I'm just an ordinary High School kid, I have a group of friends since I've known since I could walk, I'm on the school's basketball team, and I 100% have amazing grades. Except there's one tiny little secret I've kept from everyone since the start, I'm gay. Nobody in my family or school knows, I've just been afraid of coming out since I realized, I was afraid i would be rejected by society. I heard Mr. Hayward, my former neighbor started to be more open about his sexual orientation, right after he posted a rainbow flag in his front yard. It backfired once the entire neighborhood turned against him and he had to move, so I just didn't want that happening to me. I have dated plenty of girls before, but it just never felt right to me, I guess it was just me trying to cover up the fact that i was gay to begin with. There was the stereotypical cheerleader, Veronica, then there was the book nerd, Emily, I should probably just stop though. "Jason! Get your ass down here and get breakfast before you're late to school!" It was mom, she was a cheerleader back in her day, dad was the quarterback, a classic teenage couple. I quickly ran down the stairs, making my way down to the kitchen, mom was cooking, so obviously it wasn't going to be good food. "Grab the breakfast burrito-" "Sorry mom, suddenly not hungry, see you after school." I grabbed my backpack and kissed her goodbye. It's the same every morning, Mom is up making a horrible breakfast, and dad is at work, he works constantly, sometimes I feel like he won't even come back from his job. I was struggling to get my car turned on for whatever reason, until I eventually did, music is something that helps me get through the day, it's something that is fun, helpful, relaxing, but also can be a sort of therapy. So I enjoy playing some on the way to school, as I was opening Spotify, I got a message from an unknown number, I was about to block the contact until I stopped and thought for a moment, Whats the harm in saying something? which was stupid. Though, I did it anyways, I texted the number. Hi! Sorry, You must've gotten the wrong number. With that, I closed my phone. Awaiting a response, I don't know, maybe it's just me, but believing in the whole "meant to be" nonsense is something I just don't do, but suddenly I considered it. Maybe this wrong number thing, was a sign, or I could've just been being stupid. What if this person behind the screen could be someone just like me? Someone who I can understand? What if, I could share so many things in common with this person, we become friends. So I was determined for this mystery human to reply. I woke up the next morning, staring at my phone, basically every two seconds. I just couldn't look away from it. I was positive this person was going to respond, sure, it was a 1 in a million chance, but it was still something. I feel like the only reason I wanted to message them in the first place was because I wanted to communicate with someone about my secrets without them knowing who I was, without them having the opportunity to tell anyone. I worry, constantly about what I'm telling someone and who I'm telling it to, because if something major like that about me were to get out I would be in deep, too deep you wouldn't even be able to pull me back out. So many people would make my life hell, I would be rejected just like Mr. Hayward, kicked out of my neighborhood and disliked by everyone I know. Sometimes just the thought of it makes me want to simply die, maybe all of the lying would just stop in heaven or hell. I don't care how it would happen i just wanted it to happen often, because of the guilt. I haven't ever tried anything, and I really hope i never do or ever plan to, so i hope this spring break goes well. ding! "shit!" I softly yell, I quickly grab my phone and see that the person responded. Oh, My bad. I'm sorry about that. I pause for a moment before typing out a new message. No worries, I'm Jason, You are? Zane, Nice to meet you, Jason. I smiled proudly to myself, finally happy i made a new acquaintance. After Spring Break I would say maybe around 2 weeks ago, this number suddenly texted me. I had planned to just block them and walk away, but i instead did the complete opposite. I befriended the number. I've learned the person on the other side of the screen goes to Queens High School like me, He's a Junior, Like me, and He's gay, Like me. We haven't revealed who we are to each other, yet. Sure, he knows my name, but there's at least more than 3 Jason's at our school, same with Zane's. I guess it's just out of fear I haven't said who i specifically am, I'm scared, for sure. I haven't even come out to my parents yet, let alone my friends, but around him, around Zane, even if it was online, it made me feel better. I know they say it's stupid to fall in love through the internet, because you don't even know the person, but I felt something I never did with anyone else with Zane, with Zane I felt joy, with Zane I felt love. If I hadn't responded to that message on that exact day, I wouldn't have met him, some say love stories start off at a coffee shop, or at a homecoming game, It's just always "meant to be" no matter the place, you're but destined for each other no matter what, the excuse is always "it was true love" or something sappy like that, but for me, it started with a wrong number.


Now me. Why turning back? There's no turning back. Why fear when get a golden chance! Thought Rose to herself. Then too she was soo pale.. She turned red with fear. She had never been to rocket nor space why not even in a aeroplane. Her stomach was tied in knots. Her hands and legs were tumbling with extreme fear. From the spacestation now they're calling her the 5th time. She did not know what to say nor do. She took the phone they asked her that when will she reach? Did she left from her house? She only said yes with her lips shaking. There were many questions left....what if her oxygen finished at the space? What if she fell from the moon? What if she have a headache and unending silly questions .she then took a deep breath and told to herself that... You will make it ☺. You will go. You are brave, strong and smart. Fear is not told for you. Then again from the spacestation they called, asked when Will she reach?. She said that she will be there In a couple of min. As soon as she kept the phone she ran to her car did not forget to lock the house🙃 and went to the spacestation for here her new adventure begins. There was a small fear but she let it go.. As she entered the space her with her heart beating she smiled. As it took hours and hours for her she thought that it would take millions of hour to reach there or space. She suddenly slept as she woke she could not believe what she was seeing. The universe is. amazing and unique she said to herself. All her fear and hiding and trembling went waste she thought. She kept that smile on her lips as she floated in the rocket. She ate the food by floating.As to reach the moon it took them nearly a month (it is future) the moon was absolutely stunning. She said to her co-comers that she cannot walk they told that in moon walking is not applicable the should jump walk.she said finally I'm in the moon where everyone dreams of I am lucky I cannot believe that I have reached till the moon said rose to self. With her inner body dancing she jumped walked in the moon. She could not wait to go back and tell her friends, family, relatives and neighbours the story. As she walked she saw holes in the moon but she remembered studying in school that moon has many holes. Her joy bound no lines when one of the head of the grp said that they are heading back. With heavy heart she took her last foot from moon and placed in the rocket. While going she thought that how fool she was to because she had got many chances before this trip and she said no to it😒.she remembered that she hid herself in the house with fear of coming to space. They left the moon 1 more month In the rocket thought she. This is what i feared the most and which I know love the most. the scene in the space which is a variety the look of the earth from moon which is splendid and till reaching here fear was a barrier that blocked me from reaching here I was a fool to let it block me for a long time rose said to herself. She decided to write a book splendid on moon and another on fear. She smiled as she again floated on the rocket. She thought that why did she feared coming here.. Its because she read about space attacks and disasters. She then spend her time looking out and completely lost in space. Her good days were coming. She won't let her fear take her. They were nearing earth only 10 days were left she felt sorrow while coming she was filled with fear but while going she was filled with sorrow.happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy as ever she said to herself. due to fear once again if she had rejected then she could never see this marvelous space and come here as adventure. Space is wonderful and I have been thinking about the possibility of having a party with family, friends everyone as this occasion. The last pic is a bit different from the ones taken she looked through the pics and said. So please tell me what you think it is she Said to one of her co-comer happily. As the trip lasted only a day rose sang a song for all of them they all appreciated her because it was marvelous singing. They all said that they met many people in these days in their trip but the trip with u is more fascinating.she never felt more happy.she too said that this trip was wonderful as she slept.when she woke she was in her planet earth her moon trip and her all fears were over as she kept her first foot on earth after three months. She felt relieved and happy. She then that night stayed there as she was so tiered and sleepy. The next morning as she left for her home she invited her co-comers of the moon trip for a lunch. She went to her home she did a round of dance and shared all. Her pics in the social media and how this trip changed her life. She sent a message that fear conquers our desires. This is what I learned typed rose. Rose narrated the whole story to her friends, family, relatives and neighbours till she saw their all jealousy faces for not being selected. Her mother and father applauded her for her sudden change and being mature leaving all her fears for small and big situations. She thought that how lucky she is and she kept the smile of hers in her lips. How fascinating is life is'nt it. #THE TURN🙃


Chemical warfare in the Asian jungles. Man on the Moon. Data accumulating by the terabyte in a mainframe world; satellites taking up ever-more stratospheric real estate, prepped one day to ruin the neighborhood one strike, one leak, one tech sociopath at a time.

“Oh my God,” I proclaimed, awestruck in the presence of a genuine ‘60s technological marvel. “Looka this.” A millennimom skirted away toward the chick-lit-heavy book box at the lip of the casita’s two-car garage. Sarah reluctantly abandoned the sheet-metal lawn ornaments, and I shook the Ziploc bag as she sidled past the bibliophile. They clonked – a solid, metallic, Clint Eastwood when America used to by-god MAKE things clonk. “Remember the Thingmaker?” I enthused as my life partner regarded my find and then me with what I can only describe as reptilian apathy. “You’re ruining the moment.” “Oh, my,” Sarah said. “What marvelous treasure have you uncovered?”  “Thingmaker molds. Creepy Crawlers and Fright Factory and, oh my God, one of the soldier molds.” “I can see I’m getting power of attorney far earlier than planned. Fine, what is a Thingmaker, and what things does it make?” “Oh, gee, everything . You had like this hot plate thing that got up to, I don’t know, maybe 1,000 degrees, and you poured this no-doubt toxic goop into the mold and made a bug or a soldier or a set of vampire teeth…” “Another piece of the puzzle falls into place. And you used this thing – Thingmaker – where? The kitchen, an asbestos-lined laboratory?” “My room, of course. There were tongs,” I emphasized. “Once I figured out what the tongs were for.” “How did you survive childhood?” “Probably the bastards at the Consumer Product Safety Commission – thank you, Richard Nixon.” I turned toward the cash table. “Uh, ma’am?” “Not if you want gyros today,” Sarah advised, and returned to the razor-sharp metal flowers. The See ‘N Say at the back of the card table was in solid if not mint condition, the original ‘60s sun-yellow Farmer Says model, before they yanked the pull string for a slots lever and jammed a computer chip in the thing. I waited for Millenimom to breeze past with her booty, then cranked the red arrow to roughly 8 o’clock and gently tugged the yellowed plastic pull ring. What it belched up was not what the cow said. Ever. I gave a few more critters a spin, with equal results, then waited for Sarah to cart her death flowers to the SUV before placing the device before the late-bloom boomer. She smiled as she lifted it by the handle to consult a strip of masking tape on the base. “Boy, I used to play with this thing all the time. About drove Mom and Dad bug-nutty. In fact, I thought my folks had gotten rid of this 50 years ago. But my brother found boxes of all kinds of crap out in Apache Junction after my mom died a couple months back.” “Sorry.” “Nah. You know what, it’s about noon. Why don’t you just take it for your grandkids?” I averted eye contact. “Hey, thanks. The Thingmaker yours, too?” “Oh, shit, no. My brother almost burned the fucking house down with the thing.” ** Luckily, we got through the gyros and falafel and basmati without incident – when I got to the car with my prize, Sarah was bolstering the Ugly American image for our prescription helpline guy, so I stashed the See ‘N Say in the cargo hold under my rainy-day windbreaker. It was laundry day, however, and short of simply declaring “Tada!” at the unveiling, I had no choice but to play the pig card. “What the hell even is that?” Sarah murmured. ** “It was kind of a fucking technological miracle back in the day,” Owen breathed. It was not a great breath, and I wasn’t sure whether it was the age, the girth, the bowl of dead butts next to the antique register. He looked like David Cosby and Neil Young’s love child, surrounded by bears that cared, dolls raised by cabbages, Barbies who’d never left the box, and every vintage board game that had ever ended with my sisters and I eye-gouging over fake stakes. The proprietor of Junction Collectables and Curiosities tapped the casing of my Farmer Says with his mini-screwdriver, his fingerless bike gloves creaking slightly. “It’s a pretty cool gizmo – inside, there’s a plastic disk lot like an old gramophone record. Each of the 12 sound waves is embossed on the disk and stored in concentric tracks. Fortunately, he’d chosen to crack heavily-used existing inventory, and he displayed a now-off-white disk with diagonal grooves along the outer edge. “Those are the starting points for the 12 concentric tracks,” Owen explained, growing a little too excited. “This metal needle rides in one of the grooves depending on where you point the pointer. The ‘chatty’ cord, like they call it, lifts the needle, pulls it out to the edge of the disk, and winds a brass spring that turns the disk. See that plastic cone over the whole deal? The needle transmits the vibrations embossed in the ‘record’ to that T-shaped plastic piece it’s embedded in, and it transfers them to the cone speaker through that red dingle at the top. Pretty awesome. Right?” “Mm,” I said in an ostensibly awestruck manner. “How tough to replace the disk?” Owen leaned perilously back on his wooden stool and snagged a Styrofoam cup of coffee that looked cold and oily, from among a scattering of Styrofoam cups. “Anybody today with any reasonable mechanic skills could rejigger this thing, maybe even use a 3-D printer to reproduce that disk. But I assume this recording was made in the ‘60s or ‘70s. Still don’t want me to open ‘er up?” “Eh,” I reiterated. The guy surely knew what he was doing, and I wasn’t even sure it was evidence of anything more than a warped mind, and if that was so, the phantom tinkerer’s fingerprints or trace was trapped inside a sunny yellow case with the incriminating recording. In the end, I imagine my reservations were related more to pulling a thread on a hazily pleasant past. “You wouldn’t want to sell, would you?” Easy Rider Elf grinned. “Give you, say, $100? The case is pretty cherry, the string‘s still intact, and I got all the innards on the counter in front of you.” I pondered the pursuit of truth versus the pursuit of next month’s Hulu and Netflix fees. “Can I get back to you? Besides, doesn’t it screw up the value to swap out parts? Not exactly OEM.” Owen shrugged. “Neither am I,” he chortled. ** Junction Collectables actually was on the dusty stretch of East Main outside Apache Junction, where inexplicably surviving stucco cafes and low-rent gun and souvenir shops and esoterically specific shops like JC&C attracted more dust motes than walk-ins. I followed Main until it became East Apache, and meandered around to the Apache Junction Public Library. I could have done this on the iPhone, but apart from major past tragedies, celebrations, local misadventures gone national, or sports, the digitized news archives had a coin slot. The new library had a nice lady named Trish and a sweet microfilm/.pdf run of mid-‘60s Apache Junction News and Sentinels and a shelf of vintage town directories. Like everything else in the Valley before Starbucks and Walmart and La Quinta and old golfers and the mobile young rode into town, the Junction was a relatively tiny place during the Johnson years, so what I was calling the precipitants stood out like saguaros. The little things that might set someone to a sadistic and time-consuming gaslighting campaign. At the same time, I wanted to gauge community resources, and by the time I’d inhaled a shit-ton of nearly 60-year-old pulp dust, I had what I think I wanted. Bone Thugs N Harmony, Alicia Keys, and the Jonas Brothers had laid down tracks at Mesa’s Saltmine Studio Oasis, according to owner Don Salter owing to “our philosophy of combining vintage old-school analog classic tools with modern, new-world digital.” Rattler Studios, not so much. Located toward the mountains in what appeared to be a branch Oppenheimer bunker, Apache Junction’s best-kept secret and deservedly so appeared to have scored its new-world digital from a high school AV department, hidden among vintage old-school analog classic tools most of the current staff might need a high school AV crew to reboot. “Local bands and artists, mainly – way it’s always been,” Red Greenway described after fetching me a stout cup from the studio Keurig. He resumed grazing what looked like old-school chow mein -- about a half-mile back, I’d spotted a Chinese restaurant probably as old as the saguaro flanking it. “Most of its a mix of godawful country, worse indie shit, and even some hip-hop, rich folks’ kids who couldn’t bust a rhyme with a jackhammer. Hoped digitizing the whole thing might help us branch into audiobooks, podcasts, that sort of thing, but you said you were at the library. You seen their new studio? Green screen, video editing, podcasts, instrumental tracks? I may have to convert this all into a meth lab.” Greenway swept a hand toward the back wall gallery of local concert and club posters, album covers, and CD sleeves featuring the Rattler’s early undistinguished alumni – mostly pick-your-clone cowboys and metal heads and such ‘60s/’70s none-hit wonders as The Wally Goetticher Experience, the O-K Chorale, and The Three Horseman of the Apachelypse. Middle guy must’ve been Pestilence. “Kevin Cisneros – the K in O-K -- was about our only real success story, sort of,” he sighed. “I mean, he and his partner there with the steel guitar -- got quite a following at the area bars and even a little local airplay, but the partner quit playing after getting effed up in some accident or something, O-K Chorale dissolved, Kevin went solo somewhere else. We felt bad for the partner and made him gofer/janitor. By the way, all this is off the record, right?” “It’s all off the record,” I said. “I used to be a reporter. I came across something odd at a garage sale.” I pulled the See ‘N Say from its Old Navy bag and pulled the sting. “ The frog says, ‘ RIBBIT! RIBBIT ” “It has a beat,” Greenway conceded. I frowned at the recalcitrant toy, and cranked the arrow a few clicks to the left. The rooster’s dark pronouncement raised his brows.  “What kind of bastard would put that on a kid’s toy. I mean, this did belong to some kid, right?” “She didn’t tell me this was The Psycho Says model. Or she didn’t know. Lemme ask: Could somebody have done that here, back in the mid-‘60s?” Greenway considered as a malnourished-looking group of emo wannabes straggled in and he nodded them presumably toward the studio. “It’s a slow day, and you got me curious. Let’s pull this puppy apart and see what’s up. Don’t worry about them – they’re self-starters, you couldn’t tell.”

** Sarah had had several help desk innocents to terrorize, so I was off normal chec duties. “Got your lunch, or I guess dinner by now,” she grinned unsettlingly as jaunty hold music plunked at her very last nerve. “Just stick it in the microwave.” I left the dinosaur Spaghettios in too long, but Sarah’d went to considerable sarcastic expense digging out Ella’s old Mickey Mouse spoon, so I cleaned my plate. Jesus called after lunch. The other one. “I reached out to the Apache Junction Police and Fire folks,” the Gilbert PD detective reported in his unflappable, chamomile rumble. “Only reason there was a file at all was there was a brief arson investigation. The fire investigator found a charred device with a heavy-duty heating element, and the bedroom carpet was saturated, laminated, in fact, with what he thought might be an accelerant. Turned out to be plastic, and the department found a serial number that tracked of all things to some toy. After a little persuading, the 10-year-old son admitted he and a neighbor boy had been performing unauthorized experiments with the, ah…” “Thingmaker.” “And when the inevitable fire started, the neighbor’s brother — who was watching a western with the Dad — rushed upstairs and pulled both kids out. Had second-degree burns on his hands and was treated for chemical smoke inhalation. Little brother sustained more severe facial burns, requiring extended hospital treatment.” “You get names?” “The Dautrives and the Wisters.” And it came to me in a deductive Batflash. ** “I don’t understand,” Rita McClelland drawled with polite terseness. “You want a refund or something? It was free.” “Nothing like that,” I assured her. She set us up in lawn chairs on the driveway as I described the modifications made to her favorite childhood toy. “I don’t remember anything like that,” Rita stated. “I would assume, from, like, you putting it in the garage sale.” “You think my brother did it, as some sort of prank? Bob could barely change his bike tire.” “Well, it was dark, and kind of threatening in a creepy way. Not obscene or predatory, but disturbing for a kid to have to hear.” “But I never did. After Bob had an…’accident’ with that Thingmaker I told you about, Dad kind of went off the rails. The See ‘N Say seemed to set him off, so I just set it aside after a while.” “Somebody’d replaced the original recording with another one. That accident,” I ventured, cautiously. “The fire.” “How’d you know about the fire?” she whispered. “I was a reporter,” I said for the lack of anything relevant or cohesive. “Somebody wanted to hurt you, or your family, what, almost 60 years ago. I did a little digging, probably out of boredom, and discovered the fire in Apache Junction. A boy got hurt, right? One of your brother’s friends?” “Pete Wister was a wild kid,” Rita Dautrive McClelland muttered. “We always thought he was the one goaded Bob into whatever started the fire. The Wisters understood it was an idiot accident, and Dad paid Pete’s hospital bills. They understood.” “Not sure all of them,” I murmured. **  “Thought I should let you know I decided not to sell.” I called as the tarnished bell above the door jangled. I’m just going to give it back to Rita, remember, your old neighbor?” The welcoming grin froze on Owen’s face. Owen Wister, the O in O/K Chorale until the nerve damage to his half-gloved hands ended his musical career. “I’ll give you $500.” “That was your fatal mistake, offering me twice what a vintage See ‘N Say goes for online. You really wanted it, or at least take it apart and ‘accidentally’ destroy or switch out the disk or leave your fingerprints along with teen Owen’s.” “I was young and pissed off,” Owen stammered. “I thought Bob’d destroyed my life. My dad managed one of those tourist shops off the highway, and he had molding equipment to make cheesy Southwest souvenirs. I was always good in shop, and I had after-hours access to Mr. Greenway’s equipment. I thought if I couldn’t fix my brother, I’d hurt the Dautrives. Even after the fire, I went over to watch The Virginian with Mr. Dautrive every Wednesday. It was my Dad’s favorite before he got cancer.” “Well, he named you after the guy who wrote the original book. What you were watching the night of the fire, right? And how you sneaked Rita’s Farmer Says out of the house, installed the new disk, and replaced it.” “I thought I’d freak her out, mess with her mind, make her feel as shitty as the kids at school made Pete feel. It was a crappy, vicious plan, and after I left for ‘Nam, I realized how far off the rails I’d gone. But what could I do? Nobody said anything after I got home; Rita was in college and seemed to be doing OK.” “It was harsh stuff, but it sounded vaguely familiar. The Lotus King down the road – I assume it’s been around forever? That where the guys at Rattler’s Studio generally sent you for lunch, right?” “Yeah. I’d usually pick up stuff for the family on the way home, too.” I nodded. “Curious why you didn’t record a message to go with the frog, then I discovered you only modified the tracks for the cow, cat, horse, sheep, rooster, dog, and pig. Stopped by the Lotus King, got me an couple eggrolls, and verified they, like nearly every other Chinese-American joint, use the throwaway Chinese Zodiac placemat, which includes the rat, ox, tiger, rabbit, dragon, snake, horse, goat, monkey, rooster, dog, and pig. Each animal of the zodiac represents a cycle of years and both good and bad traits attributed to those born in each year. The zodiac gave you the inspiration for the predictions you offered about Rita’s future personality and fate. But not for the frog, turkey, bird, duck, or coyote on the Farmer Says ‘zodiac.’ You substituted the cow for the ox and the cat for the tiger and personalized it for maximum psychological effect.” “I was the guitarist – he was the writer,” Owen grinned before the pistol came shakily from under the counter. “Just give me the See ‘N Say.” “You realize how goofy that sounds,” I responded. “Relax. You really trust your trigger finger even after all those years? The statute of limitations is long past, even if anybody could figure out what to charge you with. And Rita says she gets it, that you were an angry teenager.” Then I dangled the yellowed plastic ring with its freshly snapped string, and set the Old Navy bag with what remained of the Farmer Says on the formica floor by the door.  The gun clicked on the glass. “You didn’t play it for her, did you?” Owen asked quietly. In fact, I’d advised her against. There are some strings, some threads you shouldn’t pull.


TW, Child abuse, physical and psychological violence, mental health and sexual violence. “Okay class! Pop quiz” The man shouts above the cries, and we all listen, glued to our desk, like flies buzzing in and never leaving a cheap fly trap. I can see the entire class from my vantage in the back, and I choke back the bile rising in my throat, from the smell of rank piss all over the room. Pools of it surround the flooring underneath, making misshapen puddles where the kids are sitting. I’m shocked when I see Billy Thorn, who has been a thorn in my side this year, has also pissed himself. A swell of something I don’t recognize churns inside my stomach. I wanna thank the man for bringing even Billy thorn down a notch, but I immediately see Mr. Cooper slumped inside that chair, specs of red dotted behind him, and think that I am no different from the rest of the hostages. “I want everyone to think of me as a friend, that today is just a free day.” He says, as if he’s just another substitute, filling in. I wanna reach for my phone, but remember that he has collected all our electronics, and they sit in the front of the room, alongside Mr. Coopers limp body. Like anyone in our positions were holding out for hope, but know none is coming, our phones aren’t buzzing, and there’s no outraged parents outside, praying their children will get out safely. “So, here’s what we are going to do kids, y’all are what” he looks over to the big yellow lettering by the front door. “6 th  grade, man I remember when I was your age. We are going to hear each other out, ya know? Show and tell, tell us about each other, and I’ll determine if I like you or not.” I specifically eye the man for his age because it’s indeterminate. He looks younger than my father, but older than my older brother, who is in the 11 th  grade. I wanna doubt that he remembers his time at all, and he’s just making conversation. I start to wonder if I’ll remember today when I’m also older, but a broken sob and hiccup commences beside me, and I wonder if they all want to cry like the girls in the class, I don’t want to cry, not for this batch of kids, they’re so unlike me, but I also can’t help but fear the man upfront. We don’t know him, or why he’s done what he’s done, but we do know that he is very capable of being violent. Mr. Cooper is slumped on his desk, and in the man’s, hand is the hammer that has smashed into his head in. The hammer is like the one my dad lets me keep inside my room. I study it, hoping that it isn’t the exact one from my room, because I don’t want this to be my fault, I don’t want them to know that I gave this man the weapon used to bludgeon our teacher to death. My mind keeps slipping back to my room, where the hammer is tucked under my bed, and can’t help but see the man upfront, searching and scouring my bedroom, finding out about me, knowing me better than I know myself. I feel he knows my secret and that’s why he’s here today, not for Mr. Cooper, but for me. “So, let’s start with you.” The man points to Laura Jean, a grade B student, she doesn’t necessarily fall into Billy’s crowd, but she laughs with them, so she is all the same to me, and I feel like the man knows her, just like he knows me. I want to slam my hands on the desk, like my father does when he’s upset, to distract the man, while one of the braver students take him down, but I know this isn’t wise, this man is capable of more than we might know. Laura Jean falters, tears staining her face, right now she looks like my mother after a slam of my father’s hands, her face crumpled up and wet, her words slurring with a continuous cry. She tells the man her name, and one thing about herself, and the man makes us react to this, like today is a normal day. “And do you have anything to show us miss Jean?” The man says, planting both elbow on the desk, and cupping his face, but this time we don’t laugh with the teacher, we just stare at the man and Laura Jean shaking, her head trying to keep from looking into his eyes. She shakes her head no, and the man slams his fist on the desk, scaring half the classroom as the other half silently weep trying to not garner more attention from the man. “Not good Miss Jean, we always need something to SHOW, or else how can we TELL who you are.” He emphasizes the show and tell words of the sentence, practically spitting it right Into her face, so the rest of us know not to bullshit around. He regroups himself, pointing to another student, this one behind Laura Jean and for the first time I realize I’m three students away from exposing my true self. I think back to a lesson Mr. Cooper taught me, when he held me after the bell, not saying it, but writing it in a letter, telling me we had to talk. So, I stayed back and listened to what he had to tell me, which was. “Peter, so how are you getting on?” I remember hating this question, he knew how I was getting on, but I nodded, shrugging my shoulders. Then he asked, “read any new books?” I had wanted to tell him of all the new books I had read over the week, which was one a day. I had no one to talk about books with, besides my baby sister, who couldn’t even talk yet. I didn’t wanna admit that it gotten this bad. I just nodded telling him some kids books that I had checked out from the library. He smiled, thinking he had gotten through to me, then said something that not even now, I could forget. “You know you’re my favorite.” I looked up with wide eyed shock, wondering if he was lying or just trying to make me feel better. He raised his eyebrows, “now don’t go telling anybody I told you that, but you remember our first assignment?” I nodded, my head feeling like it would fall off it I hadn’t stopped when I did. “You were the only one who answered honestly, from the soul.” He said dragging the word ‘soul’ out, like it was too cool for school. He continued, “the others were just boasting, but you Peter, you said it with passion, I respected that.” I was in shock, I had never been anyone’s favorite, nor my mother’s or dad’s. Mr. Cooper patted me on the shoulder and told me, “it does get better, life I mean, and it’s pretty rad being an adult, you can practically do whatever you want.” I wondered at that time what I would be like as an adult. “M-my da-dads the sheriff, and h-he’ll kill you if you harm any of us.” The shaking voice brought me back to reality. It was Billy thorn, two seats ahead of me, and the next person to present themselves, I had completely missed what happened to Clyde’s presentation, if he did one. He was crying face in his hands, while Billy tried to berate the man, so I assumed it hadn’t worked out for him. “Sheriff thorn? You mean” the man said, gently guiding the hammer down Billy’s full puffed out cheeks and under his burly double chin. The hammers silvery handle, slicked with dried blood was a different shade of red, than Billy’s cheeks, which were full blown cherry color, the same shade of Mr. Coopers car, the one he took me in near the start of fall break last year. “let me guess” He said pulling the hammer from Billy’s chins, then mined it like one of those old cartoons where they hit their head over and over to remember something lost. Then in a fake sprout of eureka, he followed with. “the apple does not fall far from the tree?” Billy’s hands were visibly shaking, and a part of me was relieved to see this monstrous child be so downtrodden, but still he was a child like me, he didn’t deserve to be berated, like I never wanted to be. From behind them I could tell the act Billy was putting on was a façade, and not a very good one, he was trying to act tough, like his father would, or at least that’s what my father said, ‘whole line of rotten egg headed bullies’ I laughed and felt renewed when he had told me, but that never lasted, the relentlessness that was Billy overcame even my spirit. But, seeing him like this, I was conflicted, my heart wanted to feel for him, like I had wanted him to feel for me, but I yearned to see him get put in his place, just not like this, no one deserved this. “So, you think daddy would want to know what a piss baby you were today? Should we send him pictures of it?” Billy’s face reddened more than a tomato, his face looking like it would burst, a sausage overheated, heat pouring out its overheated creases. I followed the man’s eyes down beneath Billy’s chair, where a pool of piss sat stagnant and glistening off in the morning light. Billy’s whole façade cracked, and he started to sob, like the rest. I looked to the front door, hoping for another teacher to come in and see us, or even another student, but this was one of the classrooms out in the open, for anyone to come in and invade, a trailer by itself, two classrooms used by one class, and it was us. The rest of the students sat still in their seats; their eyes glued on us. “So, Mister Thorn, what do you have for us today?” “S-screw you” Billy shouted, his voice mixed in with sobs, the other whimpers of those around us. The man sighed and waved the hammer around, like a magical wand, then brought it down with so much force, that we all flinched, like thunder crashing after a bright lightning flash. The hammer didn’t hit what we initially thought, it only crashed against Billy’s desk. Smacking against it in such a rough manner that the middle of the desk had a faint black, maybe red, scuff to it now. Billy fainted, which caused some of the girls to scream, thinking that Billy was either taken out or injured. As if a reflect to the mild scream, the man whipped around, pointing his hammer towards them all. “The best way to keep a prisoner from escaping is to make sure he never knows he’s in prison” the man poetically spewed this out.

We all watched as he walked back to the teacher’s desk, and grabbed ahold of Mr. Coopers limp hand, parading it around like a hand puppet. “Howdy students, you know today’s lesson of the day. Let’s get to know each other. Hyuck hyuck” he laughed outrageously loud, then moved the hair out of his face, like he was enjoying himself, then he pointed out. “Who’s next?” I tightened my fist and stared on, it was my turn soon, and I still hadn’t figured what I would say, I didn’t wanna do it, but if I did it and got it over with maybe I could blend in, have him not bother with someone like me at all, maybe he wouldn’t discover my secret at all, maybe it would all just end. The man was now sitting on the desk, his hammer pointed out like a talk show hosts microphone. “So, what’s your name, and talent?” He said pointing the mic to the student right in front of me.

Gary was a quiet kid like me, but unlike me in a lot of ways, he wasn’t weird, nor the smelly weird kid. He was just Gary who they all copied homework and test questions. “I- I’m Gary Allen an-and I wa-wanna be the president.” He finally spit out, his nerves shredded, and most likely his spirit too. This is what Gary always spouted off about, being the president of the whole United States, he’d always say that his mom and dad were grooming him to be successful. “Oh ho, those are some big aspirations Gary, but can I ask, of what?” Gary’s barely audible huh only reached me because the man said. “CMON GARE PRESIDENT OF WHAT?” Mr. Cooper once asked me did If I knew how lethal a gun was? I said I had, because my father was huge on them, and he even showed me how to use them, shoot them and clean them. I wasn’t fond of weapons, but I was fond of spending time with my father. So, when I was over and he showed me a collection of weapons he had similar to my father’s, I acted amazed, even though all I wanted was someone to talk to too. We talked about more than weapons, we talked about past lessons, and myself, along with my family life. He’d told me that I was the only student he’d ever let see his collection, and rode in his car. I was his special student, different from the rest, and I needed to keep this a secret, us meeting like this, because it could never be known that I was given special treatment. I think of that yellow couch, the smell of lemon drops, and the cold feeling of the fan blowing against my skin. I think of grasping the gun he showed me that day, holding it and taking aim. “So, who do I have the pleasure of talking to today?” The man asked, right up to my face, invading what I had thought was a safe spot away from it all. He had his hammer in my face, a makeshift microphone once again. I was snapped back to reality, listening to the cries of my classmates, as this man stood in front of me. “Oh” he said, focusing his eyes on me. “Oh, ho I think we’ve got a winner.” His voice was choked and loud, almost inaudible, if I wasn’t right there. The rest of my class stared at us in horror, probably thinking, good take him away and be done with the rest of us, he deserves it, we don’t, please just go. Then the man did something I hadn’t expected, he hugged me, whispering something in my ear. “He did huh?” he said after coming back up. I hadn’t heard him; I was so focused on the rest of the class and the strong smell of alcohol coming out of his breath. “You’re his type, I mean, I can tell, you’re just like me” he said singing it lackadaisically, the hammer still in his hand swinging around loosely as he talked. “Let me guess, special, one of a kind, different from the rest? Car rides to fast food joints?” I didn’t nod nor acknowledge what he was saying, I was spinning in my own head. I had known I wasn’t the only one, I saw it when he had fallen asleep, the name tags of previous students, before me. “So, Mister, just like me, What’s your name and what’s his secret?” He said pointing back to Mr. Cooper. Ferocity in his voice, a danger I hadn’t sensed earlier. My eye darted to my bag beside me, which held the present I had got for Mr. Cooper, the one that I would never be able to give him, because this man took him away from me. He took what I wanted away. Then it became clear, I had the perfect chance to end it all here, I didn’t care if my secret came out in the end, as long as I could save this classroom, who had never saved me, I wonder what they’ll say. Brave child saves the day, or revenge slayings end brutally, the cycle never ending. I had wondered when he told me he was like me, which name he was in that pile, but I know it doesn’t matter, because a victim is a victim. “My name is Peter Hamm” a name I had been poked fun about since I was born, oh what a ham hock, oh the little piggy, take it you pig.  A curse brought onto me by my own existence. “I do have something to show today, it’s a present from my father, that I wanted to show.” I don’t know what kind of face I was making, or if I was making one or not, but I do think I was smiling. The man’s surprise and welcome didn’t shock me, he was just like me, so he would welcome what I had and what was coming to him. He crossed his arms expecting something great from me. So, I reached into my backpack and grabbed the surprise I had in store, not for my classmates, but for Mr. Copper himself, but now that he’s no longer here, I have to gift it to the man whose taken away my grief, maybe that’s not the right word, my way to deal with my own pain. Feeling around, I reach inside and grab the Glock 21c in the bottom of my bag, my father’s precious child, the one he proudly shows out in cupboard, which he leaves drunkenly open. I switch the safety off, and I survive.


*Nainika’s Note* This is NOT a series-Oh, who am I kidding. This is basically a series, isn’t it? All but in name. GhA. Enjoy :) EDIT: I'll change the middle portion...felt a bit rushed to me...idk if you feel the same There was only one day in the year when demons have an edge over us angels. And it’s not even something that the Almighty had planned. It was purely human ingenuity. That I do suspect Asmodeus had a hand in pushing. Because that is just his scene. But this dreaded day wasn’t something that I could just forget. It's a day that the world rejoices when it comes around because they can have a day where pranks are everywhere and people fill the streets with laughter and fun and oh I hate it so much.

April Fool’s Day.

Back in 1582, France had the brilliant idea to switch from the Julian calendar to the Gregorian calendar. The idea came from the Council of Trent, where both Asmodeus and I were in attendance, and..oh holy gods. That’s where he gave them the idea. Darn it.

Anyway, the start of the new year was moved from April 1st, the spring equinox, which followed the Hindu calendar, to January 1st. But there were a lot of people who didn’t realize that the date had changed, and they were referred to as “April Fools”. Thus, the tradition to prank on another on that day began.

But I hated the day so much. So, unlike the rest of the world, I made sure that I did good deeds on the 1st of April. However, a lot of people didn’t believe me. And often, my ideas of good deeds backfired poorly onto me. It wasn’t for lack of trying, it was just the fact that people become very suspicious of ‘good deeds’ on the first day of April.

Take America, 1775, for example. I gave the colonists the idea of separating themselves from Britain’s power-hungry rule, and they took my words with a grain of salt, turning the land west of the Atlantic into an eight-year revolution. Like...what?

And then France 1789. I gave Marie Antoinette the nice idea of giving the poor peasants cake for her glamorous party. But instead, they overheard her jesting proclamation, stormed the Bastille, started a decade-long war, and chopped poor Marie’s head off. I felt bad about that for years.

So, even though I mean well, it doesn’t quite work out the way I want it to happen. But I keep trying. An angel can never do the wrong thing. I think.

Oh, dear.

The first of April started off with a bang. A literal bang. Angels don’t sleep, so I was reading a magazine when I heard my downstairs neighbor shriek in either excitement or fear as a party popper exploded somewhere near her. Her boyfriend, probably. The one with a Stanford degree in engineering, who turns into a pile of mush around his long-time girlfriend who graduated from a community college with a degree in liberal arts. And yes, I have too much time on my hands and study my fellow Chicagoan neighbors. I’m an immortal angel. I can do what I want.

“April Fool’s!” He yelled, and I could hear it even from a floor up. I rolled my eyes and snapped my fingers. The prank that had caused her to scream had been replaced with a dozen fluffy puppies, because who could resist those? I heard confused gasps, but the overwhelming cuteness of those puppies won the two over and I couldn’t hear any more sounds. Satisfied, I didn’t even notice a shadowy figure lurking self-righteously behind me. I caught sight of him in the mirror and jumped. “God, demon. Don’t scare me.” I said, turning to face him. His eyebrows quirked. “You know what day it is?” He asked in a low voice. I rolled my eyes, walking to my gigantic closet and grabbing a cream scarf. I pulled on my fluffy boots and swung my off-white jacket around me.

“If you say it, I won’t talk to you all day.” I retorted. He grinned.

“Fine, I won’t say it. But watch where you’re going.” He said. I looked over my shoulder at him and failed to notice the trap in front of me. I walked straight into cling-wrap rolled around the door frame. Shrieking, I batted it away, but slipped on my hard-wood floors and fell flat on my back, the cling-wrap still covering my face. Asmodeus leaned over me and smirked. “What’d I tell you?” He asked.

I growled and snapped my fingers, turning his sunglasses into a small black kitten that meowled in fear and dug its tiny claws into his nose. With a yelp, my demon slipped on the floor and landed in the same place I was. I laughed at the expression on his face and turned the kitten back into his sunglasses.

“Payback,” I said. He looked at me.

“I thought you angels didn’t do that sort of thing?” He asked. I shrugged.

“I guess you’ve rubbed off on me,” I said vaguely, not seeing his strange expression as I got up. “Are we going?” I asked. Every year on...today, we had a tiny competition to see whose influence was greater. Most of the time he won, only because my good deeds backfired on me.

We walked out of my apartment and down the stairs. By unspoken agreement, we didn’t trust elevators. Something to do with Betty Lou Oliver and the Empire State Building elevator. My next-door neighbor was coming up as we were going down, holding a bunch of flowers in his hand. I caught the tripwire in the bunch and snapped my fingers, turning the false flower squirter into an engagement ring. True, he would be surprised, but his long-time boyfriend would thank me for it.

I’m sure.

Asmodeus smirked at me, no doubt noticing my attempt at a good deed.

“It’s not going to work out, you know?” He said. I glowered at him.

“And you can say that for a fact?” I asked. He nodded, smirking even more. I gasped. “Don’t you-” I started, but he’d already snapped his fingers. I paused on the steps at the howl of fear coming from my neighbor’s boyfriend. “What’d you do?” I demanded. Asmodeus laughed. "Just made that ring into a hairy tarantula. Larry's confused but Micah is absolutely terrified." He said. I groaned. See what I mean about backfiring? He's incorrigible. But he's a demon, so what did I expect? "You....suck," I said, struggling not to swear. My demon only laughed harder. "It's April-" He started, but I punched him squarely in the stomach, making him double over. "You say it and I do it again," I vowed, glaring into his sunglasses. He only winked at me. "I can't change the date, angel. I can only embrace it." He said. We reached the bottom of the steps and I pushed open the front door. The brisk wind nearly took my breath away and I tightened my shawl around me. The sky was bright blue, wisps of clouds floating high above us, but the wind off Lake Michigan was chilling as always. It didn't matter that we'd lived in the city for over fifty years, the cold always got to me. "Where to, Cielo?" He asked as we turned down Monroe. I shrugged. "Buckingham Fountain? Shedd Aquarium? Lakeshore Drive?" I said. He mused. "Eckhart Park?" He asked. I rolled my eyes. "Again?" I asked. He smirked. "Fine then, you pick." He said. We walked down Monroe in silence as I thought about where to go. "How about just wherever we end up?" I asked. Asmodeus side-eyed me. "Oookay then." He said. I smiled. Okay then. We walked for a bit, enjoying the fresh air. We got hot chestnuts from a vendor off Park and Lake, and we clutched them as we walked further down Michigan. As we were crossing Wacker Drive, I noticed a man sneaking up behind a woman, presumably his partner or relative. I swallowed my mouthful of food and snapped my fingers, putting a very pretty necklace in his hands in place of the prank he had. She turned to him with a surprised look and pressed a kiss to his lips. Fawning over the necklace, she made him put it on, and his confused look turned into one of pride. See? Not everything backfires.

Asmodeus glared at me. “Stop it.” He said. I blinked.

“What?” I asked. He motioned to the couple.

“Being...good today. It’s-” He paused at my glower. “You know, that day. Let them enjoy it.” He complained. I shook my head.

“No can do, demon. It’s in my nature.” I said matter-of-factly. He groaned.

“Why do I even bother?” He muttered to himself. I smirked. Because he couldn’t help it.

The day passed much like the morning. I prevented six other people from pranks and practical jokes, and only one of them Asmodeus prevented. Instead of the water gun the woman was holding, he put a real gun in her hand. I quickly elbowed him and he put the water gun back, slightly disappointed. The woman didn’t even notice, but I made sure her opponent was dressed in waterproof clothes.

It’s the simple things.

We walked back to my apartment, Asmodeus sulking at the end of his favorite day, and me glowing because I had done good deeds in place of pranks. No, really. I was literally glowing. My warm caramel skin turned a milky white and Asmodeus quickly shoved me into a dark alleyway to make sure I didn’t startle people.

“You’re glowing.” He hissed as I blinked, confused, up at him. I looked down at my skin and smothered a gasp.

“This shouldn’t be happening,” I whispered, trying to put a damper on the glow.

“Do something about it.” He said, peeking around to make sure nobody else was around. I patted my arm like a fool, and nothing happened.

“What do I do?” I said. He looked at me.

“I’m not an angel. How the hell should I know?” He asked, but sighed at the look on my face. “Uh...try thinking negative thoughts.” He said. I blinked.

“What? I don’t think negative thoughts, you…..dolt. It’s not in the job description!” I shot back. He rolled his eyes.

“Well, la dee da. Do something, and do it fast. People are gonna ask questions.” He said. An idea came to me.

“That’s it!” I said excitedly.

“What?” He asked.

“April Fools. They’ll think I was the victim of a very good prank, as much as I hate to say that.” I said. He looked at me doubtfully.

“You think that’ll work?” He asked. I nodded.

“I’m sure of it. But you owe me for that.” I added. He scowled.

“For what? It wasn’t even my fault-” He started, but I yanked him out of the alley. As predicted, people stared, but I laughed it off.

“He got me good!” I said conspiratorily to one shocked woman. She grinned.

“I can see that.” She laughed. After she passed, I snapped my fingers and made her young daughter at home get accepted into the children’s hospital and put some extra money in her bank account. The poor lady deserved it.

After we reached my apartment, the glow faded. With a sigh, I turned to my demon.

“What was your favorite part about today?” I asked. He choked back a laugh. “What?!” I asked, elbowing him.

“I’ll never forget that you had to pretend to be a pranked person.” He snickered. I rolled my eyes.

“Yeah, well, you’ll have to wait another year for this chance again, demon,” I said, pulling open my front door. I heard his low voice over my shoulder. “That’s what you think.”


Billy drove silently through the city. It was a cool night. The moon was covered by clouds. Good, he thought, his cover won't be blown by its illuminating beam.
Billy turned right onto Green Street. He was in ghetto country. To them, he's just a tourist. A nobody, an outcast. But what a white man doing in this neighborhood, at this time of night, is anyone's guess.
His destination isn't far, but it's easy to get lost in a place like this. And Billy isn't taking the chance to ask for directions. He knew that they would send him someplace worse, and he wouldn't be seen again.
Probably for the best. His boss wouldn't want to get tangled up in this mess. It was supposed to be a quick job. An easy job. No screw ups. One slip up, and it's over. There's no recovery from this.
As he drove, Billy thought about what to do after this job. He took the job to care for his sick mother. Working at the drugstore isn't paying what he needed.
Fortunately, the boss man walked in with his daughter to have a milkshake. He remembers the girl. Brown eyes, brown hair in pigtails. She had on a red and white checkered dress. Billy couldn't see over the counter, but he imagined she wore penny loafers and socks to her knees. This was a uniform at her school. He's seen other girls wear them when they come in for treats or to buy a magazine.
Her hair was disheveled that day, actually. She had gotten into a fight. Her father was giving her a talk.
"What did she do to you?" he asked her.
"She called you a murderer," the girl answered.
The man was silent, probably thinking about what to say. If he were yelling at his cronies, he'd yell a blue streak a mile wide. But Billy could tell that he's the kind of man who refuses to swear in front of his daughter.
"Did you hit her first?" The man finally asked.
"No," the daughter said silently, "not right away. I told her to take it back and to apologize. She kept on doing it, so I hit her."
The girl sucked her vanilla milkshake through her straw.
The man exhaled through his nose.
"Are you a murderer, Daddy?" The girl asked.
He was silent for a long time before saying, "Yes."
The courage this man has to admit to his young daughter that he kills people. This is something you would truly hide about yourself. You wouldn't even tell your diary that you're a killer.
"But I only kill bad people," the man continued, very smoothly. "There are people who are determined to keep good working people from having a decent life. They cut wages, they remove benefits, they set up jobs overseas, they hire minorities to work for less.
"And the people who are hit with this are starving in the streets. These people work hard, save everything they can, to keep a decent home and a running car. And it's people like to their leaders who keep them from doing that. They fall behind, they foreclose, they hide behind dumpsters in the alleyways searching for scraps. Food some uptight pencil pusher sent back because it was cold, it became someone's dinner that night."
The man paused to sip his melting shake. He looked at Billy. Billy quickly looked down and began wiping the counter.
"Young man," he called out to me.
Billy looked at him with fear of being yelled at for staring.
"Do you like your job here?" He asked Billy.
"It's an okay job," Billy said, "It fits my current situation."
"But do you like your job?" He said with a heavy emphasis on "like".
Billy was silent. He understood what the man was doing. He's making me an example for his daughter.
Billy looked over at his current boss. He was sleeping in his office, a small pile of white powder sat on his desk.
"To be honest, sir," Billy finally said, leaning towards him, "I could use some more money."
He nodded his head. He was satisfied with the answer.
"You look like the kind of man who supports his mother," he said.
"Yes, sir," Billy said, "especially now because she's sick."
"Your mother is blessed to have you as a son." He turned to his daughter, "You see, young men like him," he gestured at Billy, "are stuck in terrible jobs like this because of bad people who run this country.
"Go ahead, and let her call me a murderer," the man continued. "Let her see how I help her father bring in more money to buy her  more pretty dresses."
He took out a twenty dollar bill, much more than the cost of two milkshakes, and placed it on the counter. "Keep the change," he said to Billy. "Buy your mother something nice." He turned to his daughter. "Come on, your mother is making dinner."
After they had gone, Billy went to ring up the shakes when hr saw some writing on the bill. It was a handwritten address.
He thought about ignoring it and going about my day, but he felt intrigued. What did the address mean? Billy looked over at his boss again. Still asleep. A dollar short won't kill anyone.
That was a year ago. Since then, Billy has run countless missions for the boss man. He quickly rose through the ranks. He became important. It wasn't easy, but Billy earned respect.
Billy's mother recovered after the boss man sent her to a convalescent home in Florida. She had a wonderful time there, but she suspected that Billy was up to no good. He'd hear her pray at night, "Lord, let Billy find a good job to serve you better." He never understood why she could be ungrateful.
Billy approached his destination, the headlights off. He parked behind a Cadillac. It looked brand new. There was hardly any dirt on it. Such a shame to see a beautiful thing in this horrible place, he thought
Billy crossed the street to the alley between two apartment buildings. He climbed up the fire escape to the fifth floor. The fifth floor window led to a small office.The window was open, it was warm that night. He slid the window up slowly and climbed inside.
Billy tiptoed through the apartment to the kitchen. Through the dark, he saw a small wooden table with four chairs around it. In the corner was a stove and a refrigerator. They were brand new. Each knob on the stove was fitted with a beautifully embroidered towel, thick enough to double as a hot pad. It was without a doubt that they weren't used for that though.
Billy picked one up and swung it over onto a nearby burner. With a turn of a knob, the spiral coil began to glow.
Without thinking, Billy sprinted back to the window. The orange glow behind him grew bigger. Once outside, he slammed the window shut.
Driving away, Billy saw the apartment building go up in flames. He hoped that that would be the last time he had to do that.
Billy pulled up to an all-night diner an hour outside the city. Once parked, Billy turned off the engine. He got out and popped the trunk.
Three people were huddled together inside the spacious area.
"It's safe now," Billy said to them. "Would you like something to eat?"
The little boy nodded.
They were a family the boss man despised. They worked a small store the boss man owned. They had recently caused the store to foreclose because they were overlooking casual shoplifters.
"They threaten the well-being of our community," he said.
My job was to eliminate the threat.
I spent my time between missions with the son. I considered them my family. That was where I drew the line. I'll carry out a mission successfully, but when it comes to my family, it will be them first.
I walked into the diner after the family had gone in. I asked to use the phone. The waitress pointed to a payphone in the corner.
I called my mom. She picked after four rings. "Hello?" she whispered. She was scared.
"Hi, Mom," I said.
"Billy?" she recognized my voice.
"Uhh...listen," I said, "you're not gonna hear from me for a while."
"Wha--wha--," Mom didn't understand.
"Just know that I,uh, that I love you, and uh," I thought for a long time, then said, "your prayers have been answered."
"I...I don't understand," she said.
"I gotta go, Mom."
As I was hanging up the phone, I heard my mother say, "You're a good boy, Billy."
I looked at the family I had rescued. Their son was enjoying some pancakes. I smiled. Then, I walked over and joined them.


Freya winced as she sat down. She set an overfilled glass of merlot onto her windowsill, and looked out at the moonlit courtyard of the Berkshire Apartments. Wine glasses clinked behind her. As they rang out, darkened light posts constellated throughout the courtyard flickered on then off in unison, revealing a glimpse of a well-manicured landscape covered in hundreds of monarch butterflies.

Strange, she thought. Not about the butterflies, or even the lights; in fact, she hardly noticed them. She was transfixed on the motions of her boyfriend Maddox and their friendly neighbor Christine reflected in the window pane. That they were enjoying each other’s company was obvious — but they all enjoyed each other’s company, and had since the first time they’d met at the Berkshire community pool a couple years back.

It was Christine’s hand, resting near Maddox’s arm, that caught Freya’s attention. As they spoke, she placed it just close enough that she could lift her fingers and surreptitiously brush his arm with her fingertips. Freya watched as the pair undulated in and out of each other’s personal space, laughing at whatever inane story Maddox was telling, and every time Christine laughed she leaned in and her fingers lifted to brush his arm. Every time.

After the third touch, Freya took an elongated sip of her wine. Then she quickly set down her drink (sending red liquid running down the edge of her wine glass), stood, and turned toward the pair.

“I think I’m going to go get some fresh air,” she said. Maddox stood and walked toward Freya. For a moment, her heart warmed when she realized he was going to walk with her. Then, instead, he gave her a perfunctory peck on the cheek.

“Everything alright?” he asked. “Yep, just drank a little too much I think. I’m going to see if I can walk it off.” “Okay. Don’t stay gone too long,” he paused, then added meekly, “I’ll miss you.” Freya cracked a brittle smile and turned to leave the apartment. Behind her, she heard more wine warbling into a glass like drowned laughter. Freya walked out into a brisk autumn breeze. The door must’ve caught suction from it, because it slammed behind her harder than she intended to close it. As it rattled in the frame, a dense plume of monarchs scattered off of her entry lamp. Freya watched them jitter away like electricity into the courtyard.

The butterflies are still here, huh? She staggered after them, her thoughts zig-zagging in kind. First, she reflected on the contradiction of her home. The Berkshire Apartments were known for two things: butterflies, and hauntings. That they came to be known for butterflies was a happy accident. The complex happened to be built along the path migrating monarchs took each year at the turn of autumn to escape the harsh cold of Vermont’s winter. Residents could count on awakening one day out of each autumn to an ethereal landscape of hundreds, if not thousands, of monarch butterflies taking refuge and gathering their strength for the next stage of their long flight.

In violet dawnlight they could be seen flickering like orange sparks against dark flint, flowing like curtains through open balconies and courtyards, tottering across rails and tree bark, clambering over one another as blades of grass and long-stalked flowers drooped beneath their weight. The butterflies brought with them a fragrance that was earthen, yet sweet, almost like honeysuckle, but not quite. As Freya entered the courtyard, the lights flickered again, but this time they stayed on, blanketing the courtyard in gentle light. Weird , she thought, did they install motion sensors or something ? It was nearly 2am, but the courtyard scuttled and stirred. Butterflies linked like scales along the trunks of various oaks and pines, giving them the appearance of great cobras, poised, watching, waiting. The butterflies seem restless, Freya thought. Perhaps they would ascend soon, twisting through the air like shed skin, leaving the courtyard refreshed and thrumming with their memory while around it the apartments themselves collapsed into a rigid, inert husk of brick and shingle.

Yet, something would remain in the husk. Residents joked that the hauntings were originally brought by the butterflies. That as they swelled down their migratory channel, ghosts were swept up like debris and deposited like sediment wherever they landed. Whether or not this was true, there was no denying that the monarchs’ departure always coincided with paranormal activity in the complex for a few weeks to a month afterward. Some residents reported instances of objects going missing, only to turn up in unexpected places; others heard strange noises or murmurs coming from inside walls and cabinets; but most consistently, someone would catch sight of a man.

Freya’s reverie was interrupted; she had walked a full lap of the courtyard, and stood now outside her window. She could see that the scene inside was just as she left it: Christine and Maddox, laughing and talking.

She turned her gaze to something, anything else. She took stock of the light posts pincushioned across the soft green courtyard. She thought they were ugly, out of place, off balance. She walked on past the window, committing her attention to figuring out just what it was about those light posts that troubled her. They were gaudy and pretentious; playing at beauty with overly-ornate bronze scrolling which curled above the fixtures, braiding into something resembling crossed fingers; champagne glass paneled each of their four sides and cast a duplicitous glow across the grass and shrubs below. The light was friendly and warm, as though these little faux-suns could cover up the fact that they were intruding on the landscape, feigning starlight with an empty sheen, standing tall and haughty as they bore down with mechanical conceit upon what was actually alive.

Back in the apartment, Christine laughed, Maddox drank; and Freya hated the way the cold, black, corrugated aluminum poles stabbed mercilessly into the gentle, giving ground, again, and again, and again. She continued walking, and thinking. It was said the ghost of the man who appeared after the butterflies’ departure had been stabbed to death by his wife. Brutally, in fact — she had done it with the claw of a hammer while he slept. Over the years, the description of that man remained constant: a tarnished blue mechanic’s jumpsuit with dark stains smudged across the torso, steel-toed boots nearly worn apart, and long, scraggly hair which framed and shadowed his face from view. Seeing him was considered an ill-omen. Supposedly, one resident’s dog was run over the following day. Another resident’s apartment caught fire. Another passed in her sleep. And so on, the stories accumulated over the years, and there were enough that not even the tenured office staff knew exactly which were true, hyperbole, or just plain fiction. One thing was agreed upon, however: the butterflies were a portent. Freya always found it frightening that something so beautiful and so tragic could exist in the same space — wandering through the courtyard, listening to the rustle of wings, she wondered: was there any beauty that could be relied upon to maintain, and not eventually give way to ghosts? Her and Maddox’s relationship was beautiful. At least it had been; Freya wasn’t so sure anymore. What had she missed? Christine and Maddox, could they…no, there was no way. Maddox wouldn’t do that to her. Christine may, but Maddox wouldn’t. But Christine was beautiful. Classically beautiful, in fact, with an elegance that drew people to her without their realizing, and a lightness that kept them from feeling burdened by her beauty. Maybe that’s why Freya never felt threatened by her…she seemed so aloof, so disinterested, like a beauty in a renaissance painting. It was though if one were to rip her open expecting to find blood and bone, you’d simply find the dull thud of the wall upon which she was framed. Freya had dimensionality, complexity; she was full and alive, and she thought Maddox loved her for it. But tonight, there was the way Maddox looked at Christine…or was Freya just imagining it? Maybe she was. But the touches, the laughter, the wine — maybe they were simply loose from the alcohol. That had to be it. Nothing fermenting under the surface, just a casual flirtation sprouted from the wine. Freya strode through the courtyard feeling secure after wrapping herself up in this conclusion; but after a few moments it felt precarious, trembling as though hung on a single silken thread. The light posts flickered again, sending a flush of butterflies rippling out through the yard. Freya frowned; for a moment, she swore she saw a person standing next to one of the posts across the yard. A masculine silhouette. She blinked hard, and let her eyes refocus. Nothing was there. She turned to look behind her and saw dim light still shining through her first floor window from across the courtyard. She was at too much of an angle to see what was going on inside…no, she didn’t need to look. She trusted them, after all. Right? Then, the silk thread suspending Freya’s conclusion snapped, dropping down, down…she couldn’t help herself. She was going back to look in the window. Best case scenario, they’re just sitting there, drinking and laughing and talking like they were last time she passed. Worst case…worst case…Freya rounded a large oak covered in butterflies opening and closing their like eyelids shaking off sleep. Around the oak should’ve been a clear sightline into her window; but something blocked her view. No, not something, someone in the shadows. Freya felt her throat constrict. The lamp posts flickered, became dazzlingly bright for a moment, then shut off completely. In the light, Freya saw all she needed to affirm her dread: she was looking at the man in the blue jumpsuit. Freya froze. Cold moonlight illuminated the sidewalk between her and the man like a sheet of ice. He took a step toward her, then another. His boot breached the moonlit sidewalk, and Freya heard a crack — was it really ice? No, those were her teeth grinding as he took another step closer, now fully visible in the light. He was translucent, but the edges of his body shimmered hazily, like they were made of static. His boots were frayed and mossed over with time. His jumpsuit covered his body, and Freya realized with horror that moonbeams were shining through the places where blood stained his suit. His hair was a matted mess which hung over his slumped shoulders, and his face was dark and featureless, like it was sculpted from shadow.

Freya tried to scream, but when she opened her mouth she felt all of the air sucked out of her lungs, as though she were in a vacuum. She tried to look away from the apparition, but her eyes wouldn’t move. The world around her began to rattle and shift. She watched the lamp posts, the trees, the grass, the sky, everything melt away into darkness. The rattling grew into a roaring rasp, as though thousands of whispers surrounded her all at once. She couldn’t hear anything else. She couldn’t see anything else. All that existed now were her and the ghost, marooned upon a slab of concrete. Her eyes widened.

Where were Maddox and Christine? Couldn’t they see what was happening? Couldn’t they help her? Why weren’t they watching? Freya’s tears ran thick and warm down her cheeks as a butterfly brushed past her ear, landing on the apparition’s chest. It flexed its wings languidly before spreading them to rest where the man’s heart would be, beautiful in repose. The whispers silenced themselves. Freya felt her breath return to her. She inhaled, then exhaled. As she did, another butterfly fluttered past her and attached itself to the ghost — then another, and a few more, then suddenly the whispers returned, louder this time, and the light posts, the trees, the grass, all began shaping back into view. Freya realized she and the ghost had been cocooned by the monarchs, but now all of them were swarming toward a single point: the man in the blue jumpsuit.

He was engulfed by myriad fluttering wings. He stood there like a shimmering flame, orange and black in the pale moonlight. Freya felt herself drawn like a moth toward him. Her legs moved without her control, stepping her closer and closer until she could smell the honeysuckle fragrance of the butterflies, and feel the soft gusts from their wings against her skin. Then, they parted like a robe, revealing emptiness. The apparition was gone; Freya stepped forward and was encased. She felt the tickle of the monarchs’ legs over every fiber of her being. She felt electric, she felt alive, she felt — loved. She inhaled the honeysuckle fragrance and felt her lungs replete with the spirit of fall, laden with a sense of acceptance for the somber steadiness of change. Freya smiled, and as she did so, the butterflies began to ascend, spiraling up and out, and she followed their trail with her eyes as they disappeared over the charcoal line of her apartment rooftops. The lamp posts flickered back on. Freya drew her gaze from the sky, looking into her apartment window. Christine and Maddox both emerged from the hallway, and slunk quickly back into their seats. Maddox glanced out the window, and his eyes met Freya’s. Still smiling, she walked back toward the apartment. When she opened the door, both Christine and Maddox stiffened.

“How was the walk?” Maddox asked, abashedly.

“Was it cold out there?” Christine followed, stepping on the end of his words. Freya said nothing. She walked into the bedroom and tossed her purse and some clothes into a duffel bag. Maddox and Christine were whispering frantically in the other room. Freya chuckled; they sounded so much like butterfly wings. She reached up and grabbed a hammer from the toolbag her and Maddox kept in their closet. Then, she walked back into the living room, duffel bag over one shoulder, clutching the hammer at her side, but in reverse so that the claw faced outward. Maddox leapt to his feet and began crying, while Christine screamed and ran into the bathroom, locking the door.

Freya wondered what their blood would smell like. Would it be like what she inhaled in the courtyard? Would it feel the same way her tears did as they ran down her face? She raised the hammer and moved toward Maddox, who had drunkenly stumbled onto the ground in front of the windowsill. Then, above him, Freya saw the light posts flicker once more. She looked up, and saw the man in the blue jumpsuit standing underneath one, watching her, urging her. Freya remembered the horror of the moonlight as it poured through his wounds. She remembered the pain of the courtyard, impaled by the light posts. She remembered the sharp wounds she suffered with every gentle touch between Christine and Maddox. Lastly, she remembered the beauty and freedom of the butterflies. And without saying a word, she lowered the hammer. Maddox whimpered on the floor as Freya grabbed her car keys from the hook by the door, and walked outside. She entered the courtyard, walked up to the closest lamp post she could find, and smashed its lantern apart with the hammer. Then, she dropped the hammer, letting it clatter amidst so many shards of broken glass. She turned and left the Berkshire Apartments for the last time, the lamp post sputtering and sparking behind her.


When Adelaide thought about how her day would be going, going down a canyon in a popped blimp that is currently on fire was not what she had in mind. The yellow snakes on her head hissed wildly as she felt the scorching heat on her skin. Of course she was going to get a faulty blimp! Just when she was going to get the most interesting story! No one in the city ever treated a gorgon with their utmost respect and concern. Let alone, a gorgon who is also a journalist. I am not dying like this! She thought fiercely.  The blimp was being pulled by five pegasi. That was her only option for escape. She hitched up her skirt, gathered it, and tied it in a knot that hung by her knee. Her older sister had taught her how to do that a while back. She didn’t do it too often because her mother said it was “unlady-like.” She climbed onto the edge and without hesitation, jumped. She landed on the nearest pegasi and cut the ropes. The rest of the pegasi flew freely. Adelaide tried to steady the one she was on. It was a pretty navy one with a white stripe on its face. She had never even flown a horse before. Just as she predicted, she and the pegasus crashed into the river below.   Adelaide crawled onto the riverbank, coughing and sputtering. She laid down on the soft red sand, looking up at the sky. She heard a fierce neighing and turned her head. The navy pegasus was trying and failing to fly. She stood up and untied her skirt. The pegasus whinnied in defeat. Adelaide neared the pegasus carefully. The winged creature snorted at her. She leapt back, but regained her courage and neared closer. The pegasus calmed down, and bowed its head letting Adelaide pet him. Adelaide’s snakes neared the horse in curiosity. She brushed them aside and looked at the pegasus’s wings. One of them was scorched. “I’m sorry about your wing…” she apologized quietly.   The pegasus blinked. “Do you mind if I call you Midnight? You look like a Midnight.” she told him.  Midnight bowed his head lower. “I think we need to find civilization. Or at least shelter for the night. I think the most logical thing to do is to travel home. First, we need to help your wing.” she informed Midnight.   Adelaide looked around. She smiled when she found a cactus-like plant with blue tips. She took part of it and rubbed it on Midnight’s wing. “Nix Aloe Vera. Helps any burn no matter the degrees. Learned that trick from interviewing a medicine-woman.” she said proudly.   Midnight relaxed. Adelaide took what was left of the reins and led him through the canyon.   The wind blew across Adelaide's face. She heard a faint sound of a harmonica playing in the distance. She led Midnight towards the sound. She came across an old hut with an old human couple. The man played the harmonica and had a large torn-up hat. The lady was quickly knitting a scarf that had skeletons decorated into it. Adelaide cleared her throat. “Um… Excuse me… Do you know where the nearest town is?” she asked.   The old man stopped playing his harmonica and mumbled something about corn syrup. “I beg your pardon?” Adelaide asked.   The lady shrugged. Black shawl rustling. “He’s sayin’ there's a town a few miles up the river. You’ll get there sweetie.” she replied without looking up.   Adelaide nodded, surprised that they didn’t even look disgusted by her appearance. “Thank you. What’s the name of the town?” She asked. “Jackalope, sweetie.”

“Thank you.”   Adelaide and Midnight walked through the canyon for several hours. Jackalope. Why did that sound familiar? The sun felt scorching. Adelaide feet dragged against the dirt. Thoughts about the town’s name buzzed around her head. Then she saw a grove of trees in the distance. Her face lit up. Usually in the desert, when there is a random grove of trees, that means someone planted them there. Her feet quickened. Sure enough, a faded wooden sign sat just a few feet in front of the grove. Jackalope.   The town of Jackalope was fairly small. There were a few houses, an inn, and an old church. Adelaide found it a little off that there wasn’t a post office or even a library. It must have been a new settlement. What bothered me even more was the fact that there was not a person in sight. Just a lot of Jackalopes. They moved away when they saw her. A gust of wind flew through the trees. She began to feel uneasy. “Salutations.” said a small voice.   Adelaide whipped around. It was a young girl with the complexion and ears of a deer. She even had white freckles dotting her cheeks. She looked to be about five years of age, which is why it surprised Adelaide that she knew a large word. “Um… Hello.” she replied.   “You are exotic-looking. You must be a stranger.” said the deer-girl.   Adelaide looked around to see where the girl’s parents were. “Y-yes. I’m trying to get home. My blimp crashed. I was supposed to interview someone.” she told her.   The deer-girl put her hand on the ground. “May I ask who you are interviewing?” she asked.   Orange flowers started to appear around the deer-girl’s fingers. Adelaide backed away. Magic. “It w-was a man… who disappeared for ten years… claimed to have stayed at a strange inn…in a strange town…” she continued warily.

  The deer-girl nodded. She pulled out a piece of chalk. “Can you write your name please?” She asked.   With a shaking hand, Adelaide took the chalk. She knew she was being silly. After all, what could a piece of chalk do? She started writing. A. A wooden floor appeared under her. Adelaide gasped. “Go on.” the deer-girl assured her.   Adelaide felt like she had to keep going. D. Framing appeared around the wooden floor. E. The wooden frame was covered in white walls. L. Wallpaper appeared. The wall paper was a navy blue with stars and yellow snakes on it. A. The ceiling appeared. A large dome with stars. I. From the ceiling came a circular chandelier. D. Shelves full of desks started to appear. E. A large desk appeared at the edge of the library. Adelaide felt herself growing dizzy. “Thank you for the library Adelaide.” the deer-girl chirped.   Everything went black. “Over here! There she is!” yelled a voice.   Adelaide opened her eyes. Midnight nuzzled one of her snakes. She saw the blimp on fire. The piece of chalk was in her hands. Adelaide closed her eyes again, and drifted off to sleep.   When she woke up, she was in a soft white bed in a room of bustling nurses. A woman with yellow snakes on her head sat in front of her. Her sister. “Adelaide! We thought we lost you! You were asleep for three weeks! The doctor was about to declare you dead! Thank goodness gorgons are hearty!” her sister cried.   Adelaide blinked. Could it all have been a dream? Then an elven man walked in. “Telegram for Adelaide!” he announced. “From who?” her sister asked. “I don’t know. It’s anonymous.”   Adelaide took the telegram. A shiver ran down her spine.  Adelaide’s library. Town of Jackalope.   That was all that was said. Her sister looked at it. “Isn’t that the town the missing man was talking about in your letter?” she asked.   Adelaide could only stare at the telegram. Jackalope. Adelaide.