In those times when we try to hold onto a relationship long past their usefulness, we become like archeologists digging through old ruins, unearthing treasures which held some value at one time, a ring, a sentiment, a look… toys… clothing, or anything symbolizing a once thriving source of significance. Sometimes we get lucky and find the treasure once lost to us; we bring these riches to the light and hold them even tighter. Yet, there are times in our excavations, no matter how deep we go into the core of our being, we come up empty handed… empty hearted. We might even discover what we once believed to be valuable was just fool’s gold. Yet, it is of human nature to go beyond the light of day, to find the hidden spark in the darkness. FAKE PLASTIC TREES As soon as the sun shouldered the horizon, Esther struggled to unearth herself from the deep grooves of a desperately needed to be replaced mattress. When she gazed over the mound of unutilized land mass, she found Sal sitting partially upright; his eyes motionless, cheeks shoaled, and a concaved chest that showed no rise and flow of life. So naturally, Esther became belligerent. “Breathe damn it, we got too many things to do before this evening!”

Sal flinched and took in a deep gulp of air before he sat up all the way up and shouted back, “Why are you so damned loud so early in the morning, woman!” Lately, this has been her way of getting him to move in the morning; there were other more violent ways, but this one seemed to work best. This, and opening the window to allow cold fresh life to rush into the air-stifled room. She rose from her side of the bed while smiling beneath her skin, as she was up to something. Esther slowly removed her nightclothes like a stripper beyond prime, covertly peeping through the time sheered fabric to find her audience – she had none. But just so Sal could catch up, she continued to move slowly and easy to rouse his attention, but fast enough the cold morning air wouldn’t give her too much of a shock. Sal’s gaze had already wandered out the window where he noted the clouds gathering in the sky and wondered how he was to get to the hardware store in time to beat the rain.

Esther Stavensky hummed to the tune of Sophisticated Lady even louder in slow and breathy tones. All the while, seductively dancing about the room until her flannel gown slid past her ample and time-stretched breasts. In this exact moment, passion seemed to call her name when the refreshingly cold air rushed in through the opened window and traveled up and around the caverns of her alabaster thighs, navigating upwards, giving her the sweetest twinge of ecstasy. Esther was at that fragile stage in her life where pride and hope were in a precarious balance, a balance soon to be tipped out of her favor.

“Good God, old woman, put some clothes on; it’s cold in here! And, why on earth do you insist on opening a window in the dead of winter!?” Sal shouted before getting up and slamming the window shut. “…The last thing I need is to take care of some sickly old woman! You know they’ll blame me for your dying, too!”

“Shut up, you old schmuck!” The very frustrated Esther countered while grabbing the discarded garments from the floor and stomping out the bedroom towards the bathroom. Sal’s muffled laughter replaced the cool sensual breezes that brought her bliss just moments earlier. Still, in her fantasy, she saw him watching her backside with pleasure as she left the room. He was not.

Before taking her morning shower, Esther stopped in front of the mirror long enough to scowl at her reflection, and silently curse her deceased parents for having the audacity to mate two schnozzles together and expect to have a marriageable child. If her beak wasn’t bad enough, Esther inherited her father’s squinty eyes.

At the same time, she took issue with the many parts of her body, Esther also took great pride in knowing she had all her original and un-augmented parts, unlike so many of her friends and those in her social circles. She could’ve changed every unpleasing thing about herself, but she simply chose not to. Besides, Sal, with the greatest fury, would have protested any changes. Sal slid into the bathroom just as Esther glided into the shower, a well-orchestrated dance performed for nearly half a century to alleviate crowding around the tiny sink. It was now Sal’s turn to stare into the mirror. Weathered fingers dragged along the once rugged jaw line; his sharp recall of old memories allowed him to see his youth beneath the wrinkles, sagging lines and sparsely populated stumps of grey hair peppered between the dark Italian features of his mother and the sharp lines of his father’s Jewish heritage.

Sal anchored his flaccid arms on either side of his torso and flexed like a body builder, unfortunately this kind of straining forced out a very loud and foul-smelling fart. Loud grumblings from a steamy shower were instantly expressed and even louder when her nose took a big hit from where she was trapped inside the shower. “Good God, couldn’t you have waited to do that?” Esther admonished; Sal quietly laughed.

“This is a bathroom where such activities take place, is it not? Besides, you are the one to blame. You cooked cabbage knowing full well what it does to me!” He shouted back and quickly ducked the body wash missile from atop the shower.

Sal removed the soap from the mirror with his palm and went on imagining the removal of time in his reflection, as he had done so many times in real life with the faces he’s augmented in his old practice. He surmised, he could still do surgery again, if he wanted to. Afterall, he kept his license current, and it was just two years past the closing of his office.

No one forced the closure of his business. In fact, the lawsuit was settled in his favor. Yet the persistent and annoying voice inside his head blamed himself for the damage; the same part that still blamed himself for being distracted on this day. But truth be told, most of the blame should go towards the client for her impatience in not waiting for the healing to complete before removing the bandages. Sal always wondered why people were so eager to run away from what other’s would have loved to achieve, this being the freedom to be truly who they are… to celebrate every day they’re alive! As a survivor of Auschwitz, his memories were populated by those who walked in with him but failed to walk out again. As an adult, he recalled the Jewish fathers and brothers who would come into his office to alter their noses and eyes, to erase their reflections from their past, from their tragedies. He recalls the mothers, sisters and daughters who narrowed their noses to such a degree, they could hardly breathe, something the Auschwitz prisoners were forced to endure without permission or effort. He recalled all the remnants of heritage laying in trays for disposal, and of his participation in plastering over the scars of a holocaust with new scars of vanity. On the day he knew he should have spent extra time warning an anxious client about aftercare, he was contemplating his participation in this blurring of historical lines. This same contemplation , he now know, was not a luxury he could afford, for in the end, it was the beginning of an unraveling. Sal wasn’t always a thinker, though. He rather loved the art of his practice, the accolades, the fame, the lifestyle his parents and grandparents could have only dreamed of. Yet, he allowed one slip of consciousness to become a scar on an otherwise impeccable career, one Sal tried to remedy, but failed. “Shut up!” Esther shouted before turning off the water. “I didn’t say anything.” He shouted back. “Yeah, but you were thinking it! So cut it out; we have a lot of things to do today.” “Eh!”, he protested then conceded, “…you’re right.”

Sal loved how Esther’s voice was like a wooden spoon to an empty pan sometimes , especially those times when he couldn’t stop analyzing unfixable matters from his past. She was real this way; she was real in every way, he thought.

Esther stepped out the shower, and like so many times before, he stepped aside to allow room for their two-step bathroom dance. As all other times, he hid his gaze while taking notice of how the water collected in puddles around her swollen feet, how the towel began to cover less of her full-bodied realness , and how daylight made the silver gossamer tresses come to life when they cascaded down her back and stuck to her skin. His long and covert gaze swallowed whole all the real layers of her history spoken aloud in every territory of her body. The folds of her skin draped off her frame like drifts of snow on laden branches; the same folds which first appeared after two pregnancies were taken to full terms, only to yield death in the end.

Everything about her was honest, he thought. Honest, like the undyed silver curls which flowed from her crown and cascaded around her face and crashed onto the shores of her shoulders. Honest, like the white streaks which appeared soon after her mother’s death and how Esther took pride in knowing her mother received hers for the exact same reason. Honest, like her uncontested strength and stamina, the strength which allowed her to haul many a load when they hand built a cabin in the woods in a matter of months. Stamina, which allowed her to get out of bed, time and time again after so many losses. Esther was his perfect specimen of a woman, of a mate. He dared not say this aloud, for fear she just might believe it and leave him for someone else more equally yoked. Meanwhile, Esther pretended to not notice his secret, for to make mention of his gazes would only give permission for him to stop. Instead, she softly brushed against him when she reached for the edge of the mirror and move it back to her reflection. He was not the only one she had to impress on this day. They had a long-standing engagement with friends for nearly fifteen years but Esther still made a big fuss about it, this was mainly due to an ongoing but friendly competition of decadence with her friend, Sarah.

Esther was convinced, for ambiance’s sake, the game room would be greatly enhanced by a large rubber tree. Unfortunately, she had a brown thumb and real plants tended to die the moment they left the store in her care. Her remedy for this, a beautiful realistic artificial tree at the local hardware store. Since her friend was farsighted, all she had to do was get a plastic watering can and place it by the tree and voila!

The tree and watering can was Sal’s errand today, hers was to layout the unnecessarily fine China settings, urn, catered petit fours and finger sandwiches which she would set atop their antique Mahogany table in preparation for this simple weekly card game. With everything in place, all she had to do now was get all dolled up with the latest find from her favorite dress shop. At seven o’clock sharp the friends would arrive… every time. Sarah, the recipient of Sal’s talents from nearly ten years ago, had a facelift still in effect. Sal believed her to be one of his prized specimens and was entirely pleased with his zero-noticeable cuts made behind her ear and hairline. He was also happy the Asian-isque sutures around her eyes had relaxed, though he had to admit, she made for a damn fine Chinese Jew.

The clock struck seven just as the doorbell rang. Sal quickly ushered Sarah inside and into the waiting embrace of his wife. Barry, a tall handsome fellow with looks greatly enhanced by the good life a successful jewelry business afforded him and the skilled blade of a friend. Sal pulled him in and kissed both cheeks. Though Sarah’s family narrowly escaped imprisonment during the holocaust, the couple’s friendship was primarily base on their collective persecutions and the common experiences of the children they were never allowed to be.

After the friends made their way inside, Sarah quickly made mention of how wonderfully green Esther’s thumb was as she passed by the plastic fichus tree, having vaguely seen the bright yellow plastic watering can beside it.

“Well, has he said anything yet?” Sarah whispered into Esther’s ears as she entered the kitchen with a loaf of cinnamon babka. “No, and I don’t expect he will until I actually give him the options.”

“So, are you going to go through with it, then?” “I have to! My days are few; I can’t go on like this; it’s not living.” Esther whispered back. “This is true, but you’re not as young as you used to be, Esther. Trust me, there’s nothing out there for women like you and I…” Sarah placed her plain but delicious dessert next to the fancy petit fours and made mental note to up her game next time. “…And, what about us?” she continued. “We’ll all be fine! Besides, I’m not as afraid of change as I’m of dying, having never lived.” The women’s attention was snatched away from their private chat when voices from the other room boomed above their whispers. Esther grabbed a platter before they left the kitchen, but still engaged in conversation by way of silent and clandestine glances. As it was so prone to do, their presence served as a buffer between the two heated debaters in the parlor.  By the time they arrived, the cards were already stack, drinks were already poured and a spot on the side table was covered with glasses and utensils, but right in the center was a bald spot, twelve inches round in diameter. Esther was always the last to sit, for she had to make a spectacle of placing the dessert platter in that spot… every single time… every single week… this was the routine for ten whole years. It was so routine no one bothered to ask any questions, make any requests, do anything different.

Likewise, Barry was always the first to deal the cards. After flinging the last card through the air, which always landed in front of Esther, he slammed the deck down, looked at his cards and loudly declared, “Sarah, our luck is about to change tonight!”  But unlike all other times, Barry’s gaze which always darted around the table to read the unseen, seemed to have seen something which alluded all the other players at the table. The old friend leaned back in his chair, sighed a long relief from the deepest reaches of his lungs just as his eyes glazed over with delight.

“Must be a damn good hand!” Sal exclaimed and laughed as Barry sat perfectly still in his chair. “Game on, I’ll call your bluff!” Esther exclaimed impatiently. Barry never backed away from a challenge even when he had a bad hand. But, he appeared to have done so on this night when he failed to acknowledge Esther’s challenge. In fact, he acknowledged nothing.

“Barry, stopped playing around!” Sarah scolded her husband as he continued to hold his smile and his gaze still, very still, too still. Sarah shook her husband’s arm to break his spell but withdrew her hand quickly in sheer horror. Barry, with eyes and smile still frozen, fell forward onto his stack of cards. His wife screamed out in agony. Esther remained motionless from disbelief; Sal rushed over to verify what they all suspected.

After the coroner left, Esther gave her friend fresh towels, a gown to sleep in, and an embrace to express the words she did not have. Neither couple had children or families to speak of, so they were each other’s family, each other’s solace. Esther instructed Sal to prepare the guest room for Sarah’s stay. As he did so, she moved the fancy teacups aside and poured her friend a glass of brown liquid comfort from the liquor cabinet before escorting her to the guest room.

With the new widow all tucked in, Esther began cleaning up, as she always did when their friends left. She came to the seat where Barry last sat and could not resist looking at the hand he never played. In a house that felt a little less full, she found it ironic Barry’s last hand was a full house.

Sal quietly came up from behind Esther and placed one hand around her waist and his arm across her chest. Esther tenderly laid her head on his arms and allowed his strength to pour into her, something she had not felt in years, if ever. In what felt all too soon, Sal left her standing alone, but he only abandoned her long enough to put a vinyl on the record player. Upon his return he pulled her in close, real close, and they danced. As they gently swayed to Sophisticated Lady, Sal whispered, “I love you, sweetheart, please don’t ever change.” Esther wondered if he noticed the packed suitcase in the guest bedroom when he prepared a space for Sarah. Either way, things had changed. He changed. She changed. Nothing was to ever be the same.


I think we were always competitive until the day when we weren’t anymore. It was always chalked up to two cousins seeing who could get the best of the other, but in reality, we never were that close or particularly fond of each other. The times when we did do things together it was because of something our parents arranged or seeing each other at those family functions that no child wants to go to when they could be at home doing anything else. But eventually we all grow up, and we realized that if we focused our competitive nature together on a mutual task rather than trying to one up another, we could accomplish things that no one in our family had ever done before, reach levels no had ever dreamed of ascending to before. We complimented each other perfectly, he was Heavy Metal and uber aggressive, where I was more laid back and liked to let life come to me as it saw fit. I came from a semi-strong parental background, where his mom, my Aunt, wanted nothing to do with him and had him on his own since he had started fourth grade. But I needed that to counter what I had, and he is the perfect counter. Argumentative days and minor fist fights gave way to teens running the streets, we were and are both street punks, dropping off packages for the drug dealers for twenty dollars a pop, hustling pool in places where we were the youngest ones by at least twenty years, cruising up and down the streets as the music bumped solidly and the cool air of the night ricocheted off the black top roads that just hours earlier had blistered heat and launched an aroma that only someone familiar with street life could understand. Sticking our heads out the window to take in the night air and let the wind blow relief over our sweat encrusted faces, life seemed so open even though we were on a fast track to the only destinations being jail or death, the world still seemed open with our ignorance guiding us throughout. We knew the dealers, the bangers, the prostitutes, we knew it all, and for that two mile stretch we were the kings of nothing, but at least we were kings. It was probably about ten years later and the world changed with the internet taking over. All of a sudden, every dream and every impossibility seemed within our reach and very, very possible. All you had to do was go online and read the numerous stories of people who were hustling and succeeding. Jay-Z became our inspiration for someone who come up from the hustle and made it big, while also making everyone around them successful. With our diametrically opposed personalities, we knew we could represent something that had never been seen before, and it truly felt like the beginning of a brand new gold rush. We wanted it. We wanted happiness. We wanted money. We wanted the new life money could buy. We had heard all the sayings before on how money couldn’t buy happiness, but have you ever been miserable when there’s no food and you can’t afford any? When the winter drops the temperatures below zero and you can’t afford heat or electricity and all you can think about is how there’s absolutely no hope? Now, have you ever been depressed when there’s a refrigerator full of food, or sad when the winter has the outside world below zero, but inside you are walking around in a house that’s in the mid-seventies with so much electricity every room is a shining beacon unto itself? People who say money can’t buy happiness are correct, but it can put you in a lifestyle that allows you to be happy. We had always found that people who say this never knew what it was like to be alone for days on in as a nine year old kid when no parent comes home. How at that time you have to find whatever it is you can find to eat because your parent has long since stopped caring, and now they’ve just stopped remembering. The hopelessness as you eat toothpaste, or on the rare occasion it was there, dog food. The utter panic that a nine year old has during these times, but not having the mental experience to know what these new feelings that utterly decimate your soul are. The days when you have to go the hospital to see your parent having their stomach pumped due to overdoses or suicide attempts. How in the fifth grade you don’t how to buy deodorant but know exactly how to pump your parents stomach with a charcoal milkshake? The absolute suffocation of despair as it seems every breath, every step, every moment of hope is just something that allows for a greater depression to wrap its claws around your neck and further squeeze out what little hope you have for life left? Very few people understand how before you even make high school the only air you can breathe is the air that makes you realize nothing will ever get better, better times are for people with watches, you have death or suicide, when the only hope is that maybe the next life will get it right. We knew this, we experienced this, and once we understood we were both here, we knew we could do it. If someone’s Hard Knock Life could lead to a Yellow Brick Road, then ours could as well. The streets prophet even waxed poetic on the Rose That Grew from Concrete. And with the internet, we could make money with the kids in the neighborhood who were C++ straight and moving on, we would finance them and ride the success. One of the women we knew, a stripper who was using her money to become C++ and go into business for herself, was looking for backers, not fuckers, but backers, and we told her we could spot twenty grand. She agreed, we panicked. Twenty grand only existed in a state of verbiage for us, that was a reality for preps, not street punks. But we had two months until she needed it, so we fell back on our only steady in our life, the streets and the hustle. My cousin and his girlfriend would come up with ten, me with ten. During the days I would run whatever packages I could for the hustlers, at night I would run guns for the dealers. Deuce-deuces and deuce-fives, sixty for unloaded, eighty for loaded. That was my hustle. I never slept during that time, not only because I was on the clock for twenty-four-seven, but this wasn’t me and my stomach and nerves reminded me of this at every moments peace. My dreams were nightmares worse than the nightmares of my reality, but we had to do it. We only wanted the little biggest slice of the pie, and this was our break. The two months came and I had ‘made mines’ about a week prior. I went to see the stripper on the day we agreed, my cousin and his girlfriend made theirs, but as she danced away and I sat, my cousin never showed. I told her he had it, just to give it another week. During the days I searched everywhere I could for him, but no where was the only answer I could get. On the third night of me waiting in the strip club, his girlfriend showed up. He had left. She came home one day and he was gone, took everything. And just like that, I was dead in the water. All the memories I had of us, coming up, times spent running the streets, laughing, fighting, discovering life only the way you can with a family member, all gone. Now when I drove the streets, the air seemed colder and the smell of the piss painted black tops never seemed to leave. It was all over, as was my faith in humankind. That year closed in utter depression. It was about a year later a frantic knock on my door woke me up. I could see one of my cousins at the door, pounding on it. I opened it up to the panicked tone of someone who was in shock. He was in his backyard is what I was told. I didn’t have any clue as to what my cousin was talking about, so I told him to calm down and tell me again. THE cousin. He was in his backyard. A bullet in the chest and buried alive. I was shocked. I asked what happened. I was told what would’ve been about two days before we were supposed to meet with the stripper, his girlfriend came home tweeking, and he told her she had to go the rehab or get out of his house, so she shot him in his sleep. He wasn’t dead, it was a chest gunshot wound, but then she buried him alive, where he died. For a year he stayed buried while she lived there. When I met up with her and we drove all around the city looking for him, she had already shot and buried him. After she was arrested, my cousin was added to a national database for Domestic Violence Fatalities. It turns out being born of a dad who left, a mom who didn’t want him unless it was to put down or verbally abuse him, had left him to find a partner just like that. Abusive. He wanted out not only because of the streets, but because he just wanted to escape all the abuse. My cousin and I. We who fought many, surrounded by machismo bullshit all our lives, and he was going home to an abusive partner. He never would’ve told me his girlfriend was abusing him. And now his last words were whatever was being said as the dirt piled onto him, his final stop in this world, an unwanted son buried alive with a bullet in his chest.


Every year, people have the nerve to ask me why I hate the summertime. If it were any of their business, I’d tell them the whole idea is depressing. It’s sweaty, it’s lonely, and there’s nothing to do. Not to mention that it’s when all the bugs come out, I’m allergic to bee stings, and sunscreen can kiss my ass.

I decide to forgo wearing a bathing suit to the pool party because the water’s too cold, I’m having bad cramps, or I just don’t feel like swimming, depending on who asks. I wear a long sleeved body suit and shorts, but the sun still fries my skin like it’s been coated in butter and heat rash lines my ankles at their first exposure to light. I sit under a tree hugging my knees to my chest and scoffed at the girls in cheap plastic flip-flops. I wince at the flimsy triangle bikinis that look like they could fall off at any moment, and sheer beach covers that cover almost nothing. I thought of the marks they would leave at the end of the day from tan lines and chaffing. It reminds me of those jelly bracelets we all wore in fourth grade that ate at our wrists and pulled out our arm hair, now abandoned along with butterfly hair clips and chunky necklaces.

I regret my choice of clothes only once, and only a tiny bit, at one moment during the party. I go sprinting down the hall of a house that isn’t mine, my clothes and hair sticking to my skin with sweat. I nearly run into a wall when I come across two doors at the end of a corridor behind the kitchen. After a split second descision, I open the one to the right, and disappear into a face full of clothes that smell like him: his cologne, his shampoo, the detergent he uses for his sensitive skin. My fingers itch to take something in my hand and sniff it, but I resist and hold my breath as footsteps start and stop in front of my hiding place.

I silently cuss to myself as I resolve not to breathe, even if it means my passing out.

“Talk to Nell! You can’t keep hiding forever, Cait .” I shudder at the difference at the sound of my name and hers. It’s like he wants emphasis on who he’s defending here. He’s never been one for making a scene.

“Yeah that didn’t flipping occur to me at all!” She snaps. I wince at the sound of her trying to hide her profanity. “You don’t say? Talk to her. Teddy, you were with her. You were alone with her. Tell me what the eff happened or I—” “Keep your voice down. This isn’t like you.”

“No, it isn’t like me at all. She makes me crazy. She makes me so effing crazy and I used to want her so bad. Why couldn’t you have smacked me across the face and told me she was like this?”

“Woah woah woah, I didn’t know this was going to happen.” “But you promised me she was different,” Cait sobs. “You set me up!” “This is insane. I did not set you up for failure and you don’t get to accuse me of that when things don’t go your way. I love you as my friend, but this is getting too much.” I let out a few shaky breaths from my hiding spot, the scent of his cologne filling the air around me. It is my only solace as my heart is about to rip itself out of my chest. The more I try to keep it quiet, the louder it is my head. I decide to close my eyes and think of him in the hopes that my memories of the past week will help me remain calm. I fill my head with the sound of his voice cooing softly in my ears, walking next to him during long hikes, the stories we told while eating marshmallows around the fire. I can still feel my heart pounding in my ears from when he crawled into my sleeping bag on that particularly cold night, his face in my neck as he told me he loved me, my skin on fire as he kissed me. But most of all, I remember my hands on his molten gold skin, gripping and scratching at his back like he was too far away from me and I needed him closer. I thought of those delicate, almond shaped eyes filled with determination and want.

“I’m the only one on the trip who knew about you guys.” His voice was now a whisper muffled through the thick closet door. I have to risk pressing my forehead against it in order to hear everything. “I know her too and I wanted to be there for her so that is what I did. What did you want me to do, interrogate her about why she didn’t live up to your unrealistic expectations?” “You told me we were on the same page! I can’t believe this, was that conversation even about me or did you just say that to mislead me?”

“I said nothing like that! I told you to talk to her about your relationship. It’s not my fault she broke up with you instead.” “You are such an asshole.” Caitlin hisses. “Because, actually, the stories you tell influence how other people act. I chose to act based on what you told me and I accepted it as a fact. Now I’ve burned my only bridge, wasted all of this effort, and lost my only shot with Nell all because you told me something that wasn’t true.”

“You might as well be speaking mandarin to me right now because you are making zero sense. Was I supposed to wear a mic every time I spoke to her?”

I squeeze my eyes shut as a lump begins to form in my throat. For a moment, I feel the urge to burst out of here and scream in her face that I hate her or that I’m sorry and she was right all along. But I keep the door closed tight. I can’t be tempted to look at her or engage with her anymore.

“You lied to me,” Caitlin insists on this, again and again both out loud and under her breath. She lets out a few pathetic sniffs as the slow thumping of her footsteps away fill the echo of the house. I push the door open slightly, enough to see her arms crossed, red hair flowing but tattered at the edges, distressed, like she is.

“I never lied to you, she broke up with you—” he stops mid-rant and buries his face in his hands, like he knows it isn’t worth it.

I’m still trapped here as he shakes his head and begins to follow her. The rest of the group is calling out that it’s time to sing happy birthday to Bridget. I wait a few seconds before stepping out, but the hinges creak loud enough to get his attention. I wince as he meets my eye.

“You heard—” “Yeah, all of it. So that’s what she thinks of me.”

“I guess it is.” He whispers but his tone is tired, loud and clear. “Why didn’t you say anything?” I open my mouth but hesitate and struggle to get words out. “I...I don’t know.” “You like the smell of my clothes that much?”

“...yes, but that isn’t why I hid there.” He chuckles softly. “Borrow whatever you want. Just return it eventually, okay?”

I nod, and find myself scratching my cheek as it tingles from embarrassment.

I follow him in silence back to the outside, squinting at the hangs in light as I mumble out “Happy Birthday” with the rest of the group. Bridget squeals as she blows out the candles and her friends bombard her with hugs. I bite my lip and clap for her, and get icing all over my chin on my first bite of cake. I barely notice him approach me until wipes it off with his thumb, lingering so that I feel him close to me.

I guess we’re official now, I think, as I feel thirty pairs of eyes piercing my skin. But I let myself smile and allow the heat to melt me so that I fit perfectly into his arms as they wrap around my waist. His face finds its way to my neck where it belongs, and I sigh in content. My face tingles with either excitement or the beginnings of a burn because of the sunscreen I didn’t wear. Maybe I can grow to like the summer after all, but sunblock can still very much kiss my ass.


“Where are you taking me?” Carissa stopped, not inclined to move further until she got a straight answer from Manfred. “It’s not far, just humor me, OK?” Manfred shook his sandy hair out of his eyes, big sad puppy-dog eyes, golden brown and brimming with emotion. Then he looked at her, recognized her expression, and capitulated. “I’m just taking you to the park down the street, that’s all. It’s quiet this time of night, so we’ll have privacy to talk.” Carissa tightened her lips, but moved on with no further complaints. They walked in silence, side by side, down the sidewalk into the evening’s darkness, a wide gap between them. The perfume of roses engulfed them as they walked past Mrs. Baker’s house; she won prizes for her roses, and her bungalow looked like a tiny raft tossed among the sea of flowers. Crossing the street, they entered a wide open area of ball fields, with chain-link backstops behind home plate in some, wide soccer goals in others. The grass felt soft underfoot. Manfred resolutely walked away from the ball fields toward the kids’ playground. Carissa raised an eyebrow but continued to walk with him in silence. They walked past a row of swings, chains jangling when the night breeze stirred. Carissa grabbed one and hurled it on its endless course, back and forth, going nowhere. This time Manfred gave her a look. She laughed. “C’mon, we played on these forever! Never looped all the way around, though, did we?” He laughed with her, and some of the tension between them eased. When they walked on, their steps were synchronized, shoulders almost touching. The silence felt comfortable, not threatening. Manfred led them away from the swings, past the sandbox, and halted at the see saws, what his mom used to call teeter totters. Tipping one down, he straddled it. He jerked his head at the other side, and Carissa walked to the seat on that end. She pulled it down until she could also straddle it, with the long, graffiti-scored board horizontal between them. They were a lot taller than the kids that played on it. Still, Carissa sat down and, as her seat sank to the ground, Manfred rose into the air. She saw his teeth shine as he grinned, then she pushed up with her legs and he sank down into the soft dust. They sawed up and down in silence for a few minutes, then Manfred stopped when he was on the ground. Instead of pushing up with his legs, he stretched them out in front of him, crossing them. Carissa looked at him, cocking her head. “We need to talk, and there’s never any good time to do it. There’s always somebody around, or if we’re at my house, one of my siblings is always poking her nose in, spying on us. Ugh.” He paused, not sure how to proceed. “So what are we talking about?” Carissa was always blunt and to the point. Manfred took a deep breath. “I’ve got some news for you. I heard back from the University of Columbia… They accepted me. Even threw in the scholarship I need, got a whole financial aid package set up for me.” “Manfred, that’s fantastic! Congratulations!” In the darkness, it was hard to see the trembling of her lower lip. She made herself sound enthusiastic. “It’s what you always wanted, right?” “Yeah, that’s for sure. If I went to the local college, I’d be stuck here in town. I’d never get away from my family… or my mother. God, just think of it. Less than two months and she won’t be able to nag at me, or make me fill in for my dad and watch my sibs, or take care of the house and yard. I’ll finally have time to live my life.” Manfred straightened and pulled his legs under him, pushed upward, and Carissa ended up on the ground. She stretched her own legs out. “So, how’s your mom taking the news? Is she OK with it?” She had her own opinion, but wanted to hear what he thought. “Um… I haven’t told her yet. I know she’s gonna spaz out about it. But she always harps on me about how important college is, and I’m not asking her to pay for it anyway, so she’ll be proud of that part. I just feel bad for Neil, he’s gonna get stuck with my old jobs, he’s next in line. It sucks for her that Dad died when he did, but why did they have so many kids? It’s nuts.” He shook his head. Carissa pushed up, and Manfred dropped to the ground. “Um… Carissa?” He listened to the faint chiming music of the swings. “Yes?” If a tone of voice could be a country, hers would be Switzerland. Neutral. “I, I think we should maybe consider what we’re gonna do about this. I’m going to be eleven hours away, I won’t be able to take you out weekends. We won’t even be seeing each other again until I’m home for Christmas break. I’m just not sure about it.” “About what?” Carissa refused to help him, making him say it first. “Well, it’s just…” He took a deep breath. “Maybe we should think about seeing other people.” He pushed up with his legs, letting Carissa down. Her eyes filled with tears. “Is that what you want, Manfred? Are you tired of me?” “No! I just don’t think a long-distance relationship would be good for us right now, you know? We’ll still be who we are, and we’ll always be friends. But it’s gonna be four years before you see me for any length of time. I don’t know… I don’t think I could be celibate for four years. That’s crazy.” Carissa sniffed, swallowed, kept silent for a moment. “Yeah, it’s crazy. It’s also… complicated.” She pushed up with a sudden jerky motion. Manfred crashed to the ground. “What do you mean, ‘complicated?’” She looked at him, her features solemn. “I understand, I really do. You’re right that it’s crazy for us to wait for each other for so many years. But…” Words failed, and her lip started trembling again. He pushed up, and she landed on the ground. “Manfred… I think I’m pregnant. I’m a month late.” She hunched her shoulders as if avoiding a blow. “What?” His mouth gaped and his eyes bugged out. Dangling in mid-air, he looked like nothing so much as an overgrown kid, shocked and afraid. “God, how could this happen? We always use a condom, always. We’re careful.” She shrugged. “They’re not foolproof.” Then she pushed up in the air, dropping Manfred down. He was still at a loss. His ears rang. One thing he would not do was ask if it was his — he trusted her. Sighing, he asked, “What’s gonna happen?” Carissa shrugged. “I haven’t peed on a stick yet. I need to do that, get a home pregnancy test or maybe two. But, knowing for sure… that scares me. I’ve been trying to ignore the situation, but a baby isn’t something you can ignore.” He pushed up. “Yeah, you need to do that right away. But if you are… If you are, what do we do then?” Carissa looked up at him. “Thanks for saying ‘we,’ it means a lot. And the truth is, I just don’t know what to do. I want kids someday, but now? I’m going into my senior year of high school. There’s no way I’m ready to be a mom. Besides, my dad will absolutely kill me. He’s still convinced I’m his innocent little girl.” She rolled her eyes, then pushed up, thumping Manfred down. He winced, not at the abrupt landing so much as at her news. “So, what next? Are you talking about abortion? Adoption? What?” “What do you think about those options, Manfred? I’ve been thinking on them for a month. Now it’s your turn.” He opened his mouth, closed it. Cocking his head, he spoke. “You’re right, I haven’t had to think about those options. I’m still blown away by the idea that you might have a little Manfred in your belly right now.” Carissa shook her head. “No. Don’t name it. That’s all it is right now, a teeny blob of cells. An ‘it.’” Manfred pushed away from the ground furiously. “But that’s ignoring what that clump of cells is growing into. It’s not an ‘it,’ it’s a future person. A person that’s part me and part you.” “Yeah, but who’s the one who carries the risk and the fetus? Whose life gets ruined? I can’t afford to have a baby. I can’t even afford college, and my grades aren’t as good as yours. I don’t think there are too many scholarships out there with my name on them. My goal was to get a job and save up for a few years, then go to college. My dad’s cool with the plan, he doesn’t mind my living with him to save on rent and stuff.” “Why do you say your life gets ruined? You know I’d support you, and the baby.” “Manfred, you can’t do that. You’d be giving up your opportunity for a better life. Your scholarship won’t wait forever. And besides, you’ve been responsible for others your whole life. Don’t you want to only be responsible for yourself, for once?” He shook his head, and she pushed up with a slow movement, so he drifted down to the ground. “Yeah, you’re right, I’ll lose out on college. That’s… really intense. I don’t know what to say about that. That’s been my dream since I was in grade school, remember?” “I remember, and I don’t want you to lose that dream. If I have this baby, your dream will die.” Carissa thought about it. “Jeez, it’s like Harry Potter and Voldemort, isn’t it? Either way, something dies.” Manfred had a thought. “You mentioned adoption, right? Is that something you might consider?” Carissa looked at him. “Could you give away your own baby, after birthing it? Would you hand over Manfred Junior? I don’t think I could carry a baby to term and then give it up. Maybe I’m being selfish, but it would be a part of me, of us.” Manfred thought about what it would be like, giving away his son. He shivered. “No, I get your point. I don’t think I could give up our baby, either. Damn.” He pushed away from the ground as if trying to get away from reality. Carissa spoke as she landed. “So it comes down to whether I have an abortion or a baby. If it’s an abortion, I don’t have much time left. And if it’s a baby… well. Life will be a lot different from what we dreamed for. Our futures will be a lot tougher, being teen parents. No scholarships, no college. And without those, jobs pay a lot less. We’ll be struggling, no two ways about it. We can’t live with my dad or your mom, and without jobs we can’t afford anything else. Dang, Manfred, neither of us even owns a car!” “I’ll support whatever decision you make.” Carissa talked over him. “No way do you get off the hook! It’s our decision, together. Not just mine.” She pushed up hard, so Manfred thumped down. “OK, I get it. I’m not trying to skip out on anything. I just… wanted to support you, is all.” He was silent for a minute while he thought. “Yeah. You might be right, I was thinking about it as ‘your’ decision. I guess it made it easier for me, ya know? Man, I wasn’t expecting this.” Manfred sat in the dirt, lost in thought. Swinging her feet, Carissa gave him time. Manfred stood up, letting the teeter-totter come to balance, both of them straddling it. “Let’s get to the drugstore and buy some tests.” They walked off, leaving their childhood behind.


The fire at the Cascade Arms in Roseland was a five alarm blaze that reduced the place to rubble. I was working the swing shift at Advocate Trinity Hospital when the ambulances brought in a half dozen of the residents suffering from smoke inhalation.

The neighborhood around Cascade Arms is predominantly black and poor. Known to most folks as Section Eight Housing.

I don’t live far from there and I am all of those things, too.

During my senior year, I became part of a special program where I receive training as a medical aide for a future career in the medical field.

I hate to brag, but this is a much better outcome than a lot of my classmates from Buchanan High School, because half of the student body is serving their first prison term for possession.

Assigned to the swing shift from 4 pm to midnight, I sometimes get to see first hand the damage being done by people facing the worst demons of addiction.

“Brecker, give me a hand with this one.” Slim Walton called out as they wheeled this octogenarian patient on a gurney with an oxygen tube already placed over in his nose. Slim accurately describes his physical presence.

“Sure.” I hustled over to the side of the gurney. “He’s pretty feisty.” Slim warned. Slim accurately describes his physical presence. Sometimes he looks like an unlit match with his tall lean shape wrapped in his scrubs and his unruly afro shooting out from his head.

Slim has been at Advocate for almost ten years and has been through just about every medical emergency you can imagine.

He is my mentor who weekly signs off my training records.

“I punch ya righteously.” The elderly man raised his fists just to emphasize the point.

“Says his name is George Bryson.” Slim read it off the report the ambulance crew handed Slim. “Dat’s raght.” He coughed. “Take it easy old-timer.” Slim shook his head. “He’s-” “Ain’ no old timer.

Doncha give me that-” He struggled to get up. “Hey, hey, lie back.” I put my hand on his emaciated sunken chest. “I ain’ gonna…” He pouted.

“Feisty, right?” Slim shook his head. “Put him in Room 14 up ahead.”

“How are you feeling, Mr. Bryce?” I asked as Slim turned the gurney into the room. “I’m fine.

Wanna go home.” He squawked.

“You don’t have a home anymore.

The place went up in smoke.” I explained.

“I didn’ have nuthin’ to do with it.” He poked his bony finger into my side. “Never said you did.” I put my hand out to prevent him from continuing to poke me in the side.

He was a black male whose age was undetermined with a naked dome and silver hair surrounding his bald head like a halo.

Slim was right in saying he was an octogenarian.

Even if he wasn’t eighty years old, he was coming up to that neighborhood quickly.

Slim left to assist with other patients coming in from the Cascade Arms. “Do you have any relatives we need to get a hold of, Mr. Bryce?” I asked as part of my routine questioning.

“None thats wants to talk to me.” He shook his head.

Nobody? Yeah, that figures.

Most people who live in that part of Chicago don’t have anyone keeping tabs on them.

Dr. Bolden walked in already gloved and gowned. “Who we got here Landry?” “George Bryce.” I answered. “Well Mr. Bryce, we are going to have a look at you to make sure you’re in good shape.” Dr. Bolden was a very outgoing ER doctor who made an effort to build a rapport with some of the patients who came into our ER.

“I’m in good shape, lemme tell ya.” His high pitched voice rang out. “We got some patients from your apartment complex who got hurt in that fire.” Dr. Bolden looked at Mr. Bryce over his glasses. “How old are you?” “I’m old enough.” He nodded.

“How ‘bout a number?” Dr. Bolden glanced over at me.

“Eighty three.” He scowled.

“And we want to be sure we take very good care of you.” Dr. Bolden nodded, “If you want to go, Landry, feel free.

Me and Mr. Bryce are going to have a look under the hood.”

Growing up, my grandpa told me about the excitement of the Cotton Club in Harlem where he worked as a busboy before the war.

“Let me tell you about The Cotton Club on 142cd Street in Harlem.

Louis Armstrong, Duke Ellington, and Bessie Smith all came to perform there.

Man, those were the days.” He would tell me before he passed away from some kind of cancer mama didn’t want to talk about.

I remember how my grandpa Waldo Young would tell me all kinds of stories as he sat in his chair.

Mama would roll her eyes when he started telling one of his famous yarns.

She would tell me how her father would liberally mix fiction in when he told one of his stories of his life. It doesn’t matter, because I still enjoyed listening to his smooth, calm voice as he told one of his stories.

No one argued with him about his time in the 92cd Infantry in Italy.

It was a colored unit supporting the Fifth Army as they fought their way up the peninsula.

His uniform was hung proudly in his closet in his room that he occupied after grandma passed away from a heart condition. “Yeah, that was one heck of a fight back then.

Hitler threw everything he had at us as we came up from Sicily.

Lost some close friends.” He would say, his eyes glistening with tears.

“Dad, please don’t tell him any of the stories you told me when I was a kid.” She would warn him. “I know…I know.” His voice was thick.

“How is Mr. Bryce?” I asked Dr. Bolden later when I saw him at the station filling out paperwork.

“He is a hard one, Landry.” He chuckled. “He told me he once played at the Cotton Club in Harlem.”

“No kidding, my grandpa told me he used to work there before the war.” I shook my head. “I must say his story was pretty fantastic, but then I question some of his memories.” He sighed. “How come?” I asked. “He has evidence of advanced Altizimers.” He shrugged. “He said his stage name was Count Massey. Go figure.”

Like when I listened to my grandpa, I wanted his stories to be real and while I did not know Mr. Bryce very well, I felt he deserved to have someone listen and believe in what he had to say.

“Was he discharged?” I asked. “Naw, not yet.” Dr. Bolden shook his head, “And if we discharge him, he doesn’t have anywhere to go.

We’re kinda stuck on this one.”

I saw the dilemma.

“I am not running a boarding house.” My mama told me as she stood at the bottom of the stairs with her car keys in her hand, ready to run off to work at the store in the mall.

I had just asked her about George Bryce staying in the spare room until Section Eight could find him another place to live. “He’s an eighty three year old man.

He needs to be in a nursing home where I should have put my own father when he got bad.”

“He’s just like grandpa.

He used to work at the Cotton Club.” I added hoping to improve my case.

“Your grandpa never worked there, Landry.” She put her hands on her hips which meant I was not going to win this argument. “He lived in Harlem before he went off to war, but that was it.”

“His stage name was Count Massey.” I shrugged.

She gave me a look like she could not believe she was listening to my nonsense.

“I am going to be late for work.

Watch your brother until Mrs. Smith comes over to watch him.” She shook her head as she walked out the door.

In a minute she was on her way to work leaving me to feel defeated.

“Gangsters used to come in.

I mean like Lucky Luciano.” Grandpa would tell me as he sat in his chair after watching The Price is Right .

“Dad, don’t fill his head with all that nonsense.” Mama would call him from the kitchen. “Bah.” He would wave his hand, “She, she is always telling me not to do this or not to do that.”

“So what did your mom say?” Slim asked on our break in the staff room as we sipped on our sodas. “No.” I pouted. “You didn’t really expect her to say yes, did you?” He laughed.

“We had grandpa living there before he died and her sister with ALS until she died.” I explained. “Maybe she’s tired of hospice care.” Slim shook his head. “Yeah, funny.”

“C’mon Lan, she has never met Mr. Bryce.

He could be a serial killer for all she knows.” Slim said before slurping the last of his soda, “C’mon we gotta get back.”

Later there were three gunshot victims and one fentanyl overdose.

In between emergencies, I managed to check on Mr. Bryce.

He was sleeping soundly, so I let him be.

“Count Basie, Ella Fitzgerald, Fats Waller, Louis Armstrong, Dizzy Gillespie, Nat King Cole, Billie Holiday, and Ethel Waters.

And Cab Calloway leading the orchestra.

That Landry was the Golden Age of Jazz.” Grandpa would close his eyes as he recalled the magic of this place. “Bah-bah-bah-bah followed by four more beats then a quick change on the third measure Be-bah. Be-bah. Be-bah. Be-bah.

It was magic.

The arrangement made you want to move your feet.

Wonderful.

Wonderful. Your grandma and me would spend hours dancing to them tunes.

I’ll never forget the way she’d look up at me while we was dancin.’ It was pure magic.

Pure magic.”

“He’s asking for you.” Dr. Bolden came into the breakroom as we were getting ready to leave. “Me?” I was confused. “Yeah.

He woke up for some reason.” Dr. Bolden crossed his arms over his scrubs, “I still have no idea what they are going to do with him.”

“I asked my mom and she gave me a flat no.” I shook my head. “Pull up a chair.” Mr. Bryce waved to the empty chair next to his bed. “You wanted to see me?”

“I did.” His voice was clear, “I’ve been told you had a grandpa who worked at the Cotton Club.”

“Yes sir.”

“What did he tell you about the place?” He asked with his eyes open wide. “About the entertainers mostly.”

“I was once one of them, you know.” He smiled and sat back in the bed. “I played the piano for Billie Holiday.

She was so sweet, I tell ya.”

He sniffed, “It was a great time to be alive.

I sat and chatted with Langston Hughes one night when the music was on fire.”

I sat on the edge of my chair as he nodded like these folks were right there in the room with us.

“I met Groucho Marx.” He laughed, “He sat there and cracked me up with all of his one liners. He’s the one who called me a count, likes I was royalty or sumpton. Count Massey.

That’s me.” He closed his eyes as tears rolled down his face, “Of course, it was a place where black folks could go and not have to worry about what they could and could not say.

Back then they’d lock ya up if’n ya disrespected a white person, but in dat place, anything went.

We got to be ourselves.

We got to say what was on our mind.

We danced the way we was meant to dance. I was the Great and Honorable Count Massey.

That name came from my father.

Massey.

He was the man took my daddy away wearing a white hood.

Next time I seen him, he be hanging from a tree.” He paused for a moment to recompose himself.

I could see how troubled he was carrying that memory. “I lay in the bushes when he come riding in his buckboard.

I raised up where he could see me as I pulled the trigger of the shotgun my daddy owned.

I heard him cry out as he fell from his wagon.

I know’d I’d have to be leaving Mississippi right then.

Never even got to say goodbye to my mama.

Just caught a box car to St. Louis and then hitched on a train to New York.

When I needed money, I played piano for it. Things was diff’rent back then.” His voice was just a harsh rasp.

He closed his eyes again and I left the room knowing he needed to rest.

I had goosebumps when I walked out his room. “What did the old man say?” Dr. Bolden asked, standing behind the nurse’s station counter.

“What it was like to play piano at the Cotton Club.” I answered.

“Do you believe him?” He asked. “Why wouldn’t I believe him?”

“Because he’s not reliable.” Dr. Bolden said. “How do you know?” I was a bit irritated. “No reason.

He was just delusional earlier in the day.

Well, he was talking to God when I walked into the room.” Dr. Bolden shrugged. “Prayer-” “Landry, he wasn’t praying, he was arguing with God.

He was telling God a thing or two.” Dr. Bolden tilted his head, “He has been here before.

He comes in for pain medication.

Apparently he knows someone who will give him a handful of medication.

Happens all the time.

I wish I could stop it, but I know I can’t.” “Dad!” Mama cried when he was trying to get out the front door. “I needs to go home.” His voice was heavy with emotion, “Your mama needs me.”

“Dad, mama’s been gone for eight years.” She told him, taking his hand. “Can’t be true, honey, can’t be.” He shook his head.

“It is dad.

It is.” She led him back to his chair. “I jus’ wan’s to go home, honey.” His voice was pleading. “Dad, this is your home.” She shook her head as he sat down. “No honey, I gots a home down the road.

It has silk curtains and nice tapestry on the floors.” He insisted. “Take your medication.” She held the pills in her hand. “No, I won.’ Dem pills be makin’ me sicker.” He shook his head and kept his mouth closed so she could not shove them in his mouth.

“Landry, if you want to keep in your program, I suggest you report to Mr. Walton, pronto.” Head Nurse Wanda Pallor snapped when she saw me sitting in a chair in the waiting room wiping up my tears. “Yes ma’am.” I stood up. “Where’s ya been, Lan?” Slim asked as he swung a mop across the floor. “I was told to find you if I wanted to keep in the program.” I was steamed. “Ah, you must’ve run into Nurse Pallor.” He smiled. “How did you know?”

“She be the only one say stuff like that.” He waved his finger at me. “Hey, it’s been pretty slow tonight after all that fuss earlier.

Why doncha take an early walk home?”

“Won’t Nurse Pallor get mad?”

“She’s already mad.

Mad as a hatter.” He laughed. “So how was old Mr. Bryce?”

“He told me stories about the Cotton Club.”

“Yeah, we gots place along the shore that are just as famous.

We got ribs and the blues.

Ribs and blues.

I’ll take out to one of them places.” Slim rinsed his mop in the bucket. “Alright, it’s a date…well not like that.” I laughed. “Keep it light, dude.” He winked as I turned to leave.

When I got to Advocate the next day, Slim caught me in the hall. “Gotsome bad news.” His head hung low. “Wha’ up?”

“Mr. Bryce managed to get on the roof.

One of the security guards said he was having an argument with somebody up there.” He pointed to the ceiling, “And then he stepped off the ledge.” “Oh no.” I felt as if someone had punched me right in the gut. “Are you gonna be okay?” He asked as I collapsed into a chair. “Yeah, I’ll be fine.” I sucked in some air. “Bah-bah-bah-bah followed by four more beats then a quick change on the third measure Be-bah. Be-bah. Be-bah. Be-bah and start all over again Bah-bah-bah-bah.”

“What?” Slim’s face twisted into a question mark. “It’s the blues.”

“The blues?” Slim shrugged.

“Yeah…” I could hear the blue notes as they fell from the stars above.


My whole life, there has been this figure always looming behind me, only visible to me. No noticeable features, no noticeable clothing, just this dark humanoid figure. It’s never really done anything. It is just…there. Sometimes it is simply standing there, sometimes it’s messing with something in the background like a ball or phone, sometimes it’s even crawling on the ceiling. It stopped bothering me when I was six or seven. The only thing about it that has always bothered me is the chill I feel when I see it. The feeling isn’t the same kind of chill as being scared. It’s similar to the chill you get on a winter morning while waiting for the school bus. I actually felt a little safer when I remembered it was there. It was almost like a guardian angel, constantly watching over me. The difference being that it looked more menacing than protective and kind. Nobody has ever believed me, so when I got my first phone, I started trying to get a picture of it. But every single time, it disappears and reappears somewhere else. At first this was terrifying to me, but after a while I got bored of its disappearing act and became more annoyed. I'd end up making myself dizzy, spinning around constantly, spamming the picture button to try and catch it, but the fruits of my labor have only gotten me blurry pictures of my surroundings. So, I came up with a plan. My friend, Emma, was the only one who believed that I was telling the truth. She was really into the paranormal, so when I first told her, she was intrigued. When we first started talking, she was really only interested in the annoying figure that was “obsessed with me like I was famous,” as she put it. Her jokes about the figure made the whole situation much less scary. She’s the biggest reason it never really bothers me anymore. We came up with the plan over text. It was very uncomfortable, since I had to make sure it couldn’t peek over my shoulder. I wasn’t sure if it could read, much less see. It was better to be safe than sorry. I covered myself with a blanket while sitting against the wall. The only place it could be while staying as close to me as possible was right in front of me. Its head peeking over my phone, staring at me with its nonexistent eyes was more awkward than scary. The plan was that she would take the picture with her polaroid camera from the second floor of the school in a classroom. We passed each other and waved, the signal that the plan was still on. I sat down under a tree and started reading. Leaves from the tree fell onto the pages. I looked up and saw its “face” hanging from the tree, inches away from mine. I scooted over to make some distance between us. Its head followed me like it could see me moving. I looked at its legs to see that they were wrapped around a tree branch, making it hang upside down. I just sighed and continued reading, but it was hard to focus with its void of a face hanging so close to mine. Then, its head suddenly snapped towards the school. It seemed like it was looking at the window Emma was supposed to take the picture from. “Damn, still camera shy?” I said to the figure with a smirk, thinking we had gotten it. I looked up to see that it was gone. I turned my head around, expecting to see it behind a tree, under one of the picnic tables, or in a bush, trying to hide from the camera. After a good 30 seconds of not being able to find it, I started to feel uneasy. I tried to keep myself calm, but the out of character behavior wasn’t right. The behaviors of the figure were always constant. Its reactions to different situations stayed the same. If you threw something at it, whatever you threw would go right through. If you tried to touch it, it would back away. If you tried to get a picture of it, it would vanish then appear somewhere close by, sometimes in a hiding spot that would barely put it out of view. This is why it reacting differently to something made me so uncomfortable. I felt its gaze on my back again, despite it being nowhere in sight. Looking around frantically, I got a glimpse of a figure in a window on the second floor of the school. For a second, I thought that it was Emma, since it was the same window she was supposed to be taking the picture from. But I got that familiar chill that told me otherwise. A pit in my stomach opened up. It was painfully nauseating. With wobbly vision, I sprinted towards the front doors of the school, stumbling up the stairs to the second floor. I ran to the classroom and flew open the door. Emma wasn't there. The only thing that was there was a single polaroid picture on the floor by the window. My skin turned white as the nauseous feeling grew stronger, and the unnatural bitter cold pierced my body. I spun around to see it leaning over me, much taller than it usually was, like how the sun casts a shadow in a certain way so that it appears taller than you on the floor. Its blank face was inches away from mine, as if it was ready to bite off my head. I stepped backwards and ran to the picture and picked it up.

The only thing in the picture, taking up the whole frame, was its face. The face that it didn’t have. The face that it never had. The face that didn’t exist. Its wide, hollow white eyes. Its drooling, sharp smile that stretched to the back of its head. The faces of agony etched into its skin like an art project. It was the last thing I saw when I lowered the picture from my view.


Something about my history teacher Mr. Vavilov has always creeped me out. The enormous dark rings under his eyes and the slight tremor in his voice don’t help matters. On the first day of class when he called roll, he paused before saying my name. Not long enough for anyone else to notice but just long enough to give me chills. As he lectured about the Civil War, I kept getting that prickly feeling of being watched. When I looked up from my notes, his eyes would flick away quickly enough to make me question myself. The people I told about it questioned me, too. “You’re imagining it, Jenny.” “You read too much, Jenny.” “You’re a hysterical female, Jenny. You should go to the seaside. The air will be good for your health.” Today, something is different. I can tell as soon as I enter the classroom. The atmosphere presses on my skin, and the shadows in the corners of the room seem to shift whenever I blink. I force myself to walk stiffly over to my desk and sit down. “Hey, Jenny! How was your weekend?” asks Leah, the girl who sits next to me. I mumble something vague. I can’t concentrate. Is no one else feeling this? Leah launches into a story about visiting her grandmother over the weekend. I glance at Mr. Vavilov. His eyes flick away. Was he watching me? I sink down in my chair and try to breathe. The hard plastic digs into my back, and the metal chair legs creak as I shift my weight. I’m imagining this right? I have to be. Mr. Vavilov claps his hands, and the chatter dies down. “Okay class! Pop quiz.” A collective groan rises and people shuffle to put their books away. I forgot to take mine out in the first place, so I stare at my desk and click my mechanical pencil. “It shouldn’t be too hard,” says Mr. Vavilov as he makes his way down the aisle, placing papers face down on each desk. “This is just a quick review.” I can’t help cringing away from him when he reaches my desk, but he gives me my quiz and moves on without comment. Mr. Vavilov walks back to the front of the room and waits for the talking to quiet again. He clears his throat. “Begin.” Papers rustle as we all turn our quizzes over. I write my name at the top of the quiz, then read the first question. 1.    Who was H. P. Lovecraft? That’s odd. I don’t remember covering Lovecraft in this class. I glance over at Leah. She’s already halfway down the page, pencil scratching furiously. Hmm. I guess we did cover Lovecraft in my Lit class, so I know a little about him. I shrug and write, H. P. Lovecraft was a horror writer in the 1920s and 30s. His particular type of horror often dealt with fear of the unknown. He is famous for his weird mythological creatures like the Cthulhu. Ok, next question. 2.    Some of Lovecraft’s short stories reference a play called “The King in Yellow.” What is unusual about this play? I write, The first act is normal, but anyone who reads the second act is driven insane. Once you start reading the second act, you are drawn in and cannot stop. 3.    “The King in Yellow” was not the only writing of its kind. Various manuscripts have surfaced over the years, inflicting different curses on their readers. Some readers are driven insane. Some hallucinate. Some even experience effects that alter their appearances. Many of these curses are permanent, but not all of them. Sometimes, if the cursed person can get someone else to read the manuscript, the curse is transferred to them. Umm… there’s no question to answer. I guess I’ll leave that one blank. Goosebumps run up my arms. I don’t like this. 4.    True or False: You are the only student in this classroom. What? I look up, and my breath catches in my throat. The desks around me are empty. Sweat trickles down the back of my neck. I look over to Mr. Vavilov, and his eyes don’t flick away this time. He stares at me intensely. The corners of his mouth slowly curve upward in a predatory smile. He points at my quiz, and I look back down. 5.    True or False: You can’t move your legs. I can’t move my legs. I’m hyperventilating. I need to calm down; I need to think. This can’t be happening. I try to scream for help, but I can’t get enough breath. I look back at Mr. Vavilov. He is now standing directly in front of my desk. He leans forward. “True or false,” he whispers. “You are compelled to read the rest of the quiz.” My chin jerks downward without my permission. My eyes land on the final question in the quiz. 6.    No one sees the waves, Vultures crouching in the pavement cracks. A man slipped in up to his neck. He never noticed But wondered distractedly Why his clothes were soaked. Every night, millions sleep to the murmur Of rising tide While cracks spread. When I finish reading, I am cursed. And now Dear Reader, thanks to you I am free. I hope you will forgive me. Whether you do or not, it’s too late to change anything. You have read the poem. It’s nothing personal. I had to transfer the curse to someone, and you were in the wrong place at the wrong time. I’m not going to tell you what the curse is; you’ll find out soon. You may start to notice your heart rate increasing. Don’t worry, that’s normal. Just try to relax. All you have to do is transfer the curse to someone else. Then you’ll be free, too. I’m not mad at Mr. Vavilov. He wasn’t evil, just desperate. My desperation has also driven me to do things I’m not proud of. What about you? Will your morals hold up? I suppose you’ll find out.


Emily glances up at the sun shining brightly off the windows and decides today is the day. She will get her friend Jenna to go Geocaching with her and get her addicted to it as much as she is. After all, Jenna needs to get over Aaron. She has been so upset about her fiance dumping her at their wedding, that she just doesn't want to do anything with Emily. So, she must take matters into her own hands.

"How do I persuade her to come with me? I have it all set up. I just have to find a way to make Jenna want to. Maybe I could tell her that sometimes I find unusual things that are really interesting. I can tell her about the time that I opened a Altoids tin and a diamond ring was hidden inside."

Trying to figure out exactly how to approach the subject with Jenna, she drives up to her house. Collecting some of her gear Emily knocks on her door. Jenna opens the door and hugs her. "Hey, you would never guess what I am about to do." Emily eyes her.

"What? Turn gay? Because, that's what I am about to do if I don't stop feeling like crap." Jenna says sarcastically. "I have never felt so bad about a man in my life. My heart has broken in so many ways I didn't think it was possible." "Well, O.k. I am not going to turn gay. But, I am going to go Geocaching today and your going with me." Emily pauses and looks at Jenna who doesn't look shocked at all.  "I looked up the coordinates to a little place about 2 hours from here. It sounds like it's right by the waterfall in Jenison Park. Maybe even in it. I have had to go swimming for my little treasures before." "Intriguing." Jenna murmurs. "I think I will come with. If nothing else, it will be pretty. Do you have everything we need for the hunt or do you need to go back home and get the stuff first?" Emily caught by surprise takes a minute to register that she actually said yes. "Yeah, I have it all. My Garmin GPS, pencil, paper, and log book. Also a rope, and climbing stuff if we have to go down a cliff." "Well, let's go then. Who knows, maybe we will find a cool treasure. Or an awesome surprise." Emily quickly picks up her gear and they make their way to the car.

On the way Jenna stares out the window and tries to keep from talking about the whole wedding nightmare. But of course Emily doesn't take a hint and asks, "Have you talked to Aaron at all?" Jenna looks at Emily and rolls her eyes, "Nope, and I am never going to either. He hasn't even tried to call. So, I am done." "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought it up. Anyway, are you excited?" Emily feels really bad about the situation. "Hell yeah.  This is my first one. Maybe we will find something awesome. I sure hope so anyway." Jenna starts to perk up and forget about our earlier conversation. They arrive at their destination. There isn't a lot of people at the falls because it's at the end of the tourist season. While unpacking the stuff Emily grabs her cell phone and tucks it in her pocket. Jenna leaves her purse in the car and grabs a bottle of water.

With the rope over one arm and GPS in the other hand, Emily tells Jenna to "Hurry, the sun will be going down in about 2 hours. We have to find the exact location and then figure out if we dig or swim. Sometimes they are even hidden in plain site." Emily watches the GPS intensely as they find the exact location. "Hmm. It looks like we are here. Just as I suspected. It could be in the waterfall or in the surrounding rocks." "They couldn't have made it easy for my first time could they?" Jenna raises an eyebrow and smirks. "Well, no. Usually they aren't easy. That is most of the fun!" Emily puts down the rope and her other things along the rocks. Then she starts to meticulously look around every rock and into every crevice.

Jenna picks up a rock and skips it across the water. Then she sees a shiny object just under the waters surface. She yells for Emily to come over.

"What's up? Did you find something?" Emily looks surprised.

"Yes, I think I found it. Look out there just under the waters surface. There is something shiny." Jenna proud of herself starts to take off her shoes and then walks out into the water. "Brrrr. The water is a little chilly today. Good thing I brought an extra pair of clothes in case we did go in the water. Let me go get it." Jenna wades in and then dives once the water gets chest level.

She comes back up and holds a small tin in her hand. She waves, "I got it. I am so excited."

"Hurry up, I want to see." Emily jumps up and down. She just can't wait to see what her friend has found. Will it be a trinket, a piece of jewelry, a note or something wonderful? Jenna struggles opening it, for some reason the clasp is stuck. Emily takes it from her and manages to free it. Then she hands it back to her so she can see what's in it first. After all, it is her first treasure hunt. Her hands shake a bit in anticipation as she opens the tin. When she sees what's inside, Emily hears a blood curdling scream come out of Jenna's mouth. "What's wrong?" Emily cries out. "It's, it's a finger." Jenna turns to Emily and then shows her the contents of the box.

Inside, Emily can see a bloody finger of what looks like a man. "Holy, crap! Is that real?" she touches it with her hand to see if it's plastic or feels like skin.  Immediately she wishes she didn't. She drops the box and looks at Jenna.

"We have to call the police." Emily grabs her phone and starts to dial 911. She realizes then that there is no service. Jenna picks up the tin and they both walk back to the car.

After they get in and lock the doors Emily tries to start the car and all it does is make a clicking sound. "Hold on. Did you leave the lights on in the car?" Jenna asks. "

"No, did you? I never turned them on?" Emily searches for something under the seat. She finds it and looks around for anyone else who can help them. Everyone else has left for the evening, and it's starting to get dark out.

"Now what do we do?" Jenna asks. Emily turns to her and smiles. "Don't worry. I have a flashlight and we can walk up to the Ranger's station. They can give us a lift into town."

"Are you sure? I don't like walking alone in the dark, specially when we are in the middle of nowhere." Jenna looks scared half to death as she looks out the car door into the wilderness. "Well, let's get this over with. Who knows, maybe there will be some hot Ranger at the station waiting for us?" Emily giggles. They both get out of the car and start to walk down the dirt road towards the office.

Jenna hears something from behind them and she grabs Emily's hand. She doesn't say anything, but she motions for Emily to be quiet. Emily looks behind her and could swear she saw a shadow move about 20 feet back. They both start to walk quickly down the road. Suddenly they stop when they hear someone rushing at them. Turning, Jenna feels the first impact. Then Emily gets hit over the head.

When they wake up they are in the trunk of a car, tied and gagged. Jenna has a bruise starting to show on her left eye and a big scratch on her cheek. Emily doesn't look harmed but has a huge headache. They try to get free but don't succeed. Instead, they roll around to see if they can see what is in the trunk they can use. Emily manages to free her phone and turn the flashlight on. She can see a shovel, rope, and numerous other items in the trunk with them. She remembers to check the signal strength and finds one bar, so she calls 911. It doesn't go through. She tries again, realizing her battery is at 21%. If it doesn't work this time then she will have to shut it off for a bit and save the battery. Hopefully, in a while the signal will be stronger.

She hears someone ask what the emergency is as the call goes through. She mumbles into it but she can't speak. The person on the other end asks again. Frustrated, Emily tries to get the gag out and scream. She manages to get out "help".  This time the operator hears her and she says hold on. The car starts to slow down and comes to a stop. Then she hears a car door open. "Shit!" Emily thinks to herself as she looks over at Jenna who seems to be unconscious. Panicking, she gets ready to kick whoever has kidnapped them. There is a loud thud outside and the trunk opens up. What Emily sees makes her cry and then she feels pain surge through her head. Too late does she realize that a bullet just buzzed through her cheek and out the other side. Then everything goes black. Jenna wakes up when she hears a loud bang. She looks over and sees blood all over a gapping wound in Emily's face. "She's not breathing." a man from behind her says to someone else. Then he steps out of the shadows and she wants to die herself. Matter of fact, she is sure she will be next. The man has cold dead eyes, blacker then the night. He stares right at her and aims the gun. Before the end, all she hears is the owl hooting from the near by tree. Then the cracking sound of her skull.                        The End By M.D. LaBelle


Lakysha bumped into the suit holding a briefcase who decided to abruptly stop his forward progress without any warning. Goddam rude people in the train station , she thought. She looked up and down at the back of the man’s pinstriped office attire. The train station lost its chaotic background noise in a split second. “Excuse you,” she offered with attitude. She walked around him and caught a sneak glimpse at the electronic readout. 11:42. Four minutes until the train departs.

At least I’ll get some good, home-cooked food soon . Her stomach gurgled in expectation. No one moved around her. Panicked confusion slowly sifted into her mental mixing bowl. Why isn’t anyone moving?  Lakysha waved her hand in front of the stopped man’s stoic expression. He remained frozen in place. She poked an old lady in the shoulder. No reaction. Well, fuck, what now? Lakysha wove between the commuters, walking down the station platform hoping for one person who maintained her similar freedom. Someone, anyone, to validate her experience. She flowed through the bodies to the concrete deck's far end. Each person remained locked in place as life-sized marble statues. Lakysha noticed no eye movement, no breathing, no response to anything. Her heart quickened against her chest. Am I having some sort of mental breakdown?  She fought against the growing panic. How do I get back home? How is my family? How long is this going to last?  Her focus turned to getting to the family dinner table by any means necessary. She evaluated the situation as she had done during her years in the service. She jumped off of the raised platform onto the rocky ground along the extended train tracks. Thank goodness I wore commute sneakers.  Lakysha made her way along the parallel rails. She moved through the yard astounded at the lack of movement and sound. Several yard workers gathered in the distance. Their efforts with a broken cable stunted in the moment. She made her way to the first road crossing. Cars, bicycles, and even a news helicopter stuck in one position. Lakysha looked through her options. The man with one eye is king among the blind , she remembered. The woman moving is queen among the frozen or time-stopped or whatever they are.  The human instinct in her wandered through the impulsive garden of her options. People had money in their wallets and she had bills to catch up on. No, I’m better than that.  The stillness continued to greet her every action. She wondered what limitations this new reality would allow. She walked through the still world astounded by the surreal event. Birds hung suspended with open, small wings against the sky like mobile toys over a baby’s crib. A leaf hung inches above an empty sidewalk section as she turned around a corner. It’s as if someone pressed a pause button and everything in the movie stopped but me.  Lakysha took note of a tween fleeing an older, portly cop in pursuit. The officer's face was already flush as the pursuit began. The young man held a woman's red wallet in his left hand while taunting the cop with his right middle finger. She casually walked over to the wild-haired boy. His face registered a confident grin at his youth outlasting the officer's degraded endurance. Her hands slowly undid his shoelaces and then reworked them back together into one tie. That's it, young man. She stood with hands on her hips. Mother Time says you need a time out.  She wanted to watch the event play out. The option of her mother’s homemade casserole pushed her ahead. A half-mile later, she passed by a local bank and considered how much cash she could walk out of with. Empathy overrode the idea to its core. Someone would be fired or worse for the missing money.  She embraced the reality that time could restart in a second without notice. Reaching into a cash drawer as time resumed would offer no acceptable excuses to the confused bank teller or security guard. Well, the thing that happened, your honor, is that everything stopped and I decided to take advantage of the situation, as any reasonable person would do,  she imagined with a laugh to herself. Lakysha continued her way home. She peered through a large, decorative coffee shop window to see an overbearing man with a distinct red cap mid-yell at a young woman wearing a rainbow t-shirt. He jammed a stiff finger inches from her face. His leaning eyebrow expression displayed an interrupted rage. The woman reared back in defensive fright with her small hands up behind her open laptop. Lakysha decided to enact clandestine justice. Her face lit up as she entered the shop. The lack of coffee aroma bothered her more than everyone being still. She loosened up his chipped buckle. His worn-out jeans with the back pocket wallet imprint slid down past his extended white socks. A dancing giggle pushed across her face. I never would have imagined raincoat, Hello Kitty covering a hatemonger’s junk, but to each their own . She moved the angry index finger into his nose. That should make for an interesting change of events if time ever gets back on track , she mused. Lakysha closed the woman’s laptop so it couldn’t be accidentally knocked onto the ground once the mayhem resumed. Maybe I’m the arbiter of justice , she considered. The one person to make some justice in society.

I wonder if living in a massive snow globe would be any different than what I’m experiencing today. The radiating sun hadn’t moved in several hours, creeping her out even more. The day’s quietness pushed past uncomfortable deeper into the realm of innate eeriness for her sense of well-being. Lakysha worried that her family would be stuck like everyone else. She wondered when and how the world would come back to normal. Will I ever hear Momma call me Kiki again ? she considered. Will anything ever make sense? The young woman came across a chance run-in with a tyrannical boss she recognized from a previous job. Shanda Brown, how good it is to see you, girl , Lakysha grinned. Looks as if, I , now hold the upper hand on your  fate.  She considered the underhanded ways Shanda had sabotaged her own budding romance with a cute, flirtatious Jamaican guy through slut shaming rumors and deliberately offsetting their schedules. You bitch, it’s time for your comeuppance . She considered all the ways she could harm the helpless woman. Dark fantasies bounded through her mind. The thoughts ranged from causing physical harm to removing the woman's clothes and putting them in a garbage bin. I bet I could find a knife around here somewhere. She nodded with a decision. Lakysha took the woman's designer purse and dumped its contents into a curb sewer grate. Good luck fishing out your boujee wallet and expensive lipstick.  She scraped the thousand-dollar handbag across the rough asphalt and left the purse at the curb as if it had fallen on its own. There, consider your debt paid.

She became more brazen as her actions happened without consequences. I wonder how much more of this I will be able to do without getting caught , she considered. Her feet ached from the long walk. She went into a convenient store and took a bottle of water from the fridge. The young man behind the counter had been on a telephone call when the “stop” happened. Lakysha placed two dollars on the schizophrenic counter of impulse buys. And maybe a gum for later.  She added another dollar. Keep the change, darlin’.   She patted him on the cheek. Lakysha enjoyed the water's refreshment. She spied a group of older, ranting fundamentalists while tossing out her empty container. They appeared to be protesting the new Judy Hernandez Women's Education Center. The non-profit that a local pastor decreed as blasphemy due to its young women’s empowerment agenda. She weaved through the frozen traffic and decided to make the most of the moment. Lakysha moved from one person to the next. Her smile rapidly expanded with each successful rearrangement. She stepped away from the group. Being a force of good is tiring work,  she laughed to herself. “That’s what I’m talking about,” she gloated. Each protester had their open hands with fingers parted close to their ears like moose antlers. She carefully went back through the group and eased closed their eyes.  Just like their minds , she reflected. Lakysha moved their protest signs into a nearby dumpster. Imagine the good these stupid people could accomplish if their hate had been redirected towards helping others.  She placed open bags of garbage around their feet. If this doesn’t upset their protest, I don’t know what will. Several miles tore through her morning energy. Lakysha arrived at her familiar and comforting front door with a need to sit down. Her family members' cars filled the driveway and lined the street. Wouldn’t be a Saturday without a full house , she thought. A jogger remained stuck mid-stride behind her as the door opened. She entered her mother’s home with a Pavlovian smile that quickly hardened. A fly hung above a table-side appetizer dish. Seeing random people stuck in time had been one thing. Seeing her loved ones trapped in movement tapped more personal emotions. Sadness overwhelmed her. Her Uncle Smitty held his hands up as he discussed something important with Uncle Michael. Her ragamuffin nieces and nephews had been in the midst of a folding table card game. Two of the children leaned across the table full of candy bets. The lack of her mother's afternoon cooking hit her the hardest. She always anticipated walking in and being welcomed by the comforting aroma before anyone's good wishes reached her ears. She walked around the house, taking in the situation with a heavy heart. An interesting opportunity crossed her mind. She looked at Harold, the cousin who always needed another loan. The same young man who often filled his apartment with the newest gadgets overpaying anyone back. The same person whose wallet often held more than enough money to make good on his debts in one pass. She debated the moral implications of repaying herself. Fuck it.  Lakysha slid out her cheapskate cousin's wallet and peeled out several twenty-dollar bills. Finally, some of your debt is paid back  after ten years. She kissed his dark cheek while sliding the wallet back into his pocket. She stuck the folded, green bills into her bra. Lakysha entered the kitchen cheerful to see her mother even if frozen mid-cooking. She caught the stove clock time. 11:42.The older woman appeared stuck falling forward from her chair. Her mother's eyes were wide with surprise as her hands reached out in an anticipatory brace. Her mouth held open with momentary shock. Lakysha moved to her aid. She eased her mother back into the seat's safety with a deep sigh of relief. The kitchen's sounds and sights roared back to life. Kitchen aromas overfilled her nose. The moment overloaded her senses. She grimaced at the flood of stimulation. "... my god," Ms. Thompson called out as the unfinished sentence caught up to her. Lakysha watched her mother lower her arms. The older woman moved her head around unsure of what occurred. Her daughter being in the kitchen added another layer to the mystery. “KiKi, when did you get home? I thought you worked this morning.” "Oh, I did Momma, it's been a busy day already." Confusion stacked on her mother’s deeply lined face. "I could have sworn I was about to fall off this chair. Oof, that could have been bad." She dusted off of her spotted apron. “Maybe you just needed a small miracle today.” Lakysha sat down on an empty chair, happy for normality. “ And maybe some things don’t require more than just appreciation, Momma.” The matron’s eyes filled with pride. “I always feel better with you around, Kiki.” Lakysha held her mother’s outstretched hand across the kitchen table and smiled. She rapidly reflected on each of those that she intervened with. She held back her laughter. Her mother lumbered across the tiled floor to the family refrigerator.“Would you like anything to drink?”

The morning’s walk caught up with her. “I would love a -” Ms. Thompson turned to her daughter for an answer. The house lost the comfort of its background television noise, family squabbling, and children's laughter. Her nose could no longer smell the meal that had been her morning's focus. Kiki sat at the table focused on the fridge without movement. Her mouth formed words that never came out.

“Kiki,” she yelled, unsure what to do next. Someone being catatonic had never been part of her life experience. She moved to her daughter and shook her at the shoulders. Lakysha’s hair bounced in place. “Lakysha, say something.” A concerned frown formed. “Harold, Smitty, Michael. Someone get in here. Something’s wrong with Lakysha.” Her request caused no reaction from outside the sterile kitchen. Ms. Thompson burst into the living room to see her family firmly in position as if they had been covered in lacquer. Her heart jumped in panic. The family cat hung mid-jump between a scratched coffee table and its upper, sun-drenched perch. Nothing moved. Nothing made a sound. Nothing made sense. The wall clock indicated 11:43. Ms. Thompson tried to make sense of her place in a still world.


     Deep in space, a lone ship drifts though the shadow of a moon. Alarms blare as the ship shakes from the strain of staying together. Vika flips a switch up and down, her thick gloves catching. She grits her teeth as she tries to pull a wire from the panel. She yanks the gloves off and throws them behind her. Who cares if the cold of space gives her frostbite if she’s dead? The cold seeps into her fingers as she wiggles them through the wires and yanks the one she’s looking for.      The lights go out.      “Vika!” Korben screeches from the front of the ship.      “At least I shut the alarm off!”      “We’re going to die and it’ll be your fault!”      “Shut up! I’m doing my best.”      “This is your best? No wonder we’re in this mess.” She’s going to kill him one of these days. “There’s a space station on scanner. Give us enough power to get there and we might have a chance.” She rolls her eyes and holds two wires, but pauses before crossing them.      “What’s the magic word?” she sings.      “What?”      “What’s the magic word?”      “Seriously? Now?”      “Yup,” she says, popping the p.

“Oxygen at 7%,” the computer says. Vika thought she shut the sound off with the alarms.      “Fix it,” Korben groans.      “Say it.”      “Please,” sarcasm drips from his voice. Vika shrugs. Whatever, it’ll do. Sparks nip at the fingertips as the wires cross.      The lights flicker back on then die again.       Oops.

“Oxygen at 4%.”      “Vika!”      “Please, we have enough power to get to the station.”      “If we don’t suffocate first,” he mutters.      “Such confidence in your piloting stills.” Korben mutters something that sounds suspiciously like cussing at her. She rolls her eyes.      Vika is thrown back as the ship dips suddenly, tools crashing across the floor from her open tool kit.      “Hey! You could have hurt Beep!”      “It’s a robot.”      “ It’s a he!”      “Whatever.” Vika picks up the ball-shaped robot. He blinks his one eye up at her.      “That jerk didn’t mean it,” she babies him. The ship dips forward and Beep goes flying from her hands.      This is going to be a long five minutes. OOOO      The flashlight beams only do so much to cut through the dark halls of the space station. Even the light from Beep’s eye doesn’t help much. Water, at least she hopes it’s water, drips from the ceiling forming puddles on the ground.       “Man, how long has this place been here? It smells like something died forever ago,” Korben says. Vika shrugs, pointing her light down a hall as they pass it.      “Longer then you’ve been alive.”       He huffs in response. Beep rolls across the floor in front of them, his light guiding them better then the flashlights.     “At least we have enough oxygen.”     “Hey, it’s not my fault you cut the cord to life support,” Korben replies stepping over a puddle.      “Well, if you hadn’t banked so hard while I was fixing the weapons.”      “We were being shot at!”      “How’s that my fault? You were the one who stole that gem.” He opens and closes his mouth a couple times. Vika smirks.      “Okay, yeah that one’s on me.”      A crash echoes though the halls from somewhere on the station. Beep rolls behind Vika and peaks out from behind her leg. Korben unholsters his blaster. Vika follows suit.      “I thought this place was abandoned?”      “It’s old and something fell?”      “If you believed that you wouldn’t have unholstered your blaster.”      “Neither would you.” They walk in sync, blasters ready and flashlights up. Beep bumps against her ankle. Water drips down Korben’s face. He wrinkles his nose as he wipes it off.      “That’s not water.”      “Nope.” He wipes it on her jacket. They continue on, shoulder-to-shoulder and ready for anything.      They come to a door hanging by one hinge, the not water seeping out from under it.      “Lady’s first.”      “Really? Now you’re being a gentlemen?” He shrugs.      “It’s never too late to be one.” Vika rolls her eyes and kicks the door open. It crashes into the wall then to the ground. A serpent rises up, it’s hooded head nearly touching the ceiling. The not water drips from its fangs to the ground.      “Saliva, ew,” they say in unison. Korben aims his blaster and fires. The electrical charge hits it in the chest, sparking harmlessly over its purple scales. It roars, lashing it’s tail at them. Vika steps back, while it knocks Korben to the ground. She momentarily drops the point of her gun to put her hands on her hips.      “Now look what you’ve done; you’ve gone and made it mad.” He scrambles to his feet and grabs her by the front of her jacket.      “Listen here you little-” The snake lunges at them, shaking them from the argument. Vika hardly aims before firing as Korben grabs her arm and drags her back through the door. They topple through, Vika landing on top him. She scrambles off and dashes down the corridor, not waiting for him to get up. She skids around a corner and into a wall, falling to the ground. She grunts and stands back up. A moment later Korben slides around the corner panting. He puts a finger to his lips and presses back against the wall. Vika does the same.     The snake slithers by, leaving slime in its path. She makes a gagging motion. Korben narrows his eyes as he mimes choking her. She sticks her tongue out at him before running off to explore their new path. OOOO      The control room has about six layers of dust, no snake slime, thankfully, so that’s a good sign. The bad sign is; six layers of dust.      “Can you make it work?” Korben asks.      “Not if you keep talking.”      He flops into the caption’s chair, stirring up a cloud of dust. He sneezes. Vika wipes her hands off, an irritating itch making its way up her nose. She stuffs her hands back into the consoles ancient wiring. How can she fix this? It’s been useless for a century. She yanks the mess out.      The counsel lights up.     “Such a mature way to fix it.” She chucks the wires at him. They hit him in the face. He squawks and falls over, out of the chair, surprised. Vika examines the screen.      “There’s a ship in range of an S.O.S, if you get your sorry butt back in that chair you should be able to send one.”      She can feel Korben’s glare burn into her back as he climbs into the chair.      “Hello? Is anyone reading me?”      “This is the Morra, I read you, do you require assistants?”       “Please save me.”      Vika snorts. “From what? Your idiocy? Sorry but you can’t be saved from that.”      “My partner and I are stranded on the old space station, any way you could give us a lift?”      “Consider it done. Adjusting course. Morra out.” The line goes dead.      “That,” Korben says leaning back in the chair, “is how you do it.” He props his feet on the control board, kicking half a dozen buttons.      Without a sound, the power shuts down.      “….Oops.”      “Korben, you might want to run.” He falls out of the chair in his scrambling to get out of it and runs off the deck. OOOO      “Welcome to the Morra,” the caption greets them. She’s tall with a spiky blue bob and a warm smile. “I’m Captain Flose.”      “Vika,” she says sticking her hand out. Flose takes it with a nod. “And this is Korben.” She gestures to a soaking wet Korben. The captain shakes his hand.      “Thanks for saving us,” Korben says. Flose tips her hat and leads them to the main deck, giving them a short tour on the way. The Morra isn’t large but she’s bigger than the rust bucket Korben calls his.       “Wow, an actual ship,” Vika comments.     “I’ve flown that ship for years! She was reliable!”     “Key word: was.”     “Oh yeah? I want to see you do better.”     “It’s not that hard to do anything better then you.”      “Take that back,” he growls.      “Never.”      “Ugh, get a room,” Flose interjects.       They barely miss a heartbeat before they say at the same time, “Ew, we’re siblings.”