THE WIND IN THE WILLOWS He finds it difficult to tear himself away from the window and, even when something draws his attention, the ringing of the landline in the hall or the sound of his cell phone, back he returns, involuntarily, to the French window that looks out onto the vast lawn and the cluster of trees that border the edge of the grass and the beginning of the embankment that stretches down to the river flowing hurriedly past his garden. It was always the same when she went away. The first two days, he would almost revel in his solitude; eating what he wanted, when he wanted. Staying up as late as he liked, watching the programmes that he preferred but rarely got a chance to see and sleeping as late as he wanted the following mornings. But, invariably, this novelty began to wear a bit thin by the third day though he usually managed to find something to amuse him, pass the time. Perhaps, a visit to the shops, loading up on “treats” that she would normally nag him into avoiding: chocolate being top of the list. But it was always that third night alone, going to bed, when her absence seemed to bother him the most and he would feel his loneliness forcing its way through, preventing him from sleeping, lying in the darkness, realising just how much he missed her. The very first time that she had mentioned visiting Sydney to see her daughter, he had become upset at not being invited. He had never been on good terms with his step-daughter and, in all honesty, even if he had been asked, he almost certainly would have said no. But it was the principle after all; he was big on principle.  He should have been included. Of course, he understood that his wife had every right to visit her daughter and, above all else, all he had ever wanted was her happiness and it had become accepted that the week long trip would be a regular occurrence that he would just have to come to terms with. Always, he made sure to drive her to the airport, bid her farewell with a smile and a hug, message her before her boarding time to wish her a wonderful trip and assure her that he would be here, ready and waiting in seven day’s time to pick her up. In his own mind, too, by this time, he had started to look forward to his own “freedom”. Then, as per usual, around about the third day it would usually begin to pall. He had never been one to have a bunch of acquaintances. Like his father before him, he was a solitary person who could, at best, count those he considered to be real friends on two fingers. Not one for small chat, he was slow to warm to people and kept his feelings close. He was also extremely set in his ways, spotlessly clean, morally upright and found fault with anybody who did not come up to his exacting standards. Because of this, he gave off an invisible aura that kept most at arm’s length. His wife was his life. That was it in a nutshell. More than just loving her, he was devoted ; wanted only to make her happy. Oftentimes, he knew that, if not for her, he would, almost certainly, stop going to the gym daily, cease making an effort with his diet, his appearance. It was all for her, never wanting her to think less of him, craving her approval. Those final few days before her return from the latest trip were the most difficult for him. He would fill his daytime hours completing crossword puzzles, reading, following the instructions that she had left behind regarding the watering of plants, the exact amount of washing detergent to use, which rinse cycle to set the machine etc, desperately wanting everything to be in shipshape fashion upon her return. But, always, those last nights as the week progressed were the toughest; their huge kingsize bed somehow becoming more empty, each night, guaranteeing a lack of sleep. When he did collect her from the airport at the end of each week away, there was always an initial tension that they never spoke about. She would be reluctant to tell him of the things she had done, thinking that he might envy her for having had a good time without him. He would be loathe to ask about her time away, not wanting to openly acknowledge his feelings of just how much of an an outcast he was in the lives of her family. Why this was exactly was hard to pinpoint. He had never been less than supportive to his step- daughter and, when she had given birth to her only child, it had been he, on his regular business trips to Sydney, who had always made the time to drop in and see the boy. It was he, not his real grandfathers, who wrote long letters to the boy on a regular basis that included stories, jokes, cartoons and riddles that he would often labour for hours over. Yet, they never seemed to be appreciated. His step-daughter had simply outlawed him when he had lost the business, blaming him without knowing the true facts and nothing would ever change her mind. He had been responsible for the downgrade in her mother’s life and that was all there was to it. Despite the injustice that he felt, he had come to terms with this, years before, and it was only on these jaunts, that seemed to be occurring more and more regularly, that this situation really hit home, making him realise just how lonely and empty his life actually was without his wife. He had come to dread being told that she was going off again. Always, that initial notification cutting him deep but he had become a master at hiding his feelings, assuring his wife that there was no problem, lying to himself about what a good time he could have while she was away. And he, initially, did...up until around the third day. Now, here he is, staring, trance-like, out into the soft drizzle that has just begun to fall, the wind blowing it back onto the window. The telephone in the hall rings yet again and he forces himself, against his will, to go and check the number: 02. Sydney again. He doesn’t pick up. The ringing stops but, almost immediately, his cell phone begins to ring; the same number. Her number; his step-daughter’s.  Once more, he declines to answer. Back he goes to the lounge window. The rain has stopped. The wind forces a break in the clouds and a streak of sunshine comes struggling through and the darkness of the wintry grass nearest to him is suddenly lit up. As more clouds part, more rays shine down and the entire lawn is slowly bathed in sunlight all the way to the bottom of the garden where the wind is blowing the willows as they bend forward trying to reach the river. He is mesmerised. They say that a criminal always returns to the scene of his crime. It had been her cellphone that had given the game away. As she had showered in readiness for her departure, her phone, being charged, had pinged as he’d come in from the garden. Automatically, he had glanced at it: “Can’t wait to hold you in my arms again. Jack. X” Jack? Who the hell was Jack? It had felt like an ice pick had been thrust into his heart. All this time? All these trips? All of his sleepless, lonely nights? What an utter, contemptuous fool he had been. He understands that there will be no picking up from the airport ever again and his loneliness will be cast in stone forever for, as he stares, tears in his eyes, at the willows swaying back and forth, he knows what lies beneath them.


Sadie flipped through her fashion magazine while Blake Shelton thumped out of her earbuds. She let the chorus kick her into her practice. She needed to learn the backup part if she was going to sing it with her brother Saturday night at Good Hour Ale House. It was their standard set at the closest thing there was to a country-western bar in their small town.

She fussed with her hair, trying to follow the tutorial in the magazine. Her pitch was a little off, but she had a couple of days to work on it. Blake sang the last few lyrics, the lyrics Gabe, her brother, would do Saturday. Next weekend, she would have to switch to a blues playset. She almost had her tone down for Gin Wigmore songs. In truth, she had more fun at Clancy's, but the Ale House was Gabe's time to shine.

The tapping invaded Carrie Underwood's voice. Sadie heard the sound, but Carrie's wail masked it. The tapping suddenly became a frantic thud against the window. Sadie pulled her earbuds out of her ears. The night's cloak pulled back to reveal a sight she thought she would never see again.

"Michael?" she asked. Her voice shook before she could stop herself.

The tears became a torrent of frustration, confusion, and blinding happiness. Her hands hastily pushed the window open, and Michael's tall form slid into her room.

He stretched out to his full height, and he looked her directly in her eyes.

"You got so tall," he finally said after a tense silence.

"Micheal!" she cried as she threw her body into his arms. He wrapped his arms around her writhing body. Sadie sobbed and sobbed into her brother's bony shoulder. Michael fell onto her bed with the extra weight. After the first wave of shock ebbed away, Sadie felt her anger surface.

Pulling away from the embrace, she began pounding Michael's chest violently.

"Where have you been? We thought you were dead or trapped, or God knows what?! How could you do that to us?! How dare you do that to… to…" Her breathing and mind seemed to be synching back up to each other. She stopped her assault and stood up to gain her composure.

"How dare you do that to Earl," she finally released from her lips.

The name sparked a second wind in her older brother. He tried to stand. For the first time, Sadie noticed he was exhausted and looked frail and wasted. She reached out for him, but he stopped the compassionate motion. "Where is Earlene?" he asked, his voice thick with urgency.

Sadie shook her head. "I don't know. She's been keeping her distance since the Children of Death has become a thing," she answered.

Michael dropped his head in thought, then he lifted his dark brown eyes up. His stoic face was still solid and emotionless. But his eyes had reached a conclusion. "She's one of them, isn't she? She sees the dead?" His voice was strangely calm as if he was just confirming a fact he knew all along.

Sadie felt her head nod, but her voice wouldn't follow.

The footsteps in the hall broke the silence. Sadie didn't bother to turn to see Gabe, she knew he would hear them talking.

"Hey, Sade, who you talking…"

Gabe's question floated away and she could feel his dark brown eyes studying Michael on the bed.

"Hey Mike," he chirped, the relief was audible in his voice.

"Hello Gabriel," Michael answered.

The moment seemed to freeze, ever the great host, Gabe insisted they move to the kitchen for coffee and cookies. The reunited trio sat around the round kitchen table. Gabe filled the mugs and opened the package of cookies. He placed it in the middle of the table and perched himself on the dining room chair.

"So, you gonna tell us where you disappeared to for 6 months?" he asked calmly.

Michael stared down into his coffee.

"I thought I could make a trade. I thought I could barter Earlene's involvement for my own."

Sadie reached for a cookie, "You always had a white knight syndrome," she replied as she bit into the cookie.

"What you mean barter? Her mother is Death, there is no bartering that. You can't trade Earl places. She is what she is." Gabe scoffed.

"You of all people know everything is negotiable," Michael countered.

"Except for death, that comes for everyone," Sadie added, she didn't want to get lost in the conversation.

Michael and Gabe stared at her, as if they had in fact, forgotten her. Michael drank his coffee and rubbed his chin before continuing.

"After the news reports started reporting the increase in paranormal activity and people began developing the marks and signs of Death, I noticed Earlene had withdrawn. She didn't talk much and when she did, she would look around the room as if she had been interrupted. She didn't have that symbol they keep plastering everywhere, but something was wrong." "So tell me, how does one get an audience with Death?" Sadie asked.

"Without dying yourself?" Gabe added.

Micheal unclamped his mug. He stood up and leaned against the sink. He tried to smile, but Michael's face never smiled. His eyes did, however. "I went to a crossroads." "That's to make a deal with the Devil," Gabe corrected.

Michael held up a finger as if to dispute the last statement.

"Yes, the folklore says it's the Devil, if you think about it, crossroads are natural gateways, aren't they? The perfect imagery of life and its choices." "So crossroads are like escape hatches to other places?" Sadie asked.

Michael shook his head, "No. Think of it as a bus stop. The bus runs its schedule. If you are at the stop on time, your bus will come through." "So you essentially stopped Death in the street and asked if a deal could be made?" Gabe asked, the sarcasm was obvious.

Michael was amused, but he could only manage a mouth twitch.

"It was a little more complicated than that," he answered.

He picked up the dishtowel on the sink and began twisting it as he spoke.

"I asked the reaper, shinigami, wraith, whatever you want to call it, to take me to Death so I could have a word." The next part of the story seemed to upset Michael and he wouldn't look either of them in the eyes.

"I agreed to serve the reaper and Death for as long as Earlene lived." Gabe's disapproving gasp caused Michael to look up for a brief minute.

"The entity said it would only agree with it if I agreed to bind my soul to him. I agreed, trying to understand guys, Earlene was losing her mind. She told me that these things kept pleading with her to help them, but all she could do was try to ignore them. She couldn't sleep, she'd be too distracted to eat, and every time she looked at me there was a trace of pain, she would never acknowledge. I told her I'd find out what was happening, and here we are. ” "Aside from the whole binding yourself to a demon, I'm sensing a big plot twist coming here," Sadie tried to hide the discomfort in her voice. Michael grabbed his mug from the table and filled it again.

“Well, it is actually quite interesting, I got my audience with Death,” he began.

“Is she pretty?” Gabe interjected.

“In a goth way,” Michael answered hastily, almost as an afterthought.

“Ok, so Death is a goth, BIG shocker, get to the interesting point,” Sadie quipped.

“Talking to Death isn’t interesting?” Gabe teased over the steam in his fresh cup of joe.

Sadie rolled her eyes, “Maybe a few years ago it would have been, but now you can’t check your messages without one of her official statements in your timeline.” It was almost like they remembered that Michael was in the room and in mid-story. They looked at him, he patiently sipped his coffee. “Well, you certainly look like you’ve had an audience with Death, man,” Gabe said.

The face twitch was accompanied by a quiet chuckle.

“I explained what I was doing there and Death laughed at me. Like you said Gabriel, I can’t take Earlene’s place. She informed me of the fact and then she told the reaper that brought me there he could collect whatever I agreed to,” Michael explained.

Sadie adjusted herself in her seat. She tried to prompt Michael to go on, but he seemed to enjoy the tension. A few minutes passed and Gabe broke the silence.

“Well, come on man, Sade is about to come out of her skin over here,” his tone was mocking boredom.

Michael sat the mug on the counter.

“The reaper forced me down to my knees and I’m reciting a prayer, so I am prepared for the cross-over. But he literally puts his hand in my chest and a look of… oh I don’t know confusion, maybe he was surprised, it was hard to tell.” Sadie was surprised that her gasp was not audible when Michael mentioned his chest was dug into. She wanted to ask if he was alright, but it seemed like a stupid question.

“The man finally pulls his hand out of my chest and turns to Death and says, ‘my queen! His soul can not be harvested!’ Death rolls back in laughter and she laughs for almost a full minute. Then she props her chin upon her hand and says, ‘I thought so, you’ve already bound yourself to her, you are already the walking dead.”

Michael paused to allow his siblings to catch up to him. Sadie looked to Gabe to gauge how she should react. Her brother was frantically searching his pockets for his cigarettes.

“I think I started something because after that the whole court went crazy and Death shouted, ‘we must find her, the one true Soul-eater has been found!’ Then all these dark shapes and snake creatures started slithering out of the windows and down into the crevices,” Michael concluded.

Sadie wasn’t sure if she understood Michael, but somehow she managed to find her voice before Gabe.

“So, not only does Earl have to worry about our government finding her, but now the whole supernatural realm is looking for her?” she asked, she tried to keep her voice from shaking, but her hands didn’t seem to get the memo.

“Yes,” Michael answered as he polished off the last of the pot of coffee.

Gabe found his MIA cigarettes and quickly lit one. He took a deep puff and released the smoke.

“I have to say, Mike, you are UNBELIEVABLY calm right now,” he said, he was unable to keep his usual glib manner.

Just as Gabe took another drag off the cigarette, Sadie’s cell phone buzzed on the countertop by the sink. She rushed to check the number, somehow she knew who it was. She was right. Earl’s number glowed on the screen. Sadie pushed the answer button and put Earl on speaker.

“He’s there isn’t he?” Earl asked flatly.

“Yeah,” Sadie answered with her eyes trained squarely on Michael.


I should have said no: That would have been the end of it, but I needed the dough, and it seemed like such a simple job. If I knew then what would come to pass, I would have declined that job the second it left those pretty lips. She came to my office one dreary afternoon. She couldn’t have been more than a few years over twenty. She was a classy dame in a fine dress, with her hair piled on top of her head. When she smiled it was like a bit of spring...

...Suffice to say, she was out of place in my dingy office.

I actually half expected her to ask for directions: no idea what she wanted with a bitter old detective like myself. “Can I help you miss?” I asked, looking up from my bills. She gently walked into my office, her purse in front of her. “I certainly hope so.”

I gestured to the seat across my desk and she delicately sat herself down, her purse in her lap. I poured myself a glass of apple juice. Yes, apple juice: it was too early in the day - and in the case - to drink the strong stuff.

“Want a glass?” I offered.

She shook her head. “No.”

I could tell she was going to need some coaxing to get her to tell me why she was here. I cleared my throat. “What is it I can do for you?”

Her dainty hand went to a gold chain around her neck, fingering the locket that hung there.

“Well detective, my name is Alicia Soul, and for nearly my entire life I have been a ward of the state.”

I tilted my head. This fact surprised me: Most from such troubled backgrounds didn’t seem as well put together as she was. Stereotypes, I know.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said politely. She held up a hand and shook her head. “Don’t be. I’ve come to terms with my situation. What I haven’t come to terms with is where I come from.”

I steepled my fingers. “Where did you come from then?”

“That’s just it: I don’t know. I have been an orphan for as long as I can remember, though I do have fuzzy memories of being somewhere else... I was found on the steps of a church in Applegate when I was three. I remember wandering there, cold and alone. Before that I remember being held, warm, and happy. But something must have happened.”

Applegate . Why did that name strike a chord with me? It was a distant memory, clawing at my recollection.

She looked distant as I leaned back, waiting for the shoe to drop. “I just don’t know. Who am I? Who am I really ? I know my given name, but my actual surname? Who my parents are? Why I was alone? I don’t know any of that.”

I waited until she finished and took a sip of my apple juice. “You think I can uncover your past?”

Her eyes lit up as she leaned forward. “Yes! I heard you’ve helped solve a few cold cases. So yes I think you can help, at least, you can point me in the right direction: I’ll take whatever bread crumbs I can at this point.”

I considered things and took another sip of apple juice. “It’s quite possible that I won’t be able to find anything. I mention it because this case is very... personal to you.”

“I am prepared for disappointment.”

Those words would certainly come back to haunt me.

“Alright,” I said getting out a billing slip from a dusty desk drawer. “I’ll take your case. This ain’t going to be cheap - and I’m not promising you anything - but I’ll see what I can dig up. I need anything pertinent from you: Records, memories, anything and everything.”

A small smile. “Yes of course! I don’t have too much, but I’ll share what I have.” she clasped her hands together. “Ooh, this is exciting! Just like the movies.”

I chuckled drily. “Things are rarely like the movies, kid.” Alicia giggled at that. We went over some more details, I shook her hand, and she left my office, still smiling: hopeful that I’d find out everything about her. There admittedly wasn’t too much to go off of but I’d worked with less, school records, court records. Alicia had done a fine job of preserving things. Most intriguing was an old photo in her locket: a grainy image of a child and mother, focusing on their faces. The days went on as I carried out my investigation. Alicia’s checks were good. Apparently her personality and good looks had landed her a steady modeling career. Most investigative work is duller than people think: making calls, checking records, downing coffee, whiskey, and apple juice.

Slowly, I began to uncover a few facts. I was able to verify Alicia’s enrollment in Applegate Kindergarten. Finding info from the church was harder - they didn’t exactly keep records of orphans turning up on their doorsteps, and many clergy had come and gone since Alicia alighted upon them.

I kept Alicia updated on significant progress and every time she would sound elated and would keep encouraging me, no matter how trifling the information. Truly, I’d never had such a peppy client! Oh sure, I’ve seen glee - but it’s usually the glee of revenge coming to pass: Spouses seeing evidence of a cheating partner, or some such thing. She was a remarkable young woman to stay so positive despite everything that had happened to her, I did suspect though that it was partially a front. All of us have traumas and all of us have a side we keep hidden.

Then, on a Friday about a month after I’d gotten the job - I always remember Fridays, that’s when the liquor store would get their shipments in - I found something I wish I hadn’t. I came back from the store, using my back to close my office door, when immediately my phone started ringing. I hurriedly put all my new stock onto my leather sofa, jumped over a few boxes of notes, and grabbed the phone. “Hello, Detective, Father Calen here,” I gasped, the church Alicia had been found at.

“Yes, thank you for getting back to me. I was told you had left some time ago.” “I had, but now I find myself visiting and hearing someone is calling about the night Alicia came to us.”

I adjusted my hat and sat down at my desk. “Wait a minute, wait a minute,” I said into the receiver as I grabbed a pen and notepad. “All right, yes - go ahead.” “I remember that night well. It was a bad night for the town, and an end to a very bad year for the whole state.”

I wasn’t sure of the timeline but I didn’t want to slow the flow of information: What year wasn’t a bad year? “Yes, yes, go ahead.” “Poor girl showed up on our doorstep. With but a necklace, and a dress covered in soot and blood. Yet she asked us so politely for shelter and food. I’ll never forget that angelic smile.”

“She’s a sweet girl. What happened next?” “Well we took her in, got her fed. Made some calls to the authorities, they were a bit busy with everything that was transpiring then you see.”

It occurred to me I wasn’t a local but he talked as if I should know what exactly was happening then. I cleared my throat and adjusted my coat that I had forgotten to take off from my restocking trip. “Excuse me father, can you remind me exactly what was happening at the time?” A pause. “You don’t? I’m a bit surprised. It was the last night of the Skullcracker murders. There was a fire in one of the tract houses on the edge of town - the police believe that the Skullcracker’s last victims fought back and... All three perished.”

No. No, it couldn’t be. I blinked a few times. “It was the same night? Are you sure, father?” “I am old now, but tragedies lodge themselves in the head far too deep to forget. I even remember the sweater I wore that night.”

“Th-thank you padre,” I said slowly. “You’ve been a lot of help.” “Bless you, and your search.” he replied. I clicked the phone down. I may not have been a local, but I knew about the Skullcracker. They used a meat tenderizer on their victims’ heads a couple decades ago, back when I was just a beat cop fresh out of the academy in Empire City.

According to my recollection, the timeframe would have been close... but I had to verify. Was it a coincidence? Was it the same night? I had a hunch...

...This time I hoped I was wrong.

My search continued, the local papers were plastered with articles on the notorious serial killer: how she had terrorized the whole state. Of the last victims on that fateful night: a mother and daughter, and the fire that broke out in what the police thought must have been a harrowing final confrontation.

The mother and killer's charred remains were found and identified. No sign of the girl, though: It was assumed there wasn’t much to find by then. I took out my phone book and dialed. “Yes,” the old, professional voice on the other end said. “I am indeed the coroner. What exactly is it you want to know?”

“I’m calling about the final night of the Skullcracker murders,” I said after identifying myself. The phone chain was very long to get there - I had to call in a few old favors and promise a few cases of my best whiskey to get to this point... I couldn’t trip up now. For the longest time the coroner didn’t reply, I even thought the line had gone dead, but then a sigh. “That night has always come back to haunt me.”

I licked my lips and rubbed my left temple. “The bodies they found - a mother and the presumed killer, correct? Complete with the tenderizing hammer?” “Yes. They were found. Eventually all three of them were accounted for.”

My hunch collapsed - at least at first. Admittedly, I was relieved. I sighed. “Oh?” Another long pause. “They found the remains of the girl a few years back when they finally broke ground on the new building. I had hoped they would never find her. That she had escaped.”

“You’re certain it was her?” “I am. Forensics has advanced since that night. Confirmed match.”

My relief at being wrong turned into disappointment... I seemed to be back at square one - but, on the other hand, the awful theory seemed to be disproven.

“Thank you for your time,” I said slowly.

I poured myself a glass when another thought struck me: The photo in the locket.

Sciences had indeed advanced. I often forgot what tools one had available now. Facial recognition was a reality, now. Perhaps Alicia was a victim of the apartment fire, but not the Skullcracker’s final intended victim. I was close now. I could feel it.

I should have left things alone. But my job was to find the truth. I called Alicia to my office, this had to be done in person. The report sat on my desk. I already had a glass at the ready. Alicia entered, all bright smiles as usual.

“Did you solve it?” she asked, jogging to the usual seat on the other side of the desk. “Who am I? Where do I come from?” I nodded solemnly. “Alicia… perhaps you should leave this be. It’s the past, and it’s behind you.” I tried to sound as tender as I could.

Alicia shook her head, “No. I paid you for a job. I’ve waited all my life for this.”

I hung my head as I slid her the file. Alicia tore the folder contents out and stared at the file with a beaming smile. I watched it die. I saw the light leave those eyes.

“It can’t be,” she whispered after a few minutes.

“I’m afraid it is. You're her daughter: the Skullcracker’s daughter.”

“I was there that night…” Alicia blinked the tears away as I offered her a tissue.

“Alicia,” I said, offering my hand across the desk. “Our parents don’t define who we are.”

She looked at me and shook her head, recoiling from my hand. “Don’t they though? Genetic disorders, defects?” “You’re not a killer!” I pleaded with her, leaning back in my chair. “What if I am? What if it’s just lying dormant? Sometimes… sometimes I think things, dark terrible things.”

“Everyone does. Look, this didn’t affect you before…” Alicia shook her head as she stood, covered her face with her gloved hands and ran out of my office. “Alicia, please!”

But I couldn’t catch her, couldn’t stop her. I had killed that smile. I had adhered to finding the truth, but at that moment I wished I had let the entire case go.

It’s been a few years, and every now and then I turn my chair around and take a look at the little city I ended up in and think about her. I haven’t checked on her - I can’t now.

I hope she’s still out there, trying her best to make a life for herself outside of her troubled past. It's honestly the most guilt I've ever felt over doing my job.


NOTE: THIS STORY CONTAINS APOCALYPTIC THEMES AND SOME SLIGHT CURSING. 2031 AD 01001001/01000011/01000001/01001110/01010100/01010011/01001100/01000101 01000101/01010000 Aric leaned over Doctor Drue Bruwell’s shoulder. With his dyslexia, he didn’t even bother trying to make sense of the ones and zeroes. “What did it say?” he asked.

Drue stared at the binary digits inquisitively, clearly seeing something within them that Aric could not. Without looking down, she wrote something on a small notepad in front of her. After a long time, she let out a sigh, looked at her notes, and shook her head. In the dim light of the room lit only by a computer screen, Aric could just make out her middle finger twitching rapidly, as always when she was stressed. He couldn’t read what she had written. “Drue?” “It constantly amazes me,” she muttered. “I hate it.” “Why?” Aric couldn’t stand most scientists, and this was the reason. They always seemed so far away. Aric wanted to shake her. Sometimes, he did. She’d shake him back. Brothers and sisters do that. “Drue, what did it say? ” he asked again, this time leaning in even closer to the screen, and making no more sense of it than before. Drue’s hands were covering her writing. “It’s confused. Something with its regenerative circuits or solar converters must be faulty. It’s been in the Dark Room for almost a week. There shouldn’t be any power left, but for some reason it’s still functioning. It’s storing power somehow, and it doesn’t know how to use it up.” Aric raised his eyebrows. “You got all that,” he said, “from a bunch of numbers?” “Well, kinda.” Drue reached over to her right and flipped a small switch. Behind the computer screen of ones and zeroes, a large window pane revealed an entire room now dimly lit in red, viewed as if on the back side of a two-way mirror, which Aric supposed this was.

In it were three things: a small bed; a large metal box spitting out sheets of numerical information; and a synthetic android, sat up on the edge of the mattress, looking down at its feet with what almost looked like despair.

Aric had never actually gotten to see the thing before, and sucked in a tight gasp. Robots are freaking real, he thought. This is just like the movies. Creepy. Drue enjoyed the look on Aric’s face for a moment before returning her eyes to the screen and frowning. “What it actually said was a bit simpler than that.” Aric could still hardly catch his breath. “Yeah?” was all he could get out. “Yeah.” She slid her paper in front of Aric. “I translated the binary.” Aric looked down at what she had written, then up again at the android. It seemed like it might have been moving a little. Trembling. “ What the hell?” In the red glow cast by the Dark Room, the letters almost seemed to bleed: I C A N T S L E E P *** It was days later when Drue let Aric come into the lab after hours again.

“We still haven’t figured out what was keeping it up for so many nights,” she said. “We think it may have been storing power somewhere and taking short rests to maximize its battery life.”

Aric approached the android, now lying flat on its mattress, powered down. Aric reached out to touch it, and felt a little bit of heat. Through thin, translucent “skin,” he could see the different fibers and circuits that made up his body, wires moving from the central battery in its chest down to its hands and feet like veins. “Why make it so human?” he asked. “It’s cool as hell, but isn’t it also a little … tacky?” Drue nodded. “It is, and it wasn’t our choice. Part of the funding for this is shared by a study on the uncanny valley from MIT. They needed a bot that worked and operated like a human on a physical level.” “Uckney Valley? Where’s that?” “ Uncanny Valley. It’s not a place. It’s the point when something looks so close to real that it’s creepy, because it’s just artificial enough for your brain to know it isn’t legitimate.” “Oh,” said Aric, feeling like a complete moron. He couldn’t believe he and his sister shared the same genes. “So how’d you get him to sleep?” Drue’s face became shadowed. “We got it to sleep with a manual shutdown through a miniature sort of breaker box on the back of its neck. Right now, though, it’s just in a low power mode.” She made sure to look Aric in the eyes. “Don’t give these things too much personality, Aric. We’re making it look like a human, but it isn’t one.” “Afraid of becoming attached?” “Afraid of making this something it isn’t. This is a test of robotic physiology. This thing has a brain, sort of, and it can learn empirically. It can see things. But it doesn’t breathe, it doesn’t feel, and it doesn’t have empathy. It’s a machine. This isn’t I, Robot. ” Aric rolled his eyes. He wasn’t completely sure what the word “empirical” meant, but he had a feeling it would describe Drue’s personality nicely.

“So if it learns, what are you teaching it?” “Mostly the basics. Math. English. Science. Starting at smaller concepts and seeing how well it can recognize the information we’ve given it before. It can’t speak the way we can, and its processors are still pretty slow, but we’re making them faster. However, there’s no education on ethics. No philosophy. We’re basically just building a big computer that, hopefully, will work about as well as an AI chatbot in a couple of years. But who knows.” Aric was getting bored. “I want to say hi,” he said. “Turn … it on.” Drue moved to the head of the android, and placed her hand on its forehead. A small screen just underneath its synthetic skin lit up with a number pad. She entered in a code, selected MANUAL START.

It rose immediately, quick enough to startle Aric into taking a step backwards. He bumped into the large metal box he saw last time. It still had data hanging out of it on a long strip of paper.

“Man, I hit my elb--” His words were cut off by the sound of paper erupting from the machine, covered in binary data. A loud screeching accompanied the numbers as it struggled to keep up with the surge of information.

“Aric!” Drue shouted, “What did you do!?” She rushed over to the machine and shut it off. “I’ve never seen it do this before,” she said. She pulled the paper off of the machine and looked at it. “There must be a dozen feet of binary here.” “Is that bad?” asked Aric, still rubbing his elbow. “All I did was bump it.”

Drue didn’t respond. It looked like she’d already started translating some of the data.

Aric looked at the android again. On his left breast was a small logo: OTO. “Hello, Otto.”

The android stared blankly into the distance. It didn’t seem to have any idea where it was. This didn’t seem like the same depressed machine that Aric had seen the last time he was at the lab. He was just reaching out to touch it when Drue said, “I think you’d better head out for now. This is … going to take me some time.” Aric put his hand down, looking disappointedly at her. “You’re chasing me out? You don’t have a machine that can scan all that crap for you?” She shook her head. “We didn’t need it. It never gave us more than a couple responses an hour. This is absolutely unprecedented.” Aric sighed. Alright. He recognized the look on Drue’s face. She was going to be there for a while.

2781 AD The shuttle had found a moderately sized clearing of high grass, and Kumi Yamada felt the tranquil rush of being the first to step out. The gravity here on Earth was almost three times more than what she grew up with on Mars, and she was the first to experience the feeling in centuries. If it weren’t for the intense physical training she’d gone through for the last seven months in the vast emptiness between the planets, she’d have collapsed almost immediately.

That being said, she had to stop to catch her breath after moving just fifteen feet outside the ship. She huffed her oxygen machine before radioing to the rest of the crew. “I’m … here,” she said. “We’re good.” As far as meditations on planetary exploration went, it was pretty lame.

She finished catching her breath and looked up at an incredible blue sky. No massive bubble habitat or dense dust clouds. Just free, naturally filtered air. She felt like, even after twenty-six years growing up hundreds of millions of kilometers away, she’d finally come home. She wanted to run, but knew she wouldn’t have the strength to get far. Instead, she stepped back inside the ship, and helped her crew set up their arrays of climate, geological, and radiation instruments. The hours passed quickly as the explorers gave their clearing a quick search for anything interesting, but the truth was that they’d already discovered exactly what they knew they’d find: a planet once again flourishing with life, as if mankind had never been. The air was fresher now than it had been before great apes stood up for the first time and walked. Kumi and Roscoe, her colleague and doctor of biological sciences, found themselves unable to sleep at all on the first night. They’d watched the sun set over an orange, pink, and purple horizon (something completely alien to them after a life of pale blue sunsets back on Mars) and watched Mars rise hundreds of millions of kilometers away.

Kumi wondered if the first Martians had felt the same way that she did now; like a tourist in a fantastic world she could never really understand. She continued to gaze up at an atmosphere untouched by artificial light, alive with a million twinkling stars. Leaves were rustled by warm southern winds. She scanned the distant foliage with a searchlight, eager to see native Earthly wildlife. She’d studied the natural history of the planet as it was before the Great Decimation in the 2030s, but knew that whatever had existed before didn’t exist now, at least not as it was. Unhinged climatic disasters followed immediately by the absolute nuclear obliteration of every continent except for Antarctica will do that.

Kumi was disappointed to see nothing in the trees or tall grass. Wordlessly, Roscoe left her side and stepped back into the ship. Kumi knew that, sleepless night or not, she was going to need to at least try to get some rest before tomorrow’s excursion.

They’d landed just outside of Los Angeles’s blast zone. The heart of the city was completely wiped, but most of its edge had survived past the blasts, as well as some of the smaller suburbs and towns nearby. It even seemed that for a while after the blasts, human activity continued for longer than anybody thought. Orbiter images showed strained lines in the dirt, and possible abandoned constructions. But whoever survived the initial fallout probably didn't survive for long. If it weren’t for the first few outposts on Mars. . . . Kumi began reentering the ship, and took one last look behind her. She cast the light out again, and for just a brief moment, thought something glinted in the green.

2031 AD Aric was eager to be back in the lab. It sounded like Drue almost killed herself staying up to copy down everything Otto had given her to sort through. “Remind me why this is so important?” he asked her tiredly. Even if he was happy to be there, he didn’t like having to wait until every single other scientist had stepped out to go home. Roboticists, he realized, worked very long hours. “Because it shouldn’t have happened in the first place,” Drue started. There were large bags under her eyes and her voice was irritated. “Because there’s no reason why there would be hours and hours worth of … whatever it is, when the droid was powered down. Low power isn’t enough for it to process information. Or so we thought.” Aric glanced at the notebook open in front of Drue, covered in binary code and its translations, written too small and close together for him to read. “Then where did it come from?”

“Well, it came from him.” “Him?” Drue cleared her throat. “It. I’m tired, alright? I haven’t let anybody else touch this.” “Why not get some help?” But he knew why. Because this had become Drue’s fascination. This, whatever it was, had the potential to be her eureka moment. Unprecedented, she had said. That sounded to Aric like an opportunity for more funding .

He sat down beside her and stretched. “So what the hell did you find out about all this?” he asked around a yawn.

“A lot, and also nothing at all. There’s hours worth of data here, like I said, but it doesn’t really follow a pattern. It seems to be from the android’s perspective.” The android which was, for now, again resting in the Dark Room. Powered off completely this time, Aric noticed. “What did it give you?” he asked, getting impatient. He wanted to be caught up already.

“Well, it’s mostly just observations of the room around the android. I don’t know how it managed to make those observations while mostly powered down, but it’s there. Stuff about the room, stuff about the machine next to him that recorded all of this. The bed is lumpy, I guess.” Aric laughed. “Otto told you that?” “It did.” She didn’t comment on Aric’s use of the name. “And that’s most of what’s here. Random observations. How many tiles are in the floor. The different colors of the buttons on the machine. But …” “Well?” “It also observed a 5’7” brunette with a middle finger that twitches sometimes. Walking around in its room. Working on it. Only I wasn’t around when it made the observation because, as with all of these, it was in the dark.” “Holy shit. You think that its…” “Dreaming? It must be. Because what’s worse, is….” She closed her eyes and held her breath for a moment, choking on her words. She realized how quickly her middle finger was twitching and forced it to stop. “It observed my corpse. Her corpse. But it’s me. It has to be me.” Aric was taken aback. “Your corpse? What happened to you?” She observed her notes. “The keywords are: R E D, W E T, S L E E P , S L E E P, S L E E P, S L E E P. ” They were quiet for a while.

Eventually, Aric asked “Anything else?” Drue turned to face him. “Something or other about putting the whole world to sleep. God only knows what that means.…” 2781 AD Kumi couldn’t believe her luck. Even though she was completely exhausted after just an hour and half of walking into the ruins of the city, she was having the time of her life. Hundreds of years had taken the face off of everything, weather had mottled objects to dust and misshapen bits of metal, and no building was left standing anymore. Whatever was going on before the Decimation came, these people hadn’t built their structures to last.

From the history books (what little history was left of these places), it seemed that they hadn’t put much effort into a stable civilization, either.

Regardless, these miniscule bits of memory, these nothings, were wonderful to behold. Hundreds of years of reclamation by nature had left little untouched.

The main focus, though, were the informal roads. They were paths of cleared rubble and, to the surprise of Kumi, foliage. It seems that whatever traversed here had traversed often, whether it was people or wildlife. And it had traversed recently.

But thus far, they’d seen nothing but vegetation in all directions. Massive trees, beautiful plants wholly unrecognizable from the breeds that Kumi was familiar with back on Mars. The air was intense, more so than the habitats on Mars, despite their attempts to mimic the same conditions. Every once in a while, Kumi thought she heard or felt a presence in the trees. Roscoe thought he noticed, too, but didn’t seem overly concerned. Always pragmatic, his intention was to grab the data and run. Not to mention, he was older than Kumi, and probably less enthusiastic about the possibility of having to flee from something.

At some point, Roscoe came to a complete stop in front of her.

“Roscoe? What’s … oh my.” Like something prehistoric -- pre- Earth -histortic -- a massive building resembling a temple stood in front of them, made of earth and wood. It was a simple structure.

The inside, however, was a different story.

Brilliant carvings lined the walls. On close examination, Kumi gasped at the depictions. Brutal, beautiful engravings of mass destruction on massive scales. Dead wastelands and toppled buildings. Mushroom clouds. Light, and darkness. “These are stunning ,” said Roscoe, and Kumi smiled at that. This entire time, he’d kept his feelings about the mission at hand to himself. “These were people. Real, human people. And.…” his hand patted the artwork. “These aren’t that old. They’re … not old at all, actually.” “But where are they?” Kumi asked. “The only bodies in these images are dead ones. There’s no food stored here. There’s no activity outside, no houses. Why build this and decorate it, but not use it?” Roscoe didn’t speak. He was more focused on the border of the engravings. What he thought were simple dashes and dots appeared more complicated. It wasn’t just a pattern. “Binary?” he asked. A metal hand gripped his shoulder, and he, with the rest, was put to sleep.


“Is he alive?” “I don’t know. He looks pretty dead to me.” I’m alive. I can hear you! Please help me! “You should check him. Take his pulse.” “No way, man! I don’t want to touch him if he’s dead. You do it.” I’m not dead! Check my pulse, please! “I don’t really know how. I’ve only seen it in the movies. Maybe we should just call an ambulance. They’ll have to come here anyway, whether he’s dead or alive.” “Good point. I’ll call them, you stick your fingers on his neck and see if you can find his pulse. I’m sure you can figure it out if you’ve seen it in the movies. How did you find this guy, anyway?” Yeah, how did you find me? I ended up on this rooftop in the first place because nobody ever comes here. Nobody was supposed to see me. Of course, I wasn’t supposed to end up nearly dead, either. Tell you what, if I survive this, I’ll never trust Stuart again! “He’s just lucky. I got lost trying to find the ferry terminal and climbed up here to try and figure out where I had to go. Found him instead. Guess I’ve missed the ferry now. I’m glad I saw you walking by down there, though. I wouldn’t want to handle this by myself.” “Gee, thanks. Just what I wanted for my Saturday afternoon. Find a dead guy. Or nearly dead, anyway. You know I’m supposed to be meeting Sarah at the movies right about now. We were going to see that new Avengers movie.” Lucky? You call this lucky? And you, you think meeting some girl at the movies is more important than saving my life? I’m in masses of pain here, you think I’m dead, and if you don’t call that ambulance soon, I will be! Stop talking and start acting! Oh good, you finally got around to checking my pulse. Please tell me you found it! “Hey, Chris! I think I found his pulse! Did you call that ambulance yet? Tell them to hurry. I don’t think he’s got too much time left.” “Keep your shirt on, mate. I’m calling them now. Figured it was better for them to know if there was a pulse or not. You should check if he’s breathing too.” “I think so. Hang on. I think I remember something about watching a person breathe by putting your head on their chest.” Ooff! I’m pretty sure if that technique was found in a training manual, it would say something like gently put your head on my chest. You don’t want to make me any worse, do you? I am breathing, aren’t I? Please, tell me I’m still breathing! I’d be gone if I wasn’t, wouldn’t I? “Yeah, hi. We’ve got some guy pretty badly beaten here. Yeah, he’s got a pulse. Wait a second. Is he breathing? The ambos want to know.” “Yeah, I think so. Not much, but he’s breathing. Are they coming? Do they know where we are?” “I have to tell them first. Where are we exactly, anyway? I wasn’t paying attention when I came up here.” “Just tell them the corner of Wildmer and Eddison. We can wave them up from here. Are they far away?” “Yeah, we’re at the corner of Wildmer and Eddison streets in Harrison Park. Do you know how long its going to be? This guy looks like he’s in pretty bad shape. I don’t know if he’ll hold on too much longer.” Please, come quickly! I don’t want to die! It was just a stupid mistake to come here. I thought I could trust Stuart to do the right thing. I had no idea he’d steal my money and try to kill me. Please! It hurts so much but I want to live! “They say they’ll be here in fifteen minutes. You reckon this guy can hang on that long? I really don’t want to have to be around a dead guy. Nearly dead is creepy enough.” “Shh, you idiot. What if this guy can hear you? At least pretend you care, won’t you? I hope he can last that long. You hear me, kid? Hold on. Help is coming.” I hear you. Kid? I know I can’t open my eyes right now, but you don’t sound that much older than me. You’re right though. Nobody wants to be described as creepy. Fifteen minutes sounds like such a long time right now. Am I going to hold on that long? I don’t know… “Come on, come on. Keep breathing, mate. They’ve gotta be almost here by now. Hey Chris, can you see them yet?” “Nah, Josh. Not yet. Oh wait. There’s the ambulance now. Hey! HEY! Up here! Josh, they can’t see me. I’m going down.” “You hear that, mate? The ambos are here. They’ll fix you up. You’ll be good as new in a day or two.” A day or two? You’re an optimist, aren’t you? I’ll be surprised if I’m ever as good as new again. I’m grateful, though. If you hadn’t found me, I would definitely not have survived this. At least you gave me a chance. “Is he going to be okay?” “Hard to tell, kids. Look, here’s my card. I’ll get the hospital to give me updates when they know how he’s doing. Send me a message, and if he pulls through, I’ll try and get him to get in touch with you. Sorry I won’t be able to tell you directly, not without his permission and he’s not exactly talking right now. Now, out of the way. We need to get this guy to hospital.” Thanks. Please, get in contact. If I manage to survive this, I want to thank you properly. Do something for you. I might not have much money, but there’s gotta be something I can do for you, right? “Hey, we got some ID here. Ernest Schrӧdinger. Like the cat, huh? Well, hopefully you’ve got as many lives as one. Let’s get him downstairs.”


The walls are alive with zipping current, the refrigerator hums its third-shift duties, the floorboards moan from the day’s trample of little feet and purposeful strides. Be silent! he had yelled when I’d asked about the smell, and I shut my mouth. I can be silent. This house, though, that had once helped nurture the first-time homeowners as we grimaced through the undigested milk and Gerber’s reflux that was commented upon by our coworkers, enjoy it while it lasts ; that had once heard delighted squeals, that had once absorbed the pounding of knees with the vroom of Matchbox races and the squeaking of unsure bedframes-as-trampolines, to the pitiful can we come downstairs yet? on Christmas mornings as Tom and I savored the last of our peaceful French Roast, this house that was then a home is now settling with the night in a stuttered sigh of what next? I’d tiptoed out when the snoring became too guttural, glottal; when I knew the phlegmy gurgle would again cause fright, mommy IT came back again . I switched on their Beethoven at Bedtime and shut their doors, and tiptoed downstairs for the relative silence of the sanitized, lemony-fresh kitchen, I won’t have MY house smelling lived in , to sit by the window, to settle into silence with a house that cannot be silent, for it still has responsibilities. Enjoy it while it lasts , my coworkers had said, referring to my neck-vomit residue, but which I now sorrowfully liken to that honeymoon phase, to morph into a particular time, a turning point that I cannot define, like the boiling frog: when exactly did my husband begin to smell ( the ability to smell can begin in the womb, da-DUH-dum ); when did that voice begin to rise, that temper to flare? It seems it all just folded in, like how we were taught to mix batter, add the eggs gradually , when Tom said I needed classes, your food sucks, you cook like a peasant . I’d presented my first chocolate soufflé the evening of our fourth anniversary, soufflé means ‘to breathe,’ I’d proudly informed, we can do that now , now that we’re homeowners, doncha think? The soufflé’d splattered against the wall like a wet car-wash sponge. He didn’t throw the ramekin, just scooped the dessert out with his hand and launched it, Why do you always have to be so damned extra? There was Grand Marnier in that, just for you, you sot , I wanted to scream . But I didn’t know how to scream, not with our children in the house. HOME FOR SALE is what I’d heard from the realtor. Home. Like, melt ing cheese to advertise the burger, or scratch-made to sell the biscuit, or even START YOUR CAREER to advertise the gas station sales associate position, a home was what I’d wanted, that nasal mmmmm sounding like the refrigerator pulling third-shift responsibility, like the current running through the walls as I sit in this kitchen in the glow of the stove lamp, quietly asking: what next? It is snowing. I notice this now. Silently snowing, which is redundant because snow makes no sound, but it does have a smell, and that smell is chill, and the smell of chill slaps me as I open the back door. I breathe in deeply, and like cold water down the parched throat or the heavy duvet over the trembling body, that chill delivers a wave of relief, of betterment; God’s icy breath, I’ll tell you what next . God. Tom had said I needed to find God. Tom had said only God could relieve me of my delusions. We were sitting in church and Tom was breathing heavily, which he usually does because of his deviated septum but this morning it was more labored; as I reached over him to hand Jeb a crayon I snuck a quick glance, and not only was he breathing through his nose —which he never does, because of his deviated septum— but he was sweating, which was odd, because it was November and he’s from Duluth. You sound like a hippopotamus , I giggle-whispered and playfully nudged, trying to keep it light. You look like a hippopotamus , he mouth-breathed, maintaining his upright posture and not at all pivoting but still the smell of sour mash found its way upstream. I wanted to scream, right then, you don’t need your mouth closed to stink, you lush , I’ve been smelling you all morning . But, I didn’t think screaming in church was a good idea, let alone even bringing it up, there. Much better to be silent. I knew how to be silent. I stand in the doorway, breathing deeply, in through my nose that is free of deviation; a clean nose, polyp-less, no whistling at all, now (that is) that the swelling has gone down. It wasn’t the punch that shocked me so much as how little damage it did. A crunch, and a nice flow of blood. That was all. Wimp , I wanted to scream. But I’d already been punched once, and I didn’t want to scream. Not with the kids in the next room. Be silent , he’d seethed through clenched teeth. It’s all in your head .

At first, I did. I shut my mouth. But I knew what I’d smelled, when he’d returned from work, his tie askew and his shirt tail out, his eyes like he’d swum without goggles. You cannot unsmell it. You’re telling me you haven’t been drinking? And that’s when it hit me, fast…lightning, then deep-ocean sonar ping. Then, the silence he demanded. Very much like the silence now, as I walk back with new resolve into the kitchen from the brisk chill, the house humming its responsibility which is not at all silent. I have learned from the house; I’ll show you ‘delusional.’ As I ascend the stairs, on tiptoe because I will be quiet, he sounds like a beast from Mordor. It is swampy up here; the air is thick with bourbon stew. I steal into the boys’ rooms; I bundle them in swaddling clothes even though they’re well past the age of swaddling, and one by one I lug them to the car, idling in the driveway, lights off. I worry not about their clothes, or their toothbrushes or teddies or boythings. We will not be gone long, I think. The car is running. It is warm in there. I lock the doors, then head back inside to finish the job. I go to the heavy pantry door, and slam it hard several times against my temple; with my own right fist, I punch my right eye very hard, several times. I feel my fragile nose shift from Tom’s initial punch, several days ago. I take a knife, the Cutco he uses for meat, and slice my palm, and a nice streak down my arm. With my other hand, I wipe the handle, then making certain the blood drops on the stairs as I ascend, I place it in his outstretched hand. Yes, I wore his shoes as I went up those stairs. And yes, I scaled the banister as I went down. Probably unnecessary, but I am no stranger to crime television. I check myself in the mirror, and give myself two more healthy pops to that eye. My cheek runs red from the bloody palm, the hand that tried to stave off the knife wielder, but that is okay. It’s all in the name of defense. Of delusion, you bastard. Being certain first to smear blood over the children’s swaddling clothes, I let out a scream and I run to the neighbor’s. There is enough adrenaline running through me from the wounds to make this look real. The tears are certainly natural; I’d cut deeper than I’d planned. Mrs. Rogers sorry to bother you would you call the police I have to get the boys out of here Tom’s upstairs and… The house is settled, quiet when we reenter that evening, but not silent. And I too am no longer silent. I have responsibilities that resumed when the officers thanked the neighbor for not letting me drive in such a panicked condition, when they’d found Tom passed out on the bed holding the bloody knife, when they took him away to be processed. It was then that I was informed that my husband of five years had priors. Several of them. Delusional, he’d called me. Well, that’s now settled.


With some gentle force, Ick pushed the last bit of toothpaste into his brush. Neither a thief nor a gentleman can live long without stunning white teeth that make women throw roses at them. Today was his first date in ages. The last woman left him because she wasn't at all into his "crime thing," but he didn't cry due to her turning 25 a week before. He & his date met in a posh café; she was already there when he entered the café. "Oh! It is you!" The woman said.

Ick looked at her a few times, always focused on different parts of her body. "Don't remember." He judged as he walked towards her. "No surprise, but I remember you!" She exclaimed as she shifted her feet so that they point at him. He fancied her combo of a red dress, blond hair, green eyes, and therefore he let her kind of stalkerish comments fly. He sat next to her. "This is the moment where you explain to me what you mean." "You know my Mom, Holy." Ick just glanced at her with an empty face. "She has a sister named Gloria." "This describes at least a quarter of all women in the average church," Ick stated without any emotions. "Ha, believe me, you know her well!" "She is the woman who gave you $20,000 for stealing a spiderweb from her now ex-husband," she finally gave Ick something he can use. Ick placed his left hand on her right hand. "Oh, she didn't mention that she has a daughter that would have changed some things." "Oho, oho, tell me." She poked him while she pushed his hand slightly away with one finger. "Well, where should I start?" He questioned rhetorically, "there are positive and negative things about more mature women." "positive and negative things, yeah, yeah, I see." She had to try hard to keep herself from smiling too wide. "But if she has a good looking daughter" - Dolly, the woman who sat to his left side, raised an eyebrow, slightly grinning - "that means she is a MILF" - she kept her eyebrow raised, but now without a grin - "Which in turns means, I should have hit on her daughter instead." She giggled. "You sure know how to keep a girl on the edge of her seat, Mr. Cord." She still laughed and had lightly flushed cheeks but tried to keep it less noticeable by turning her head a bit away. "Well, in my line of work, charming of women is a necessity, and I love my job." "Aha, so I am one of the numerous you can work your skills on? I understand", she faked distress and extracted her hand from his. He grabbed her hand. "Doesn't one has to train on cheap material before being able to work with more valuable material?" He asked with an over-the-top delivery. She kept her composure and doubled down, "Aww, that sounds like a borderline creepy Instagram pick-up line." "I don't even know what an Instagram is." Ick threw a curveball to push her out of her attack position. "It is a website about attractive girls, food, and yeah, that's mainly it." She explained to him, "are you that antiquated that you don't know that, or are you fooling me?" He shifted his left hand away from her hand and instead lay his left arm around her while he said with wisdom shining through, "you know, only a man not used to attractive women spend his time looking at pictures of them. I prefer the real deal." She moved a bit closer; she pressed her shoulders a bit against his chest. "Oho? I didn't hear about this side of you so far, Mr. Playboy. When we at the thief fan club talk about you, that topic never comes up, just like with all those other thieves. On the other hand, we still aren't sure how you did steal that one basketball team. Tell me more about this!" "One has to treat a good theft like a woman," he started his monolog and turned to the left. "Is it so? Tell me more, but not too long." "One needs a good technic to start the theft," he put his right hand on her side. "A good technic? I can't see how a woman needs a good technic. It sounds like faking it. Is that so, Mr. Cord? Are you a faker? A liar, liar, liar?" She poked fun at him but put her legs closer together and turned them in his direction. "Here, the wine for both of you." The waiter slammed the glasses on the table. "Sorry for that," he said without any hint of actually being sorry. "How cavemanish, you ordered for me too? How disappointing," she stated without many expressions in her voice. "It is a good Merlot." Ick showed her the bottle a second after he freed his right hand from her side. "And why do we have a Merlot in front of us?" She wondered while she made her knees touch his. "I remember there being a big wine cellar in your mother's house; nothing in there besides Merlot." He opened the bottle and poured the wine first in her glass, followed by his own. "So, you planned for my mother being here? There may be some misunderstandings on your side, Mr. Cord." With two fingers, she holds the wine glass while she moves it towards her lips. "I don't plan for a woman. I only plan for a house of women." He parried without thinking about it for more than a second. Both drank a bit of wine without changing their position one bit. "Women prefer it when they got asked if they liked the wine." She broke the silence. He mustered her body and face, both that are so close but still a bit too far away from him. "I never came in a situation in which I had reasons to doubt my good judgment." "Never?" "Never." He answered and pulled her a bit closer with his right hand. She instinctively put parts of her left leg on his lap. "There are probably some things that would make the other women at the club jealous." He started his next sequence. "Are there, Mr. Cord?" She asked rhetorically and pressed her forehead against his. "I didn't expect you to be a blunt girl." "I didn't expect you to be a shy guy, Ick." "The bill!" The waiter more or less threw his tablet on the table. It slid over the table, and without much power, it hit Ick's elbow. Ick grabbed with one hand her hair close to her hair root and pulled her head so that she had to look upwards into his eyes. "Ick, aren't you a bad boy today?" She smiled. "Always Dolly, always." He grinned and gave her a deep kiss.


Shuffling through a pile of dusty paperwork, Samuel paused to sneeze, causing goose bumps to appear along his arms. Rubbing his tired eyes, the ink still wet on his left hand leaving marks on his face, he glanced over at his fellow detective. He was asleep. His head was resting on a large, open book, and saliva had dribbled out of his mouth and onto the pages. “Hey,” he yelled, rubbing his arms to warm up. “Wake up!” His eyes bleary, Mike glanced around,” What’s the matter? I was only resting my eyes.” Snorting, Samuel pushed back his chair and strolled to the window. The glass panes were dirty and smeared from where they’d tried to clean them, but he could still see the street below. Several carts being pulled by horses were making their way through the dusk, while the lamp lighters hurried to light the gas. “She’ll be here in a minute,” Mike warned, closing the book and smoothing his hair. “Right, we’d better make this place a bit neater, or she’ll leave before we get a chance.” Hurriedly they cleared the desk tops, stuffing loose papers in a cupboard in any order. “We’ll sort it out tomorrow,” Mike muttered as he saw Samuel frown. A tap at the door made them both freeze. “I think she’s here,” Mike whispered. Snorting again, Samuel wrenched the door open. “Good evening,” he said, as the lady stepped back, her eyes wide, obviously not expecting anyone to be in the room. “Thank you for joining us.” “Oh, erm, that’s okay,” she said, her cheeks flushing slightly as they both stared at her. “Please come in,” Mike said, indicating one of the chairs, a thin cushion already hastily placed on the seat. Nodding, the lady stepped into the room, her long skirts swirling around her legs, and the heels of her boots tapping on the floorboards. Samuel breathed in her perfume. Exotic but yet cheap. Something like the scent he bought for his sister each Christmas. Raising an eyebrow so it was almost lost under the curls escaping from her bonnet, the lady arranged her skirts as she sat, and clasped her hands in her lap. “Well gentleman,” she said, looking up at them both. “Your letter sounded most urgent. I can tell you, the suspense has been killing me.” Samuel and Mike glanced at each other. This might not be as easy as they had first thought. Clearing his throat, the perfume making it tickle, Samuel perched himself on the desk top,” We know that you were involved.” “Excuse me?” “We know you were involved.” The lady stared at him for a few seconds, her face becoming hardened. “I take it you have proof, if you’re going to accuse?” she asked, her voice cold. Mike shook his head,” No, this is only what we’ve deduced.” Laughing, the lady threw back her head,” So why am I here?” “Well, if you come clean now, and admit to your part in the robbery, you would receive a lighter sentence.” “And the two of you are able to promise me that?” Her eyes looked at them both searchingly, her hands now clenched together tightly. Mike pulled a chair closer to her, it’s legs grating across the floor, and touched her gently on one shoulder. “No,” he said softly. “But we can have a quiet word to the judge. Tell him that you cooperated with us.” The lady fished in her handbag and pulled out a cigarette, complete with holder. Her head was soon surrounded by a cloud of smoke. She gazed at them thoughtfully, “So, what’s in it for you two?” “We just solve a case, and get paid for our troubles.” Nodding, her gaze travelled around the room, noticing the chipped paint and cracks in the walls. Some of them were so large, you could almost see the people in the next room. Her eyes paused as she saw a small oil painting, it’s frame polished and ornately decorated. “We have the paperwork here,” Mike said, producing a sheaf of papers and a quill. “ If you just sign your name at the bottom, this will all be over and done with.” Balancing the cigarette holder between two fingers on her right hand, she looked down at the papers, scanning the words written. The handwriting was atrocious, all loops and no style. Her mouth formed the words as she read silently. Samuel and Mike glanced at each other. They hadn’t thought she’d be able to read their work. “Gentlemen, it says here quite clearly that the bandit responsible is left handed,” she said, placing the papers down on the desk. “And as you can see I’m not.” Continuing to smoke, she watched as they started to sweat. “And furthermore, if you’re going to try and frame me, don’t place the stolen painting on one of your walls,” she continued, nodding pointedly at it hanging behind them. Samuel felt the blood drain from his face, stammering,” I don’t know what you’re talking about. That painting has been in my family for generations.” “Of course it has.” Sitting back in his chair, Mike ran his fingers through his hair. “What exactly do you want from us?” he asked quietly. The lady smiled sweetly. “Oh nothing much,” she said, pushing the paperwork back towards him. “Only, I need one of you to sign this paperwork. I mean, I could write both of your names down but it seems pointless for you both to be locked up, doesn’t it?” Mike stared at the quill and then pounced on it, scrawling his name at the bottom. “Oh no, you don’t, you cheating, thieving…,” Samuel yelled, running to him and grabbing his wrist, trying to pull his hand away. “Now boys, please behave,” the lady said as she walked towards the door. “You know, it’s fortunate you’re both left handed really, it could be either one of you.” Samuel tore at the paperwork. “There! Now there’s nothing to be signed!” he shouted, the ink splattered across his face , running with his sweat. Smiling, she opened the door. Two burly men in uniform stepped inside, truncheons in their hands. “Well, well, well, what have we here then?” one of them asked. “Take them away,” the lady said, smiling at one of them. “I think you’ll find them most helpful.” “Hey lady,” Samuel asked, as handcuffs were fastened behind his back. “Who are you, anyway?” “Me? Oh, I’m just a lady. But you can call me Kat Ace.”


To the Keeper of my thoughts, Do you know a dragonfly is extremely unique? Their four wings, working independently from each other, allow them to fly in any direction they please. Their compound, telescopic eyes enable them to view the world in a 360 degree vision. Ironically, the only blind spot is directly behind them. Hot diggity darn, I wished me a dragonfly. I never knew words could comfort me like a cozy luxe blanket until I found your diary, secretly tucked inside a birdhouse. You see, my dad asked me to clean it out, shortly after we moved into the new house. What seemed like a laborious chore, turned into a cathartic moment, forever changing my life. The diary was strategically buried under layers of hays.

The cover of the book had a picture of a Cherry Blossom Tree, the edges tethered from endless nights of writing. I wasn’t sure why but my heart was thumping loudly, as if I was just about to open a present left for me underneath the Christmas Tree.

Gingerly, I opened the book to the first page. In an effortless beautiful cursive style, just one line breathed, “To the Keeper of My Thoughts.”

I felt a bit relieved knowing I was allowed to read the contents of the book. I turned to the second page and started reading.

“Am I lonely, I ponder For I am always alone

But not fear loneliness.  		    To the keeper of my thoughts;  		    I have waged, battled and fought

 		    So that you may read my gamut

 		    Of solitary thoughts.” Immediately, the book fell from my shaking hands. Bewildered by the haunting words, I was struck by overwhelming emotions blended in a whirling tornado hitting straight to the core of my heart. Distinctly, I heard your voice carried upon the wings of a globe skimmer dragonfly, patiently seeking a mate to finally end your wandering, lonesome journey.

 My heart resonated with unfamiliar feelings. Your poem ignited and fueled empathy towards how you felt while you wrote those short stanzas. At that moment, I was hungry to know more about this hidden gem, about you.

You filled the diary with poems, stories, quotes that uplifted my spirits, brought tears to my eyes, had me belting out with laughter. Every word transported me to a mystical and magical realm I never wanted to leave. Your world of escapism helped me forget I was a teenage boy, burdened by the bullies from my old school. One of my favorite poems (boy, did you make it hard for me to choose), Grow Old With Me Your love is a song that sings to my soul Come and grow old with me And you will see

Our love will set us both free You and I were always meant to be

Connected by a flimsy thread Woven by a spider’s beautiful silk web

Can’t you see, the vision that lays ahead For once, let our feelings take the lead

Your love is a song that sings to my soul And when I feel your sweet embrace

Oh my darling Can you see how symmetrical

Like a lucky four leaf clover

You know our bond can never be broken

It’s a love song that should not be unspoken Let’s not waste any more time

Because our love is a parallel desire

Not flames waiting to burn But time has wanted us to shine

Your love is a song that sings to my soul Stay and grow old with me

And you will see

Our love will set us both free

You and I were always meant to be I read and reread this poem until each syllable was etched into my memory. This harmonious soliloquy replaced the small fissures in my broken spirit once filled with cynical doubts, now with hope. The possibility of falling in love in this chastising world. Intentionally, you left out dates, your name, any details describing your physical self in this common world, knowing those shallow details were unimportant.

Unsuccessfully, for years I tried to find you but every public record led me to dead ends. How you remained so mysterious but a kindred spirit was perplexing. I did not appreciate the Universe laughing at us, taunting us with its wicked humor.

Throughout the years, I kept your diary close to me. Every morning, on my way to work, I’d stop in front of the window of the same bookstore. For a fleeting moment, I wished for a meeting with you.

On this particular summer morning, the sky was pouring down showers upon the city streets. Gripping an umbrella with both hands, my walk to work was a drenched sprint. Then something happened. A familiar cherry blossom coverlet was showcased in the window of the bookstore. I stood frozen, recognizing the hardcover. I forgot about work, the rain, the world.

Nervously, I walked into the store and asked the person behind the register for the book. As it was handed to me, I felt the way I did when I was fourteen. The same way when I found your diary in a house full of chirps. Could it be? Did the Universe hear my wishes and finally grant me this inevitable, fateful meeting?

I did not open the book. I flipped the book over and staring back at me, was a picture of you. I took in every detail of your features, conventionally falling in love with you all over again.

As I did when I was fourteen, I slowly opened the book. On the first page I read your dedication to me, “To the keeper of my thoughts.” Excitingly, I turned to the second page and

there was your haunting poem. Remembering this is not the original, I flipped to the inside jacket of the cover. I read the synopsis of your book and then the last sentence struck a searing knife into my soul. You passed away a year before your book was published. Tears started pouring like the rain outside, flooding my entire being. Suddenly, I felt like I was drowning in an empty abyss of puddles. I cried like a child. The person behind the register came over to me. Angrily, I asked to be left alone.

Through my blinding tears, I flipped through your book until I reached the last page. An unfamiliar poem. With a heavy heart, I read your final words you wrote to me,

To the Keeper of my thoughts:

               Under your protection

                      I found courage.

               The Universe carried to me

               a voice.

              Your voice.

              I heard it say,

                     fate will continue to urge

                     two lonesome souls,

              strangers wandering in the dark night,

              parallel paths

shall one day cross.

            If not in this eternity,

          endless eternities here on in. Suddenly, I felt like a dragonfly. My wings will continue to fly in every direction, searching for you.


Lucy had been dreading this day for weeks. She was flying out to attend a family wedding in California and her husband, Adam, was unable to take her or attend due to his previous work commitments. In his place, her mother-in-law, Grace, had insisted she drive her to the airport, which was about an hour away. Lucy had accepted the offer reluctantly, not because she didn’t appreciate the help, but because she and Grace had a strained relationship. Lucy had always felt that Grace had overstepped boundaries. It was the constant way she tried to control Lucy’s life, making unsolicited suggestions about her career, her marriage, and even, on some occasions, her choice of clothing. Lucy had tried to be polite but it was hard to keep her emotions in check when Grace continued to poke her nose where it didn’t belong. As they drove down the highway, Lucy tried to keep the conversation light, but Grace was not in a chatty mood. She had on large black sunglasses that concealed her eyes and a scarf that kept her short hair tucked under it. Her hands were tightly on the wheel, and her lips were pressed firmly together. They drove in silence for a while before the car started to make a strange noise. Lucy glanced at Grace in alarm, and Grace muttered something under her breath. The car shuddered and slowed down, and then came to a complete stop. Grace tried to start the car again, but to no avail. It wouldn’t budge. “Great. Piece of crap,” she said, more audible this time.  Grace slid her glasses of her nose and placed them in the holder atop the ceiling. She then leaned down and pulled the lever that popped open the hood, she got out of the car and crossed to the front, peering down into the engine. Lucy got out too, and looked around the empty stretch of highway nervously. They were in the middle of nowhere, and she couldn’t remember how long it had been since they had passed another car or even a gas station. Lucy watched her mother-in-law, who seemed to be lost in thought. It was clear to Lucy that Grace didn’t know what to do, but the silence between them became more uncomfortable with each passing second. Finally Grace came around the front of the car, to the passenger's side, looking grim.

“Looks like we might be in trouble. The engine is completely dead.” A knot formed in Lucy’s stomach as Grace’s words settled in. She had a flight to catch, and she couldn’t afford to miss it. “Can’t we call for help?” Grace shook her head, the scarf falling slightly from the motion freeing her blonde hair. She help up her phone. “We’re out of cell range. I think we’re on our own for this one.” Lucy sat down on the side of the road, feeling helpless. She couldn’t believe this was happening to her. She had been so anxious about the trip, and now this. Looking to Grace, who was pacing up and down muttering to herself, an idea struck. “Grace,” she said tentatively, “Maybe we should try to fix the car ourselves.” Grace stopped pacing and looked at Lucy, surprised. “What do you mean?” “Well,” Lucy started, standing up, “we don’t have any other options. Maybe we can at least try to see if there’s something we can do to get the car going.” Grace looked skeptical, but then threw up her hands. “Oh what the hell, worth a shot.” Lucy stood and walked to the car. She tucked a lock of brown hair behind her ear and looked into the engine bay. As she gazed down into it, she realized had no idea what she was doing, but she remembered her father showing her how to change a tire when she was a teenager. Maybe there was something they could do, even if they just tried. She peered curiously at the engine. “We might need this,” Grace said from beside her. “I use it sometimes to find my car in the dark when I’m on my way home.” She procured a small flashlight that was hooked on the end of her keychain. Lucy raised an eyebrow, the woman was resourceful. Grace turned it on and pointed it at the engine. The two got to work, peering at each section with careful eyes, searching for anything that pointed to an issue to be solved.

They worked together, Lucy asking Grace for advice, and Grace murmuring here and there what was supposed to be plugged in and what didn’t need anything. Lucy started to learn that Grace’s father had been a mechanic growing up, and she knew a little bit about cars, but not enough to do more than speculate on the issue.

Lucy felt a sense of accomplishment, not only for doing something she had never attempted before, but that she and Grace were actually getting along without any underlying animosity. She felt a grudging respect building for the woman as they probed through the car. Maybe together they really could fix this thing. Another ten minutes had passed before they struck luck. They finally found the problem. It was a loose wire that had disconnected from the battery. Lucy and Grace looked at each other, exchanging a triumphant raise of their brows. Grace laughed a melodic sound that Lucy realized she had never heard before. She smiled, and curled the wire back around the battery. “Go see if it starts up,” Lucy said, taking a step back from the car. Grace complied, sliding into the driver's seat and sticking her key in the ignition. With a deep breath she twisted her wrist and the car roared to life. She laughed again, and Lucy joined in. The two of them stood there laughing and soaking in the moment before Grace glanced down at the digital clock on the car’s dashboard. “We’ve gotta get going if you want to make that flight!” She called, sticking her head out of the open window. “How much time do we have?” “Enough if I speed,” Grace replied with a waggle of her brows. Lucy wasted no time. She grabbed the top of the hood and slammed it back into place. She trotted around the side of the car and slid into the passenger seat.

As they drove towards the airport, Lucy felt a sense of gratitude towards Grace. She had never realized that Grace was actually a kind person, who was just trying to help in her own way. She had always seen Grace’s actions as interfering, but now she saw that the woman was genuinely trying to be a part of her life. Perhaps there was more to her than she had previously thought. She smiled when she caught Grace’s eye and wondered how different their lives would look now they seemed to be on the same page.


 The magician, simply known as The Great Bardot, has been in show business for thirty years. He started as a child by learning all the common tricks of magic. Disappearing coins and foam balls squeezed between your fingers suddenly appear as if from nowhere into full-size balls in your hand. And, of course, a plethora of card tricks.            Bardot entered many amateur talent shows and traveled with a troupe across Europe. As his talent improved, people started talking about him. Night clubs were his next venue. Now that his name was more recognizable, his pay increased, and he could purchase more expensive materials. With better equipment, Bardot was able to do more elaborate illusions. These illusions were so complicated that he would perform only one or two per show. These amazed and baffled the audience.   With the complexity of each trick would come the question, “How do you do that?” To which Bardot would only say, “A good magician never reveals his tricks.”            While Bardot is at the peak of his popularity, he epitomizes what a magician should be and what a magician should look like.  Suave and debonair, the forty-two-year-old Frenchman strikes quite the figure. He is tall and slender, wearing his dark hair pomaded straight back. His tuxedo is perfectly tailored to show his broad shoulders tapering down to his polished black shoes. He does, in fact, look like an exclamation point expressing the wonder of his performance. He doesn’t have an assistant preferring to work alone. If he needs someone to help him, he’ll ask for a volunteer from the audience. Using a live audience member enhances the effect of the magic. One night after a performance, there’s a knock on Bardot’s dressing room door. “Yes. What is it?’ “I have a telegram for Mousieur.” The boy enters and hands the note to Bardot and waits. Bardot knows the young man is waiting for a tip and reaches into his vest pocket and produces a silver coin. Before handing it to the lad, Bordot flips it into the air, where it disappears. The young man stands slackjawed until Bardot reaches behind the child’s ear saying, “Ah, here it is.” He smiles as he watches the lad leave under a hail of thank yous.

Bardot’s pulse quickens. He sees that the note is an invitation from the world’s greatest magician, Monsieur Matteo Descoteaux. Descoteaux retired and bought a castle in the Hauts-de-France region near the Belgium border. He has lived there as a recluse, with no one seeing or hearing from him in over ten years. The note expresses that it is imperative that he sees Bardot, for he has something most important to share with him. Bardot lays the letter on his dressing table with trembling fingers, fearing he’ll drop it. The performer is dizzy with excitement at the thought of the world’s greatest magician wanting to share something with him. What could it be?                                                              … Bardot takes a train to Lille, where he rents an automobile.  He then drives for forty-five minutes to reach the entrance of the three-hundred-acre forested estate containing Descoteaux’castle. The woods are dark and foreboding, and the road condition is poor.  Bardot steps out of his car and feels a chill run up his spine. The air is cold and damp as he inhales deeply to bolster his courage. The clanging of the metal door knockers reverberates through the surrounding woods, scattering mobs of crows in its wake. As the massive oaken door screeches open, Bardot is greeted by an elderly servant. He is bent and rather shabby looking. “May I help you, Monsieur?” His voice is old and husky. Bardot presents the note. “Yes. I am here on the invitation of your master, Monsieur Descoteaux.”  The butler takes the letter and asks Bardot to please wait while he informs his master of his arrival. Returning a few moments later, he shuffles up to Bardot. “If you will kindly follow me, the Master is in the library.” Bardot finds the castle to be cold and dreary. The surrounding forest is so thick that it allows little sunlight to enter through the stained glass windows. Everywhere he looks, Bardot sees thick layers of dust. The library is enormous, with beams of sunlight streaming through windows high up near the ceiling. The surrounding bookshelves are several feet tall and packed tight with numerous volumes. There are stacks of books measuring three to four feet high on the floor. At the far end of the library is a maple desk where Descoteaux is sitting. “Come closer young man. Let me have a better look at you.” As he approaches, Bardot sees that Docsoteaux’ left eye is cloudy white, with an agitated red and slightly swollen rim. His complexion is dull and gray. He has an open ulcerated sore on his forehead that he scratches now and then with knarled, arthritic fingers. The top of his head is bald save a few wispy strands of grey hair falling to his shoulders.  His coat is thread worn and covered with dandruff. The ancient magician points to a nearby chair. “Sit.”  Bardot removes several books and sees how filthy the chair is.  He doesn’t wipe it clean, for that would be an insult to the Master. “Monsieur Bardot, I have been following your career rather closely. It seems you are quite successful. I’ve studied your illusions and have found them most clever. I was wondering if you would like to learn the secret of true magic?”

Bardot hesitates and thinks, “He says the word magic as if it is something different than what I’m doing, performing tricks which is what we magicians do. But if he’s suggesting another, purer form of magic, then what magician wouldn’t want to know it.” A smile escapes Bardot’s lips, “True magic?” “Yes.” hisses Descoteaux. “True magic. The ability to create something out of nothing. To perform miracles, to dabble in the divine! Would you like that, Bardot?”

Feeling like he’s drunk too much wine, Bardot murmurs, “What must I do?” “Come closer, my young friend, and lend me your ear.  I shall whisper all the secrets of the universe into it.” An hour later, Bardot leaves the castle and drives recklessly down the ruinous driveway to catch the next train to Paris. While packing for an extended tour of the United States, Bardot hears on the evening news that the world-famous magician, Matteo Descoteaux, was found dead in his library. The one-hundred-and-two-year-old entertainer died of natural causes. The year is 1959.                                                             … Over the next two decades, Bardot’s career soars. He appears on talk shows and variety shows like the Ed Sullivan Hour. Bardot receives a five-year contract to headline at Circus Circus in Las Vegas. He truly is “The Great Bardot.” But at last, no matter how great you are, people’s interests change. The world of magic is no different. With interest fading, Bardot continues to perform sparingly. Toward the end of the seventies, Bardot makes a rare appearance on the Tonight Show. Johnny Carson, once having been an amateur magician, introduces Bardot with great zeal. In the center of the stage is a common folding table and chairs. Bardot invites Johnny and co-host Ed McMahon to join him. He also requests that the cameras come close and focus only on the tabletop. Bardot addresses the audience. “Ladies and gentlemen, what I will demonstrate tonight can only be true magic. Please watch closely.”  He asks the bandleader, Doc Severinsen, to come over and examine the table for hidden traps. Severinsen feels around the table and announces, “Looks good to me, man.” Bardot then asks McMahon to press his finger as hard as he can into the center of the tabletop to demonstrate that it is indeed solid. McMahon does and reassures the audience it is so. Bardot stands and walks to the edge of the stage. “Might I please have someone lend me a coin the size of a quarter or half-dollar?” An eager young man from the front row rushes forward and hands Bardot a quarter. Bardot thanks him and asks him to tell the audience if they have ever met. The young man confirms they have not. Bardot calls the fellow over to the edge of the stage and bends down. Then in a low voice, “Are you by any chance a magician too? If so, meet me after the show tonight.” Returning to the table, Bardot hands the coin to Johnny. “It is real, yes?” “Oh, it’s very real.” “Good.”  Bardot places the coin on its edge and holds it with his forefinger. He then tells Johnny to put his hand under the table about four inches from the bottom. “If I can have camera number one focus tightly on the quarter and camera number two focus on Mr. Carson’s hand, I shall begin.” Bardot closes his eyes and starts pushing down on the coin. His concentration is great, as evidenced by the beads of sweat on his forehead. As he pushes harder, the audience seems to hold their breath. There is dead silence. The intensity is so palpable that the TV audience at home can feel it. The coin beneath Bardot’s finger vibrates, echoing through the silent studio. As the camera records, the coin starts to shimmer and fades in and out until, all at once, it is gone. Camera number two catches it falling into Johnny Carson’s hand! Bardot leans back, mopping his brow with his handkerchief.   Eyebrows raised and eyes wide, Johnny exclaims, “It’s hot! Ed, how can this be? Doc, you checked the table. How did it pass through?”  The audience gives Bardot a standing ovation. Bardot bows and exits the stage. A short while later, there is a knock on Bardot’s dressing room door. Knowing who it is, he lets the young magician in and locks the door behind him. “What is your name, young man?” “Aldrich, sir.” “You want to know how I performed this miraculous trick tonight. Please have a seat, Mr. Aldrich, and I shall tell you how I became “The Great Bardot.” I lived in France a long time back when I was invited to the home of the most famous magician in all the world, Matteo Decsoteaux. He told me he could teach me to employ real magic in my routine. But there was one condition.” Captivated, Aldrich utters, “What was the condition?” “I will tell you in a minute, my dear Mr. Aldrich, but first, look into my eyes. Look deeply into my eyes and listen to my voice. Over the course of several lifetimes, I have emersed myself in the study of ancient books of Alchemy. I have learned to control others and transport my spirit into them. You are on longer in control of your body or your will. They are both mine. When Bardot visited me those years ago, I tempted him with the promise of using real magic. I then took over his body.” Aldrich struggles to scream, only to find he has no voice. He can not so much as utter a faint squeak. “ I possessed his body to carry on my life work of magic. This body that I now inhabit has contracted cancer and shall die soon. So here you are, Mr. Aldrich! A new vessel for Descoteaux to occupy for years to come! “ Descoteaux throws his head back and laughs diabolically. Tears of terror stream from Aldrich’s eyes as he feels the warm breath of Dexcoteaux on his ear, whispering his death warrant.