I am not allowed to be angry, but you are. You always are. I am the source of your anger, but at the times when I am not, I am the one who receives it. You do not think of the times I remember your screaming, your face turning red, sucking the spit from your teeth so that it may not fly from your mouth, the way you hit everything around you except for people, and leave me to wonder when that will change. I remember it all, because how could I forget. The marks of your anger are scratched onto my brain, even though my skin is clear and free. I feel anger, but again, it is not an emotion for me to feel. That was your decision. "Stop that," because of a furrowed brow, and "I've had enough of your disrespect!" At a frown. Just a normal frown and brow. Something that every human experiences that is not inherently disrespectful, but again. I am not you. Apparently, I am not allowed to decide what is normal human behavior. Normal human behavior. Something that has long eluded me ever since I was a child. I have spent days and nights wandering within my mind what that is because where else can I express an emotion such as anger. I stare blankly at a wall. "What if it knows?" A question I can ask no one. Not even out of fear of sounding ridiculous enough to question the listening abilities of inanimate objects, but because I can ask no one but myself about the impossible possibility of the walls expressing my anger for me. The consequences I would live with, my anger always has consequences. But yours does not. I can speak of your anger because I am not the wall. I can remember. I can remember being told I was an utter disappointment for the way I spoke to my sister after she hurt me. She received consequences without the insults. Just a simple plea, "Don't say things like that" when she is only reflecting the anger that I cannot. I am not allowed to be a mirror even though I am. If I am to be acknowledged as a mirror, it is one that remembers the old wives' warnings of a soul departed trapped. Or maybe one that heeded their warnings and draped itself in thin cloth so that the spirits may be confused. Any living being would know, however, that a mirror still resided under that cloth. Anger cannot be hidden by my practiced blank expression. That is the issue after all your demands. I am left with no true resolution once again. The anger cannot go away. I am constantly angry. My anger is as consistent as the brown in my hair or the hazel in my eyes. I am filled with what I have received from you. What am I supposed to do about it? How is one meant to exist with no outlet? Everything is trapped behind the blank slate that you hate. Even to hide one's anger is against the rules. Because then I am heartless. I am cold. I am refusing. When I have been ignored. I follow the rules and I am wrong. I break them and I am wrong. My anger resides. It waits. Its prey is near. The only acceptable prey can be hidden away. A villain in a video game, who has done countless wrongdoings, hurting thousands-no millions with their cruelty. Aggression is permitted because it is fictionally righteous fury. Righteous fury expressed in reality is wrong because it is unfounded. I do not know enough to truly understand when righteous fury is permitted. But you do. You always do, my rulemaker. Whenever your idols have been wrong or your values questioned, your anger is warranted. You would fight the world if it told you your anger was wrong. I cannot fight you. "What if someone knows?" I ask my keyboard. For once writer's block is my enemy. My challenge. My fight. My anger is contained within words that you now read. The you in question is no longer aimed toward the rule-makers. The rule-makers will never read this. Well, one would hope. But if they did, they would learn that my anger lurks. It eats away at me every single day. My soul losing itself to the mirror where I see more than a furrowed brow or a frown. I see white-knuckled fists with no target. I see gritted teeth that threaten to break under my might. I see the tears through the red. I suffocate under my own wrath. I punch the soundless pillow. I imagine a recipient. I submerge myself, only the water hears me scream. What else am I supposed to do? I am not allowed to feel angry. That is an emotion reserved for everyone aside from me. The rule-makers do not know about the pillow or the water. They will never see my fists or my teeth for all the times they have seen my tears have been enough, "Stop fucking crying. Get the fuck over it." They reprimand. Always swearing. I am permitted to curse, but only in matters of pain and joy. Never anger, which should be obvious at this point. It's always so fucking obvious. So fucking obvious that I don't want to live with this shit. I am tired of using delicate pretty words to make my anger seem lesser. It's not lesser. I need that to be known. I'm tired of this shit. I'm tired of these shit-fucking rules that I don't understand. Why am I not allowed to be angry? Give me a fucking answer. Anger is not meant to be quiet. It's either reckless or calculated. It's reckless when you force crappy rules down someone's throat with the vain, idiotic hope of forcing them into submission. It's calculated when the rules are forced upon you, but you won't submit. A part of me yearns to be reckless, but I couldn't hurt someone like that. I couldn't destroy someone like that. The rule-makers programmed me to care in ways they did not. I don't know if there is an end to my story, my anger. My choice to be calculated, rather than reckless, is the only ending I can imagine. Maybe it is the only one I am allowed until a sequel permits me to ask, "Why am I not allowed to be angry?"


Lauren twists the top of a pickle jar well she tries anyway. No matter how much she tries it won’t budge until she finally gives up and takes it to her boyfriend Paul. “Can you open this for me?” She offers the jar over to him. “Sure,” he gets a grip around it and twists hard. It

pops  and the faint smell of pickles fills the space. He hands the jar carefully back to her. “Thanks babe,” she kisses the air at him then turns and returns to the kitchen. She continues to make sandwiches for the both of them. Turkey and lettuce for her and corned beef on rye for him, both with a touch of pickle on the plate of course. She takes the plates and they sit on the couch together; channel surfing until they both agree on a movie while relaxing into each other. The weekends were the best because they didn’t have to stress about work or anything work related. After there were only crumbs on the plates and the movie was over Lauren looked up at Paul, “what do you want to do today?” He thought about it for a few seconds then pulled her closer, “can’t I have this just a little while longer?” Lauren giggled, “but we have the rest of the day to do this. Don’t you want to go outside?” He puts his hand over his eyes, “no, outside bad.” Laughing more she stands and grabs his other hand, “come on you big oaf! Lets go outside and soak up some sun.” She tugs at his arm to get him up. “No,” he announces like a toddler. “Come on, it will be fun. We could have a picnic…” He uncovers his eyes, “and you thought that would get me outside?” She groans and lets go of his arm. Then she comes up with a plan while going into the bedroom. In the closet she grabs two gloves and goes back to the living room. “Wanna have a catch,” she asks as she tosses a baseball up and catches it. He springs from the couch, “now you’re taking.” Packing up some things you both leave the apartment and head for the park. Holding hands and smiling the whole way they see it is practically abandoned. “I don’t get it,” Lauren looked around, “it’s a nice day why aren’t people outside?” “More park for us,” Paul tosses her a glove. Putting on the glove and a hat she squares up, “ready.” Taking the ball he nods to her and lobs one that nearly makes it. “A little out of practice aren’t you,” she chuckles back. Tossing it right back to him and he catches it. He throws it this time and it makes it and she takes her hand out to shake it. “That one had a little heat on it.” “Sorry honey,” he yells back. “You’re going to be,” she whispers under her breath. Throwing it back to him twice as hard as he did and made a loud

crack  into his glove. He slides his hand out of the glove and waves it around in the air and shaking it vigorously. “Good lord that was hard babe. You sure you weren’t in the majors?” “Sorry babe,” she yells back. Throwing a few more they stop for a snack. Finding a nice shaded spot under a tree they rehydrate and relax. A few more people in the park now, maybe they missed the memo earlier saying it was a beautiful day. “You know what sounds good?” Paul nearly whispered out as he wrapped his arms around Lauren. “What’s that?” “Eating some of your famous chicken fajitas for dinner,” he coos. Lauren sighs, “it has been a while since we’ve had those. Unfortunately that means I have to run to the store for a few items.” “I’ll go with you if you want?” “Nah, you can stay home and start chopping the ingredients,” she slaps his knee as she gets up. “Lucky me,” he gets up with a groan. They pick up the gloves and head for home. “Got your keys,” Lauren asks Paul. “Yep!” She pats his back, “good then you can go up and get started while I go to the store. Be back in a few,” she kisses his cheek and is off to the corner market. Once there she picks up a basket and skims the walkways. A short list of what she needs and knows exactly where things are. Grabbing the cheese she passes a stack of oranges, not needed for dinner but they looked so good. Picking up a couple she makes her way to checkout. The cashier scans the items and you could tell she was getting hungry from it. “Looks like you’re making something good.” “Chicken fajitas,” Lauren answers back. “That does sound good. Also looks like you forgot the chicken.” “That’s the one thing I had.” They share a little laugh then she reads the total. After paying Lauren picks up the bag and thanks the cashier. Heading back home she mentally goes through the recipe to make sure she didn’t forget anything. While listing in her head she steps on a rock and makes her ankle go a little sideways. Catching herself so she doesn’t twist her ankle she jerks back the other direction causing her grocery bag to go the other way. An orange lands out of the bag and rolls not far under the nearest car. She walks over to it and puts the bag down. Looking around before getting on her hands and knees she sees the orange ball just out of arms reach. With her right arm she gently puts it under the frame of the car and lifts up. The tires on one side leave the pavement and with her right hand she grabs the orange. Tossing it back in the bag she puts her other hand on the car to gracefully return it to the pavement. Getting back up she dusts herself off and picks up the bag. As she straightens up she sees a mother with her girl at the crosswalk across the street. The mother has her hand but isn’t paying attention as she gabs away on her phone. Lauren looks at the little girl who is staring and puts her pointer to her lips. The little girl smiles then Lauren turns on her heal and heads for home. THE END


Dear Diary, Why are heroes so destructive, and why is insurance so hard to get these days? I feel like the two are connected. Seriously though, it’s frustrating. While they fly around, smashing into buildings, throwing away bystanders' lives like worthless trash, the rest of us are left with physical and financial reminders of our average-ness. Yeah, I get it, Spectacular-Man. You can shoot lasers from your eyes and I can’t. Did you really have to slice my aunt’s car in half, though? Was that really necessary?

My mom suggested I start keeping a journal of everything that’s going on. “A mess like this only happens once in a lifetime,” she said. “You’ll want to be able to tell your kids one day.” If I live to have kids.

Anyway, I’ve never been much of a writer, Diary, so please excuse my lack of linguistic expertise. You’ll get used to it quickly.

Dear Diary,

It’s been two weeks since the aliens touched down and three days since my first entry. It’s scary how quickly I’ve become accustomed to the chaos around me. When the end of the world seems imminent, you’d think people would be too busy losing their minds to worry about anything else, yet here I am, sitting at school, watching teachers scramble to put up sound-proof padding on the walls. As if that’s enough to keep out the muffled sounds of the intergalactic war going on outside. The worst part? This shitty school lunch sitting in front of me is the most upsetting part of my day so far.

I forgot to pack my lunch this morning because I was too busy trying to save my neighbors from the wreckage of their apartment. Somehow, a tussle between a gang of “teen heroes” and some aliens made its way to my part of town. I only caught a glimpse of their faces before they flew away, but I could have sworn that one of the “heroes” was my science partner last year. He couldn’t even dissect a dead frog without passing out, and now we’re expecting him to help save the world? The aliens have a slimy appearance, somewhat similar to frogs, so I’m not sure how he held it together through the fight.

You may have noticed my quotation marks around the word “hero” in that last paragraph. When you think of a hero, what comes to mind? Most likely someone who saves people, right? Maybe with huge muscles and an even bigger ego? Not a scrawny white kid with shitty energy-manipulation powers and a savior complex. Definitely not a scrawny white kid with a severe lack of upper-body strength (such a lack that, after realizing he was not able to lift the rubble HE created in an unnecessary fight, decided to flee the scene and leave his old science partner to save the people whose lives he ruined.) Definitely not that, right? Right?

So yeah. I didn’t have time to pack my lunch.

I hate being treated like a device for character development.

Dear Diary, I’m becoming more and more glad that I chose this thick leather notebook over the flimsy composition book I was considering using for this… documentation? Is that the right word? I don’t know. My education has gone sharply downhill these past few weeks.

My aunt finally got some compensation for her car, though. She found some loophole in her insurance agency's “no coverage for super-human accidents” policy since Spectacular-Man is technically part demigod. God, that’s not a sentence you get to say often. When I was a little boy, I use to pray every night that I would magically wake up with powers. Teleportation, or maybe fire breath. Anything I could use for good.

I’m glad God never answered. I shit on these super-freaks a lot, but it’s gotta be a lot of stress for them to suddenly be thrust into the spotlight like this. We had a lot of good Samaritan types before, just intercepting muggings and pulling cats out of trees. Local stuff like that. Nothing nearly as destructive as foreign life forms with a thirst for human brains. I didn’t even know that Scrawny Dude had powers. I guess “energy-manipulation” (whatever those buzzwords mean) isn’t a very useful power for everyday life, so it’s not surprising he kept it secret.

Dear Diary, My mom says I should make copies of my entries in case you get destroyed. She seemed adamant about it. I think she’s still in disbelief I even listened to her. I was too lazy to copy all my writing again, so I just took pictures of the pages with my phone and copied them onto my computer. I think that’s good enough.

Dear Diary,

My mom was right. Your first body got destroyed, along with everything else in my locker. And every other locker at Standard High. Thanks, Tornado-Woman, great work keeping us safe! Now you’re that flimsy composition book I mentioned earlier.

Should I rewrite everything, or just print off the pictures I took and tape them in here? I’m leaning towards the second option. I hope the library is still offering students free printing privileges. On second thought, I hope it’s even still standing.

Dear Diary, Boy, oh boy, oh boy. Where do I begin? Tell me which phrase sticks out to you most: Alien egg nest, rip-off Teen Titans , hospital stay, or super-science-buddy? Should I just go in order? I think I’m just gonna go in order.

It all started last Thursday. That’s when my notebook got destroyed. I briefly mentioned that a hero named Tornado-Woman was responsible for the locker massacre. I criticized her techniques, which, in hindsight, I must apologize for. I am sorry Tornado-Woman. You were definitely right to tear through the rows of metal cubbies with no explanation while all the confused high schoolers around you begged you to stop. My bad.

I’m only half-kidding. Basically, she had noticed that a lot of the aliens were congregating around the high school and snaking somewhere underground. She suspected that it was some sort of nest and thought they were using our lockers as incubators. Her hunch was halfway right. At lunch the next day, an announcement was released to the whole school calling for an evacuation. Everyone filed out in line, except for a few kids.

Remember “Scrawny Dude” who almost killed my neighbors? Well, apparently he has a whole super posse . These “heroes” decided that this infestation was their moment to shine. Literally. One of them has the power to turn into a ball of light. How useless.

I’m getting off-track. Anyway, they all ran back in and decided to handle this mess all by themselves, once and for all. This lasted about five minutes before they realized they’d bit off more than they could chew. Most of the freaks retreated, except for Scrawny Dude and the Light Girl. I guess it was like, dark, or something, down in the basement where they found the nest, so Light Girl did her thing and became… light. Here’s the thing: she doesn’t actually turn into solid light. There’s some sort of core or center that is super hot. Usually, this isn’t important, because usually, she’s not surrounded by highly flammable gross-alien-space-egg-goo-shit.

So long story short, the whole basement erupted into flames. Light Girl was fine, she just phased through a wall in her light form to escape, leaving Scrawny Dude alone and really wishing he had a different power.

Ok, get ready, because this is where I come in. I, in a stroke of absolute genius-ness, remembered that the main entrance to the basement was only a few steps behind the exit I used. Adrenaline took over my body and before I knew it, I was in the building. Within seconds, I located the door, crept along the wall, and finally wrapped my fingers around the handle… but, before I could pull, I heard thunderous applause from outside. My mind raced. Was it for me? I hadn’t even done anything yet. Were my peers so amazed by my bravery that they preemptively gave me a standing ovation? The possibilities whirled through my brain before I saw it: Scrawny Dude, draped across the shoulders of an invisible form, emerging from halfway across the building. The figure set him down on the ground before materializing as a short blonde girl, now doubled over and coughing.

Someone got to him first.

I didn’t even have time to react before a blast of heat from the staircase in front of me shot me backward, straight into a giant window. I had been holding the door open as I took in the scene around me, and in that time, the fire spread onto some explosive chemicals in a storage closet. That’s what I’m told, at least. I lost consciousness pretty soon after. When I woke up again, I was in the hospital. I’m writing this entry in the so-called privacy provided by the flimsy blue curtain strung in the middle of the room. Due to the recent influx of injuries these past few weeks, the hospitals have had to get crafty about making more space. I caught a glimpse of the person behind the curtain; it’s the blonde girl who saved Scrawny Dude. I’ve watched feet shuffle in and out of the room all day, all of them barely noticing me before ducking behind the cloth wall to bring her gifts and kind words.

Nobody came for me.

Scrawny Dude showed up at one point. He looked fine, just a few bandages here and there, maybe a cough or two every few minutes. He gave me a sad smile and wave before leaving.

Now I feel bad for forgetting his name.


“Stay right there, Lindsay,” she said, moving strands of my wild red hair from of my face. “Yes, Mama.” I reassured her with a smile when she glanced back at me from the hot dog line. She didn’t like being apart from me, even if I was only a few feet away. It’s been just the two of us, inseparable, for as long as I can remember. Mama’s friends or family never came to visit, and she said my father died when I was very little. I don’t know much about him - Mama always gets tears in her eyes when I talk about him - but apparently he wouldn’t let go of me the last time I saw him. I guess that’s why Mama doesn’t like letting go either. This is the first time Mama has ever taken me to the carnival. Now that I’m here, I can see why my friends at school love it so much. The smell of deep fried foods, the bells and chimes of carnival games, and the twinkly lights made me feel like I was in a fairy land far away from here. Mama was slowly moving up the line, shuffling her feet and twirling her curly blonde hair between her fingers. I think she’s afraid of people; she gets very nervous in big crowds. I was startled when I noticed the clowns in the booth next to me, their heads moving side to side, staring blankly at the crowds. People were shoving ping pong balls in their mouths as fast as they could to win an absurdly large plush unicorn or panda. It reminded me of toy frog I cherished as a child, but lost many years ago. Its legs were frayed from being dragged along the ground all day. Across the walkway was another food stall. This one was bursting with every type of candy you could imagine. There were giant balls of cotton candy and every flavour of popcorn neatly displayed on a shelf behind the cashier. My mouth watered and I checked the hot dog line; Mama nearing the front. If I hurried, I could look at the candies and return to this spot before she noticed I was gone. Mama didn’t often say no to me, so I’m sure I could convince her to buy me something after dinner.

Crossing the walkway proved harder than I first thought it would be. I jumped over puddles left from the afternoon’s rainstorm, and dodged strollers and young children who were not paying attention. I felt like a spy navigating a room full of lasers set to trigger an alarm if I dared touch them, and the candy stand was the treasure. My eyes narrowed on my target as I spun and pranced my way through the crowd, expertly dodging the invisible traps. That was too easy , I thought as the stall celebrated my arrival with some bouncy music. I looked at the products on display, searching for the perfect dessert. My eyes finally settled on an enormous blue and yellow lollipop at the back of the stand. The colours mingled and swirled in a never-ending circle. The entire lollipop was larger than my head! Mama was at the front of the hot dog stand now, ordering one with extra ketchup just the way I like it. I begun planning how to ask Mama for the lollipop as I turned to head back to my place next to the clown booth. But there was someone standing there, watching me. He was tall and lanky, wearing a blue and green striped polo shirt. He slowly rubbed his hands together as he eyed me from across the walkway. He must be the evil spy, I thought. I dashed behind a nearby garbage can to plan my next move. I had to be careful not to be caught by the evil spy. Who knew what plans he had with me? The mud under my feet was slippery and the hem of my dress wicked up the muddy water. With any luck, Mama won’t notice that. My eyes frantically searched my surroundings for an escape plan. The lights atop the ferris wheel twinkled against the black backdrop of the starless sky. That’s it! I can lose him on the ferris wheel. I scurried out from behind the garbage can and squeezed through the narrow alleyway leading to the next row of stalls. The carnival worker across from the alleyway was helping a young girl around my age select a rubber duck with a fishing pole. The bottom of the duck revealed NO PRIZE in bold letters. I made a note of the location on my spy map inside my brain so I could return with Mama later; I was sure the prize was hidden behind the duck with squinty eyes. But for now, my best chance of making it to the ferris wheel undetected was to blend in with the crowd. I slunk into the middle of the flow of traffic before I spun to check if the evil spy was behind me. He was easy to spot - his head bobbed over the top of the crowd. He quickly averted his eyes when I saw him, trying to hide that he’d been watching me. You’re going to have to do better than that! I picked up the pace, skipping to dodge the booby traps laced throughout the carnival. I jumped over a large puddle that I was sure hid a deep hole beneath its surface. If the evil spy caught me, he probably would have left me there for years until I died of starvation. I could practically feel the evil spy breathing on the back of my neck as I dove into a small building to the left. The dingy wooden cladding made the building look abandoned, but there were lights on inside and someone was just leaving with a giant ice cream cone.

As I stepped inside, the noise from outside faded and I was left facing a cramped stage and several rows of plastic chairs. There was a man - no, a woman - on the stage balancing China plates on wobbly sticks. I slid into an empty seat in the middle of the crowd between two very large men. They each had their own buckets of buttery popcorn and I could barely hear the music over their chewing. The evil spy was sitting in the back row, watching me out of the corner of his eye, not daring to make a move in the crowd.

My feet dangled from the chair as I settled to watch the woman spin the plates and balance on a unicycle that I hadn’t noticed before. The evil spy had me cornered here. I couldn’t see another exit, unless I risked a dash for backstage. If I got up to leave now, he could snatch me from his seat next to the door. My mind whirred as I tried to think of a new plan. Perhaps I could join the performer on stage for a better view or just run very fast past the man. It was too risky; I needed a distraction. The performer was losing the audience. The crowd was getting restless, no longer impressed with her balancing act. A burly man in the front row finally cracked and yelled out, “Get a real job!” The performer’s focus shattered along with her dozen China plates. Her face turned red as she scurried off-stage. I was embarrassed for her, but grateful for the distraction; it was exactly what I needed. If I was going to get out of this building alive, this was my chance.

Down on all fours, I crawled under the seats amidst gasps from the audience. My knees were now as dirty as my dress. The evil man stood up to get a better view of the performer, taking his eyes off me. One final dash got me through the exit and I was among the noisy crowd outside once more. I melted against the shabby cladding of the wall to catch my breath.

The audience slowly started leaving the theatre, clearly confused by what they had seen. The evil spy was surely right behind them. I had no idea where I was but the top of the ferris wheel was peaking out from behind the stalls to the left. My feet carried me as fast as they could toward the towering lights. My mind was so focused on getting to the ferris wheel that I didn’t notice the elderly woman up ahead. I crashed into her at full speed, knocking her sideways. “I’m so sorry,” I panted.

She had that gentle aura about her like all grandmas do. Her cheeks were rosy and she smelled of dust bunnies. “Are you lost, dear?” she asked. “No, I’m not lost,” I said, “I just need to get to the ferris wheel before the evil spy catches me.” I don’t know why she chuckled at that. “Where is this evil spy, sweetheart?” I pointed to the tall man in the striped polo shirt headed towards us. “He’s been following me all night.” “Oh, I see…” Her voiced trailed off as she turned to tap her husband on the shoulder.

The short stop had given the evil spy enough time to catch up; he was closing in. I broke away while the old woman’s back was turned, and raced towards the ferris wheel once again. It wasn’t long before I found myself in a large clearing at the base of the ferris wheel. There were people milling about and a man at the ticket booth yelled, “Grab your tickets here! Three turns on the ferris wheel! Grab your tickets!”

A line quickly snaked its way out from the small booth. I ducked through the legs of a tall man in corduroy pants before blending into the crowd once again. I spun around, searching for the evil spy’s tall figure or striped polo shirt. I stood as tall as I could on the tips of my toes to get a better view. My heart raced as fast as my eyes darted around the crowd.

“Yes!” I shouted to no one in particular. He wasn’t anywhere to be found. I had finally lost him. A smile painted my face as I danced with triumph.

But my celebrations were short-lived as panic quickly overtook. I had no idea where I was. No idea where Mama was. Not even my mental spy map was telling me which way to go! “Mother?” I whispered. People seemed to move faster. I couldn’t keep track of the blur of faces. My palms were sweating. I sat in the mud, tears welling in my eyes. My dress was ruined. “Lindsay!” “Mama!” Her curly blonde hair practically glowed in the shadows in the alleyway she stood in. She proudly held up two hot dogs, far too big for either of us to finish. She smiled with relief but her eyes wear red and puffy from crying. I was about to be in a lot of trouble. I bent my head and shamefully made my way across the muddy clearing. I took no more than three steps when a hand reached out and grabbed my arm. Its grip was tight enough to stop me but soft enough to know it meant no harm. I looked up at the strange man who had been following me all night. He had a familiar smell, like a mix of freshly cut grass and campfire smoke.

“Emily?” said the evil spy. My hand instinctively jerked away, my eyes fixated on his, and my feet cemented in place.

“My name is L-Lindsay,” I stammered, trying to place this man who was now so familiar. My eyes found Mama’s across the crowd. She gasped as she saw the man and dropped our hot dogs into the mud. She turned to run, disappearing into the thick black night beyond the carnival. Did she just leave? “It’s okay, Em- Lindsay. I’m here. I’m your father,” said the man. My knees buckled as he spoke. “Father? No. My father died many years ago,” I replied. “Lindsay, you were taken from us when you were only three years old. Here,” he said, reaching for a faded leather wallet in his back pocket. He pulled out a small photo with jagged edges and crease marks from the many hands it had passed between. It was a photo of a family. The man had his arms around his wife, and a young child sat on his shoulders. A child no more than three years old. A child with my freckles on her nose. A child with my crazy red hair. A child holding my favourite toy frog that I thought I had lost many years ago.


The unbearable thing about living is not so much being but being oneself . God put billions of us into the world and gave us all, as a joke, our own life and morals. The universe never planned on me, or you, only some specimens based on the original model. Like a car, each made of the same essential central engineering. The only difference being the license plate. For a human, the license plate is their face, the accidental and unrepeatable accumulation and assortment of features which reflects neither character nor soul.

My face is a particularly ratty one, with big yellowish teeth. My eyes are quick and clever, like a rat's, and my ears are slightly pointed at the top. The few hairs left on my scalp are grey, again, like that of a rat, and when I am not in costume, my clothes are usually of a similar color.

Everyday for the past fifty-something years I’ve analyzed my visage through my small tabletop mirror, referring, with some slight aesthetic modifications, that very rodent face back onto a canvas. Throughout my years as a professional artist I have painted some twelve-thousand works. Despite the monotony, I can’t say I love it any less than the first time I picked up a brush. There is a constancy to it that is extremely comforting to a person of routine and habit such as myself. I wake up early every morning, at precisely five-thirty, and make myself a strong cup of coffee. No sugar, no milk. As soon as the sun is up I go on my usual walk through the woods behind the house. I have done this for sixty years and at the age of eighty-eight, I can say it has done me some good. There's nothing like regularity for maintaining one's peace of mind. Whenever I am forced to exclude or exchange something out of my routine, such as with bad weather, it causes a certain upheaval within my body, like a new bird in a cage of canaries.

At eleven o’clock Caroline, my one and only friend — or better said, former friend — comes by to talk and make lunch. She is a very short woman, at least twenty years my junior, with an ashen face and a frosty, determined look which I used to appreciate. The lips are always pressed together and her large chest sticks out like a plump, ruffled bird. A week before she ruined our relationship with that self-obsessed character of hers, and sent me rushed to the hospital, she was making soup. I watched her put the pot on the stove and stir it with my long metal spoon until it came to the boil. As it simmered on the fire we spoke, per usual, about my work. I confess, for however long it lasted, she was excellent company. The bird-like creature was just as lonely as me. Just as desperate for human contact. And, had we met not four but twenty years ago, perhaps we could have been more than simply friends. But I diverge. As I said, Caroline was my only friend, and for a man such as myself, brimming with bright ideas and equally interesting theories, I was quick to tell her everything, despite my otherwise secretive nature. Secrecy was, after all, pivotal to my line of work.

On that particular morning, a day before she handed me her so-called “present” and promptly destroyed our friendship, I was telling her about my most recent painting.

“I have positioned myself on a deck chair in front of a big, sloping hill in front of my house in Chianti. The grass is freshly mown, a nice parakeet green. On my right,” I say, closing my eyes, envisioning the piece, “on my right stand two rose bushes in full bloom. The scarlet begonias are out too, and so are the hybrid lupins and the irises. Somewhere off in the distance stands a mysterious figure. The gardener. Or, no, I think I’ll call him the Messenger of Death. An artist, Caroline, must always be contemplating their death.”

“Lovely,” Caroline said admiringly, her small bird like eyes opening and closing quickly, like wings in flight, “you’ve been very fond of your house in Chianti lately, haven’t you?” As I said earlier, Caroline was excellent company. She instigated where I wanted to be questioned, expelled the things I did not want to address. And, most importantly, she was ready to believe anything.

Of course, I do not have a house in Chianti. My entire body of work is a fraud and a lie. To those who knew the truth anyway. Which was nobody. That is the small price to pay for a lonely existence. You can mold and remold yourself however you please, and create your own immortality accordingly. For the past fifty years a secret plan had been brewing in my mind. After all, I live in Austria, the country of Freud. Like him, I wanted to create my own, distinctive causa-sui project. A personal stepping-stone towards inevitable success after my death. Like Van Gogh, Egon Schiele, Paul Gauguin, Amedeo Modigliani, Jean-Honore Fragonard. And in the process, give my life meaning beyond my life, and transcend my human limitations.

To be mortal is the most basic of human experiences, and yet, if one is really truthful to themselves, we cannot accept it, grapple with it, and behave accordingly. Man simply does not know how to be mortal . Can we be blamed? Every day our bodies show marks of our forthcoming demise. My obsession with immortality began when I was thirty, when I figured live wasn’t worth the living anymore. Instead of killing myself (despite everything my Wille zum Leben was incredibly strong), I decided to simply stop existing, and start preparing for my reputation when I was no longer around to defend it. Immortality, to me, meant being loved by strangers while I could not even love myself. It meant living in the admiration of women, children, men, yet to be born.

Since then I have lived an isolated existence, alone in my small house here, in the outskirts of Vienna, and changed my name to Günther Von Neumann. I sign all my paintings with the initials GVN, and the false letters I write to myself all start with that name also. Günther the bachelor, Günther the artist, Günther the generous socialite, Günther the flâneur, the philosopher, the Austrian Gatsby.

Caroline, the antisocial house cat, was the only person I shared my posthumous desires with. After all, we spoke everyday. As the broth sat on the stove, we made our way to the veranda, where I worked during the spring and summer months. The room was warm and clean, the curtain wide open, four easels each baring a canvas stood in every corner. Two were practically finished, two had strange red brush strokes painted on them, like Chinese characters. The art of painting is simply putting some strokes on a blank canvas. It’s like having a drink before a date. It breaks the ice.

Leaning up against the walls, some vertical, some horizontal, stacked on top of one another, were my canvases. At least three-hundred in that small room alone. Upstairs in the attic are another three-hundred, in my storage room, which is full to the brim, another four-hundred. Günther is as generous in daily life as he is with painting. Gestural, quick, unsparing, slobs of paint cover the otherwise flat surfaces, none of which take me longer than a day or two to make.

From my long veranda windows, one can see the garden. It is a fine garden, with a small pond and two rose bushes. The wind is strong during the spring, making the leaves hiss and crackle as if on fire. Though I rarely sit outside, I have two deck chairs, and a small white table for reading.

“This is the Chianti piece I was telling you about,” I told her, pointing at one of the four easels.

“It’s very beautiful. It fits perfectly with yesterday’s pool scene.” “That’s what I thought as well. I wrote this postcard to go with it,” I told her, handing her an envelope, with a stamp and everything, “from Günther to Rosalia. Never sent. I suspect people will wonder why he never did. Could it be a change of heart? A sudden bout of uncharacteristic anxiety? Did he hear a rumor? Was she getting married to someone else? Is there a new person in his life? Really, the options are endless.” “It’s incredibly romantic.” “It is, isn’t it? Tomorrow I plan on taking Günther and several of his male friends to a party in Florence. That night he will return home entirely drunk, and create a very fun, quick little canvas of his evening.” “Incredible.” In a small journal Caroline jotted down everything I said. Her thin fingers darting from one side of the page to the other, like a mouse trapped in a small room. Though at first I had been hesitant, the written word was a dangerous thing if used against you, I also knew she was just as lonely as me, even more so. At least I had my cat.

After speaking for some twenty, thirty minutes, she got up and went to the kitchen while I put the finishing touches on the Chianti scene. I could hear her cutting the vegetables and putting them into the broth. Some onions, a few potatoes, a handful of carrots. I was incredibly grateful for her presence, and found myself missing her dearly whenever she left.

After lunch we said our goodbyes. I slept for some two, three hours, legs neatly placed on my ottoman, both arms crossed on my chest, snoring. Then at four I made myself a strong cup of whisky to get myself ready for Günther’s party scene. After three hours of concentrated work, I signed the piece, ate the leftover soup, and went to bed, satisfied. The next morning I awoke at exactly five-thirty, made myself a strong cup of coffee, no sugar, no milk, as always. As soon as the sun came up I went on my usual walk through the woods behind the house, and waited for Caroline to arrive with her groceries.

She was in an especially chipper mood, she chirped about this and that, and practically flew from one spot in the kitchen to the other. For the first time in four years she hardly let me speak. I admit, it was she who had, again, reminded me of my birthday. I liked Günther’s birthdate more, which was in the colder, more romantic autumn months. Far better than June. But Caroline preferred keeping to my own, and throughout our friendship she always came with a cake and made my favorite dish: Käsespätzle, which was simultaneously the clogger of my arteries and the reason my heart beat. The strong odor of cheese and onions hung in the air and made me salivate.

“I have a present here with me. I can hardly wait to give it to you,” she said. “What is it? A canvas?” The package was small and rectangular, wrapped in some newspaper, and had Caroline not given it such importance I would have overlooked it entirely.

“Of course not, you have enough of those. No, this is something I created for you .”

From then onwards I forgot about the small box completely. For one, I had the Käsespätzle on my mind, and two, she simply wasn’t the creative type. That was me. In my mind, anything she made had the same appeal as a cat with a dead bird in its mouth. Lunch was excellent. For a short moment. She had mellowed down, how I liked her, and I was pleased to finally get some stage time to talk. I told her a long, and if I dare say, riveting story about Günther’s evening, and subsequent morning, which I read to her from his diary, like a snooping wife. The night before he had met a woman with a round, tanned face, tight and glimmering with subtle inward strength that was beautiful beyond words, and at which he stared all evening.

I spoke for a long time. All the while Caroline seemed to coil into herself, as if jealously safeguarding a secret. In hindsight, I should have known her light grey eyes moved too quickly about the room, without her usual diligence and attendance, never settling on one thing for more than a moment. If I had been more observant, I would have noticed those small, faint upturned lines of anticipation placed neatly on both sides of her mouth. “Oh, I simply cannot wait any longer,” she said, as soon as I was done reading, “please open the present.” “Right now?” I said, annoyed. What could possibly be more important than Günther’s love life? “Please.” “Well, alright then.”

I weighed the gift in my hands, then shook it. It was light, but not too light, flexible, but not too flexible. It was almost definitely a book. Perhaps she thought I could find some inspiration in it for my next work. I opened it slowly, trying not to break the wrapper, though it was only newspaper.

The cover bore one of my own paintings. A long dining table, laid out for a feast. Tall candles stood at equidistance from one another, becoming periodically smaller and less detailed as they disappeared into the distance. A great magnitude of shining silverware, three wine glasses per person, white table clothe and silk serviettes.

The title of the book was Günther Von Neumann: The Story of a Fabricated Existence. Under stood her name in shining white letters: Caroline Bauer. I reread the title several times over before the magnitude of the situation settled on me. A fabricated existence? Now everyone would know. That weasely, inhuman, rat of a woman. She had stolen my immortality from me. She had taken it with both hand, threaded it, then day by day unraveled it, and spun it into a web of her own. There I stood, at the age of eighty-nine, my death bed calling my name, stripped from the very thing keeping me alive for all those years. I was incredibly upset, I felt my breathe escape my nostrils in angry whiffs of air. At the same time, I couldn’t help but laugh. A strange cackling noise which scared even me. For as long as I could remember, I had tried to outrun my existential fears by painting a life which was not my own. In reality, all my work would have meant nothing more than a dinosaur’s distant cry anyway. Tears no one would remember. Perhaps I should have focused on living instead of dying while I was still alive. “I wanted to wait until your birthday to give it to you. It’s been in circulation for the past five months. It’s a best-seller! You’ll never have to worry about being forgotten again! I am writing the sequel as we speak.”


My wife and I recently bought our first house together. Its in this quant, peaceful, and rather boring neighborhood. Of course, my wife insisted on living in a safe neighborhood and a large enough home to start a family. Upon our arrival, a rumor reached us. A rumor that most rich white people start in their perfect little communities. Anyhow its about this old widow, who lives across the street from us. Theres many variants of these rumors, she killed him for money, after her husband died, she became mentally ill; the list goes on. I never gave into the bullshit, high school drama as my wife refers to it. Until, until I left for work one day and my wife was never seen again.            “Don’t worry about today, you’ll do great,” my wife said as she handed me a ‘to-go’ cup of coffee. I grabbed the hot thermos from her and pressed my lips to her forehead before heading out. “Henry!” I look back as I open the door to leave, “I love you; you’ll get it I know you will” I smile and nodded and responded back with “I love you too,” as I closed the door behind me.            At work that day everything went as it usually goes. The only important difference at work was it was my assessment day. Essentially the company looks over all the pointless shit you have done while you worked with them if you are not completely useless, they will promote you after the assessment is complete.            “McCollin,” I heard my last name yelled out just enough to disrupt the quietness of the office, while people sit in their cubicles and think about what they’ll eat for lunch that day. I pushed back the faux leather chair and adjusted my formal button up and headed towards the sound. Walking in slightly nervous, knowing my financial future is up in the air. Jack Thomas, my lovely, oversized boss was accompanied by a police officer. Confused, I sat in the doctor office waiting room chair waiting for an explanation. “When’s the last time you saw your wife, Catherine?” perplexed and worried, “This morning what do you mean? Is she okay?” Tony the officer who happens to be a close family friend replied, “I received a missing persons call from her place of work, three days ago…” I shot up out of the chair, “That’s impossible I saw her this morning, how is she missing?” Jack would not even look at me, “We’ve talked with your neighbors, and they haven’t seen her in days as well.” Angerly, I retorted back, “Is this sick idea of a joke? She’s been home for the pass three days I am not sure what the fuck you’re talking about!” Tony slowly made his way to me and asked, “Would you mind going down to the station with me, just to answer a few questions,” He looked at me like he knew I was lying. “Did you go to my house? Or is this the first thing you do when someone is ‘missing’? Huh? You enjoy tormenting the spouses?” Jack looked at me for the first time this whole conversation. “You need to go with Detective Anderson.” I felt trapped in a vortex created by the black hole of anguish. I composed myself for one second before opening my mouth once more, “Okay.”            Being at the police station in this instance felt ominous, and overwhelming. The chatter and noise from the people were much louder than at work. I followed Tony insisting on keeping myself composed considering the reasoning me being here. He led me to his own desk and gestured for me to sit in the seat adjacent. I sat done gripping my hands together waiting as calmy as I could. “Where were you the date of August 8 th , of this year?” as he asked, I clenched my eyes shut hoping it was all a horrid dream, I would soon be awakened by from my wife, “What day exactly was that Friday?” stone faced, “Yes Friday August 8 th .” “You really think I would do something to my wife?” I blurted out, not letting him respond, “She isn’t even missing! Take me home and ill prove it to you.” Tony let out a sigh, “First just as protocol, answer a few questions then I will.” He said tiredly. “Okay, um Friday I was at work-,” “What time did you arrive at work Friday?” “7am is when shift starts but I leave my house at about 6/630 to grab food and coffee on the way.” “Where did you get coffee?” “The small coffee shop we use to go to downtown, you know the one that older lady owns?” “About what time was that?” “Oh, um about maybe 620ish? Not sure,” “How long did you stay?” “Not very maybe ten minutes top considering I was getting it to go.” “Then after that where did you go?” “To work. Got to work about 640,650?” “Tell me your day did you leave work for lunch, or for any reason.” “No, not Friday they brought in pizza because we did ‘outstanding’ for our quarterly.” “So, you were at work all day?” “Yes,” “Ill send someone to talk to your boss and other co-workers make sure we’re all on the same page.” “I can’t believe this shit!” The anger exploding from the inside out. “This is standard procedure. I do not enjoy this anymore than you trust me, its not fun on my end either. Let’s go I’ll take you home.” Tony said finally humanizing the situation, making it much more real. I started to really think she was gone. “Can you take me back to work to get my car?” I asked defeated, “Unfortunately no, not now. Since there is a missing person’s report made, and you claim she is home then I must go check. Cannot leave the lead subject alone,” He scoffed at his last remark, as did I. “Who reported her missing from work? I feel like this is a huge misunderstanding, Tony she was home this morning normal day. Someone must have been making a shitty joke, she’s home.” I felt the sadness lodge in my throat like a reality pill that is too hard to swallow. “Let us go and clear this up okay, I’m on your side.”            The tires slowing down as we approached my house. My heart began to pound, my hands sweat, and my knees shake. Eagerly I waited for the okay so I could run in and see her sitting on the couch watching some shitty reality show. Tony opened his door, and so did I and I carefully opened the door and let us both in. “Catherine!” I shouted as soon as I entered. I made my way towards the kitchen only to see old leftovers sitting out and take out boxes caked with grease. “This wasn’t like this when I left,” Tony took out his flashlight and told me to stay quiet, he then began to search the house for an intruder. Panick rushed through me I started yelling her name frantically searching the house. The bedroom had clothes thrashed about and her wedding dress was laid out on the bed. Carefully placed in the chaos. My heart pounding a million miles a second reached for my phone to call her. The phone rang, and rang, and continued to ring and the feeling that she would not answer creeping up my spin like a ghost whispering in your ear. Tony looked around and looked at me like I was the one lying. “Ill get detectives over here tomorrow, don’t leave the state until then. Its going to be a hard fight, but I can help you if you tell me the truth, I—,” “Get the fuck out of my house!” I screamed he forcefully left my empty house. I began to feel the dam break that was holding back the sadness I held inside for too long.            I woke up the next morning laying on the bed. Shooting up from my spot I look around the room to see everything in its place. “Catherine?!” I yelled hoping for a response. I could smell the coffee so I rushed downstairs. I was stopped in my tracks to see my wife making breakfast in the kitchen. Everything was the same. Not as last night but how its always have been. “Where have you’ve been?” I asked her, running to her, hugging her tightly. “I’ve been here all along—” “Thank god, we need to call Tony and I gotta let him know what's happening,” I shouted with joy, only to be cut off, “I’ve been, been there,” She pointed to the attic. “What do you mean?” the few seconds of joy drowned out by concern, “I’ve been here all along, right where you put me.” She stood their looking at me her face began to darken as I looked at the attic door. I looked back at her, “What do—,” she was gone. “Catherine?” I shouted terrified. I heard footsteps coming from upstairs. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath making my way over to the attic door. Pulling down the door exposing the cool humid air escaping from the eerie space. I took out my phone for light. “Either this or prison,” I thought to myself trying to make the worst moment in my life slightly not as shitty. I went up slowly on the creaky cracked ladder. As I made my way up it began to smell of rot and decay. I hoisted myself up into the small entrance of this dark cave like area of my safe space I never been. We don’t have a lot in the attic a lot of old furniture and Knick knacks from the previous owners. In the widest opening of the room there was what appeared to be a circle created with thick red paint. I moved cautiously towards the strangeness to pry apart more answers to this entire fuss. As I moved closer, I saw what appeared to be a body covered in sheets. I stepped back and turned my face away from whatever it is I saw. I shot back up to look at the mysterious figure. “What the fuck.” I let out my reaction to the heinous discovery, being gone. I rushed downstairs and looked around the house everything seemed to be normal. Scavenging the house for any sign of Catherine. I stepped outside to rethink everything and honestly, I just could not be in there. I sat on the front step holding my head in my hands, rubbing the stress from my eyes. Looking up from my sulking, what met my gaze was the widower. Mrs. Stevenson, peered at me through the window, upon us making eye contact she waved at me as though inviting me in to reveal the secrets of my own nightmare.             As I reached the front step as if something were drawing me in. Perhaps it was my desire to kill the curiosity I had inside about this older woman, or if it was me desperation from my own peculiar situation. I stood quietly for a second and slowly reached out for the door knocker when the door slightly creaked open. “Come in dear. Take a seat.” A distant voice softly spoke, inviting me and my issues in. It felt familiar, this house. Dim light casted shadows all throughout this small, strange house. The front room illuminated light much brighter than the shadows covering the rest of this place. Naturally, I made my way to the front room assuming my host would be sitting awaiting me to find her. Sure, enough there was a small figure sitting next to the fireplace in an old creaking rocking chair. “Took you long enough.”             Standing in a stranger’s house expecting answers on my own life seemed futile. This ominous statement was no where close to the uneasy feeling I felt in that house. “Come, come, sit. I believe I may have answers to your peculiar situation.” The old woman said whilst gesturing me to take a seat. Hesitantly, I accepted the gesture and cautiously made my way towards the love seat. “So, your wife is missing I heard… I think I know where her whereabouts are…” I stared intensely at the woman as she spoke those words. “Come, I am hard of hearing,” I carefully leaned in, the old woman leaned in as well and whispered, “She’s here.” I flinched back away from her. To my shock she was gone in the shadows of the creaking house. Since that moment all you can hear are the screams.


There was a hole in the fence. It was the first thing Beth had noticed about the garden when they moved in. While Dad fussed and faffed in the house, pulling in the building blocks of their lives from the moving van, Beth had explored the garden. The bright, spring morning was the first sunny day after months of winter darkness and she had been eager to breathe in the brisk, slightly warmed air rather than the dust and the recently painted aroma of the house. The garden was bare - a perfect photo for the estate agents - and Beth thought bitterly of the garden they had left behind - the cluttered, lived in garden that had been filled with toys and Dad’s half-finished DIY projects. Moving hadn’t been something that either of them wanted; their lives uprooted and changed unexpectedly in a tragedy that had blindsided them all. The family cut down by half by an accident involving a car, rain and a teenage driver more concerned about checking their phone. In the weeks of turmoil and agony that had followed, moving house had become an inevitability and while Dad had seen the prospect of change as the promise of healing, Beth had learned not to hope. Now she was faced with a new house, a new life and a new, overly manicured garden. The only interesting thing about this new space was the hole in the fence and the young girl was inextricably drawn to it.

The splinters around the hole had dug uncomfortably into her cheek as she pressed her eye into the opening but the discomfort had been forgotten in an instant as she gazed through. Logic told her that she should be looking at next door’s garden. The empty house should have an overgrown, unkempt garden, perhaps with unwanted rubbish strewn around but what Beth had seen was neither garden nor, she’d realised, this world.

Beyond the hole lay a desolate wasteland, storm clouds hovering threateningly in the distance. There was nothing as far as the eye could see bar the occasional gnarled stub of a tree that clung desperately to the side of hills. Irregular tufts of grass littered the greying dirt of the mounds and they were hardly the vivid green of the landscaped lawn in Beth’s own garden. In the distance, specks of black circled in the sky, riding the thermals and occasionally diving sharply towards some unseen prey. Dust swirled up and through the hole, forcing Beth to jerk her head back and wipe at the grit.

That had been over a decade ago and it seemed that not only was Beth the only person who could see through the hole to the world beyond, it seemed that Beth was the only person to see the hole itself. Pleading, temper tantrums and cajoling could not convince Dad that there was anything other than wooden panels there and Beth had learned the hard way not to ask other people about it. At best, they thought she was joking and at worst, they quietly suggested to her father that medical intervention was necessary.

The world beyond was not static though. It had taken Beth years to understand it.

There was the time, three and a half months after they moved in, that Beth and Dad had finally unpacked the last box. At the bottom had been a tiny dinosaur, one leg broken off and some of the paint rubbed away. Dad had pulled it out and, sitting back on his haunches, held it aloft for her to see. He began his sentence, “Do you remember when…” and it was the first time they’d spoken about her brother where they’d both smiled at the same time without grief clouding their eyes. Later that day, Beth had gone into the garden and looked through to the world beyond and had been startled to see a splash of blue on the arid hillside. A tiny forget-me-not had bloomed and the colour stood out in stark relief to the desolation around it.

There was the time, two years later, when Beth had raced home from school to find her Dad proudly holding her SATs results in his hand. He’d let her choose a takeaway and promised her a trip to the trampoline park the next day. That evening, they sat in the dying light of the day and he taught her how to coax flames from paper and firelighters in the firepit. Before she headed to bed, she’d pressed her eye to the hole in the fence and had seen bright sunlight blanketing the world beyond, which had been getting greener and more verdant as time went on. The little blue flowers had multiplied and neatly covered the side of the hill, having been joined by white snowdrops and a wide array of other wildflowers.

Then there had been the time, not too long after that, when Beth had come home from school earlier than planned and had surprised Dad in the kitchen with a woman she didn’t know. They’d been holding hands and looking at each other in a way that Beth remembered her Dad looking at only one other person before. They’d pulled apart abruptly but not before Beth had seen the gentle smile that betrayed her father’s adoration. She’d flown out the door into the back garden and the hole in the fence showed the world beyond caught in a maelstrom. Lightning crackled overhead and stabbed down, splitting trees in two and setting fire to the ground below. Fierce winds tore petals and hurled them about, shredding the hillside and blinding her with the force of the gusts.

Today though, as she took one long look through the hole in the fence while Dad and Sue loaded the car with the last of her bags and planned the route to her halls of residence, the world beyond was shaded. The wildflowers swayed lazily in what seemed to be an early morning breeze and she could see the first few sparrows flitting from their nests. There were more trees now, more than saplings but not yet established and she saw a squirrel on the nearest one poke its head out and chitter excitedly. In the distance, the first few rays of sunlight began to bathe the landscape and Beth inhaled deeply, breathing in the crisp notes of a new day before pulling away. She took two steps away and then turned, suddenly anxious, wanting to get one last glimpse of the world only she could see. A moment of confusion followed, wandering fingers probing the fence panel, searching for something that was no longer (and perhaps had never been) there. It was okay though. She didn’t need it anymore.


Whether or not he would ultimately end up being caught was of little to no consequence to Ralph at that moment. At that moment, he was more disappointedly fascinated by the agonizingly decrepit condition of his shoes. The shoes he had worked so hard to buy were covered in tragedy. Deep layers of mud concealed the traces of bloody evidence. The fresh rubber and lace odor had been vanquished within twenty-four hours.

The howling of searching sirens and screeching tires chasing shadowy suspects down alleyways felt like a distant memory already. In fact, it had been a couple of days since he’d even internally shrieked at the sight of a cop car. Now, though, he was in an entirely different state. He wondered if Indiana would be as vigilant in their hunt for him as Kentucky had been. The state border had felt like a finish line.

Do they chase across state borders? He wondered. #ThingsYoureNotTaughtInSchool. The truth was, he didn’t even know how it played out in his absence-- or, perhaps more accurately, his fleeing.

Madison’s survival was still in question. It was only in the arm, but a gunshot wound is a gunshot wound. Run first; dodge questions later seemed like the only logical thing to do at the time. Now five hundred miles from the original altercation, Ralph still couldn’t be sure if he should slow his pace and come out of the shadows just yet. Stalks of fallen, dried wheat crunched under his newly unrecognizable sneakers. The amber rays of the Sun rose over the golden field he was aimlessly navigating. Figuring the farmers would be out cruising plots on their tractors any minute, Ralph thought it might be wiser to find a more inconspicuous path to travel. But where? He could only see a long-distance when he reached a peak in the landscape, and the last time he did, it was farmland as far as the eye could possibly see: combines and corn mostly. It might be a half day’s walk until actual civilization could be reached. Presently, he couldn’t wander in the fields much longer for fear of a farmer phoning the police for his trespassing. He couldn’t really walk along the edge of the road either. If a local blue-blood pegged his description, he’d be in cuffs on his way back to Kentucky in a squad car faster than a frog can snatch a fly. Despite being ‘on the run,’ Ralph’s pace had slowed considerably. The adrenaline of the circumstantial events had almost all but relinquished power of his muscles to the deep fatigue which began to plague him with each increasingly small step. The sound of distant, rustling, farm-equipment engines began to drown out the songs of the morning birds as the Sun rose higher into the morning sky. Ralph thought it to be ironic how the Sun could shine so beautifully during such dark circumstances. It was as if Mother Earth had no idea how much trouble he was in. He pulled off his ball cap to wipe the day’s first bead of sweat from his brow. There would be much more to come. The brim was grasped loosely by the tired, filthy fingers of the alleged fugitive. Ralph’s brown eyes glared into the etched logo on the front. Tossing it on the ground, he realized, but if not before that moment, he was in the clothes of a possible murderer-- a murderer wearing a hat and Nikes. The hat, the shirt, the hoodie, underwear, jeans-- the shoes. He pictured them in a basement locker of some precinct, in a plastic bag marked as evidence. What had been a collection of random choices that fateful morning was now the ensemble of a violent criminal. At least, that’s what Ralph thought the journalists would write if he were later convicted of murder. Though his legs and feet felt the weight of the thousands of steps he’d walked in the past forty-eight hours, Ralph knew he couldn’t stop for even a blink of sleep until he changed his clothes. Ralph took a moment to check his wallet. There was an array of gift cards with a few bucks left on each and a little over one hundred dollars in cash. Normally, there would be nothing but a Subway punch card to speak of in the billfold, but his birthday had passed mere days before the incident. The same birthday during which he was presented with a gun from his step-father. The same birthday Madison had missed.

I had to. Right?  Thought Ralph for a moment.

She would’ve died if I hadn’t shot her. Right? Can someone really be convicted of murder for trying to save someone’s life?  The teenage boy, wrought with guilt by the images left in his mind, fell to his knees and began to weep. Some of the tears that ran down his dirty, dried-sweaty cheeks were out of guilt, some of sadness, others of hurt, and many just from emotional exhaustion. Their salty wetness reminded him of the intolerable thirst and hunger he felt.

Food or clothing first? He questioned.

“What the--” spoke a voice from the field. In the gasps of his sobs, Ralph hadn’t heard the stranger approach. “Jesus, kid. You scared the wits out of me. What the hell you doin’ wandrin’ ‘round my field?”

“Huh?” Ralph meekly responded. He was too tired and hungry to be excitedly startled, though he was obviously, deeply concerned. “What you mean, huh ? You look half-dead. You ain’t on drugs are ya? I ain’t gon’ fool with no druggie-kid dying on my property.” The man, only discernible as a hazy form among the surrounding stalks with the sunlight backlighting his silhouette, waited for Ralph’s response. Ralph squinted his tear-soaked, dirty eyes, trying to pull the figure into focus. Finally, he wiped his face on his sleeve. It only added to the filth and merely pulled away a tiny fraction of the dirt from his cheeks, but his eyes had cleared enough to see the man in more detail.

The man was a farmer. He appeared to be in his 50s or so from what Ralph could tell. He had a speckled white and brown beard, a hat with no insignia on it, overalls, and work boots. His hands were already dirty to start his day and looked like he had pulled on ropes every day of his life. “Well?” He bellowed in a deep, yet concerned voice. “Well, what?” Ralph murmured, still confused. “You on drugs or ain’t ya? I don’t much like to start my mornings with ass whoopins, but it wouldn’t be the first time.” “Drugs?” Ralph thought of Madison. “God, damnit. Tell me what’s got you crying like a baby in my field, lookin’ like death or I’m gonna beat your druggie-butt till it can’t take a needle in it no more. I’ve seen your kind before.” “No, sir. Please. I’m not on drugs.” Ralph’s wits began to return to him. “Then what in the good Lord’s name are you doing, son? You in some kind of trouble?” For the first time, Ralph looked into the farmer’s eyes. They sparkled green and didn’t have a hint of meanness in them. He doubted that the man would have ever laid hands on him, even if he had had the urge. Sometimes you can look into a person’s eyes and just know they wouldn't hurt you. “Trouble?” Ralph wasn’t at all sure of what he should reveal to the stranger before him. “I honestly don’t know.” His chin dropped to his chest and his eyes took blurry aim at the man’s boots. The farmer probably spent every day in that field, but his shoes were cleaner. Once again, tears began to stream down Ralph’s cheeks, leaving behind channels of carved-out sorrow. “Aw, hell. I ain’t even got time for this.” The farmer looked to the sky as if to ask God a question. He pulled his hat off, revealing a mostly bald head that’s remaining hair patches were buzzed down almost to the skull. As he scratched his head, he took a heavy, burdened sigh. It was hard for him not to feel pity at the sight of the crumbling shell of a teenager in distress. Against his own desired judgment to get to work, he questioned the boy some more. “You got someplace you can go? Family or a friend you can call or something? Surely you got some kind of fancy phone on you? All kids your age do nowadays. Right?” Ralph recalled the lake he had thrown his phone into the night before after a helicopter had flown by. “No, sir. No phone. No friends.” “No phone?! What the hell kind of kid are you? You Amish? You don’t look like no Amish. And you ain’t got no friends? What kinna kid ain’t got no friends. I bet you got one or two.” Again, the farmer stared at Ralph’s raggedy hair as he shook his head ‘no’, his face still buried in his own chest. An answer was not presenting itself. With a regretful sigh, the farmer continued, “For Pete’s sake. Quit your cryin’ and pick your darn self off the ground, boy. No man ought to sit in his own tears in the mud.” The pregnant pause went on for longer than either cared to withstand. Ralph let his mind wander into a pit of self-loathing and despair while the stranger, deeply confused, contemplated his next move. The farmer scratched his beard and shook his head and jostled himself to attention. “Okay. Not kiddin’ now. Get your butt up and follow me.” “Wait-- are you going to turn me in?” “Turn you in? To who? Something I need to know?” He looked hard at Ralph who finally managed eye contact. The two kept their gaze as Ralph pulled himself to his feet. “No, sir. I just want to know where we’re going.” “Work. You put me behind already, and I could use a hand today anyhow. Rain’s gon’ and created a whole mess of work. Unless there’s somebody you’d like me to call for ya. We’d have to go back in the house though. I don’t carry one of them fancy phones neither.” “No, sir. I’ll help you. Just one thing.” “Yea? What’s that?” “You got anything to eat?” “That depends. You got a name?” “Yessir. Ralph is my name.” “Okay, Ralph. Jeremiah James Johnson.” He stuck out his meat hook of a hand to shake. Ralph grasped it with what strength he could muster. It was like shaking the giant palm of a gorilla holding sandpaper. “My friends call me Jerry. Family calls me Jimmy. Wife calls me JJ. Pick one. Don’t much care. Let’s get workin’ Ralphy. And we got to work on that handshake. That jus’ won’t do.” * * * * Ralph had no idea what time it was. As the shower water swallowed his body, he didn’t care either. He firmly ran his hands all over his body and face, looking down to see the brown mudwater pouring down the drain. He thought of when he had smeared it all over himself by the lake in an effort to camouflage. It had been pointless. The cop cars didn’t stop just as the helicopter hadn’t tracked him either. It dawned on Ralph that he may have not been chased much at all. After a time, the water began to run clear down the drain.

After stepping out of the shower, Ralph began dressing in the clothes that Jerry had pulled out of a drawer for him. Ralph had never seen a barn quite like Jerry’s. It had a decent room with a bed, dresser, table, and a couple of chairs. It also had a full bathroom and a window with a nice view of Jerry’s fields. The water didn’t get all that hot, and the pressure was weak, but it was clean. Jerry had given Ralph a plain white shirt, a pair of jeans, a pair of thick, white socks, and some underwear. Finally, sitting on top of it all was a set of work boots similar to the ones he had seen Jerry wearing earlier that day. As he exited the bathroom, he found Jerry sitting at the small table with two plates of food. “I went in the house and got us some supper. Grab a seat.” “You know, you really didn’t have to do all of this.” “I needed the help.” He held the slightest smile. “Still. Thanks.” “Eat.” The two of them sat together for several minutes, the only sound to be heard was mostly the clinking of silverware to plates and two very tall glasses of lemonade being picked up and put down on the wooden table. When they were finished, Jerry wiped his mouth with a handkerchief he pulled from his pocket. “I got rid of your clothes. The Mrs. wouldn’t even let me bring ‘em through the house to get washed without hosing ‘em down. From the shape they were in, I jus’ as soon figured you could use a few new stitches of clothing on you. Hope that’s alright.” “Sure.”

The evidence . Ralph thought. “What did you do with them?” “They’s burnin’ in that woodfire we set out back ‘while ago.” Before Ralph could entertain the idea that he could get away with murder, he wondered if he thought he should.  “Listen.” Jerry began as he gathered the dishes. “You ain’t a terrible worker. If you’d like to sleep on that there bed, you can. I’ll be by at sunrise. If you ain’t around when I come knockin’, well I’ll jus’ get to work by myself as usual then.” Jerry’s work boots thunked on the floor as he headed for the door. He stopped in the door frame. “And, Ralphy,” Jerry said with a sigh. “I don’t know if it ain’t for nothin’, but I’ll tell you this. I don’t know who you were or what you done. There’s a whole mess of a world who don’t know you a lick either. Alls I know is, you ain’t terrible help, and you seem like an okay fella. Whatever it was you may or may not have gotten mixed up in, maybe it’s best to just let it go. I don’t know your life before today… and today was an okay day.” * * * * Days turned into weeks. Weeks turned into months. Fall clearing season came and went. Winter was upon them with Christmas only a few days away. In all their time in fields, the two men had barely spoken. With some people, bonds aren’t about words. Ralph found himself oddly at peace in the field with Jerry. After the first month or so, Ralph guessed that either he couldn’t be found, or for whatever reason, no one was looking for him anymore. He pondered various aspects of his old life. He thought about whether his stepdad cared at all where he was, concluding that it was unlikely. His father, a prisoner of the state of Kentucky, surely did not. With a dead mom and functionally no friends, Ralph figured he wasn’t missed by anyone in Kentucky. Over the passing months, he knew one of two things was true. Either Madison survived the gunshot or she didn’t. If she didn’t, he finally came to realize, it wasn’t truly his fault. She would have died if he hadn’t shown up. What’s the difference if she died because he had? Ralph had been in his room reading a book that Jerry had given him: The Alchemist . He was on his back on the bed reading with the book in the air when there was a knock at the door and Jerry entered. “I’m glad you cracked it open,” said Jerry, noticing the book. Ralph hadn’t initially taken Jerry for a learned man but had since come to understand how wise he really was. “Fate and destiny. I love books like that. Did you get to the part with the glass shop? Funny how sometimes an old guy and a young guy get pushed together by the universe, huh?” Ralph smiled. “Listen, the Mrs. wanted me to give you something.” “Oh, yea? What’s that? You really don’t need to give me anything, Jerry.” “Oh, I know that, but the woman ain’t been wrong a day in her life. Stand up so I can give it to ya.” Not wanting to be rude for even a moment, Ralph swung his feet to the ground, standing up next to the same boots that Jerry had given him the day they met. “Well, what is it?” Ralph’s curiosity had been fully piqued. “This.” Jerry reached his arms out and pulled Ralph into the tightest bear hug he had ever felt. The warmth and strength of the embrace caused Ralph to fall weak. The men stood in their embrace, not speaking a word. The coming winter’s wind sang against the barn wood structure. Gentle creaks comforted the silence around them. Finally, the air left Ralph’s body with the exasperated sigh of a lifetime of pain, and he began to cry. Sometimes you don’t know you’ve been holding your breath until you let it out. Jerry continued to hold Ralph’s weight in his arms. After a time, Ralph collected his body and breath and calmly pulled away. He wiped the tears from his face and sniffed hard, wiping his nose with his sleeve.

“Jerry-” Ralph practically snorted out, not even sure of what he wanted to say.

“Yea, kid?” There was a long pause as Ralph searched inside himself for something kind to say. “Merry Christmas.” “Merry Christmas, Ralphy.” He smiled and began leaving, and like he had done many times before, he stopped in the doorway for one last word with the kid. “Ralphy-” he choked, his green eyes glowing with impending tears. “Yea?” “Call me Jimmy.”


“I told you not to buy one!” “Sweetie, this is a good thing. We never have to work again.” “But I want to work! I don’t want to end up like her, you know that.” “This is insane. You’re the only person to ever complain about winning the lottery. Like, ever.” I virtually never argued with my husband. This was a very special case. For sure, he always acted like a bit of a gambler, overspending a little too much every time he went to the casino with his buddies; never enough for it to become problematic though. This time however, I specifically requested for him not to purchase a lottery ticket. The jackpot was five hundred and twenty-five million dollars, and somehow I had a hunch. Winning the lottery remained my worst nightmare throughout the years. My best friend Rebecca’s parents won the lottery when she was nineteen, then died a week later in a car accident. Their daughter inherited from the whole thing. It looked fun at first. She bought lavish beach-front houses, dropped out of college, and travelled around the world. Reality quickly caught up with her. After a string of toxic relationships with partners that preyed on her money like vultures, she fell into a deep depression. I did my best to help her weather the storm, to no avail. She took her life at the age of twenty-two. Her destructive path over these four years was traumatic to say the least. I promised myself I would build a financially stable life all by myself. My dreams of becoming a professional composer ended of inside boxes in the recesses of my mind. I took an office job in an advertising company and climbed the corporate ladder steadily. Just when I thought I had perfect control over every aspect of my destiny, James came into my life. He played the viola in my weekend string quartet. “Chloe, please listen to me for a minute,” he pleaded. “We just won five hundred and twenty-five million dollars. There’s no way around it.” “Dirty money like that ruins lives. I know, I witnessed it.” “I’m not saying you didn’t. What your friend did with her money was one thing. What we do with ours can be different. Think of what we could do. You could finally concentrate on composing! This ticket is our declaration of independence.” “I turned the page on that chapter already. We don’t need to win the lottery to be happy James, you made a mistake when you won that ticket. Let’s talk about it later.” I quickly hung up, furious, several minutes behind on my schedule because of his call. Sure enough, the minute I arrived at work, my manager chastised me. “You missed the morning brief,” he said. “I’m sorry Paul. My husband and I needed to sort out something.” “Trouble in paradise?” His disparaging comments about my private life made my blood boil on a daily basis. I knew he felt attracted to me, and the more I rebuked his advances, the more he insisted on making my job a living hell. “This isn’t a particularly appropriate question for work.” “You’re the one who brought up your husband. If you don’t want to talk personal, leave the personal at the door.” “Don’t even try, you—” “I’m your manager Chloe. Please behave in my office.” I breathed heavily, clenching my fists. “You’re right Paul. I’ll just go to my desk now.” *** The day went by too slowly for my taste. Meeting after meeting, I struggled to concentrate. There always seemed to be a symphony playing in the back of my mind. During the eleven o’clock pitch meeting, I found myself scribbling down a partition on a blank sheet of paper. Nothing serious. It was only an afterthought, a distant melody that lingered from these old dreams that were locked in boxes. The symphony grew louder as the hours passed. The soaring music obliterated Mike’s voice during the weekly planning meeting, and by the time I got to the client strategy meeting, my ears could not discern any sound but the crescendo of notes that followed me everywhere. The minute I came back to my desk, I started feverishly writing down the whole thing. No instruments were needed to play these notes. They were already fully formed in my head, and the ink flowed on the page just like blood flowed at an accelerated pace through my veins with every heartbeat. The clock in my office struck five o’clock. I was severely behind on work. Curbing my excitation, I resolved to do overtime to make up for the creative divergence. My musical endeavour had undoubtedly been inappropriate, if not unacceptable. I couldn’t let my work suffer from such frivolity. Yet, I could not stop wondering why the surge had been so powerful. The boxes were tightly locked. The dreams were safely put away. “Working late?” Naturally, Paul had to come and ruin whatever was left of my day. “I couldn’t concentrate today,” I replied. “Big headache.” “You did seem distracted. More than usual, that is.” He came closer – a predator approaching his prey. “You know,” he added, “if you keep being this distracted, I’ll have to file a report with human resources. It’s a case of decreased productivity.” He lost no time and finally crossed the line, after years of subtly hiding the beast within. His hand grabbed my thigh before I could say a word. “Unless you want to make the whole thing go away of course. I’m a flexible man.” I slapped him, hard enough for his whole body to sway towards the bookshelf behind him. “That’s enough Paul!” I yelled. “I’m not taking your disgusting behavior anymore. “Then you might as well pack up and leave,” he said, his face twisted into a dreadful grimace. “I’m the manager here.” “Perfect!” I screamed. “You know what? My husband and I won the lottery this morning! At first, I thought it was the most horrible thing to ever happen to me, but it’s not. You know why? Because you are the most horrible thing to ever happen to me. Rebecca would have been just fine if it wasn’t for men like you. Thankfully, I have an amazing husband, and we’re going to be just fine !” “Who’s Rebecca?” “None of your business.” “Well, good luck with that,” he said, like a snake spitting poison. “I guess you can just live off your husband’s money now.” “Not that there would be anything wrong with it, but if you need to know…” I shoved my composition in his face. “…I’m pretty sure I have a great career ahead of me. See you when I’m famous.” I hastily left the office without even bothering to gather my belongings. How good it felt! Finally, I was free. The dreams had been unlocked. There were so many possibilities ahead, so many roads to travel. I knew what the problem was now, and the problem wasn’t the money. I called James in a heartbeat. “Hello?” “Hey baby! About that ticket…” “Oh yes, you were right. I thought about it all day. We don’t need money to be happy, we have everything we need. I burned it.”


I face the two-story white clapboard house with its yellow shutters. Three hundred years and counting. Counting down to my bomb. I plan on blowing it all to smithereens. My family beat me to our annual Thanksgiving shindig. I look in the living room window as I suck on my cigarette and the pint bottle of the family’s claim to fame, Barrens Brandy. They sit around the formal room, thirteen relatives, not a smile on one face. That will happen after a few more rounds of cranberry cocktails.

The room looks like something from a Victorian novel. My father, Adam, fifteenth of that name, nicknamed Red, like all the others, and current owner of Barrens Brandy, the oldest continuous distillery in the United States, stands in front of the fireplace, blocking the heat from the rest of the room, his booted foot perched on a cast iron foot-warming rail. Sibyl, my daddy dearest’s new wife, sits on a settee, long skirt fanning around her, delicate pink slippers on her feet. A shawl drapes her thin shoulders, but still, she shivers. My sister, Hester, four years my senior, hops up like a hot stick pokes her in the ass. She grabs a chenille quilt and tucks it around fragile step-mamma.

My cousins, Rachell, Sam, and Thomas, all over thirty, snicker in each other’s ears like six-year-old kindergartners on a playground. Their parents, Uncle John, my father’s youngest brother, and my Aunt Margret, whom rumor has it was once engaged to my father, sit at the back of the room as far as possible from all the others. My Grandmother (always with a capital G) enthrones herself in the overstuffed Bavarian armchair that sits closest to the fireplace and facing out into the room. Her back is straighter than the chair’s back, her nose high, her mouth compressed to be lipless. Her twin daughters, spinsters and older than my father, stand behind Grandmother’s chair. Aunt Ida, thin, and Aunt Amelia, fat, gray-haired, and sallow-skinned from unfulfilled lives, act as nursemaids and constant companions to their mother’s every whim. My father’s twin brother, Ernst, born a minute too late to be the lucky one, stands with his wife, the plain Jane, near the door to the room, all the easier to make their escape if they had the courage for it. I toss the tobacco butt to the ground and twist it into the November dirt. I climb the front porch, twist the doorknob. I am late, so of course, it’s locked. Tardiness means you don’t get dinner in this house. I’d bang on the door, but experience has taught me there would be no mercy. Time to start breaking the rules.

I go out to the management office in the distillery barn.

“Good evening,” says the night watchman as he lets me in. “Evening, Sam,” I say. “Been a while since we’ve seen you,” he says. “Mr. Barrens and your Grandmother will be happy to have you at home.” “I doubt it,” I mumble to myself. “Beg pardon, sir?” “Yes,” I say, “they would be happy to have me back.” I smile at him. I enter my father’s office and close the door behind me, blocking Sam’s curiosity and spying eyes. I open the cabinet in the corner, grab the master keyring from its hook, and stuff the keys in my coat pocket. I enter the house at the back door, through the mudroom. I remove my coat and hang it on a peg. I skirt the cook in the kitchen, pluck a slice of turkey from the serving platter, and head to the dining room. The butternut squash soup course is finished. The servants clear away the blue and white soup bowls, part of the Bonnin and Morris set made in South Philadelphia at the American China Manufactory, high-quality porcelain, made for a revolutionary colonial market. The first Barrens, Jebediah, arrived in New Jersey just before the turn into the 18th century and opened a tavern. Jebediah hung with George Washington and supplied the revolutionary army with spirits and hiding places in the Pine Barrens. He was quite popular and became wealthy as the cranberry baron, the first Barrens in the Pine Barrens, the man with dreams of a dynasty.

I wait for the servants to leave. I saunter in, kiss Grandmother on her papery cheek, and take the seat to my father’s right.

“Hi-ya.” I sound casual, at ease. Not how I feel, but my acting classes pay off. “Leave the table,” says Grandmother. “No,” I say.

Sibyl gasps and slumps forward. Her forehead hits the table. Thank the gods; the soup bowls are gone. I laugh at my silent joke. Hester pops up and rushes to Sibyl. She leans Sibyl back in her arms, cradling her like a baby. She dips a cloth napkin in a glass of ice water and drapes it over Sibyl’s forehead. Sibyl’s eyes flutter open. “Take her to her room,” says my father. He slams back his brandy. He places the glass on the table, lining it up with the silverware. He moves it a fraction of an inch to achieve perfection. Hester escorts Sibyl away. Hester knows her place in the world and fills it without complaint. I would doubt her relation to me if she didn’t look exactly like my father. She no longer needs my father’s booming bullying voice to do whatever he says. She is well trained to follow orders for a scrap of attention. We all gave up on seeking love long ago. “You’re here.” My father speaks to my sister’s retreating back.

 “Obviously,” I say. I reach for the decanter and fill my glass. “As rude as always,” says my Grandmother. She glares at me from her seat to my father’s left and directly across from me. Her face turns red, and her eyes bulge. “Careful, Granny,” I say. “You’ll hurt yourself.” The cousins giggle—an odd sound in the otherwise quiet room. “Why are you here?” Grandmother spits out. Spittle flies from her mouth and stains the bleached table cloth. “Mother told me,” I say. I look father in the eyes and wait. His emaciated body shakes, his face is blank. I can’t tell if he’s angry, excited, or scared. It could be all three.

I turn in my chair to face him. We watch each other. I know he doesn’t see himself in me. I look like my mother, the woman he divorced and lawyered into poverty and loneliness when I was five. He tried his best to beat her out of me without any success. “So you know I’ll be dead before the end of the year.” He refills his glass with brandy and downs it. He grimaces. He rubs his throat. Coughs. “Yes.” I wait. I will him to say the words. I want him to beg. “You are finally willing to take your rightful place in this family, in the business.” His eyes are the same vibrant black as always, shiny, hard obsidian.

I glance around the room. My aunts and uncles and cousins hold their breaths. Grandmother covers her mouth with a lace handkerchief. I wink at her. “No,” I say to my father. I stand and turn over my glass, the dregs staining the tablecloth like blood. “I came here to let you know, before you die, that your only son will not follow in your footsteps. It’s over.” My father shoves at the china in an effort to rise from his chair. His plate crashes to the floor and shatters. He is the first Barrens to break a dish. He collapses back, breathing hard. “You’ll get nothing,” he says. “No money, no property.” “I don’t want any of it. I don’t want you.”

Grandmother throws a roll at me. It hits me in the chest. I blow her a kiss. “Good riddance,” she says. “Your mother ruined you.” “My mother saved me,” I say. “I legally changed my name.” I ring the bell for the servants who I know are within earshot, taking in the drama. It will be all over town within the hour. My father and Grandmother won’t be able to keep it quiet. Sanders, the butler, holds out my coat. I slip my arms in the sleeves. He buttons it for me like he did when I was a child. He grins, pats my shoulders, and leaves. “I wanted you to know that you are the last Adam Barren. You broke the long line of the oldest male in each generation to hold the position of head of this family and head of the business when you tried to break me.” I pant in my excitement. I breathe deep. “You broke this family.” I reach in my pocket, pull out the master keys, and drop them on the table in front of my father.

I walk away.