THE FORTUNE TELLER By Andrew Paul Grell “More anatomy books, Walt? Birds, this time? Planning a career change? Veterinarian? Barb’s poodle Dixie had a torn ACL, cost her $5,000 for the surgery. Prices like that, you might consider making the switch.” Audrie and Carl Henshaw shared a laugh; Carl’s bonus from last year paid for ten shelter dog rescues, plus flights to their forever homes, in addition to contributions to the grandchildren fund and a vacation in the Gaspe.

“I like seeing the way the pieces fit together. At work I fit the pieces of numbers together; if I do it right, the bird flies and the firm gets a big check. I don’t know what I’m going to do with knowing which part of which bird goes where, but I’m sure I’ll think of something.’ Carl took the books upstairs to the study. His wife followed him up, so he mixed a Mother Superior for each of them which they imbibed on the widow’s walk with a view of Gardiner’s Bay. “May I borrow your telescope, my dear?” Audrie kept a sizable Newtonian scope, courtesy of Stony Brook, with a clockwork and CCD interface via Bluetooth to her image gallery and the virtual blink microscope. The college indulged her; in case something was happening in the sky, her grad students could call her with coordinates, saving an hour drive. In reality, Carl was fascinated with Plum Island, the high-security facility for, supposedly, dealing with animal epidemics, but was thought by everyone east of Quogue to be a Frankenstein laboratory for conducting ghastly experiments on innocent animals. Carl would spend hours on end of weekend time with the scope trained on the island to see if anything escaped. But in even realer reality, Audrie would often find that the delicate and expensive piece of equipment was left pointing at one of those beaches. “See anything, Carlos? It’s a clear day, good viewing.” “Black smoke from one of the chimneys. I guess the birds will have to wait a little longer to get a new Pope. So, do you really think I should have a career change? I’ve been doing this for 40 years, Ogee,” Carl reminded her, using her pet name from the 1960s cartoon. Audrey stuck to a single pet name for her husband, Carlos, a hero of the Spanish Civil war. Neither of them could remember which side “Carlos” fought on, but they both remembered Magilla Gorilla fondly. “It’s not like we need more money. Just to be sure, we’re talking about careers, not marriages, right? None of the classic Long Island debauchery, wife swapping, whips and chains?” “Wife swapping in the burbs? That started being passe when Ogee was still on TV. How about this. You told me that in grade school you used to be the origami fortune teller practioner. I’ll be right back, Ogee.” Carl came back with two pieces of paper, one printer paper, and the other a neatly, but hastily cut, square of wallpaper they were planning on putting up. “Here. You can use this for the fortune teller, it’s white on the back. And here’s a list of generated fortunes. I haven’t looked at them. Pick the first eight fortunes that are exactly nine words.” Audrey had to reach way, far back in order to remember the folding order. She chuckled out loud thinking about the wacky fortunes she used to make up, and she shuddered at the single, disastrous misfire. “Are you sure you want to do this?” “Why not. You’re the expert.” “Alright, big boy. This will take a few minutes. How about another round of Mother Superiors?” “I don’t think so, in two hours we’re meeting the Dembitzers at Au Marche, we’re driving. How about grapefruit seltzers?” “Sold.” When Carl came back with cans of seltzer, Audrey was ready with the fortune teller. The questioner picked orange. Six letters, fortune six. Audrey had her fingers in the paper pockets and opened number six. “When you’ve reached your peak, choose your next summit.” “I guess that nails it. Random trial. C’mon, let’s go eat some over-priced faux French food.” # # # There must have been magic in the air that night, as well as the stars aligning just right. The couples sat around the table, tricouler  trimming on the tablecloths, pictures of Nice, Brittany, Deauville, and the 4 th Arrondissement in Paris’s Rive Gauche. After the Caesar salad and bread with olive oil, Richard Dembitzer declared that he was leaving his position as chief grouting engineer at a skyscraper construction company in Manhattan to take a position as an adjunct professor of Engineering at Cooper Union. “There’s only so many times a guy could do 2:00 AM to 7:00 AM shifts, only so much splattered concrete a person can be expected to scrape of their hands,” Judy Dembitzer explained. “Dick is the best. He took me to see some jobs. He could wave his hand next to a mixer and know exactly what the inside temperature was. Now I can have him for a while, and he can impart his knowledge and wisdom to the next generation. And he gets to be called Professor.” “And she gets to be Mrs. Professor,” Richard added, signaling the waiter and ordering champagne. “Make it two bottles, garcon,” Audrey ordered the white-gloved sommelier.  “Carl is seriously considering a career change.” “And give up that revenue stream, Carl? What’re ya gonna do, buddy?” “Not sure yet, Dick, but the cards spell out that I need a change. I had my fortune told today.” That got some funny looks from the Dembitzers, the funniest of the looks being how to not issue a joke response. The topic was cut off there, and the couples found safe harbor in discussing Long Island politics, tax assessment reductions, and traffic on the Long Island Expressway. # # # “I’ll always go there for the truite meunière , but the crème fraise needs work,” Carl opined. “It might as well have been Pinkberry. It may not be possible to make good crème fraise in the United States. Next time we go to Au Marche with another couple, we recommend ‘that new place we found’ for dessert.” Audrie and Carl were heading home in the Volvo when a text from “her” telescope cut the culinary discussion short. “Anomalous reading, unknown type”, the text announced. “Funny, Carlos. It’s summer. From the time stamp on the text, the sky would still have been too bright to see any stars. Hands on the wheel Buddy; I’d hate to die in yet another crash with a drunken driver on Merrick Parkway when a major discovery could be waiting for us at home.” “Senora, you have my word as a Republican Officer that I will guard your hopes and dreams and deliver you safely to your destination.” Audrey zipped out of the car and dashed upstairs and out to the widow’s walk. The scope was pointing down, away from the sky. The clockwork was off, but the auto-shoot was on. She went back into the bedroom to get her iPad and see what the fuss was about, wriggling out of Carl’s grasp on the way back to fresh air. She advanced to the timestamp and saw it. Three shots of what looked like a four-winged duck flying away from Plum Island. She risked putting herself back into the clutches of the amorous Republican Captain but felt honor-bound to provide Carl with evidence that his theory was right, that Plum Island was inhabited by mad scientists. Back in his clutches, she showed him the iPad pictures. The interlude engendered not one, but two climactic moments for Carl. He looked at the anatomy books delivered earlier, looked at the fortune teller, and looked at the monstrous bird. “I can make these. This is my next peak. From the fortune you told me. How would you like to just stay home for our vacation? Three hours a day, I’m going to scope out my new peak, my next conquest. And you, my beloved Ogee, are you yet tired of teaching party school kids the difference between a light year and a parsec? Is it time for your next peak?” “I’ve always wanted to make a discovery. I got beat to the punch on establishing the ages of red dwarfs. Sadly, Asteroseismology and I were never fated to be lovers. How about this. Monday, Wednesday, and Sunday, you do your origami by day and I search for rogue planets by night. The rest of the time is regular vacation stuff, but, you know, our house is our hotel.” “Sold!” # # # “This is just like what I do, Ogee. Keep all the lines straight, make sure hills go up and valleys go down. Look at this. It’s The Crane landing on the mast of The Ship,” Carl interrupted, his wife tinkering with her telescope app. Somewhere she got a version of FIG Forth capable of running on an android tablet. She smiled at the two impeccably folded origami models and patted her hero of the Second Republic on the head. “You really pick things up quickly in your dotage, Comandante Carlos. You’ve got something to do between bombardments, fusillades, and cavalry charges.” “Cavalry charges. Good idea. When I work my way up to The Horse, my next campaign will be that four-winged duck.” It didn’t take Carl long to go through the challenging pieces; he then set his own challenges, starting with a model of an ordinary duck, with help from the anatomy books, and then worked on novel models: The Coelacanth, The Tri-Boro Bridge, The Rock Hyrax. The sculptor puffed out his chest and showed his masterpiece set to his soulmate. “Lookin’ good there, Jerome Connor. By the way, we may have to time shift. I was screwing around with the scope and I found a rock coming from Leo and heading, it looks like, toward Pisces. So it’s not an early Leonid. I have the Grad Kiddies tracking it and seeing if they can get a spectrum. “Congratulations, Ogee!” Carl said, and left the room. He came back an hour later, interrupting  Audrey’s call to the Stony Brook Observatory. He held up his latest model, a Winged Victory. Audrey applauded silently and slithered herself out of the call with promises she would return. “Good research there. The towering topless goddess seen by millions stuck in traffic traveling between Queens and The Bronx. “Thanks for the suggestion of other out-of-place wings. Good luck with your rock.” # # # “Those are some fabulous looking duck sculptures, Mr. Henshaw. The detail is amazing. I know a little about origami, I know how much effort you must have put into your project, and I still can’t see how you managed to get four wings on them, or the orange pompadour, or make the ducks’ beaks look like they’re being sarcastic. ” the gallery owner said, a bit sadly. It’s just not what people are looking for when they come in here. They usually want paintings that go with their furniture. I’ll keep your card. Origami comes into favor every few years. By the way, you might want to get some new cards that say ‘artist’ instead of ‘accountant’.” # # # Carl set himself one of his three hours that afternoon to moping and thinking of how silly it was to rely on computer-generated fortunes. He had kept the list of fortunes he hadn’t read. Neatnik Audrey had folded it and put it back in the envelope. He found it in a pocket while fishing out a business card to see how to morph from one field to another. At least any new card could keep the illuminated capital ‘A.” He read down the list and halted on one that stood out typographically: “Mohamed, mountain. Mountain, Mohamed. What’s the difference?” Carl spent his time allotment at The Frick, the Met, the Modern, and the Guggenheim. Carlos, brave freedom fighter, had never before cased a joint. He was a fast learner and soon had a database of what galleries in which venues had a little extra space that might need filling. He took notes on routes in and routes out of the tagged rooms, and especially the locations of security cameras. It was a Target store that provided little fold-up floor tables, the kind one might use to support an orchid or a Christmas card tree. Lastly, a trip to a metal shop in Queens to have some plaques made up. # # # “Alright, team.” Carl was addressing Audrey, the Dembitzers and their two kids, Audrey’s sister Maggie, and Jack the handyman. “Does everyone know what to do? Maggie, by the numbers, please.” “I go in and stand mill around near the target spot. Cassie and Hunter fan out and discretely start recording. Richard and Judy each have a shopping bag from the gift shop. Judy takes out the stand, Carl unfolds it, Dick takes the model out of his bag and puts the magnetic base on the table. Jack wanders over and engages one or more people about the new “installation. Dick and Maggie move to the next gallery. Judy and Audrey visit the ladies’ room. Carl, Cassie and Hunter each head to separate galleries. Everyone intersects at the bus stop and then takes a unique route to where Jack is waiting in the Suburban. Then home to Long Island.” “Excellent. Everyone have that?” The crew was buzzing like a downed powerline in a Gulf Coast climate change-induced hurricane. They were given a chance to pull off a caper. To execute an act of art counter-terrorism.              The team inserted 36 Four-Winged Duck models, each successive one with wilder and more orange “hair,” and snarkier bills. Art critics described the as yet unknown sculptor as the Jasper Johns of folded, imaginary ducks.  They were only caught once, by an animal control officer moonlighting as a museum security guard who had seen the YouTube videos. Publicity from that incident led not only to an inter-museum compact allowing each installation to remain in situ with full credit to Carl, a percentage of ad revenue from each streaming view, and in short order a licensing deal.

             Through it all, Audrey kept tabs on her rock. She poured over every image from the blink microscope. Her ardent pursuit of her quarry eventually resulted in some pre-dawn shots of the rock. Audrey established that it had a spectrum, and not the usual spectrum for an asteroid or comet native to our local Solar system. One of the blink pairs gave Audrey a jolt. She actually uttered a perfect Hannah-Barbera “Aw, Gee.”

             # # #              “Well, my valiant terrorist. Looks like we’ll be able rescue all the pets we want, now. Maybe set up our own shelter on that land in Duchess County my Aunt Cynthia left me in her will.”              Carl noticed the origami fortune teller on the porch table. He hadn’t put it there.              “What’s that you’ve got there, Ogee?”              Audrey noticeably hesitated for an instant, then showed him the pair of blink shots.              “Am I looking at these properly?”              “If you’re asking the question, Commander Carl, you probably are.”              “So. It looks like the extra wings are just an overlay from one shot to the next.”              “Correct. But did you get to ascend to your next mountain?”              Carl fingered the fortune teller.              “Looks like we both got our rocks off, huh?”              “Aw, gee…”


The water was flowing quickly on this beautiful and sunny day. The air was crisp and the rolling green hills gave way to the local flora and fauna. He squinted as he stared out into the distance of the rolling plains and saw from a mountain-side a glistening light. It reflected light from the sun, but to, to Pojo or He Who Hunts in his local tongue, it was a sign of the gods. A sign that the gods had spoken to him, chosen him, to go to that spot. Their sun god was the main being who gave all things life. The chemical reactions that it's rays induce made sure that all that breathed on this planet breathed that which the sun gave it. Pojo and his people understood that, though not exactly how. They could see that a plant would wilt if it did not receive sun, but flourish if it received more. His people were on the verge of discovering agriculture, but Pojo was set out to discover much more. The distance between Pojo and the light was littered with boulders from eons past and was slightly yellowish-grey for it did not have as many nutrients in it's soil as did the green hills and beyond where Pojo and his tribe lived for this season. Pojo was well-fed before he set out and he had provisions and water in an animal skin bag with him. He looked out onto the horizon and doubted instinctively that he was in danger of being caught by a large land cat, they called it Night-Dweller, Skeelj. Mainly because it was yet day, and the Skeelj preferred dark and covered forests. There would be a possibility for him to shoot some game as well, he had arrows, a large and smaller spear, and some rudimentary stone tools. He gave a curt nod to the sun, in acknowledgement of it's challenge, and set off, planning to be back home the next day judging by the current time and the distance ahead of him, for the mountain-range was a half day away and it was just the cusp of the morning. Without giving it even as much thought as written out here, for these thoughts transpired in him as he set off, for Pojo was quite impulsive at times. The plains were busy in the morning as herds of Grass-Eaters or Gupol, were out in large herds and making sure that they were protected. It was the breeding season and predators as well as grass-eaters were well fed and flourishing. His people were usually very low on the list of things that the local apex predator, a bipedal reptilian that can reach up to 300cm of height, locally called Death-Bringer though he rarely would hunt the locals. Pojo thus strode through the only shin-high grass plains toward the mountain range, keeping a steady pace but not too slow either, so he could get there in time. His eye constantly on the horizon should he see anything that would be differing in appearance from all the herds, or turned out to be a Death-Bringer. Though it was the breeding season of grass-eaters, lone Death-Bringers would roam and ensure that their territories were secured from other Death-Bringers. He had slain one before, but it was a juvenile, to slay an adult would be a superheroic task. He had heard of it done before by other tribes, but all tribes would say that of their own tribe. Pojo knew that and was thus skeptical. He gave a short muttering of prayer to the death god, in this case one of the two moons that orbited their planet. He hoped it had heard him, for now she slept. The other moon orbits in such a way that it is only seen once every 54 years. It is estimated that in 2.3 million years the two moons will collide and impose an destructive apocalyptic event upon the planet. However the calculations were done by interns on the observation station at the time. They had also falsified their data as it would turn out, and conveniently the calculations disappeared when the press wanted to know more information. Actual calculations on the true trajectory is in the pipeline of the budget, allegedly. Pojo meanwhile was venturing further toward the mountain range and was surprised that there was no more glint of the light flashing towards him anymore. It had guided him for most of the day over the plains and though intermittent, would flash whenever Pojo looked at it directly the most. He took a break under a Billo tree and ate some nuts and berries. As he munched on them he kept his eyes open and scanned the horizon. It wasn't until he looked up further upon the tree that he saw a Skeelj. It was sleeping clamly upon a larger branch, it's large claws burying themselves into the tree, it's long tail with poisonous tip swung to and fro like a branch itself. Pojo calmly got up and slowly moved away from the tree, his eyes never leaving the position of the Skeelj. The cameras zoomed into Pojo as he backed away further from the Skeelj and headed further toward the mountain range where the beckoning light of the gods awaited. In this case the gods were Bakha from Accounting and Florgo from HR. "I can't believe we got Bakha to go down on the planet. I can't believe that a local Trika hunter would see the signal. And I can't believe he also is going to it!" Bakha complained and stared at the footage from the observation post above the planet upon which Pojo dwelt. It was observing the local people, called Trika by Bakha's species, and was given the green light only two years ago to conduct more intrusive studies. This study was green lit by a board as an 'Innovative and fresh look,' towards native species studies in the galaxy. The Pro-Trika Environmentalist and Preservationist group PROTRIKA complained, as did the representatives of other native study observation posts, but the highly technocratic-oriented panel of the board wanted more results. Florgo gave a smile as he peered into the camera that was disguised a bird of the local fauna as it observed Pojo walking up a path that was already set into the hillside of the mountain. "Yeah, Bakha left already though. The robot that was flashing him went with her I think." "You think?" Hos'ed arrived and Florgo and Bakha groaned. "Hos, cut it out. We don't want to hear it. This one was green lit by the board." Bakha complained at Hos'ed and Florgo agreed. "It's happening, whether you like it or not." Hos'ed scoffed "The repercussions to this will echo through eternity!" "Write that one down, that's actually pretty good." Florgo conceded as Hos disappeared further down a corridor. "I get that they care but, like, come on. It will help us as a species so much!" Bakha tried to reason with Florgo, but he shrugged. "I dunno Bakha, I mean we are sending this guy to a bunker we built to teach them mathematics. This guy will see a bunch of stuff on the wall, and if we are very lucky, he will understand what he sees. Very, very lucky." Bakha swirled around and waved all of her four arms about to emphasize the importance of her words "But this shows that if we can uplift these people with such things as mathematics, that it supports the idea that all species must adhere to certain laws of physics!" Florgo raised a finger "Ah! But that is only if they are ready for it! I am telling you, this is a project that should've gone to Elokia." "Elokia, Elokia, all you talk about is your old observation post Elokia. You're here now Florgo, it isn't that bad." Florgo shrugged "Yeah I know, I'm sorry. Wait wait, look, he is going in." Pojo entered the labyrinth. It was disguised as a cave entrance with similar stone as the mountain it resided in. To the touch it would feel the same as the mountain itself, but if Pojo was observant, he would notice that it would sound hollow if something were to fall upon it's surfaces, or clunk heavily with a sound different to something falling on stone. Florgo, Bakha, and many others who worked in the observation post were glued to their screens as they watched Pojo take his first steps into the labyrinth. His feet are covered with leather boots that are sturdy, but they are thin enough to feel the ground. He notices that the ground is much colder, but thinks not that much of it since it is a cave. Soon after though, he kicks a pebble and it bounces on the ground. He notices the sound is different and the observation post rejoices at the fact that he recognizes the difference. Just as he is about to examine the phenomenon he notices a light in the cave that pulsates, much like the one that guided him here in the first place. He continues down the cave and the light gets brighter and the pulsating slows down until it is a constant light. The walls of the cave are illuminated now, depicting various drawings intended to gain the attention of Pojo and it works. He marvels at the sun within a cave and stares at it for a while. Soon thereafter he peers around and notices the drawings on the wall. They were groups of animals in a herd designed as hand paintings of the locals on the wall. At first a herd of nine animals, then eight, then seven and so on until one animal remained. Above each animal or group of animals was a symbol, a number. It held within it's walls a secret to Pojo, a secret he had yet to uncover, something that could fundamentally change the trajectory of his species... or not. It was up to Pojo to decide as these images would form in his mind. The observation post was disappointed when Pojo left just to the outside of the cave. He stared out back to the green hills from which he came. The sun was slowly setting upon the horizon and he looked out to see the various herds of grass-eaters, the birds flying above, and the trees dotted in between the various boulders. The various snapshots of beings before him in their groups of ten to twenty, four to thirty, or anything above or below or in between, these images walked within his inner mind and strolled along. He was there and seeing the connections but had not yet made them himself. The observation post was on the edge of their seats for they could only see what they saw of him. They would only see what was given to them from their observations. Furiously their supercomputers were calculating things, observing everything possible, taking in the numbers. The atmosphere levels, the oxygen, the nitrogen, the methane, how the composition of the clouds was for the religious people of their species. Noting down the constellations at that moment. Making sure that every metric that was ever possible to have ever been thought of could come together to try to put the pieces of the puzzle in unison that made up the recesses of this creatures' mind. Yet, no matter how much they would calculate or estimate or presume, they could never truly understand what Pojo felt that day. The exact description of the situation. How he felt the warmth of the sun on his face. How he could smell the various smells of the plains within his nose as it wafted across the fields, through the trees and caressed the boulders. He would see the animals ahead of them and think of the good they give to him, and the good that he attempts to give back, through their roaming and living as one. Pojo's had already found the secret that was hidden in the cave. But he would not be the one to solve it. As he looked upon the sunset he thought of his children and knew that they would be the one to solve this. They will know.


Warning: This essay contains descriptions of sexual violence, self-harm/suicide, mental health, and substance abuse. 2012 (Freshman Year of Highschool) Dear Dad, I’ve discovered that I am better with the written word rather than the spoken one. Maybe that makes me a coward, to hide behind a sheet of paper, but it is easier for me to speak the truth like this. I know my candy and small gifts today will never make up for the other 364 days of effort you put into making me grow up into a good person. But I appreciate you. 		Everything you do is for us and we notice and we can not thank you enough, but sometimes too stubborn to show it. You are my rock for everything, from extreme breakdowns to just a bad day, you always are concerned about my well-being. You are the strongest person I know, even if you don’t think so. You push me to do my best because the amount of faith you put in people is inspiring. I remember sitting in the hospital, the anger I felt towards you was enormous. I thought you brought me to hell and you didn’t care about what was happening to me. But I was blinded at the time because whether I was mad or not, you saved my life. I can never thank you enough for that. Even though it’s Father’s Day, please read this when you miss me or you feel down because I want to be there for you as much as you are for me. I want to be your rock. You taught me to be strong and confident. You make my life mean something, I love you dad.

Love Your Daughter,

M 2013 (Sophmore Year of Highschool) Dear Whoever Cares To Listen, i do not want to write anymore. i dont want to talk about sad things anymore. but my life is simply made up of sad things so i’m not sure how to mask that anymore. i do not like to be sober, not for the thrill of a high or an excuse to make a drunkenly-sober thought speech. i like to be intoxicated mentally. to be full and overwhelmed, not empty. i don’t want emptiness. intoxication saves me from such. i don’t have to slump on sad things, i don’t have to ask questions i don’t want to know the answer to. i want to be happy, i want to be busy and not waste time pondering my own choices and others’ that have affected me. i don’t want to think about the abuse or the hardships or life curve balls. i am not an alcoholic or a junkie. i am just a weak human being trying to put on a strong front so i don’t upset the one’s who love me. i don’t want people to worry about me or think they have to protect me. i want to protect them and love them, not have all of our time on this earth wasted by correcting the uncorrectable. just leave me be, enjoy me. i want to make you happy, overlook my flaws, overlook my mistakes and enjoy me. i want to enjoy you. i need to enjoy someone or something, i need to pretend to be happy for a little while. i just wish it was for longer but i don’t deserve the “x” amount of time i desire. i just hope you don’t leave me without knowing this. this simple emotion that means the world to me, that all i’ve ever wanted was to make you proud. make you want to love me and show me off but you can’t do that. because i am not the person i am so built up to be. you have to hide me, i am your shame. i am my own shame. i don’t feel shame anymore though. i don’t feel anything for that matter. i feel the last drop of my drink, i feel the touch of a kiss from a boy who i know will only enjoy for an hour, i feel the smoke overwhelm my lungs, i feel tears roll down my face and i feel the knife race over my skin. but i do not feel love, i do not feel happiness, i do not feel sad and i do not feel regret. i feel numb. but i need this numbness, i wish i didn’t but i don’t see any other way. i am sorry. i want to be what you want but i am not. i am worthless to you and myself and others. so what now? just live on in radio silence emotion? live in numbness? is it even worth living?

– M 2014 (Junior Year of Highschool) Dear Dad, Dad, out of everyone in my life I have taken you the most for granted. I constantly apologize and lie and apologize again and it’s not fair to you. You have never doubted me even at my lowest points, even when you were tired of cleaning up all the messes I had made you supported me the whole way. I can never thank you enough for the sacrifices you have made for me. I want a better relationship with you, and Mom too. I know I keep fucking up and making stupid mistakes. I’m not trying to blame it on the fact that it is just “teenage things”. But I’m young and hardheaded, but you already knew that. I do learn the lessons and I listen to every word you say and every shred of advice you give me, it’s just my own fault to be careless sometimes regardless of the consequences and I know that scares you and mom, my problem with consequences. Aside from being punished which is never fun, I truly don’t like consequences because I always just want to solve the problem right there and then and move on because I’m embarrassed for being so stupid and I always feel so bad. but unfortunately, I know you have to do the time if you are going to do the crime. I don’t know why I make these dumb decisions, they don’t mean anything to me, and they are never worth the punishment. Maybe it’s because I’m stubborn or a teenager or it’s in my genes or I’m just defiant, I don’t know. But I promise that every time disappoint you, every time I see how upset I make you in your eyes, it kills me. I want to make you proud not ashamed. I will change, I promise. Boarding school will really help me find myself and become a better person for myself and everyone around me. I don’t know who I am, but I know this is not who I want to be and I don’t want to go in the wrong direction just as much as you don’t want me to. I know you are looking out for me, and I’m sorry for pushing you away for that. All the small things you do for me like riding bikes in the morning or cooking breakfast for dinner or singing songs in the car as loud as we can, I love them all. It kills me to realize that I have never thanked you or even remotely treated you the way you deserve and I’m sorry for the past but all I can do now is appreciate all you do for me and let you know how much you mean to me. You are the one and only man I need in my life, I am such a daddy’s girl and all I’m saying is that I am going to try better to achieve the nice loving relationship I want to have with you. Because all you got is family, and you are the best family I could ever ask for. Love Your Daughter, M 2015 (Senior Year of Highschool) Dear Daughter, Please sign the contract I have prepared below ASAP. You must sign this if you want to go to college.

Contract for Life: I recognize that I will be faced with many difficult decisions. Throughout my college experience, I may encounter issues such as alcohol and drug use, HIV/AIDS, risky sexual behavior, date rape, impaired driving, abusive relationship, and many more challenges. By signing below, I have entered into a contract in which I agree that we will always attempt to choose the best option that considers my own well-being, health, and safety. In addition, I will help friends whom I see making destructive decisions find any assistance they need. When I find myself in a situation that makes me uncomfortable or that I feel unequipped to handle, I will discuss it with someone I trust.

By signing below, I am acknowledging the terms of this contract are not negotiable and violation of the terms will result in loss of benefits and support provided by the family.

_X______________________________________ From, Dad 2016 (Freshman Year of College) Dear Whoever Cares To Listen, sometimes sorry isn’t enough and whats done is done. what do you do? you are so trapped and overwhelmed, you have no way out yet you desperately screech to take it back, a do over. No whats done is done. Is there a way to start over? to clean the dirtied waters? do i even have a chance anymore or is it over? even if it is over, what does that mean. what is over? you are leaving me? you are giving up on me? i won’t give up on myself, i know i am not this person. i know it. if i can change, will you stay? will it even matter if i change or is it too late? the water is already too dirty? okay, i understand. I can’t complain, it’s my fault. but whats done is done and i can’t give up just yet. I can’t just quit on myself. even if it doesn’t matter to them, it matters to me. i know i changed. i know i can do it, i can become the person they want me to be, i know it. i just don’t know what my first move should be. I’m trapped and overwhelmed and i don’t have that much fight left in me. not much at all. -M 2020 (Senior Year of College) Dear Dad, I am so exhausted with writing you letters and you ignoring them and not changing; they not only take up my time and emotions, but truthfully I don’t think you have ever written me back, or even a letter at all. Over the past 6 or so months, I have written and rewritten this letter to you nearly a hundred times. Truthfully, I reached a point where I gave up and almost tried to forget it altogether. But I can’t and I won’t for many reasons, the main one being that I need to have an honest relationship with you, something we haven’t had in over a decade, something I want very badly in my life. I want, more than anything, to be close and have a good relationship with you, but there are a few issues between us that cause me to recoil and distrust you.

When I called you on the phone genuinely worried someone had committed fraud on my credit card account when I noticed a $35,000 total sum reported as personal debt on my credit report.

I began to look into these loans and your emails over the years, and honestly, I became even more stressed out and confused - only one of the six loans was unsubsidized, so there is nearly 1,500 in interest already attached to the majority of the debt, which was not covered in the contract at all. I worked endlessly at night after work to figure out what was going on with MY finances, MY official debt, and MY credit score; and when I called you a week or two later to discuss it all, you said you had been too busy to even look at it.

I collected over 50 pages of bills, receipts, emails, and notes surrounding my own college debt as it racked up daily interest, and yes the pandemic put a hold on it, but what was your plan if it didn’t? You manipulated and lied to me about everything involving my college experience. You utilized my ignorance and confusion surrounding college in general as a weapon of control over me for five years. You sabotaged my financial freedom, just so you could say “I told you so.” Every time I read, or even think about what was said, in the “Contract for Life” I feel victim-blamed, shameful, misunderstood, and objectified. The contents of the “Contract for Life” tells me a lot about how you viewed me in the past, and the fact that you refuse to apologize for it in the present just tells me that your view hasn’t changed. I can’t tell if it makes me angrier than sad, or vice versa, but it does make me confused, self-doubtful, and feeling somewhat hopeless. It makes me feel like you blame me for everything that happened in high school. I have come to terms with the fact that I cannot change you or influence you into becoming the man I need you to be, so I have to reach out and try again one last time, and if you do refuse to hear me out and change after this, then you will never see my face again.

Your Daughter,

M 2018 (Sophmore Year of College) Dear Whoever Cares To Listen,  It started off so innocently, I thought. I could’ve sworn I only had a couple shots. It was a random party in the neighborhood; teenagers were nearly pouring out of the house and onto the streets and the golf course, which made up her backyard. I ran into an old friend I used to work with at a summer camp; I was 14 years old so I couldn’t really get my hands on alcohol, or at least the good kind. So when he offered some rum and to sit with his friends I almost felt honored - he was two grades older than me. His friend was kinda cute and as we sat and drank the spirits on the carefully mowed grass, shortly after my memory began to slip.

I was flailing around and I couldn’t control my body. My head started spinning, but I was confused because I had only had a few sips. We heard the cop sirens zoom down the street and pull up to the front of the house so people started to scatter, I don’t remember how I ended up laying down against a tree. He was on top of me, pinning my wrists against the sticks on the ground. He was kissing my neck and I was confused for a second. I didn’t even know who it was. My body was paralyzed under the weight of alcohol and his long body lay on top of me. I felt my pants being taken off, and I started to ask politely no no I’m a virgin, I don’t want to have sex. I remember him whispering in my ear it’s okay and not stopping. I tried to move my arms, but he was holding them down. I tried to thrash but he was too big. I tried to cry, but it wouldn’t come out. I started to scream, no no no stop, please. I could feel him inside of me, I wanted to puke. I don’t know how long it lasted. I began to remove myself from my body. I woke up in a hospital bed. My neighbor found me against a tree unconscious with my pants still off. He tried to carry me home, but the cops stopped us and they determined I was way too intoxicated to just go home. They brought me to the ER and gave me fluids and called my dad. I left my body again. I woke up in my room with a massive headache and a hospital wristband. I walked into my father’s room that morning after and began to weep and beg for forgiveness. I kept repeating

I’m sorry, I’m sorry. He thought I was apologizing for getting too drunk. I don’t know why I was seeking forgiveness, I had no control. I was the victim. But as years went by, I was the one begging God to help me, I was the one crying every night, and I was the one who had to move schools my senior year because I saw his face every fucking day in the hallway that year. I was the one who needed therapy, I was the one who tried to kill myself and ended up in a psych ward later that year. I was the one who couldn’t trust men, can’t trust men. I was the one that began to disrespect my body because it was all that I knew. He is the one with a girlfriend and a home and a nice dog and a car and a job. He is the one who doesn’t give me a second thought before bed. He is the one who doesn’t even know my name.

-M


Time slips away faster than most people expect. Why only a couple minutes ago you were young and in your twenties exploring life to the limit. The breeze, light and airy, stroking the sides of your skin. Birds whistling tunes on key while flying high above, mirroring how you feel. The store clerks have smiles on their faces, ready to serve you on a whim. But, most importantly, the way the world was filled with the most radiant and perpetual color. The reds were strong and bright, while the blues were deep and understanding. But time will slowly let you forget. It will displace your memories and let you only keep a few. You wonder if the world was really as brilliant as you thought or if it was only your mind trying to make the good old days seem better than they were. The color in your skin has faded and the wrinkles around your eyes droop almost as if to be holding the weight of the past. But you're only in your late forties and this all seemed to be happening all too quickly. How could time take away your life and your dreams and your, well, everything? Days fade into nights and nights turn into days. You don’t even bother to look at the sun rise and set, for the colors are as mesmerizing as greys or blacks. The fireplace lights up the carpet and sofa that were placed thoughtfully years before. You moved them from time to time and the prints still stay set in the carpet. The kettle was whistling a high shrieking noise that nobody could ignore for long. You debate with yourself to just let the noise sink to the background. Your patience gives up after a minute and you haul yourself from the couch. You pour the boiling water into a mug that says Number 1 Best Dad and walk toward your cabinet. Your eyes carefully observe each packet. You let your mouth remember which flavor it was in the mood for. An untraditional flavor that had been sent by your kids catches your eye; Caramel Apple Dream . Underneath it read Herbal Tea . You mutter to yourself about how caramel apple and herbal seem oxymoronic.

You hesitantly grab the packet, unsure if it was going to set your stomach in a mood, and add it to the boiling water. Grabbing your mug, you sit at your usual spot and wait for the tea to set in. The fire’s flames get excited and burst about until calmly claiming its place back against the log. It does that over and over again. You wonder to yourself how fire can get so happy repeatedly and then remind yourself that fire has no emotions and is just heat and light. The hot liquid burns the cracks in your lips but you had become immune to this type of pain years ago. You can feel the heat trickle through your whole body and finally, you shiver at the immediate warmth. You sit there for what seems like hours, arguing with yourself about how you should have bought a television to fill in the empty space. The shadow of your couch slowly starts moving across the floor, seeping into nothing. It is completely dark and the moon is glowing onto your skin. Little tiny spurts of flame still lie on the log of wood but then they too disappear, leaving only grey ashes to scatter around. The next morning was just like the last and your eyes reluctantly open but then close immediately to the sight of the bright light. You force yourself to reopen them and look around. Same old, same old. Your bed tucked in the corner and across from that a wooden dresser, crafted by some old stickler. At least that’s what they told you at the one and only yard sale you ever went to. Your bathroom seems a little grimmer than it did before. You grab your toothbrush and rub the bristles along your teeth, finishing off with your tongue. The mail was slow; only a couple of letters, all different sizes. All of it junk mail. You open each one and read through them examining everything as if they weren’t companies trying to steal your money. Your hands brush against one that you haven't seen before. Shipped from Sunny Hill’s Nursing Home . You open the letter and read the message, making sure not to miss a single detail.

Dear Jack McNugget,  We would like to inform you about the hospitalization of your father. He is suffering from cancer and only has a short time left. The hospital and Sunny Hill have been working very hard to ensure your father’s recovery, but he is not doing so well. We can only hope that you will come and visit him before it's too late. His last request is to say goodbye to you. Sincerely,        Sunny Hill’s Manager

  Pete Douglas Thoughts were swirling through your mind and you couldn’t stay put and concentrate on just one. Your feet stumble to the trash as you throw all the letters inside, even the ones you hadn't taken the chance to read. Cancer, short time left, hospital, recovery, hope, last request, goodbye, father, Father.

It had been years, maybe decades since you have last heard from this man. The man who now has the audacity to call himself your father. The one who missed kid’s recitals, weddings, Christmas’s, and Fourth of July weekends. This man was the epitome of failure. If anything he wasn’t family at all. He was just an old man dying in a nursing home. Dying . It didn’t take long for you to realize that you were not going. The last thing you want to do is give him the satisfaction of your presence at the last moments of his life when he never bothered to come to yours. The fulfillment of choosing your answer to the letter makes you calm down. Your leg stops shaking and then the little pings in your head slow down. You head for the cabinet and grab a packet of green tea, blaming the cause of the letter on the absurd flavor of caramel apple.

The letters didn’t stop coming. The once-monthly letters turned into weekly terrors. You stop bothering to even open them and read the silly string of notes like do we have the right address? and let us know a date you are willing to come by . Your once standard day has turned into overflowing thoughts that keep bouncing around your head.

Darlin’ you got to let me know Should I stay or should I go You notice the sound from the radio and ignore so many thoughts to listen to the words. If you say that you are mine I'll be here 'til the end of time So you got to let me know Should I stay or should I go? The words took a whole different meaning. Would you regret this decision for the rest of your life? The thought of your “father” sitting on his bedside with no hand to hold. Would you be doing the exact same thing that your “father” had done to you? But didn’t he deserve it? Wasn’t this one thing you held against him that he didn’t have? The kitchen table was scattered with loose pieces of paper all trying to convey one message. The glare from your glasses bounces into the sun. It was noon and lunchtime but you weren’t hungry in the slightest. The smell of sweet roses fills the air. You breathe in a long breath and let it out slowly, glancing at the open window that you swear you didn’t open. Your bushel of roses were in a high swing of motion; the buds taking life and twirling in the wind. Your brown cabinet and ill-favored white refrigerator stood stiller than before. Everything seemed still and hushed. Car Keys . The drive was long and trees were dispersed in every direction. Google maps was doing its fair share of talking, for it had not been used in years. Turn left in 100 yards. Turn left in 50 yards. Turn left in 10 yards. Turn left in 5 yards. Turn left in 2 yards. Turn left in 1 yard. Turn left in a half yard. The sign in the front of the building looks as if it is trying to portray happiness and don’t worry we will take care of your loved ones but don’t forget to pay, because we do have dumpsters in the back . The only feeling you get from it is dread. The dread of getting closer to a place that was going to either fill you with anxiety or content.

Welcome to Sunny Hill’s Nursing Home This whole situation should have come with a warning; don’t open this letter, because you will most likely have to see your dad who is not really your dad die. Or worse, he does not die and he recovers and you have to get to know him again. But cancer was a killer disease and he was not going to recover, hopefully . You pull into the parking lot and turn off the ignition once you settle in your parking spot. You look up at the building and take in the greys and, attempted to be, happy yellows. The door looks inviting enough, while the windows are barred closed. You step out of your car and look at the building once more; last chance to back away .

One of many similar-looking nurses leads you through a narrow hallway. The walls were filled with pictures and fliers. The floor was white but speckled with brown and grey spots. The clicking of her heels on the ground makes your palms sweat. “Oh I’m just so glad that you finally decided to come,” the nurse says merrily. “All he talks about is being able to see you.” She flashes you a smile, almost if to be a peace offering. “Well, that’s nice,” You can’t tell if you're lying to her or yourself but you gulp the words down and don’t say anything more. You turn down another hallway, same decor. She finally stops in front of a room with number 27 on the door.

“Here we are,” she glances back at you and then knocks on the door. “Mr. McNugget, someone is here to see you,” she calls softly.

“Who?” Says an unfamiliar familiar voice. “Your son,” she looks up at you, smiling reassuringly. “Let him in. Let him in,” the voice says. Each let him in, more lively than the first. The nurse opens the door and then touches your shoulder before turning down the hallway back to the front desk. You walk in and see the dim light trying to seep through the closed blinds. A small desk sits in the corner with a wooden chair. The bed across from the desk is all white with a white blanket and an even whiter pillowcase. There's a dresser next to the bed with pictures of you and your children. You squint at the sight of the photographs. “How long has it been?” He asks you. You look up to the person lying on the bed and take him all in. The little white hairs that tried to survive on the top of his head reveal the smooth skin. His face on the other hand is wrinkled and grayer than yours. His arms lay neatly beside his body covered in a blanket. His hand taps the side of his upper leg. “I don’t know,” you reply bitterly. “I do.” He states. “18 years.” “Okay,” you say with a harsh k. The clock on the wall ticks at the same rate as your father’s hand taps on his leg. Time passes by and minutes go ticking away. He stares at your face while you look away, glancing at different parts of the wall. This was worse than watching paint dry . “What have you been up to?” He asks you, trying to sound eager. “Not much,” you say. A minute goes passing by and then you release the tension that has been ready to explode for more than 18 years. “You never were around. I invited you to my kid's recitals, Christmas dinners, all the holidays. You never wanted to attend anything. And then when you said you would come, you never showed up. But what could I expect? You've always been this way and now you want me to come see you on your deathbed. It’s funny how things work you know.” Each word comes pouring out your mouth like how water comes out of a faucet. Some drops of water escape from the rush, but for the most part, it was all solid and clear. “At least I know that I’m a better person than you ever were. I was there for my kids, you know? They love me. They still call and ask how I’m doing because I never abandoned them.” The tears that you had kept repressed didn’t want to stay and you didn’t know if you were strong enough to not let them pour. He lay still not seeming to be affected by a single word that you said. His face was blank and mute. Emotionless. This enrages you even more. It was like he didn’t care. He didn’t care that he had hurt you, that he had abandoned you. “So you're not going to say anything. Did you just expect me to come over here and forget everything because you're about to die?” You let the last word slip out and then immediately close your mouth shut. “No.” “No? What do you mean no?” Your face was beet red and you knew it wasn’t going to turn lighter any time soon. “No, I didn’t expect you to forgive me.” He said, even more blankly than before. You pause for a second, letting your father feel the same uneasiness of not knowing your response right away. “Who said anything about forgiveness?” You start pacing around the room. It seems as if the walls are coming closer together, trying to crush you. “Well,” He was lost for words and just watched you pace. “I’m never going to forgive you,” you say while halting to a stop. “ Never .” The air around you becomes irritably suffering. Each breath is sharper than the first. Then you realize tears are falling from your eyes and hitting the ground below. You fall to the ground and start sobbing. You can't tell what ached more, your throat or your heart . You feel a presence next to you. It’s not tall, maybe 5’8”. Your father. He drops to the ground next to you and wraps his arm around you. You want to push him away, but you don’t because this was something that you needed that you didn’t know you ever needed. The comfort from your father. The man in your life that was supposed to teach you how to not be a boy, but become a man yourself. “Why?” You ask while sitting on the rocking chair on the porch outside the nursing home. “I didn’t think you wanted me to come and that the invitations were only a courtesy.” Your father says while rocking in the same motion as you. You both have tea in your hands and are sipping it slowly. The outburst in the room had only made things more complicated. It took a while for you to ease up. Finally, your father asked if you wanted to go outside and talk things through. You said yes. “That’s about the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. If I was inviting you, of course, I wanted you to come.” You say flatly. “When I walked out on your mom when you were a kid. I did it because I thought I was going to be a burden. I know now that that was dumb and immature. I left her with the responsibility of raising a child. You turned out great by the way.” He turns to face you, attempting to smile, but the mood wasn’t right for a smile and he knew that. You spent several more days at the nursing home, talking with your father. You hadn't forgiven him just like you said and maybe you never will. He died on your seventh day there and you didn’t feel sad. It was a bittersweet feeling.

You drove home that day with a blank face, not paying attention to the trees this time. When you walk inside your house you click on your voice machine and listen to your children's worried messages. When the machine beeps again, you get up and look over outside your window. Something was different. The roses were a strong red. You look up at the sky and it is a fair blue. You then turn around quickly and look at your table. The brown is deep and rich. Your refrigerator is a milky white. You walk swiftly through your house and notice how every color is intense and mesmerizing.

You walk outside and stand still, feeling the sensation of the light wind brush against your clothes. The birds are singing a tune that you swear you’ve heard on the radio. Your neighbors walk their dogs on the sidewalk looking at you with a question on their face but smile and wave anyway. Maybe time heals and maybe it doesn’t. Maybe this wasn’t real and you were only imagining this. Maybe you were always stuck in your own head, not able to notice the color. Or maybe your mind dug up the color that was hidden deep inside.

You watch the sunset that night with a smile on your face. The lavish oranges and pinks seeped into one another, slowly fading away. You turn your head to the ever so changing sky and mouth I forgive you .


One would think the biggest problems encountered during the apocalypse would be staying hydrated, foraging for food or maybe even finding a not-so-dirty dick to sit on. But, in 2022, that wasn't the case. There was still a ton of food and water because most poeple had died from the virus, and the giant Costco's and Wal-Mart's and BJ's and Sam's clubs were still filled with miles of unperishables and dams full of unopened water bottles. We considered this the one consulation prize for being a capitalist society. The need to consume may have been the reason most of us perished, but atleast this abortion of capitalism was making up for it. In some areas, there was even still electricity due to the fact that before the year of death, some poeple actually still believed in solar and water power. Who knew it would actually pay off in the end. If only the republicans could see us now, too bad they were mostly dead. That's what happens when you're old, stubborn and don't wear a mask. Most of us that were still alive were considered immuned because after the first worldwide vaccination, old people started dropping like beats in a dupstep song. One after the other, after the other. It was right out of an Eli Roth film. Something in the new vaccine was making old people's hearts explode right out of their chests. Which would've been extremely tragic if there weren't so many tik tok videos about it. By Valentine's day of 2021, no one was getting money in their birthday cards. Grandsparents had gone extinct. To think that none of us would ever get an awkward, boney hug ever again. By St. Patricks day, poeple were remixing the videos on YouTube and even doing recreations and reaction videos. Which sounds vulgar, but it really was the only thing that was lightening the mood, at that point. We thought after that, the American gov't would finally take notice and try to use our scientists to create a better vaccine, but they just kept trying to figure out a way to get to Mars. A lot of ppl, including myself, think it was because all the billionaires were trying to abadon us underlings on the first day of 2021. Well, those scientists must not have been that great because the space shuttle blew up on ignition. It killed the entire executive and judicial branches of the gov't, as well as all of Silicon Valley. Now that was an anarchy party. Things got a little weird after that and the exploding hearts. Russia and China were in competition to finish the new vaccine, and finally, amongst all the tensions on April 20th, 2021, devastated, we ran out of weed. Oh, and they created a new vaccine. It was a bittersweet symphony just like the band the Verve said it would be, but since both countries were so huge and powerful, and our country had no discernable people in power. China and Russia decided to deliver the vaccine through the air attempting one of the biggest crop dusts is human history. Which probably would've worked had all of the crop-dusting tanks been cleaned properly before being filled with the vaccine juice. Something about the mixture of trace amounts of bug killer with the vaccine messed with the chemistry. By the time the second vaccine rained down upon us, it had somehow converted itself into a relentless supervirus. Killing everyone and everything that wasn't immuned. Turns out making me and my boyfriend take elderberry for no reason at all for all those years really wasn't the "waste of time" that someone thought it was. Roughly one in a thousand people seemed to be immuned. How both of us ended up alive together still weirds me out and is somewhat stressful if we ever decide to grow apart. But if the virus didnt get you outside, it eventually seeped through the window seals and got eveyone in their homes. Along with most of the plants and animals. Most everything was dead by the next day. But the worst part was all the weed, aka marijuana, aka the devil's crab grass, was gone. The one thing that we needed during these trying times beside food and water was Finito. Extinct. Justin and I looked everywhere, within a 100 ft square footage. Nothing. So what else does one do when they have no weed and all the free gas in the world. Motherfucking Road trip. Which would've been the juiciest of tits. But no one really emphasizes the importance of weed on a road trip. It's basically the whole reason they're fun. Otherwise it's just long periods of driving through nowhere with nothing more to say. Atleast on weed you can appreciate what nowhere has to offer. All the California farms were done-zo. Same with Colorado. Our only chance was to find a dispensary that wasn't yet tainted. We only had 2,476 of them to look through, so it was going to be tight. We found most of them occupied all ready by whoever in that area survived the vaccine and had a bunch of guns. If you thought everyone smoked weed when the world was normal. Wait 'til you have a global pandemic and national weed shortage. It's the only thing people want to do. We finally found a small dispensary in Colorado Springs that had been left ransacked but wasn't occupied with angry stoners, or so we thought. There was one old, top-bun wearing hipster in the back of the small store guarding the safe. He was obviously protecting something good because he was holding a throwing ax and his eyes were too tiny for regular weed. "Back up, man, I know how to use this thing and I'm afriad to use it." We were confused. So, I tried to clarify. "Huh?" He stammered. "Wait. I mean. You know how to use this thing, but I'm not afraid to. Or something like that. You know what I mean! Back the fuck up." "Uh, yea, we get it. I guess. If we move you'll lizzie borden us to death." Jealousy set in. The weed he was hiding strong. I could tell. If the horrible sentence structure didn't clench my suspicion, his general paranoid demeanor gave it away. He obviously couldn't even handle this kind of weed. I could liberate him. So, I charged. "Hey, wha-!" he exclaimed while clumsily releasing his ax opposite my direction. He missed me as I tackled him to the ground and knocked him out with a giant handblown stash jar. They are way more sturdy than you might think. "Ooh, these are nice, look around for some..." Before I could give my full review of the newly found stash jars, I saw Justin had been hit. The hand-whittled axe handle hung from the meaty part of his upper right arm. He tried taking it out and I screamed. "Don't! I have something better than that." "Better than taking it out of my arm?! What is better than the sweet relief of no ax in my arm?" "Wait for it!" I leaned down, found the everpresent post-it note on the side of the safe donning the code and finally found the one thing that could save us. "Shrooms!? What in the shitbag kinda luck!?" Aw, Fuck. That wasn't what I was expecting. In fact, I completely forgot about shrooms. Like all together. They werent my thing. So, I shoved a handful in mine and Justin's faces, waited the applicable 45 minutes. Justin complained. "So, when you said wait for it, I guess you meant 45 minutes." "Did I sound specific to you?" So, we waited. For the record, it took 38 minutes, and right when my beloved started grabbing flowers that weren't there, I ripped that underused and overembelished hatchet out of his arm like a giant, sharp bandaid and kept it for sentimental value. There wasn't much of that in this new normal. And that guy seemed pretty cool when he wasn't throwing sharp sticks at us. Justin survived as we quickly found another lead on weed in the store. But he had the weirdest trip of his life. Pro tip: Don't ever do shrooms when you're bleeding. I probably should have thought of that before I forced them down his gullet. For us, there was still no weed in the apocalypse, for now. But we vowed we would never give up until we found it. Unless we were hungry and tired. We're not machines.


A ghost and a zombie were staring at each other.

It was hard to tell which one of them was more dead. The zombie had a greenish skin that matched perfectly her pink destroyed clothes. Some said she had once been this famous singer that no one ever remembers. Nobody listened to her songs anymore. She was really dead and yet, she could talk and walk. Sitting on one of the tombstones in the graveyard, anyone would have thought she was a real person in disguised. An old one, with hair falling from her round skull and not enough teeth in her mouth. But a person nonetheless.

The ghost was laying directly at her feet, spread out on a freshly dug grave. Maybe it was his own. Maybe not. The last thing he remembered was being buried six feet under the surface in a wooden coffin. His nails had been scraping the dirt out of his eyes and he had screamed and screamed for someone to save him. No one had come. He had died buried alive at the age of twenty-two. Or maybe ten or two. At this point, all he knew was that his skin had never been so smooth.

“I’m hungry,” the zombie grunted.

The ghost slowly raised his head to look at her. She was horrific, scary, and ugly, and yet he smiled. For the first time in a long time, he was not alone. If a dead person counted as a company.

“Do you still eat?” the ghost asked.

The wind blew on the graveyard making everything fly. The dead leaves were the first ones to dance in the gray sky. Some alone, some by couple or families, they all started to turn, jump, and twirl around them. The graves waited for them to find their rhythm before they started to sing. Only the dead could hear what they said but it was beautiful.

“Sometimes, even though I don’t like to,” the zombie answered.

The ghost raised a brow before he took a seat on the closest tombstone, right in front of the zombie.

“Have you seen my teeth?” she added. “I would sell my soul to forget them,” the ghost grinned.

It wasn’t his first time seeing the zombie, they had spoken a few times before. They both wanted to know what had pushed them to stay on earth in different ways. The zombie thought she had deserved it because her life had been so full of good intentions. But because the ghost couldn’t remember his own life, he believed that maybe his sins were the reason death had refused him.

“You don’t have a soul,” the zombie noticed.

The clouds were moving fast above their heads as if time had decided to go even faster. Maybe they would die again. Maybe not. The ghost didn’t know what he would have liked better. An endless life didn’t have to be a happy one. Most of the time, to live forever meant to love and to lose, to laugh and to cry, and to see everyone you knew die. No matter how hard you tried, death always wins the fight.

“Maybe not,” the ghost agreed. “But I’m pretty sure that if I had one, I wouldn’t be here talking to you.” “Why not?” The ghost took an apple fallen from the tree that slowly grew above their head and tossed it to the zombie who dodged it. “If we both had a soul, I’d be dead and you would have teeth,” he explained. What he wanted to say was that if they both had a soul, they would be dead. Really dead. They would have found a place either in Hell or Heaven. Yet, they were sitting in the middle of a graveyard, talking to each other as old friends would.

“Maybe,” the zombie sighed. “Are you still hungry?” The ghost didn’t know if the zombie really was a zombie. Maybe she was just an old woman not quite ready to die. Or she wasn’t real at all and he was talking to himself. The ghost didn’t know if he really was a ghost either. But it seems to be the most realistic possibility. He had died. He had felt his last breath leave his lungs. But he had not come back as a zombie, he looked better, smelled better, and he didn’t need to eat or sleep anymore.

“I could eat an entire family if one would sacrifice itself,” the zombie answered.

“Please, don’t eat people in front of me,” the ghost pleaded.

The smile on the zombie’s lips was not reassuring.

“I could still try to eat you?” she offered.

The ghost got to his feet but the zombie was already holding on to his arm. She was strong, way stronger than him. She had still enough life inside her to play human. Before the ghost could do or say anything, she had bitten his hand. Blood flooded between her lips before crashing on the grass beneath them but the ghost did not hurt. Maybe he could not feel anything at all. Maybe this body —what was left of it— had never been his.

“Warn me the next time you try to eat me,” the ghost growled when the zombie took a step back.

“You don’t test good,” she noticed. “I’m dead.” “Well, dead don’t taste good.” They exchange a glance before sitting back down on their tombstones. The ghost’s hand had a tooth stuck in its middle but none of them noticed. Someone was coming. A young boy with big blue eyes and blond hair falling on his forehead. If the ghost had been alive, he would have found him cute but the ghost was dead. “What do you think alive taste like?” the zombie asked.

“Better?” The zombie was already running, fresh blood dripping down her chin. The boy didn’t see her coming. He did not see her at all. When she tried to catch him, the zombie went right through the boy as if none of them existed.

“Maybe dead people can’t taste alive people?” the ghost tried.

The zombie snarled back at him. “You could still eat mud, I’m pretty sure it’s not alive,” he added.

The ghost saw the zombie hurrying back to her tombstone, passing once more through the boy. She wasn’t pleased, that much was obvious. But the ghost couldn’t tell exactly how she felt because of the burned half of her face.

“I’ll never know what alive tastes like,” the zombie cried.

“I’m gonna cook you some rocks, you’re gonna love it.” The ghost took a rock and tossed it to the zombie who dropped it in her mouth. Teeth cracked. The ghost looked back at the boy, at the life surrounding him, and thought that maybe alive wasn’t so much better than dead. Alive meant being scared to die, and if dead was only talking to stupid zombies, the ghost could manage. “Iurhvfdezprhgvnrdfkjazepoihzfrn,” the zombie mumbled.

“Rocks are good for you,” the ghost answered. “Bet they taste better than me.” The zombie grabbed a handful of mud and ate it with a large smile.

“Yiyrtywohyfbdkjzseh?” The ghost faked a smile before swallowing the mud. It tasted horrible and if he had anything in his stomach before, he would have vomited.

“Delicious,” the ghost winced. The zombie gave him some more and they both ate, their heads turned toward the dancing leaves. It was easy to get used to eating mud, maybe one day it would even taste good. Better than dead anyway.

The boy later came back to the graves of Jane Watel and her son, and all he saw were colored leaves gently flying around the tombstones.


!!TRIGGER WARNING BLOOD, GORE, SUISIDE, DEATH." Delilah I'm a Senior in High School. After the incident 2 years back with the Truth or Dare game in the library that My sister Risha had set off, I've been trying to gain back our family status here at school. So far it's been going Great that is until people started playing “Would you rather?”. Now, Like Risha I wasn't a Fan of the game, until my friends had me play for the first time. “Del Would you rather, Eat Sweets for the rest of your life or Eat Salty snacks for the rest of your life?” I think for a moment, “I would definitely eat sweets for the rest of my life.” I spit out smiling. Shelly smiles back then invites me to the Annual Senior party of the year, “Hey Del? I'm throwing the party of the year at my house, you're welcome to come if you would like.” Shelly grins before stating, “Danny will be there…” I wink at Shelly and walk away.

I'm obviously coming to the party, wouldn't miss it for the world. I text her. I'm in my room dressing up for the party tonight when I see a crow stalking outside my window. I grab my megaphone, open my window a slight crack, then scream at the crow with all my might, “SHOO YOU UGLY LITTLE BIRD!” “DELILAH! NO YELLING OUT THE WINDOW I THOUGHT WE TALKED ABOUT THIS ALREADY!” My dad yells up the stairs to me. I roll my eyes, My dad is taking care and providing for me alone, he's been flying solo on the dad plane for a while now, My mother committed Suicide the day I came out of the closet as Bisexual. She never liked the thought of her precious perfect little daughter dating a girl, though I don't think I'll find myself in a relationship anytime soon. I'm just barely slipping on my favorite White mini skirt and pulling on my baby blue cropped tee-shirt with the little frill's at the bottom and sleeve holes. Pulling on white chunky sneakers I grab my phone and mini-backpack, then walk out the door. “Bye Pa!” I yell before shutting the door. I'm halfway down the street when I see Danny, “Hey Dan!” I wave enthusiastically. Danny smiles at me and waits for me to catch up, which is particularly hard considering I'm in a mini skirt. I laugh nervously and tug at my skirt as I close the gap between Danny and I. “So, you're coming to the party I presume?” Danny asks mysteriously, “Yeah, that's what it looks like.” I grin back. “We can start playing as we walk?" Danny suggests, “Sure.” I replied excited to be talking to Danny. “Would you rather have no eyes or no ears?” Danny asks me. I think for a quick second before shooting back, “No ears. I could learn to sign. And besides I think that would be a pretty fun skill to have. Don’t cha think so?” Danny grins and hands me a small Steak knife. I look at it and giggle nervously for the second time today. “What's this for?” I ask curiously. “You're not going to cut your ears off?” He asks seemingly sad. I shake my head and laugh, “Oh Danny! I always knew you had a wild sense of humor! But I didn't think this would be part of it!” I’m giggling now. Danny raises his eyebrows, “I wasn't joking. You chose to lose your ears so I expect you to.” I stare at Danny, “This isn't how we play the game. You're starting to seem like my sister Risha. Danny glares daggers at me. He grabs the steak knife back and stops walking. I keep going for a few more steps just to create a rather large gap between us. Danny shakes his head and burrows his brows, “Why are you so far?” He asks. “I don’t know...Maybe because you're holding a knife threatening to cut my ears off.” Danny seemed to take this offensively and he throws the knife in my direction. I know he doesn't have a horrible aim considering he's the high school quarterback, I try to duck but only result in the steak knife piercing my forehead. I grimace and reach up and grab the knife. “You actually threw it at me you psychopath.” Danny grins evilly, “Well what did you expect? You won't cut your pretty little ears off so I had to get you to stop, I was hoping you would have fallen to the ground in horrible pain so I can finish your Would You Rather answer, though you seem stronger than I anticipated.” I look at Danny and reply with, “Well I come from a family of mentally ill people. So I don't think a little prick in my forehead would hurt me too badly.” Danny glares once more, “Maybe this will help.” He reaches into his back pocket and I see a glimmer of metal, I turn around as fast as I could and start running down the nearest alleyway. Let me remind you the alleyways in my neighborhood are full of twists and turns, there would be no way Danny could find me. I bolt down the first right then take a left, I repeat until I reach the back of some run down house. I hop the fence Cringing as I hear my favorite mini skirt rip. I listen for a hot second and hear Danny ranting on and on about how I need to follow the rules. How I was disobedient just like My sisters friends. I shake my head over and over again willing myself to hold back the tears that are threatening to spill. Danny's footsteps stop right in front of the fence I had just hopped, I look up and cringe as I see a white piece of my fabric hanging from a loose nail. My heart is beating faster and faster with every deep breath I hear from Danny. I take a step back and a loud snapping sound comes from behind me, Looking down I see a twig that's snapped in half. “Dammit” I whisper under my breath. “Delilah Baby Girl. You shouldn't be scared of me. I'm only here to help you.” I hear Danny whisper through a crack in the fence. I give up on trying to be silent and Scream, “GET LOST CREEP!” and then bolt for the back door of the house. It opens, the hinges groan in protest, I walk through and sniff the air. My eyes dart around the dark room I've entered, I see a dim light coming from under the door. I cautiously open the door and Gasp when I see Shelly and the gang, baking fresh cookies. “S-Shelly…” I stutter out of breath, “D-D-Danny’s trying to k-kill me.” I gasp for air and reach for the cup of iced water Nella was holding. I nod my thanks and drink it slowly. “I'm going- to go- lay down.” I say slowly feeling groggy. Shelly smiles politely and nods. I shuffle to the neatly organized couch and plop myself down with no second thoughts.

I wake up and hear the ocean. How long have I been sleeping?? I wonder to myself. I sit up and look around, I see a dainty little pink box with a red ribbon, a letter tapped to it. Delilah It says, I grab the letter and open it, In this box are your two pretty little ears. I can't believe you started the game without us. And then didn't go through with your answer. At the bottom of the letter are bloody fingerprints from each of my so-called friends. I scream, and reach up to where my ears should have been. Feeling a shallow hold in my head and dried blood, I feel like fainting. I grab the steak knife used to cut both my ears off and shove it into my chest, just to put me out of my misery. “See you soon Mama.” I say before everything goes black.


Katie laid in her bed, her light purple comforter pulled all the way up over her head. All that could be seen of her was some blonde curls that rested on top of the lilac comforter. A phone glowed a soft blue aura from under the sheets - the only light in the dark room on that warm June night. An open window brought in hot, stifling south Georgia air but that little vortex also let in a soft breeze and the chirping of the crickets which made Katie feel not so alone. Then she heard the noise Katie dreaded for the past few hours. The faint echoing of footsteps in the outside hallway. Katie snapped her flip phone shut as she rolled to her side and closed her eyes, holding her breath to not make any noise. 8:00 PM was early for a 16 year old to be asleep, she knew this. But while Katie lived in this house that had to be the norm. The alternative was too much to bear. Katie's mom, Linda, worked long hours as a nurse at the hospital and those footsteps meant she was home. And while there was a small chance of her not being in "one of her moods" as Katie and her brother Theo called it, when she came off long day shifts her mom was tired, stressed, and almost certain to be set off merely by the sight of Katie. So being asleep was the best option. The only option. At least the only option she would dare to do. Even if there was a way out of this hell Katie had too much to lose to risk anything besides compliance with her mom. She was on track to be Valedictorian and was talking to schools about a soccer scholarship. Even though it seemed other teenagers thrived off of social lives and were out having fun on summer Saturday nights instead of laying in bed pretending to sleep. Katie knew staying the course was her way out of this hell. Her mom wasn't always in a mood after all. In fact there were times she was loving and pleasant to be around. But even the best of times meant nothing as soon as she snapped and all signs of the loving mom Katie wanted, no needed, left her eyes and some evil being she didn't know filled them instead. The moods always started with yelling. Linda would call Katie fat, worthless, a slob, any word she knew would slice through Katie's heart. There were accusations thrown of Katie sleeping around, doing drugs, plotting against her mother and planning her downfall. There was always the harsh conclusion stated that Katie had ruined her mom's life. Sometimes the words were the end of it but Linda could also turn things physical. Too often her moods lead to hitting, kicking, even pulling out a wooden spoon or breaking items Linda knew Katie cherished. Anything it took to force obedience and dull the spark in Katie's eyes. Yet when Katie looked back on her childhood she had mostly warm, happy memories that even now could pull a smile to her lips. Her dad was never a part of her life so time spent with her mom and brother was all Katie knew as a child. There were trips to the beach, riding on her mom's shoulders with Theo by their side laughing. Big ice cream cones, dancing in the living room, falling over from laughing so hard as Katie and Theo put on little plays for their mom. But Linda hadn't just woken up one day with a mean streak. It had always been there, and Linda could never hide it from her kids; but it's funny how memories work. That wasn't part of the childhood Katie clung to in her mind. That was the hell she still lived in, not the happy place in her head she tried desperately to find on the darkest of nights. The phone buzzed under the covers. Shit thought Katie. Shit shit shit . The footprints stopped in front of the room a few moments before and Katie hoped her mom walked on to her own room without Katie hearing the steps. But she knew it was more probable that her mom was right there on the other side of the door listening for signs Katie was awake. And then it came. A slight knock at the door followed by its opening. Katie knew that unassuming knock too well - not aggressive in force but a sign her mom would want a fight. Katie's mom had taken locks off the doors years ago to deprive Katie from any sort of reprieve from her fits of anger so there was nothing Katie could do except lay there, aware of what was about to come. Katie continued to fake sleep as her mom took steps towards the bed. Even with her own eyes closed Katie could feel her mother's glaring at her. And then her phone buzzed again. "You little brat are you on your phone but not even saying hi to me? After I've been working all day to pay for everything for you?  Who are you even texting at this time of night? I bet it's a boy you little whore. Get out of that bed right now and answer me!" The yelling started immediately as Linda flew to the side of Katie's bed in a fury and yanked the sheets off of her as Katie curled up in a ball and started to cry. Linda grabbed the phone off the bed and threw it across the room. The smash as it made contact with the wall mirrored how Katie's heart felt inside. Linda then went for physical force as she slapped Katie across the face. "You deserve this and more you brat." Katie stayed curled up in a ball silent. She knew this game all too well. Her mom wanted a fight. She wanted to release anger from the day and needed someone to argue with and there was nobody here except Katie now that Theo was at school. So Katie stayed quietly rolled with warm tears streaking down her cheeks. She was saved by the home telephone line ringing and Linda sighing dramatically as she turned and stomped toward the living room to answer it. Linda's voice carried down the hallway to Katie's room. She sounded so friendly and nice to whoever she was talking to, nothing like the presence that had just raged in Katie's room. She was probably talking to her best friend Betsy from church.. Probably telling her she will pray for her and maybe even giving her some Godly advice, the hypocrisy of which made Katie roll her eyes. The sing-songy tune in Katie's moms voice was such a stark contrast to the demonic one that was still hovering in Katie's ears. Katie knew she had only a few minutes while her mom talked niceties to Betsy and she tip toed over to where her phone lay on the floor. She flipped it open and breathed a sigh of relief that it seemed to still work. The 2 texts were from Maggie, a friend of hers from school. Perhaps her only friend - the only girl who seemed willing to talk to Katie, who quickly into freshman year secured her spot as the weird girl who never went to anything outside of school and soccer. hey grl, wyd? at a party at Brian's house, down the street from u. come over! The texts caused something in Katie's soul to rejoice. Someone wanted to talk with her. Someone wanted even to hangout with her. Katie was pretty sure she had never been to the type of party Betsy was referencing but she didn't care. She really had only been to church parties, and the birthday parties her mom approved of. Theo had followed all the rules of their mom and now was off at college with all the freedom Katie could ever dream of. So Katie told herself she just needed to stay in line and deal with her mom's moods until she too could be there. But it still felt so far away. As Katie sat reading the text over again wishing she could go she heard her mom on the phone. She was starting to say goodbyes with her friend. Katie's heart pounded again thinking of those footsteps coming back down the hall. She couldn't take it. Katie acted quick, throwing on some flip flops from her closet, shoving the phone in her pocket, and throwing her charger in her purse, just in case. She was too scared to even try to open the window wider in fear of the noise it might make. The screen fell out easily and surprisingly without noise with one push. Then Katie quietly put one leg out the window, contorting her body in weird ways, and next thing she knew she was dashing quietly through her backyard and then through her neighbors, scared to go into the street where the light was. There was fear in her but more than anything there was an excitement from breaking away that gave her such a thrill. Katie knew where Brian's house was from riding the bus together Freshman year of high school, not that someone like him would ever talk to Katie. Heart beating, soul bursting, Katie made it to Brian's house and knocked on the front door, scared even once there of how the porch light illuminated her figure, picturing her mom driving past at any moment looking for her and knowing she wouldn't spare any wrath. The door opened and Katie saw Betsy's smiling face, and she stepped inside.