretty cool, too.  Black with yellow buttons and his name engraved on his front chest pocket, also in yellow.      Bub had issues with sleeping in the daylight.  He even researched ideas online and bought blackout curtains and earplugs.  Still he was prone to having nightmares and rare hallucinations due to lack of sleep, which caused him to doze off at work.      As a Security Guard, he enjoyed working with the computers and monitors needed to assess various areas of the hospital.  As a matter of fact, he became the “go to guy” when the computer system acted up, which seemed to happen frequently.  Another favorite part of his job was stopping people at the Emergency Room entrance and questioning them about who they were and where they were going.  And of course, he used his official deep policeman voice, which could be quite intimidating.  On rounds in the hospital, he would notice the pretty nurses and attempt to flirt with them without much of a response.  Oh, well, he’d keep trying.      On this particular November night, as Bub was driving to work, the weather was chilly and windy.  There was debris in the street which caused him to swerve several times.  He noticed the large full moon shining brightly, causing shadows to appear and fade as if someone was intentionally turning on and shutting off an intense spotlight.  This scene of the full moon, scattering debris, and shadows put him on edge.      He was a little shaken when he got to work.  He took a report of the last eight hours from Sam, the Guard working from 4pm to midnight.  Sam reported eerie conditions such as lights flickering, the computers and monitors going off and on and strange loud noises.  All this was due to the wind.  While the two Guards were talking, there was a large boom and the emergency generator came on so that there was minimal lighting and power.  “Better keep your flashlight handy tonight, Bub!” Sam said.  Sam also said that Bub’s partner, Charley, was going to be two hours late because he had a sick child at home.   Bub shrugged his shoulders since there was nothing he could do about it.  Sam left to go home and called out, “Good Luck!!”      Luckily, the hospital had low patient census and therefore reduced medical staff as well as ancillary staff.  This would help keep power at a minimum and hopefully not stress the generator.      The computers and monitors came back on after Bub finagled with the wires and poked around with the keyboards.  He poured a cup of the remaining hot coffee and sat down in the desk chair, sipping his java so he could stay awake.  Shortly after, he dozed off for about 15 minutes.      When Bub awoke, he saw something on the monitor in the hospital lobby.  He rubbed his eyes and blinked.  The monitor had low lighting but it looked as if Charley was in the lobby looking at the camera and was waving his arms about as though there was an emergency.

And then the monitor went blank.  Bub got his flashlight, baton, and pepper spray.  Then he started for the lobby, which was the furthest away from the Guard Department.      Security Guards have core values listed as:  Honesty, Integrity, Respect, Trust, and Courage.  Now Bub was lacking in some of those values, especially Honesty, Integrity, and Courage.  If there was an incident in the hospital, you can bet Bub was hanging out in the restroom until it had passed. And you can bet he had an elaborate lie about where he was.  He also lied a bit to his co-workers about his personal life, adding extras to make his life seem more exciting.

     As Bub traversed the darkened hallway to the lobby, using only his flashlight as guidance, he heard eerie silence.  He started trembling, not knowing what to expect.  As he approached the hospital lobby, he heard Charley screaming for help.  He stopped and wondered what he should do.  Go back to the office and call 911?  Run and hide in the restroom?  After a few minutes of thought, he decided to continue on.      When Bub reached the lobby, he saw Charley hanging upside down from the ceiling by a rope tied around his legs. A man dressed in black was wielding a large knife at Charley.  Bub hid in an alcove under a table.  He was terrified.  The unknown man had found a way into the hospital because the front doors were not locked.  This was Bub’s responsibility and he had not followed through.  Again.      The crazed man sought after Bub, calling out, “Bub, Bub!  I’ve been looking for you!  I know you are here!”  Bub wondered how the man knew his name!   “What lies have you told?” the man shouted.  “Remember when we were kids and you left me alone when we were running away from the police?  Remember when you left me to die when I cut my leg open on the fence?  Remember when you were supposed to marry my sister and you left her at the altar for someone else?  Remember when you scammed my parents for hundreds of dollars?   I want to avenge the dishonesty, the disrespect, and the cowardice that you brought upon me and my family!”  The man roared as his sharp crooked teeth looked creepy, like they wanted to bite something.      Bub figured out who this man was.  It was his best friend Grant from years ago.  What Grant had been saying made Bub realize how he had lived his life.  His parents had taught him that it’s better to lie, thieve, and disrespect. They did not do this verbally, but through their actions.  His parents had been raised by parents without morals, thus passing it to decades of family members. Bub knew something was wrong with his life but didn’t know how to correct it.  So it was easy to continue his lifestyle of dishonesty and disrespect and especially, cowardice and the blaming of others when he felt deficient.  Change is a difficult concept.  He didn’t know how to start changing because he didn’t really want to make the effort.  Too challenging.  But there was a part of him that felt guilty for all the “crimes” he had committed.   Who could forgive him?  Who would help him find his way?      Bub stayed hidden in the alcove, wondering what he would do to save Charley if he saved him at all.  Charley was a pretty decent guy.  He was married with 2 children and devoted to his family.  He was friendly and treated everyone with kindness and respect.  Bub was guilty of using Charley by calling in sick when he wasn’t sick, borrowed money from him, asked for favors, was sarcastic about Charley’s lifestyle, and would lie about situations to make himself look good.  Did Charley deserve to die from Bub’s selfish actions?  Bub went into deep thought about being afraid that he himself would get hurt or die if he decided to help Charlie.

     Meanwhile Madman Grant was becoming more angered as he continued his search for Bub.  He was swinging his knife while Charley was crying in pain and fear.

     Grant started to near Bub’s hiding place, becoming more intent on finding him by forcefully overturning furniture, vigorously throwing glassware, and loudly yelling Bub’s name.  Grant’s face was scowling with animosity.   His eyes were bloodshot and he was foaming at the mouth.  Bub had no desire to approach this angered being.  Finally, he left the alcove and quietly approached the man.  Grant closed in and Bub stopped.  Bub looked into the man’s bloodshot eyes and calmly said, “You are right.  I have wronged you and your family and I’m very sorry.  Please let my friend go because he has nothing to do with what’s going on between you and me.”  The angered man bellowed, “Saying ‘I’m sorry’ is the easy route.  It’s not enough!”  Bub was shocked.  “Wh-what would you like me to do?” he cried.   The man yelled the word “CHANGE!”  Bub shuddered- there was that word.  That word he didn’t want to think about.  The word that would make him work harder than he ever had in his life.      The man disappeared and Bub ran to cut down Charley from the ceiling.  But he was too late.  Charley was dead.  Bub started sobbing hysterically and apologizing to Charley.  He thought of Charley’s family and how devastated they would be without such a wonderful man.  Charley had no choice with what was occurring and solely depended on Bub for help.  And Bub didn’t pull through.  A man’s death was his responsibility and all he did was show cowardice.  He was more inclined to save his own skin rather than help someone else.      “Bub! Bub! Wake up!”  Bub slowly opened his eyes after recognizing a familiar voice.  He looked up and saw Charley’s smiling face.  They were both in the Guard Department with Bub sitting in the desk chair.  Bub was ecstatic and stood up and hugged Charley.  It was then that he realized he had been dreaming and hallucinating.  That nothing had happened.  He had never left the desk chair.  Due to lack of sleep and being unnerved by the weather, his mind had played tricks on him.      Full power had been activated and everything was working and online.  He apologized to Charley for being such a jerk and asked him how his sick child was doing.  Then Bub asked Charley for something he had never asked anyone before.  He asked for help.  Charley told him to seek counseling, seek Christ or a religion he believed in.  And that Bub could talk to him about anything, anytime.  That’s what friends are for.

     When Bub returned to the safety of his home, he realized something.  He never had a best friend.  He didn’t even have a friend named Grant.  He recognized that all the things Grant spoke of had actually happened but not to just one person and their family, but several people.  The shame overtook him, he got on his knees, cried, and he asked for forgiveness from whoever was listening.

     A few years after his incident with Grant, Bub had made several changes in his life.  Of course they were not easy but he persevered.  When Grant called Bub out on his sinful activities,  it made him understand the fear and pain those people had gone through because of him.  Just like Charley did when he was strung from the ceiling.

     Bub was now a Security Guard who followed the core values of Honesty, Integrity, Respect, Trust, and Courage.  When an incident occurred at the hospital (or anywhere for that matter), he was at the front of the line instead of hiding in the restroom.  He encouraged people, protected family and patients when necessary, and could think quickly.  He now greeted people entering the hospital through the Emergency Room instead of intimidating them.  When he made rounds, he no longer flirted with the nurses but respected their profession of patient care.  He worked as a teammate and had excellent leadership skills.  When he was up for a promotion, he turned it down and suggested that Charley would be a better candidate.

Although staring at monitors at night could be very boring, he embraced his career. Did he mess up sometimes?  Of course he did.  We all do.  But he would get back on that horse and do the right thing.  But the greatest thing that happened to him was he married a nurse who adored him.  They had a child and one on the way and were happy as bees making honey.  Bub was happy with his life and was thankful of the angered Grant, whoever he was.


We are meeting at the fenced off old amusement park tonight. The one with the signs warning about danger and not entering, and we are going to ride the roller coaster that is still under official investigation after that terrible accident there last month. The one that claimed two young lives and inflicted what the mealy-mouthed call life-altering  injuries on two more. We will walk past the deflated bouncy castle, where pools of water have already gathered in the flaccid, fading plastic folds, and past the waltzers that waltz no more, and past the dodgem cars that do not bump into each other with flashes of fluorescent light, and past the ghost train where the synthetic screams have been silenced.

     I have never much seen the appeal of roller-coasters, though I’m not afraid of them of course (and this is a simple statement of self-evident fact, not a boast). But we believe in playing fair, and Naomi loves roller coasters and fairgrounds. It’s my turn to pick next month. I have already made my mind up. We are going to dash back and forth across the railway line, and we are going to do it where it comes close to that old-fashioned and over-priced hotel where I once stayed for a couple of nights, listening to the trains as they disappeared into the woods and the limbo land between stations. I love trains. Perhaps someone arriving late or early at the hotel will see us, and will tut-tut, and will report us, maybe, but will end up feeling either foolish or frustrated, because we will not be caught.      Last month it was Ian’s choice. He fancies himself as a scientist, and perhaps he may have been one, if things had turned out differently. We wandered around the laboratory that was inside an electrified perimeter fence with skulls and crossbones signs and spent a strange sort of night surrounded by all manner of bacteria and viruses and chemicals and radiation. I had thought it would be rather boring, but there was something oddly compelling about the equipment and the constant half-light. I was reminded of when I started at college, and ended up getting hopelessly lost (I never did have a sense of direction) and wandered into the science block though I was a languages student. Looking back I realise that what I caught glimpse of was a bog standard chemistry lab in a bog standard campus university, but it made me think of science fiction B movies.

     There is an element of hypocrisy about being reminded and remembering. It is not actually forbidden as one of the rules of the society, but it is disapproved of, it will “serve no purpose”. But we all do it. Mike, who took us to the forest where the wildfires were raging the month before last, said it might be better if we had all lost our memories. But I don’t think he meant it.

     I fancy this place was dilapidated and well past its prime even before the accident on the rusting roller coaster. The little stalls that once sold doughnuts and ice cream and candy floss and cones of chips are now blind behind their shutters, their paint flaking. It is a place that seems lost and forgotten. Which is suitable enough for those who are lost and forgotten.      Except, of course, we are supposed to call ourselves The Immortals. We are the ones who have dared death, and who have escaped its clutches, and now we cannot die. I have heard a rumour that there is one way we can be released, but I don’t believe it.      To be sure, some great writers and artists and composers have evoked our ilk. But they are like legends and fairytales, even to us. Especially to us. We are the dull and drab ones, who are not swathed in soaring music or winding words or glorious colours. We are the second-grade, the mundane ones, who are left to our own devices, to organise our own meetings.

     Our newest member, Andy, doesn’t seem to quite get it. He is barely old enough to scrape in. He asks why we seek out danger when we know there is none. He will learn. I daresay all of us asked the same question once, even when we were older. He is sitting on one of the down at hoof horses on the carousel that always did moan and creek and disappoint, and looking as if he is trying to figure things out, and I wonder if the scream will come tonight, the scream that you think will never stop but does, eventually. Or does not. It will be a few months before he is allowed to decide where we meet. The power has come back on now. The carousel is turning and we can ride the roller coaster. I have dull, futile thoughts about those young lives that were claimed and maimed. I do not pity them. They would not pity me.

     “Beware,” says Henrietta, quietly. We are supposed to be equals, but of course that is so much nonsense, and she is the leader, or at least we act as if she is. But we all know what is meant by the single word “beware”. It does not, of course, mean be careful, or watch your step. It means that there is at least a chance that someone who is not one of us has penetrated, unwittingly, our meeting. Two things can happen now. The first is the more usual. They can go away, or their own volition, or with some presentiment prompting them. Then they will have strange dreams, and wonder why, and avoid the place where they had trespassed, and all places resembling it, and not be able to explain it, but they will have had a lucky escape. Or they can choose to investigate further and give in to the promptings or curiosity and daring, and then they will become one of us, but never wholly one of us. They will be in a limbo within a limbo. For reasons I don’t quite know I am willing the intruder in the amusement park to feel uneasy, to realise that they have made a mistake, and to slip back through the barrier they have somehow penetrated without the skills that we have.      They have not. They intend on staying. They have paused by the chipped and closed booth where cones of chips used to be sold. And I have a sudden urge to break the rules, to break one of our most strict rules, and to try to meet them. The consequences of this could be so awful that even we only speak of them obliquely.      I jump down from the apex of the damaged roller coaster and land safely on the concrete beneath, ignoring the warning cries of my companions, who truly do seem to have been stirred to a sort of panic. Andy is still on the carousel, as if he hasn’t quite grasped his unasked-for powers and doesn’t want to go on the roller coaster, and makes as if to follow me, whilst unable to believe what I am doing at the same time. “Dora, where are you going?”      “Stay there!” I command. He obeys.      I am coming nearer and nearer, and see that the person standing by the booth is a woman. Quite an elderly woman, though still, I think, sprightly enough, despite her slightly bowed posture. She is wearing a dark green coat that seems to glow both darker and brighter green in the lights of the amusement park, and seems to be lost in thought.

     An emotion is swelling through me that is both terrible and wonderful. When I was at school we once went on a trip to an amusement park, and I did not enjoy it. Perhaps because I’d had a tummy bug lately anyway, I had turned queasy on the roller coaster and, as I thought, shamed myself, and I had started crying. But our class teacher, Mrs Holt, could not have been kinder. She cleaned me up as best she could, and told me she’d had something similar happen to her, and looking back I wonder if it was a kind lie, but at the time I believed her. She took me to a stall to buy a cone of chips to “put a lining on my stomach,” as she said. They tasted good and the world became a slightly better place again. She had been wearing a green coat that day.      I am vaguely aware of voices calling, warning, unable to believe that I am breaking this taboo of all taboos. They seem to fade into a grey mist. Mrs Holt is smiling, and holding out her arms, and says, “Dora! What a lovely surprise!”

   It is a warm, human voice from a kind person whom I had almost forgotten. But she had not forgotten me. And that is what matters. I step into her arms, and there is peace.


“He’s using you.” “What do you care?” He gulped, slightly, if I hadn’t had known him so long I wouldn’t have had picked up on it, but it was a little thing. Like how his eyes were looking anywhere else in the room, but me. How his index finger was drumming against his side repeatedly. How his breath had shallowed. “I care. Of course, I care Hales.” It came out as a hiss. Four years. Four years and he hadn’t sent a care in my direction, four years since it happened. Four years since the day it all went to shit. Four years, Three months, Seven days. Since my life fell apart. Now it was my turn to gulp. “You’re just jealous.” I stood up and wiped my palms on my thighs, attempted to smoothen down my shirt. He scoffed. “Why would I be jealous?” He was standing, leant against the wall next to my bed. Calm. Calmer than he just was, a glitch in the matrix. His mask was back, and I was over it. So over it. I turned around, bit my lip when he couldn’t see. So many thoughts, contemplations, expectations, wonderings of what could’ve been. I breathed. One. Two. And turned around. He was in front of me. “Give me one reason Hails, one reason why I would be jealous.” I looked up at him, slightly. The lies slipped off my tongue. “Cos I’m finally happy.” I turned around, again. Desperate to rid any thought of him, any trace or particle that he was even entangled in my life, and I started to walk. One step, two. He pulled me back to him, my hand on his chest. “You don’t seem happy Hales.” I put my head on his heart, the thudding in my ears. His steady heart. “How would you know?” I whispered. “How would you know any of the shit that has happened or how I feel?” I pulled back. “How the fuck would you know Jer? How the fuck would you know what happiness feels like?” I stood there, panting. ” You weren’t here for any of it.” “I know you Hales-” “No.” I put my hand out, took a few steps back. As much distance as I could muster. “You don’t. Four years? Remember?” He frowned. One look. One look in his eyes and I was gone. His beautiful emerald eyes. Stop-no. Remember. “That’s what I thought. You don’t. You don’t care. You left and here I was to pick up the pieces. You don’t know shit Jeremy. You know why? Because you weren’t here. Now get out of my room, get out of my house, and get the fuck out of my life!” I was on the verge of breaking, if not already broken. The rage burning everything up and leaving me to bathe in the ashes. I hated him. I hated him so fucking much. He was it. Death in the form of beauty. A stone carved assassin. One who could ruin me, and I hated him for it. He took a step closer. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Another. I took a step back. The strides came closer, and I was backing away, clashed into the wooden door behind me. Frozen. Like ice. One wrong foot and I would be ruined.

I reached for the handle, he put his arm on the door. Kept it closed. “Let me the fuck go, or I swear-” “I don’t care?” He said it like it was funny, but his face was dead. His lips pressed in a thin line. Not his eyes-no matter what I would not look into his eyes. “Don’t you dare fucking accuse me of not caring Hales. Four years. Four fucking years, three months, seven days, three bottles of vodka and rehab has not made me forget every inch of your body, every tear you shed, every smile you wore until I melted. I fucking melted okay?” My heart was in my throat, my brain foggy. “You destroyed me.” I barely caught the whisper. I looked up. I looked up. I fucking looked up. I didn’t believe it. His eyes, swimming in a pool of tears. Incomprehensible pain. He counted. He’d counted the days. The days we lost. “I’m not a naïve eighteen-year-old Jer, this has to stop.” It strained my voice to say. He leant into the crook between my head and my neck. One small, soft peck. Lips soft, planted on my collarbone. Like a breath of fresh air. He pulled back. “Do not ever think that I do not care for you. I want you; I need you to know.” He shook his head, tucked a strand of dark hair behind my ear. “Fuck it- I want you Hales. Only you. I’ll choose you. I’ll keep choosing you. Forever.” “Jer-” “Don’t.” He shook his head. “Don’t say it.” Say what? My mind had gone blank. I had waited eternity for him to say it, and he did. So many feelings, emotions, I just kept shaking my head. All I could think about was the fucking ring on my finger. A promise. A promise I’d made and needed to keep. An engagement to my future, a good future, an easy future… “Jer-” “Hales.” His voice cracked. A tear slipped out of his eye. I broke, the tears started pouring down my cheeks. One person, all of time and space and infinite possibilities, one destiny, one destination. He was mine. “Take it off.” I sobbed. “Take it the fuck off.” He looked at me, confused. I put my hand on his chest, so he could see it. His eyes widened. “Hales-” “Jer,” I wiped my eyes on the corner of my sleeve and stared at him. “Take it off. Please.” His hand brushed mine, ever so slowly inching the diamond ring off my left hand, his lips pursed. My heart pounding. This was it. This was it. This was it. It was at the edge of my finger, and he paused. “Are you sure?” “Jeremy, take the fucking ring off before I throw it at you.” He smiled, dropped the ring to the floor. “Hales.” “Jeremy.” I smiled. “Guess what?” “What?” His hand touched my cheek. I closed my eyes and smiled. It wasn't going to be easy, nothing worth having ever is... I looked at him. “I choose you too.”