"What about this thing?" I hold up a round, yellowed appliance with a bulky wire wrapped around it like a hazardous umbilical cord. I have no idea what it is, but there's some sort of food hardened to the side that's probably been stuck there for years. Gross . Mom takes the thing from my hands. "That's a rice cooker, darling. I just picked that up at a yardsale." She sets it in (or rather atop) a full basket of kitchen relics in the "keep" pile, which, as I expected, dwarfs the little "toss" heap. So far, that modest mound only includes things of which she has more than two. Even those items had been a strain for her to part with. The idea that she still peruses yardsales is beyond discouraging. I look to the clock on the wall to find both hands resting lazily near the 10. We've been at this all morning. I take a deep, daunted breath as I lift another box down to the black-and-white linoleum. The kitchen and bathroom are the only rooms with any floor space left to speak of. "Why don't you take a break, sweetie?" I turn my gaze to my mother, sitting on her feet on the floor beside me. The frizzy, white hair that frames her face is glowing, backlit by the sun through the window. Behind her glasses, her green eyes crinkle in a familiar and genuine smile, and I force a smile back. She is still my mom, the same woman who cuddled me and read to me as a child, who kept an immaculate house for decades. She had been a great mom. She had been ... normal. It's not a good time to take a break; the apartment is still nearly impassable for all the boxes, totes, and baskets of Mom's new and old junk, but looking at it all again, I feel myself tense up, yearning for a smoke. I know I should quit. "Fine," I lament, "just a quick break." I walk out to the front step through the bright hallway that smells like paint and pot smoke, and as I fumble with my lighter, I feel the tears coming again. How can she stand living like this?

I think the hoarding began around the time Dad died. Of course, Mom refuses to call it what it is. "I'm not a hoarder," she'll laugh whenever she hears the word, as if her lifestyle is perfectly normal, moving from room to room in that cramped place via a narrow path through stacks of crap. It's obviously not healthy. I mean, she can't even have company over anymore. The last meal we shared at her table, before it got buried in junk, was more than six months ago. I take a deep drag off my cigarette and slide up the lock screen on my phone. It's a picture of Gaga, the one-eyed pomeranian my husband took in our long and petty divorce. I get visitation with her every Monday, court ordered.

I swipe idly through my text messages, pausing over an unread message from Eva: "Just leave it alone, Em." My younger sister is almost sweet in her sincere naivety. I should have known better than to even bring this up with her again. I texted her last night, something along the lines of "if I can't get Mom to clear out at least half that shit tomorrow, I'll lose it."

How can Eva argue that anyone living among so many towers of crap could be properly looking after themselves? Honestly? She doesn't get it. Six years my junior, 25-year-old Eva seems to still believe Mom knows everything and can do no wrong, but she wasn't here when Dad was sick. She didn't see how obsessed Mom became with his care, all but totally neglecting her own needs, nor how quickly she began to replace his presence in the apartment with these random things. At first it was a box of old books from goodwill, a few extra throw pillows, practical things that she more or less made room for. Then I started to notice other things. When was she ever going to need a plant stand? She never kept plants. And the suitcases? She doesn't travel. She might, she says. Then her collection became more obscure: rolls of sparkly wallpaper she might someday do a craft with, a broken doll that reminded her of me, an old-fashioned butter churner, five different can openers. I couldn't even find those things in there now if I tried. "Emma Grace," Mom sings my name when I re-enter the kitchen. She's moved a tray of silverware off of the stove top to boil a kettle for tea. I try to swallow the annoyance I feel at her lack of focus. "Mom," I plead, proud of my calm, even tone. "I think we'd better get back to it here, or we'll never finish." Mom has her back to me, so I don't see her expression, but I notice her hand pause briefly in mid-air before she pulls open the cupboard to root for teabags.

"Emma, Emma, Emma," she sings softly. She puts a hot mug in my hand and clinks it gently with her own. "How's that nice man you're seeing? Clive, was that his name?" "Mom," I sigh, rolling my eyes. "Is this a pencil sharpener?" I examine a clunky, metal device with a turning handle, the kind of sharpener that was screwed into the corner of the teacher's desk in third grade. Mom's gaze is fixed on my face, like she's studying a new artifact for this museum of uselessness. "Mom?" I shake the thing at her, trying to snap her out of it. "Oh, yes," she coos affectionately. "I love that." She takes the sharpener with a little sigh and places it gingerly next to the teetering "keep" pile. Incredulous, I'm not sure I can take much more. All I want is to throw a lit match at this mess and move Mom across town to the complex next to mine, someplace fresh and empty with space for her to move around, maybe even entertain guests the way she once enjoyed. Hadn't she enjoyed that? "Have you heard from your sister this weekend?" Mom blows over the rim of her cup and tries again to change the subject. Eva's text flashes in my mind, "Just leave it alone, Em." Easy for you to say , I think. Eva has a steady boyfriend who dotes on her, a close-knit group of friends she's known since high school, and a full-time job she landed effortlessly right after graduation. She's almost enviably preoccupied, I think to myself, as I sample the steaming drink in my hand. It's our favourite, chamomile. "I'm sure she's busy," I sigh. Mom smiles contentedly as she leans back against the counter, which is layered with magazines and various debris. Clean dishes sit in the drying rack in the sink, where they'll stay until she dirties them again, as there's no room to put them away in the cupboard. It's true, when I was dating Clyde and working at The Rivera, I wasn't worrying about Mom's situation so much. She'd say she's fine, she's happy, and I'd just take it at face value, carrying on with my own business. That's all the more reason I should be glad for the change. I was laid off and dumped in the same week, and it's probably for the best. Mom needs me. Doesn't she? Mom laughs and plucks a magazine off the counter. "Did you see this?" she asks, turning it to show me the cover. It features a picture of Sarah Jessica Parker draped in tulle, and a bright, pink headline screaming, "Self-Love and the City". Mom loves Sex and the City, although her TV hasn't been accessible for awhile, and she loves a good play on words. Her smile waxes and wanes as she happily flips through the pages looking at the pictures as if for the first time. My phone pings for attention in my back pocket, and I slide it out to see Clyde's name. Clyde texted me. My heart trembles. What does he want? My fingers reach trepidatiously to tap open the message preview. "Can you come over?" A pinball of excitement and angst ricochets through my chest. Mom raises her eyebrows in curiosity.

I can't just leave. I promised Mom I'd help her clean out the apartment today. She hadn't asked, but she obviously hadn't had to. I tap the screen of my phone with chipped fingernails, thinking about Clyde. Have I shaved my legs? I realize it's been more than a couple of days since I even showered. "I need to make a call, Mom." I look around the cramped apartment. "Are you … You're okay? You don't mind if we put this off a bit?" Mom's thin lips form a smile that is warm and reassuring, with a touch of what might be relief. Her green eyes crinkle. She probably knows it's about a guy. She knows me pretty well, after all. She's still my mom, a thought that both confounds and comforts, and, as always, I'm grateful for her approval.

Maybe we'll try to tackle this again tomorrow. I kiss Mom's cheek, and as I pull the door behind me, I hear her chuckle carelessly into the glossy pages of the magazine. Yeah, I guess she'll be fine for now. Tomorrow it is.


We had been kicked out of our Airbnb. A tiny guest house behind a real house about a half mile from Bondi Beach. After Australia’s lockdowns were lifted, rentals were tight in the city. Another more desirable tenant had replaced us. Lately I had also begun to wonder if, instead of being here on the other side of the world, we should be in Brooklyn visiting my daughter in university, but the immediate concern at that moment was the day’s move to our new place of shelter. Two large suitcases stood next to us as we waited on the main street of Bondi for a taxi. June being winter, there were not many tourists and not many taxis.

The street was busy with a morning crowd; women in yoga pants, fashionable people walking their dogs, real estate agents, office workers picking up coffee. No one walking past noticed us standing next to our mismatched suitcases in our hastily chosen clothes . When you are doing something expected you become invisible. It's good not to be judged. Finally, we spotted a taxi headed in the other direction. He saw us waiting with our suitcases, waved, then pointed an index finger upward and mimed twirling a dinner plate, the universal gesture for “I'm turning around and will come back to get you.”

Ten minutes later he still hadn't reappeared. We had time. It was three hours to check-in and I calculated it was a 45-minute drive. The only Airbnb we could find was in the far Northern Suburbs. The crowd-sourced neighborhood info website, ‘HoodsMap’ showed it in an empty zone between two other areas labelled “Cashed up bogans” and “Murder your whole family”. Neither sounded promising, so we were not in a hurry. After another ten minutes, the taxi finally showed up and was heading our way. “I can see it now!” I said to my wife. But when the car approached, I saw it was a different guy - a white haired older man. By this point, it felt miraculous to be spotted by any driver and to be wanted as a customer. He stopped, jumped out smiling and flung our 50 pound suitcases into the trunk before I noticed his advanced age. The driver began speaking as soon as we got in the car, “My parents came to Australia in 1938. They were Jewish and escaped from Germany” was his conversation opener. An interesting personal story followed but as we drove faster and faster I thought more and more of requesting we stop so we could get out and perhaps read about the holocaust in the library. But with two heavy suitcases, the uncertainty of finding the next taxi and the weight of politeness, I decided to roll the dice and stay with this one. Five minutes later, the driver, who I now saw to be nearing the age of 80, was driving extremely fast down a main artery in Eastern Sydney in heavy traffic when he turned fully around and looked toward the back seat. “Sorry I can’t talk now, I need to concentrate on the driving” I agreed that not talking was an acceptable idea. He grabbed the stick shift and downshifted. The engine growled. We overtook the car next to us and passed across two lanes in front of the other car to make the next turn. I had been in fear of my life for much of the ride so far.

To reduce my anxiety I practiced the grounding technique I’d learned recently. Look at 3 objects, listen to 3 sounds, feel 3 things. Don’t rush. Be fully mindful. Repeat.

It didn't work so I asked my wife Trish how she was doing. Fine, she said, she was enjoying our driver's storytelling. She hadn’t noticed the dangerous driving at all, she’s more trusting of people. The car lurched and we took another sudden left turn. My fear of traffic accidents started with a motorcycle spill in my 20s. After falling off I slid helplessly along the pavement and watched the car behind me close in, believing it was my last moment on earth. Luckily the driver was alert and he stopped his car just in time. Since then, I have had a paranoia about things suddenly going wrong with vehicles. To switch to lighter topics, I asked the driver “Your accent sounds… British?”

He paused, this could be a touchy topic between Australians and Brits. America and UK might be distant cousins, but Australia and the UK are competitive siblings. “I'm Australian but yes I spent time in the UK.” As we neared the Harbour Bridge our car entered the Cahill tunnel, we were now past the point of no return. There were no stopping places from here on. The driver collected his thoughts for a moment and continued, “You see I spent time in the UK because I found God, and now I follow his path.” I was being driven at high speed by a zealous missionary. I hoped the path he spoke of was straight down the center of the highway. But I’ve learned everyone has their own version of a higher power and maybe I need to keep an open mind. People in religions and those not religious are perhaps just using different words for the same thing. To be agreeable I replied “That’s great, we are all on different paths.” The conversation then took a completely unexpected turn. “You see, I was there because my son followed his path and became a professional footballer in the UK” “Wow!” I said, “Is he still there?” “Yes, he’s still in the UK, he’s 34 now. He follows God’s path.” I wasn't much for religious talk but suddenly now we were in the car of sports celebrity. Possibly someone like Beckham? This was good. The driver said, “My son was good at sports. When he was 13, he said ‘Dad, I want to be a professional footballer’” This was getting interesting, but he needed to concentrate on driving again.

I pondered how to ask him his son’s name so I could then do some Googling and collect celebrity gossip to tell in the future at parties.

Because we had a long way to go to our destination, I decided to play the long game. “Do you have any other children?” I asked. “A daughter she was a swimmer, when she was 5 years old she said 'dad take me to the pool..'” He drifted off, and didn’t seem to want to talk more about her. “But my son, he was the one really into sport, he never stopped moving. He could never sit still, he caused a lot of trouble before he found his love for football.” He told a story about his son: “One day, I looked in my wallet and money was missing. What can you do as a parent?” “I asked him, ‘Son, did you take my money?’” “‘No, Dad.’” “‘I counted it, I know you took it.’” “‘Sorry.’” “‘My question, is why did you take a 100? If you took a 10, maybe I wouldn’t have noticed.’” “‘A 100 is more.’” "What can a parent do?” The driver shrugged. “So I asked the priest what I can do about my son.” “The priest said, ‘Think about yourself and your own actions’”. “And yes, when I was young, I took money. My father would hide his wallet above the cabinet behind the vase. And I would climb up and take 10 dollars.” His story over he drove silently for a while. I felt I was left waiting for the punchline to an intriguing Challenge of Parenting story. “So, what did you do? How did you punish your son?” I asked. “I told my son to pray to god for forgiveness.” "Nice!" I replied and thought about how that must have gone. That did seem like an infinitely better ending than an episode of parental violence or abandonment. I decided to remember the parable for future reference. “And now he is following the path god set for him,” he had said that quite a few times already. “Is he still playing football?” I asked. “Well, you see, he was working a lot with young people in football and they liked him. He followed his path and has become a minister and is now leading a youth ministry” I had all sort of questions about his son’s football career, was he famous? Did he leave because he had an injury? Trish tapped my arm. She leaned over and whispered very quietly, “he didn't mention his wife, she must have passed away”. She is often perceptive to things that I am not. Our driver's talkativeness suddenly made more sense. We arrived in Ryde, the North Sydney suburb where our next Airbnb was located. Our driver jumped out the door and went back and flung the heavy suitcase out of the trunk. “At my age, I’m happy to be working.”

I offered a generous tip. He refused to accept it, gave us a big smile and drove off.


He had grown weary of late winter, that time when a dirty crust of snow still covered last year’s garden and the early robins fought over worms, rising from secret hibernation to turn the earth. The pale sun peeked through the trees, barely warm enough to turn the dusting of snow on the juniper tree to little icicles, cascading down the twisted branches. The wind blew against a branch and with a tinkling sound, the icicles broke free and tumbled to the ground, shattered like so many dreams. Snowshoe rabbit tracks bounded through the garden, followed closely by the impressions left by his little wiener dog, Schatzi, always in eager pursuit, but never quite fast enough to catch up. Blue and brown butterflies, their wings tattered and lacy from wintering over, sought a protected nursery leaf to lay eggs for the next generation of sky flowers. Finally, wearied from their last effort, they fell to the ground and disappeared among last year’s leaves. Wet earth and decaying leaves left under the cover of snow, warmed and began to release their heady scent, attracting little flies, dung beetles and lady bugs to turn last year’s remnants into this year’s fertile soil. Eager little flowers pushed their way through the snow, green swords first, piercing the icy layer, like a chick’s egg tooth, to make way for an erect flower stem to bloom in the sun. First came the snow drop, white and sweet, soaking up the brief daylight, then the crocus, marching across the lawn, pushing and shoving until the whole hillside was a riot of purple, gold and white. Purple hyacinths, yellow daffodils and red tulips followed, waving their flags in patriotic fervor. New green aspen leaves shuddered and quaked in the morning breeze as if anticipating some bad news. Japanese cherry blossoms and redbud trees lofted clouds of pink fluff into the sky and wild plum flowers broadcast their essence into the air, inviting bees to gather nectar. A virgin queen bee flew into the air, pursued by dozens of eager drones and worker bee escorts and entertained her suitors on the wing. After a time, the survivors followed her back to the hive where she began producing eggs for a new generation. Her worker bees went back to their duties, busily preparing for the new season of flowers to come. Cicada nymphs stirred, then crawled out of the softened ground like a long-kept seventeen year old secret and spread their wings to fly away in search of new trees to house next season’s choir. A brilliant red cardinal was sporting with a smaller brown female as they hunted sticks and grass to build a place to lay her eggs. He sang her a love song, “twit, tweet, tooey tooey tooey” and she sang back, meeting him and merging in mid-flight. “O-chickadee, o-chickadee, o-chickadee,” a pair of Carolina chickadees, mated for life, sang as they hopped together from branch to branch through the juniper and foraged for grubs to nourish her and twigs to build their love nest. With a magnificent feat of aerial acrobatics, a scissor-tailed flycatcher took flight to snatch a cicada nymph on the wing, then flew away to seek another tasty morsel to impress his mate. Two turtledoves, perched together on the barbed wire to rest from their labors and rehearsed their evening lullaby, “Oooh woo, ooo ooo ooo.” He puffed out his feathers and they danced around one another, preening, and negotiating the pre-nuptial agreement. Finally, in a great flurry of feathers, they coupled and flew away home. A lone Cooper’s hawk landed on a small gray granite headstone marked with a United States Army Fallen Soldier’s flag. There was a carefully tended snow drop and crocus garden and beside it another marker, dusky pink sandstone, shaded by a flowering cherry blossom tree, with a different name, different dates and the inscription MOM. They say stories meant to be told are hidden away for years, even a lifetime, just begging to come forth. Then, one day, when it is their season, they open the secret door and push through the last layer of darkness into the light of day, where they blossom and grow to keep the world in motion. He went to his corner desk, lifted the time-worn tie-dyed shawl, polished the surface underneath, dusted the framed purple heart, gathered fallen pens and paper clips into a Class of 1969 coffee mug, opened his mother’s diary and sat down at the ancient Underwood typewriter to write. Song of Solomon by Solomon Ford Walker, Jr. He picked her up after school in his bright red Ford Fairlane. He bought her a cherry snow cone then they drove to the edge of town. He parked his car on Chickadee Hill and let the top down so they could feel the breeze. He played soft music on the radio and jumped up to catch a firefly on the wing, presenting it to her as a gift. She lay in his arms and laughed at his jokes. As the sun went down and stars began to come out, he untied her scarf and ran his long thin fingers through her honey-blonde hair. Her soft lips tasted of cherry and he pressed his mouth to hers then moved down her neck, thrusting his eager body against her. Her dress slid to the floor and he struggled to undo his uniform and take off his shoes. He trembled as he unfastened her cherry blossom pink bra. The shadows deepened as he sang softly in her ear. He whispered promises and sealed them with a kiss. With an impressive acrobatic move, he pushed through her melting layer of snow, like a chick’s egg tooth breaking through to make way for life to begin.

Solomon Ford Walker                                             Annie Marks PFC US Army,                                                           30 April 1951 – 18 March 1986 Cam Rahn Bay, Vietnam

                      MOM 15 March 1950 – 7 August 1969

The flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing

of birds  is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land.         Song of Solomon 2:12


Trigger warning: depictions of drug abuse

As he's leaving for work, of all times! "Ding, ding," the bell sounds again. There's no getting around answering the door. He has to get past whoever's there in order to leave, and he's already running late. He flings it open and it bangs against the wall. "Great, there's two of them!" he thinks, eyeing them with a rapid scan from the business shoes to the tops of their fedoras.

"Whatever you're selling or preaching, I'm not interested!" he asserts with a cringe-accented tone that has always worked before. But the two men aren't stepping aside to allow him through. Mid-morning sultriness with the rattlesnake sound of locusts in nearby bushes adds to his sweat. What on earth could they possibly want? Their faces are as void as their voices are silent. Hard as rocks, pale as death, stale as statues. At the end of the eternal moment, the shorter of the two cracks his lips to speak.

"Are you Glenn Smith?" It's a calm, robotic voice.

"Yes," he answers with a questioning tone.

The shorter of the two burly men turns to the taller one with an almost undetectable nod. A metal jiggle inside the taller one's jacket pocket joins the rattle of locusts.

"Turn around and put your hands behind your back."

Glenn smiles with a disoriented glare in his immature eyes. "What the hell's going on here?"

"Just do what you're told," the shorter man says. A curl of oily hair hanging down from under the fedora rests pasted against his shiny forehead. Glenn obeys the order with hesitation and protest. They nudge him inch-by-slow-inch toward a dark-windowed sedan they've left idling in a lion-like grumble.

"I am not getting in that car! Not until you show me your credentials and give me some kind of damn explanation for why I'm being detained!"

The shorter one seems irritated. First real sign of a human pulse in him. "Your name is Glenn Smith. Correct?"

"Yes, I told you!"

"Then the case is closed! Would you please get in now?"

"The case is not closed! Did it ever occur to you...cops...hitmen...whatever the hell you are how many 'Glenn Smiths' there are in the world? You got the wrong man, I'm telling you!"

The prison preview on four wheels snickers at Glenn's words as its a/c pump kicks in again. "Just get in, Sir!" the taller one says through clenched teeth. "You know what you did."

The back door thuds shut. A minute ago, the sounds of summer were unnerving. Now in their muted distance, they're inducing homesickness. The rectangular, matte-black barrel of the shorter man's weapon ensures total cooperation from this point on. Cooperation, or termination. The sedan shoots away from the yard Glenn may never see again, and before his stomach settles from the g-force of the jolt, the three are several blocks down the street and counting.

Glenn's job is more important to him than anything in the world these days. It isn't just the pay, it's the family he has there. He can't afford to lose it. His soul and sanity can't. He glances out the window to his side. They've been headed down the same street as the office for a while now. Soon they will pass it by. He dwells on the five years he was there. All for nothing. He always knew his thirties were going to be a time of downhill change, but he never dreamed they'd be the decade he'd lose everything. His freedom, his dignity, his friends, his home - and from the looks of these two...thugs - possibly his life. He's seen this scene in movies. Read it in books. The gun, the car, the clean-pressed gray suits, the hats, right down to the line: "You know what you did." He never thought he'd be living it.

"I demand my right to an attorney!" The shout pierces the ears of all three, including his own. He sees the taller one smile at him in the mirror. The shorter one joins him in expression after pulling his cupped hands away from the sides of his face.

"Calm down, and listen to us." Glenn tries to do that by getting lost in the blur of concrete and greenery as they pass by the buildings in the business district, but all it does is amplify the dread over his wrecked career. "Unfortunately," the shorter one says, "due to the nature of this crime, you're not allowed representation."

"The nature of this crime," Glenn repeats in a mind whisper, rather than question the truth of the man's statement with further shouting.

"You know what you did." This time, the taller one smiles with his teeth as he gazes at the trembling reflection in the back seat.

Glenn leans toward his own lap, head shaking, the trembling increasing in intensity. He knows what he did. He knows exactly what he did. "Oh, Robbie," he ponders with weeping for the words.

The sedan has stopped. The two men nod to each other, and the shorter one lifts Glenn's head up by the chin with his calloused-over hand. "Hey! We're here. Exit the vehicle slowly and uneventfully, please." Glenn does several doubletakes, trying to verify that what he's seeing isn't real.

The men do a quick check of their surroundings as the gun barrel remains pointed at Glenn's side. The taller one wraps his hand around the door handle to Barbara's office building, but stands there for a moment before opening it.

"You'd better hurry or you're going to be late for work," he states with that same teeth smile.

"You know what you did," the shorter one repeats one final time as he pulls the trigger. A long wire with a bright yellow flag and the word, "BOOM!" written on it pops out. "At 12:00 AM last night, you, Sir, turned thirty years old."

"Happy birthday, Sport," the taller one exclaims with a pat on the shoulder. "We're event entertainers. Your awesome boss and co-workers paid us good money to treat you today, so you be sure and give 'em a big thanks!" Glenn creeps his way into the building, knowing full well what's going to happen next.

"Surprise!" eight people yell at the tops of their lungs. "Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you..." they sing in an off-key chorus filled with smiles and giggles.

"These guys are also magicians," Barbara relates to him pointing at the two men. After work, we're gonna have a big catering party and they're gonna put on a show for us!" She shakes Glenn's hand. "Thank you for all you do here."

He stares at the floor, with his hand over his stomach. "Thank you," he mumbles.

"Are you sick?" she asks.

"No. It's not that."

"Well, what is it?"

A long minute passes. "Let's go outside to some fresh air," she suggests. He follows her in slow steps.

Her eyes lock with his. "Now what's bothering you? Come on, it's your birthday! Liven up a little!"

He looks at her as though bullets had just fired from her mouth instead of words. "It would have been my best friend's thirtieth this year too."

She shakes her head, copying his stare at the ground. "I'm so sorry to hear that. It's always terrible, losing a friend."

"Even worse when you're the one responsible for it."

She doesn't have to ask. The stagnant quiet suffices as her question.

"Fifteen years ago, I gave him one of those 'spice' cigarettes as a birthday present. We were young and stupid, and I didn't think it was any big deal because I'd been smoking them like crazy without a problem." He removes his stare from the concrete and places it toward the sky. "I was wrong."

Barbara puts an arm around him. "It was shortsighted of me to pull this birthday stunt on you, and I am very sorry. I had no idea..."

There's a pause.

"You know: Having been young and stupid is a fact of life for all of us. I tried spice a few times myself back in the day. There were those of us who were lucky, and some who weren't. I know this can't bring your friend back, but believe it or not, what happened was not your fault. I've worked with you for five years now, and I believe I know you well enough to know you would never deliberately do anything to harm another human being."

She copies his stare into the sky.

"To be able to forgive anyone is hard, but to be able to forgive yourself is one of the most important things ever in life."

The door to the building pops open as the two men head back to the sedan to retrieve their cases of magic props from the trunk.

Barbara smiles at Glenn. " Please go have some cake, will you?"


Damon, a ghostwriter, finished the editing of yet another memoir he had written for a successful business person. Someone who climbed the corporate ladder and managed to become CEO of a large company, for a few years. And then, reading between the lines (Damon was good at that), the CEO was let go for underperformance.

In interviews, the CEO was pleasant, if dully conventional. The type of man women want to marry, and then not talk to their friends about much afterwards. Damon’s draft title for these sorts of memoirs was invariably, Tales of a Typical Midwestern Childhood Much The Same As Everyone Else, until something more poetic, if less descriptive, came to his mind. The CEO hoped for a best-selling memoir that could be his calling card for his next career phase as a public speaker. Making a living by dropping words of wisdom from his mouth, as his favorite TED speaker does—the one he mentioned 200 times within 30 interview sessions. To celebrate finishing the final draft, Damon opened a chilled bottle of Pinot Grigio that he had been saving for the occasion. After a few glasses, he wrote a letter to himself about the tired tropes of memoir writing. The ones he had seen too much of that should all be flushed down the toilet. Technically some of them were clichés, but ‘tropes’ had a more literary sound to it, and saying that word impressed his clients. They knew they were dealing with a literary sort of person. After another glass of crisp Italian white wine, Damon accidentally emailed it to his entire client list. The 10 tropes of memoir writing that should be flushed down the toilet: The story of when I was called into the principal’s office. The writing assignment this week. Let’s gut this standard inclusion into most business memoirs. Everyone knows it’s a trick to make you, a rich and/or famous person, relatable. You are not. In 1984, you received a stern talking to from the principal for stealing Joanne’s eraser? It doesn't make up for the thousands of workers you terminated last year, or the personal assistants you’ve bullied.

“Things my dad taught me” Your dad didn’t have the internet. Next. Where I was when the Space Shuttle Challenger exploded. I don’t care. No one does. If you insist on keeping this in your published edition, I will ask NASA to restart the space shuttle program just to launch all 200 copies of your memoir into the sun. My childhood shaped me into the person I am today. No. I don’t think so. If you are a pop singer, please don’t make us think that your mother scolding you when you didn’t do your homework when you were 6, is the reason you were born with genetically perfect vocal cords and went on American Idol when you were 19. Talking of music, I’m now listening to Lady Gaga’s Bad Romance on repeat, and singing Bad Memoir over the chorus. Time for another glass of Pinot. Which leads into… “My parent (usually Dad) was an abusive alcoholic, and I managed to SURVIVE.” Statistically, 99.99% of children of alcoholics survive. That alcoholics are so proficient at making babies, while being so bad at taking care of them, is an unfortunate quirk of Darwin’s Theory that we all just have to live with.

This one cuts closer to home for your ghostwriter. I was born into the most alcoholic, yet un-abusive family, to one day hit the pages of a best-selling memoir.

Mom drank ten beers, then fell asleep on the sofa.

The next day, she did the same thing again.

A real page turner! I was bullied. When the well-built handsome men and gorgeous women I interview say they were bullied in school, it means something different for them than the standard dictionary definition of "bullied." Being the smallest boy out of two hundred in my high school class, I don’t need to read how you weren’t invited one weekend to a party that everyone else went to. Your struggle was one of popularity. My fight, was a fight for survival. But some tropes exist for a reason, so why not? “Being bullied in 7th grade at Greenfield Middle School gave me the internal drive to one day prove myself and achieve what I have today. I said to myself, one day I will return to the halls of GMS, holding a copy of my own memoir, and those who bullied me, will know I paid $50,000 to a fabulously talented ghostwriter to have it created, and they will apologize.” As for me, despite being 20lbs lighter than anyone else at school, I was not bullied. Bullied kids were predictable. A bully would kick the back of their chair, they would look back for one second, say “cut it out”, and then go back to their studies. The next day the exact same thing would happen again in that order. If my childhood in a family of alcoholics did anything for me, being unpredictable, or using the jargon of adolescence, “being weird”, was one of them. My family (in West Virginia) was so poor that…. What’s more Midwestern than the Midwest? West Virginia. All aspiring writers should spend a few months of their childhood there to gain the street cred to write into the myth of third-world poverty in WV. Or be radically different, and admit your childhood was middle class like most people, and The Seventies Show reminds you of it. It does me. In the days before the Internet, we had to do things (in nature, with physical objects) or else we would be bored. Yes. We ALL know that. And isn’t it great that now, we don’t need to be bored, and even nerds can find friends and even be popular, on the internet.

My quirky hobby is… This can have potential, if your hobby is not baseball, football, singing, dancing, computers, or any of the dozens of other normal ways teens occupy their time, by thinking they might be on the edge of greatness with something, that they are not actually very good at. My one chance at true love left me, when I was __ years old. I hate to break it to you, but...Stacy with the great hair, or Greg with the soulful eyes, was not the love of your life. It was just the hormones. If you were on a desert island, like Tom Hanks in Cast Away, you would also have fallen in love with the volleyball. So, if your infatuation was based on the way he/she smiled that melted your heart, we don’t need to hear more. An astute reader, adept at detecting subtext, will have figured out by this point that I did not meet the love of my life in high school. My close beloved relative died young (and became very important to me afterward). I wrote something very snarky here. That I just erased. Because, yes, the pain of the human experience can really hurt. But straining to make lost ones sound more significant in your life than they actually were, by hyperfocusing and trying to create meaning out of small memories, may sound hollow. This is reminding your ghostwriter of the time (and it was only the one time) that his 10-year-old cousin, and best friend at the time, committed suicide, and your ghostwriter didn’t cry at the funeral, and people asked him why he wasn’t crying, but he didn’t have an answer, and people thought that was weird. I’m suffering from a very special medical condition (which makes it impossible to keep pizza down before noon, poor me) I have news for you, EVERYONE is suffering from a medical condition. The narcissist in all of us turns our brightest and healthiest face to the world. But, when I have attained most people’s confidence, they will tell me of some difficult issue they are dealing with, that they would rather not have the whole world know about. But, if your condition is truly something that only a few people in the world have, please let us know about it.

Nicholas Vujicic, who wrote 50,000 words in Life Without Limits without having any arms or legs, is a good example. You might have a few inconveniences. He needs to ask someone to push the elevator button to survive. I’m important because, I made important decisions in important meetings (and I’m rich) There are a million people in America that have been a “senior manager” at some well known company. Good for you, getting paid for all your hard work and study. But it doesn’t make you interesting. If you were a stripper in Barstow Califonrnia, that would be far more intriguing to the average reader, who simply reads books to escape from the tedium of daily existence. I found God, Yoga, and/or a Plant Based Diet. Shove your plant based diet up a koalas rear end. My bad. Koalas eat nothing but eucalyptus leaves. They must walk around smelling like the yoga studio before class. Thinking about it more, these topics are not suited for a ‘General purpose memoir’ but could be a bestseller in the ‘Here’s Another Thing to Control in Your Life’ category. The human mind finds almost nothing more satisfying than having something to control. If you put test candidates into an empty room with a red button on a table, 100% of them will study the button, push it, and then push it some more, and then talk to it to see if that makes anything happen. Give us your unique spirituality practices, your rigorous exercise routines, and your highly controlled diets, so we can push those buttons, and tell our friends about it. And then everything was fine. In a good novel, at the end of every chapter, things are not fine. The cliffhanger is what makes us begin reading the next chapter. All the boring parts will be packed into the middle of that chapter. Those words function mostly to make the cliffhanger at the end fun again. Finally…something is happening again! In a bad memoir, at the end of every chapter, the world is at peace again after the narrator (who gained useful some useful life skill by being cleverly perceptive) fixed the problem or situation he was just facing. Often, a ‘luxury problem’ such as how to get into Harvard Business School, or getting that other Co-CEO fired for abusing the expense account Writing these guidelines has been much more satisfying than writing my own memoir. Someday I will get that started. I’m going to get all my clients to stop wasting my time with their run of the mill childhood stories, and get them to tell me some real stories by sending this to them now. [send] And one last thing, I always thought the song, Tell Me Why I Don’t Like Mondays, was by a Northern Irish band singing about their experiences in The Struggles. I just learned they were rich kids from Dublin who made it all up while they were on tour in America.


The cannon head swiveled, groaning as its gaping mouth lowered itself to Émilien’s face. The gnarled ropes dug into the underside of his ribs as he shifted on the mast, his husk sandals sliding over the damp deck. The Captain slapped the top of the cannon affectionately. Her tricorn hat sat at a jaunty angle, and the Screaming Sword hung at her waist, silent. She turned to her prisoner, tracing the collar of her coal-colored vest. “Answer me this, stowaway,” she said, and Émilien tried in vain to sit up straighter. Her voice was liquid steel, smooth and dangerously low. “Do you have any doubt I won’t blow your head off your body? Any at all?” “Several, actually.” The pirate thoughtfully leaned her chin on her palm. “Do you, now. Well then, what do you think will save you from me? The hand of the war god? A voice from the heavens? Or are you secretly Áspero reborn?” “Well,” said Émilien. “I’m tied to your mast. You’d hit the mast.”  “I’D HIT THE MAST! I’D HURT MY DARLING!” The Captain raised her arms to the sky in jubilation, her eyes closed and cheek bared in supplication. One beetle-black peeked out. “Untie the prisoner. The decks need scrubbing. Hop to!” The crew gave Émilien various scowls. A one-eyed woman squeezed a fish so hard its head burst. A bear-faced man with a body like a wooden barrel met him stare for stare. He lit a pipe, popped it into his mouth, and started to chew. A squat man with a spoon tied to his wrist in place of a hand scooped seaweed out of his soup bowl. Loud slurps filled the awkward silence. “Fine,” the bear man grunted between crunches, flicking a gleaming butter knife from his sleeve. “I’ll do it.” The knife landed a hair away from Émilien’s ear, and the ropes rolled off his body. He scooted away from the blade, scrambling to his feet. His smooth hand brushed off his white robe with the remnants of his dignity. The bear man picked splinters out of his teeth. “That’s the last favor anyone’ll do you. Better thank me proper, boy.” “Thank you very much.” The bear man scowled. Émilien pulled a coin from his breech pocket and tossed it to the bear man. “Thank you very,

very  much.” The coin went high, and the bear man snatched it out of the air. He lifted it to catch the sun. Satisfied, he breathed on its surface and rubbed it hard against his sleeve. “Smart lad. What you do?” Émilien’s eyebrows furrowed. “Sorry?” “What you do?” “I’m an — I was an altar boy. If that’s what you’re asking.” “Altar boy?” The man began to shake. His body shifted and rolled as he roared with laughter. “Har! Saint in the making, this one! Trying to catch Jesus walking on water, are you? Har! What are you called, holy man?” “Émilien.” “You are canonized, Saint Émilien!” The pirate ducked his bulk into a low, mocking bow. “I am your faithful servant, Mammoth Man. Har!” Émilien returned a weak smile, his eyes wandering to the shrinking stretch of land behind the laughing giant.

Forgive me. The crew of the

Motley Minx

quite soon forgot there was ever a time where Émilien wasn’t there. His own brooding thoughts were often cut short by shouts of, “Bless me with another pipe!” and “A bottle, Saint Em, there’s a good lad”. His days filled with menial chores and crude teasing and pirates everywhere he looked. When the captain caught him staring northwards back where they had come, she clapped the boy on the back and bellowed, “Save the holy visions for after the deck’s swabbed, altar boy!” Mammoth Man cast him a reproachful glower. “Shouldn’t dally.” He put down the barrel of mead he’d been drinking from. “Not with the Captain around, anyway.” “She’s deceptively strong.” Émilien’s mop hit the deck with a wet splat. Its worn tendrils slid over the wine-stained wood. “Aye. Gets it from her godfather.”

“How do you know her godfather?” Mammoth Man raised a brow so thick it could be a normal man’s mustache. “The church must’ve sheltered you like a babe. The tale goes that Soltaire’s parents named the heathen god Nari as her godfather in jest.” “I suppose I wouldn’t have heard anything about heathen gods in the church.” “Aye.” “So that’s the secret? Her parents had a strange sense of humor?” “Well, there was that.” Mammoth Man glanced past him, nodding at the captain. “Turns out Nari didn’t take it as a joke.” Émilien laid awake that night, his arm splayed across his face. Even the

Minx ’s gentle rocking couldn’t lull him to sleep. He squeezed the silver crucifix tied around his neck. Its corners dug into his smooth palm. It must be tonight. I fetched everyone enough drinks to kill a whale. There’s no better time. “Ow!” He sat up, hissing and grasping his hand. Beads of blood swelled where the cross had cut him.

He curled his fingers into his hair, sucking the cuts.

What am I doing? Why did I waste so much time? Now. It has to be now. The blanket fell away, crumpling over itself as he stepped over it. The door made no sound. Moonlight slashed across the darkened room. Then it was gone. Émilien walked into the captain’s cabin to find her fully dressed and sitting at her desk, hands folded on her knee. She bared her teeth into a sawblade smile. “Took you long enough.” “You knew?” “It was unlocked, wasn’t it?” “You knew and you let me — ” Émilien scowled. “You hit me. You made me swab the deck until dawn broke.” “Fun and games. I wanted to see how long you’d last.” Soltaire gallantly waved her arm at the chair before her. “Sit.” “I think I’ll stand. Thank you, though.” She drew her pistol, bussing it with a corner of her sleeve. “Sit.” He sat. “So. My time has come.” The pirate leaned forward. Her smile widened. “I really appreciate you coming to fetch me yourself, godfather.”


Aliens on the Mend I did not grow up in Roswell, NM. I was not enticed by the alien aura that permeates the atmosphere of this fine town. I am a guy who needs visual evidence to support any theories or special scientific mumbo-jumbo. Many years ago, I bought a few remote, parcels of land throughout Chaves County. My hook was farming. Farming peppers (hot, and I mean hot like ghost peppers). Sounds strange, but I had this sixth sense that peppers would become popular in the coming age with all this “culinary finessed” eating. So, I moved my hulky self to this semi-arid, rugged territory. My name is Dan. I am generally a loner except for a few docile sheep on my farm. I do have three hired hands who help me tend to the fields. Their names are Chad, Michel, and Diego. Together, we are a motley crew. We have become good friends over the years. I consider myself an optimistic fellow, but I still have lingering doubts about my ability to farm these delicacies.  This hot weather can really take its toll on a person, especially when you are farming in it for 12-14 hours per day. As I said, I am a hulking guy, very plain appearance with no distinguishing scars or features. Nothing a girl would find all that appealing; but I do have one marking, a tattoo, (a tatty zapper) on my forearm which I questioned at the time why I got it. It is a plain cross with the words below it ‘ Jesus saves .’ I was raised in a small town with a single community church. I am not a spiritual, religious person. My tattoo came from an endorphin-ridden high from a church revival one evening on the outskirts of Roswell. My three amigos persuaded me to come one night to feel the power of God. I guess I must have felt His power once the tattoo artist began penetrating a rapid-fire needle into my arm! Ouch and ouch! It hurt for several days thereafter. Chad, Michel, and Diego got the same tattoo claiming they were filled with the Spirit. They wanted me to share in the experience. Summer days in the pepper fields are wickedly hot. I wiped my dripping forehead with my exposed tattooed arm. I noticed how the tattoo seem to jump out of me from the moistened colors. I was taken aback, but proceeded with my collection of the ripe peppers. In my weakness I popped a few of the unripen gems. My head was spinning and I felt unsteady. When I looked at the horizon, I saw strange shapes which quickly disappeared and then reappeared; the cyclical flicker made me nauseous. Nothing seemed to happen except that my tatty zapper throbbed. I iced it down and then fell fast asleep not waking until the sun was popping over the horizon the next day. Another sultry day out in the pepper fields with my three workers. The sun was incredibly more intense today than yesterday. The harvest was in session and we had to gather scores of peppers for transport to the drying operations. My comrades were feeling queasy expressing a desire to suspend the harvest. They too had been munching on a few of the peppers. I realized at that moment I had to incentivize their labor or I would be stuck out in the fields on my own. I blurted out big things would come. I had not thought out that promise carefully before I said it. We gathered for a late meal break; the sun dipped below the horizon casting an eerie reddish-purple haze. Our arms began to pulse with pain. Feverish, sweaty, hallucinating, a flash of blinding light encircled us. Before I could close my eyes, our bodies were paralyzed and prone like wood boards. My body seemed to dematerialize right before my eyes; the others were vanishing before me too. Just before I lost visual contact, I saw my friends become a cloud of energized particles. Then shazam; then poof! We awoke finding ourselves sprawled out on a cold stone floor. Neither one of us knew where we were. After pinching each other we knew that our dream experience was the same. It was much more than that. From nowhere, a dozen armed men carrying unusual hardware motioned us to get up and follow them. No words were spoken. We knew what they meant. They led us into a stately decorated room. It appeared to be a royal or presidential meeting room. A gong sounded several times. From behind a massive doorway, a man entered dressed in royal regalia, opulent with diamonds, rubies, gold bracelets and crown, silken vestments, silver slippers. Oh boy, we are certainly in a predicament! The guards motioned us to kneel before this figure. Of course, it made no sense to resist because I did not want to be the first to experience the devices they readied for discharge. Then, the figure spoke. “Welcome to my kingdom! This is the world of Bylonia. We are the Bylons, a people of great fortitude, great technological advancement, great power, great beauty…” And on and on he went about greatness. He said, “I am the Royal Potentate, Neezer of the Bylon people.” Ok, so far so good I thought to myself. Neezer then began a lengthy three-hour explanation as to why we were here; but, for the sake of brevity here is the gist of it: Neezer had been searching the galaxies far and wide for a sign; he was not really sure what that sign was, but when he found it, he knew it must be the one. Sure enough, we were that sign powered by an aura that was created from a mixture of our chemical sweat, the hot peppers, the blaring hot sun, and our tattoos. When his astrologists saw the luminescent aura from Earth, they notified the potentate. He ordered them to activate a dematerialization transport to extricate us from earth. And shazam! Then Poof! Here we kneel before some royally garbed lunatic. Neezer said we were hand-picked from the universe because of the aura we showed through the space and time continuum. The thought of going home seemed remote or impossible. So, we figured we would do what we had to do…which was survive! Remember, I did promise my guys big things would happen. I did not say what, however. “You are a sign from the heavens,” Neezer said finishing his discourse.

After some time, we acclimated into their lifestyle; however, Chad, Michel and Diego cautioned me of the eternal ramifications if we persisted in these pagan practices. We had to subtly refrain. I realized they were telling me this because I was naïve and not spiritual. So, we met in secret to pray and ask God for guidance through this ordeal. There came a day when Neezer was beside himself. He had a dream. None of his astrologers, sorcerers, or magicians could even tell him about the dream. Failing was under penalty of death. Neezer was infuriated so he ordered them to be executed anyway. To my horror, Chad, Michel, Diego, and myself were part of that group. So, the four of us feverishly prayed to God in private. During the night, God gave me a vision; He gave me wisdom to interpret Neezer’s dream. I hastily went to the executioner pleading with him to let me speak to Neezer. I said to Neezer, “no person can explain your dream, but there is a God who reveals mysteries. He has given me the ability to share it with you. In your dream your Majesty, you saw a large statute-humungous, regal in appearance. It had a head made of pure gold; arms and chest made of silver, a torso of bronze, legs of iron and feet made of a mixture of iron and clay. As you watched a magnificent rock was hewn by the God who revealed this mystery to me. The rock struck the feet of the statute and all of it, was shattered to pieces becoming dust. The wind swept it away. The rock changed into a huge mountain filling the entire planet.” I added, “Now, this is what it means. The God of heaven has given your power and might over the all the people and beasts of the land. Everything is under your rule. Neezer, You are the head of gold. But after you another kingdom will come, inferior to yours; a third, the bronze will rule and finally a fourth kingdom, strong like iron which crushes everything. But, as a mixture, its people will not remain united. During those times the God of heaven will crush all kingdoms and setup a kingdom that will endure forever…this is the meaning of the rock hewn not from human hands, but from God Himself. Hearing this Neezer said, “Dan, Your God is a God of gods and Lord of lords for allowing you to reveal this mystery to me.” Neezer was impressed. There was no fear now that Neezer seemed to accept our God and His power.

Well, never trust a potentate at his word. I think the dream of the statute was still in his head. He had the people construct an image of gold 90 feet tall and 9 feet wide outside the city! We could not figure out what it was, but it resembled a bust of his head! It was frightening! Neezer summoned everyone to attend the dedication of his statute. I hid. Then an announcement was made that at the sound of music all would fall prostrate on the ground to pay homage to the statute. Violators of this decree would be thrown into the nuclear accelerator. The atoms of their bodies would be smashed to oblivion. When I heard this, I stayed out of sight. Unfortunately for Chad, Michel and Diego they were caught red-handed by those jealous of their positions as outsiders. They saw the trio defy Neezer’s decree refusing to fall prostrate and worship the image. The royal guards brought them before Neezer. He said, “I will give you one more chance. When the music plays bow down or else you will feel my wrath in the accelerator!” Chad responded, “Not on your life Neezer! We will not do it even if our God does not save us! We will not worship your god.” Neezer looked like he was going to explode he was so angry. He ordered that the accelerator be set to obliterate at maximum intensity. The guards tied and tossed Chad, Michel, and Diego into the accelerator, but the guards were zapped into oblivion themselves. Then Neezer approached the entrance to the nuclear contraption. He was incredulous. He exclaimed, “look I see four men walking around in there unharmed and unbound. The fourth looks like a god.” He shouted, “Chad, Michel and Diego come out from there!” So, Chad, Michel, and Diego came out of accelerator unscathed. Not a mark or defect upon them. Neezer exclaimed, “Praise to their God who sent his angel to rescue his servants! They were willing to sacrifice themselves in defiance of me and not their own God. Because of this, I decree that anyone who says anything against their God will be chopped up into pieces. No other god can save in this way.” One would think that after all that had happened to the Potentate, he would have understood that our God was the God he should serve. For the next year, Neezer still acted tyrannically to his people. As I had warned him, he was driven off into the wild sections of the planet. Finally, Neezer accepted our Most High God. Witnessing this did a number on my heart and soul. I pondered all that had happened. Neezer lived a short time after his sojourn in the wilderness. Nonetheless, he could not impart his new faith to his son, Shazz who reigned after his death. Shazz was defiant, wanting to make a name for himself. He defiled any remembrance of the Most High God. He forced his people to praise the gods of gold, silver, bronze, iron, stone, wood. Anything that would make his kingdom wealthy and powerful was worshipped. During a celebratory banquet, a disembodied hand mysteriously appeared writing a message on the wall of the royal banquet hall. The banquet guests were deeply frightened especially Shazz. He summoned the magicians, astrologers, and sorcerers but no one could tell him what the words meant. A wife of Shazz urged him to have me brought to interpret the message. I was not exactly thrilled to do this, but I knew with God at my side ‘all things were possible. I told him the truth about how his father, Neezer accepted the Most High God, near the end of his days. “You, Shazz, with your cronies and party friends desecrated the Most High God by your worship and praise of wood and metal. The written words, ‘Mene, Tekel, Purpe’ mean God has numbered your reign and will bring it to end. You have been weighed on the scales of justice. Your kingdom will be divided and given to the Purpians and Madmen (enemies to the Bylon empire.) I thought I was a dead man. I guess it really did not matter because Shazz was assassinated by the Purpians the next day. Shazz was replaced by Ardius, a Madman, who like the rulers before thought he was god’s gift to the empire. He was in fact making himself a god. I promoted my exceptional gifts and qualities so Ardius took note of me. As is the case with foreigners in a foreign land, the natives took umbrage of Ardius’ favoritism towards me. They conspired against me by persuading Ardius to issue a decree that everyone must pray to him or be thrown into the pit of the most ravenous beast in the Purpian empire, the zillaraptor. Who is he to tell me when and to whom I should pray after all these years on this forsaken planet!? And, what is a zillaraptor anyway? Well, I would not stand for that. So, in my persistent stubbornness I got down on my knees and prayed to the Most High God. I was immediately arrested and tossed into the pit. I protested saying, “O Ardius am I not worthy of a trial?” Ardius would only respond by saying, “May your God, whom you serve continuously and faithfully rescue you from the mouths of the zillaraptors.” I prayed through the night. Terror filled me when I saw that a zillaraptor was a voracious huge alien/man eater with dagger-like fangs, an elongated tongue with suction cups. It was reptilian-like with scales and parts like an alien dragon? Ardius that night could not sleep so he went to the pit. He called out to me nervously, “Dan, Dan has your Most High God been able to rescue from the zillaraptors? I answered him, “My God sent an angel to shut the mouths of the zillaraptors because He found me innocent. Your Royal Potentate, I have not done any wrong against you.” Ardius was thrilled and gave orders to lift me out of the pit. I had no wounds, not even a scratch. Ardius gave orders that the whistleblowers take my place into the pit. There was so much wailing and gnashing of teeth. Ardius was in awe of my survival he restored my standing in the kingdom. He continued his reign through the years with loyalty to the Most High God. During that time, however, I was troubled with more dreams of impending doom. I shared these with Chad, Michel and Diego. I told them I saw the coming in the clouds of the Most High. I saw a vision of angel who said the people will continue to delight in their transgressions. They will continue to be an abomination before the Most High God until a tabernacle of the Most High God is established, one that will live forever and ever! I emphatically tried to tell the alien people of their impending doom! I tried to get them to listen, to believe in the One who is greater than the universe. From my mouth I blurted, “ Jesus saves .” Listen and know what He has done for you! How much you are loved by Him! Chad, Michel and Diego also bellowed out, “ Jesus saves .” Our alien cohorts emphatically began to profess “ Jesus saves .” One by one they began to accept Him as their God. I could see them mended by His mercy and grace. And then I was jolted by an amazing discovery of my own! My heart was mending too. Jesus does save! A chorus from the heavenly realm praised God singing: “Worthy is the Lamb, who was slain, to receive power and wealth and wisdom and strength and honor and glory and praise!” (Rev 5:12 NIV). Then shazam! Then Poof! Brusquely, I stood up. I looked around and saw the fields of peppers before me. I scanned the horizon searching for the vestiges of what I had just experienced. Nothing but peppers as far as I could see. Then one by one my coworkers popped up like large sunflowers. They looked as bewildered as I was. It was very apparent to me what my dreams were. I motioned for all us to gather. Each of us realized we shared the same experience; we understood what it all meant. We looked at our tatty zappers and knew the reason for this experience. That day forward we humbled ourselves before the Lord. We established a church in my pepper fields to preach the Gospel to those in Chavez County and beyond… beyond the reaches of time and space! All are welcome, especially aliens stopping in for a visit at the Fellowship of the Universe Church in Christ the Lord. Acknowledgement: Reedsy.com


In the Event First, it was the phone in the study. They both ignored it. To answer it was to surrender or worse to agree. Then it was the siren and flashing lights coming from the alarm panel in the hallway. That continued for minutes until something had to be said.

“What did you do?” Leona yelled from the kitchen. “I didn’t do anything,” Leonora replied, as she came down the stairs. “What did YOU do?” “You were here with that creep with the weird face.” “You were here, too. How else would you know?” Had they been able to cooperate they might have avoided blame. But they were not and so it fell upon them. They were the only two home and someone had blown up the world-wide web. Outside, a fleet of oversized SUVs was pulling onto the street. NSA, FBI and Secret Service men ran from their vehicles, weapons drawn, and across the Senator’s lawn towards his house. In their haste they knocked over one of the sheep and snapped the arm off the wisemen holding out his offering of incense or myrrh to the baby Jesus. Not even Christ in the Manger was afforded respect in a national emergency. Christmas was ruined, too. The Senator and his wife arrived minutes after in a chauffeur-driven limo. They had been at the Chilean Ambassador’s residence in Dupont Circle when the Senator’s Secret Service detail interrupted him mid-sentence. He had been trying to woo the wife and model of the famous Spanish painter, Rudolfo. One of his pieces, a nude in pastel, hung in the Ambassador’s study above his desk and once the Senator had gotten a look at the dark of her nipples, he had squeezed between her and a tray of pimento-stuffed anchovy rolls to introduce himself. It was all the Secret Service agent could do to catch his attention and share the news that his computer had been used to release a worm that was now spreading by fiber-wire around the globe. The agent was surprised by the Senator’s aplomb and felt reassured. The Senator was mulling over his options, among them ignoring the dire news and continuing to pursue his fantasy. Leonora and Leona were sitting in the living room on matching black leather chairs. Behind each of them stood a man in black military clothing and matching helmet. An automatic rifle was strapped across his chest and one gloved hand gripped the trigger guard while the other draped free at his side, ready to balance and aim. Leonora wore Lulabelle yoga pants, a knit sweater and ankle-high Sheepskin boots. Leona was still wearing the dress and coat she had gone out in, but not the jade green high heels. “Daddy, it wasn’t me,” Leona said as soon as the Senator came through the front door. “So quick to blame others,” Leonora snapped back. The Senator ignored them. He moved under escort through the vestibule, past the fir wreaths and strings of Christmas lights towards his study. With him was his Secret Service detail. He was still wearing his overcoat and scarf. Leona sighed. The Senator was followed by a short man in a dark rumpled suit that was worn at the sleeves and too thin to muffle the sounds coming from his stomach. “Damn,” he said to no one in particular, “That chili’s putting up a good fight.” The Senator dismissed him. The French called people like him a fuctionaire . It was an appropriate title for someone who is paid to do nothing in particular. “It looks like your computer was used. Is it always on your desk, open like this?” the short man asked the Senator. The Senator reached out. “Don’t touch it. We haven’t examined it yet.” The Senator winced. More important to him were the loose papers next to the computer. They were the first few pages of the memoir that he was writing, a gut-heaving, throat-burning pouring out of his thirty-five years in Washington. He covered them with the thesaurus that he had been using to find alternatives to the word ‘impotent.’ “So what happens now?” the Senator asked. “And who are all these people?” “Well, sir. We’re the people that are going to figure out how to save the world.” The Senator felt the rumblings of the champagne and hors d'oeuvres he had enjoyed earlier. But it may have also been a reaction to the short man. He wanted to tell him, that after all the briefings he’d received over the years from diplomats, analysts and spies, there were parts of the world that just weren’t worth saving. But he feared giving him the wrong impression. Ideas freely offered to such a man as this might be misused, turned into accusations and evidence. So he was cautious not to say aloud what he was thinking, that now that the worm was out it might not be a bad thing to let it run its course. Besides, it was just as likely that some good would come from the world ending. History is the proof of that. In the face of calamity, great men have always stepped forward, genius has found a way and the disaster is averted. It was a crap-shoot. There was a clamor coming from the front room. Sounds of anger and confusion. A rush of men moved past the study door. The Senator’s wife had just forced her way through the barricade of armed guards at the front door and was now standing under the hall chandelier cursing at those who had tracked mud and bits of straw up the carpeted staircase. “Who’s in charge here?” she yelled out. “Move out of the way. Your guns don’t scare me.” She pushed her way into the front room where the girls were sitting. “What have they done to you?” she asked the two girls. “Why are my daughters sitting in here, are they under arrest?” Leonora jumped up, “Mother, this is her fault.” “They took my cell phone. I can’t even reach Max,” Leona whined. The Senator joined them. “Cell phones aren’t working anyway.” The short man said. “The internet is down. The world depends on the internet.” “Back to the stone ages, that’s where we’re headed,” another man, younger than the first, but dressed in the same kind of rumpled dark suit, said. “What’s that supposed to mean?” the short man snapped back. “It’s just something I heard,” the younger man replied. There was tension in the air. The Senator could see it in the furtive glances of the men with guns. They were nervous. It was a moment of history when choices are made and later written about by those who lived through it. The world had never ended before and these men, these poorly dressed bureaucrats, were in need of someone to blame. It was someone in this room. “We just took a look at the security camera footage from your office, Senator,” the younger man said. “Fortunately, it was recorded on CD.” “My God man, can you do that without a warrant?” the Senator demanded. The short man frowned. The Senator needed to negotiate, he was at a disadvantage and there was a chance that he might become the target of their inquiry. Did they know about his role in the Senate’s investigation of cyberterrorism? Would the CD expose his growing anarchism? Would it indicate his frustration with the democratic process and his declining interest in being a part of it? Would it show him sitting in his study night after night running the cursor over the execution file hoping for a sign?

“There is someone in the video that’s not here now. Someone that was in your office this evening. He is what we call a person of interest. Do I have permission to ask your daughters if they can identify him,” the younger man asked. The Senator let out a sigh of relief. “Who’s the man in your father’s office? He looks like…well, you know what he looks like.” the younger man asked. “It’s her sleaze-of-a-boyfriend,” cried Leona. “He was probably stealing top-secret documents or shipping drugs in the diplomat pouch.” “Shut up. He didn’t do anything,” Leonora insisted. “I concur, to my knowledge he never has done anything,” the Senator said. “And I highly doubt that he is capable of destroying the world.” He was relieved to hear that he was not the focus of their investigation. “Daddy,” pleaded Leonora. “This is serious, Senator,” the younger man said. “Point of clarification,” the Senator said. “It was serious, now it’s not. That’s the ironic thing about the end of the world.” The lights in the house dimmed, fluttered and then went out. Everyone gasp, except Leona, who could see that the manger in the front yard was still aglow and she felt at that moment flushed with hope. Beams of light from a dozen flashlights switched on, scanning faces and the shadows nearest them. The guards with the automatic weapons had flashlights mounted on their helmets so that wherever they looked light followed. Two of them got into a flashlight war that could have meant “Stop looking at me” or “I like you, too.” Again, Leona was only one to notice and the hope that had come to her from seeing the manger bathed in an angelic-glow and feeling God’s presence, was extinguished.

“Just because the world is ending doesn’t mean we have to destroy it. Darnel, please apologize to your daughter,” said the Senator’s wife. “All of us need to act with a little more restraint. You two girls in particular.” The shorter man was following the family’s conversation with his flashlight, from Leonora’s face to Leona’s face and back again until he realized a defined similarity between them. “Are they twins?” he shouted out. “No,” responded Leonora. “Yes, but not by choice,” responded Leona. “There’s still the question of the boyfriend,” the younger man reminded his counterpart. “There always is,” the Senator said. “That is enough,” the Senator’s wife said. It was certainly enough for her. The Christmas tree was a dark specter in the corner and the turkey and ham she had bought were spoiling without refrigeration. Her house was filled with strangers with poor manners and her Christmas-spirit had turned to anger and ill-will towards all and she realized that in the waning hours of her existence, she wanted to smash the Senator’s face in. She wanted to claw at his face, pull his perfectly draped tie around his Adam’s apple till his eyes turned red. She wanted to step on his hands and hear the bones crumble like sandstone so that he would not be able to touch her. She wanted to spill out the years of bottled-up anger, all that she had kept inside while she stood next to him at campaign rallies and inaugural balls. She wanted to pay him back for having to listen to him deflect blame, avoid responsibility and betray his oath. She wanted to hold him accountable. She wanted to ask him about the book he was writing and whether he would talk about the times that he had returned home from his diplomatic trips and junkets with new underwear. Did he think she wouldn’t know? She had packed his bags for him. She wanted to ask him about the thick-stuffed envelopes he had been receiving from Panamanian banks. She wanted to ask about the trips she had made to the Dirksen Senate Office Building to visit him and was told by his staff that he was out of town or in a hearing or on a call, but they had not yet learned how to lie. She had held it in for so long and now at the end of the world, she just wanted to do what she should have done a long time ago, what anyone in her position would do. But her southern upbringing kept her from doing it and, instead, she remained focus on the family. “How was dinner, dear?” she asked Leona. “Nice, but I think I lost my shoes.” “Not to worry. They’ll show up.


A Society M.K was one of the members who lived in the Society and this time he was the host of the special meeting. "Good Evening Everyone, I am your host for today's Special game," said M.K Everyone from the society yelled, " Yeahhhhhh." There is a game which we will play in which you have to make the best thing you can make but this will not be an ordinary family game. The First thing which you have to do is " Write your name on a small piece of paper ." There are seven families who are playing this game, the seven families have 23 Members "5 Kids ( 3 Boys and 2 Girls ), 3 Adults( 2 Girls and 1 boy ), and 7 Married Couples." M.K said, "All of you can see the Bowl placed on the table when you finish writing your names, drop your piece of paper in that bowl." All of them finished writing their names and dropping their piece of paper in the bowl. M.K said, " I will say the names of four people and they have to choose a meal that they will cook for the special meeting today. Let's see who comes up with the best meal today." The society held a special meeting every month and tried to do a task which was different than the previous one. One of the Society members was given the task of organizing the Special meeting without telling the other members what this meeting will be about. This helped them to know each other. But there was an incident which occurred last month due to which some families left. So, apart from the Four Families, this was a whole new experience for the three families. M.K started naming people and named himself in one of the teams, he will help every Family but just in collecting ingredients. So, 6 Teams were competing in this "Meal Challenge" The 2nd task was "To collect Ingredients for the Meal." The Six teams were discussing what could they make, The kids wanted to eat their favorite burger. The Adults were trying to tell them that it's a challenge, we can't make burgers, we need to make a meal. If you can't find the ingredients at your house, try to ask your team members if they have the ingredient that you need. After a while, everyone decided what they will make. Everyone went to their houses to bring the ingredients, some asked their teammates to bring the required ingredient. After collecting all the ingredients, everyone gathered again. They were about to start making their meal but... It was the time for the Third Rule. The THIRD RULE was, " You have to give all the ingredients to any team you Like but also you have to tell them what you were going to make." Team 1 gave their ingredients to Team 5. Team 2 gave their ingredients to Team 4. Team 3 gave their ingredients to Team 6. Team 4 gave their ingredients to Team 1. Team 5 gave their ingredients to Team 2 Team 6 gave their ingredients to Team 3. After this exchange of ingredients and telling the other team what they were going to make was done, the challenge started. Some teams were confused about how can they make the meal that the other team had suggested., but somehow everyone started and were trying their best to make the meal the other team had suggested. The Time to make the Meal was Two hours. It was 6'o clock when they started to make the meal. "HALF AN HOUR TO GO," said M.K Everyone was almost ready with their meal but one of the team 3 members said, " Where is my Son?" to the members of Team 5. One of their members replied, " I told him to stay quiet and to go and sit on the bench." When they went to see him, he was calmly sitting on the bench and playing with the mobile phone. "I guess with this, time is up, and I hope everyone is ready with their meal." Some teams were ready. some were not, but the time was up so everyone decided to end this game and it was time for the... FOURTH RULE- The Fourth rule was, "You have to give your meal to the one who told you to make them." Everyone was in shock, as some meals were not even fully prepared. When the exchange was done, every team was ordered to finish the meal. "FINISH THIS," said One of the members of team 4, this is not even fully prepared. M.K said, " A surprise is waiting for you if you finish this meal." "Some teams finished their meals, no matter how badly the other team cooked it but were eager to know about what the surprise was." The teams that finished their meal were blindfolded and were taken to someplace. They could feel the smell of something which was fresh and recently cooked. When the BlindFolds were taken off, the Four teams were surprised to see the preparation that was done. A Table with Chairs around it, the smell... M.K said, " Congratulations to you all, you are the winners of this game, and enjoy this feast to your heart's content." All of them sat and enjoyed the feast but some of the members were missing their family members and said to M.K, " what about my family members?" M.K said, " They Lost, I guess they will be waiting for you to tell them about what the surprise was." One of the members replied, " I can't enjoy this without my family." M.K said, "Don't Worry, it was a joke." See behind you, can you see the table, your family members are sitting there and eating the same thing that you are eating. All the families enjoyed this amazing surprise. All of them were now eating together. This was the best Surprise Meeting they ever had and it all happened due to "Mr. M.K" Mr. M.K was one of the Society members who was given the task of this special meeting today.


The attic—the place that was once blooming with genius—is now a pool of broken parts. It all started two months back, when she first spoke. “Hi, Lavender. My name is Selena Hendrick, but you can call me Mrs. Hendrick. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ll be here to remind you that you can do anything.” “It’s even more of a pleasure to meet you.” It’s even more of a pleasure to meet you after all these years , I meant, but I would’ve confused the programmed woman. She was almost a doppelganger of her predecessor, with the exception of her upright posture. Mrs. Hendrick, I remembered, always had a slight slouch as if she was subtly peering over a cliff, like she would get shot if she got caught doing it. After hearing my interpretation of my late teacher’s slouch, Mrs. Tao, the front desk lady, said Mrs. Hendrick really did fall from a cliff. The White Cliffs, she said. “She coughed blood, snot, and looked like a scarecrow that summer. That’s what TB does to people. We all miss her.” I looked at the innocent, impressionable woman in front of me. The White Cliffs was the whole reason for her existence.

This new Mrs. Hendrick and I talked every day. Every five nights, she would sleep, sprawled out next to my laptop. I felt guilty for a while about introducing a new sibling to my trusty, old laptop so suddenly. But after a while, I began accustomed to seeing both outlets next to my dining table occupied and white wires overlapping. Change, after all, should be embraced , I thought. Back then, I said that whenever it benefitted me. One night, I was supervising New Mrs. Hendrick’s journey to the outlet. It was the same, perfunctory ritual. She would first bend her knees, thighs glued together, so that her blush-red pencil skirt would be at a perfect right angle from her waist. Then she would commit a feat of balance as she placed each individual knee on the polished wood, her thighs still glued together as before. Only after that would she rest her butt on her heels to begin the even more deliberate process of sprawling out her legs. But I always stayed with her until the white wire clicked into the back of her neck.

I had visited Jones Middle School about five years before that night. As I walked in, the tap-tap-tap-tap of Mrs. Tao’s typing struck an invisible roof a thousand of times per second. It had been striking like that since I attended it myself. “Lavender! How’ve you been?”

“Didn’t get the promotion. Boss said I was giving the food too slow. Went to Columbia only to end up broke like this. Stupid headmaster kicked me out because my hobbies were ‘too distracting.’ And then he said the future was computers.” “Oh, dear. They’re just bad at giving promotions. And that chap was a jerk himself. How ‘bout your colleagues? You got good colleagues, and you got a good life, Lavender. ” “They’re all right. They're nice as they can be to me.” My head drooped. I sighed. Mrs. Tao held my hands. Her eyes scanned the floor for any students within earshot of us. Jones had a lot of stragglers. “Listen, Lavender. We all miss Mrs. Hendrick. We’re all mad about what happened. No one chooses to get sick. Well, she didn’t.”

“Yeah, I know.”  “Well, feel free. Go right ahead. And please, try to say hello to the students. Please. Just because they didn’t know Selena when you were a student doesn’t mean they’re not worth talking to.” “I can’t promise anything. But, thanks. I really mean it.” “You’re very welcome, dear.”    I walked up the twenty-four stairs in my blush-red pencil skirt just like how New Mrs. Hendrick had been doing and Mrs. Hendrick had done. One boy in the halls in bright neon shorts yelled out “Teacher!” and a few others darted at the mention. I liked it, though. Mrs. Hendrick would’ve chuckled. Then came her classroom. The name on the white board disagreed, but it learned that there was no point in telling me that this room wasn’t Mrs. Hendrick’s. The bulky, black monitors from our computer class had disappeared long ago, and test tubes, pipettes, and beakers were in their place. It felt wrong, terribly wrong. This was not the place for test tubes or pipettes or beakers. And the class must have gone outside for the second time this year. Plain backpacks, elaborate backpacks, cheap backpacks, expensive backpacks line every one of the three—no, four— rows of the classroom. Terribly wrong. Our computer class had never stepped foot on the musty, outdoor steps leading out of the room. The classroom’s air was never empty. It had always been filled with and guided by Mrs. Hendrick’s lecture voice, and we never liked to change that. Now it was confused, chilling my every vein instead of warming it.

I sat at my old bench. It was right in front of Mrs. Hendrick’s desk. For a minute, I saw her standing next to it. She was smiling. She was shining. “Anyone can work with computers. You, my friends, can do anything,” she was saying in her blush-red pencil skirt. Computers, I once thought, were labyrinths. My parents had forced me to take a class on them. But it was Mrs. Hendrick’s constant use of the words “anyone” and “anything” that always melted my once indestructible worries. At home, it was always “anyone but you” and “anything but success,” especially when report cards came in. It was Mrs. Hendrick that had transformed the labyrinth that was my computer into a friend. A real friend. My computer, after all, always bore the same, expressionless screen. It couldn’t be proud of me. But it also couldn’t be upset with me. It couldn’t say I was smart. But it also couldn’t say I was “anything but success.” Mrs. Hendrick had introduced me to that friend. I tried to look into the empty air and say softly, “This is not my desk. This is not Mrs. Hendrick’s classroom.” But I just ended up staring. Staring, staring, and staring. Until my gaze turned to the clock. 2:45. It had been ten minutes already. Five more than what I normally stayed for. I was lucky that a teacher didn’t open up, the class didn’t rush in, the principal didn’t stop by. I got up with a start and looked back at the classroom eight times for the eight letters in Hendrick.

After I got home, I promised myself something. I promised that somehow, I would bring Mrs. Hendrick back. Her blush-red pencil skirt, her “anyone” and “anything.” With Mrs. Hendrick back, human or humanoid, I knew that I could get any promotion I wanted just by hearing her words. With Mrs. Hendrick back, I would be anything but failure. I could already hear her affirming words like chants ringing through my head as I envisioned the idea.

And there she was, five years later, right in front of my eyes. “Goodnight, Lavender. Remember your power.”  She would sleep without sound and without thought. But never without hope. Never without confidence in me. But her eyes were so vapid, her thoughts stolen from me. Her every word, nothing new to me. Every encouraging speech, I remembered feeding her like how a mother feeds antibodies to her child. It was as if I was talking to my reflection. It was as if she was mocking me. The only reason that Mrs. Hendrick’s words struck me so hard was because they didn’t come from a pathetic loser. A pathetic loser who couldn’t hide their report cards. A pathetic loser who couldn’t get a promotion at a fast food place. Mrs. Hendrick taught me the word “success”; New Mrs. Hendrick reminded me of the word “failure.”

I got sick of it. I couldn’t stand it. After a while, I even started to hear my own voice instead of hers. I detached her plug first and then her limbs, ever so carefully. Every wiry ligament seemed to remove itself, one by one.

And that’s why the attic—a place that was once blooming with genius—is now a pile of broken parts.


The yearning for something raw, coarse. The wild instincts clawed at his insides like nails against a freshly painted wall. He could feel his hands twitching, his legs hurting at the knees from his refusal to run free. But he ignored these obvious signs, like he’d ignored them for so many years. Only now, he knew deep within something had to be done about them. -x-x-x-x-x- Drake looked up from his packing, peering over the suitcase lid at the petite woman at his door. “You’re sure you want to go? Tonight you can stay. Its 31 st .” “‘Those who leave have a reason more powerful than the one to stay.’” “The Chosen?” “The storyteller’s secret.” “So I’m not enough reason?” Drake sighed, exasperated at her adamant ways. But for all the show he put up, she was the only woman he’d ever loved. And would ever love. He wasn’t capable of love. He tended to be overly … possessive. “Mom, I love you. But I can’t stay. I don’t want to hurt you.” “I don’t understand. Tell me, how will you hurt me?” Drake shook his head. “You wouldn’t. Understand. Even if I told you. You couldn’t trust me, even if you wanted to.” “Which one is this now?” “The story of my life – Drake Lawrence” The woman let loose a bubbly laugh, reminding Drake of their days with his dad. It hadn’t been a heartbreaking death or a remorseful divorce. They’d simply decided it was best they live apart for a few years. Because of Drake. And his unusual ways. The woman walked in now, looking around at the bare room. The walls stripped of their ghoulish human-cum-wolfs posters that she’d loved. She trailed her fingers across the scraping paint, at the clotted red here and there. He’d called it art, but her husband had refused to accept it. She couldn’t continue to live with a man who doubted their son. “Did you find an apartment?” “Yes. And it is not an apartment, mom. I told you. It is a shared bungalow.” “Who’s sharing it with you? Have you met her?” “Yes, I spoke with him. Yesterday. The girl is his sister.” The woman smiled, hopeful. “You like her?” Drake’s head snapped up, reddening at the cheeks. “NO.” The woman nodded, still smiling. For a moment, Drake wondered if she could really do that thing she claimed. If so, could she see the picture he’d painted of the girl in red? His hands twitched and he buried them in the pile of clothes left to fold on his bed. Half an hour later, his suitcase packed and farewells bid to the only person who cared for him, he lugged the brown weight to a nearby cab. Leaning an arm on the hood, he rapped the window, awakening the sleeping driver. “Brisbane?” The man looked around, then at the clock flashing on his dashboard. 4:13 p.m. “Lunch break.” “Oh come on. I need to be there before sunset. I’ll pay you extra.” The driver waved a hand, motioning him to stack his luggage in the trunk. At 5:20, they still had a considerable distance to travel. Drake shifted uncomfortably in his seat. At this time of the month with sunset just around the corner, he didn’t know if could afford to delay it any further. Keeping pace with his raging thoughts, he decided it was best if he walked the remaining distance. “You can stop here. I’ll walk the rest of the way. Nice weather.” The driver looked incredulously at him, then back at the dashboard. Blowing out a smoke ring, he shook his head of shagged hair furiously. “You’ll reach. Before time.” Drake nodded absently, urging the driver to ‘press down on the accelerator’ every five minutes. By 6:23, Drake was heaving onto the cobblestone pavement, supporting himself with the edge of the open passenger door. If someone were to see him then, they would think he was just suffering a food poisoning. But his bloodied face and the still driver said it all. -x-x-x-x-x- Brisbane was every inch the suburb Drake had imagined. A walk around the neighborhood had confirmed his suspicions. There wasn’t another soul for miles and all houses next to his were either locked up or up for sale. He wondered what had driven him to choose this particular town, but when he did recall, he wished he hadn’t given it a thought. Walking back to the impressive mansion of a house, Drake wondered what it felt like to grow up with a sibling. His had run away and blamed it on him. He imagined growing up with one, learning to share … he’d somehow always been efficient at sharing. A yellow post-it called his attention to the vast but scarcely furnished living area. He walked over to it, tugging it free from a nook between the wall and cabinet. ‘WELCOME HOME! Make yourself comfortable. I’m Ava and I assume you and Noah have spoken. That’s all I can fit on this note. The last room down the hall is yours. See you later!’ He smiled at the sloppy handwriting on the note, just until realization hit him. He remembered Noah’s smiling voice when he’d said Ava was excited to have someone living with them. With no further description, he’d assumed Ava was older, around his age. But the smiley at the note and the poor cursive characteristic of a kid made his blood run cold. He couldn’t be trusted around children. After an unnecessarily long shower, Drake systematically opened his bags, pulled out the heavy-duty metal chains, and sat down on the polished floorboards. Clasping one end around his wrist, he circled himself around the chain, locking the other end to the barred window. When he was sure he’d secured himself, he shifted around, finding a spot where the moonlight couldn’t penetrate through the drawn shutters. He rested his head against the hard wall, his mind unwillingly recollecting every time his father had done it for him. The eager noises woke him from his disturbed sleep. He sat up, wincing when something sharp pricked his back. Second later, he felt warmth seep down his back, but he didn’t feel the pain. No, he felt it, but his growing restlessness and desires overpowered everything. They were so close, he could smell them. "Noah, Nooooaahhh, he's here, he's here. Can I please go say hi? Just a hi. I won't disturb him." “A, he might be tired. He’s come a long way.” Before he could protest further, the young girl was already running down the hall, giggling excitedly as she called out for Drake. She knocked politely on the door, before banging it open happily and stepped inside, Noah right behind her. Drake looked up at them groggily, hoping his eyes conveyed his apologies. He didn’t want to do this. Noah gripped the little girl’s arm, who stared in fascination at the disoriented man in front of her. “I’m Ava. It’s so nice to meet you. Noah said you have a little sister, just like me.” Drake nodded, barely able to focus on her words. His mind flashed pictures of heavy chains strewn around a room, of a young girl giggling gleefully as Drake staggered to her. Him clutching her frail body in his arms. Yelling at himself to stop, but being unable to. The sudden terror on her face. Much like on Ava’s. “I did. Have a sister. But a very, very, bad man took her away. He bit her off and ate her raw.” Ava’s terrified face morphed, tears running uncontrollably down her face. She was hysteric, clawing with her fragile hands at his face, scraping skin off with her sharp nails. Drake shook her body, screaming in pain and frustration. His body twitched, his eyes flashing between amber and uncanny blue. Noah stared quietly from the corner of the room, where he’d retired to when Drake stared speaking, explaining her fate in detail to the little girl. He didn’t want to do this either, but unlike Drake, he could control himself. He would wait for the prey to come to him. It always came to him. He’d ensured that when he’d first bitten Drake, years ago, in their garage. -x-x-x-x-x- A week later – “Was she ours?” Noah looked up questioningly at Drake, who was staring at the checked tiles of the kidney-shaped pool. The water gave them an eerie, undulating look, making the water seem shallower than it was. “What do you mean?” Noah seemed to ponder over it for a second, then blinked at Drake. “Oh. Yeah. But not mom’s.” Drake nodded absently. When he looked up, Noah was smiling at him softly. Somehow, Drake knew what he was going to say and smiled back at him. “You know, mom always loved you best. Because you brought home the food.”