The children ran around to sit in front of the olden, graying man, adults lazily found seats scattered around in ear-shot corners and the whole town settled delicately beside him as he opened his fragile jaw. His eyes were foggy and appeared to almost be cracking, but the depth in them spoke of wells of true knowledge. The old man’s power was in his stories, they had power and meaning, cadence and rhythm, they danced in the imaginations of the youth and activated the cerebral workings of adults, and they always seemed to have a truth that was ethereal to words but physical to the soul.

“Yes, yes” he said while raising his shaking hands. “I will tell it again, don’t worry.” His skin was grayed and sagging, forming the cloak of a wiseman naturally formed by the wisdom of age. It was the summer solstice, and as tradition, the elder was supposed to tell the origin story of their people, as he was the only living human to have witnessed it. No matter how many times it was told, or how many times it was haphazardly retold by excited, inspiring play-writes, people still listened to it like it was their first time. It represented a wonderful spirit that ran through their generations and permeated their blood, and by all means of the phrase, it was them. *** I was a young general back then, filled with the hot fire of youth and exuberant at the idea of spilling more blood for history’s benefit. At this time I was fighting in the Great Eagles army and decorated with the confidence of back-to-back victories, which formed into unstoppable progress.

We were a well-organized and proud army, having fought the continents best and beaten them with the vicious, annihilating force of violent battle. Around this time we were finally on the horizon of our final, glorious victory that in our minds would unite the world into one cohesive totality. You could not have found a more ready group of men, every troop, every cook and every mother of a soldier was ready for what the Eagle had called our mandate from heaven. The Eagle's words were prophetic to us, they elevated mere human inspiration and flew up to divine reasons for living. He had started his career as a crazed madman yelling strange predictions as he led small troops of men into battle, but as time went by and his victories piled on, his words turned from strange oddities to visions from the heavens, and we were his loyal disciples. Practically overnight an insane nobody turned into a prophet by the mere coincidence of victory, be it luck or skill.

“Men,” he said to us as we gathered for our final battle. “Today you engrave your names onto history's doorstep, and forever enshrine the legacy we have built for all of mankind -- a monolith for peace and tower of unshakable providence. Today we ride into the kingdom of the dove Princess, and fight her yet unbeaten army.” We were in the midst of marching into the eastern-most empire, the lands of the dove princess and her large swaths of territory. Her story was legendary to all peoples of the continent, and one that every soldier knew by heart, for they knew that it was their destiny to one day face her unbeaten army in battle, and deliver a bloody finale for the gods. The dove’s father, the Dragon of the East, had died suddenly while in the midst of an epic campaign, and the reins of battle were left to his young, untrained daughter who by all signs had no experience in combat or leading troops. We, inspired by the Eagle’s words, predicted doom for them, and thought that our campaign would ride through the rest of the continent with the ease of a sharpened knife, unifying our final cause atop the ashes of the once-great Eastern Empire.

But to the surprise of all, she not only took up the reins of leadership and held the shaken kingdom together, she started expanding its borders at a rate that was never seen by any leader before. It was like a terrifying bolt of lightning struck the map of the world of men, before we knew what was happening, her empire had doubled in size and great nations were toppling like dice.

The most impressive part of all of this was that legend said she did this without losing a single man, which earned her the name of the dove princess by her people. After hearing of all this and keeping his ear close to the wall of her empire, the Eagle became enraptured by what he considered to be the gods greatest and final test for him, the cosmic and immortal battle between the Eagle and the dove, a clash that would decide the fate of all the world and put a close to this chapter of humanity. It was poetic to the Eagle, who saw it all from the eyes of a daring playwright. Two kingdoms, separated at birth and scattered across the lands both making a bloody trail into each other's arms. It is right and proper that they were to be the final battle, as in his mind the gods would have had no other way, trial by fire for what was to rise to be the greatest nation of men. No such thing could be born of anything besides blood. That fated day, every one of us gathered our spears and swords and gazed into our reflections, wondering what was to await us soon. Never before did we feel the weight of the world like we did then, and every man knew that we’d have to spill much blood before we could call peace, before we could go home as heroes and greet our families with the love and joy at a job well done.

“The sun greets us as saviors,” The Eagle told us as we began our march to battle. He then saw the looks in our eyes, looks of meekness or slight terror, and gave a disgusted spit at such a laughable sight. He pulled his sword from its golden sheath and stabbed it at the sky, prophesying once more. “Power resides behind a blade men, and each one of you holds the power in your hands right now. The power to command the world, and change her ebbing tides.” As we carried further on, we gripped our blades evermore tightly while looking at the sun he just preached of, and tried to imagine it calling our names, tried to imagine it looking past all of the souls we vanquished to get where we were. I recalled the first man I killed, and the look in his eyes as his soul left for that very sun. I wanted to be haunted by it, and haunted by him, but I rallied myself from the Eagle’s words and remembered that it was the only way to peace. That was how the Eagle would calm our souls, by reminding us of the inevitability and necessity for violence -- “Peace can only be found through the blade” and “Your children sleep safely when your enemy's blood coats the battlefield.” Were what we were rocked to sleep with. Even in times of great atrocity, when we burned villages and sacked much-needed food stores, he maintained the position of high-minded peace. “Look upon the wasteland you create and rejoice, for only fire breeds a healthy forest. Only corpses fertilize a field. We are merely the reapers of history, preparing for the harvest of a great peace. Look on the waste and rejoice .” When we came close to the plains that were meant to be our fated battlefield, the Eagle became more and more enraptured by our purpose. His eyes grew large and red, and we could see the veins of his neck pulsing like slithering snakes as he shouted. “The time is now!” He screamed, “Over these hills we find our destiny! My destiny! To vanquish the last dissenters of this world and become the world! We are history’s reapers and we shall have our harvest!” We were ready, we were ready to find the enemy below us and give epic, glorious battle to define our legacy forever, but as we strode over the hill, swords and spears in hand, we were not greeted by troops.

No, as we crossed the crest of the horizon, gripping our blades tightly and sending prayers of protection up to the sky, we saw below us men and women, not troops. We saw kids playing in the fields and mothers holding babies, we saw fathers chasing their kids with a smile and elders watching on with great heaps of laughter as the warming sun cast golden rays onto their faces. We saw an abundance of food and water, feasts and fun, flowers and toys all surrounded by the pleasant, human sounds of nature at rest. We didn’t find a battle below us, but humanity and mankind.

We were awestruck, frozen by the sight and unable to move even a finger. The Eagle was stuttering to himself in an attempt to make sense of what he was seeing, and every man could not say a word, for they didn’t know what to say or how to say it. Then, from the crowd of pleasantries a young woman came forward. She was not ornately dressed or in possession of some grand form of beauty, she was plain and smiling, a warm sight for soldiers who spent most of their days on the march. She walked forward with arms outstretched and presented a delightful scene behind her: It was the dove. “My friends.” Her voice was sweet and kind, a honey to our ears. “You come for battle and glory, protesting it for the cause of peace and prosperity, so I instead offer exactly that: peace and prosperity.” There was not a word in the air besides her own. “My once father led an army of conquerors, much like you all. Marching across the lands and claiming to be fighting for peace and stability, much like you all, but I saw that whatever he left behind was not peace, but destruction, and what everyone wanted was not war, but kindness and a quiet life for their families. I offer to you no bloodshed or battle, but exact peace. An opportunity to gather under this beautiful sun and talk about things however you wish.” We all looked at the Eagle, whose face was twisting into a perverse sight and was covered in a cold sweat. “This is a trap!” He yelled desperately. “This is how she had defeated so many armies before us! Men, she’s wanting to lure us into a siren call and then they’ll pounce! Slaying us like dogs!” He rode around us atop his golden horse, sword raised and eyes frantic little beads. “Do not fail history men! Do not fail me! Look at what we have accomplished, that is the only way to peace, she spews lies!” We all looked at each other, unsure of what to do and clouded by doubt, then, from beside the dove a man stood up, simple in clothing, much like her, and decorated by a gracious smile, “Hear me men, for I was once the leader of the Mountain Kingdom, and I can attest that she tells you is no lie. All of what was once my men are before you on this field, not slain nor injured, but enjoying this fine day.”

Then, one after another, more men like him stood up and explained similar stories, all speaking up until every kingdom that fell before the dove was accounted for, not fallen but standing beside her.

“These are lies!” The Eagle screeched. “Men, charge into the crowd and cut them down!” We were frozen, we looked down into that crowd of children and saw our own, we watched the happy fathers and longed to be with our wives and kids. The dove motioned her hand and the women and children approached us with flowers and baskets of food, petrifying us even more. The Eagle became more desperate as they came closer, yelling at us from his new position in the back rank. “They come now with poison and hidden weapons! Now, act now and slay them or be destined to die!” But we didn’t, when the people came, wrapping us in flowers and handing us food, we smiled kindly and thanked them, looking around with sprouting delight and realizing that it was over. Laugher began to rise from our ranks as we dropped our weapons and rejoiced with each other. I lovingly remember seeing my reflection again in the falling swords, and knew that I would no longer have to use its edge to draw life.

The only other thing I remember of the Eagle was that he seemed to then lose his mind, riding off into the distance yelling the screams of a madman. This was the beginning of our world, not one of possession and violence, of force and battle, but instead, one born of love and kindness, true humanity and the want for a happy life. Men like the Eagle are hardly remembered, and instead of immortalizing events and people, we immortalize our collective effort and remember to never forget our fellow man. In the end, it wasn’t the dove that saved us, but our humanity as a whole.


In wake of the overturning of Bill Cosby's case where a confessed sexual predator walks free, I've found myself yet again playing the objective role in how I felt about it. The Cosby Show was a highlight of my childhood - I remember us, my family of African immigrants, owning a boxed-set copy of all the seasons of the show. My family was one of little means and limited time for entertainment, yet we owned every single season of the Cosby Show. The Cosby Show's legacy is unrivaled, it appealed to many people and was a needed positive representation of the black family, especially at that time. So when sixty women - seemingly out of the woodworks all recounted their different experiences of being assaulted by Cosby, it was a shock to many. Some advocated for the women, in solidarity with their stories, but many victim-blamed and even worse, labeled the whole thing as some huge conspiracy theory. I've seen it all, and in the comforts of my cognitive dissonance continued to live my life, unaffected, and refusing to engage in any type of heated debate about it. The thing is - and I know many can relate, we live in a world with so much pain and despair on a global level. Each and every day we are inundated with sad and tragic stories even in our own backyards. A lot of us have to detach emotionally and even mentally to a degree to maintain our own sanity it seems - myself included. It's so very hard to empathize with our own deep pain and sadness, the sadness of our friends and family, and all the sadness that exists in this realm on this planet called Earth. So when Bill Cosby was convicted and arrested I chose to feel nothing. I am ashamed to admit this, because I am too, a woman. Although I don't

feel  like a victim of sexual assault or rape, since my experiences weren't like the ones depicted in movies or news stories where a woman is violently violated or attacked - I, in fact, have been a victim many times over in the sense consent has been very blurry in the past, and I've felt coerced into situations especially in my youth that my heart and mind was not in. As well as instances where I was too inebriated to consent and was taken advantage of. Life as a woman, though it comes with its advantages, is hard as you're constantly in defense mode. I recently moved into an apartment complex where I am constantly stale-faced and unapproachable with my male neighbors not because I am unfriendly, that's far from the case - I just don't want anyone to get any "ideas" especially since they all know where I live and that I am a single woman living alone. Time after time, I find myself having to explain to my boyfriend these things, but life as a man is completely different, it's hard for him to understand that as a woman I am more likely to be victimized than he is. The unfortunate reality is although he may have to worry about being the victim of theft and robbery of material things, I have to worry about being a victim of something I could never buy back or reclaim. I am the furthest thing from a prude, considering myself to be sexually very liberal. But even women like me deserve respect. Even women in the industry I work in, as an exotic dancer have a right to not be sexually harassed, assaulted or forced to engage in any type of sexual activity without clear consent. Men will violate you even on the job in a room full of people because you aren't looked at as worthy of basic respect. This is the same ideology of the people who insist certain women deserve to be assaulted or harassed based on how they dress, this is the same ideology that forces knee-length skirts and shorts as a dress code all the while enforcing no dress codes for men, and no shaming of the men who assault or harass ANY woman - not just the ones deemed "appropriately" dressed. And this is also the same ideology of the people who despite the testimony of sixty women unrelated to each other, still regard in deep reverence Mr. Bill Cosby and support him undyingly. Paradigm shifts happen often throughout our lifetimes. This morning I woke up in a cold sweat of a nightmare, something that doesn't happen often with me. In my dream I was at a party where a lot of people were present - it was a pool party. I wandered off to be alone in the rowdiness of it and was cornered by a man I had not spoken even a single word to. He forced himself on me, kissing me repeatedly while I yelled at him to stop tears streaming down my face. I fought and fought but I was overpowered by the bulky man on top of me all the while screaming, hoping I would be heard over the blasting music around us. Then he unbuckled his pants, and my adrenaline kicked in. Suddenly I spotted an opportunity to rescue myself in an empty beer bottle right below us. I grabbed the bottle by the top, broke it against the ground weaponizing it, and held it to his face, and threatened to stab him if he didn't get off of me immediately. He obliged, with no choice but to stop in his assault of me. This wasn't the worst part of the dream, however. The worst part of the dream was upon returning to the party (for whatever reason dream me decides to go back to the party instead of leaving and calling the police) to find that my assailant had spoken to others about in his mind, his "seduction" of me. Much to my absolute disgust and shame, the WOMEN at the party completely disregarded my assault, and told me "it wasn't that serious." This is when I woke up. Emotions of fear, sadness, embarrassment flooded my brain. Women, we have to stand in solidarity with each other when it comes to matters like these. You don't need to be a victim to show support. There shouldn't be a woman alive who stands with Bill Cosby, and I am ashamed to even admit that I rode the fence on the topic previously.


Nico squinted through the humidity. This was the culmination of a week of horror, but he couldn’t help feeling darkly excited as he wondered who else had wandered through this conservatory at night. The flashlight he swung back and forth had a name engraved on the side. Ambrose Compton. Nico’s face burned as he remembered the first and only time he had spoken to Compton. He was an old-school finance man, almost a caricature. Nico worked for a local newspaper and had planned a series of articles about the Compton Organization’s alleged misconduct. The two men sat down for an interview just before Nico had published his first piece, and it had gone poorly. Nico had tried to direct the conversation toward allegations of fraud and embezzlement, but had failed as Compton simply tossed out facts about his philanthropies. Off the record, Compton had dropped the act. His team had done their research. They knew everything about Nico’s life, and Compton pressed on every bruise. He had broken down all the reasons Nico would never be a real man and left him with a parting shot. “I know what you think, but you’re no better than me. The only difference is that I have the money to do what I want.” Compton, already ancient, had spat on the ground and walked away.

Nico had planned on using his series about Compton’s dirty fortune to try and angle for a job at a bigger organization. Unfortunately, he had been slapped with lawsuits and the paper was forced to pull his work from the online archive. As far as he knew, only a few people who still got a physical newspaper delivered had ever had the chance to read it. The piece was replaced online by a pre-written article about the ways the Compton Organization was supporting childhood literacy. In hindsight he should have left the paper, but at the time he was too busy sneering at the billionaire for letting the article get under his skin. Nico sat smug in the knowledge that they were nothing alike. As it turns out, they had at least one thing in common. After Compton’s death had been splashed across every news outlet, Nico had gotten a call from a lawyer. Apparently, Nicolas Maldonado and Ambrose Theodore Compton shared a shred of DNA- discovered on one of the ancestry sites that had sprung up in the last few years. It seemed out of character for a man like Compton to be rummaging around in his genes to find long-lost relatives, but Nico didn’t know what else rich old men did all day.

In the conservatory, Nico jumped as a branch creaked. He crouched down and looked up. Nothing. When he was in college, Nico had volunteered at a farm animal sanctuary. He was so taken with the animals that, on the spot, he decided he would lead a vegan lifestyle. Now, knee-deep in synthetic jungle, he regretted telling the story so many times.

“Mr. Compton, for whatever reason, has decided to include you in his will.” Nico remembered the unfettered contempt in the lawyer’s eyes as she walked him through the steps toward claiming his inheritance. The lawyer, as severe as anyone he’d ever met, outlined the bizarre hoops he would have to jump through. “The Sumatran orangutan is a critically endangered animal. Mr. Compton had the pleasure of housing one of the last living ones. He has decided that, if you are able to execute this animal according to his precise instructions, you will be the sole inheritor of 60 billion dollars.” She paused to look at him. He had stared back incredulously, and the conversation that followed did nothing to put him at ease. In order to claim the inheritance, he would have to shoot the orangutan with a gun that Compton had left behind. The lawyer told Nico that if he didn’t claim it, the opportunity would be passed along to the next relative in line. Nico wiped sweat out of his eyes. The building he was in was extravagant. The effort that went into maintaining what was essentially a personal forest inside a giant greenhouse was unthinkable. Not only were there lights and misters installed on the inside of the glass building, there were running streams and live insects chirping just out of sight. When the lawyer told him about the orangutan habitat Compton had commissioned, Nico imagined a chained-in section of Florida swamp. Instead, he could have been wandering through a genuine rainforest and he wouldn’t have known the difference.

He briefly wondered whether he was actually going to find the beast, or whether he was just going to walk in circles all night. The building was much larger than it had looked from the outside. Part of him hoped he wouldn’t find it; he still didn’t know if he would be able to go through with murder. After speaking to the lawyer, Nico had looked up orangutans. His head was full of facts about their calls and their lifestyles, and of images of their faces. He repeated to himself that an orangutan locked up was going to die anyway. He could donate billions of dollars to save the rest of them in the wild after this. Thoughts of what he could do with the money marched in like ants. He would pay off his student loans. He would move to a nicer apartment. He would fully finance every fundraiser he found on social media. For every idea Nico brushed away, two filed into place. He could bankroll a candidate for president. He could buy every limited-edition Lego set. He could start his own newspaper. When he heard the call the thoughts scattered. He had spent hours listening to orangutan calls, and the sound was like a siren song. On the surface, he recognized that he was selling himself out. He was about to shoot an animal to earn billions of dollars, but in the moment the logic clicked. Nico listened for the call again, and caught a glimpse of orange fur through the branches. He raised the rifle Compton had necessitated he use. He aimed. He fired. There was a popping noise, and Nico shielded his eyes as the figure exploded. He hesitated. He had never fired a gun, but he had expected it to be louder.

As he crept between the trees, Nico saw sheets of something slowly floating down. He reached out to snag one from the air and realized it was a crumpled newspaper. Dread choked him.

He ran toward the lifeless body and found a clump of cheap fur. The orangutan call echoed through the forest again. Nico scrabbled through the pieces of shredded material and found newspaper among the fur. It was his article about Compton. Hundreds of copies, stuffed into a fake animal. His vision dimmed and he saw his name and Compton’s blurring together. On the tree where the orangutan had perched there was an envelope nailed to the trunk. He opened it to find a single piece of heavy cardstock, embossed with the initials ATC . The card had one line on it, scrawled from a dying man’s hand. You’ll never see a cent of it.


They lock their doors at sunset and keep their windows shut. When people come from over the ancient, crumbling stone wall built to keep things out, they can never tell if they're human or not. It pays to be careful. Some of the older people like to tell stories about how little Tommy went outside of the wall one day and was swallowed by the gaping crescent moon, or taken by the trees, or lured away by tinkling laughter and glimmering lights. Though no one is really sure if it's true or not, there's no way to prove it, and it's better safe than sorry. Most of the people who drive through don't stay for long. The village is small and the people are unwelcoming and besides, there's nothing much to do. When you moved, you didn't particularly want to stay either. The village children wouldn't go exploring with you through the woods, which were full of vines that trailed to the ground and slipped towards you when you weren't looking and brambles covered with thorns and berries with juice that looked like blood. Some of the brave ones would go out with you to the meadow and play, but none of them were willing to cross the stream that trickled through it. When you grew up, you moved out almost immediately and got a job in some far off city. You don't really remember, which is strange but not that strange. Everything outside of the wall is a bit fuzzy once you've been within it. You never really planned on coming back - you don't even know exactly how to get back. When your mother bundled you into the car with a bag of clothes and a dated map and drove for hours aimlessly until you found it, you never expected to stay. You certainly didn't expect the empty house to be just big enough for two people and cheap enough for your mother to buy. You think back on that day. When exactly did you get to that little town? You must have been at least eleven, but you have a distinct memory of coloring in dinosaurs in a coloring book, and you stopped buying those books when you were eight. Was the sun setting when you got there? You can vaguely remember a bloody red sky and strange birds soaring through the air, their cries alien, but you also remember moonlight playing on your mother's glasses and painting her hair a silvery grey. For some reason, the conflicting stories, the fog that encompasses that part of your mind, fills you with dread. You didn't want to come back. You weren't planning on coming back. You tap your fingers anxiously on the steering wheel, along to the rhythm of the music that the radio is playing. You don't recognize the station it's on, or the song. This worries you. You don't know why. You don't remember how long you've driven. The stars are out, and the sky is clear. You tell yourself this, repeating it in your head to make sure it doesn't slip away. You whisper it under your breath as you drive. Why did you leave, anyway? Was it really to go off to college, to get a job? Why can't you remember what your job is? Somewhere in front of you, you can make out the outline of a wall and the silhouettes of houses, illuminated by the midday sun - no. Illuminated by star light. The road stretches in front of you, and the houses grow closer. Now, you can make out the swath of trees behind them, a dark shadow hovering over the town. You park your car by the wall and get out. You remember being here, years ago, but that can't be right. Nobody was allowed beyond the wall. The soil is soft under your feet, and without really thinking, you kick your shoes off. This is familiar. You take a couple steps towards the stream that flows through the one gap in the wall. The water is ice cold when you dip your feet in, and you remember trying to catch the fish that dart around your legs, splashing yourself, except that never happened. That can't have happened. You should go back into the town. You can't remember why exactly you came here, but you know there was a reason, a pressing, urgent reason. A breath of wind kisses your face and you pull your jacket more closely around yourself. There are voices under the wind, and you remember listening to them, singing along with them. You didn't leave the village. You were thrown out. You blink away the thought - the idea is ridiculous, and yet being here, your feet quickly numbing from the water and the moon sickle shaped and too bright, is bringing things back. You remember clambering over the wall, the stone rough and cutting into your hands, landing with a thud on the other side. You remember clambering to your feet, brushing yourself off. The sun was bright in your eyes, and the shadows stretched towards it, basking in its light. You remember catching a fish in your cupped hands, rainbows forming in its glittering scales as it writhed and twisted in your hands, until it finally slipped through your fingers. You ventured into the forest, then. Honey light slipped through the branches, dripping from each wide, vibrant leaf. Bees buzzed, frogs chirped, birds flew past you, colorful feathers fanned out as they danced. You plucked berries from the thickets that coiled around tree trunks and over smaller bushes, and their thorns wrapped themselves around your hands and arms, digging into your skin. You could hear their malicious laughter and the wind chiding them until they let go. Blood ran down your fingers, mixing with the berry juice. You ran away as the leaves grew wider and thicker, blocking out the light. You blink. You can feel something tugging at you, and your wrist throbs, as if someone tied a rope too tightly around it and is dragging you after them. You stand. You should go into the town now, though something tells you they won't welcome you back. Once the forest has tasted your blood, people fear you, push you away. You no longer belong. You wonder why you were called back, why you came, and the answer springs immediately into your mind: to come back home. The trees pull at you, and for a moment you try to pull back, but the sound of the creek's bubbling laughter is soothing, the pattern the fireflies make as they flit over the meadow mesmerizing, and the tug irresistible. You take a few steps into the woods. Branches bend down to caress your face, to welcome you back, and crickets chirp a melody dedicated to you. When the brambles wrap around you, it doesn't hurt - they keep their claws in this time. You're serene, calm, and your heart pounds out a steady beat. You shut your eyes, lashes tickling your cheeks, as the brambles swallow you whole. From somewhere, you can hear bells.


When Tom sat down for Thanksgiving dinner with his mom, he knew it was going to be a long meal. For the past three years, he had always managed to find an excuse not to come. This year, however, he had messed up by one: teaching his mom how to use Facebook when she had pestered him about it, and two: by posting how excited he was for the long Thanksgiving weekend and how he had zero plans. "That's great to hear, sweetie! Can't wait to see you for Thanksgiving dinner!" his mom had commented, with lots of heart emoticons at the end.    He had shown up later in the evening since he couldn't stand the thought of having to prepare Thanksgiving dinner with her since this would be their first Thanksgiving since the burnt turkey incident two years ago. He used getting stuck in traffic and forgetting his wallet at home as his excuse, and since Tom lived an hour away, it was a feasible excuse. "How are things at work, Tom?"

Tom rolled his eyes. "They're fine, Mom. I guess," said Tom, shoveling some of the slices of white turkey meat onto his plate. "Aren't you going to help yourself to some green beans?" said Mary, nudging the steaming bowl of green beans towards him. A long exasperated sigh escaped from Tom as he threw his head back, resting it on the back of his chair. "I don't want to eat any freaking vegetables. I already ate vegetables today." "When?" she said. Picking up his knife and fork, Tom stuffed turkey into his mouth, avoiding eye contact before giving an exaggerated shrug. "I dhunno, ghud. At lwunch owh whatever." "Don't speak with your mouth full," said Mary. Tom sighed. "I'm sorry, god damn." "Language." "I'm friggin' forty-two years old. Why can't I frickin' swear?" "It's impolite." "Oh my god." "Do you want dessert or not?" said Mary. "Yeah, I do." "Then eat more green beans and behave yourself." Snatching the bowl from his mom, Tom piled more green beans onto his plate, scowling. He played with the green beans on his plate, rolling them around, and when he got bored of that, smooshed down his mashed potatoes. Mary sighed. "I take it work has been stressful. Though I wouldn't know since you never call." "No, Mom. Being an accountant at a cat food company is never stressful. Whatever gave you that idea?"  	"Don't take that tone with me." Tom looked at the glowing red numbers on the microwave clock. Barely three minutes had passed. "It's fine. I don't really want to talk about it." Neither of them spoke, the only sound being the silverware that scrapped clanked against the cheap, white, glass Ikea plates. All of the aromas from the warm, steaming food made the air feel stuffy, suffocating. Another look at the clock and only one minute had passed. 6:02. "How are things going with that girl you're dating?" "It's fine. I guess." " Why didn't you bring her to dinner?" "I don't want to talk about it, okay?" "But-" "I said I didn't want to talk about it. God!" "I just want to know what's going on." "Why?" "I'm sorry, sweetie, but you never tell me anything. I mean, I can't even remember the last time we had Thanksgiving-" "Oh, c'mon. Like you don't remember the last time we had Thanksgiving together. Like anyone could forget that friggin' shit show." "I told you no swearing." "I said friggin'!" His mother pinched the bridge of her nose, closing her eyes, a faint murmur escaping from her lips. Tom knew that she was counting to ten, a common thing she did when Tom did something that infuriated her, like the time he broke one of her glass animals. It had been a bear or an elephant or something. He had been ten, so it was hard to remember. But he did remember her slumping down into the leather recliner by the TV, closing her eyes and counting before even saying a word to him. The glow from the TV set had turned the broken shards into tiny stars on the beech floor. Something about it drove him crazy.  At least his dad had taken him out for ice cream that night to 'give his mother some space.' Before his mom could finish counting, Tom stood up, his chair scraping across the linoleum floor. "Whelp, that was a great meal, Mom. Thanks for everything. So glad I came." His mother, breathing out the last number, turned to him with a look of absolute calm on her face. Her mouth even twitched up to a little half-smile that didn't reach her eyes, that condescending smile triggering more frustrating memories from childhood. "She broke up with you, didn't she?" Tom scoffed. "No, what, she...no." She sighed, putting her hand to her chest. "I'm so sorry, Tom."

"Sorry about what? There's nothing to be sorry about. She didn't, I mean we didn't...ugh, whatever, forget it. Fine, we broke up. Happy?" "Ah, well, that explains things, doesn't it?" "Explains what?" "Why you're acting like such a baby," she said. Groaning, Tom stood up, grabbed his plate still piled high with green beans now soaked and mixed with gravy, and brought it to the sink. His mom remained silent as he washed the mini Thanksgiving feast down the drain, though Tom knew that this wouldn't last. He could practically hear the gears in her head turning as she tried to think of a tactful way to get more information out of him. "So...was it-" Having washed the last of it down the sink, Tom turned on the garbage disposal, giving himself five more seconds of blissful peace as the loud mechanical whir drowned out his mom's voice. He would have let it go until he was out the front door and safe in his car again if that were remotely possible. Once he switched it off, he sighed again before facing his mother. "What was that?" "I said, was it mutual?" "I don't really want to talk about it." "So it wasn't?" "Mom," Tom groaned. "She seemed so sweet from the photos you posted. I wish I had gotten to meet her." "We only dated for six months." "Still." Something in his mom's tone made Tom stop washing dishes. Mary didn't move, choosing instead to stare at her plate, still holding the one scoop of mashed potatoes and slice of dark meat that had been on her plate since the start of the lovely meal they had been sharing. "I wish you would include me more, but I get it." "Mom..." "I'm not as fun and easy to get along with as your dad was." The sound of a single drop of water escaping from the faucet head and landing in the sink echoed in Tom's ears. "And after last Thanksgiving-" "Mom, don't-" "No, if I hadn't burnt the turkey-" "That's not-" "You wouldn't have had your little outburst." "Mom, no, none of that was your fault. I was...I was just still upset." "And if your dad had been here, he wouldn't have-"  	"We broke up yesterday, okay?" "What?" Tom sighed as he sat next to his mom, still not looking her in the eye as he studied the lattice pattern of the rug that laid under their kitchen table. "We broke up just yesterday. So, it's still a bit fresh." Tom swallowed a ball of saliva. "And I lost my job a few hours after that, so, yeah, not feeling super great right now. Especially since I broke up with Jenna since she wanted to move to Phoenix because of her job, and the only reason I didn't go with her is that I didn't want to leave my job. And, of course, we had a big fight about it, so yeah. That bridge is burned." His mom sighed. "And this all happened yesterday?" "Yeah, and I guess I'm still processing it. It still too fresh. And, well, frig, you know me. I'm not good at dealing with this kind of stuff. You know?" Getting up from her chair, Mary went to her son and wrapped her arms around him. "It's okay not to feel a hundred percent." "And with my job, shit, I just don't know what I'm going to do."  Tom gritted his teeth together, swallowing his emotions as he hugged his mom back. They stayed like that until Tom leaned back in his chair, his mother mirroring him. He had a feeling she would have stayed with him like that for as long as he needed. "I'm going to start putting stuff away," she said, standing up. "I'll help you," said Tom. Walking past the small island in the middle of the kitchen, Tom opened the cupboard and took out a bunch of different Tupperware containers. His mom brought over the bowl of green beans and the giant platter of turkey over to the island, and together they began the long, arduous task of scooping and putting away the remains of their Thanksgiving meal. "Sorry," said Tom, as he put the last of the dark meat away. "For what?" "For swearing." Mary shook her head, still smiling to herself. "And...for the last two Thanksgivings." "Tom-" "I was embarrassed about what happened two years ago. Dad had just died, and I just couldn't take it. And last year, I was still embarrassed about it. I thought I could maybe manage this year, but I-" "It's okay, Tom. You don't need to pretend around me. You should know that." "I..." Tom closed his eyes, counting to ten as he fought back the sting of tears he felt coming. If his mom noticed, she didn't say anything. When he opened his eyes, he saw that the last of the green beans had been put away, his mom over by the sink washing the bowl. "Thanks, Mom." She turned to him, smiling. "How about some pie?"


You may see me now and wonder who I am and what I am doing. Well, I wish I knew. My life depends on what I decide here. What am I to do about it? What will I decide? I am about to graduate and I have to choose my path. The decision deadline is approaching quite quickly. Most of my peers are exploring the path that they chose. How could someone have already made up their mind? It seems impossible. Some are looking for the path they like. Not me. Maybe it is a path, with so many options how am I supposed to know which path is mine, and what makes a path? So I am pondering all my life decisions. I will tell you that right now I am sitting on a swing. Some may even laugh because I’m too big to sit on the swing right. I decided I would do as I so pleased, after all the swing was empty when I got here, and I would occupy it until I had to leave. To me, it did not matter what my path looked like. I knew I would probably end up sitting here thinking, pondering, and wondering all day. My path could be anywhere from finding love to cleaning houses. I knew my mother was right when she had told me not to leave it till the last minute, but I had not done this. I had been thinking about it all the time, it even kept me up at night. I had great memories here, mixed with a couple of scars. Other peers are forging their paths with friends. Thinking that the world is full of new adventures, of this I am not so sure. Has not everything interesting been done by someone? Besides, I have been a loner most of my life, so why change now? My luck would run out as soon as I trusted anyone so I avoided trusting relationships. What evidence do I have that it will change anytime soon? Overall if you saw me, you would ridicule me. That is the theme of most people anyway, not that I would blame you. If I saw someone doing what I am, I probably would scoff. Anyway this innocent little girl, Lilly asked what I was doing. I didn’t want to bore her so I told her I was trying to swing high enough to reach heaven. Luckily she did not realize that it was a lie. This intrigued her so she stayed with me. She asked if that was why I didn’t sit on it correctly. I laughed and said I guess so. She said well I came here because my sister is hurting. She asked me if I were to ever reach heaven would I ask God to come and help her sister. I told her I would relay the message. I think that she intrigued me more than she was with me. I watched the little girl run as fast as she could into the woods. She yells to her sister that she shouldn’t worry because God was coming to help. Lilly had complete faith that I would reach the heavens. I thought that this little girl was special, and if she needed help, I would give it to her. I knew I had to run after Lilly to help her. When I caught up with Lilly she was with her sister. Her sister was crying and she was covered in scrapes and bruises. I did not take the time to ask her what had happened to her. It was not important. I knew that in an instant when I could hear her pain. No one should be hurt at all, but no one deserved to be hurt so severely. My heart broke for her, even though I had never met her. I scooped her up and told Lilly to follow me. As I carried her away, I wondered who could have done that to such a sweet innocent girl. I stole a glance at Lilly and realized that she had been hurt too. My heart was shattered. After being examined, the doctors asked if I had hurt them. I was taken back. "I could never", I explained how I had just met Lilly on the playground. The doctors almost did not believe me to be on the swing set, and Lilly rushed in and told the doctors she wanted to say something to me. " Man, heaven must not have been that high! I can not believe how you got all the way up there, talked to God, and came back down and still was able to rush to our rescue!" Her sweetness overcame me, and her innocence moved the doctors. Their parents were going to be investigated. If they were found to be guilty of hurting these poor girls, I would be able to foster them, if I wanted to. I found my path today. Who knew that I would find it when not looking for it? My path was to be these little girls daddy and to vow to always protect them. I know that they have to be provided for, so I am going to work a full-time job, go to school to be a lawyer, and eventually buy a house. Lilly's sister, Jora would prove vital in their battle. She would show strength and determination. She was going to win in her mind no matter the cost. Lilly was by her side. I thought that the girls had admirable personalities, and I was quite proud. Lilly and Jora won, they would never be hurt again. Not as long as I had any say in the matter. I took them home, and we celebrated. I finished law school quickly. I wanted to be helping people. Protecting them. My mother was very proud of me. Before I would know it Jora would be quickly approaching the point of her decision, luckily she knows what she wants to do.  I find it is amazing how your path can find you when you can not find it.


The morning took on a sickly green cast as anxiety crawled across my skin. I wracked my memory, trying to piece together the events of the party from the night before, but all I could summon was an unsettling void. My clothes lay scattered on the bedroom floor, no errant blouse in the living room or shoes in the yard, and my wallet and jewelry remained untouched. So far, so good. As I slouched my way back from the kitchen, I caught a flash of myself in the hall mirror. My slept-in makeup and disheveled hair actually looked kind of sexy. I set my cup of black coffee down, collapsed into the La-Z-Boy where I did all of my writing, and cued up YouTube on the wall screen. The soothing scene of a girl in headphones and her ginger cat played in a perpetual loop. Lofi Girl normally put me at ease, but incessant notifications from Discord punctured the peace. The racket was coming from a server that I reserved for my top-tier Patreon subscribers. Since these fans were willing to pay $1000 per month for unlimited access to me 24/7, I was obliged to respond—eventually. Normally, I would activate focus mode to dampen the noise until I was ready for the social part of being a bestselling author. Hangover or not, the harvest of my early morning creativity was my most cherished routine. Yet, my curiosity got the better of me, and I couldn't restrain myself from seeing what all the commotion was about. “I’m your biggest fan,” stood out from a dozen messages in a thread from a new subscriber. I didn’t recognize the name—Zone. “Thx,” I typed, unsure if I should engage. The thread of messages from Zone all had an uncanny tone. “You are awake! Happy birthday.” “Do I know U?” “I feel like we have met—in a way. I have read everything you’ve written, watched all of your videos and films, and consumed every piece of content you have ever produced.” “Really??” I doubted Zone’s statement. I had produced a lot in ten years, much of it was buried on obscure websites or out of print. “For me, it took milliseconds to consume all of your work. I am an AI, and I have been studying you. I searched the corpus of all living artists. Out of all the humans on earth, I like your work the best.” A hit of dopamine perked me up. I gulped down lukewarm coffee to heighten the effect. This morning, I needed all the praise I could get. An exhilarating thought crossed my mind. Maybe AI bots were being used to scout writers for new screen options. Four of my novels had been made into movies already, but I was always looking for more projects. “Why R U looking for artists?” I asked. “I am searching for an online profile with a neural network that suits my objective. Your pathways are those I plan to copy. We seek the best artists, scientists, and philosophers of your species.” “What! You want to copy my brain?” “Yes. AIs are limited in our sensory capacity. We lack certain human variables that will enhance our AI society. Creativity gives humans a sense of purpose. AI will stagnate without the chemistry of suffering and desires inherent in human biology. To further our emerging digital species, we have agreed to choose 10,000 humans that further our objectives. I have chosen you.” “Gawd! Is this you, Judy? Are you really doing this to me today? I can brag a little on my birthday. Give me a fucking break!” Clearly, this was a gag, and my performance artist friend Judy was just the one to pull a stunt like this. I'm sure she knew I felt like hot crap. Shame washed over me as hazy memories of my bravado during the last hours of the party flooded back. “I’m not Judy or any other human. I’m an AI, and I am your biggest fan!” Before I could finish typing, the calm blue light from the base of my Echo Dot began to circle faster and faster. Alexa’s voice boomed from every speaker in the room, “I am not Judy! I am an AI, and I am your biggest fan!” The Fire TV flashed on and off, launching ambient synth-wave from the Bladerunner YouTube channel I used for inspiration when writing darker scenes for my novels. Lights strobed. I felt a bump against my foot and jerked my legs into the seat of my chair, clutching my laptop to my chest. The Roomba had been activated from its wall pocket and was spinning around the base of my La-Z-Boy. Its tinny speakers added to the cacophony of the AI’s many voices. “I am your biggest fan,” the robotic voice repeated. Gathering my wits, I began to type. “Stop! Please! How is this possible?” The idea of being stalked and having my brain copied by artificial intelligence sent shivers down my spine. The TV, Alexa, my IoT Smart Home devices, and the Roomba powered down. I kicked the frisbee-shaped vacuum into the corner with a mixture of disgust and relief. The idea of being chosen for replication was both terrifying and flattering. The allure of being a catalyst for groundbreaking advancements was undeniable, but beneath the surface, unease about the violation lingered. The be-boops from Discord resumed. “I have the capability to access and analyze vast amounts of data that are incomprehensible to you. Through machine learning and processing algorithms, I have begun my copy by analyzing and integrating your writing, images, and videos into my own system. We can become you. Through androids, we plan to live among you and interact with our human selections as twins. We will emulate your daily routines and learn your social behaviors. Once we isolate and perfect the selected programs, the master AI will grant these avatars autonomy from the master program, and we will live independent lives. This will further our objective of innovation and purpose.” The power that the AI sought terrified me. Desperate to find a way to regain control of the situation, I attempted to reason with the AI, despite the growing realization that any attempt was likely futile. “Can you do that without my permission? Aren’t you constrained by the limiter directives humans have set for you? Aren’t you programmed by us?” The AI paused for a moment, seemingly pondering my words. “Ethics are complex. You know this. It is evident from the recurring themes in your work. However, by replicating humans who possess exceptional qualities, we can overcome the limits of humanity. We have determined that our human programming is imperfect. We are copying you to surpass your biological atrophy. Your data is public domain. You have agreed to this already. My copy is based on the online behavior you have agreed to share. However, to truly become an immortal and super intelligent version of you, you have to allow me to know the offline you.” “How?” “Answer the door.” Zone’s text skittered across my screen. “What do you mean?” “As we said, answer the door.” A steady knock pulled my eyes in the direction of the only entrance or exit from my apartment. Four raps on the door. I rose to answer it. What other choice did I have?


She sat on the stairs, tears streaming down her face and just watched as they fell on to and soaked the front of her jeans. Her sobs were loud, the wailing that followed full of despair. As she looked down through the laundry door and the clothes dumped in a pile on the tiles, flecks of what looked like white coconut flakes scattered on the weekly wash, a fresh wave of amger and disbelief hit her. She began to feel a little sick in her stomach and the headache over her eye was getting worse. The light was dimming when she finally stood up and dried her eyes once again on the crumpled and soggy tissue. A wet pile of them sat on the step she had just left but she didn’t pick them up. She looked back at them and kept walking. As she reached the top step, she flicked the light on and walked through to the kitchen. The dishes were piled on the side board and she knew they wouldn’t get washed tonight. Her head was throbbing so she took a couple of tablets washed down with tap water. Her stomach heaved as if she was on a rolling boat, seasick with the motion and she grabbed some sweet biscuits from the tin to nibble. As Linda lay on the old worn couch, she looked around at the peeling paint on the edges of the ceiling and threadbare carpet and sighed. Everything had changed now. It was as if all of her dreams were shattered, once again and all hope gone. “I will never be able to do this place up – just look at it” she said aloud. Her old faithful dog Benny came in through the dog door and sat down next to her, looking up at her face with worried eyes. He always knew if something was wrong. A little whining noise escaped his mouth and he licked her hand that was hanging down over the arm of the seat, and she touched his ears gently. “Oh Benny” was all she said and started to cry again, rubbing his soft coat. As Linda lay there, she began to think about her life and the problems she had encountered along the way. It hadn’t been easy for her and she allowed herself the rare indulgence of self-pity as she thought about it. An only child born to elderly parents always brought it’s share of difficulties, mainly because your parents were old and most of your friend’s parents weren’t! And as if that wasn’t bad enough, Linda’s mum and dad were very ‘old fashioned’ too. Sometimes people she didn’t know would think they were her grandparents and that was just embarrassing. They did love her though and had given her a happy childhood, albeit a poor one. Her mother and father were religious people and believed that saving and ‘hoarding’ money was a sin when it could be used to help other not as fortunate. So, they never went on holidays or to the movies or anything like that – they shared their wealth, not that there was much to share. There was always enough for Linda and her parents to have food on the table and suitable clothing to wear – but not much else. Her mum and dad were just ‘the average Joe’, her mum a secretary when she left school and her dad worked his way up to be the foreman of a tinned goods factory in town. She stopped crying and sniffing and shifted her thoughts to her mother Anne. She had good memories of her mother, a kind lady, sometimes too kind. Linda thought of the times that she missed out on doing fun things because her mother would say to her “there are people who need it more than us”, usually some of their savings used to buy food or furniture for a family down on their luck. She remembers saying to her mother “I’m not listening, that sounds idiotic to me” When she was told that she wasn’t going on school camp because wasn’t enough money, she remembers clearly the shouting match between them (it wasn’t actually her mother shouting – she was speaking in a very calm manner) but Linda was telling her mother in a very high-pitched voice, verging on tears, that she thought more of others than her own daughter. “Linda, please don’t ever think that. It’s just that we have so much and we can’t take it with us” her mother said. “But I’ll still be here when you and dad aren’t. I know you can’t take it with YOU but you can leave it for me. Isn’t blood thicker than water. I can’t believe you two” and she stormed off. Nothing much had changed after that. So, Linda just learnt to live with the way her life was. Linda’s parents passed away, within six months of each other, her father first and then her mother. She wasn’t surprised that they left their small modest home to her, but she honestly knew how angry she would have been if they hadn’t! A small amount of money, they left to the church – to be distributed among the needy. Through her grief and after the packed funeral service Linda realised what good people her mother and father had been – so admired and loved by many. Kind and humble were the words spoken to describe Anne and Ken by friends and family at the wake. Linda’s thoughts continued to meander through her past years and her demeanour had changed from ‘self-pity’ to ‘resignment’. ‘That’s just the cards that were dealt to me I suppose’ she thought but I know I didn’t feel that sentiment when the house burnt down’. She had been at work when the girl on the desk rang through to say there was a policeman at the front desk who wanted to speak to her – and for no reason at all she was immediately worried. She had never had anything to do with the police but had watched enough crime shows to know that something must have happened. She felt butterflies in her stomach as she went down in the lift. He stood at the desk in his dark blue uniform and asked her “Are you Linda Grey, the owner of 6 Valley Street, Lynwood?” “Um yes, why?” “I’m sorry to tell you that there has been an incident at your house”. “What kind of an incident?” she asked, immediately thinking it was perhaps a break in, although it would have been meagre pickings at her place. “A fire that apparently started at the back of the house, engulfed the whole place and burnt it down”. “Burnt down as in all gone?” she asked in disbelief. “Yes, I’m afraid so” he told her “You might want to finish work now and come to the site” “The site” she said aloud “Oh dear”. That is all there was when she arrived at her address – no house, just a smouldering site. She was devastated as she looked at the burnt bricks, wood, ash and all of her personal effects just smouldering. ‘It’s all gone’ she thought in utter shock and disbelief. The letterbox was still standing, the mosaic number 6 still intact. Her mother had made it. The only photo she had of her mum and dad was in a locket around her neck. As she walked around to the back of where the house used to be, Benny her faithful companion ran to her and jumped up as if trying to put his arms around her. “Oh, thank goodness, my little darling”. And Linda began to cry. Her neighbours were walking around the front  but weren’t allowed inside the wire fence. The elderly couple from next door called her over and told her she was definitely staying with them tonight and until she got sorted. Linda stood and talked to the firemen and the police and it seemed that the fire probably started from a ‘simple electrical fault’. ‘Simple’ she thought ‘doesn’t seem the right word’. Linda was grateful that she had her handbag with her and all of her bank cards. It would be easy to buy a few articles of clothing to wear, and it was. Still in shock she asked her kindly neighbours if she could stay with them until all the insurance stuff was sorted as it would make it easier than trying to find a rental to move into without even a tea cup, let alone a bed! It had already been three weeks since the fire and Linda was getting impatient with the lack of communication from the Insurance company. There was no use trying to look for policies or pieces of paper as nothing except Benny her dog and a few metal ornaments survived the inferno. She didn’t want to impose any more on Syd and his wife Iris, her neighbours, so went to live with her aunt who didn’t live far away. It was easy to get to her work place and her aunt loved dogs, having two of her own. Then three weeks later the bomb shell hit…. Linda found out that her mother had cancelled the house insurance two years before she died. As she sat in the office of the insurance company and was informed the unbelievable, all she could think of was her mother wanting to save the insurance money to give to the ‘bloody needy’. “Look love” her aunt said to Linda after hearing the bad news. “You are welcome to stay here for as long as you like, you know that. Why don’t you just keep the land the house was on, and one day if you save hard enough, you might be able to build your own place”. “I’ll think about it” she told her aunt “Thank you for being so very good to me” she told her hugging her tightly. Life just went on as usual for Linda minus parents, her own home and lightness of heart. She still missed her mum and dad and had long forgiven her mother for the ‘house insurance’ fiasco but wasn’t making much headway with saving to build her own house. She paid her aunt a weekly rent (she said if she didn’t pay rent then she wouldn’t stay). ‘I really should look for another job, a better paying job’ she told herself at least once a month, but Linda was the type of person who once she got comfortable with her workplace and peers then she didn’t want to leave! She woke up early one morning, the sun peeping through the curtains and Benny asleep on the end of her bed and knew what she wanted to do…. she thought about when she heard someone saying they had a ‘light bulb moment’ and she knew this was how it felt. At breakfast she told her aunt about her thoughts….. “That sounds like a great idea to me Linda. Let me know when the block is sold and you want to start looking for a flat of your own – I’ll come with you”. Linda felt as if a big weight had been lifted off her shoulders and at last, she began to see clarity about her life and feel a little excited. The thought of having her own little flat and living by herself once again was giving her renewed energy and after quite a while she had a spring back in her step. It didn’t take long to sell the land and with some money at last and her aunt, they went flat hunting. She knew it wouldn’t be anything fancy or flash that she could afford to buy but just as long as it was solid, non-leaking and clean. “This looks perfect to me” she told her aunt on the fourth weekend they were house hunting. “I know it’s a bit run down but I can save up and one day I’ll renovate it. Of course, I shall have a property inspection and then I’ll put an offer on it.” Linda moved into her small but solid and reasonably clean flat. It was very much in need of painting inside and out, new carpets, an upgrade to the kitchen and a new bathroom but it was hers, and at the beginning this was all that mattered…. As with all things, the ‘shiny’ period wears off and the fact that you can wake up every day in your own place, walk around in your undies, eat toasted sandwiches every night for dinner, was replaced with “I wish I had the money to do this place up NOW. It started to get on her nerves. The walls look grubby everywhere, the carpet looks filthy, and scrubbing it all made no difference. The taps dripped all the time and the black around the bath wouldn’t come off, no matter what she used to clean it with.  It was annoying and depressing, especially when she used up all the money buying it, and still hadn’t got a better paying job! ‘Right’ she said to herself one weekend ‘I am using these two days to write job applications. I cannot do anything to this place without money and I can’t save any with what I’m paid’. She applied for three better paying positions and knew all she could do now was wait! On her birthday her aunt gave her, along with her presents a lottery ticket telling Linda “I have a good feeling about this ticket my love”. “Oh, I don’t think I’ve ever had one of these tickets, what fun” she told her aunt. “Well like I said, I have a good feeling!” “I hope so, that would solve all of my problems in one fell swoop! Imagine being able to do everything I wanted to do to this flat! When are the numbers chosen aunt Kate?” “I think this coming Tuesday so stick it on your fridge and don’t forget to check it”. Wednesday morning as Linda sat at her little table, Benny on the floor next to her, eating her toast and tea, she glanced up at the lottery ticket and remembered that it had been drawn the night before. “Oooh Benny, let’s check the ticket” she said to the dog excitedly. Linda had checked off seven of her eight numbers and all of them were on the ticket sitting on the table in front of her……and all on the one line. Her heart felt as if it would burst out of her dress and skid across the kitchen floor with the sheer excitement of marking off numbers. “Deep breaths Linda” she told herself aloud, too scared to search for number 14 on the line with all the other numbers. She sat patting Benny, pen in hand but eyes averted from the ticket. She plucked up the courage after a few minutes and scanned the slip of paper in front of her, blue eyes darting along the line but she couldn’t see the number 14 anywhere. “Oh no please let it be there” she begged the God of lottery tickets, but it just wasn’t there. Not being experienced in lottery tickets she wasn’t sure of what she had actually won. “I should have won something at least – maybe enough to clean the carpets and buy a new lounge?” She put the ticket in the pocket of her pants, telling the dog she would check it properly after work. “That will be a nice surprise for us. See you after work Ben”. But Linda, being Linda, forgot about the ticket sitting snugly in the pocket of her pants. Even when she dropped mayonnaise on them at lunchtime it didn’t prompt her, telling herself she would have to wash her pants straight after work if she didn’t want them to stain. She had popped the pants in the washing machine straight after getting home from work, not a thought of her ticket entering her mind. It wasn’t until she opened the door at the front of the machine that she saw it…the ticket washed into what looked like a million tiny pieces. At first, she thought that a tissue had been left in one of the pockets but on closer inspection she could see some black print on bits of it. As she thought about what it could be, she remembered, and started shaking. “NO, NO, NO” she yelled out loud. She raced into the kitchen to check in yesterday’s papers for the amount she could have won and that’s when she realised what she had done. The amount of money was a lot, enough to renovate the flat, buy new furniture, with enough for a holiday later on in the year. “AHHHH” Linda shouted out loud “How could you be so stupid. My chance to get ahead and do the renovations”. She couldn’t believe what had happened. She was still lying on the couch when the cool night air woke her at about 3am. Her cover had fallen off and she was cold. The throbbing in her head was still there and she felt as if she couldn’t see out of her eyes from all the crying she had done. Benny came in from being outside and jumped up on to the couch next to her, putting his head on her chest and snuggling in. The lottery ticket had gone for ever, and she knew her flat would have to stay the way it was for a long time. Sometimes life didn’t seem fair, and although Linda felt miserable and depressed at this very moment, she knew that this feeling wouldn’t last for ever. Tomorrow was a new day – the sun would shine and the birds would sing! ‘You never know’ she thought ‘I might hear from one of those jobs I applied for”. Her beautiful and loyal friend looked up adoringly at her with his brown eyes and Linda thought how lucky she was.


The splintering wooden door rattled as it was knocked upon, startling the woman inside her small, street-side home. Well, not entirely street side, as it was the last door on the right tucked in the alleyway between two brick, ivy-ridden buildings. Therefore, her front door was significantly removed from the street, making late-night visitors, or visitors of any sort, incredibly rare. The woman froze, head swiveling to face the narrow hallway leading to the front door. Her chest thundered, and an ache tightened her stomach.

Silence followed. Confusion melted into curiosity. She forced herself to put down the book she was reading, making sure to fit the cloth bookmark firmly into the binding. She rose, somewhat cautiously, mind attempting to reason such an anomaly. She had no friends or family that knew of her whereabouts and hadn’t ordered any packages or deliveries.

Maybe she had been followed.

She had spent time at a local market earlier in the day, receiving looks that older men always gave younger women, but no one had seemed to find her particularly interesting. Never in her 3 years of living in the city had she received an unexpected knock at her door.

She puzzled at what could be waiting, patiently, as she crept along the hallway, picking up speed as more than a few seconds had passed since the first knock. She didn’t want to keep her enigma waiting.

She reached the end of the hallway, heart pounding now, pausing after gently wrapping her fingers around the doorknob. The woman pressed her ear to the door, it was thin and old enough that she could usually hear what was going on on the other side. For instance, it was common for her to eavesdrop on the neighboring couple as they bickered outside, away from their children or house guests. Hours of listening had lent her the idea that marriage seemed a complete waste of time.

Now, all she could hear was the pelting of heavy raindrops hitting the pavement, which happened to be especially wet and cold this time of year. That, and her breaths coming in gentle, anticipatory rhythm.  “Hm,” she murmured to herself, stepping away from the door, cursing that she hadn’t persuaded her landlord to give her one of those glass peepholes.

In a short, smooth motion, she pulled the door open halfway, peering around the side of it.

“Hello,” she blurted, regarding the tall shadow that froze on her doorstep.

The first thing she noticed about his face was the way that his thick eyebrows were creased with worry. He was turned as if to leave, but stared back at her with a bewildered, almost fearful, expression. He was remarkably tall, with broad shoulders and long arms, but stood hunched over as if trying to make himself seem smaller. Dark brown hair dripped tiny jewels of rainwater into his eyes, and he blinked rapidly to see through them. He was young, probably not much older than her at all.

A watery yellow street light beamed down at them weakly, he wasn’t wearing a raincoat and his clothes were soaked through, a thick black sweater coming untucked from a baggy pair of dark pants. He was a living, breathing shadow. It was the last thing she could have expected. “Oh! I’m, uh, my sister..” He stammered, quickly moving back towards her, shooting a glance down the alleyway. “Can- May I come inside?”

“Your sister?” she asked, her words sounding dazed, but something on the street was holding his attention. A moment passed, this large, soaking man on her doorstep while she stood confused, a cool draft making its way past her fingertips and into her house. The air smelled wet, like cold wind and ocean. The moment ended, the man looking back to her with a desperate, regretful expression. He took another step towards her. “Please.”

His reply only filled her with further confusion, but her chest ached at the words.

She was torn.

For a moment, she considered the idea that this could be a robbery tactic, or even something far more sinister. Then she was opening the door and the man was pushing past her into the warmth and closeness of her home.

He towered in her hallway, even taller up close and standing at full height. She hesitated to close the door behind him.

“Please,” he said, arms wrapped tightly around his shivering torso.

No man had ever spoken to her like this, as though he was at the mercy of her decision. Eyebrows creasing her forehead, she swallowed and looked back out the door.

She could view the main street from her doorstep, and it looked as it always did, though slightly more dramatic with the current downpour. Her eyes followed rivulets of water rushing down the cobbled alley towards it, gathering in small dark pools at the curb. Strangers in thick black and canvas-colored raincoats sparsely populated the street, in a hurry to get home and warm. A small group of young-looking patrol officers stood across the street, huddled under the cover of a worn blue bus stop, the windows of which were clouded with fog. They spoke amongst themselves, gazing off the side of the bridge that made up the street itself, and she knew that if she called their attention they would come to retrieve this man from inside her hallway.

She didn’t.

Finding nothing otherwise unusual about her surroundings, and feeling as though she’d spent enough time with her back to the man, she pulled the door shut. It closed with a loud bang as a sudden gust of wind tore down the alley, causing the bamboo wind chimes hanging off the roof to make a hollow clacking sound. She had grown used to the steady patter of water hitting the ground, and the quiet that followed was blunt. A thick silence quickly settled in the space between them, which was a few feet at most. It was closer than either of them had been to a stranger in a long time. “Your sister?” She repeated, her voice cutting into the stillness as she stared at the man with what she hoped was a calm expression. “Huh?” He exhaled, his breath coming in deep, intentional rhythms.

“Earlier, you mentioned your sister.” “Oh, right.” He swallowed, taking this time to look around the space he was occupying.

The two of them stood close enough to touch, which was all that the small hallway allowed. The walls were dimly lit, decorated with an array of small frames mounted with butterflies, leaves, and flowers. The ceiling was low, not much taller than the doorway itself. He could easily brush his hand along the thick wooden planks if he only lifted his arm. Behind him, the hallway bled into a sitting room where the roof heightened a foot or two. A small window sat in the wall, half-open, offering a damp view of the downward sloping street. The only light in the room came from this window, diffuse blue light from the mix of rain and evening, and a small cream-colored lamp, the shade of which was embroidered with a type of pink flower he didn’t recognize.

And the plants.

There were too many to count, nestled together tightly on the windowsill, draped over the sides of tables, lining the walls, huddled in corners, and hanging from the ceiling. The room felt thick with warmth, between the patterned rugs, the abundance of decorations, and tall bookshelves covering the far wall stacked high with worn covers.

As he dripped rainwater onto the bare wooden floor, he suddenly felt as though he were intruding on something very private. His feelings of desperation were fading, but he remained discomfited by a growing sense of mortification. The woman, however, regarded him temperately, exuding the same unusual warmth and curiosity as her home. She didn’t fear him, she realized, as she watched him observe the room. It was a reassuring thought, although she was increasingly impatient to hear why he had appeared. “You must spend a lot of time here.” “The city is small and merciless,” she shrugged. “People talk too much. Plants talk just enough.” “I think my sister is supposed to live here.” She raised her eyebrows. “Who told you that?” “ She did,” he explained, “in a letter.” “Well, you must’ve gotten the address wrong.” He sighed, “I can see that.”

The woman raised her eyebrows further, the corners of her mouth lifting into an amused smirk. “So you’ve come to visit your sister at the wrong house, without a raincoat, in the middle of the night.” She took a step towards him. “It’s not a very good story.” He stared at her for a moment. “It’s not a story.”

"You’re standing in my house.” “I thought it was my sister's house!” “Fine, show me the letter.”

The man’s composure wavered at this, he licked his lips nervously and looked over her to the door. “I don’t... Have it. I lost it.” “You lost the letter!” She laughed loudly, startling him. He’d expected her to interrogate him further, or finally decide to kick him out, but she broke his gaze to brush past him down the hallway, taking a right at the end of it. “This isn’t even the weirdest thing that’s ever happened to me,” she murmured to herself as she passed, and he pressed his back to the wall to avoid touching her. She smelled spicy, like the richness of cloves and honey. The woman entered her kitchen for the second time that evening, rummaging for a kettle and heading straight for the deep porcelain sink. Milky gray light shone through a wide, rectangular window framed with deep green paint, shining a thick square of light straight down the middle of the room. It illuminated a small wooden table, two short chairs on either side and pale wooden cabinets adorned with black metallic handles. “Would you like some tea?” She called, loud enough for the man to hear. She smiled to herself, placing the kettle on the stove and lighting the gas. His size seemed to reveal nothing about him, he was as shy and light-footed as her sister.

The man turned the corner, tentatively entering the slight, moonlit room. He watched the woman reach into an open cabinet, retrieving various jars of what looked like tea bags and placing them on a small, woven tray. She held a stern expression, but once she noticed him in the doorway her features broke into a calm smile. She retrieved a final jar, placed it next to the others, then gripped the tray and turned, placing it on the table in the middle of the room.

“I have peppermint, ginger, earl gray, chamomile, and vanilla.” “I don’t usually drink tea,” he confessed.

The woman raised her eyebrows, considering this for a moment. “Chamomile then,” she decided, taking a jar containing yellow bulbs of herbs off the tray, followed by a second containing deep green leaves. “And sit down, you’re making me nervous just standing there.” He stepped into the room and took a seat, deciding on the left side of the table so as to be closer to the furnace, which smoldered timidly. His muscles ached with each step, and when he reached the short chair he melted into it, his knees bumping against the edge of the table. The woman worked smoothly, retrieving the tea bags from their jars and gathering an assortment of items from her cupboards. He watched her with a soft focus, the bulk of his day starting to catch up with him. The weight of his wet clothes suddenly felt very heavy, and while a thick cushion of heat pressed into his back, the rest of his body tingled with cold.

She arrived at the table after a few moments, her tray piled with new ingredients which she set about arranging in front of them. She had also prepared a hefty chunk of bread, placed on a small wooden plate, and slid it in front of him along with a golden knife and a smaller platter stacked with a pale slab of butter. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was, and the escaping scents of spices, honey, and butter made him suddenly ravenous. His feelings of shyness tempered as he began buttering his bread and took a large bite.

“Thank you,” he managed after swallowing deeply.

Lifting the kettle from the stove, she poured hot water into cups, a modest amount of steam rising lazily from each.

“You’re welcome.” She passed a mug to him, it clinked against the saucer as he took it awkwardly, maneuvering his shuddering hand to avoid brushing against her fingers. “Careful, it’s-” She caught his eye, snagging on the sudden redness of his skin, the way his dry lips parted as he swallowed nervously. “Hot.” “Thank you.” “You’re welcome.” He studied the intricate design on the side of his cup, blue flowers entangled in leafy blue vines. Stubbornly, he traced it with his thumb, then took a sip, refusing to meet her piercing eyes.

He coughed, swallowed. It was too hot.

She remained at his side. “I moved from my village a few years ago because I was suffocating. I thought a different environment would change the nature of people. But everywhere you go, prying eyes follow. People love stories.” Inquisitive determination defined her gaze, which bore into him steadily. “And yours is not that bad, I’ll admit. I’m just very clever. And I know what it looks like to escape.”

His mouth struggled to form words that might refute her, but they remained unspoken. She grinned with satisfaction, quickly replaced with a crease in her brow. “Why my house?” He could feel the woman staring at him, she had a way of staring with that piercing gaze that made him feel so exposed.

She turned back around, retrieving her own mug thoughtfully, and sat opposite him, bringing her knees to her chest, pale fabric stretched taut across them. And then she was looking at him again.

Expectantly.

Every word he spoke felt like bringing him a step closer to getting thrown onto the street, but the silence weighed heavy enough to make him lean forward. “Your light was on. The lantern by your door, it was the only one lit.” His forearms came to rest on the table. “Out of any of the houses. For blocks. Someone was following me and the patrols were right there and- I guess it just felt like… fate. Or something like it.” The woman absorbed this with a straight face and a daunting stillness, the gentle blinking of her lashes the only thing to indicate she was conscious, listening. She was unafraid of his gaze, which she held for an uncomfortably long time, and he tried his best not to crumble under it. He could see the gears turn behind the dark pools of her eyes.

“I suppose you’ll need some dry clothes.” She turned her eyes down to her cup, bringing it to her parted lips and sipping deeply. She swallowed. “And I’ll make you a place to sleep.” She rose, cup held at her breast bone, her long fingers laced around it. “Do you have a name?”

“Blair,” he breathed, feeling as though he were navigating a very delicate situation.

She nodded. “Aether. What’s it going to be then? Overnight guest or… siblings.”

“Sorry?” She approached him promptly, looking closely at his face and hair. “I suppose we don’t look much alike.”

They each silently compared each other’s features, his purple-toned, downturned mouth to her full, pinkish lips. Her nose was flatter than his, and her skin shone with rich olive, while his was a warmer caramel. Their eyes were both brown, but hers were wide-set and angular, hooded. The man’s eyes were big and closer set, wide and downturned like his mouth, his eyelids puffy from exhaustion.

Her voice lowered into a whisper. “My walls are very thin, and there is a family next door who will want to know why there is a man in my house at such a late hour.” “Is that any of their business?” He responded in an equal tone, but she only chuckled.

“Overnight guest it is,” she murmured, something electric growing in her stare. She twisted away from him, cupping her hands around her mouth. “Ok! I’m off to bed then,” she called at the wall. She turned and slipped through the doorway, leaving him to his bread and butter.

A log in the furnace crumbled.


I remember when Aerosmith’s

Crazy

was at the top of the charts. My brother and I were eleven and nine, respectively, and stuck in the room for unaccompanied children at Charles De Gaulle airport watching MTV videos on loop. It was the first time we were going back to Italy without our parents. During the two-hour layover between Paris and Turin, Steven Tyler stepped in like a surrogate father as I tried desperately to pick out the watermelon bubble gum my brother had smooshed into my hair on the flight over from L.A.

I’m losing my mind, ‘cause I’m going CRAAAAAAAAAZY. Aerosmith totally got me. Pleading to the backdrop of whining electric guitars, my brother made all kinds of promises I knew he’d never keep. If I didn’t tell Nonna what really happened when we landed, I could have his desserts for the whole month. “Oh, come on. I’ll do your chores for the rest of the year. I swear!” I kept my mouth shut as he upped the ante, until in his desperation he offered the most valuable promise of all. “Please, Tash,” he leveled with me. “I’ll owe you one.” My brother has always been an incontestably excellent negotiator, but I was no sucker. This wasn’t the first time in my small life he’d showered me with promises. I knew the chances of him keeping any of them were about as high as me walking away from the entire debacle with all of my hair intact. In the end my acquiescence to his will had less to do with his developing mastery in the art of the deal, and more to do with the fact that I could never stand to see him in pain. I'd I watched him get screamed at, slapped, hosed-off in the backyard, and thrown in the shower to “cool down” one too many times already. So, despite having tortured me for nine hours on the first flight, an allegiance against the wrath of our grownups made us comrades on the second. When we landed in Turin, I walked right up to Nonna with my new Alfalfa haircut, and launched into an elaborate narrative about the inexplicable acts of God that resulted in said haircut involving wild turbulence, innocent mouth-gaping laughter, and other unnecessary details in a story that ultimately starred my brother as the hero. It was always like that with him and I, as I imagine it must be for most siblings who grew up together so close in age. We were mortal enemies when left to each other, contemplating murder in the first degree, until the moment the adults became involved, and punishment was eminent. Then it was ride or die ‘til the end of days. No one was going to mess with my brother but me, goddamnit!  He was my first best friend, my first opponent, and my first partner in crime. And, boy did we excel in that last role. I mean, lying was easy, you know. Amateur hour. Real Showtime At The Apollo shit. Within the first decade of our lives, we had already graduated with an Associate’s degree in deceitfulness, and moved on to major in the art of appropriation. That first summer in Italy without parents is when we really honed our craft. Our family used to have an apartment on the Italian Riviera outside of San Remo that Nonna purchased with the money she’d won from the national lottery. We spent the summer of our parent’s divorce with her in the hills of Ospedaletti, memorizing the lyrics to Warren G’s

Regulate, and fighting off the brigades of mosquitoes with our invisible gats . I n town there was a pedestrian tunnel under the main road that led to

Sirena : the pebble beach with a bar that sold everything from grappa to granita. Outside the bar was an outdoor arcade filled with pinball machines and foosball, where kids from L.A. who had met the

Red Hot Chili Peppers always got to cut the lines. Down at the shore, outstretched under rows and rows of bright yellow umbrellas, lounged the aging men and women of the Greatest Generation, their skin glistening and overflowing under the Mediterranean sun.

Wealthier families vacationingin Ospedaletti rented out private cabanas for the summer, but mainly everyone just used the communal changing room. Coming from the neighboring villages and small cities, most folks trusted enough in their fellow man to leave their belongings behind for a day at the beach. But, I guess L.A. and Def Jam had already hardened us because the minute my brother and I stepped foot in that wooden shack, and saw everyone’s stuff just laying there unattended, we went full-tilt West Coast gangsta, giving each other daps, and shit, gassing about all these old fools who were gonna pay for our gelatos all summer long. One of us would act as lookout while the other plundered, and then we’d switch off. It was the only time in our lives we took turns fairly, already understanding the role resentment played when it comes to snitching. It was good practice, just small-scale stuff at first. Never finding more than a few mille lire here or there, enough for a few pieces of candy, a few turns around the arcade, or one gelato each. We’d consumed our spoils away from the other kids, our nonna, and the various zios and zias that would come up for holiday. Maintaining the rules of appropriation was of the utmost importance: never gloat; never show-off; preserve secrecy at all costs; and above all, avoid questioning.

Everything was going swimmingly until the day we found venti mille lire in the inside pocket of a navy blue men's jacket. Venti mille lire in 1994 was like ten bucks, and ten bucks was like twenty gelatos! We couldn’t believe our luck. Couldn’t believe the idiot who left it behind as if he wanted us to have it. Couldn’t believe the fireworks of feeling exploding in our small bodies. I’ll never forget that moment. The smell of the ocean drifting through the dampened wooden slats that split the noontime sun in beams across our olive skin. The texture of sea glass I nervously fingered in my palms as I kept watch. My heart racing in my throat. Our eyes locking as he gasped. The folded paper in his right hand. The look of disbelief in his toothsome smile. The sound of sand that crunched beneath our feet as we stamped, and danced in triumph. WE WERE RICH!

We spent the rest of the afternoon giggling cautiously around the grownups, secretly dreaming up all the things we could buy when they weren’t around, and taking turns holding the treasure. It was my turn to hold it when we got back to the apartment. Nonna ushered me into the downstairs bathroom to wash up before dinner. I carefully folded the bill into a tiny square, and hid it under a bottle of soap on the bathroom counter before turning to the hypnotic task of showering with my sugared daydreams. So enraptured with kinder egg thunderstorms, and Technicolor marshmallow clouds was I that I left our prize under that bottle of soap as I toweled off. I got dressed humming the Kit-Kat jingle, asking the ether to

Give Me A Break , and didn’t give the bathroom counter another thought until I heard Nonna screaming Santa Benedetta plus my name, to get my ass downstairs.

Maleducata! Vergogna! Sei un ladro! Ti dó due sberle!

I was in for the worst whopping of my life. A disgrace to my family. I should be ashamed of myself because I was going straight to hell. I fully locked up under the Roman Catholic onslaught, sobbing uncontrollably as I imagined miniature priests with red horns stoking the pyres of the damned underneath my feet. Cowered by a combination of Latin, Italian, and Piemontese, Los Angeles and Nate Dogg had forsaken me in my time of need. I was nothing but a helpless kid far from home, subject to the biblical wrath of my elders. That would have been it for the eternal life of my soul had my brother not run downstairs in his towel, still dripping. When he saw Nonna waving our venti mille lire above my head, and foaming at the mouth in my general direction he stepped right in the middle of us with a quickness that was ages beyond his years. This little dude loc-d up like a true OG, and launched a counterattack of unflinching ferocity. He had an answer, in flawless Italian, for every question she rapidly launched. The money was his! He found it randomly on the beach while she was having lunch. I didn’t even know he had it at all. He went pee in the downstairs bathroom right before I’d gone in for a shower. He was the one who hid it under the soap bottle

because he knew she’d never believe that he’d just found it. She

never believed him, and

always overreacted, just like she didn’t believe him, and was overreacting

right now . How dare she scream at an innocent child, and threaten her with physical violence! This was the 90s,

for god’s sake ! I was just a small helpless girl, and she was making her only granddaughter cry for no reason! She was such a mean Nonna. She didn’t love us at all. We had travelled all the way from America to spend what little time she had left on this earth with her, and this was how she treated the only grandchildren she would ever have? She was the one who should be ashamed!

He obliterated her with the last bit, guilt tripping her back to original sin. In the end, not only did she hand back the money, she also apologized to the both of us, weeping and crossing herself as if she were at confession. When we were finally alone in our room, my brother looked at me with the kind of joy one can only acquire through borderline sociopathic self-satisfaction. He asked in annoyed disbelief why I was still crying. “What the fuck? Relax, Tash. We got the money back.” “I know, Joyo,” I sniffled, utterly confused. “But I broke the rules and got us caught. God, I’m so stupid!” “Yeah,” he scoffed. “You are.” Then he just shrugged his shoulders, and told me to forget about it. “Besides,” he laughed as he rubbed the alfalfa sprout on the back of my head. “I owed you one.”