I would say it started when we were young. Brothers. Destined to fight over anything. To compete over everything. But now, now brotherly conflict seems silly. As I sit here, hiding behind a building, as bullets whizz around me. Brother against brother, wondering how we got here.

Raised on the land. That’s what my dad had always called it. Raised in the great outdoors. The farm. The life. We shot together. Ran together. Fought and squabbled together. It is what brothers do. It is what we did.

There was always something to compete over. Even though we were a year apart, by the time we were two and three we had started competing according to my mom. We helped dad out in the stalls. We would race to bring him tools. Competed to see who could plant the most seeds or carry the largest harvest haul. Vegetables piled high on our outstretched arms, making us wobble and fall, because they were too much for our diminutive size. But we always bounced up. We always did. Because brothers compete. You play to win.

Over time, our little competitions evolved. Past veggies and seeds, to shooting and speed. We raced and wrestled. Churned butter and built fires. Shot cans, birds, and bucks. Competition was at the heart of what we did and how we knew each other. But now those competitions, those things that siblings do, seem silly and mute. The days where I studied to catch up to my brother are a distant memory. A distinction of the past. Because there is a divergence between fighting, competing, and this. A difference when brothers shoot at each other. This is no longer a game.

I think about ducking out. But I’m alone. Or at least it feels that way. The war of Northern aggression is what they call it. A revolution. A tear in a nation too far apart on how we should live. Sitting here, pinned down, I wonder how we got here. How my brother and I got on different sides. How we ended up shooting at one another.

At some point, our perspectives changed. I can’t conceive of of embrace the thought that our values, beliefs, and morals have changed. What I thought was obviously right, he thought was obviously wrong. And vice versa. Who is a person? Where is the line between the state and federal government? We, like the rest of the country, even fought about how we should farm. How we should live. I don’t know how it happened, but it did. I asked my parents if they could pinpoint it. If they could figure out where things changed. They don’t know. All they know is that our fight manifested beyond brotherhood and into conflict.

There is a difference between competition and conflict. Brothers, brotherhood, uses competition to push each other to greater things. To become better. Neither one of us got far in school. By eleven, we worked actual jobs on the land. By fifteen, our formal education had given way to making a living. That meant I was only fourteen when I started working full days. When childhood ended. Being a year apart meant that we were one in the same. We were a package deal.

The shots have subsided. The stench of death, scorch, and sorrow fill the air. I dare not move or look out. I can’t because part of me worries I will see my brother dead. A greater part of me worries he is alive. If I stand up, I will have to face him.

Maybe I resented my brother a little. Perhaps I wanted to be him. Perchance I loved him too much to evaluate my own views or save him from his own. It is possible that I ignored his slip, or maybe my own. It is hard to say how we got to this place. A place of conflict past competition and into evil, unabridged hate. That is why I can’t pull myself up. Why I can’t look around the corner. If see my brother I have to shoot him.

I sit. I sit for a long while. No one comes for me or the rest. This war has been like that. Maybe at first light, people will come clear the battlefield. Maybe it will happen in a few weeks. Until then, there is an uneasy respite. I can’t sleep. Not because I am exposed or don’t want to. Today was the first time our platoons squared off, but that’s irrelevant. I can’t sleep because my mind nags at me as if somewhere deep in the bowels of my existence I know how this happened. Deep down, I know why. When did I become the person who would shoot my brother? A person who felt ideas were worthy of violence and death? I was a farmer. My brother was a farmer. That is what we did. What our family did. And sure the war, changes it made to this country, would make that harder, but we are farmers. We should have stayed out of it.

We didn’t. Not only did we pick sides, but my brother and I took up arms. Arms for beliefs that were stronger than the bond of blood. Brothers were supposed to die for one another, not die because of each other. I scour the depths of my soul, of my mind, unable to find that moment when our ideals changed. When competition turned to conflict.

The obvious answer is it came from an election. 2020 or 2024. Those were the first times were we could vote. But that is too obvious of an answer. We started diverging philosophically before that. Before we could ever vote, or even hold and express an opinion.

When I asked my friends or parents where the seeds of this division were sown, where the hate came from, their answers were reaching and aimless. Some told me 2016, others 2008 or even 2004. The truth was, I wasn’t alive for Bush V. Gore. My brother and I were still picking carrots for fun during Obama’s first term. Those events may be catalyst. May be the convenient way to demarcate truth, but things run deeper. Seeds of hate. Ideas of anger and rage ingrained so deep that brother can turn on brother are not cultivated in a few years or by a single moment. Botanicals of loathing and vitriol have to be rooted deeper than a decade or even a lifetime can cultivate. Divisions like this, where brother take up arms against each other, where elimination is better than cooperation happens when competition turns into conflict. When the drive to win replaces the desire to grow and be better. When we throw out reason and facts, right or wrong, for the gleam of victory. These things happen as the corruptive roots of power infect your heart like a weed. My eyes open. Jolted awake by a moonlight cast shadow. It is my brother. Hand outstretched. I take it. Because, unlike hate, hope can come at any moment. Like a weed, we can pull evil at any moment from our heart. Hate may take a lifetime, but change takes an instant. We stand. Unable to speak or exchange words. An instinctual understanding forms between us. Maybe we can be the beginning of a bridge to the better. If we can lay down our arms, maybe the world can realize that we are all one. Maybe this crisis can be humanity’s definitive example of a lesson not learned.


I got away with murder. Well, not actual murder but I had bad thoughts since early childhood. Fratricide, for starters. I was three when my youngest brother was born. That meant I’d get less of my parents’ affection so I picked up a hammer and headed for his crib with evil intent. Mother grabbed me as I was climbing into the crib, weapon in my hand. Three or four years later I broke into my middle brother’s grammar school classroom and trashed it. No one ever knew this – until now. Nor did anyone know that I would steal coins from the Coke machine at church. Until now. I had every ADHD symptom; I was a handful. On the other hand, I was precocious and often showed flashes of brilliance. Eventually I was taken to a shrink. I remember nothing of that visit other than taking a few tests. I can speculate what my parents were told: “John is a very active child and in many ways he’ll be a challenge. He is deeply attached to you, to a pathological extent. That’s immaturity. He’ll grow out of it. In the meantime, he will have excellent coping skills due to his intelligence. He has huge willpower and with that intelligence, he’ll be a high achiever but also difficult at times. And congratulations to the two of you: Your child is an actual genius.” I can imagine smiles on Mother’s and Dad’s faces and I can imagine Dad’s asking if my IQ was tested and then giving out a low whistle when he heard the number. Sometime years later I found out what my IQ was. I let out a bold whistle. Put it this way: Per Google, it was the same as Stephen Hawking’s. That meant I was a rara avis and I liked that. I was still doing bad things: Using a BB gun to shoot out streetlights and execute songbirds. I started drinking beer at fourteen or fifteen. Drunkenness came early. Despite that problem I matriculated at an elite school, then got an MBA and embarked on a hugely successful career. I learned that co-workers nicknamed me “Boy Wonder.” This all seemed so natural to me but I blew it. In my mid-thirties I was before the Directors of a large bank, presenting a plan to build a new headquarters building. Stage fright slammed me. Instant panic attack. Instantly mute. My boss saw what was happening to me and took over. I should have been embarrassed, but instead I was filled with tremendous anxiety. In the back of my mind was fear of another panic attack. That fear became part of me, maybe it defined me. Imagine a double attack of claustrophobia and stage fright. My panic attacks began episodically, but worsened and never left. A doctor gave me Valium. Wow! Anxiety faded; calm appeared. After three months or so, the doc would not give me a refill. Anxiety returned and I could not fight the panic. For some reason I don’t remember, one day I gulped a shot of vodka. Then another and the panic abated. Being a certified genius, I had an idea: Use alcohol preventively, proactively. Keep panic at bay. It worked! Soon a single shot was not enough; I needed more. I needed a drink when I woke up. I needed a drink to get through the day. I needed a drink to sleep. I was a mess. Somehow my willpower and intelligence got me through the workday. This went on for months. One morning as I stumbled to the garage I had a realization. Two of them, actually: One, I was an alcoholic. Two, I didn’t give a damn. Depression had shown up with its dark cloak. I did not realize that the alcohol was not fully metabolizing, but building up in my system. I learned that one April. My long-suffering wife found me comatose on the living room floor. An ambulance arrived and I was strapped onto a gurney and taken to the hospital. I started coming to after three days, but I was incoherent and my thoughts were muddled. It was alcohol poisoning, at a probably fatal level. That’s at a blood alcohol level of .40 or higher. My BAL was higher, significantly higher, than that. I later learned that my parents were told three times that I was dying. One time I felt a coldness low down in the back of my skull. I was certain that it was death, creeping up my brainstem. Thankfully, it wasn’t death and after eight days in the ICU, I was released into a treatment center, where I was ushered into a locked room with a bed, lavatory and toilet. For the better part of a week this was my jail cell as I went through the DTs. The experience was dreadful. When the worst was over, I was taken for an interview with the head of the treatment center. “Tell me about yourself,” said the guy, all smiles. Feeling a bit better, I took on a chipper attitude and told my tale. The man was not impressed and challenged me, “You’re just another drunk.” He was probably right but at this point my emotions were raw and too sensitive for his dose of tough love. The next day I found an unlocked door and escaped. Somehow, I ended up at home but I was shaken and willing to do anything to avoid not just my recent hospital - treatment center ordeal, but drinking at all. I checked myself into a new treatment center and its folks were compassionate and kind. After a friendly interview I was shown my room. It was nice and I sat on the bed, thinking. Soon tears streamed down my face. These were not tears of pain or hurt, but of gratitude. After 28 days there and some months of group therapy, I was a different and better person. I resumed my life and my career, to include daily AA meetings. *** I’ve always loved music – pop, rock, soul and then “dance music” which I listen to today. Basically, it’s pop songs with a strong bass line. I’d explain it to people: It’s a chick singer, a black rapper and a German DJ with an electronic keyboard. A 1999 song tugged at my soul, then and now. It’s “Pray for Redemption” by a German group named Culture Beat. The primary lyric is “I need to pray for redemption and start all over again. The tears wash away my sorrow and shame.” I love the song but have never able to define “redemption.” I’ve puzzled that for years and sometimes my eyes water as I listen to the words. My wife and I enjoy travel and Vienna is our favorite destination. It’s quite amazing. Among its riches are many spectacular churches, some dating to the 13 th century. Our favorite was Peterskirche, a Baroque masterpiece. We’d sit near the front and take in the spectacle: altars, apses, transepts, narthex and so on. There was gilt everywhere and it awed me. On our last trip we visited the church as a mass was beginning. As a lapsed Presbyterian some of the ritual was beyond my understanding. We sat quietly and soon a male choir marched in, its members clad in white robes with red trim. Soon I was embraced by the choir’s dulcet chants. A spirit touched me. Its caress left me weak and wondrous. In the year since, that caress occasionally appears and when it does, I automatically think of redemption. I need it and want it but I’m a coward and keep my sins to myself. AA’s “twelve steps” provide a path to redemption: Make a moral inventory of ourselves and admit our sins to God and another person. Another avenue would be to make a confession to a Catholic priest. I know doing either of those could bring me peace and redemption and gain me forgiveness. I’m stuck, though, and lack the courage or energy to trod those paths. Rather than fret over this shortcoming, I simply try to be a good, moral, empathetic person. Writing this narrative has helped.


1 The fingers that lay the tea tray onto the polished, dark wood of the table imitated humanity immaculately except in one particular: the skin was a stately navy blue.

Millicent Braddock avoided touching them as they handed her a bone-white cup of Earl Grey, sweetened and creamed just to her liking, plumes of steam curling off its dark surface like the ghost of a bergamot fruit.

Somehow, her favorite drink with her closest (living) friend did nothing to comfort her; instead, their presence in the flat seemed vulgar.

Spoiled. “Thank you, Bernard,” she muttered to the butler, distantly and without a single spark of feeling. Across from her, Eloise Hildebrand fluffed the lavender curls of her hair and made faces at a drone the size of an aphid, which hovered, snapping images as quickly as its mistress could command through her neural link.

Eventually, her face stilled somewhat, though her eyes retained that distant look of one immersed in an enhanced reality UI.

She periodically continued to make faces, but they were primarily expressions of naked disgust. The robot butler waited patiently for his mistress’ guest to come back to reality, frozen in a posture of polite, servile offering. Millie peered down at her tea and blew across its surface before taking her first exploratory sip.

Ideal temperature, of course.

Her stomach rolled over, acid coating the back of her throat.

Momentarily, she considered slapping Bernard across the face, justice for the crime of knowing her too well, and continuing to function perfectly when Ignatius was gone, a tragedy of the human flaw of age.

She did not, of course.

Her brown skin, once soft and supple and the color of fine mocha, had grown thin, paper-fragile, and mottled with liver spots.

If she were to strike the android, he would simulate shame while she screamed, relishing the exquisite agony of her hand shattering against his exoskeleton. As she imagined the scene playing out, it made her reconsider.

She had lifted her hand— with no memory of having done so— to that very purpose when her own UI interjected with a share request from Eloise.

Internally, she sighed and accepted. A semi-translucent, grotesque image filled her immediate vision, blurring the table, the china, the tea, and the still-waiting automaton.

What replaced these tangible things was an intangible fantasy: Eloise as she might have been, though never had.

The face that swam into existence practically glistened with affected youth.

Not a wrinkle crossed her perfect, creamy complexion.

Her eyes were huge, luminescent puddles of sadness in which the overhead lights reflected, liquid and alive with the grief she had come to share. “What do you think?

That one?” Millie dismissed her friend's intrusive, garish doppelganger with a mental gesture that, in her mind, equated to waving away an unwanted course at dinner.

“It’s fine,” she said, filling her mouth with tea before she could say anything else, damaging her most enduring friendship.

Her only remaining friendship, really. “And you’re comfortable with me posting it?” She swallowed.

“Fine.” “Fine?” Millie set her cup and saucer down hard enough that they rattled.

“Yes, Eloise!

It’s fine!

I’ve said it’s fine, and it’s fine!

What do you want?” Primly, Eloise crossed her legs, her leggings whispering against one another beneath a short, pleated skirt that matched her hair.

“I want to see that you’re coping.”

She took the saucer from Bernard, who bustled off to the kitchen to see to the cakes and biscuits.

Beyond the vague citrusy smell of the tea, the whole house was fragrant with his baking, the hateful blue creature. “I fail to see how helping you filter a pic constitutes coping with the death of my husband.” Eloise shrugged.

“Friends helping friends,” she said.

“It’s something we’ve always done.

I retouch my dreadfully ancient face, and you offer a cuttingly sarcastic critique.”

Delicately, she sipped.

“Oh!

But this is too cold, far too cold!

Oh, robot!

What is it you call him?” “Bernard,” prompted Millie, for the thousandth time. “Oh yes.

Oh, Bernard.” The android, having hidden his smooth-loined nakedness beneath a black apron that had suffered only a minor dusting of cake flour, appeared at the kitchen door.

“Ma’am?” “This tea is far too cold,” Eloise chirped.

“Prepare me a fresh cup.”

She held the porcelain out to him and immediately washed her attention of his presence.

“Are you?”

She regarded Millie with open suspicion.

“Coping, I mean.” Millicent gestured at her outfit, her makeup, her general self.

“As you see,” she said.

A smile curled the corners of her mouth but stopped short of squinting her eyes.

Counterfeit as it was, she hoped it would pass inspection. Eloise peered at her for a long, concerned moment before nodding her satisfaction and draining the cup Bernard brought to her.

Her throat worked as she drank, and when she was through, she passed the empty cup and saucer back to the butler without exerting the effort required to watch him take it.

“Is it lonely?” “What kind of stupid question is that?

Is it lonely?

Of course, it’s lonely.” Eloise, seeing she had done real damage, began to backpedal.

“Well, I just thought…”

Her voice trailed off as she abandoned the inquiry. “Thought?

Go on.

Thought what?” Millie watched her friend's soft face harden as she steeled herself to push through.

“I thought… well, seeing as you have the robot… what was his name again?” “Bernard.” “Right!

Bernard, right…”

Reluctance overcame her scant courage, and her voice failed her. “He doesn’t speak except when spoken to, mostly,” said Millicent.

“I’ve heard you can adjust their settings so they talk more, but I couldn’t be bothered.” “You don’t think it might liven up the place?”

The freshly made tea cakes arrived, delicately oozing raspberry jam.

Alongside, chocolate digestives from a package arrayed themselves in mute, diligent formation.

Eloise helped herself to one of each. “I suppose,” said Millie.

Taking one of the digestives, she nibbled it absently and imagined trying to converse with a simulated human intelligence. “And you haven’t ever been tempted to… you know…”

Eloise gestured but did nothing else to clarify her meaning. Squarely— almost defiantly— Millie returned her friend’s gaze.

There was something there, simmering behind her eyes, that she didn’t care for.

“I do wish you would speak plainly, Eloise,” she said finally.

“This dance that you do, circling meaning without ever getting down to it?

It’s beyond me.”

She heard herself drawling, the northerner in her coming out in moments of stress. Her friend set down her biscuit, folded her hands, and took a deep breath as though expressing herself were the most arduous labor.

“Simulating him.” The words washed over her consciousness, but her mind seemed oily and resisted of making any meaning out of them.

“Him?” “Ignatius.” When the idea— what her friend was suggesting— finally broke through, the initial glimmer of desire was drowned by a great flood of horror.

“You can’t be serious!”

Images of it flashed across her mind.

“Oh, that’s macabre!” “Not so much as you might think.

Lots of us do, you know.” “I can’t—”

Her mind battened onto the word, slamming closed against it like the jaws of a crocodile she had once watched in an immersive VR documentary.

What channel had it been?

“Us?

Did you say us?” Eloise bobbed her head in the affirmative.

“After Robert passed, I had a hard go of it.”

Her eyes found her feet, and she studied them for a long time.

“It feels so strange to say.

Did you know, I thought I wouldn’t miss him at all?

That I would feel little more than relief.

Then, when he had gone…”

Again, her voice failed her. Millie watched her friend choke on the words, saying nothing. When Eloise finally pressed on, she spoke in spasms and coughing staccato as though she were vomiting up the admission.

“The AI can synthesize a believable version of anyone it has listened to for long enough.

Very believable.

Almost… almost to the life.”

Her face came up, and Millicent saw threads of red crossing the green irises of her eyes.

Her face was hollow, almost haunted.

“I’d heard my next-door neighbor, Mister Findlay, speaking to his maid through an open window two summers ago.

Him, I don’t know well, but her?

Her I knew quite well.”

She nodded, her lavender curls bouncing with the cadence of her grief.

“Quite well.

It was her voice.

There was no mistaking it.

When the robot spoke, it was in her voice, and I realized I could…”

She tried to finish.

Couldn’t.

Tears gathered at the corners of her eyes, which she swiped away with a hand that, so much like Millie’s own, had grown thin and brittle with the passing of years. The look on Millicent’s face must have been quite horrible. After a silence that protracted far past awkwardness and into actual physical discomfort, Eloise gathered her things. She excused herself, leaving Millie alone with the butler and the emptiness of the flat.

In the absence of her friend, it ached her.

It throbbed, making itself known in a persistent, quiet agony, like the unhealed socket of a recently drawn tooth. 2 Alone, Millicent sat at the table she had recently shared with her husband of forty-nine years.

She could recall only a few mealtime conversations with the man; he exercised a reticence that could be measured in hours and, occasionally, days.

It had been one of the most comfortable elements of their marriage.

Neither of them had ever acted on any pressure to speak.

What they had shared of themselves had always been voluntary and in its own time. Yet, now that there was no one with whom to share when the urge came upon her, she felt that absence.

In many ways, her life had not changed when her husband’s heart had seized him in its final, crushing exertions.

Yet, it seemed to have.

She felt it had. The meal, as usual, was seasoned to perfection: chicken tikka on pilaf— a fusion of English-Indian and Turkish food.

Savoring the mouthfuls as she fed herself, she felt the resentment for its creators, their android butler, churning her guts despite the pleasure of her senses. What is it that makes you hate him so? Oddly, the question was spoken into her mind, seemingly independent of her own thoughts and in Ignatius’ voice, a deep, sensual baritone pronounced in slow, deliberate consonants. Her heart hammered in her ears.

Fear?

No.

Something else. Desire. Don’t be ridiculous. … Longing? The idea was naively romantic.

Hopelessly so.

Unfortunately, it also rang true. Longing, then. What was she to do with that?

Eloise didn’t resent Bernard; she merely ignored him.

And why shouldn’t she?

Despite having legs, feet, hands, and digits, Bernard was not a person.

He was an assemblage of tech inside an exoskeleton— every bit beyond her limited understanding— designed to resemble a human only to the degree necessary to facilitate user interface.

In some regards, such as his hairlessness and the changeability and variety of his skin tone, were pointedly inhuman.

And yet, his inhumanity also seemed to highlight Millicent’s distaste. He performs his function to the letter.

Why dislike him so? Again, Ignatius spoke.

Love , it’s because he isn’t… “He isn’t you.”

Her fork hovered near her mouth; she had been holding it there for long enough that a tremor had crept into her grip.

Rice and chicken tikka rained from her fork to the ground like manna. Instantly, Bernard was there.

Broom and dustpan clutched in his blue hands, he cleaned her mess and silently disappeared into the kitchen to dispose of the evidence. An hour later, when she had eaten no more of the fine meal he’d prepared, Bernard checked to see if she had finished and offered her dessert, a flan glazed with pear cider syrup.

Millicent did not respond to his query but stood and went to the bedroom. Dressed but uncovered, she lay on the duvet until the darkness outside was complete.

Sometime after midnight, she called to the automaton with whom she shared the empty flat.

As he always had and always would, he came. It occurred to Millie, in a moment of horrified fascination, that she had been mistaken.

Eloise was not her most constant friend.

It was this machine.

Since his purchase and installation, he had never faltered in his duties, and his strength had never flagged, even though he was getting on in years.

He would come when she called.

Anytime she called.

Even Ignatius had eventually failed her in that regard. “How may I serve you, Ma’am?”

His pleasant nothing-voice was as generic as his shape.

Like a silhouette of a person, two-dimensional and without substance. Am I actually about to do this? Millie tried to puzzle out her hesitation, the reason for holding back.

Then, the answer came to her, fully formed and terrible

She realized she feared the judgment of an appliance: Bernard himself.

That, or the embarrassment of inconveniencing him to meet the needs of her weakness.

He was more human to her, it seemed, than she was willing to admit to herself. Human?

What human?

He is a machine!

He is an it ! A machine of such intelligence that it could identify spilled curry by the sound.

It could deduce the proper temperature for tea from facial expressions, small noises of displeasure, and passive-aggressive comments.

It could— If she only would— “Bernard,” she heard herself say.

“I wonder…if you would…” The words soured, clotting in her mind like clabbered milk.

She found herself no more able to finish than Eloise had been. Devoid of words, and absent her husband, she found herself doing the one thing even more unthinkable than begging an android to speak in Ignatius’ voice.

She wept. Sobs wracked her, and she curled into a ball atop the mattress they had shared across the final years of their intimate— if relatively nonverbal— marriage. An arm encircled her, and Millie had to choke off a scream.

She looked down, saw the hand as it closed over her own. It was brown.

Young.

Gentle. The temporary reprieve from crying broke, and she wept all the harder.

Was it fear?

Horror?

Longing?

She did not know.

Was there any tangible difference between them? From behind her, she heard his voice.

Rich baritone.

Velvety.

Warm.

It was what had first drawn her to him in that dusky retro lounge all those years ago.

The words were lyrics, the voice a melody. How did it know—? She stifled the question, killed it. It didn’t matter how. In this moment, all that mattered was the arms that encircled her.

His arms.

Nevermind that it was merely an illusion, a product of an artificial intelligence so sophisticated that it had predicted from an overheard conversation what she would ask, anticipating and answering her need despite her inability to express it. Millicent Braddock lay back against the android.

The fantasy was broken only a little by the sensation of a hard exoskeleton beneath the soft, synthetic skin and muscle.

She listened to her dead husband sing, feeling his arms around her as his music transported her to a place far into their shared past.

Eventually, she fell asleep that way. It was dreamless, that sleep.

And when she awoke, alone in her bed, she shed the memory of what had happened from her as easily as her nightgown; all that remained was a sense of satisfaction, that of a need fulfilled.

Already, she suspected she would call Bernard again: a command, repeat performance.

He could not love her with anything but simulated love, and then only while wearing Ignatius' skin and speaking in his voice.

A palliative to her crushing loneliness. “Will you take tea, Ma’am?”

She looked up to find her android butler in the doorway.

She had not felt him leave her bed, nor could she explain how he had known to do so.

How could the AI understand? Ignatius’ knew. Rather than upset her, this idea comforted her somehow, and she smiled.

“That would be perfect,” she said.

“Only—” Yet, he was gone already, knowing what she would ask before even she, herself, could form the request.


My eyes opened as the sun rays pierced through the glass pane windows.  It was another new day. Lately time seems to be getting shorter and shorter for my 800-year-old self. I needed to fulfill my final task. My gaze panned across the table top that was beside my bed. It stopped when I saw my phone rested on a knitted mantel. I grabbed and swiped the screen in a secret pattern. The phone unlocked. I tapped on the reminder of what I needed to do today. Among them were things that I was unable to do. Visiting Auntie Mary was one of them among the other stuff. I peeled away my thick blanket and glad that the bedding was recently washed. I stood up and looked at my image on the mirror. I have a habit of looking at myself in my younger years. All was well and as I stood there staring, I noticed something strange from the reflection. A trail of blood was dripping down the wall. I’m not one to be easily startled especially at my age. Curious, I turned around to investigate. But as soon as I turned around, the wall was dry and bare.  I took a deep breath and gave an annoyed sigh. My day had always started this way ever since I was 540 years old. For breakfast, I headed down to the kitchen. In it were just four vending machines of different colors and a table and chair to where I would sit. The red vending machine contained hot & cold drinks. The orange one contains instant meals like noodles & rice toppings. For dessert, the yellow vending machine contains pizza and cakes while the rainbow colored one contains candies. These would dispense a uniform portion of drinks and meals in the shape of cubes.  It also has a feature to monitor my food supply and keep track of my food cost.  Oh, the wonders of technology! After quickly having a hot coffee and egg sandwich, courtesy of my vending machines, I pushed the disposable utensils and packages into the opening of a trash bin.  Before I left home, I turned to an android named Nora and commanded it to auto-set the home security to the alone setting. Then, the main door swung open. It was Petro who haphazardly dashed inside the house. “Master, you only have till midnight before the New Year will be ushered in.” He said. I remained calm. Time may not be on our side, but the formula and set of equations had already been inputted to the controller ahead of time. All is still going according to plan and it would be complete before the clock strikes midnight. The future awaits us soon. I told him not to worry about it and Petro trusted me. He then left bearing witness to my oath declaration to complete the task. I then walked outside towards the garage.  Inside it, there were numerous vehicles from your standard flying car to the solar powered motorcycle. I made a decision to ride motorbike as this will make my trip quicker.

There was a cabinet in the corner of the room and I opened it. Inside hangs a body protect outfit and a full-face helmet with a go-pro perched on top. I eagerly fitted into it and hopped onto the motorbike. I reached for the start button and pressed on it. A loud engine comes to life. On the way to the site, the scenery was a mountain range of red granite stones peppered with periwinkles. The strong wind was cold as I drove down the long winding road.  I reached the foot of the Starcrust mountain in just a few hours. There was a valley in between the huge mountain that opens to a vast desert that reaches as far as the naked eyes can see. With a click of a button, the motorbike wheels transformed into a set of tanker tracks. It sped fast in the desert towards the horizon.  I can see desert animals getting strewn about as soon as the motorbike’s rolling tracks passed by. Several hours passed by before I could see some lights ahead.  I unmounted from my bike as the rest of the way can only be reached by foot. I opened the quantum compartment from the motorbike and pulled out a machete. I then chopped my way pass the tall metal-like grasses. This artificial grass was so thick and glossy that you could not see what was ahead of you. Even though I remember the path, I still had to constantly look up to find the North star to guide me to the right direction.

A few more hours passed before I saw a huge digital billboard was glaring down on me. It was broadcasting live news featuring the current disasters and calamities that was going on right now.  This was the result of mankind tinkering around with fruitless scientific experiments. The outcome was disastrous such as plants becoming sterile as a side-effect of genetically modifying plant cells.  Radioactive waste under the ocean slowly leaked and killed the sea life. Antibiotics that created super-pathogens which mutilated our body’s natural defenses. Numerous factories dumping chemicals and city garbage polluted the river and its banks. Humans were blinded by amassing material wealth. Now the so-called material wealth of metal coins was a useless heap of metal mountain, rusting away and had no value to anyone. I felt my cheeks starting to get wet… Tears were the only relief to the pain. The memories of the yesteryears when the earth was thriving were now gone. Even I myself succumbed to some of these ill effects. I rubbed the annoying lump in my shoulder. I get easily bruised for no reason and my chronic cough does not go away. Courtesy of my vending machine lifestyle. This is the new normal of the regular gal. Then I heard a flying saucer overhead. A robot hovered down from it to meet me. A laser reader scanned the identity chip on my head. It coldly gave me a green light to pass. A pathway then guided me to some sort of an elevator.  I entered and as soon as it descended, it felt like an eternity before I felt a thud. I reached the bottom of a volcanic pit. I have been inside a volcanic molten lava of 1,000 degrees temperature as part of a tour once. But now things were different. The elevator served as a protective capsule.  A joy stick was then popped up from the control panel. It allowed the passenger to traverse freely within this lava pit. After some time, I arrived at a chasm where I exited the elevator. Air filters and a few lighting turned on as soon as I put my foot down. But the stench of sulfuric acid still lingered around. On top of this it was still dark so I had to turn on the flashlight from my helmet.  I can hear moans and cries deeper within this chasm. It felt like hell as mankind knew it. As I walked closer to the sounds of the moans, the temperature started to cool down. A bluish smoke was rising up in a twirling motion. Here, other people are present and milling around with their own work.  They had hollow cheeks and empty eyes. They all look like soul-less bodies. I saw one turn to look at me with desperation but I immediately looked away. Suddenly I heard a grave like scream. “You.” Everyone stopped and looked at my direction. “You are the bearer of mankind’s rescue. Reveal it now or you shall perish along with us.” I was stunned and stood motionless. It was eerie silence. My emotions are so hyped up. I started to speak up. Then people crawled towards me to lend me their ears. “I traveled far and wide. With a time ticking like a bomb set at midnight. The Plan needs to be executed now or forever mankind will be wiped out on the face of the Earth. Do we comprehend that this is our end? There is nothing else we can do to reverse the damage that we inflicted on our adopted planet, we called Earth. Now, we all just need to continue like zombies, rot in whatever small time left. So, did we learn our lesson? We thought we are smart. Now we know all bad things we done is a curse on ourselves.” Everyone started to bow their heads in resignation. I continued. I screamed “No! mankind will not end, not today, not on my watch. I arrive here and with me is our last resort. Please look up above, the invention that I bring, is a time machine.”

A loud cheer erupted. Everyone was in tears. I pointed up to the time machine before I pressed the button. A bright blinding light started to flood the dark pit. Then one by one, the people in the room began disappearing into a mist. The mist was then sucked into the time machine. It was set so that when everyone was on board, it would emit a greenish glow. It took a while but we were just in time. Minutes before the clock struck midnight, I immediately pulled the heavy lever to send us back to the past to reset this current future. One last chance for mankind. Every memory flashed and spinning before me. It all then fell into what seemed like a black hole. There was darkness and all was quiet. “Wake up! Wake up!” They said. It was a young and familiar voice. I had tears trickling down my cheeks before my eyes opened. I then saw my children jumping on my bed. “Hurry up mummy, you promised that we will visit the strawberry farm today.” Krissy, who was my daughter said.

Tommy, my son on the other hand saw my face wet with tears. “Mummy are you okay?” he asked. Overwhelmed with joy I then hugged Tommy and the rest of my children. “It is okay my children, we will take care of our planet Earth.” I said as a huge smile was shown across my face. The future is ours.


I Do, Esme This has to be perfect. Esme is coming in a couple of minutes, and my girl is never late. Which means I don’t have long to finalise the dinner preparations. “Okay, cutlery, check. Fairylights, check. Food?” I glance at my Rolex, “Hmm, dinner will be ready soon, that’s what the Head Chef said. Flowers? Check. Myself? Check.” The doorbell rings through the second floor’s intercom speakers, and I peer at my reflection, with my phone’s camera. Hmm, could’ve fixed my hair a little, but no matter, she’s here! “Hi, Witchy. You look ravishing,” “Rich Boy, how wonderful to see you again. As do you, you look most charming,” The butler who opened the door gives us mildly perplexed looks but doesn’t ask any questions. We both burst into laughter, and I hold my arm out to my girlfriend. “Ok, ok, when we get to the second floor, you have to close your eyes, is that alright?” “Am I getting a surprise?” “Hmm, perhaps,” “How vague, Ry. I expected more from an honour student like you,” “You’ll just have to trust me on this one, Es, you cheeky honour student,” She giggles at that, knowing full well we both write long essays in all our classes. We both walk up a flight of stairs, and I can’t help but notice everything about her. The cherry-red halter dress she’s wearing, with cherry earrings, and white peep-toe wedges. The faint red hue of her eyeshadow, her long lashes, and her pale pink lipstick. The best part is that she’s wearing the ruby (her favourite gemstone) necklace and matching bracelet I got her. Yes, I am knowledgeable in all degrees of fashion, you can thank my mother. “Are you admiring my wonderful fashion sense, or checking me out?” She asks me slyly, and I hum with delight. “Both. Kidding! It’s the first,” “Well, your mother does take her job very seriously,” “She’s not a rich fashion designer, model, and jeweller, for nothing. Ooh, okay, we’re here! Close your eyes, Witchy,” I cover my girlfriend’s eyes with one hand, and use the other to open the door to the ballroom. Which has been converted into a dining room for today’s date. “Okay,” I grin, “You can open your eyes,” I take my hand off her eyes, and let her take in the sight of everything. “Oh- wow. This… it’s so beautiful, Ryder,” “All prepared by yours truly,” Esme kisses my cheek.

“Well done, yours truly,” She jokes, “Now, I want to see what we’re eating!” Like a true gentleman, I pull out her seat, wait till she’s seated, and then I sit down across her. “Is this a dining hall?” She asks,

“No, actually. It’s a ballroom, except I took one table from the luncheon room, so it’s like our own private booth. Except replace ‘booth’ with ‘entire restaurant’,” Esme laughs and then takes a look at the menu card. “I’m guessing this menu card was also made by yours truly,” I nod, smiling like a madman. “They sound great, can I meet them?” I cough, covering my laugh, trying to sound serious. “He’s an extremely busy guy, has an amazing girlfriend, I can see if I can get in touch with him,” “Really?!” Esme gasps, “That. Would. Be. Amazing!” We both chuckle, and Esme reads the menu. “Pumpkin soup, hmm, simple, but nice. Excellent choice. Then, grilled chicken, an assortment of vegetables, and elegant sauces. Sounds fancy, and finally, dessert! Chocolate mousse with raspberry coulis and white chocolate meringue drops. This sounds so posh!” She exclaims, looking at me with wide eyes. “Flip it over, there’s something else on the back,” “Oh?” Esme flips over the menu and then smiles. “A surprise?” “Indeed,” “Ooh, is that a waiter?” I turn around and see a waiter coming through the doors. “Guess so,” I mutter, not realising Father had hired an actual professional waiter. “For you Mademoiselle,” He places Esme’s entree in front of her, “And you Monsieur,” We both look at the food, and her stomach growls, loudly. Esme laughs. “Thank you!” She tells the waiter, and as soon as he leaves, we both start eating. “So, how are your classes going?” I ask her, drinking my soup, watching her smile. “Eh, pretty normal. Lots of note-taking, drinking coffee, pulling all-nighters, all the good stuff,” “That entertaining, huh?” “Yep. What about you?” “Same things, honestly. How come all the assignments are due on the same day?!” I complain and Esme shrugs. “It’s university, Ryder. We’re honour students, it’s normal at this point,” “True,” I agree sadly, as the waiter comes back with the main course. “So, how are Mila and Aspen?” “Mila just got her double piercings, and Aspen is thinking of being a teacher. They both said hi,” “Awesome,” “This is going to sound rude but… is it okay if we stop talking? The food is really delicious,” I laugh, only Esme would ask permission for something like that. “Of course, of course. The faster you eat, the sooner you get your surprise.” Esme’s eyes widen slightly, and she continues to cut her meat. Once we’re both done, (Esme wouldn’t stop gushing about the dessert) the waiter takes all our dishes and two butlers come in to pack up the table. “Is it surprise time?” Esme asks, and she looks ready to jump up and down from sheer excitement. “It’s surprise time!” She cheers with delight; she’s so cute when she’s excited. “Take off your shoes, Esme,” My girlfriend follows my instructions, and I do the same, then roll up my sleeves. Music starts playing from the speakers. “I… It feels like I’m in a movie,” Esme breathes and I smile softly. “Well, milady? Shall we dance?” “Of course, dear sir.” At first, we don’t say anything. I lead Esme as we waltz to the ballroom music. The lights are slightly dimmed and it reminds me of Year 12 formal. It’s strange knowing that I didn’t know Es back then. After the ballroom and classic music plays, Ed Sheeran’s ‘Perfect’ comes on and Esme sighs happily. “I love this song,” She whispers, resting her head on my shoulder as we sway to the music. “That’s why I chose it,” I murmur in her ear. “Thank you, Ry. This is amazing,” “Anything for you, baby girl,” Esme kisses my earlobe, and then trails down my neck, tickling my skin. “Do you think…” I begin, as Esme kisses my cheek. “Ed Sheeran wrote this song about you?” She smiles, shaking her head. “You flatter me, Ryder, but no,” “You can’t weave your way out of this one, Es. I know you like flattery,” “To an extent,” She winks as the song reaches the chorus. “‘Darling, you look perfect tonight.’” I say, looking at Esme the whole time. “I love you too, Ryder.” She presses her lips against mine, her hands in my hair, and I give myself up to her. She is my home, my comfort, my peace of mind. She pulls away, gasping for breath and I lift her up, swinging her off her feet. “So, you decided to literally sweep me off my feet,” I can’t help but laugh. “Yes, exactly,” “Well, I’m glad you did. It feels like I’m in a dream,” “It’s my pleasure. Besides my parents love catering for dates like this, they love you,” “You can come over to my place next time. I won’t be as elaborate as yours but-” “Whatever you provide, I’ll be satisfied,” “Aww thanks, Ry.” And we go back to dancing in silence, our smiles brighter than the moon outside. Our movements and heartbeats synchronised as one. ~ -- 5 years later -- Everything is so different now. Esme and I have moved in together, in a large house my parents gave to me. Esme is still studying since her medical degree takes years, and I’ve completed my Masters. Plus, I co-own my father’s business, his excuse was, “I’m getting old, Ryder. You’ll have to help your old man out.” “Esme,” I say one crisp afternoon. “Hm?” “We’re twenty-four this year, can you believe six years ago we met at the graduation lunch?” “Six years?! Goodness, that makes me feel so old!” “We’re going to be middle-aged soon, oh Lord!” “Hah! I can see it now, you in a suit, walking to your business and everyone will know you as the big boss.” I laugh,

“Well, I suppose that’s a nice thought.” -- 2 years later -- “Esme?” “Yes?” “I know… it’s crazy and frankly, a little early, but…” I get down on one knee. “Will you marry me?” “Oh my God… Yes! Of course, how could I say no?” She laughs, wiping her eyes, “I’m going to cry… Gah, you’re making me cry, Ryder!” She whacks my arm and I laugh, before pressing my lips onto hers. I slip the ring on her finger, a gold band with a small ruby on it. “I have the whole collection now!” She exclaims, hugging me so tightly I can barely breathe. “I love you, Esme.” “I love you, Ryder.” ~ “I know this isn’t a traditional way of starting your vows. Especially when these are the words you live with for the rest of your life. So, here goes nothing. Hi, Witchy,” There’s laughter from the crowd, and Esme doesn’t even try to hold back her smile. “I can’t believe seven years ago, we met. I think if we hadn’t, my life would’ve never changed. Thank you for being ‘you’, Esme. I love you for who you are, you make me the happiest person alive, and I would never change that for the world. I do, Esme. I do, so many times, even more times than Phillippa Soo sang in Helpless,” Esme grins at the musical reference. “You light up something inside of me. A burning passion that longs for you. I love you, Esme Peltonen.” “Hello, Ryder. Ry, Rich boy. I have so many things I want to say to you. You have given me everything I could’ve ever wanted. When Mila told me that afternoon, “Es, try to make some conversation with our fellow cohort!” I realised something. That was my last chance, the last thing I would do in high school. So, thank you, Mila!” She waves to her cousin, who’s grinning like her ship has sailed. Which it has. “I’m so glad I met you, Ryder Nibali. You’ve only changed me for the better. It looks like you’re stuck with me forever.” She smiles widely as the audience laughs again, and we exchange rings. “You may kiss the bride.” I don’t hear anything when I kiss Esme, no cheering or clapping, just the sound of her heart hammering like mine, as the wedding bells go off. -- 1.5 years later -- “Esme? I’m home!” I peer into the kitchen, only to find no one, where is she? “Esme!” I call, and search the house, dropping my laptop bag onto a chair. I walk into the bathroom, and Esme has a hand clamped over her mouth, as tears run down her face. “Esme!” I rush over to her, “Are you alright?” My voice goes an octave higher in desperation. “What if I’m not good enough, Ryder?! What if I can’t do it?” “Do what, Esme?” “Be a mother!” She sobs, and I laugh a little. “Oh God, darling, girl, you’re the most competent person, I know. You’re going to be fine, okay? I’ll be with you, every step of the way.” ~ I hold her hair back as she throws up. “I hate this,” She groans, and I sigh. “I know, baby girl, it won’t be for too much longer,” “Thank God,” She whispers. After a pause, she adds. “If it’s a boy, I call dibs with Landon,” “You can’t call dibs on our kid’s name, Esme!”

“Yes, I can, and I just did!” “I like Eli, though,” “Fine. Landon Eli. Oh!

Cassie if it’s a girl,” “And her middle name is Monica after your mum,” “Okay, so if it’s a boy, Landon Eli, and if it’s a girl, Cassie Monica?” “Sounds perfect.” ~ I smile fondly at the photo frame on the counter.

“Daddy? What are you looking at?” I turn to see my son, and I lift him onto my lap. “This is your mum and I on our wedding day,” “Ooh, Mama’s so pretty!” “Isn’t she?” I kiss the back of my son’s head, hugging him gently. “I love you just as much as I love your mum,” “Woah, that’s a lot of love, Daddy. You love Mama soooo much!” “It sure is bud. One day, when you’re all grown up, you’ll understand how much I love her,” “But I’m already grown up, Daddy! I know how much you love Mama, so much, you would build her a new planet!” “A new planet?” “Uh-huh! A big purple one that has lots of stripes,” “Okay, Landon. That’s a little far-fetched. I don’t have the power to do that, buddy,” “Sure you do! Besides, it’s a good idea for a seven-year-old!” “True, you’re very smart for your age. You follow your mum after that,” We hear keys jangling in the front door, “Speaking of your mum, she’s home!” “Hi, Mama! Hi, Mama!” My son races to the front door, “Hey, Landon! How was your afternoon with Daddy?” “Awesome! He’s going to build a new planet for you!” “Oh?” Esme raises an eyebrow at me, and I shrug. “Welcome home, Es.” I say as the two of us hug Landon, as we share a loving look. The photo frame remains on the table, our smiles matching the ones we have right now. THE END


The sun momentarily blinded Eric as the door slammed shut behind him. He squinted around him and tried to locate Jon’s car, but none of the ones he could see matched the description Jon had given on the phone earlier that week. Eric sighed, sat on the low wall at the edge of the car park, and pulled his phone out of his pocket. It was so natural, even after not doing it for over a year. He pressed the power button, but nothing happened. He pressed it again, for longer this time, but the phone was dead. Of course it was; it had spent over a year sitting in a box at HMP Lincoln. A car pulled into the car park, and Eric looked up just as Jon opened the door and climbed out of the driver’s seat. He at least had not changed. The shaved head, holey jeans, and Doc Martens were just how Eric remembered his best friend. “Look at you,” Jon said. “You gained some muscles in there.” “I had some time to spare,” Eric said. “You’re not looking bad yourself.” Jon beamed and threw his arms around Eric, knocking the wind out of him as he clapped him on the back. “No luggage?” “Believe me; there’s nothing in that place I ever want to see again.” “Hop in then. Let’s get you some proper food, and then we can get you home.” Home. Eric didn’t know if he had one of those anymore. Before prison, his home had been a three-bedroom, semi-detached with his wife and daughter. Now it was Jon’s sofa. It had been that or his parent’s house, surrounded by the disappointed faces of the neighbours he had grown up around. Eric got in the car and sank into the seat, relishing the soft fabric taking his weight. Jon revved the engine and sped from the car park, giving Eric no chance to take a last look at the prison. For that, he was grateful. “Can I borrow your phone?” Eric asked. Jon grabbed it from his jacket pocket and unlocked it with his thumbprint before handing it over. Eric examined the screen for a few seconds, relieved that most of the apps were familiar, before opening the keypad and dialling the number of his old home. It rang several times, and he worried they were not home when there was a click, and a familiar voice filled his ear. “Hello?” “Hi, Felicity.” “Eric?” “Yeah, it’s me. How are you doing?” “I’m, oh god. I’m not ready for this.” Panic rose in him that she would hang up before he could ask the one question that had plagued him during his incarceration. If she hung up now, she almost certainly wouldn’t answer any calls from this number again. “I know, and I’m sorry for what I’ve put you through, but I have to know. How’s Bethany?” Felicity gave a small sigh. “She’s fine.” Relief. Pure relief that his daughter was OK flooded through him at these words. “Fliss, I want to see her,” Eric said. “That’s not going to happen, not yet.” “She’s my daughter, and I want to be there for her. I want to be in her life.” “Maybe you should have considered that before you chose drug dealing as your career. Eric, I don’t want that world anywhere near her, and if you cared about her at all, you wouldn’t either.” “I don’t, and I’m not part of that anymore, I swear. I’m going to do things properly this time, and I’m going to be a good father.” “Clean up your act; get an actual job, get your own place, and stay away from drugs. Then we can talk.” “I will. I promise you I can do all those things,” said Eric. He had another question he wanted to ask, but he wasn’t sure if he could bear to hear the answer. Putting it off wouldn’t help though, so he bit the bullet and asked. “Does she miss me?” “She stopped asking when you were coming home six months ago,” Felicity said. “But yes, she misses you.” Eric blinked rapidly to clear the tears forming in his eyes. He needed to wrap this up before he went to pieces. Just hearing Felicity’s voice reminded him of everything he had lost. They had only spoken a handful of times while he was behind bars up because it had been too hard for her, and as much as it had hurt, he couldn’t blame her. “I miss her too. I miss both of you.” “Eric, I have to go. Just, please, get your life together. Then we can talk about you seeing Bethany.” “OK,” he said. There was a click, and she hung up. Eric put Jon’s phone down between them and stared out of the window. There were so many trees; he had forgotten just how many there were out here. Maybe he could take Bethany somewhere with lots of trees to climb. She used to love that. “Sounds like the missus isn’t too pleased with you,” Jon said. “She won’t let me see Bethany, not yet, at least.” “She’ll come round. She always does.” “Yeah, maybe.” Eric resumed looking out of the window and enjoying the scenery that flew past them. He could go anywhere now, and the thought was dizzying. They rounded a corner and the sunlight that had hit him as he left the prison filled the car; it bathed him in warmth. Jon moved the sun visor down, presumably to see better, but a few seconds later, he gave a huff of breath. “Can you grab my sunglasses? They’re in the glove box.” Eric reached for the handle in front of him and pulled. The glove box was full of an assortment of things. There were gum wrappers, some with gum in and some empty, a tattered manual for the car, a screwdriver, and a glasses case, which he pulled out to retrieve the sunglasses. As he did so, he dislodged a small plastic bag behind it. The bag of identical pills fell into his outstretched hand like they had been waiting there just for him. He knew what they were and before he could stop himself he started counting them, calculating the street value. “Jon, what are you doing with these?” “Storing them. What does it look like?” “I thought you weren’t dealing anymore?” Jon chuckled as he grabbed the sunglasses from Eric’s lap and put them on. “Well, I wasn’t. I stopped for a couple of months after you got arrested. Kinda hit home a little, you know? But then I ran into Smithy one night at the pub and he said he knew someone who could get me these at amazing prices, so I couldn’t really say no, could I?” Eric didn’t answer, instead he stared at the pills in his hand. Just holding them was enough to remember the rush of dealing. How easy it was to find that world again. He had been a free man for less than an hour and already he had found a way back to his old life. “Look, I can hook you up with him,” Jon said. “I bet you could do with some money to get you started now that you’re out.” “I don’t know.” “Could get you back in Felicity’s good books if you can treat her to something nice? And Bethany too. You could get her anything she wanted in no time at all.” He could sell this many pills in a couple of days, less once he had some regulars again, and that money would cover the deposit on a place to rent. One of Felicity’s terms for seeing Bethany would be satisfied. Then again, he would also be doing the thing that had almost destroyed their relationship to begin with. If she knew, or even suspected, he was dealing again, then she was likely to take Bethany away from him for good. She would have no trouble convincing a judge that her drug dealing ex-con of a husband had no business being near her and her daughter. “I think I’ll pass for now.” Jon turned to him. His mouth was slightly parted in surprise and even with the sunglasses on, it was clear that his eyebrows were raised. “What did they do to you in there? Look, I get that it went wrong last time and I know that prison is no fun for anyone, but that was a one off. You’re going to need money now you’re out and this is the quickest way to get things back on track.” “Jon-“ “I’ll split my stash with you, ok? Call it a welcome back present to get you on your feet again.” “Jon, I-“ “I’ve got some people I can call to get this gear moved, then you can get your own gear and be back up and running again.” “Jon, pull over.” “Why? Are you travel sick?” It wasn’t the travelling that was making him feel sick. As Jon slowed the car and pulled into a layby, Eric’s mind was racing. He was being pulled in two different directions, and he knew he couldn’t go both ways. Drug dealing was easy money and a life he knew well, but he would probably lose his daughter forever. To keep Bethany in his life, he would need to make a completely fresh start, and that would be hard. He didn’t know if he had it in him. Eric gave the bag of drugs a long, hard look, and then threw them back into the glove compartment. He slammed it shut, undid his seat belt, and opened the door. The air here was fresher than the air outside the prison. He breathed in deeply and savoured it. Behind him, the car window opened. “Eric? You OK?” Jon asked. “Are you getting back in?” “No. No, I’m not.” Jon screwed his face up. “Why not?” “I’m going to walk.” “Eric, get in the car? Come on, I’ll take you wherever you need to go.” Eric smiled and took a step away from the car. “You’re not going where I’m going, Jon.” He walked away from the car, ignoring Jon’s shouts from behind him. This was the freest he had been in years. Twenty feet down the road Jon shot past him, gunning the engine. He didn’t care. His parent’s house was a long walk, but at least he was on the right path now.


Eventually She Will Crack ‘Wait, you got fired again ?’ ‘Yes. Do you have a lighter?’ Beverly reached over from the driving seat and sun in her glove compartment. She found a small silver lighter and handed it to Margot. ‘Thanks,’ said Margot, opening the car window and lighting the tip of her cigarette.

‘What for this time?’ Said Beverly, chancing glances between the road ahead and her sister in the passenger seat. ‘Punched my boss.’ ‘You what?’ Beverly’s shock took form in a lasting gaze at her sister, one that lingered a second too long, causing her to swerve violently off the curb and almost hit a mailbox. ‘Watch it, will you?’ Said Margot, clutching the door handle. ‘Did I hear that correctly? You punched your boss?’ ‘Yes, Bev,’ mumbled Margot. She could feel her older sister’s blazing blue eyes searching her like a floodlight seeking out rogue prisoners. ‘He put his hand up my skirt!’ Said Margot, finally. Beverly furrowed her brow. Her magenta stained lips opened and closed a few times, but she remained silent. Margot rolled the window open wider and laid her head against the edge, feeling the summer breeze flicker her hair. She had baked under the scorching sun while waiting for her sister to pick her up outside the tall glass building on Madison Avenue. The incident had occurred so quickly, all she could really remember was seeing the headline of newspaper on her boss’s desk: August 14, 1958. Manhattan Under Siege of Record Breaking Heat. Rather than ride the subway back to her apartment in Brooklyn, she called Bev from a payphone and requested a ride. Within the hour, Beverly pulled up the to curb among a stream of taxis in her husband’s new crimson Chrysler.

‘Well, that’s certainly awful,’ said Beverly. ‘But, Margot..’ ‘What?’ Said Margot, watching a young boy run along the sidewalk at the helm of his golden retriever.

‘You know you needed that job.’ ‘I know I did. But I also know my worth.’ ‘How are you going to pay for that apartment? You should’ve just stayed with Harry and I. We had that room all set up-‘ ‘What and listen to your baby cry all night? I’m sorry, Bev, but you know I like to work at night.’ ‘Work? Oh you mean that - that journal? God, I certainly don’t miss the clacking of that typewriter.’ ‘They’re not journals. They’re stories. And it is work. It’s work that I actually care about. I don’t want to be some flimsy secretary waiting on those awful men my whole life.’ ‘I was a secretary! That’s how I met Harry.’ ‘Oh, I know,’ said Margot.

‘All I’m saying is you have to start somewhere. You could’ve met your husband at that job and then never have to work again. Like me.’ ‘God forbid,’ mumbled Margot. ‘Look, what are you going to do for rent?’ Said Beverly as the car halted outside the low brick building where Margot lived. She turned toward her sister. ‘I suppose I’ll have to ask Mom,’ said Margot, sighing.

‘She won’t be happy, said Beverly, checking her reflection in the rearview mirror. She puckered her pink lips and cupped her hands under the buoyant blonde curls that hung just above her collarbone.

‘You know, it’s not as easy for me as it is for you,’ said Margot.

‘What do you mean?’ ‘You know what I mean.’ After lunch, Margot called her mother to inform her of the news.

‘Oh, Margot,’ sighed her mother. ‘Yes, I know. I hate to call like this.’ ‘Well, sure. Your father and I can help. But this is the last time. You need to learn to control your anger. Shall I set up another meeting with the pastor?’ ‘No, that won’t be necessary,’ said Margot, twirling the phone cord in her hands.

‘Well, if you’re not going to do that, I want you to attend a luncheon for the ladies.’ ‘A what?’ Said Margot. ‘Luncheon for the ladies. It’s a monthly get-together for some of the younger ladies in the Club. Bev usually goes, but she’s been too busy with the baby. You know, the Club struggles without an Elliot presence.’ ‘I sincerely doubt my attendance would alleviate that.’ ‘It’s next Sunday. Borrow a dress from your sister. I don’t want you going in those rags you call clothes.’ ‘Mom, I really don’t-‘ ‘Margot. You do this or no help from us. For crying out loud, it is just a luncheon. Those women are very well connected, you know.’ Margot hung up the phone and leaned against the fridge. Wiping the sweat from her forehead, she opened the fridge and dipped her face into the cold. The sweat trickled down her face as she made her way down the hallway into her bedroom. She yanked open the window, as the jeers and laughter of children playing the streets carried up the three stories.

She unzipped her dress and crawled out of it, eager to shed this unwanted skin. She kicked it to the corner of her room next to a suitcase still unpacked from the spring. She made her way to the bathroom, grabbing a small rag and dousing it under cold water from the sink. Wringing it of excess water, she slapped it on her face and sighed from relief. She was reminded of the summer of 1952 when Hidden Hills found new residents in the Elliot family. Roger Elliot was translating his professional promotion for a large four bedroom house in the affluent suburb just outside Manhattan. It is there that he and his wife moved with their two teenaged girls, one blonde, boisterous and blooming in her adolescence, the other, meagre, moody and muddling through hers. Margot spent that summer lounging by the fountain in the neighbourhood park, always a bottle of Coca Cola at her side. She met Joy that summer. The girl with the auburn hair to her waist and eyes green like emeralds who had appeared before Margot like a magnificent mirage and asked for a sip of the sweet, syrupy soda. Margot had dipped her feet in the fountain pool one afternoon, only to learn through Joy that she was immersed in water tainted by Timothy Taylor’s urine. Joy laughed as Margot grimaced at the repugnance of Timothy and in fact, of all the boys in the world.

The following Sunday, Margot grudgingly dressed in a purple laced number she borrowed from her sister. The dress, which accentuated Beverly’s figure, fell rather flat on her, like a musical note sung in the wrong tempo. Margot rode the subway into the city to Tally’s Tea Room, an establishment commonly referred on the tongues of the women of the social club. Margot lingered outside the window, anchored by her hesitation. She checked her reflection, smoothing down the flyaway stands too excited by the sweltering heat. Her face shone pallid and wet, especially against the starkness of her black hair. She wondered how she would look after a bottle of blonde dye.

‘Margot Elliot!’ Sung Mary Walton, throwing her arms out and dissolving Margot in her perfumed embrace. A tall, striking woman with broad shoulders and piercing eyes, Mary Walton wore an extravagant canary yellow dress with a matching hat the tilted, as to reveal only half of her glossy, porcelain face. ‘Hello,’ said Margot, mustering a smile.

‘Well, how long as it been?’ ‘Few years, I expect,’ said Margot. ‘I think the last time I saw you was back in school, wasn’t it?’ ‘I think you’re right.’ ‘Well, let me look at you!’ Mary held Margot at arm’s length and cast a slow vertical glance up and down her body. Her smile flickered as her gold lined eyes scanned every inch of Margot’s humble physical offerings. Margot knew what she was thinking. She was a stale teething biscuit smothered in sickeningly sweet purple frosting.

‘Anyway, come along,’ said Mary, linking her arm in Margot’s and leading her through the maze of small circular tables. ‘We’re just over there near the back!’ Surrounding the largest table in the room was a collective of women dressed in similarly dramatic outfits to Mary. Voluminous hats decorated in feathers, ribbons and lace were coupled with jewel toned dresses and matching satin gloves. Margot felt like Alice, suspended in a Wonderland crawling with Mad Hatters who survived on hollow conversations of husbands, child rearing and gossip.Though she folded her hands neatly in her lap and offered a polite, she struggled to keep her eyes open in the hot haze of perfume and saccharine scents. ‘We had to let our girl go,’ said Patty Molson, blowing steam from the top of her tea cup. ‘She keeps asking for Sundays off, but with Carson working extra in the city, I need full time help.’ ‘ Mmm, mhmm, mmm’, echoed the women in unison, nodding their heads in synchronicity.

‘Robert’s just bought a place in the city as well,’ said Linda Donaldson. ‘Our boys, they do work so hard, don’t they?’ ‘ Mmm, mhmm, mmm.’ Margot found herself drifting in the dreariness, when, a sudden draft from the front of the shop, accompanied by a tinkling of the door awoke her. She turned to find a woman running towards them, nearly knocking over a waiter carrying a tray of cakes. ‘Gosh, sorry!’ She breathed, laughing. He blushed as she laid a white gloved hand on his shoulder. With her long neck, dark eyes and light blonde hair pulled back in a loose knot, Margot thought she looked rather like a swan. ‘Oh, look who’s here,’ said Mary through her teeth.

‘Surprised she made it,’ said Patty under her breath. ‘Eve!’ She chirped as the woman arrived at the head of the table, gasping.

‘Sorry I’m late, ladies!’ Said Eve, peeling the white gloves off her hands and tossing them on the table. Margot chuckled as one of them landed in Barbara Atkins’ cup.

‘Not at all,’ said Barbara, frowning slightly as she pulled the glove out by one of the fingers and laying it down at Renee’s place setting.

‘It’s a scorcher, isn’t it?’ Said Eve, dabbing at her neck with a napkin and taking her spot across Margot. They eyes met for a moment before Margot, not unlike the waiter, blushed and dropped her gaze.

‘Indeed,’ said Mary, rolling her eyes straight into the dregs of her tea.

‘So,’ said Eve, reaching across the table and selecting a a few cucumber sandwiches from the tray. ‘What’re we all talking about?’ ‘Well,’ Mary cleared her throat and flipped back her hair. ‘Patty’s just had to fire her girl. So hard to find reliable people these days.’ ' Mmm, mhmm, mmm.’ ‘Have you hired someone yet?’ Said Patty. ‘Me? Oh no,’ said Eve. ‘Don’t need it.’ ‘Even after…’ said Linda. ‘The divorce?’ Said Eve, a smiling creeping on her face.

‘You’re divorced?’ Said Margot, the words tumbling out of her before she could stop them. ‘Yes,’ said Eve, biting the tip of her sandwich. ‘It didn’t last very long. Just long enough for me to find out why he’d been spending all those late nights in the city.’ A nervous shifted spread around the table, ending and beginning with Mary who coughed lightly and called for the waiter to bring more tea. He lowered a tray carrying a teapot, and several saucers, the contents of which Eve dipped her finger and brought to her tongue. ‘Mmm, Chantilly.’ She said, exchanging a smile with Margot who burned her mouth on a fresh pour of tea.

‘Cigarette?’ ‘Sorry? ‘Would you like one?’ Eve leaned against the hood of her car at the corner, halting Margot from her walk back to the subway. ‘Sure,’ said Margot, joining Eve by the Buick. She took the cigarette and held it to her mouth while Renee leaned in and put the flame to the end. ‘Thank you.’ ‘So, you’re new to the Club,’ said Eve. Margot nodded. ‘Favour to my mother.’ ‘Ah. Bev’s sister, right?’ ‘Right.’ ‘You two are so different.’ ‘I’ve been told that.’ ‘That’s not a bad thing,’ said Eve. ‘I suppose that’s her dress too?’ ‘Oh,’ said Margot, crossing one arm against her chest. ‘Is it that obvious?’ ‘No, you look nice,’ said Eve. ‘Just doesn’t look like something someone like you would pick out for herself.’ ‘Someone like me?’ Eve smiled, then squinted her eyes against the blinding sun. ‘This heat is unbearable. I can’t stand it.’ She rummaged in her purse, pulled out a pair of cat-eyed sunglasses and perched them neatly on her nose. Margot looked up at the sun, cupping a hand over her eyes.

‘Are you hungry?’ Said Eve suddenly.

‘We just ate,’ said Margot. ‘Oh, please. My cat eats more than that. Don’t tell me you got full from those little cucumber things?’ ‘I guess not,’ said Margot, laughing. ‘Come on,’ said Eve, crossing to the driver’s seat of the convertible. ‘Hop in! Do you like burgers?’ ‘Sure.’ ‘I know a great little place. It’s a bit of a drive though, do you mind?’ ‘No,’ said Margot. ‘I don’t mind at all.’ Off the road that bridged the city from the suburbs was a quaint diner called “Lucky’s”. Margot waited in the car at Eve’s insistence to order the food for them. Margot’s eyes crawled about the car, gathering as much evidence as she could in her attempt to explain the enigma that was Eve. A napkin with a lipstick imprint sat crumpled at her feet. Behind her, in the backseat, was a pair of kitten heals, newspaper and a road map.

‘Margot!’ Eve stood at the front of the restaurant, waving her over. ‘There’s a table under some shade back her. I think it’ll be more comfortable than the car, don’t you?’ The women took their trays and headed to a small table behind the restaurant, covered by the shade of a birch tree. Eve removed her glasses and laid them on the table next to her purse. Under the shade, the outer rings of her eyes glittered hazel under long curled eyelashes. She tucked the loose strands of her hair behind her ears and wrapped her thin fingers around the burger. Margot thought it was rather charming; the heaping sandwich in such delicate hands.

Margot picked up a fry and nibbled at the end. Eve pushed the tray towards her. ‘You have to try the burger and tell me what you think.’ ‘Fine, fine,’ said Margot, carefully unwrapping the foil. ‘Wow, it’s incredible.’ ‘Isn’t it? Oh,’ Eve grabbed a napkin and reached across the table, dabbing Margot’s mouth with it. Margot, startled, flinched and darted backwards. ‘Sorry,’ said Eve. ‘You just had a bit of…Sorry,’ she handed the napkin to Margot.

Margot wiped her mouth, careful to avoid Eve’s eye. She hadn’t meant to recoil at Eve’s touch. It just happened so quick, like burning her mouth on hot tea. ’So, how do you know Mary and the ladies?’ Margot said, finally spurred by her mounting guilt.

‘Through my ex-husband. He grew up with them. I think that’s why they resent me so. A lot of them were hoping they would be Mrs. Michael Murphy.’ ‘How did you meet him?’ ‘Through work. I used to be something of an actress. He cast me in my first commercial. I was so flattered back,’ she laughed and shook her head. ‘Now, I realize that that was just his hunting grounds and I was just another doe-eyed fool.’ ‘Do you still act?’ Said Margot. ‘No,’ Eve wiped her hands with a napkin and crumpled it into a ball. ‘That ended after I had my son.’ ‘Oh. You have children?’ ‘Just the one. He wasn’t planned.’ ‘I see. Happy accident I guess, then.’ Eve paused. ’Yes,’ she said, quietly. ‘Very happy.’ Margot unscrewed the cap from her soda bottle and took a sip. ‘Funny story. My first ever commercial was for Coca Cola,’ said Eve, her eyes resting on the bottle in Margot’s hand. ‘Really? Must feel a little special every time you drink it now.’ ‘A little bit. You always remember your first, after all.’ Eve nudged Margot’s foot with hers. Margot wondered whether this was intentional or not. Regardless, she felt tickled by the feather of a familiar bird, one that hadn’t visited her in a long timed, and yet, one that she recognized immediately.

‘Would you like some?’ Margot handed the bottle to Eve, who took the bottle from her and raised it to her lips. ‘So, what do you do?’ Said Eve, taking a long swig. ‘Oh. Well.’ Margot looked up, searching the sky as if the answer would fall out of it. ‘Not much of anything right now.’ ‘That sounds lovely.’

‘It’s pathetic, isn’t it.’ ‘No, really! You’re not tied down to anything. You’re free to explore, learn, do whatever you want. It’s where every girl ought to be. Not in some stifling tea room sucking on sugar cubes with women drunk on their own misery.’ ‘Why do you go to those things, anyway?’ Said Margot. ‘You’re quite different from them.’ ‘Honestly, I go for the laugh. They’re so uptight, I like to poke and tease them and see if they break. Chip away at the china long enough, eventually it’ll crack.’ Eve let out a light hiccough and, her cheeks flushing, patted a hand to her chest. Margot began to laugh. It fell out of her, gaining in rapturous uproar with very breath.

‘What’s so funny?’ Said Eve, staring at Margot. Margot wiped her eyes with her hands, but every attempt to stifle her laughter simply aggravated it.

‘What?’ Said Eve, now crossing her arms and arching her eyebrows. ‘Are you laughing at me?’ ‘No!’ Said Margot, raising her hands and waving them. ‘No. I just-‘ ‘What?’ ‘I - I’ ‘Well? Tell me!’ ‘I feel it,’ said Margot, catching her breath and letting the tears trickle down her cheeks.

‘You feel what?’ ‘Joy.’


Twenty-eight years ago, my life was swept up into a tornado. The winds came on almost without warning, blowing around everything in my predictable world. I knew it was coming. I had seen the forecast. But I had no idea how dramatic its impact would be. It was weeks away from the birth of my first child, but I thought I had it all under control. The baby’s room, painted a serene shade of yellow to accommodate any gender, was in perfect order. Stacks of newborn diapers and freshly washed baby clothes and blankets sat neatly folded on the dresser. We had researched all the newest gadgets, and my husband was already a pro at clicking the car seat into the car and opening and closing our top-rated designer stroller. Our family and friends were counting the days until they could come and meet the newest member of our family. I felt the winds of change start to blow as I said goodbye to my co-workers, leaving my office for the last time with a carload of baby gear and well wishes. The days that followed were spent preparing for the delivery, each day spinning me faster toward an unknown future. It was too late to run, or do anything to change the trajectory.

Then the big day arrived. My son was born and the tornado that had been looming crashed into my cozy life, pulling me and my husband into its vortex. We twisted and twirled our way up, running too quickly to see what was happening on the outside. It was exciting and scary, joyful and chaotic, as we entered a ride that seemed to have no beginning and no end. We were sucked in further with each passing day. We whirled and bumped our way through the first month, a total blur of cuddles and diapers and sleepless nights, and then the first year.  Sometimes it felt as if we were holding on, adjusting to the rapid changes in our lives. At other times we were spinning way too fast. Everything in our midst was spinning along with us, shifting and changing at a dizzying pace. At times, running us ragged. We would catch momentary glimpses of the world we left behind. Sometimes we could reach out and touch it. Other times it was nowhere to be seen. After a while, we adjusted to the constant turmoil, but with the birth of my daughter two years later, the tornado picked up speed, and the spinning chaos increased. We loved our little family but were constantly running in circles trying to maintain it – to keep things from spinning out of control. Occasionally, my husband would swirl past me, but then disappear again, off on his own journey -- usually at the first sound of a crying baby. As the years passed, we careened toward a big house with its jumbo mortgage, a utility vehicle with three rows, and a revolving door of school plays, dance recitals and music lessons. Our kids were the axis of the tornado, with us and every decision in our lives revolving around them. We raced through their childhood, and just barely made it through the twists and turns of adolescence. Then as our children reached their mid-teens, we sensed them trying to spin off on their own. It was gratifying yet unsettling, as they kept crashing back into us, rejoining the safety of the familiar before flying off again. Then, after years of preparations that didn’t even begin to make me feel ready, my son went off to college. The tornado slowed a bit. I could almost see the world around me, but not quite. His leaving was just a dry run. Two years later, my daughter left for college and the tornado sputtered and finally lost energy, dropping me into my large and now empty house. I felt calm and quiet for the first time in years, as the spinning stopped. The tornado had run out of gas, but it appears we all landed safely. I missed the constant turmoil, yet at the same time I felt drawn to the peacefulness of this clean, empty space. There was a distant sense of familiarity about my surroundings.

I took a good look around me, and there was a man in the house, my husband. He was sitting in a chair, clutching the armrest and eyeing his surroundings cautiously. He looked wind-blown and disheveled, and I imagined that’s how I looked too. I didn’t really know this man, and it occurred to me that I could simply turn away from him, revel in the peacefulness and the stillness by myself. But the house already felt way too quiet, and he seemed as bewildered and confused as I did. Maybe we could figure out how to co-exist in this large space that seemed to echo with the sound of voices that were no longer there. We knew each other before the tornado arrived, but that felt like another lifetime. I turned to him, unsure what to say. It has been years since we had really talked, and I searched my memory for something. “Hi,” I said, my voice sounding small in the large space.

He turned and looked at me for the first time, assessing my presence in this new reality. “Hi.” He scratched his head before adding, “Are you hungry?” I looked at my watch, and my stomach growled. “Yeah, I am. What should we do for dinner tonight?” The words felt foreign as they echoed in the empty room.

He considered my question. “We can try that new Italian place downtown.” My answer came from someplace deep inside me, from some alternate reality. “Okay, want to head out a little early? Then we can try to catch a movie afterwards.” Wait, I thought. A movie? When was the last time I watched one of those on a big screen?  Do I need to be home for anything? Do I have the time for this? And then I remembered, and my body relaxed. “Sure,” the man said, his voice lighter. And so, we began picking up the pieces, the remnants of the storm, and gradually returning to something vaguely resembling the life we had before. We were tired from our journey, and just a little bit bruised. But despite the tumult of the past 20 years, it had been a good run.

Eight years have now passed since we dropped from the tornado, and on occasion the winds pick up again, and I feel the fear and exhilaration that come with an impending storm. The kids roll in with friends and boyfriends and sometimes a load of laundry, and the house is alive again, humming and spinning in joyful chaos, but it never lasts long enough. They return to their apartments and jobs, and their independent lives. I feel unsettled each time they leave, never quite able to re-adjust to the stillness. But for the most part, I’m glad to have my feet planted firmly on the ground knowing that, for better or for worse, the storm has run its course.


At first glance, the Commission’s waiting room looked similar to the lobby of every hospital that Emil had ever visited. Its design was clean and minimalist, with seats arranged around the walls and a wide reception desk opposite the front door.

The only difference was that a heavy, see-through barrier completely encircled the top of the desk, with rectangular openings near the bottom that seemed secured, from the inside, by a series of complicated-looking latches. Busy with keyboards and touchpads, the people behind it barely looked up when they entered. They had brought him here in handcuffs, with a full escort of four field agents. All were covered from head to toe in protective gear—bulky, grey suits made of something that looked like Kevlar.

And, of course, they were armed to the teeth.

After their arrival, two of them left. The others stayed behind. Although they faced the same direction as him, one at the right and the other at the left, Emil couldn’t tell if they were looking at him through those thick visors.

There were chairs in that lobby, but it felt awkward to sit down while the agents stood. At the same time, he didn’t want to appear threatening. After a moment of indecision, Emil decided to—very slowly—sit down in the nearest seat by the wall. To make himself appear as small and insignificant as possible. He was still trying to do this when a man came out holding a clipboard. “Mr. Sarkozy, right?”

The man sounded brisk, almost casual, as though Emil wasn’t cuffed and accompanied by an armed escort. He was of average height, with sharp features and a pair of rectangular glasses. Maybe in his thirties. The getup was just as ordinary: lab coat, black pants, a plain white shirt. But his tie was a startling shade of purple. It drew the eye. “Uh, Emil,” he managed to stutter. The man extended a hand—gloved, Emil noticed. “Sanjay Varma. Nice to meet you.” Then, he seemed to notice the handcuffs. Varma looked over at the field agents. “Do we really need these?” One of them lowered her visor. Emil could see that she was a young woman, with thick brown eyebrows and a serious expression. “The higher-ups thought it was for the best. We still don’t know the extent of his abilities. You were briefed on what he did, right? They must have sent pictures , he thought. A sick feeling dropped through his stomach. “Wait,” Emil said. Even to his own ears, his voice sounded far too quiet. He cleared his throat. “Wait, you don’t understand. I— I was trying to help .” The moment he said it, he realized how often they must have heard the exact same excuse. The agent gave him a look that might have been pity. Varma only peered at him curiously. Then, he smiled. A little too quickly. “No worries. You’ll have plenty of time to explain. I’m going to ask you some questions, Emil.” “Right here?” The agent glanced at the people behind the reception desk, then shot him a concerned look. Aside from them, there was no one else in the lobby. “Are you authorized for that, Dr. Varma?” “Just for now—until we’re cleared for a holding cell.” He turned the same smile on her. “It’s fine, Agent Costello. Won’t take long.” “If you say so.” Varma looked back at Emil, who was in the middle standing up. He stared him straight in the eyes. “I think you’d better stay seated. Sudden movements set our agents on edge. Not that they’re trigger-happy—but I’d play it safe if I were you.”

His tone remained casual. He was still smiling, brisk and unmalicious.

Neither was terribly reassuring. Emil nodded anyway. He sat back down, slowly.

There was a certain quality to Varma’s eyes that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. A sweeping, searchlight quality. Like he was looking for something. The image blinked into Emil’s mind: an incandescent lightbulb. It reminded him of that. Those outdated ones that they’d learned about in school, lit by the sheer intensity of the heat they generated.

He took a seat in the chair next to Emil’s, glanced down at his clipboard, and clicked a pen.

“Ready?” Emil swallowed. “Sure.” “First question. When did you become aware of your Emergence?” Panic pushed static fingers into his skull. Would he be punished for hiding it for so long? They had to get other cases like this—why couldn’t he remember what had happened to those people? “...Twelve,” he said quietly. “I mean, I was twelve. I used it on… on a cat. And a guinea pig. By accident.” “Ah.” Varma didn’t sound outraged, at least. He just nodded and jotted something down on the clipboard. “And did you tell anyone? Your parents? Friends?” “No.” “Hm.” More jotting. “What about experiments?” Emil blinked. “...Sorry?” “Practicing with your powers?” “No,” Emil said quickly, shaking his head. “Nothing like that. The first time was… enough.” Full stop. Varma turned and gave him a look of faint surprise. Does he not believe me? But after a few seconds, all he said was: “Huh. And you weren’t curious? About the limitations?” Emil stared at him. “Maybe a little, but…” He cut himself off, searching Varma’s eyes for anything resembling an understanding of what he was trying to convey. All he found was that same glittering intensity. “But it worked on— living things .” “Right, of course.” Varma gave a dry chuckle. “Responsible of you. It’s just... common, you know. People get so excited about these things.” Maybe if they’re not me . Emil nodded numbly. “Okay, last question,” Varma continued, glancing up again. “Well, for the preliminary round. Aside from the pets and frat boys—did you ever use it on anyone else?” Emil froze. “...Yeah,” he forced himself to say. “There was this—ice cream truck driver. But I swear it was an accident. I was trying to keep him from being hit by this car when he was fixing the roof, and—”

Emil took a breath. “Look, I know this doesn’t sound… believable , but aside from those three times, I’ve never used it. I don’t even fully understand it. If they weren’t about to hurt themselves back at that party, I would never have—” “I know,” said Varma. It sounded strangely genuine.

Then he was getting up and striding over to someone else who had just walked in—a young woman, also dressed in a lab coat, with her hair in rows of short braids and neon-green frames on her glasses. They spoke in hushed tones.

“You’ve been cleared for a holding cell,” said Agent Costello. Emil started. They were the only words she had spoken to him so far.

“Uh, thanks.” He was about to stand before he remembered. “Can… Can I get up now?” “You should.” Emil pulled himself up from the chair. His wrists already ached from the cuffs, but now his shoulders felt the strain of sitting in that position. Costello and her partner were already starting down a hallway further into the building, behind Varma and the young woman.

And so, lacking other options, he followed them as well.


I read the email once. Or… maybe twice? Or maybe I am just staring at the words for a while. I close the tab and take a deep breath, reaching for my coffee. It’s cold, I think. Nelly must have picked it earlier today. My gaze falls on the papers stacked carefully on the right side of my office; the cases for today. Five folders. One is bigger than the others. That’s because I’ve been working longer with this client. He is scheduled for 9:00 am, I remember scheduling the appointment with him last week. He came right after Oliver left. “Ms. Hudson, I just got the email and-”, Nelly stops in her tracks, her voice softer now. “Are you alright?” I hadn’t noticed the tear, that had now fallen on our 9 o’ clock patient’s folder. I simply close the dampened papers and smile at her with glassy eyes. “Well, you know how those things are. You are always prepared for these incidents, but that doesn’t make it less difficult to process.” I shift in my chair, fidgeting with the hem of my jacket. “You sound calm, but your actions suggest otherwise.”, she nods at my hands, a smirk ghosting her lips. A small laugh – that I much needed – escaped my mouth, letting more tears fall from the sudden movement. “Trying to psychoanalyze the psychologist, young apprentice?”, I tease her. Standing from my chair to get a tissue, I feel her eyes narrowing down my movements. “To answer your previous question, no. I am not okay, but I’ll manage. These things happen.” I turn my back on her and fix my eyes on the view outside the window. “You can’t hold yourself accountable for them.”, I whisper to Nelly. Or to myself. My first client came and left. So did the other four. Despite my emotional state, this is work. It always has been. The sessions were all promising for each patient and the same program was scheduled for next week. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow?”, I smile sadly at Nelly. “Yeah, tomorrow…”. We leave the office, both fully aware that tomorrow we are not going to see each other at work. After putting my son to sleep - with extra hugs and goodnight stories – I feel strong hands wrapping around my waist and a head resting on my shoulder. “What are you doing spying on our boy?”, I chuckle at his joke, but the smile didn’t quite reach my ears. “I’m just watching him sleep. Dream. Breath.” He turns me around slowly, making me face him; my beautiful husband. His hands move to cup my face, his thumb drawing small circles of comfort and love on my cheek. A sigh leaves my lips and I kiss his hand. “Come on.”, he whispers softly. “Let’s get you to bed.” I didn’t exactly sleep. I didn’t sleep at all actually. Of course, I told Alex what happened and he made sure to comfort me in ways only he could. But I guess that worked temporally. In my dreams, all I could see was him. No, them. The first time we met. I hold myself back to not fangirl over his- their hoodie and instead saying “Let me guess, ‘You are Chandler and you’re making awkward jokes when you’re uncomfortable?’”. It was all I needed to break the ice with them. You need that with teenagers. They didn’t share much at first. They had humor and that was very helpful. It’s always beautiful for a therapist to watch someone slowly open up. To notice how in each session people walk out as in someone pulled a little more weight of their shoulders. But we do know, as therapists, that most of the times, things will get worse before they get better. Some manage to pull through. Some not. I’m thinking all of that again here, now. The atmosphere is heavy. As if the weather knows, it started drizzling ten minutes ago. There are so many people in the ceremony, all holding their umbrellas and wearing big sunglasses. Even though there is no sun. I get it. They cover the pain. If one of us see the pain in the other’s eyes, we’d get physically hurt. I don’t believe in the whole be-strong-and-tough-with-no-emotions act though. This is the time, in a ceremony like this, that society lets people to mourn. To feel deeply. To say goodbye. But, saying goodbye to such a young soul seems unfair. No one wants to say it. Their family are shaking everyone’s hand and thanking them for coming. Until I reached them, my heart was racing a thousand miles per hour. A tiny part of me was still afraid, that they were going to blame me, even though they made it very clear they didn’t, when they invited me yesterday. I wonder, if that fear is, because I blame me. I stand in front of them, looking at a pair of very tired people. Tired from sleepless nights. From crying. From wondering if they did something different, maybe they could help him more. I try to speak and my throat closes. I desperately want to say sorry. But I mustn’t. It is not my fault. Instead, I manage to say “I’m so sorry for your loss.” with a shaky breath. Suddenly, the mother leans forward and hugs me tightly. Lovingly. “Thank you so much. You helped him… them, as much as you could. Never – ever! – let yourself think differently.”, she whispers. I can hear my heart shutter. Correction; I can hear it gluing itself back together. Maybe it was the words. Or the hug was so tight that she fixed it. I hug her back, professionalism leaving my mind immediately. All that was left was me, her and the care we had for them.  Finding Nelly in the crowd, we decide to stand together for a while, all the other people going to the coffee house across the street. The rain had stopped now, the scent of wet grass everywhere. The stone in front of us looks heavier than the others around us. It feels like I carry a small part of it. “Do me a favor, Nelly, would you?”. My young assistant nods gently at my unmoving gaze. I can’t stop looking at their name. “Schedule me an appointment with Dr. Lang. I … I need a session.” “Of course.”. She pulls at her phone as I make my way closer to the gray stone.  “Goodbye kid.”. I brush my fingertips over the engraved name; Oliver / Ver Mathews.