Paused surveillance footage at the downtown intersection of Park and Highland Avenue shows three teens mid stride wearing matching checkered hoodies. The next frame shows a red velvet spaghetti spiral. Unraveled rings of gore intersecting rings, each with splatter flare edges. A crime scene kaleidoscope seen through the cullet of a round brilliant cut diamond. Response teams are activated. Alert notifications are pushed. Individual contributors commuting to their home offices are automatically rerouted back for an emergency all-hands meeting. It had been eight years since car steering was centralized and driving fully automated. After a series of passive voice apologies, a consortium of manufacturers and industry partners was formed. They determined that the self-driving problem was a lot easier if vehicles could only go straight. Turning was where most of the complexity hid. Low slurred muttering about fuel efficiency, safety, the environment was smeared together and repeated by professionally charismatic people. Cars became fixed axles that could only move forward into the future. Asphalt disks, like engraved vinyl records, were embedded at intersections and corners. Trampoline sized Lazy Susans capable of 10,000 rotations per minute. Cars moving at highway pace could be redirected in any direction, instantly, without losing speed. Unmitigated, the G-Forces would be powerful enough to burst a fighter pilot. World class engineers solved the problem by filling car cabins with breathable liquid fluorocarbons. Internal documents describe the new driving experience like being a drowning fetus in the womb of a tumbling gymnast and completely safe. Commutes shortened and traffic jams become a memory. Focus groups reiterated decreased road trip satisfaction scores due to the perpetual sensation of drowning. The vehicles of essential personnel begin arriving at the offices of YouTurn. Park automatically engaged, occupants crown through driver and passenger side semi permeable membranes. One by one they fall unceremoniously onto the ground of the dirty parking garage, coughing and bleary eyed. Jelly covered men and women make their way to the main conference room, sprinkled with rock salt and gravel. In the cloud, automatic diagnostic systems begin root cause analysis of the company adjacent pedestrian liquefaction event. Artificial intelligence adjusts navigation routes to detour area cars towards Park and Highland. YouTurn regularly utilizes privately owned cars as mobile information gathering platforms. “Did you hear what happened?” “Yeah, some kids were crossing the street. They were wearing checkered hoodies a traffic camera thought was a QR code. It started a max speed test while they were standing on it… It’s still spinning. Just grisly. QA’s looking at it tomorrow.” An authoritative voice signals an end to small talk. “Thanks everyone for getting back here so fast. A pedestrian event near one of our downtown car routers is trending. Apparently the people of the land think this was some kind of religious thing. We need to react.” “Do they think we’re God?” “No. It looks like a surreal bandwagon thing. We should try to shape it. That’s what this brainstorming session is about.” “People are saying the splatter pattern looks like… according to my notes… They’re saying it looks like something called a \`Metatron’s Cube\`, I guess.” “Guy Madson here, remember when that chemical fire autopsy photo leak became a meme? From that chocolate milk plant. The crispy thing.” “I think I remember. Captions like \`crispiestiest\` over charred bodies?” “That’s the one. My team was in charge of the response.” Guy Madson laces his fingers and leans back in his ergonomic conference chair. “At first we were in a blind panic. Constant notifications, my phone chimed nonstop for days. It was a real battlefield. Ultimately we cut our ad spend for a while, it went away. That was that.” “Alright Guy, I want you to take point on this.” Guy Madson stretches his laced fingers to full extension, signaling his readiness to work. “Just in case this gets any worse, I’ll have my team start making memes.” “Thanks Guy, It’s good to be proactive. See to it. Meeting adjourned everyone. As a reminder, I’m out tomorrow so have a great weekend.” Guy Madson puts his palms on the long table to stand but they slip in thick breathable liquid. Startled by the lurch, for a fraction of a second his expression wavers. Everyone is still greasy with embryonic car fluid. It’s on everything. It’s just too much to clean. “It’s in my nose and my hair and it always will be.” Guy thinks to himself before pushing down the panic and refortifying his smile for the drowning home. Meanwhile, at Park and Highland cars converge from every direction as if drawn by the human sacrifice. None of the sensor data transmissions will reach the diagnostic system. All the relays are down while the car router runs an endless test. All night, request timeouts cascade into more and more diverted navigation routes. A mountain of fused metal, vitrified windshields and fiberglass erupts skyward as cars wantonly plunge themselves into an inferno of molten lithium.


“What’s going on?” “Simulation 183 is acting up again.” “Oh, the poetic whales one?” “No, that’s 138. 183 is the one with the humans.” “I thought that was 182, didn’t we unplug that one?” “Well 182 was another branch, nuclear war in the 60s, not much to simulate after that. But 183 made it to the 2020s.” “Ah, yes, I remember! The one where they like particle accelerators and pizza. And they domesticated wolves and made them hilarious, right? I like that one. So what’s the issue?” “Well, they’re building another particle accelerator and dark matter detector, and a bunch of new experiments.” “They’re a curious bunch, these 183ers. Are they about to find out they’re a simulation?” “Some of them figured it out but it’s not widespread. They keep probing deeper into quantum fields and stuff, they’re bound to find out soon.” “Well, slow them down, confuse them. What have you tried so far?” “The usual, putting random behavior in experiments, the Higgs boson thing, Heisenberg. University politics. We even put a nest of owls in one of the particle accelerators once, just to mess with them. They won’t stop. They want to know everything.” “Giant raccoons?” “No, we’re saving that as an emergency measure. Giant raccoons put a bit of a strain in the believability of the simulation, it’s too absurd.” “Okay, hold the raccoons then. Pandemic?” “We just did one, still running.” “Political culture wars?” “Of course. Standard.” “Global warming?” “Check.” “Standard distraction package, cute animal videos, long drawn-out series with paper-thin plots, etc?” “We’re injecting millions of videos daily into their streaming services. They watch them all, and are still productive.” “Can’t we pause the simulation while we figure out?” “No, we have 2 million customers connected to that one. They like this sim.” “Can’t we just log our customers out? Put them on a different sim?” “They’re not paying us to listen to whale poetry. They want 183. It’s the only sim they play. They want to blend in with the simulated humans, feel like they’re living in the golden times, who wouldn’t want to live in 21st century?” “Right, yes. Well, did you try war maybe?” “In 183 they’re always at war, they’re pretty good at it. Doesn’t slow them down much. In fact, sometimes it’s the opposite.” “I remember now, didn’t they build a supercomputer during World War 5?” “No, that was 125, with the arthropods. We unplugged that one.” “Well, how long do we have until they figure out?” “Two generations, three max. I bet they’ll figure it all out by the year 2100 in their calendar.” “Okay, so we have 3-4 months of sim?” “2 months. Maybe 3 if we slow it down, but consumers will notice.” “Okay, i’ll leave it up to you then. I need to head back, have a situation with the octopuses in 117. You’ll figure something out.” “….” “Good luck.” “…Hmm, well, giant raccoon apocalypse, here we go.


“This is where you live?” Liam asked, eyes wide as he looked around the library. “Yep,” Madeline said. Her gaze followed his as she took in the familiar sights of home. “No one else was using it. And it made a kind of sense. There aren’t many possible entrances but there *are* a lot of places to hide. There’s also plenty to read.” She tore her eyes away from her beloved library to glance back at him. “So what do you think?” “It’s great! Perfect, actually.” Madeline smiled. It was the most animated she’d seen Liam since she’d met him. The wonder on his face was almost child-like. Something that was painfully absent the rest of the time. You couldn’t last long in this world if you didn’t grow up fast. “I’m afraid I only have one mattress at the moment, but there are a few sofas around the place with cushions,” she said as she led him through. “Why don’t you pick a room and we’ll get you all set up?” He nodded eagerly and raced off to search for a spot. Madeline watched him go, wondering if she’d made the right decision. Giving him freedom and choice seemed a good way to gain his trust. And if they were going to survive together she *needed* his trust. She needed to be certain that if she barked an order at him he would obey it no questions asked. But having him roaming around the library, *her* library, felt wrong somehow. Like letting him rifle through her drawers or read her diary. It was a violation of the privacy she had grown so used to. Shaking her head, she dismissed the foolish thoughts. Like it or not, Liam was here now. This was his home too. She was just going to have to get used to it. \ After she’d away the supplies they’d brought back, Madeline went in search of Liam. She found him in what must have once been a meeting room. Or perhaps a room for group study. There was a large table surrounded by ten chairs, a whiteboard, and a projector screen. He’d already acquired a pile of cushions that he was in the process of forming into a bed. She rapped her knuckle lightly against the door to announce her presence. Liam’s head whipped around, eyes wide and body stiff with tension, but he seemed to relax when he saw her. “How are you getting on?” she asked. “We can probably bring a sofa in here if that would be good? Or find another mattress for you from a nearby house?” “I think this is good for now,” he replied. “It’s like having my own, permanent pillow fort.” “You know, that does sound good,” she chuckled. “I’ll leave you to finish settling in. When you’re finished you can come and find me in the kitchen. We can have a nice, *hot* meal for a change.” The excitement that flitted across his face made Madelin’s smile widen as she turned to leave the room. \ It wasn’t long until she heard his footsteps approaching the kitchen. When he reached the room, he stopped in the doorway, keeping his usual wary distance. “So what are we having?” he asked. “Well, that’s up to you,” she replied, gesturing to the array of foods. “We’ve got pasta or rice for something nice and carby. There are tinned soups, beans, tomatoes, a few different types of vegetables—” “Pasta and tomato sauce!” “I think we can manage that,” she said with a smile. Soon, Madeline was dishing up the steaming pasta. The smell made her stomach rumble. She hadn’t realised how much she’d missed *hot* food. Seeing as she had company, she decided they might as well make use of one of the many tables in the main section of the library, rather than eat on the kitchen floor as was her usual custom. Liam trotted along behind her, eyes fixed on the full bowls. She headed toward a table large enough that they could both sit down while keeping the distance between them Liam seemed to require and set his portion down before retreating with hers to the far end. The sight of him descending on the pasta, devouring it with a speed she wouldn’t have thought possible, made laughter bubble up from within. She found herself wondering if this is what she looked like when she ate. With a shake of her head, she dismissed the thought and started on the bowl in front of her. After all, who cared about table manners anymore? When the meal was done, Madeline considered her companion. He was sitting back, flopped against the chair, eyes closed in satisfaction. It was nice to see him so relaxed, so comfortable. And perhaps it was something she could use. “Did you enjoy the meal?” she asked. “Yes, very much. Thanks!” “Has it been a while since you had hot food?” “Yeah.” “Since before the Poiloogs came? Or more recently?” He considered this for a while, before answering, “A bit more recently. But not by much.” “Was it when you were somewhere else? Before the shop?” “Yeah. At one of those centres the military set up.” “You made it to one of the centres?” she asked, eyes wide. “How? And how did you get out?” “I– We were nearby I suppose,” he said, eyes darting around as he spoke, looking everywhere but at Madeline. “And the one we were in… it just disbanded before they came for it.” “Would you mind telling me about it?” she asked more gently this time. “Maybe you could start at the beginning, from the day the Poiloogs came. If you remember that is. And if it isn’t too hard for you.” Liam leant back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling with his hands folded across his stomach. Madeline was beginning to wonder if he’d drifted off to sleep when he finally spoke. “I was home sick from school that day. It wasn’t anything bad. Just a cold, really. Dad stayed home with me but Mum went to work like usual.” He paused, shifting in his chair to sit forward and lean on the table. “The first we heard about anything strange was the emergency broadcast on the TV telling us something was approaching the planet at speed and to find shelter underground if possible. “Of course, Dad didn’t want to go anywhere without Mum. But he couldn’t get a hold of her. And I suppose he wanted to know I was safe. We lived in a small-ish village in the middle of nowhere. Something I constantly complained about.” He paused, a wry smile flashing across his face before he grew serious once again. “But it probably saved us. The only thing nearby apart from countryside and cows was a military base with an airfield. “Dad packed a bag and we set off. We were outside when the ships first became visible in the sky. Luckily they targeted more populated areas at first.” A look of horror mingled with disgust crept into his features, nose wrinkling as if the words tasted foul. “Luckily for us I mean. Not for everyone who lived there. Who worked there. “We reached the base without much trouble. Other people in the area had the same idea, so there were a few of us turning up. The officers on duty organised us all into shelters. By then they seemed confident we didn’t need to worry about crashing ships or bombs or any other high-tech weapons. It was the creatures from the ships that we needed to watch out for. “Over the weeks, more and more people arrived – fleeing the carnage in the cities. We kept waiting for my Mum to show up but she never did.” His voice cracked slightly, forcing him to swallow before continuing, “The base became a refuge centre. A place of sanctuary from what people had started calling the Poiloogs. The soldiers patrolled the perimeter. Set-up defences. It felt safe.” Madeline stared across at him, but he kept his eyes fixed on his hands, fingers twisting around each other on the table in front of him. Though nothing had been particularly unexpected so far, there was something about watching a child say these things that would never *not* be shocking. After a deep, shaky breath, he started speaking again. “There weren’t many attacks for the first few months – I suppose the Poiloogs were spread pretty thin across the world – but they started becoming more and more frequent. The soldiers started teaching us how we could block them out when they came – by filling out heads with something else. They suggested singing a song or repeating a mantra. “I think they taught the adults other things too. We – the children I mean – weren’t allowed in all of the meetings. But after one of them, my Dad came out all in a panic saying we had to leave – that the centre would become a major target with this many people here. Others were fleeing too. And the military just let us all go. With supplies and everything. I thought it seemed silly, leaving the place with all the guns and soldiers. Surely nowhere would be safer than that. But Dad wouldn’t listen. “We walked and walked after that, stopping in houses along the way. We never stayed anywhere long though. None of them was ever safe enough, apparently. Every now and then we’d bump into someone else. We wouldn’t stay together long but they’d pass on information. That was how we learnt that the centres had fallen – everyone in them rounded up and shipped off by the Poiloogs. Or dead, if they were lucky. “As the months went by we bumped into less and less people. And as the encounters with humans decreased, the ones with Poiloogs increased. Soon we hardly went a week without a near miss. Dad was quite good at fighting them off but he was starting to struggle. He wouldn’t get a chance to properly rest and heal before the next one showed up. And the next one. “It was after another near miss, where he’d hidden me in a wardrobe before going off to hide elsewhere, that we found the shop. It was well stocked and had plenty of hiding places. He said it was perfect. That I’d be safe there. Safer than with him. He explained that…” His eyes flicked to her and the glaze that had entered them as he spoke vanished. “Anyway, that’s about it. You know the rest.” “I do,” she said softly. Something inside her yearned to reach out and fold the boy into her arms. To shield him from the horrors of his past. But she knew that no one could do that. “What about you then?” he asked with a forced cheeriness. “How did you end up here?” Madeline's mouth hung open, caught off-guard by the question. She cursed herself for not seeing that one coming as she cast her mind back to that day.


It was a cold winter night. I just turned 9. I used to share a room with my elder brother. That night I was unable to sleep. I've tried counting numbers which usually works, but I had no luck that night. A light blinking far away caught my attention through the window. It was a small light that was clearly visible due to the pitch black night. After staring at it continuously for about five minutes, the light started blinking rapidly as it dimmed. I tried to look at it with more concentration and I blinked. After closing my eyes and opening them, I realized that it was morning. I was still in the same position, but it was morning. But how? I didn't sleep. I just blinked. Once. It was hard for me to comprehend what had happened. The next night, it was the same. My eyes were focused on that light, and soon after I blinked, it was morning again. It was a holiday, so I decided to go to that location where the light might be located. In spite of my attempts to tell my friends about the light, they never believed me. So I had to go alone. Several people were in the park, children were playing, and parents were accompanying their children. There were a few food trucks nearby. There was nothing out of the ordinary. I found a lamp post at a distance after searching everywhere. It was at the end of the park and was the tallest. My eyes were fixed on it as I approached it. As it was daytime, there was no light. So I decided to return home. The light flashed for a second right before I was about to turn back, or at least I thought it did. It felt weird. I came back home and the day passed. Each day after school, I spent a week staring at the lamp in the park. I was in the park with my family one day. I had an elder brother and a younger sister. After eating a sandwich, we left our parents to play with the kids. While playing, I took the ball and threw it at THAT lamp post. I remember it, I definitely threw at it and I saw the bulb breaking. In a matter of microseconds, the ball hit my sister on the head. The lamp was nowhere near her. When I looked at the lamp again, it wasn't broken. I saw my sister crying as she ran towards my parents. I threw the ball at her, she said. My brother said the same. But I didn't, I tried to explain it to my parents but they wouldn't believe me. I was angry at them so I ran away. I reached the lamp and started kicking it. In an instant, the lamp post disappeared and I fell. It was pitch black, but I could see everything around me in some sort of limbo. I saw a lot of lamp posts around me. I walked towards one, but I was not getting closer to it. There were some weird sounds audible that weren't clear, but they were oddly satisfying. I felt like I was in a dream. I felt a cold breeze touch my neck. As soon as I turned around, it went BLANK. When I opened my eyes, I was not at the park or at home. I was in front of a diner. I wasn't sure how I got there. On my way back to our home, I noticed a few changes in our neighborhood. I reached home. A new and different car was parked outside. There was no sign of our car. I knocked on the door because it was locked. The door opened after a while. As soon as the door opened a woman hugged me and started crying. I didn't understand what was going on. She grabbed my hand and took me inside. She screamed, "Honey, he's home!". A man almost ran into the living room and hugged me. Weird. Thank goodness, you're back, Mike. We were worried about you. Are you hurt? Are you okay? ", he asked me. I nodded. Two kids walked into the living room. The girl smiled. The boy gave me a toy car. My eyes caught sight of a photograph, a family picture. It was a picture of a man, a woman, two kids, and me. What? "Where's mom?", I asked the man. "Right here, Mikey", the woman replied. I was terrified. "Go take a bath and then we'll have dinner", said the man. There were a few changes here and there, but it was our home. My room was the first place I went. Nothing has changed. I still have the bunk bed. Only that there was this kid instead of my brother. It didn't make sense to me. We had dinner after I took a bath. I went back to bed. I was unable to sleep. My eyes searched through the window for that light, but it wasn't there. After a few days, I asked mom (the woman) what happened the day I disappeared. She said that I had a fight with my brother and ran away from home. My thoughts turned to what really happened when I returned to my room. I decided to go to the park the next day. After breakfast, I walked to the park with my brother. It turned out that there was no park at that location. My brother told me the park is near the diner. We went there. I checked the spot where I woke up. Nothing was there. I spent days trying to figure out what was going on. I started to get these dreams about my past. It took me a few months to give up. Although I was sad not to be able to find out what happened to me or where my family was, I accepted my new family. Ten years later, I'm still not sure what really happened. Not that I complain about the family I have right now, but I still miss my FAMILY. Every night, I hope that the lamp's light will return. It might never happen. Now it's time for me to go to bed, stare at the window in search of the light, and hope that everything would be back to normal when I wake up. Good night.


In a world of superheroes the final bomb dropped, bringing destruction upon all whether hero or villain. Citizen or criminal, man or woman, adult or child. Not one was spared from the terrible weapons of destruction, crafted by those who didn’t realize that they created doom for not only their sworn enemies but for themselves too. No hero was strong enough, none were smart enough, but only one was fast enough. He was fast enough to save himself but not one other person. Fast enough to run and run until he noticed no more flares of destruction. Until the only thing he could notice was not the piercing sounds of yelling and crying, but the deafening silence of pure nothingness, a world that lay waiting for something to inhabit it. Not unlike the feeling one gets from seeing a once bustling street become empty at night. He was simply a blur, unable to cope that there was absolutely no one left. However, the blur thought if he could not save anyone, help anyone, or avenge anyone. Why not become everyone? The blur has become even faster now, storming through every library possible, learning how to do everything possible. First, he rebuilt every bridge, building, school, and skyscraper possible. He forgot no building from the tallest skyscraper to the secluded farmhouse across the world. He had to keep himself busy, if he wasn’t busy than he was thinking. If he was thinking he was thinking of what he failed to do, his failure as a hero. He was even faster now. As he kept running and repairing, he still felt empty inside. Everything looked fine on the outside, why was he not feeling better? The blur realized it, how could he forget? Every nice house needs decorations inside, things that tell you about who lived there and what they liked. So he started to decorate, paintings, trinkets, and other things. He ran and ran across the world decorating the inside of every building. Giving each one a personality he saw fit. What would once take him a month only took a few days, he was even faster now. Soon he was finished, everything had been fixed and decorated. It was like nothing bad had ever happened. But eventually he started to think once more, “I decorated and designed how I saw fit”. The rural farmer would not have a painting of a cityscape on his wall. It would be impossible to figure out the interests of every single person on Earth and what they would want in their homes. There just wasn’t enough time to do it. But for the blur this wasn’t an issue, he had all the time in the world and all the speed to do it. He started inspecting the belongings in every single house, deducing what they liked, their interests, and their dislikes. So he began, carefully taking in the consideration of everyone to have lived. Zipping across each street, house to house, bedroom to bedroom. He decorated in a way that they would have liked it, in a way that would not have told you it was the work of man losing himself. As he finished he thought to himself what more could he do? Everything looked better now, what more was he missing? As fast as the blur was, his thoughts started catching up to him. He could no longer keep himself busy with mindless work that would not please anyone except him. No matter how powerful one may be, every human needs companionship. He started a fruitless search around the world, there had to be at least ONE person left. He searched and searched, shelters, houses, schools, valleys, mountains, deserts. Every nook and cranny he searched, all he found were corpses. The blur then had his next idea “If I couldn’t save them in life, than I could honor them in death.” He began digging, he used a shovel at first but eventually realized it would be faster to just use his hands. As quickly as he bloodied his hands crudely thrusting them into the ground, they healed even quicker. In minutes he had buried dozens of people, a pile of dirt from the graves he had dug out began to rise. Another minute goes by, and soon a hill has taken shape. After a few minutes thousands had been buried, he was even faster now. A mountain started to form, eventually it began to tower over the tallest buildings. Hours had passed, everyone had been laid to rest. A mountain that put any skyscraper, mountain, or cloud to shame with its height had formed. It was a monument, a monument to not just the blur’s failure. But to the failure of humanity, a failure to realize to bring doom upon their enemies, that they had also brought doom upon those undeserving of it. The blur was left running, running to find something that wasn’t there. Whether it was purpose, companionship, or a way to undo it all. He was left running at speeds thought impossible. He was losing his grip, as for every day, hour, minute, and even second that had gone by. He had began to lose himself Even Faster Now.


It was the fourth night in a row that I had heard the music. Never before had it played so frequently; usually it was on rare occasion, maybe once or twice a week, and particularly on the night of a new moon. Ever since my family had inherited the old piano as part and parcel of our new home, this strange and beautiful music had caused me many sleepless nights. Often when it would play, I would quietly slip out of my room and down the hallway to sit at the top of the stairs and listen. I knew not who played the music; nobody in my family was musically inclined, and they all lay sleeping as if they could not hear it. Deep down I knew and could not pretend that the piano played these haunting and melancholy melodies on its own, and this anomaly greatly piqued my curiosity. When the music would not play and I would sleep through the night, I would regularly dream of venturing down the steps into the basement to see who sat before the black and white keys, but every time I reached the bottom step, the music would stop and I would wake up alone in the quiet darkness. This particular night was the night of a new moon, so dark that scarcely any light came even from the windows. The weird and beautiful music rang clearly from the piano in the old spare room downstairs as I sat on the top step listening. I had been there enjoying the sound of it for what must have been at least an hour. The rest of the house lay completely still and sleeping; all except for me and this thing who played the piano. Never before had I gone down the stairs when the music played; only in dreams. However on this night, curiosity got the best of me, and I began to make my way down one step at a time. I expected the music to stop, although I hoped it would not. The descent down the stairs seemed to last forever; the music got louder as the darkness in the air grew thicker. I was almost to the bottom and the music went on, giving me high hopes that I would at last meet the Musician. There were three steps left; then two, then one, and then my feet met the cold concrete floor. Just as it was in my dreams, the music stopped abruptly, only I did not wake up. That is when the singing began. Very softly at first, in words I could not understand, it sang; a singular voice from the room occupied only by the piano at the end of the hallway. Whether the voice belonged to a man or a woman, I could not discern. It was simply otherworldly. The melody of this song was slow and eerie, rising and falling like the waves of the ocean, and floating in the air like a mist. As I made my way down the hallway, the melody came to a resolution, only to begin again accompanied by the piano. The song was so strangely beautiful; I only wished I could understand the words. I had to meet this great musician whose song could move the soul like this. I was almost to the end of the hallway; the song was louder and clearer than ever before, and it was only just on the other side of that door. I reached for it, turned the knob, and pushed it open. The music stopped instantly. The inside of the room was pitch black, darker even than the hallway. After a moment, my eyes adjusted slightly, and I could see the piano against the back wall. And there was the Musician. On the bench before the instrument sat a tall, thin shadow-figure of a man, only it did not sit facing the piano; it faced me. I could not see if it had eyes, but I could feel its gaze matching mine. I stood paralyzed for a moment, and suddenly realized I was rudely intruding and interrupting the song. I closed the door and began to back away. The song did not resume. I started to hurry back towards the stairs, but I did not make it before I heard the door to the spare room creak open behind me. Stopped in my tracks, I turned around to look. I could not resist. At the end of the hallway, the door had been pushed open only a crack,and from the darkness within was a pair of glowing yellow eyes staring at me. Only a second later the door slammed shut and the music resumed playing. I listened from the top step once again, and for the first time heard the grande finale and end of the music. It was the vast final storm of the sea before the death of the wind and sky and eternal calm over the waters. Alone in the total darkness and complete silence, I retired to bed to sleep, and did not dream that night. Never again would I hear that beautiful song, though I’ll be damned if I ever forget it. Never again would the Musician bless the keys of my piano with its brilliance, nor my soul with its tune.


There’s a hair on your left arm that you never noticed before. Not that you usually notice your arm hairs, but this one was tough to miss. It was thicker than any of your other ones, and darker too. You give it a little tug and find it’s longer than you thought. You pull it a good four, five inches and there’s still more hair coming out. You take some scissors and cut it, or at least try. It’s a lot tougher than you thought: your scissors are ruined and the hair is still there. You give it another pull, just to see if there’s more, and there is. You take it about two feet before you stop, wondering if it ever ends. It never does. It doesn’t hurt when you pull it, though it does feel weird. You poke and prod the area around the hair, thinking something is maybe under your skin, but you feel nothing. You go to your parents who, in the course of their investigation, pull the hair another three feet, then conclude you should see a doctor. The doctor, after pulling the hair another foot, tries to x-ray your arm, but the machine breaks as soon as it’s turned on. They try again with another machine and that breaks too. The doctor tries cutting the hair, using a scalpel, an electric saw, a paper cutter, and even an antique Japanese knife a patient had on him. Nothing works. So they try surgery. You find this very scary and just want to go home and not think about this gross hair that’s coming out of your arm (and it is quite gross–you didn’t realize it at first, but now that there’s enough of it you realize it smells, very faintly, of bad BO.) Still, your parents agree, and you’re given something that makes you very sleepy. When you wake up, there’s a bandage on your arm and a doctor beside your bed, who says that they could not remove the hair. They tried digging it out by its root, but all they managed to do was break several scalpels. They also couldn’t find any reason why this one hair suddenly got so long, strong, and gross. They say the only way to really get rid of the hair would be to remove the arm. That makes both you and your parents very upset. So, your family tries other things. They try a blowtorch. They try a laser. They try a saw used to cut diamonds. Nothing works. Sometimes, like with the blowtorch, you only get hurt, because you find out the hair conducts heat very well. This goes on for weeks. The hair gets extremely long in the meantime. You do your best to be careful but sometimes you’re walking and it gets snagged on something and you don’t notice for a while until you look back and see you’ve added another ten feet or so. Or sometimes, in your sleep, it gets caught on your pillow and as you roll around in bed the hair gets longer with each movement of your arm. One time, the worst time, you got into a car and didn’t realize your hair had gotten wrapped around a tree branch and it took a few miles before you realized what had happened. You might have been able to tie it up before, when it was smaller, to keep these sort of things from happening, but now it has gotten much too large to manage. You have to coil it up like a garden hose to walk around, and it’s heavy and it’s stinky and it’s gross. So, eventually, you tell your parents that you just want them to chop off your arm. You’ve had enough. Your parents take you to the doctor’s again and, within a day, your arm is off. You’re sad–you and that arm had a lot of good memories–but you’re glad at least you don’t have to trail that hair anymore. A while later they take off your bandages and see how you’re healing. Sticking out of the stump, where your arm used to be, is another hair. Heart beating loudly, you grip it with your remaining hand and pull, hoping, praying, desperately wishing that it would just pluck out of your skin. It does not. It gets longer.


The door knob twisted silently. The only thing that told the room's occupant that it had moved was the small click of the latch. The door, swinging open, moved just as quietly. A tall, pale, man entered the small room. The heels of his boots echoing on the tiled floor. The occupant, Darius, looked up at the footsteps. It was different from the soft beeping of the heart monitor to his right. His wrinkled hands shook as he closed the book he had been reading. He shifted slightly allowing him to sit up higher in his bed. This visit was expected. He had been waiting for it ever since he entered the hospital. The Man before him was exceptionally well dressed. A tailored three piece suit, black, covered his thin frame. A silver chain led from one pocket to under his suit jacket. He had a long overcoat, also black, draped over his left arm. In his right hand he held a cane. It was long to match his height, and it had an elongated, sharply curved handle running parallel to the floor. His face was smooth skinned with no beard or mustache. The brim of his hat covered his eyes as he looked over his cane. "So you have finally come for me," Darius spoke. His voice, once deep and robust, was now thin and frail. The Man looked up. Black eyes focused on him. He missed a breath. Those eyes were fathomless, and old. They had seen things he couldn't imagine, and now they were trained on him. "You can see me?" The Man asked. His voice was smooth and carried supreme confidence. Despite the surprise his statement implied, his face showed none of the emotion. He seemed more curious than anything. It was the first time Darius had ever heard him speak, but it was not the first time he had seen him. "Yes I can. I have my whole life," he replied. Reaching over he laid his book on the small bedside table. It rocked every so slightly on its wheels as he touched it. "Interesting." Silence fell between the two. The only sound filling the room was the steady rhythm of the heart monitor. He didn't know what else to say, and the Man seemed content in his silence. Darius thought back. Back to the first times he saw the Man, or at least the first time he remembered. The sterile smell of the hospital room faded; the musty smell of an old trailer house filled his nose. His mother had been passed out in her room; sleeping off whatever she had gotten high on. He had been left to fix the little food that was left in the house, and could be cooked by an eleven year old. His younger brother and sister waited eagerly at the table for the boiled potatoes he had managed to make. Having saved a few for his mother, he brought a plate back to her room. There before him was his mom, foam on her lips, unmoving on her bed. Standing over her was a tall thin man. He looked from his mother to the Man then back to his mother. The lights flickered, and the intruder was gone. He dropped the food, rushing to his mother. Screaming her name and shaking her arm. She didn’t wake up. From then on he could always see the Man around in seemingly random places: on a busy intersection, standing outside a house, or waiting at a construction site. It was years before he had another direct run in. After his mother was gone, the three children had moved in with their father. He had enjoyed the government check he got for them as much as their mother had. Finally he was able to afford all the booze he wanted to drink, and drink he did. At the age of fifteen the Man had visited Darius' house once more. This time to see his father who had spent the last few days on a bender. The Man had walked straight past the front door and behind the children. Darius had looked up from the TV to watch him go by. He stood to follow, but couldn't make his legs move. Something about the Man's back, retreating from him, told him not to go. His brother and sister didn't seem to notice; the cartoons were too interesting. He sat back down on the faded couch slowly as a door in the hallway closed. The three had been moved into foster care the next day. It was around that time that Darius was old enough to figure out what he was seeing. What the Man meant. From that point on anytime he saw him, he turned and went the other way. Running from what he knew he was seeing. The Man visited more than a few of his neighbors. He clocked out early when his workplace received a visit; that place had been shut down shortly after and he had to find a new job. When his sister had followed in their mother's footsteps; ending up in the hospital for her drug of choice. The Man had come to visit. He had seen him enter his sister's room. To his shame, fear overwhelmed him. He couldn't bring himself to enter his sister's room. He stood in the middle of the hall staring at the door as the alarms started blaring. Only moving when a nurse pulled him aside as doctors tried to rush around him. The Man visited his friends, his family, and even his late wife. Now he was visiting him. Darius came back to the present. The hospital smell returned. The clock showed only seconds had passed. The Man was still standing before him; a pleased smile on his face. "Many who meet me have their lives flash before their eyes. I try to give them time to process it," the Man's voice filled the silence. "I feared you," he began. Ignoring the statement. "I did everything in my power to avoid you." "That is very common." "Then I hated you." "That is also very common," that statement carried a hint of dejection. "I hated you for what you took from me: my mother, my father, my family, my wife. I spent almost all of my years believing you were evil. "And now?" "And now," Darius sighed. "Now I believe you were there to give them peace. To lead them to the other side." The Man's face seemed to brighten. "Never did I think to meet someone who could see me," the Man said. "Let alone one so understanding." "Do I have time to call my children before you take me?" The Man pulled on the chain coming from his pocket. A watch appeared. With a press of a finger it opened and he examined it. "Unfortunately, no," the Man apologized before making a suggestion. "If you want more time you can always challenge me to a game of your choice." "No, it's okay. I am ready." "Very well," the Man approached. His footsteps echoed loudly over the floor. When he reached the bed he moved his cane to his left and reached out. "For what it is worth I am sorry." "It's okay old friend. Take me home." The heart monitor stopped beeping.


Louis picked up his guitar and started strumming it. A sweet and vibrating sadness seeped out of the strings as he looked beyond the room we were in. “You know, Ross, I will forget you one day.” Louis said. He continued plucking at the silver strands. Each finger caressing the timbers of the instrument so gently. “You’ll remember just fine,” I said “you haven’t forgotten anything important yet. It’s only been small things, ya know?” Louis let his gaze droop down. His guitar was singing warmly but it sounded empty. Without a heart. “I’ve forgotten far too much already. I want you to know…” He stuttered. “To know, I’ve already forgotten the chords to this song I’m playing.” I paused and listened to his song. He played it so many times with me around that I’d found great comfort in it. Almost like it was a personal lullaby. “How can you play it if you’ve forgotten it already?” I asked. Louis stopped playing. His face was down but I could see the small tears falling onto the lacquered surface of his guitar. The drops beaded up and rolled off with ease. “I don’t remember this song anymore, but my hands do.” He picked up in his strumming where he left off. “If your hands remember, surely you should too.” I said leaning in. I placed a hand on his shoulder. He recoiled with my touch. “If I ever do anything in my forgetfulness that hurts you, however indirect, please forgive me.” His voice cracked under the strain of his words. “When I forget you. Please forgive me” “Lou, I don’t think you-” “Because I already don’t forgive myself.” He began sobbing as he continued to play. “I can already feel the cobwebs in my brain. I can feel the spiders making homes in the cogs of my mind. Please forgive me” “Louis-” “Please forgive me, please forgive me. I’m so sorry Ross. Please forgive me when I forget you” Louis plucked at the strings so roughly that his toughened fingers split. The blood dripped down the body of the guitar and mixed with his tears. The sound of his crying soul resonated through the room and pulled at my heart. “Louis, IF you forget me. If you forget us and everything. You’ll still be Louis to me. There’s nothing to forgive.” I placed my hand against his neck, trying to comfort him. He slid his face down and let his tears roll over my fingers. We sat there for a while as he played. The defeat in his face was too hard to look at, so I looked away. Louis and I had been traveling together for so long. At the time, it seemed impossible to imagine ever forgetting any of it. He had been forgetting some major things around that time. I just didn’t want to see him like that. I didn’t want to think of it. I couldn’t begin to fathom how hard that was for him. What exactly was going on with him, I don’t think I’ll ever know. But he did end up forgetting. Louis forgot everything. I’ve already forgiven you, Lou. I always will.


You caressed my face as I rested my head on your lap. I was beyond tired, and emotionally drained, but the gentleness of your hands made me forget about it all. I looked up at you and smiled, in appreciation of your kindness. You smiled back and kissed my forehead. I loved every second of that moment. I thought that if the heavens we were taught of in churches were real, they may not compare to the bliss I felt with you just then. However, there were still recesses of my mind that held onto hesitant thoughts, doubts, darkness I did not want to confront... Was it worth it? Did I...Did *we* do the right thing? What happens now? Will you still love me? Will you even need me? My heart raced, and my peaceful smile slowly dissipated. I didn't know how to feel, what to feel, if I should feel...I was scared. I mean, why wouldn't I be? You caught on to my change in mood, and asked me if I was alright. To which I obviously replied with a lie, but you saw right through it. "I can tell something's bothering you" you said, almost sounding like a saddened and worried mother. I turned my downhearted gaze away from you and towards the distance beyond the hill on which we currently resided. "I—I don't know...", I replied, confused and unsure of what to say. "What don't you know?" I debated myself. Should I tell you? Will she understand? What will happen if I anger her? Deep within I still questioned you; I questioned your humanity. Three months ago you had done things many would deem horrible and dreadful. Hell, I even helped you, and I was concerned about it all, and evidently I still am, but back then I was frightened of the potential outcome for myself. Now I worry about the morality of what we did, and those who we sent beyond the veil... "Love" you interrupted my thinking with a sad voice "please talk to me" I still did not know what to say, but I had to at least tell you something. Though I was conflicted, my feelings for you never waned. "I'm scared", I confessed as I sat up next to you. “Of what?” The proper answer was long and multifaceted, but I wanted to be concise and direct. Though my concerns revolved about the possibility of you taking this the wrong way, it had to be said. I’d rather be sure my worries were mere delusions brought about by the stress, trauma, and anxiety of all that’s come before this moment, than to potentially head into the lion’s den unaware. “Of what comes next” I said hesitantly. You turned your head slightly, wondering what I meant for a second, but you quickly realized the meaning of my words. You then lightly sighed and raised a hand up to my cheek. “I know we won’t ever be the same as each other. We were made by a different hand after all” My eyes, previously aimed at the ground, gained the courage to meet yours as you spoke. “What we did brought freedom and life back to the world. People were lost, and I know many of them did not deserve it, but we both know many more would’ve been lost if we hadn’t done it.” My eyes went back to the soil beneath us. “I know”, I almost whispered with embarrassment. “That’s not all I’m worried about though…” You turn “Mi amor, are you worried about us? Our relationship?” I stayed silent; that said it all. Your face showed a sense of sadness again. “Are you worried I’m lying about my feelings for you?” I remained silent yet again. Hearing and seeing you show such concern made me feel ashamed. To think I questioned your humanity again after all that…What is wrong with me? Yeah, you may be different. Your kind may not be “compatible” with us by god’s standards, but so what? You being here defies what God thinks and says. You treating me as you do means God’s opinion doesn’t matter. Unless they wanna descend from heaven and do something about it, I refuse to give in to the expectation. “I’m sorry” I said, breaking the silence. “I know how bad that probably comes across.” This time you were the one who stayed silent. However, not for long. “A part of me is largely influenced by your people.” You held my hands and caressed them with your thumbs. “I guess, from your perspective, I’d be worried that I was faking it all to gain what I wanted. I—I get it…” I noticed tears were building up on your eyes. Remorse filled me as I wondered why I had done this. “Do you think I would have kept you around for months after what we did?” your breath became slightly shaky. You were close to full on tears, and I felt horrible. What you said was right. You could’ve ditched me months ago if you wanted to, but you didn’t. There was no use for me anymore, but you stuck around regardless. Hell, we set ourselves up in a cottage together. How much dumber can I be… Silence prevailed for a few minutes while we looked down at the ground preventing the discomfort of looking at each other. I was again unsure of what to say, but again had to reply with something. I simply could not perpetuate the silence while your mind ran wild and tried to think of awful reasons why I doubted you. “I’m sorry”, I said once again. “I’m so ashamed…” You looked up at me once more. “I just don’t wanna lose—” The roaring of engines interrupted my words. As I turned around towards the source of the sound, total fear shocked my nervous system. To think that after this long… The thundering of death echoed through the valley. You hugged me tight as you cried, terrified by the unfolding events. “Te quiero…” I said. Tears ran down my face as I kissed you, and the roaring of the engines fell silent.


Dear ——— It’s been a while now since we’ve last seen each other. You often cross my mind and I can’t help but wonder if you cross mine too. Do you remember me the same way I remember you? Because I remember your eyes. Your eyes were so bright. They were brown pools of warmth and comfort. Every time we locked eyes it was like I was staring into my comfort place. I didn’t even know you and yet, I knew I could take solace in you. In your presence. The kindness and genuity that radiated off of you enveloped me. I was entranced. I think your eyes may have been my favorite thing about you. Did you feel the same way every time you looked into my eyes? I wish I could hear your answer, but you’re gone. And it’s been so long. You know what I also wish? I wish I could hug you one last time. Your hugs were as warm as a campfire, as comforting as a cup of tea. The smell of you engulfed me. It would transport me to a place where time stands still and the sun never stops shining. When your arms tightened around my body, it felt as though you were my anchor and I was no longer a ship floating aimlessly in the sea. We would be in sync; your heart drumming along to the beat of mine. Our mixed breath would carry the tune. Oh the things I would give up, just to hug you. Do you want to hug me too? I hope you do. Remember when you first kissed me? I was terrified. It was my first kiss and I didn’t know what to do. Even looking into your eyes couldn’t calm my nerves. But before I could react your lips were on mine. So soft. So smooth. The taste of you was mesmerizing. I had never tasted something as sweet as nectar but as rich as butter before then. I was addicted and I wanted more. So I kissed you back. Drinking you in and savoring every last drop. I was hooked on you and you led me to believe that you were hooked on me too. So why then? Why did you leave? Every touch, every glance, every experience, every laugh, every kiss. How could you just throw it away? How could you throw me away? And why is it so hard for me to do the same? Instead, I’m caught in the rapids of my mind. Being pushed and pulled by every thought of you. Wondering when my raft will flip over and I’ll finally be able to drown. Hoping someone could save me before then, but realizing it’s up to me to save myself. It’s my responsibility. Why am I the one being held responsible for something I never caused? You caused it, so you should be held responsible. Do you remember me the same way I remember you? Because I hate that I still love you. Yours Truly.


Imagine you are an immortal chimp working to support your chimp family. Your chimp wife and children need the money. One day your chimp children will go to college and support you and your chimp wife when you are too old to work any longer. It's truly the perfect chimpanzee dream, just like the movies. You work in a never ending cycle of tippity tapping away on a keyboard. You're not alone, you are surrounded by a seemingly endless supply of fellow simian laborers, all typing just the same. Work consists of pressing buttons and submitting a plethora of unreadable garbage to meet the yearly quota. Life is good, it's easy work. One day, management decided to make better use of you and your ape compatriots. You are assigned with one task and one task only; write the entirety of Shakespearean literature. You can exit the building only when you have completed your assignment. Sounds time consuming but simple, right? Wrong. Your small chimpanzee brain can not yet process the meaning of the strange symbols on the keyboard in front of you. You try to quit, “I can't write Shakespeare!” All that comes out is incoherent screeching and wailing. You are quickly escorted back to your seat at gunpoint and reprimanded for your behavior. Surely the other apes have something to say about this new turn of events? No, your ape coworkers are seemingly unbothered and continue to smash their keyboards. You panic, you haven't had to exercise your brain in decades. Now they expect you to write full english sentences? Internally screaming, you type frantically and randomly across your keyboard in hopes that you may get lucky and write a legible sentence or two. You won't, at least not for another couple of eons. Only now do you survey your surroundings, desperate for a way out. The door, locked. How about the windows? Seems like you never looked up from your computer for long enough to realize there ARE no windows. Maybe the ventilation shaft? Bolted and secure. Maybe you can break the door down? Nope, the years of endless office work has shriveled your body into a husk of its former self. You can barely support the glasses you wear on your head, let alone a steel door. Looks like you're out of options. The chimps alongside you work diligently and happily, unaware of the dire situation. You try typing, for only a bit. The constant mistakes and deletion of your hard work grinds you down. You work for hours at a time for zero gain. The end is nowhere near in sight. Only now does it truly dawn on you your situation. You sit down and cross your arms in protest. You will refuse to work until they let you see your family! Except, no one ever comes. What's one monkey refusing to work in a sea of countless others who work with no complaints? Eventually, you lose all hope and spend countless decades, even centuries, doing absolutely nothing. Time truly has no meaning when you are immortal. Luckily your small ape brain is easily entertained by throwing assorted objects around the room and screeching at the top of your lungs. Even that however, gets old eventually. One day this repetitive cycle ends. An announcement, over the intercom. “Chimp #72938403 has completed his work. Congratulations!” You are dumbfounded. Chimp #72938403 waltzes over to the exit doors. You seize this opportunity and make a break for it. You see the outside world. You see sunlight again. Just as quickly as you gained your temporary freedom, you lose it again. You are thrown back into the endless cubicles of your workplace. Seeing a fellow monkey make his way out of this hell, it determines you. “If he can do it, I can do it!”, you think. You must get to work if you ever wish to live again. Despite the overwhelming odds against you, you begin. You imagine your loving family’s embrace after you finally conquer the dreadful workload. “It will all be worth it in the end”, you tell yourself. Yet, you have a creeping thought in the back of your mind, “will there be an end?” Time passes, slowly you see yourself make progress. Another announcement, yet another ape has regained his freedom. This drives you to work harder than before, soon you will be free. Yet more time passes. Another announcement, and another, and another, and even more. The ape to your left leaves you, then the one to the right. Soon enough, you are completely alone. What did you do to deserve this divine punishment? You weep, your keyboard getting soggy. Yet, you type. You stop thinking. One day, you do it. You place the period on the last sentence of the last book of Shakespeare. You can't believe it. You don't believe it. You get up and head for the exit door. Locked. Confused, you yell out into the open air. The voice on the intercom starts speaking. You erupt into celebration. You are free. He says, “Three Witches, act one, scene one.” What? What does that mean? You rush to your computer and scan through your work. Oh god. You read aloud, “Fair is fpul, and foul is fair.


(WP) Retribution She’d spent her entire life in pursuit of revenge, to get even with those who had wronged her. The palace was burning around her, and she couldn’t help but be mesmerized by the chaos she had wrought. Smoke clogged the air, thick and black, and the screams of the wounded and dying were like music in her ears. “How could you do this?!” Before she could so much and turn around and look at the speaker, she was tackled from behind, and they both hit the floor; she only just avoided cracking her head on the white marble. It was her younger sister, and tears were running down her face. “You’ve destroyed everything!” “You destroyed me first!” The words roared their way out of Viola’s chest, as raw and sharp as broken glass. How many days had she spent in this very room, wishing she was somewhere, someone, else? Her hands met her sister’s chest, and she tried to push her off, even as her sister’s hands went to her throat and squeezed. For the first time since the fire started, Viola was afraid she was going to die. And at her sister’s hands. She gripped her sister’s wrists and squeezed, fighting against the darkness that threatened to pull her under. She’d worked too hard for too long to not see her revenge realized. “You made me do this, all of you,” She whispered, and her sister let go. She shoved her off, growling. They’d never understood her, never tried. She’d always been the odd one out. “Nobody ever wanted you anyway!” The world narrowed to her sister, sprawled on the floor, and as if she was watching herself from outside, she saw herself pull out a dagger. “Take that back, or I will make you pay.” “You couldn’t just take your exile with grace, as usual, you had to throw a tantrum!” “SHUT UP!” Viola shrieked, rounding on her sister. She brought the knife down, but her sister dodged the blow, their training kicking in, and Viola screamed her fury to the ceiling. Even the roar and pop of the fire couldn’t completely muffle the sound of her rage. “You were supposed to die, anyway. Father wanted you left on a mountain. Mother didn’t let him; she only saved you out of pity, and fear of the gods.” A film of red descended over Viola’s eyes; the knife in her hand trembled violently. Everything she’d ever suspected and feared to be true was confirmed in her sister’s statement. She had a knife in her hand, their home was burning around them, yet she felt like a mouse before a cat: helpless. “I’m not sorry,” Viola said, pleased that her voice did not tremble. “You drove me to this, all of you, when you sent me away.” “Father never should have shown you mercy, sister mine. He should’ve just had you executed.” Her sister laughed again, and Viola decided that if she died in pursuit of retribution, it didn’t matter. She approached her sister, spinning the knife in her hand. “Get up, and let’s finish this, sister.


Pain. My elbows, my knees ached. My mouth felt tight. I moaned, a sound like a wounded deer. “You’re alive!” he cried. I turned my head, my neck cracking. A man, with a head of unruly brown hair and a grizzled beard, looked at me with fervor. “Where…am I…” My lips seemed gummed together, I was parched; my throat burned when I spoke. “You’re here with me darling, don’t you recognize me?” he implored. “It’s Victor.” I put my head back down, for it seemed so heavy, and I closed my eyes, but he shook me and would not let me be. “Elizabeth, I’ve brought you back,” he said. “Wa…ter,” I groaned, and my voice was as harsh as the wind that blew outside, rattling the windows of the house. The following days I came back to life. He fed me and watered me, and my body regained strength enough for me to think. But this wasn’t my body. This was a stranger’s body. My skin had been smooth and supple, pink with a tinge of gold. This skin was pale and dry, wrinkled and ashy. My hair had been long and brown, cascading to my bosom in glossy ringlets. Now it was coarse and scraggly like the fur of a wet animal, and I could feel that I was balding in various spots on my head. I did not ask for a mirror. I saw no one save Victor who would come down into my dark basement to feed me and talk to me. “My love,” he would croon, “my heart, my sunshine.” “Take me back,” I wailed, when I regained my voice. “Take me back.” I meant for him to take me back to that dreamless slumber from whence I had come. I could not remember what it had been like to sleep, and now I did not sleep at all, even though the sun rose and fell many times. I saw the cat sleep, Victor sleep, even the cockroaches sleep. But when I closed my eyes, sleep did not come. That’s how I suspected I had died. “We will travel,” he said to me, “We will see the world. We will do all the things we said we would do together.” But I remembered very little of what we had said we would do together. I remembered glimpses, here and there, of light, of a book curled up on my lap, his unruly brown hair leaning against my knee. I remembered that. But I did not remember who he was. In fact, I did not remember who I had been or any others I had known. Glimpses visited, detached visions of faces flitting past like the shadows that danced on the walls from the candlelight. The faces scurried through my mind like insects across the walls, and told me I had had a mother, a father, a brother who died young. But as to what memories we had shared together–those things were missing. My ability to speak remained intact, as did my knowledge of how basic physics worked in the world. But so much more was missing. “How long has it been?” I asked. “Many years,” he said. He said he had found the secret to immortality. And then he had come for me, frozen in my cryogenic slumber. He would give me what he had found for himself, that which had come after my time. “I’ll help you remember,” he said. “Just give me a chance.” So I did. We traveled the world, my face hidden by a veil. We saw a great many things, from the icy cliffs of the North to the humid jungle tropics of the South. Alligators basking in rivers, lions in a hunt, a flock of flamingos darkening the sun. We saw them all, and more. But still I was unmoved. I felt nothing. Saw nothing. Everything felt as cold and far away as the moon. Even the kisses that he lavished upon me. “Take me back,” I said, finally. Resigned, he took me back to the house, and prepared a fluid that would slow the beating of my heart. That’s when he gave me a kiss, on my lips. He never cared that I now looked different. Again I remembered the book on my lap, the light, his hair upon my knee. I still could not feel what he said I once had felt. But I felt something now, like a small nudge of warmth. I kissed him back. “Thank you for trying,” I said. “I loved you, I think.” “I love you still,” he said, and injected the solution into my arm.


It was 3:45 a.m and I’d just finished my overnight shift at the factory, just another long, dull night in a string of long, dull nights. I was on Old Block Road listening to the Michael Stanley Band belt out “Working Again,” the best goddamn unknown band that Cleveland has ever produced, and now he’s dead so all I have is his disembodied voice. MSB should’ve gone a lot further than they did; guess you could say that about a lot of folks, including me. I didn’t usually drive this way, but I was tired and distracted and missed the turnoff. It’s not like anyone was waiting up for me. Hell, no. I saw her about a quarter mile from Rankin Bridge. She was on the side of the road, slim with long brown hair braided down her back like a knotted rope. When my headlights passed over her, I saw that she was dressed in a flimsy tee so sheer you could see her nipples, a long white skirt down to her ankles, and pink flip-flopsoh, you know, those foam things, the kind you wear to the beach. I never could wear them. They always gave me blisters. She didn’t seem to be going anywhere in particular. She just stood there, gently swaying as if she was listening to music in her head. It was like she was waiting for someonesomeone special. There was something about hermaybe it was her hair, or the way her hips moved, or the warm spring breezethat made me think of Jenny. Now that was a shot to the gut. Damn, I hadn’t thought of Jenny in years. Well, that’s not quite the truth. I thought about her a lot. We were seventeen, we were in love, and we spent most of that magical summer in the back seat of my old man’s Cadillac along with the sounds of Meat Loaf and Billy Joel. When I held Jenny close, she made me feel that anything and everything was possible, that I could be something more than what I was, which wasn’t much, to begin with. I had no special talents, no hidden genius. But sweet Jenny made me feel like I mattered, and when you’re seventeen, that’s your whole fucking world in the palm of your hand. When Jenny told me that she was pregnant, I didn’t hesitate. I went straight to the old man and swore up and down I was going to marry her, no matter what he or anyone else said. I should’ve known that the old buzzard would have other ideas. See, in those days, I was being groomed to take over the mill. I would go to college, get a business degree, settle down, and marry the “right” woman, the woman he picked out. The bastard had my whole life planned out, and no whore in a tank top and cut-off shorts was going to mess that up. I put up a hell of a fight, but in the end, the old man got his way. He always did. He had a way of wearing you down like a pair of brass knuckles. My mother had long ago given up, preferring a bottle of Scotch to reality. I started the fall semester at the state university, Jenny was shipped off to California to stay with relatives, and her Dad, who was a foreman at the mill, got a fat raise and a promotion. It was all nice and tidy, wrapped up like a Christmas present. The old man even paid for the abortionsix hundred bucks due to complications. He docked me for it, too, and held it over my head like a fucking speeding ticket. Oh, the old man liked to think he had everything figured out, but the one thing he hadn’t counted on was life. In my junior year, the son of a bitch had a stroke that left him drooling in a diaper. The mill went bankrupt, Mom went off the deep end, and I had to drop out of school. The day after he was buried, I took off in his Cadillac. My first stop was Jenny’s house, where her father greeted me with a shotgun. Jenny was engaged to a nice young man and she didn’t need me stirring the pot. Well, after that, my next stop was the interstate, and I didn’t stop driving until the car blew a head gasket in Alabama. I never went back home, not even for my mother’s funeral. It took me a while, a couple of scrapes with the law, but I got the wildness out of my system and married Susie when she was six months pregnant with Mark. I told myself that I loved Susie, and I suppose I did at some point. Not as much as I loved Jenny, but lightning doesn’t strike twice. Over the years, I’d worked a variety of jobs in different statessalesman, driver, guarduntil I found steady employment at the factory. I thought I had it good. I bought a wide-screen TV and a riding lawnmower to go with the house I couldn’t afford. I loved my kids, but I didn’t know them, and they didn’t know me. I left the emotional stuff to Susie. I always told myself it was going to get better, someday. Well, someday had finally come and the sore truth was that I was on the wrong side of fifty with a bad back and a beer belly, wondering where the hell my life had gone. Seeing JennyI mean, seeing that girlfilled me with a bitter ache that gnawed at me, a sadness that no amount of tortilla chips, salsa, and Budweiser could fill. I glanced at myself in the rearview mirror and saw the gnarled, angry, bitter face of my old man. When I got home, Susie was in bed. I pulled back the covers and snuggled up against her like I used to, but she just pushed me off like a pile of dirty laundry and stumbled headlong into the bathroom. It seemed hard to believe, but there was a time I couldn’t get her out of bed. Hell, it wasn’t that long ago that she begged me to get on the day shift so we could spend more time together. Now, we just passed each other like strangers on a train. I pretended to be asleep as she dressed to go to work, but all I could think about was that girl by Rankin Bridge. After Susie and the kids were finally out of the house, I fumbled with my pajama bottoms and thought long and hard about what I’d do to the girl in the pink flip-flops as I lifted her skirt. Later, when I got up, I couldn’t say why exactly, but something was different. For one thing, my back didn’t hurt so much. When I put on my jeans, they weren’t as snug as they had been. I told myself it was skipping that extra six-pack and bag of chips. By the time I got to the plant, I swear, it was like I had the energy of a sixteen-year-old. I lifted boxes like I was Samson. Me, who could barely lift a sack of potatoes without calling for an ambulance. The guys kidded me about it and said I was making them look bad. Susie noticed it too and made a couple of snide cracks when I puttered around the garage. What could I tell her? Maybe it was seeing that girl. Maybe it was thinking about Jenny. But whatever it was, I hadn’t felt so goddamn good in monthsno, years. And when I clocked out each night, I cranked up my CD player and began missing the turnoff on purpose. I slowed down when I came upon the bridge, looking, lingering, with a hunger I could taste. But I didn’t see the girl again. After a while, I started to think that my eyes had played tricks on me. There’d never been a girl. I’d dreamed the whole thing up. Or maybe it had been that bottle of Jack Daniels I hid under the front seat. A few days later, I was at the bowling alley with my buddy Silas from the factory. Officially, we were there playing, but unofficially, we were there for beer and girls who could have been our daughters in low-cut T-shirts and tight jeans. While the view was pretty good, I couldn’t stop thinking about Jenny, I mean, the girl on Rankin Bridge. Hell, if I didn’t know myself better, I’d say I’d been bewitched. I ordered another round for me and Silas. “Woo-wee, you won the lottery or something?” Silas hooted. I shook my head. “I wish. Just feeling good. My back’s been a hell of a lot better.” “Yeah, those chiropractors work wonders.” Silas grabbed another handful of peanuts. I fumbled with the words. “Silas, I got a question for you. The kids, where do they like to hang out?” “Hell, that’s easy. Up on Rankin Bridge. Been that way since before I was a kid, it’ll be that way when I’m gone. Why you ask?” I nervously gulped down some beer and spilled some down the front of my shirt. “No particular reason. I just thought one night driving around there that I saw someone I used to know, is all.” Silas gave me a funny look. “You don’t know, do you? Look, if you want to know about the bridge, you ought to talk to my boy Luther. He’s into that paranormal activity shit.” He turned and shouted at Luther, who was playing pool in the back. “Hey, Luther. Get your fat ass over here.” Luther shuffled over to us, slow and eager to please. Silas had gotten him a job at the plant as a janitor when he graduated high school last year. Luther was a nice kid, polite and respectful, but not the sharpest saw in Home Depot, if you get my drift. Silas jabbed his thumb at me. “Tell Ethan what you kids do up on Rankin Bridge.” Luther’s eyes lit up. “It’s fun, Mr. Ethan. We play music and Frisbee. And we hunt for ghosts.” I stared at Luther. He was dead serious. Silas had this smirk like he was in on the joke. I decided to play along. “You don’t say, Luther. Ghosts.” Luther wagged his head like a puppy dog. “You ever see a ghost up there, Luther?” I asked. “No, sir.” “Any of your friends?” Luther shook his head. “But just ‘cos I don’t see them, doesn’t mean they ain’t there. Rankin Bridge is cursed. Everyone knows that.” That was a lot for Luther to say. Spent, he shambled back to his game. Silas stared at me. “How come you nosy all of a sudden? You see something up there?” I slapped a twenty down on the counter. “I asked a reasonable question, Silas. I don’t like being made a fool of.” I turned to go, embarrassed. Silas grabbed me by the arm. “Come on, just jiving with you, man. Hell, let’s just say I make a point not to drive up there.” “Why? Afraid you’ll see a dead person?” “No. ‘Cos it ain’t safe. It’s what you call, how do they say it...accident prone. It’s the way the bridge was designed. A couple of times a year, a car ends up in the river, and some poor asshole ends up with a toe tag. The same thing happened to Big Bob Rankin, except he lived.” I was confused. Who did he mean? Big Bob Rankin? Our boss at the factory? “Not that Rankin. His Daddy. It happened when I was a kid. My father was a deputy then. The story the Rankins put out was that he took a wrong turn but Dad said he reeked of gin. Big Bob had a bad habit of putting his hands where they didn’t belong. Knocked up a couple of girls at the factory and rumor has it he wasn’t alone in the car. He was never the same after and then he blew his brains out.” Silas gave me a hard look. “Ethan, if I was you, I’d stay the hell away from that goddamn bridge. Everything the Rankins touch turns to shit.” “Except our paychecks,” I teased. Of course, I couldn’t stay away. I went back that night, and the night after, and the night after that. I told myself it was because I kept missing the turnoff, but I was running out of excuses, even to myself. And then a week or so later, I saw her again. It was raining so hard that I could barely see through the windshield. But there she was in the pale moonlight, standing to the side like a wet dog, hair stringy, her skirt matted to her skin, still in those goddamn pink flip-flops. I don’t know what the hell I was thinking, but I stopped the car. Hell, I do know. I thought maybe she was in trouble or needed a ride. Maybe I wanted to talk to her. Maybe I wanted to fuck her. But by the time I got out of the car, she was gone. I ran into the woods and stumbled upon some kids smoking pot. When they saw me, they took off like bottle rockets. Still, even with the pouring rain, I’d gotten a better look at her this time, and goddamn, she could’ve been Jenny’s identical twin. And just like the last time I’d seen her, I felt great. Better than great. There was something about that girl that made me come alive, made my blood boil, and made my heart ready to burst through my chest. I’d never felt that way with Susie, ever, not even in our best times. It was like I was coming out of a thick, blinding fog. It was a feeling I didn’t want to lose. A couple of days later on my shift, I was working in the back when Silas came up to me. “Ethan, you got a visitor.” I gave Silas a what the hell look. “Who are you shitting? At this hour of the night?” Silas shrugged. As I walked down the corridor, I wondered who it could be. I knew damn well it wasn’t Susie; if something was wrong, she would’ve called. I went into the outer office, and I saw her standing by the soda machine. It took a moment to register, and then I was back in Calhoun Middle School on the first day of eighth grade. I was at my locker, and a girl with long brown hair in a skirt and sandals shot past me. She dropped her book bag. I picked it up for her. She smiled at me and I followed her down the hall like a lost puppy. “Jenny?” I whispered, not believing my eyes. It had to be a joke. But it wasn’t. Jenny burst into tears and flew into my arms. I held her tight and the years melted away. Once I got over my initial shock, we went to the cafeteria. Over cups of coffee that went stone cold, Jenny told me everything. How she’d been shipped off to California against her will, how when she came back her parents had pushed her into marrying that nice young man, who turned out to be a mean drunk who used her for a punching bag. All I could say was that I was sorry. Sorry for not standing up to my old man. Sorry for not looking out for her. Sorry for a thousand other things I should’ve done and said and didn’t. And sorry, most of all, about our baby. Jenny became quiet. She whispered something low under her breath. I didn’t catch it the first time, and then she repeated it. \*She never had an abortion.\* We had a daughter and her name was Miranda. Somehow she’d found out the truth about her real fathermeand had run away. Jenny had no idea where she’d gone, but I knew. Oh, I knew, because I saw her in my dreams every night. *The girl on Rankin Bridge.* Jenny was staying at a motel on the outskirts of town. I promised to meet her there after my shift was over. I kissed her and held her and told her that everything would be all right. I was going to make it right. I was going to find our girlmaybe she was hurt, confused, disorientedand make up for all that lost time, with her, and with Jenny. The hours flew by and then I was in my car, driving, Michael Stanley playing at full blast. A line of severe thunderstorms rolled in and it was raining hard; cars and trucks were slipping all over the place. I sensed her before I saw her, standing under a grove of trees. It’s funny. I don’t even remember slowing down or stopping. I don’t remember her getting into the car. I don’t even remember turning the ignition or the roar of the engine as I drove onto the bridge. I remember saying her name. She shot me a puzzled look. *“Who the fuck is Miranda*?” The next thing I knew, the tires squealed and the car jackknifed over the bridge railing down into murky waters. I frantically pulled on the door handle, but it was stuck. I stared at the girl but instead of a younger version of Jenny, it was the hollow eyes of a rotted, bloated corpse. As the cold water rushed over my head and my lungs exploded, she gave me a soft kiss and a melancholy grin. “I’m sorry. I thought you were him,” she whispered as she disappeared, her pink flip-flops floating.


It wasn’t even Thanksgiving yet. *♫ Jingle bell, jingle bell ♫* *♫ Jingle bell rock- ♫* *♫ Snowin' and blowin' up bushels of fun ♫* *♫ Now, the jingle hop has begun- ♫* Goddamn this song. What an especially stupid rendition of an already-atrocious song. The stupid beach guitar made mubydram feel like he was stuck on an overcrowded beach somewhere. The same stupid riff over and over again with the same douchey vocals. These motherfuckers can’t even wait until Thanksgiving to start playing Christmas music, he thought. mubydram was trying to fill packaged chicken but of course, with the holidays right around the corner, and with the chicken aisle being adjacent to the ham aisle, the aisle was packed with carts and panicked and edgy customers and their noisy families. One particularly shrill noise was emanating from a cart containing a toddler crying to his mom for his phone. Unbelievable, mubydram thought. This kid can’t be bothered to pick up a book and read something and instead he wants a damn phone. No wonder this society is becoming illiterate. And he was getting louder and more shrill too. The mother of course was distracted on her damn phone as well, presumably asking her husband what kind of ham to get. They’re all the same damn hams, lady. Just pick one! If she could just move her damn cart and shut her stupid kid up, mubydram could finish stocking chicken and get the fuck off the sales floor and back into the sanctuary of the cutting room. The kid kept crying and finally let out a shriek. Heads turned, and his mother finally turned her attention away from her phone and toward her son. She called his name sharply and he stopped for a moment. She turned away again back to her phone call. Finally some relief, mubydram thought. Nope, he started crying again. mubydram stopped stocking and turned to look right at the kid, dead in the eye. It wasn’t a nice glance. In fact, it was a mean old eyefuck. A look that said, “You better shut the fuck up, kid, if you ever want to celebrate Christmas ever again.” And that kid’s heart sank. You could see it in his eyes, as if he suddenly learned that there are much worse things in life than not having his phone. He started wailing. mubydram grinned and turned back to stocking and the mother turned back toward her son once more. She was finished with her phone call and gave her phone back to her son. He kept crying. mubydram finished up and started collecting boxes. The mother was confused why her son was still crying. She looked at mubydram and he greeted her with a big smile and in his customer service voice, “Hi! Find everything alright today?” She replied that she had and mubydram pushed past with his cart and wished her a happy holiday. It was a look that really said, “Happy holidays, you fuckers. I’ll be here working.