Based on conversations and events that took place whilst waiting in the queue to see the Queen lying in state during September 2022 Fifteen minutes before the start of the queue

“Excuse me” asked Pete frantically looking down at the map on his phone, failing to catch the attention of his Uber driver. He tried again but this time with more gusto. “Excuse ME?” The Uber driver took out the wireless headphone from his left ear with a weary sigh of a man not enjoying the 5am pick up. “Yes mate?” “I’m looking at the map and it looks like the start of the queue has changed. Can I change my destination?” pleaded Pete hoping this was an option. The driver looked utterly confused. “I have no idea what you just said, mate!” It was Pete’s turn to sigh now. He was slowly realising it would take two attempts to get anywhere with this guy. “So… y’know lots of people are queuing to see the Queen’s coffin?” “Errr yeah?” said the Uber driver only half getting the gist this time. “Well it looks like the start of the queue has changed so can you go left here and head for Tower Bridge?” The driver sighed even heavier this time and shook his head. “Sorry mate I can’t do that and there’s nowhere to stop round here.” Pete looked into his driver’s eyes and could smell bullshit a mile off. Before he could change his mind, he opened the car door. “Fine! I’ll get out here then. Cheers!” Pete petulantly stated to his driver with his body halfway out. Pete didn’t hear the Uber guy’s response as he was already across the road and jogging towards his revised destination. The start of the queue

“Excuse me? Where do you get wristbands?” asked Pete sounding slightly out of breath. He wasn’t used to running at this time of the morning. In fact, he wasn’t used to running at any time of the day. “Just down there, buddy. Good luck!” said the volunteer noticing how wheezy Pete was already when he hadn’t even joined the queue yet. Pete power walked past another 50 people darting in and out of the human obstacles like he was going for gold at Human Crufts. Five minutes later Pete had a gold wristband on his arm and reached a wall of humans signalling the official start of the queue. Tower Bridge, glowing purple in the early morning night sky looked glorious. A fitting tribute to Her Majesty and an unforgettable start to Pete’s journey. Whilst he looked down the Thames, enjoying being so close to all these wonderful sights from his childhood,  a number of unfamiliar voices lit up around him. “There we go, Mum. No turning back now. Let the queue begin!” “Oh Lee, me legs are already hurtin’.” “Keep moving your plates of meat and you’ll be fine.” Pete smiled to himself as he realised these were his queue buddies for the next few hours. He turned round to say hello. “It should warm up once the sun comes up so hopefully that will help. I’m Pete by the way.” Lee and his Mum shook Pete’s hand.

“I’m Lee and this is my Mum. We got up at 3am and came down on a train from Bedford and here we are!” Before Pete could respond, another new voice in front of him responded to Lee. “Not too far then. I’ve come down from Northampton, representing my family who think I’m crazy doing this. A 45-year-old woman with a dodgy hip walking and standing for hours. Sorry, I’m Peggy.” Pete, Lee, Lee’s Mum and Peggy all said hello to each other as they gently strolled in line with the rest of this long queue which stretched miles down the river towards Westminster. For minutes no further words were exchanged as they all got used to their surroundings, soaking up the enormity of this experience. Lee, full of naïve energy broke the silence. “I wonder if Prince Charles, sorry King Charles is up yet? God! It’s gonna take a while getting used to that.” “I know! All our lives he’s been the Prince so it’s only natural your brain won’t adjust instantly,” said Peggy, as she tried to keep pace with the queue which was flowing down the river like a regal conga line. “I think even Charles would understand that. I don’t think I’ll sing “God Save The King” right for a while. I’ll be singing Queen for a bit,” said Lee’s Mum, who giggled with her queue buddies. “So… how long do we think this will take? Mum, you first.” Lee lightly poked the side of his Mum’s tummy. “Well… I’m hoping about four hours as that’s me limit.” “Four hours!? It would take that if there wasn’t a queue?” said Lee looking at his Mum like she had just farted. Pete went next. “The YouTube tracker said 11 hours so I’ll go with that.”

Everyone nodded as Peggy interjected. “In that case I’ll say nine hours as I’m sure that tracker is worst case scenario.” Lee’s eyes looked panicked as he attempted to control his breathing. “Well I hope you’re all wrong. I maybe 21 and half all your ages but I looked at the tracker yesterday and it said it was only six hours from this point so I’ll go with that. Anyway, let’s just enjoy the experience. This’ll never happen again!” They all silently nodded, quietly hoping Lee’s Mum was right, as they continued to stroll in line with the rest of the thousands of people from all walks of life winding all along this stretch of the Thames. Eleven hours in the queue

“Not long now, Lee!” said Peggy trying to cheer up her fellow queue buddy. “I don’t believe you anymore! You’ve been saying that for shitting hours! My feet are falling off, you said once we reach the zig zag in the gardens it would be an hour. We’ve been zigging and zagging for nearly three bloody hours. I deserve a medal for this!” said Lee with a level of exasperation he had never experienced before. Not even that time he had to wait an hour for a pizza from Just Eat one time. Pete, spotted a joke and took a risk. “The king should give you a QBE. Queuer of the British Empire.” Lee’s grumpy face froze for a second before erupting into a huge smile and raucous laugh. His Mum, Peggy and Pete all joined in, relieved the moaning of this young guy had stopped for a moment. The other zig zaggers around them wondered what was going on. Pete continued with something he’d been thinking about for a while as they zigged before further zagging. “It’s funny. All yesterday on the news every person they interviewed in the queue were so happy and yet the reality for us has been quite different. I feel like they should interview Lee before we go in.” Lee smiled before responding. “Haha! Yeah and as soon as the cameras roll they ask me ‘How has the experience been?’ and I’ll lie my ass off and say ‘Yeah loved it!’ even though my feet are bloody numb.” “Weird you wore those shoes because you wanted to be comfy.” “Mum, I know but these shoes are shit! They don’t work. There’s no bounce to ‘em. I’m burning them as soon as we get home.” Lee pointed towards his shit expensive gold laced shoes throughout his latest rant. Pete and Peggy kept smirking at each other thoroughly enjoying the multiple novels worth of moaning they’d heard from this guy today. Lee launched into another fresh rant without catching his breath. “I heard someone say the guards change every 20 minutes?! Lazy bastards. They could do an hour each and speed this bloody queue up! We’d have been in there by now if they just stood up for a bit longer. Madness!” Pete took another look down the zig zag, they really were nearly there. “Speed up everyone, I think this is it.” This group of strangers dug deep to make one last dash towards Westminster Hall. Approaching the end of the zig zag they came to what appeared to be one final winding path towards the door leading to their destination. This gave Lee enough time for one last thought.

“Guys, I know I’ve moaned a bit today but I’m 21 years old so got a lot of life to live. Hopefully my feet will fully recover and spring to life again soon. But at least you met a load of nutters like me in the line to cheer you up.” Pete, Peggy, Lee and his Mum all nodded in silence, reminiscing on the last 11 hours and what lay ahead in a few short moments. Reaching the airport security tent for one final check, Pete added one final remark to his queue buddies. “And if you think about it that’s what the Queen mostly did for 70 years – meeting nutters in a line. So in many ways this last 11  hours has given us a taste of what the life of this great monarch was like.” Chuckling to each other everyone took off coats, jewellery, belts and bags to allow them entry into the hall. Lee’s Mum forgot about the phone in her pocket delaying the group but, rather than go on without them, Pete and Peggy waited for them. They started the day together so it was important to end it as one. Words were no longer necessary as they walked slowly down the side of the hall towards the entrance. Just glances at each other trying to express that it was finally going to happen. No more delays, queues, zig zags, bridges to cross or false dawns. The time had come. As they all made their way up the carpeted steps, lugging their broken bodies slowly upwards it all dawned on them the enormity of the occasion. This building was their final destination and by the time they reached the top of the stairs all of their aches, pains, grumbles and grievances were gone, replaced by the emotion and grief that brought them all to the queue in the first place. They may have been from very different backgrounds but the one thing they shared was the love of the Queen and all she represented. Staring down at her coffin, preparing to head down into the main hall, Pete’s body went numb in disbelief at where he was standing, what he had achieved and what he was about to do. He quickly composed himself, closed his eyes, took a deep breath and descended these final set of steps to honour Her Majesty, say thank you and goodbye to this great woman.


Leonard Field watched the blurry white dot high above, longing to pull himself out of the muck at the bottom of the swamp. He was halfway submerged beneath the mud, and the rest of his body too was dark now. He clenched his right hand around a chain that happened to be splayed out across the swamp bottom, the individual links digging into his now-rugged flesh. “I can breathe out there,” he said. “Nothing is keeping me down here.” He could speak underwater, and when he did, no rush of bubbles emitted from his mouth. He did not breathe air in the way he used to. Technically, he didn’t breathe at all. He didn’t have to. He felt fleshy tendrils around his shoulders gently press against his body; the armored tubes that pierced his chest expanded, and fell. “We can breathe here,” said the voice on his back. “As long as we need to.” Leonard allowed himself to sink an inch more into the mud, his eyes still staring upwards. The white blur shifted and twinkled, and the fear he felt that it might go away constricted his heart. “I have to go up there,” he said. “I can’t stay here forever.” The voice on his back hummed contemplatively, the vibrations providing his body a warm and gentle massage. “We must agree together,” it said. “Wherever we go.” Leonard did not reply. The mud covered his mouth. He pushed himself deeper into the dank sludge, brushing against the chain as he did so. He heard the click of metal. He was beneath the floor of the swamp. Unable to move. Waiting. They slipped across the bottom of the swamp, exploring. The voice on his back was moving its body as they went. Leonard could feel it probing, snapping up weeds and small fish, crunching up crustaceans. They never rose far from the floor of the swamp, always staying close to the mud, where they could easily escape danger any moment. Though the mud floor seemed like nothing but slime and sludge from above, there was a home underneath of tunnels and chambers that could easily be accessed by slipping through the filmy, gooey silt and ooze that was the floor and was the ceiling. Leonard paddled languidly while pulling himself along with his hands, dislodging plants, chasing out animals so the thing on his back could catch them and eat them. “You should eat, too,” it said. “Your body can eat them now.” Though Leonard looked down at the floor of the swamp, his mind was above. He remembered cooked foods. Steak. Hamburgers. Even skewers of fish roasted over a fire. A wriggling swamp worm was not food. It was a horror show. “Are they still there?” he asked. “We share much now,” the voice said. “When I eat, you take nutrients, but… If you don’t eat and use your own body, you become weaker. It’s bad for us both.” “It’s bad for us if I don’t see her,” he said. “It makes me weak not to see her.” “You want to mate,” it said. “It’s a good thing, to reproduce. But the timing isn’t right.” “I want to live,” Leonard said, and he turned his body around so that his face was towards the sky. The white blur was still there, not far away. Still moving in the waves. Still calling to him. Despite being underwater, his mouth felt suddenly dry. “Watch out!” The voice spoke too late. Leonard’s head collided with a large rock. He curled up in a ball, clutching at the back of his head. When he opened his eyes again, he saw strings of red rising around his line of sight. “It’s not serious, I think,” said the voice. “I can take a look. I can lick it and make the wound clean.” “No, no,” Leonard protested. “I’ll check it myself.” He touched the wound, flinched. It stung. “Oh, no one saved this one either,” said the voice. Leonard felt his heart drop, and he began to uncurl himself to get a better look. The rock was actually concrete, round, heavy, sunk in the mud. Above it was another chain, still mostly clean with relatively little in the way of accretions of swamp muck in the links. The chain floated upwards, and attached at the end of the chain was a man, naked, and very much dead. But his body was still buoyant enough to keep him from settling down to the ocean floor just yet. Leonard stared at his corpse, the series of bubbles still stringing up faintly from the deathly dumb face of the poor sucker. “We can eat him,” said the voice. “He is still fresh, and the flesh will be good for you. Familiar flesh for your body.” The man did look familiar. Leonard had not known the man well, but he had been a crewmember on the ship. John or Dilton or something, it didn’t matter anymore. Something was happening up on that ship. Crewmembers were dying, and they were burying them in the swamp, where their bodies could become a part of the ecosystem again—a cold and scientific way to deal with the dead, but one he approved of. It was the right thing to do. But still, why were they dying? Would his friends okay? And what about her? “I have to see why these men are dying,” Leonard said. “I can’t stay down here forever.” “That which floats on the surface is large and dangerous,” said the voice. “It swallows many lives. Even before you fell to this world, that which floats took many lives from below. This voice does not trust it.” Leonard was quiet for a time. “That’s where I came from,” he said. “They are waiting for me to return.” “Are they?” asked the voice in a strange monotone. Leonard continued to pull himself along the bottom of the swampland, and a slow prickling annoyance arose and seemed to prance upon his temples. Of course they were waiting for him. Of course she was waiting for him. Several days later he caught sight of her. When the voice on his back was asleep, Leonard crept out onto a small island far from the ship. It was barely an island so much as it was just a swath of thick mud and reeds that could only just bear his weight, and even then his limbs were deep in the muck. Though he was far from the boat, he knew a way to peer long distances with clarity, as if looking through a pair of binoculars. It was a trick the voice had taught him after they had become one. Leonard’s body had changed in some ways after the voice had fused with his back. His hair had thinned, and webs had grown between fingers and toes. The voice had shown him that he could touch fingers to thumb in a certain way, and then, after running his hand through the water, pick up bubbles that, if he shifted his fingers just right, would form into makeshift lenses in his hand—lenses through which he could peer and see farther away. Of course peering through a bubble caused some distortion and warping of the image, and if there were impurities in the bubble—refuse from the swamp water—they could disrupt his vision. It took him several tries that morning on the mud island, hiding behind the reeds, before he could get the bubbles shaped just right in his hand, and clean and clear enough to look through. She was walking on the deck. Long, dark hair framed her perfect, moon-shaped face, now distorted through the bubbles. She was wearing a white one-piece swimming suit that hugged her curves, delineating her body. His mouth watered as he stared at her breasts, her hips. Even through the bubbles in his hand, she was gorgeous. He remembered the first time he had been close to her, smelling a warm scent of jasmine. When they had held hands, the flesh of her fingers so soft in his rough laborer’s hands, the way she would hook her hand through his and kiss him fiercely on the lips, how they would… On the boat, she raised her hand to her mouth, a small red dot winked on, then she flicked something into the water below. A cigarette—no doubt one of the new “safe” ones with none of the dangers and a healthy hit of vitamin C, but still… littering here? That was against regulations. He would have to chastise her lightly when he… The thing with the voice on his back seemed to hum, a feeling like a light vibration playing against his spine. It was waking up. It wouldn’t want him on the surface of the water. It definitely wouldn’t want him spying like this. He didn’t want a fight over what his body did or where his body went. He clenched his teeth and backed away into the water, letting the colorful and translucent water cress close over his head. The voice didn’t say anything about the island visit until they were in the tunnels later that day. The tunnels stretched in every direction underneath the swamp. They were not just the living quarters that Leonard and the thing on his back called home, but other scampering creatures lived there, too. Leonard was always careful stepping through the tunnels because he didn’t know when one of the clawed, sinuous lyre worms would ping like a struck note and lunge out of the puddles to latch on to his heel. “It is good to walk carefully above too,” the voice said. “I was careful,” Leonard replied. “I wasn’t even walking. I was low. I got down into the water when you started waking up.” He had hoped the voice hadn’t noticed that he had been out. Maybe the thing had awoken earlier before the hum. He clenched his fists, the webbing between his fingers crinkling uncomfortably. “Better to stay in the tunnels,” said the voice. “You can’t find anything of value on the mud banks.” “She is my girlfriend!” snapped Leonard. “She cares about me, and you’re keeping me from her! What do you expect me to do, wait underwater until my dick falls off?” The thing on his back seemed to tense against his shoulders, and it let out a thin stream of warm water that ran down the small of his back. He used to think the creature was urinating on him, but apparently it thought it was calming him down with a “gift” of warm and comforting liquid. Yeah, right. “If we leave this swamp, we can find other options,” said the voice. Leonard, felt his eyes flash with fire, and he nearly choked with rage. “I am a human being!” he yelled. “And I want to love a human being!” The thing on his back seemed to consider this. Leonard waited, expecting another warm trickle of not-urine to snake its way down his thighs. It didn’t come. “Are you sure who she is?” the thing said. “I’m in love with her,” Leonard said, feeling an overwhelming longing. “I want her.” The thing hummed and held him, and he took a deep breath, crouching in the dark in the tunnel. “I will catch a twinkling eel tonight,” said the voice. “It has a pleasing poison inside, it will make you feel good.” No, thought Leonard. Nothing would make him feel good enough as long as he was under the swamp, stuck in these tunnels, away from his real life, away from everything that he was supposed to be. The twinkling eel—a long and sinuous blue creature with dozens of sparkling appendages that snap and writhe as it swims—was delicious in its way. Leonard did not eat it, of course. However, even still, after the voice, the thing on his back, consumed it, Leonard felt the effects of the toxins in the eel’s body entering his own bloodstream. They filled him, fingertip to fingertip, toes to scalp, with a sense of kinetic energy and a rush of euphoria. Like jagged waves of energy, he felt his nerves jangle and swim across his skin. It felt as if the allure of the toxin reached into his farthest depths, into his deepest desires. And he saw her. Salinda Powers. Her flashing smile, her curving waist, her flowing hair. Every word like steam from her lips, beckoning him. Every movement lithe and smooth and seductive, like the most delectable dream. The voice was silenced on his back. Whatever effects the toxins may have had on Leonard, their force must have been multiplied several times over on the creature as it was the one who consumed the eel directly. Thinking that the voice could not resist any longer, Leonard stumbled through the tunnels, treading over lyre worms and clicker crabs, and pushed out of the muddy bottom of the swamp, out into the water, and up, up, the excitement inside him building, eyes wide, staring at the blur of white above as it grew larger and larger. He felt the power inside, felt invincible, felt a lust he could not contain. His webbed hands grasped the chain leading off the side of the ship. The cold metal sent a shock of pleasure through him, almost as if he was caressing her arm. Hand over hand he climbed, his breathing ragged, the thing on his back like a dead weight. He clawed his way onto the boat, gasping, eyes on fire, teeth bared in desire, and pushed himself to his feet. “Salinda,” he croaked. He saw her, pointing at him. He tried to smile. And the men came. They had sticks of electricity. He could not look at them, but only at Salinda, even as the electricity touched his flesh and sent his screams spearing into the sky. When Leonard awoke, something was missing, and something else was there. In his state of mind, it took him some time to figure out which was which, despite the gaping psychological absence that should have been there. He tried to feel of his face, but found that he was bound, and when he tried to turn his head, he found himself encased in wires and tubes at every quarter. Clacking footsteps rang out, and when Leonard looked up, he saw Salinda, wearing white. As she came more clearly into view, he saw she was wearing a long white coat over a professional gray top and ironed raven-black pants. Her mouth was open in excitement, and he tried to speak, but heard a strange rasping sound instead. “Shhh,” Salinda said. “You’ve gone through a lot. Your throat sustained a lot of damage I’m afraid.” She sounded gentle, and Leonard wanted to lean into the comfort of his voice, but he saw in her eyes a jet professionalism mixed with a frightening excitement that pulled at the corners of her mouth and gave a taut character to the skin around her eyes. “Salinda,” he managed, hearing his voice finally in that awful rasping. “You remember me,” she said, and allowed the excitement to pull her face into a savage smile. “I thought you might.” Leonard imagined those days before, in the spaceship, holding Salinda close, his hand upon her cheek, her hand upon his side. Feeling his hands now as he clawed at the bedsheets, he only found rough scales, the webs between his digits stiffer now, even more uncomfortable. “I love you,” he said. The savage smile softened a bit, and she pressed her lips together in a sympathetic grin. “That might have been the difference,” she said. “That might have been what finally brought one of you back.” He stared at her, desperately, willing the restraints to go away, aching to reach out for her. “You deserve an explanation,” she said, taking notes from the monitors connected to his flesh. “We wanted the parasite. But the parasites are smart. Smart, but, I don’t know, good-hearted? Some of the other scientists are already calling them the Samaritan suckers. They suck onto you, you know—and they are a sucker for someone who is dying underwater.” Leonard almost choked. “Some people did die,” Salinda said. “The suckers don’t always rescue everyone. They bond with land-dwellers so that they, too, can become ambulatory on land. But they also seem to want to save people, and prefer to bond with sentient lifeforms. We don’t really know why yet, but we are trying to figure it out.” Leonard thought back to the many times it had warned him, how it tried to help him. “Turns out we got real lucky,” she said, patting Leonard on the upper arm. “Not only did one of the suckers go for the bait finally, it just happened to be a bait that I had had a fling with for fun. At the time I never dreamed that would matter. Just a nice pastime, you know, and you weren’t so ugly, and I knew you wouldn’t stay around forever. We just tied you to a rock, like we deal with corpses anyway. We thought the chains would hold you, and then we would have the sucker, too, captured as it tried to bond with you. But it managed to get you loose.” Leonard felt fireworks in his mind, broken shards of darkness and light. “Where is he?” he hissed. “Oh,” said Salinda, frowning a little. “Unfortunately the sucker didn’t survive. Thought it would be hardier than that. But we can still learn a lot from its remains. We are dissecting it now.” The smile appeared again on Salinda’s face, the same kind of taut excitement returning, pulling open her cheeks so that they revealed teeth that nearly snarled, flashing in the harsh light. She put her hand on his, her flesh soft, her fingers hooking around his scales. “We will learn a lot from you, too.”


The End “How am I supposed to sleep after that?” “RAWR,” I shout, making several campers scream themselves, “That was the scream of a Black Panther. It may or may not be the demon of legend, but I wouldn’t want to find out. Now, time to go to bed.” I heard one camper say, as they all huddled together, as they walked back to the cabins, “That sounded like a woman screaming bloody murder,” A spooked camper stuttered in awe. “The demon remains and now and then, a couple of campers that wander off by themselves disappear, never to be seen or heard from again.” Just then a scream rends the air. “So why can’t we go into the woods, if everyone was arrested?” “We subdued the guards, obtained the key to our freedom from one of them, and made our escape. Long into the night we walked, until we were in the next town, where we made our way to the police station. We told our harrowing story, and they started an investigation into proving it. Everyone involved was arrested, and they sealed the prisons up for good. The cabin, on the side of the mountain, still stands there, but deserted. Eagle Ridge came under new management, because every adult was arrested.” “I worked, when the overseers were standing guard, but when they took a break, I would talk to some of the other prisoners and I found the adults had been there since they were children. There were even some, I was told, that had died of old age, so that told me it had been going on for a very long time, even before Eagle Ridge was established. I got the idea one day to get the others to start a revolution, with me, and that we would take down the guards, by any means possible. I told them I refused to die down there without a fight, and they agreed. The ones that were in charge of the wood, secretly made weapons and the ones that sewed made restraints. We waited until the time was right, then, we attacked.” “I crept forward and encountered the door, which had a handle, and when I tugged, the door opened. I was being blinded by light, and when my eyes adjusted to the brightness, I saw several children and adults. They were doing a lot of different menial chores, and all the chores were being monitored by overseers. Some chores that I noticed immediately were sewing and mending stuff like sheets, pillows, and camping tents. One was making wooden items such as benches, picnic tables, and bunk beds. I was in a sweatshop, of sorts, for Eagle Ridge.” “The other campers did not believe them, so they did not turn me over to them. We made our way back to our cabins, and they took me to the camp nurse. She removed the stitches, from my mouth, and told me not to tell anyone how this happened. When my parents came to pick me up, they were told the same. She whispered to me about the prison that tellers would go to, if they told, but I knew that someone needed to tell, so that the authorities could arrest everyone that did these atrocities. I told a cop, whom was my dad’s best friend, and in the middle of the night I men that I didn’t know came and took me away, from my home. I was blindfolded and when the blindfold was removed, I found I was in a dark void. Had I dreamed my escape, I thought, but when I felt the wall, I found it was cement blocks. I felt my mouth and found no stitches, only healing wounds.” “I saw moving lights, further down the side of the mountain, and I headed for them, as hard as I could run. It turned out to be the rest of the campers, returning to the campfire pit, as we had planned. After I made it to them, one of them was about to untie my hands, when my pursuers caught up, and told them to give me to them. They were told no and the shortest, of the two men, told them they didn’t understand; That if they, the men, did not offer me as a sacrifice that we all were doomed. He said a demon lived in a cave at the very top of the mountain and that it enjoys eating people, but that it only eats two people every week.” “When I felt I had gone far enough, I started digging above my head, trying to make a shaft that would bring me to the surface. I made footholds to aid in my ascent and I kept going until I had to stop. The bone struck something solid, and when I reached my bound hands up, I found more wood. I surmised my prison had been in a basement, under the cabin. I turned to my left and dug along the wooden cabin floor, until I encountered more dirt, then I started digging upwards once more. Then I was out in the open and running down the side of the mountain, falling over roots, rocks, fallen trees, and other unseen things, with the sound of running feet closing in on me.” “I felt around for anything that to use, as a weapon, and found what felt like a bone. Cringed at the thought of it being a human bone, I steeled my nerves and I brushed the side, of the end, of the bone against the wall, opposite of the door. Doing that a few times, trying to make the end into a sharp point, then when I touched it I found not changed. I felt the wall and found that the bone was gouging out a hole, because the wall was dirt. I began rubbing faster, and the dirt began falling away. Before long I had a hole big enough to crawl into, which I did and kept digging.” “There were some for a long time, after I escaped the camp prison, but my parents paid a lot of money to have a plastic surgeon fix my mouth. I wanted to scream, but couldn’t. A noise came from somewhere behind my prison door and I slowly made my way through the black void. Keeping my hands held out, my fingers touched wood. Groping for a door handle, but there was not one. I banged on the wood, until my hands bled, then a dim light appeared around the edge of the door. I hoped that someone let me out, but a raspy voice on the other side, warned me that my time would come soon enough.” “If someone had sewn it shut, then you would have scars,” Scoffed a camper. “They had sewn it shut.” “What was it? What had they done to your mouth?” “I went to yell for Josh, but found my mouth unable to speak. I raised my hands, which were shackled together, to my mouth, but what I touched there had me very frightened.” “Well, I looked over to tell Josh to run, but he wasn’t able to. The man had his giant hand holding the top of Josh’s head. He was squeezing Josh’s head until Josh stopped flailing his arms, trying to hit the man. His eyes rolled back until all you could see where the white of his eyes. I shouted to the man to stop that he was killing Josh. I was looking back up at the man’s chin, when he slowly looked down and grinned. His mouth had no teeth and his eyes had no irises; And, what should have been white was a light yellow, as if he had yellow jaundice. He opened his mouth, wide enough to look like he was going to bite something and sharp teeth sprang forth, from his gums. I screamed and when I came to, I was in the dark, by myself.” “Where was Josh?” “I’m getting to that, just be patient,” I answered, “I went to take a step forward, when a twig under my foot snapped. The music stopped, as if someone were listening for another telltale sign that there was someone outside the cabin. I turned to run, but found myself nose-to-chest, of a giant man. He was so tall that I had to look up, in order to see his face, but even then I was staring at the underside of his chin.” “It will be happy then? What is it and what will make it happy?” “Josh and I made our way into the spooky woods. I forgot to bring batteries for my flashlight, so when mine died, we only had Joshua’s. We came upon a cabin that seemed like it was deserted, except there was a haunting song coming from it. The music sounded out of tune and gave me the creeps,” I said and then I sang the words, “One two... I hear you... Three four... I’ll get some more... Five six... Just for kicks... Seven eight... leave them at the gate... Nine ten... It will be happy then.” “We met, right here, beside the darkened campfire pit and hatched a plan, one that was sure to shed light on the mysterious disappearances. We partnered off, so that we could scour more ground. Most of the teams had three or more campers, but there was one team that had only two. I and Joshua Baker were the ones that made up the two-person team.” “A week later two more campers disappeared, without a trace, and some of us older campers formed our own search party. So, after the official search party came back and went to bed, we snuck out, into the darkness, of the night; Much like the way it looks tonight.” A piece of firewood popped, making us all jump, although I pretended to. “I had been there when, one night, a girl and her brother went missing, from this very camp. A search party was formed, but it was told that they could find nothing, not even a footprint. It was like they just vanished.” The kid next to me gasps and, in a hoarse whisper, asks what happened to the offenders, “There are asylums, which are under the ground beneath our very feet, that they’re admitted to. I know about them, because I was in one, but I escaped.” “As you know, the counselors have advised you to stay out of the woods. They give no reason, except to say that it is unsafe and that it is very easy to get lost. That is not the only reasons, but it is taboo to speak of the real reason. If someone’s caught telling the reason...,” I shiver for their benefit, “that person’s sent away and never seen again; By anyone, not even their families.” “Let me just start off by saying that you must never, ever, tell let the counselors catch that you telling what you are about to hear this night.” I held up the story stick, and all became quiet, except for the crackle of the fire. Even the frogs and crickets hushed, so that they could hear the story. “Did they get lost?” “What happened?” “Enough,” I commanded, as the two girls argued, “I think you all need to hear this story; Especially the two of you, Rachelle and Betty, because it was an argument, among the campers, that perpetrated a night of terror, for a boy and girl.” “We’re not babies, Betty,” Rachelle Dimwitty rebutted, with an equally mocking sneer, as she said Betty’s name. “Tell us, Carolina,” Betty Rankin said, “the babies can just go back to the cabins, if they don’t want to hear the scary story,” She put an emphasis, with a very mocking sneer, on the fifth word and the last two. “Tell us,” Micah MacDonald said, and several others agreed with him, although a few others did not. “What I learned when I was camper, at Eagle Ridge, when I was your age, is scarier than any urban legend.” I shiver, although the temperature is a nice, balmy seventy-five degrees and I wrap my arms around my midriff. “Why not,” Veronicka Balducci shyly queries. “I know what it is,” I tell the group, “However, I don’t think I should tell you guys.” “I don’t know,” Replies Adam Rizzoli, as he peers into the darkness, “but it sounded huge.” “What... was that,” Angelina Braxton asked, as she holds her hand to her heart. I am a counselor at Eagle Ridge, a youth summer camp, and this is my first time being a camp counselor. My name is Carolina Stokely and I am about ready to hand the story stick to Jerrod Hemsley. A noise from out of the darkness, beyond the circle of firelight that is created by the campfire, has made us all about to jump out of our skins. The Beginning


December in the southern hemisphere is summer, but she hadn’t got used to that yet. When Ana had pictured her destination months previously, she had thought of campfires and thermal underwear. As it was, she now wondered whether it would be tasteless to walk around a music festival wearing only a bikini. She’d seen enough men wearing speedos to think that it probably wouldn’t be a problem, but she slung on a beach wrap all the same. Thank god Ana had pitched her tent next to the beach house and she was able to make these decisions in private, in an air-conditioned bathroom, rather than squashed inside her sweaty canvas home, trying not to show her naked silhouette to her fellow hedonists. She pulled her hair back from her face and was grateful for this moment without perspiration, then she went outside to meet her friends. They were close enough to the equator that darkness had fallen already, and a moon shone above them, round and full. The lights from the beach house were the only sign of human existence, apart from the small group of human beings that stood before her now: Misha, the crazy one; Luke, the crazy one’s boyfriend; and Sami, the only one who understood her. “You look great,” Sami declared, and she wolf-whistled. “Thanks,” Ana replied. She kept her eyes on Sami’s feet until Misha invited them all to look at the moon and howl. Sami went first, then Luke, then Misha, but when it came to Ana’s turn, she stopped, embarrassed, and they laughed and hugged her close, a funny little throng of people who loved her and who weren’t afraid to show it. As they walked towards the festival, these were all the things that Ana wasn’t thinking about: her parents and their impending divorce, the three essays that needed to be written when she got back to university, the fact that she needed to find a job for the following northern hemisphere summer, the fact that her boyfriend had left her for someone else and she had to keep seeing them together which made her feel sick. These were the things she was thinking about: the bass pumping through the speakers at the stage ahead, the reusable cup she had stashed in her bag ready to be refilled, her friends who winked and whooped at the prospect of dancing until dawn, and absolutely nothing else. “Let’s get some food,” Luke shouted and they made their way to a burger truck where they peeled sweaty currency off a bundle of notes and gratefully bit into burgers with ketchup and salty, greasy, delicious chips, washed down with beer. Ana noted that she had drunk more beer than water over the past few days. Ah, the festival life. Sated, they went back to the giant soundstage and the music coursed through them and she was free. She was no dancer, but she didn’t care much. She threw her arms in the air, roughly in time with the music, and she swung her hips from side to side. Sami, in contrast, moved like a back-up dancer for Beyonce and soon there was a semi-circle of eager young men around her, clapping along and gazing at her movements with undisguised lust. “Oh fuck OFF,” she shouted, as one of them came closer, and she reached for her friends instead, and Misha laughed as she pushed the boy away. He was high enough not to mind and soon it was just the four of them, until Luke moved away to find a little chemical help. It was Misha who suggested that they climb the scaffolding on their left. The other festival-goers beckoned and cheered as the idea took hold. “We’ll be able to see everything,” Misha said, a slightly manic glint in her eye. “And everyone will be able to see us.” She’d never been shy, Misha, and now she started to climb. Her long legs made each upward motion look like walking up stairs. Ana wondered how she could possibly ascend with such grace and then she realised that no one was watching anyway. Before long, there they were, three best friends. The top of the scaffolding might as well have been the top of the world. The whole festival lay at their feet and it seemed to Ana that there was only this moment. Nothing else existed except music and these women, and the easy love that passed between them. When had she last felt this way? It was hard to remember. Certainly not with her family, whose expectations always pushed her in the wrong direction. And certainly not with the cheating ex who had always seemed nice enough as long as Ana reined it in, and didn’t dare to be too much, when actually she was just enough. Sami reached for her hand. Misha took the other one. And they danced. Later, much later, the reusable cups needed filling and the girls climbed down from the scaffolding and headed towards the bar. Luke appeared, red-eyed and smiling, and he and Misha peeled off, and at the bar, Sami spotted the girls they’d met the day before and got chatting. So Ana stood alone for a moment, the moon high above her, surrounded by people. The love of her life stood three feet away. He was sipping a beer and smoking a roll-up and every now and then, he shook the hair out of his eyes. He looked up and then he saw Ana. This was the moment that their adventure began. They would build a new life, together, in a new country. She would learn his language and he would help her roll the r sound in just the right way. They would rent a small house in the countryside and she would realise that he was impervious to dust and that she was quite a messy housemate. Sami and Misha would come to visit. Soon enough, there would be a son, who would be perfect in every way, and parenthood would test the young couple but would not break them. And Ana would never doubt him for a moment. But all that lay ahead. For now, Ana stood alone, feeling the tropical heat envelop her, and the music vibrate through the ground beneath her feet. And she thought that it would never get any better than this. Then he tapped her on the shoulder.


Opposite Day

By Laney Bryant I wasn’t looking forward to my sixteenth birthday like you might be. People say that before there was something called a sweet sixteen? It’s funny to me that people used to look forward to they’re sixteenth birthday. I was certainly not looking forward to mine, in fact I was dreading tomorrow. At least I can finally get it over with, no more waiting to see what curse I was given. I mean I had been waiting for 15 years. No more overwhelming sense of trepidation. I found it interesting that out society chose to curse they’re own citizens. I mean it’s not like I haven’t seen it happen before to others, it was so sad to see families torn apart. To see siblings turn on each other. Every curse was different there has never been two of the same. Or at least not that I knew of. Maybe twins got the same curse? I really hope that the curse will eventually let up. There was a rumor that it wasn’t the government but that there was a person out there who had the power to curse the world. I suppose it was possible, this had only been going on for twenty years so it could be a singular person. No one really knew. Maybe it wouldn’t be that bad? Maybe I will get something along the lines of “you can’t to homework anymore,” or “you can’t cut your hair again,” But really I don’t know. My older sister got “you can’t interact with family members,” That’s why I haven’t seen her in a few years. I missed her, maybe one day the curse would let up. I was extremely close with my sister. Her name was Maria. There was a funeral held for her. Everyone pretended she was dead. Because to my family she was dead, she was gone. My younger siblings probably wouldn’t really even remember her. One day I might not remember her. What if my siblings forgot me one day? I chose not to think on it right now. My parents said it would be delivered in the mail. I think it's ironic. Such a detrimental day of your life and it would all start with a simple piece of paper. If I didn’t read it would the curse not be put into place? Or would it be even worse because I chose not to read it. I think it's too big of a risk. I’ll just cross my fingers and hope for something good. Well not good but not bad...I think you know what I mean. I checked the time, for the twentieth time this hour. It was 11:30. Technically in 30 minutes I would get my curse. I think I would rather have a good night of sleep before my life changes forever. I threw the blanket off my lap, slowly standing and stretching my legs. I turned the lights off and settled into bed, setting my glasses on the table. Sleep came quickly, wrapping me in sweet darkness. BEEEEEEEEP BEEEEEEEEP BEEEEEEEEP I hurled my alarm clock across the room, satisfied with the loud crash. I didn’t open my eyes. I didn't want to brave the days ahead. That minuscule piece of paper could ruin my life. It could turn everything upside down. There was a possibility that I could lose everyone I loved. What if I never saw my parents again. Or my sisters. I only had two left. I couldn’t lose them. “CAAAAL!”  My sister screamed. That was Ava she was two years younger than me, then there was Emile she was four years younger than me. Would I ever see them again? Was that the last time I would hear Ava’s voice? A knock. “Cal?” Emily asked. Her voice gave me the strength to open my eyes, the strength to get out of bed. Because I had to be strong, I couldn’t let my family see that I was scared. I needed to be strong for them. With that in mind I opened the door, aware of every sense around me. My bare feet on the cold wooden floor.

Emily grabbed me around the waist. Pulling me tight to her. “Don’t go,” “I won’t leave I promise” I said it like I had a choice, anything could happen. I hope I didn’t have to break my promise to her. “Is breakfast ready?” It was cowardly of me, to change the subject, to get her to talk about anything but today. I just couldn’t stand it so I decided that I was going to pretend nothing happened. I am going to spend what could possibly be my last day with my family making sure the last memories they have of me are happy. “Yeah, Mom made flapjacks,” she sniffled. I patted her head, her hair was a bright red with a slight curl, I love braiding her hair and Ava’s, Emile’s hair was longer though. I would spend the entire night braiding her hair and talking with her. She grabbed my hand, I almost pulled away. Her fingers were like ice. Emile started tugging me down the stairs behind her.

Ava, my mom and my dad were sitting at the table chatting. My moms face was grave and my dad had a smile plastered onto his face. I couldn’t see Ava from here, she was quiet though which was unusual. Flapjacks were on the table next to a bottle of syrup and some chocolate chips. There it was a plain letter with a red seal. I didn’t look at my family as I picked up the letter, the sharp edges dug into my fingers. I slowly pulled off the seal, and opened the flap of the envelope. It was folded, I pulled it out and sat down at the table. “I love you,” I said before unfolding the paper. There it was written in black ink. You shall forever say the opposite of what you mean, Cal Payright


“I see that you cannot take your eyes from the gifts time has bestowed upon me.” The Dealer’s eyes glinted through a fringe that lay over his face like the unearthed roots of a mangrove swamp. The roots fed a great vine of matted hair that climbed over his head in a dense coil and looped down to twist like a constrictor several times around his body. “Stare,” he said in a delicate breath barely strong enough to carry the word, “every second you spend staring at me becomes mine.” He raised a thin hand and used the edge of a long, twisted fingernail to score a line into the body of the candle that burned on the table between us. “You may share my time until the flame erases the line.” His hand dropped to the table under the weight of his decades-long nails, which twisted like fuses and scraped toward me through the silence as he flexed his gnarled fingers. “Now, tell me your needs and learn my price.”

“I need to travel,” I said, focusing on the two sparks of candlelight reflected in The Dealer’s eyes, trying to ignore the huge figure who stood by his side, just visible at the edge of the small reality of candle-lit space.

“To the lived, or the unlived?” “Back, I want to go back. To the lived.” “Ah, yes, to revisit the lived is more valuable. We are all moving into the unlived, travelling there is a mere matter of efficiency, but to revisit the lived, that offers possibilities beyond comprehension, and so, to be blunt, it must attract a higher cost. How far do you wish to travel?” “It depends on the price.” “As so much does, indeed, as so much does,” sang The Dealer with a slow shake of his head. “I charge one hour for one scint,” he said flatly. “Scint? The government are offering a minute for an hour, what’s a scint?” “Ah, the government. Those philistines have no understanding of the true value of time, and they place such… illiberal limits on travellers. They make life so difficult for independent businessmen like myself and my colleague Mr Cleave,” said The Dealer with a slight nod to the figure at his side, “but in the face of adversity, we innovate! One hour of your life will buy you one scint of travel, one hundredth of an hour.”

“I don’t know. It’s expensive.” The large figure stooped and a pale face with black-bagged eyes sunk into the candle’s glow. The head rolled slightly as scarred lips twitched and bounced, miming speech and poisoning the globe of candle light with sour breath, but remaining as silent as the sea bed. After a few seconds, when the lips were still, the words came. “If you could get a government licence you wouldn’t be here. One hour, one scint. The rate is not negotiable.”

I nodded, holding the unblinking glare of the desynchronised addict as his face rose away from the flame and back into the darkness. I pretended not to have noticed his lag.

“You must forgive Mr Cleave,” said The Dealer. “He is a man of very liberal principles and deeply resents the government’s interference in our trade. He is a frequent micro-traveller and his, shall we say, sumptuous proclivities, have also rendered him somewhat… impatient. Let us come to an arrangement which will allow you to experience the pleasure that he knows so well.” “I don’t think I can afford your rate. If it’s not negotiable then…” “Let us not be too hasty. As I say, Mr Cleave lacks my patience. I am a businessman. Life is a negotiation. Everything is negotiable!” Mr Cleave turned, perhaps piqued by his partner’s flexibility, and disappeared quickly into the darkness, to be followed shortly after by the beat of his bodyless footsteps.

“Come closer,” said The Dealer, “let me see the quality of the time you have to offer.” I bent forward slightly in my seat, pushing my chin closer to the candle flame, over The Dealer’s claws. He mirrored my movement and the yellow light leapt to his long, grey beard as it swept like rain over the table. He turned briefly to his left and grunted. Hands, too small to belong to Cleave, reached out and fitted a jeweller’s loupe to the bridge of his nose. He turned back to me, aiming the lens into my eyes. “You have travelled forty-two years, one-hundred and fifteen days, twenty-three hours and seventeen minutes… ah, eighteen. Your heart is good, despite your drinking, tut tut! But who am I to judge? We shall leave that to our priggish government, shan’t we?” He tapped his hands lightly as he peered, causing the nails to rattle and scrape on the table under my chin. “Please turn your head to the left. Yes. And now the right, yeeees, unremarkable but acceptable. And finally, to complete my process, you must tell me your father’s name.” “Winston Craig.” “My thanks. I see that there were some problems in your youth, the nature of them is unclear to me, but nothing to suggest that you will not have a perfectly average journey length. This would mean you have something in the region of thirty years left with which to deal. Regretfully, this is insufficient to purchase an amount of travel which could tempt me to negotiate on my rates.” “I need a month,” I said “well, thirty days.” “Thirty days. Seventy-two thousand scints at a cost of seventy-two thousand hours. Three thousand days, over eight years. Which means that, in line with my long-standing business practices, partially adopted at the insistence of my erstwhile associate Mr Cleave, regrettably, I must charge you nine. We only accept complete years I am afraid. A fee of nine years will purchase you a journey of thirty-two days. Always prudent to buy slightly more than you need, wouldn’t you agree? I’m sure that a pragmatist such as yourself can see that this is a wonderful deal.” “It’s just… so much.” “The journey you need to undertake is very valuable, my friend, maybe worth more to you than a mere nine years of your life?” “It is important. The thing I have to do, it would change a lot.” “And to relive the already lived would be inaccessible to you by any other means, by any licenced means, wouldn’t it?” “It is a big decision.” “Ah, my friend, it is no decision at all.” The Dealer grinned and aimed the lens of the loupe at the flame as it burned closer to the scored deadline in the wax. “I do not know when next I will be available for a consultation. It could be some time. Every second you hesitate is one you must buy back at the point at which you see sense.” “I just don’t know.” “Mr Cleave! Mr Cleave where are you? We are leaving!” The Dealer twisted indignantly in his seat and made a show of preparing to leave despite being incapable of so much as standing without assistance. “There is no creature so reprehensible as a time waster!” “Wait,” I said quietly. “Mr Cleave! Where has he got to?” The Dealer looked to the other figure in the darkness and hissed, sending them scuttling off to search for Mr Cleave. “What if I had more time to offer? Not just more, but higher quality too?” “I have appraised your time; higher quality would mean it would have to come from another donor.” “Yes.” “A younger donor?” The Dealer stopped looking around for Cleave and pointed his loupe at me once again, a flicker of candle light briefly flashing a magnified image of a hungry, yellow eye in the thick lens.

“Yes.” The Dealer raised a hand and with a careful scrape of a nail scored a new line, lower down on the candle’s neck. “You have my attention; you may share my time a little longer. But be warned; if you are wasting more of my time, you will find you have considerably less to deal with than I previously estimated. Mr Cleave will gladly relieve you of it.” “I’m not wasting your time,” said a boy’s voice in the darkness.

 “Who’s there?” said The Dealer, instinctively turning to his left for assistance and, finding none, stiffly jerking his neck to shake the loupe awkwardly away from his eye, unable to use his clawbound hands, helpless without Cleave or his other associate. A boy of twelve stepped into the glow of the candle beside me. The Dealer rocked forward so far over the table that a few stray beard hairs curled and smoked in the candle’s orbit. The tip of his tongue flickered in his moustache. “You would be prepared to offer the child’s time?” said The Dealer. “Would you be prepared to appraise it?” I said. “Oh, yes. Don’t worry, child, I won’t take a moment. Turn your head to the left for me.” The boy complied, blanky obedient. “Yes, good boy. And to the right… Yes… Closer to the flame, my Little Moth. Very good. And finally; what is your father’s name?” “Winston Craig.” “Ah, a family name, how traditional. My thanks, Little Moth.” He turned back to me, “I have seen enough. If you can guarantee that we could conduct our business without any, obstructions , then for the boy’s time I could match even our foolish government’s rates.” “There won’t be any obstructions,” I said, looking at the boy who solemnly shook his head. “What about the mother?” asked The Dealer. “Mother’s dead,” I said. “Ah, tragic. Such a waste, to die young,” said The Dealer affecting a frown that did little to conceal his obvious joy at the new opportunity. “She was much older than me,” I said. “Ah, well, tragic none the less. But we must not dwell on the past! Why dwell on it when you could soon dwell in it?” said The Dealer with a few sawing breaths of weak laughter that left spittle in his beard.

“So, you would take the boy’s time?” I confirmed. “Oh, yes,” said The Dealer, any hint of humour gone. “How much would you take?” “Oh, he has so much to give…” “What if I wanted to travel thirty years?” I asked. “Well, my friend, as the wisest among us know, life is a negotiation, and I would negotiate… for a whole life,” said The Dealer, the flame picking out his unblinking eyes as it erased the line that should have marked the end of our meeting. The boy and I looked at each other. “Is that enough?” the boy said to me. “Oh, that is enough!” yelped The Dealer, “that would buy so very much, my brave Little Moth.” “I think we’ve got enough,” I replied to the boy as I rose from my chair. “Please sit, my friend, we must conclude our business,” said The Dealer, a weak laugh nervously punctuating his words. “Yes, let’s conclude our business,” said the boy. “Yes,” I said, “No need to spend any longer on this one.” I hardened my voice as I had so many times before and addressed The Dealer, “You are under arrest for violation of section eight-B, chapter nine of novel three of the Temporal Protocol. It is my duty to inform you that I am a Constable of the Queen’s Government and that you are in my charge until I deliver you to a designated custody facility. Any resistance will be met with force, proportionate and reasonable, but otherwise unlimited. Do you understand?” “Cleave!” cried The Dealer. “I think he understands,” said the boy. “There are about a dozen more crimes that you will be answering for, I could list them all, but I wouldn’t want to waste any more of your time,” I said. “Mr Cleave!” shrieked The Dealer, “Mr Cleave, help me!” “He can’t hear you. Byron Cleave was killed while resisting arrest. We took him yesterday morning, as soon as we positively identified him this afternoon,” I said. “He went for his weapon, that cumbersome thing that bulged in his jacket as he stooped to intervene in our negotiation, but I was faster. Maybe his lag was catching up with him.”

“No. This is preposterous! You cannot use travel to convict me. I know my rights; disordered events are inadmissible.” “Our conversation here this evening will provide more than enough evidence.” “Entrapment then! What despicable wretch would use a child in his scheme to corrupt an honest businessman? It is not legal; it will not stand. No child can agree to take part in this. Run child! Flee this heinous beast!” “I could never get away from this man even if I did run. Anyway, it was my idea,” said the boy calmly. “It cannot be. Trust a wise old man, your father, this wretch, whoever he is, has lied to you, used you. A child cannot agree to be exploited in this way. You were mere bait in his trap to ensnare an innocent entrepreneur.” “Like I said, it was my idea,” I said. “And mine alone,” said the boy. “Ah…” said The Dealer as he slumped in his chair, his head rolling forward under the weight of his thick vine of hair. He stared at his finger nails, coiling and twisting over the table, their shadows tearing at its surface in the flickering light of the faltering candle. “In the panopticon they will take time’s gifts from me,” he said with a moan. “They will take everything,” we said, as the candle guttered and died.


I don’t remember when exactly I started gazing at the clouds and contemplating their meaning, but I remember why I started: I wanted to talk to God, who dwelled in the sky. I was a child, after all, and I lacked originality: He was an old man with a long white beard, white caftan, and wrinkled handsome face. That’s how I started gazing at the clouds so that I could directly talk to “him” like a friend. Whenever I was sad or angry or felt left out on the playground, I looked up at the sky and talked to God about my disappointments, and asked him for favors like “Please, make them like me”, or “I want a skateboard”. It worked, I believed, I was pretty sure it worked. He was always understanding and wise, but he never responded. As I got older, my questions transformed into “why” questions like “Why do I exist,” “Why do I have to suffer,”  or “Why do I have to walk so long to school.” One day I asked him why I had to wear glasses, which I was ashamed of. He didn’t respond, as usual, but something peculiar happened. The sky was partly cloudy, as it was springtime. While I was gazing at the clouds, behind which God sat on his mighty throne, I realized that a bunch of the clouds had the shape of almonds. The oval form of an almond could be anything, but I swear it was a true almond, nothing else. It was not just a single almond, but a handful of them together. This was a later period, when I was about fourteen, at the time when I started questioning religion, or other mysteries of reality that I wasn’t thought at school. I “felt” this was a divine sign. It was also odd because I had an allergy to almonds, so I started pondering about its relation to my question. Did God give me a clear answer for the first time since I was a kid on the playground? Maybe. I had hope and thought about this for the next couple of days on the way to school, in the evenings, and when I sat alone for the lunch break. There was this girl in the class named Jane. She had dark brown hair and blue eyes and did not pay any attention to anyone while being the center of attention herself. Sure, I liked her. My glasses were a hindrance for my cause. I wanted so badly to get rid of them. Jane would never like me with those nerdy glasses coupled with my awkward demeanor. So I asked God if he could do something about it. The almond cloud was puzzling, and it had a profound effect on me, because I once fainted after eating a handful of almonds Jack gave me during lunch break. I was still conscious when I fainted, but I didn’t feel anything else than being the only one who existed. My friend, Jack, of course, was innocent. Jack and I enjoyed each other’s company. We hated most of the classes, but I could still get good grades, whereas Jack could hardly get by. A couple of days later, we were in the biology class and the teacher was explaining about the human brain. Jack and I were chit-chatting and making silly jokes in the back row. He was chewing gum and took the gum out of his mouth to tell me that it was the brain of Mrs. Johnson, the biology teacher. I busted out laughing but managed to stop within a second. Mrs. Johnson was enraged when she realized we weren’t paying any attention and called us out in front of the whole class. We didn’t know what to expect and waited patiently for our fate at the mercy of Mrs. Johnson. We stood now at the blackboard. With her infamous stick, she pointed to a brain sketch she had drawn earlier on the blackboard. I tried to erase the image of chewing gum from my mind. Mrs. Johnson asked Jack what was on the blackboard. Jack said “Brain,” and got tapped on his head with the stick repeatedly, but rather gently. When the class started laughing, I couldn’t hold back my laughter too. Now, Mrs. Johnson had a more threatening target. I wasn’t laughing anymore. She pointed at the central part of the brain and asked me what it was. I stared out of the window as if I was trying to remember what I already knew, and this helped me gain some time. She was putting on a show for her audience just to ridicule us as a form of revenge. I said, “it looks like an almond,” of course, I was thinking of almonds the whole week and my reply was inevitable. It wasn’t meant to be a joke at all, but the whole class burst into laughter. Was this a joke from God? Maybe the old man on the clouds was laughing as well holding his huge belly and made me learn an unforgettable lesson to pray with gratitude rather than asking for favors all the time. At that moment, I looked at my classmates and saw Jane. She wasn’t laughing at all. She seemed to be the only one who wasn’t amused. I didn’t know whether to regard this as a good or a bad sign. Mrs. Johnson didn’t perform her stick skills on me, surprisingly. She explained that the brain part was called “Amygdala”, which got its Greek name because of its almond shape. So I was right after all. I loved the twist in this Greek act, which ended in my favor. On the way home that day, something unexpected happened. Jane approached me from behind and said, “You looked so dumb at the blackboard.” I said nothing, felt embarrassed, and continued walking. She didn’t leave me alone. She walked beside me, and it made me feel pretty good. I thanked God for making the way home that long. We were walking on the dirt road that split the plantation. It was partly cloudy, with the sun playing hide-and-seek. That was always the best time to gaze at clouds and interpret their meanings. After a while, Jane broke the silence. She said, “Almond,” and I turned to her expecting mockery, and saw her beautiful blue eyes, but she was fixed on something far away. She said, “Look at the tree over there, it’s an almond tree!” “How do you know?” “Gosh, you’re so silly, everybody can recognize an almond tree.” “I don’t see any almonds.” “You don’t, because it’s the blossoming time, look at those beautiful flowers.” I looked at the tree she was pointing at, the flowers were indeed beautiful, but I didn’t know how to carry the conversation forward. So I repeated, “How did you know?” “Have you ever heard of “Almond Blossoms”? They are paintings by Van Gogh. He was so excited and inspired by the blossoming fruit trees that he completed fourteen paintings within a month.” “I didn’t know you were interested in paintings.” She ignored my comment and walked on to have a closer look at the flowers. I followed her and did the same, but I found myself scrutinizing the features of her beauty, more than the flowers. I was mesmerized by the view. Her lips were full, her nose was slightly bridged, and her tiny fingers were caressing the petals of an almond flower. Even the defects seemed to align themselves in harmony like a piece of art. And I thought to myself, if I were Van Gogh, I would have definitely painted this picturesque sight of her silhouette enthralled by almond blossoms. And I did. Years later I became a semi-successful painter and painted this exact scene, and it even received high praise from the critics. Of course, I added the almond clouds in the background. It was a curious twist of fate, as this unusual interaction with Jane inspired me to become a painter and appreciate beauty. You never knew where the muse came from, although I suspect the old man on the clouds who might have prodded me with his magic staff. As for Jane, I don’t know what happened to her after we parted for high school the same year, but I am thankful as I owe her for the discovery of my passion and love. Maybe she also became a painter and painted me and Jack, as we stood awkwardly at the blackboard, I’ll never know.


I exit onto the third floor, faking a conversation on my cell phone until key meets lock.  The heavy door clicks behind me. Nine a.m. is too early to exchange cheerful pleasantries in my book, especially right after the holidays.  It’s more small talk than I can survive sober.  No wife, no kids, no fur baby photos to pull up on my phone.  I’m relegated to talking about the weather. A belated Christmas gift is waiting for me on the corner of my desk.  A navy blue tumbler, complete with flexible straw and festive bow. “I’m a social worker, NOT a miracle worker,” I read aloud with a chuckle.   A small gift tag under the bow reveals “Merry Christmas, this one is for water ONLY!” - Dot.  Tucked inside the tumbler is a freshly printed pack of business cards.

Doug Bilgewater, LGSW

Corrections Social Worker Dot sure knows how to take care of me .

She reminds me of Sheila in that way, before I fell off the wagon this last time.  Encouraging instead of condemning me.  Subtly too, so I don’t feel like a cornered animal, at risk of doing something crazy in the name of self preservation. Before Dot,  there had been Secretary Phyllis.  She turned our waiting room into a damn high school english class, plastering the walls with inspiration.  The  famous “Hang in there” cat, dangling from a branch, was  matted

and

framed behind her desk. “Be a rainbow in someone’s cloud” and “Dare to dream” were above the  water cooler.  Last year, for secret Santa, I gifted her a trio of celebrity “Drink milk” posters, but she never did hang those up.  On the back wall, lined with chairs for our waiting clientele, hung a poster so large and long, it was more like a banner.  “Mistakes are proof you are trying!”  I kept that one up after Phyllis left, because I found it irreverently hilarious.

I take a big swig of black coffee, uncap my pen with my teeth, and see saw it back and forth until the air whips in it’s wake. Might as well get this week started. Two more ex-con job placements, and the service excellence bonus is mine. Arlo White, twenty one, caucasian male.  Black hair, blue eyes.  Five foot six and one hundred fifty pounds.  He was released from the state penitentiary eight weeks prior, but is still unable to find work.

Enter Doug Bilgewater, social worker extraordinaire.

His file is pretty sparse.  Looks like he originally came from money, but lost his way in the world sometime after puberty hit.

Boo-freaking-hoo .  There is an impressive string of larcenies, but nothing overtly violent.

Good. Next, a scanned copy of Arlo’s personal survey.  He lists his top three skills as: Cooking / Cafeteria work (no doubt gained in jail.) Gardening Skiing Man, that Martha Stewart leaves a legacy wherever she goes.

When asked to “tell us a little about yourself” Arlo tells

very

little.  “I am a Former.”  The space allotted clearly beckons for more. Still, he’s not  an aspiring rapper, graffiti artist,  or prosperity preacher.  I’ll have this file closed in a week, tops.  I can feel that bonus check in my hand.  I’ll catch up on child support.  On alimony.  And then?  Forgiveness?

Dare to dream, old Phyllis would say. I take a bow in my mind to the throngs of adoring taxpayers.

The final attachment is Arlo’s photograph, provided by the jail. I groan as each photo uploads, worse than the one before it.  My left hand rubs the stubble along my jawline in despair. Arlo is a gardening, skiing, cafeteria-working skinhead.  And he is plastered in hostile, vengeful tattoos. A swastika on his left chest, a German soldier on his right.  “White” spelled vertically down one calf and “Power” down the other. An aryan fist on his cheek.  SS bolts are everywhere; on his hands, in his hairline.  Boots and laces on his forearm. R.O.A on a bicep. I deflate into the lumbar support of my office chair.  Arlo White

was  a thief. I can spin that, it’s what I do; sell second chances.  He’s served his time, paid his debt to society. At 21, he was practically a kid when he committed those crimes, and I

will

call him a kid. I will clothe him in a tasteful sports jacket, book a resume building and interview coaching seminar, and he will stand there reformed.  But Arlo White

is a blatant, vile racist.  Hatred on display for all to see. What am I supposed to do with that? I rack my brain for job options.  Between the larcenies and his appearance, retail is out of the question.

The cafeteria work is going to be tough to break into. I have a few connections, maybe he can late night food prep. Gardening is off the table for now.  It’s January, and most farms won’t risk losing their migrant workers to him in the spring. I don’t blame them. Which jobs involve clients who can’t read or recognize symbolic hatred?  Little kids?

God no.

Animals?   Maybe an agency that can put him in contact with sitting or walking pets?  I jot it down.

Skiing?  He would never be welcome at a resort looking like he does now.  Maybe back in his rich boy days.

Maybe if he wears his ski mask , I chuckle.

I meet Arlo after lunch.  He’s waiting, in a button down and khakis, under Phyllis’ banner.   I extend my hand, like I do to all my clients, even though I find him particularly repulsive. “No rock-paper-scissors gang bull crap,” I say. “Shake my hand like you want a job.” Arlo White does as I instruct and follows me into the office.  We go over his file.

“Can you pass a piss test?” I ask.  I remain intent on my paperwork, like a child instructed not to stare. Arlo nods. “Any drinking?”

“No.” He shifts in his seat. “Recreational drug use?  Illegal or prescription?“ “No, nothing like that.” “It would be easier if

that

were your issue,” I mutter. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Arlo asks. “I mean,” my annoyance and exasperation bubbling to the surface, “I don’t have a government funded face detox on speed dial. They don’t have rehabs for...” I pause and make large sweeping gestures to his face and body. “ This.” “Yeah, I got it,” Arlo says, annoyed but crestfallen.  “You don’t have to flap at me.  That’s why I’m here.” “Yeah well, no one is ever going to see

you,  when you look like that.”

I think back to my own rock bottom, the DWI, how pathetic they all thought I was. “But I told you, I’m a Former.  That’s got to count for something.” “Former what, exactly?” I say.  “White supremacist?” Arlo nods.  “Look, I’m not making excuses.  But I don’t think like that, I swear. I just, got sucked in and kept going along with it. I know it wasn’t right.” I am dubious.  Seriously considering pouring something stronger than Coke into my tumbler.  I refrain from more flapping.

“And how in God’s name exactly does that happen?” Arlo White tells me he’s been estranged from his family since fourteen.  The classic case of too much money but not enough love.  At thirteen and troubled, he started going to punk rock concerts, where he met ‘The Skins’ and subsequently infuriated his father.  He liked the music, relished  embarrassing his dad, and wanted to fit in.  Despite being short, Arlo held his own in the mosh pits.  Davey, the head of the skins gang, took note of his impressionability and his ‘power kick.’  They accepted Arlo into their fold.  When Davey discovered Arlo’s last name was White, they nicknamed him “White Power” and delivered him to get that first tattoo. “They sure used you.” I say when Arlo pauses. Arlo shrugs. “I knew what it meant, but I didn’t care.  I cared about how I felt, not how it made anyone else feel.  Later though, I always wore pants.”

Arlo goes along with the skins unquestioningly.  He’s easily the smallest and least intimidating in the gang, which helps him stay on the periphery of physical violence and intimidation. Instead,  he becomes quite the thief. “I wasn’t busting heads, but it funded their message,” Arlo admits. Eventually, Arlo gets caught. Again and again, until he is no longer a minor, and handed a sizable prison sentence.  In prison, the inmates quickly pick up on his tattoo.  He’s a prison rookie.  Short, slim, and scared.

“That’s when I really played into it,” Arlo admits. “They assumed I thought like them, because of my tattoo.  So that’s the faction I joined.  I needed  the protection they offered me.” “So you got all the other tattoos in prison?” I ask. Arlo nods.  “The first few, I pretended to want.  They were still wary of me as the new guy.  After that, I was their practice dummy until I either ran out of skin or a newer recruit showed up.” I sigh.  It doesn’t feel right to pity him, what he’s done.  How he’s completely derailed the life he could have had.  And I don’t pity myself for it either. I can only feel sorrow for us both. A silence has settled over my office, so I glance back at our agenda.  “Tomorrow, I’ve got two interviews lined up for you.  Food prep at Toby’s Diner and a phone interview with Pet Match.” Arlo frowns.  “I don’t do dogs,” he says. “What?  Why not?” “I don’t.....like them,” he eakes out. “There are plenty of small, nice dogs we can find.  Pet Match is our middle man, you can book jobs over the phone.  Beggars can’t be choosers Arlo.  Just get your foot in the door.” But Arlo just shakes his head emphatically. I see his fear.  He’s scared of dogs, I realize.

“Thanks for scoring me the restaurant interview Mr. Bilgewater.  I’ll watch the seminars tonight.  Once I’m working, I’m saving everything I can to cover these up.” Arlo stands and extends his hand to me.  Our hour is up. We shake on it.  “Sounds good.” “Hey Arlo?” He turns at the doorway. “I had a nickname for you too, after I read your skills list.” “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, Martha Stewart.” I grin.  “What do you think?” Arlo gives me a closed lip smile.  “I’ll take it.” I slip my shoes off at my door, toss my tie onto the back of my armchair, keep my keys in my coat pocket. The apartment is dim and quiet, as always. I swing open the narrow pantry door, my dinner options before me. A blue box, or styrofoam cup-o-something with a foiled paper lid. What would Sheila think if she could see me now?   Sheila, lover of all things wellness.  She would be horrified. I close the pantry door sheepishly, scramble some eggs and pour some orange juice.

Better. There’s no doubt Sheila had been my much, much better half.  The moral compass of our tight ship. She was actually an esthetician, which I had always just associated with vanity.  But if you knew Sheila, self care, not vanity, was her mantra.  She was the friend that insisted you put your own oxygen mask on before assisting others.  The rest, according to her, would fall into place.

Sheila exuded love and acceptance.  As her practice  grew she obtained further certifications in lasers.  She started pro bono work in the evenings, minimizing the scars of domestic violence survivors.  Sometimes it was an obvious laceration.  Less frequently, it was the branding marks of a cult, or the tattoo left behind by traffickers.  Some survivors, she said, could wear the marks as a badge of courage.  But others needed them erased to truly move on. When I broke her heart for the last time, she said I was killing us both. The next morning, Arlo meets me outside of Toby’s Diner.  He’s dressed in the sports coat I’ve loaned him. His shoulders are squared, he looks confident.  I on the other hand, slept like crap, and it shows. “Rough night?” Arlo asks me.  He extends his hand. “You could say that.  Let’s do this.”  A minivan pulls up along side us with a carload of kids.  I catch the driver’s eye, and he frowns.  I freeze, hoping they won’t engage us. Arlo sees them too.  He drops his arm at his side quietly.  Even his social worker is too embarrassed to shake hands in public. We linger in the lot, and let the family go ahead of us. “Sorry about that.” I mutter. Arlo shrugs. When we enter, Toby ushers us into a back office.  A line cook grimaces as we pass.

“Thanks for the opportunity of this interview.” Arlo says graciously.

Just like the seminar.  Atta boy. Toby seems genuinely surprised by how well spoken he is. By the end of the interview, Arlo has even gotten Toby laughing.

“Let me take a peek at the next schedule.” Toby rises and starts sifting papers on his desk.  A hostess knocks, opens the door a few finger widths, and in a hushed tone requests a word with him.

“Pardon me for just a moment.” Toby excuses himself to the hallway.  A muffled exchange ensues, I’m not sure for how long, dread drags everything out.  When Toby returns, he has a serious look on his face.  “I’m really sorry Arlo. You’re just......” He trails off then corrects himself.  “It’s just not worth it. I wish you the best of luck.” I stand, ready to plead our case but Arlo has risen too, already shaking hands and thanking Toby for his time.

We make our way back to my car in silence.  Arlo winds up and kicks a chunk of snow clean from its bank, obliterating it. We both sit inside for a bit, keys still in my pocket.  I’m not sure where else to go.   It’s too early to go home and accept defeat, but I’m out of job leads for today.  Arlo fidgets and bounces his leg rapid fire off my floorboards. What would Sheila do?  She really could be my patron saint, I decide. Perhaps I should say a little prayer to her, but it’s not like she’s dead. Well, maybe I am to her. Does that count? I rack the universe for clues.  When I turn the car on again, I know. “Arlo, we are going skiing.” We stop at my place first to change.  I’ve never been skiing, and I don’t pretend to have high performance athletic gear.

“Every man for himself!” I cry while opening the closet and dresser drawers.   I find the only swoosh adorned sweatshirt I own,  and my grandmothers knit socks.

 “Wow. Doug. I’m impressed. I didn’t know you had such a sophisticated wardrobe.” Arlo finds a green tracksuit in the back of my closet that swishes too loudly when he walks. “What do you think?” Arlo holds his hands out and gives a slow spin, grinning. “I think that belonged to my ex wife,” I chuckle. Arlo puts his hands on his hips. “Well in that case, who wore it better?” ”Definitely Sheila. You look like freakin’ Gumby!”  It feels good to smile. Arlo laughs too, and is adamant we pickup a green ski mask from his motel.  “I’ve got quite the collection,” he smirks. I add lightly “You should probably make sure it doesn’t come off.” He gives me a small nod. West Mountain is absolute magic.  Arlo still turns heads, but he’s met with smiles when people point.  He’s covered head to toe in green, others are chuckling with the same Gumby jokes that entered my mind. I think he might even start a new trend. It gets even better when he skis. The masked Gumby is larger than life.  He bends and sways between flags.  Takes a few selfies with admirers on the chairlift, then tries to coax me out on the bunny hill.

“Pizza!  Frenchfries!” Arlo instructs me how to point my skis, but I think I’m a lost cause.  I either fall down, or don’t move.  I’m busy jotting down local sports leagues anyway.  Could there be any vacancies for mascots?  That would be a first for me. I’m on a bench when two boys, brothers probably, approach Arlo.  Their ages around 8 and 12, if I had to guess.  The smaller boy is absolutely swimming in a black sweatshirt and sweatpants.  The larger boy also doesn’t appear to come from great means; draped in layers of bulky cotton in lieu of a crisp nylon shell. Arlo appears to be offering them the same beginner lessons I flunked out of.  But they take right to it, french frying  and pizza-ing all the way down the bunny hill, again and again.  Eventually, Arlo shows them how to pop off their bindings and someone tosses the first snow ball.  I catch my breath in my throat when it seems to devolve into a playful Gumby wrestle-mania.  The kids are hanging on him without warning, trying to take him down to the snowy ground.  Arlo fights to stay upright, swinging playfully, but trapped. I’m too slow to make it to them in time.  Damn snow, damn skis.  “That’s enough kids!” That’s all I can call down to them through cupped hands.

There’s five of them now, unable to control themselves in the quest to take down Gumby. Arlo doesn’t fall until his clothing rips.  The vintage polyester windbreaker tears under the weight of dangling children. The sound of rotting fabric threatens to break me. Arlo loses his balance as one of the kids falls away, clutching the piece of cloth.  I am running and stumbling towards them.

“Stop!” I yell out. “Got ya!” The 12 year old boy shouts in glee, removing Arlo’s mask.  They both freeze for a moment,  eyes wide, inches apart.  At least half the mountainside takes a collective gasp. The boy recoils and scrambles to his feet.  Anger flushes his face.

“Man, what the hell is this!” He stands now between Arlo and his brother. “I’m sorry.” Arlo says. “You weren’t supposed to see.” Tears leap to the boy’s eyes “See what?  See that you hate me?” He wipes his nose with the back of his sweatshirt. “My mom says people like you actually just hate themself.”  He grabs his brother by the hand. “And I have to remind myself of that almost every single day.” The brothers turn to walk away. Parents are hurriedly steering their children away.  “I just didn’t see it coming from you.” Arlo and I walk back to the car, hushed disapproval from everyone we pass.  There’s nothing to say in the moment, and neither of us try.  I drop him off at his motel. “I’ll call tomorrow to check in,” I pause.   “With any job leads, I mean.” “Go home, Doug,” Arlo says quietly and shuts the door in my face. I sit in my car for a long time after that. Asking Saint Sheila what she would do, but I don’t know.  Her heart was always for the victims of  life’s tragedies, not the perpetrators. I don’t even know what Arlo is anymore.  Messy, like me I guess.  But there was a time Sheila gave even me a second chance.  So I pick up the phone. “Sheila.  It’s me Doug.  Look, if you’re there, it’s not about me.  I know someone who needs your help.” She doesn’t hang up.


“Are you hungry?” I squinted after rubbing my eyes for a few seconds but the image in front of me was still all blurry and I didn’t recognise the voice. “Are you hungry? Would you like something to eat?” A young woman with big pitiful eyes leaned down in front of me asked again. My mouth was too dry to speak and when I tried to talk my tongue flopped out. I moved my lips around frantically attempting to undo the stickiness and to fight off the sour taste. The young woman forced a smile and laid a bologna sandwich on white bread in plastic wrap in front of me. Then she gently placed a cup of coffee and a blueberry muffin beside the sandwich, squeezed out another thin smile and scurried off. “Lunch.” Oh man, I remembered that I had a lunch meeting at 1:00 with the Board of Directors. What time was it now? I raised my left arm up to check my Rolex for the time. It was gone! I was never without my gold Rolex Day-Date strapped to my wrist. I tried to stand up but my legs had fallen asleep and I immediately lost my balance and fell over face first into a pile of newspaper, cardboard, and trash. I just laid there motionless for a bit. I was at a loss. “Where am I?” I rolled over and propped myself back up off the ground with my hands. That's when I noticed how filthy they were. Covered in grime. Dirty fingernails. "I'm going to need a manicure." I stuck my tongue out again. "I’m going to miss my lunch meeting”, I thought desperately. “Oh God, what if I’ve already missed it? Where the Hell am I? What happened? Ok, stop. Calm down. Think”, I thought. “What are the most obvious facts?” I stretched my legs out as I contemplated. “I am alive. I am a man. I am downtown. My name is Todd, Todd Cooke. I am the CEO of a major company and I have a very important lunch meeting today with the Board at 1:00”, I mumbled to myself, out loud. I spotted some cheap looking guy in a tacky readymade suit gawking at me chuckling as he walked past. “Hey! You laughing at me guy?” Did he steal my watch? Was he working with with the sandwich woman? I needed to call Rachel, my secretary. Surely she’d know what was going on-she was the last person I remembered seeing. We were together, in the office. I searched my pockets for my phone. Gone. The clothes I was wearing were disgusting and soiled. My normally pristine, tailored grey Tom Ford suit was all rumpled and dirty from top to bottom. My Louboutin oxfords were so scuffed up they looked like a pair of worn out Chuck-Taylors. “Someone is going to pay, BIG TIME, for this”, I shouted. "BIG TIME!" I stood up, slowly so that I wouldn’t fall down again, steadied myself against a building and watched the endless stream of pedestrians walking past me. They looked more like an organised parade of sloppy meat shapes than successful people. "Losers." I needed to use a phone. One of these meat shapes should surely recognise my pedigree and the seriousness of my situation. “Hey, hey buddy... Hey you..... Hey babe, I need to use your phone real quick it’s URGENT. Hey. I just need to call my secretary.” I snapped my fingers. None of them stopped or even looked at me. They all just schlepped along like stupid sheep. “Can anyone just tell me what time it is?” Finally, a hipster looking guy with tight pants, a pink knit cap, and a little moustache stopped and said, “yeah it’s 11:35 man” “Thanks buddy,” I said, “I need to use your phone.” The hipster guy looked at me blankly. “Are you hungry? Do you need something to eat”, he asked. “Hungry? I need a phone. I have an important lunch meeting with the board of directors at 1:00 and someone stole my Rolex and I just need to call Rachel. Get it!?", I shouted. “Ha ha whatever dude. Take it easy”, he said and he put his headphones back in his ears and casually walked away. “Phone!” Smart ass. I still had plenty of time to make the luncheon- if I could just remember where it was. My brain was still so foggy. I closed my eyes and slapped my forehead. I smacked myself in the face repeatedly until it finally came to me. “Oh yes of course! We have a private room reserved at Crayon (the upscale French fusion place) for twelve at 1:00”, I shouted. My legs were still numb so prayed to God that my car was somewhere nearby because I’d certainly never make it anywhere on foot in my present condition. I limped along the street scanning all of the parked cars for mine. "Where, is , my , car?" Looking. Looking. Looking. “Ah-Ha ha ha - there she is.” I spotted my beautiful silver Mercedes parked in front of a meter. The parking space was even paid up for another hour. Finally a bit of luck. "I’ll drive back to my luxury top floor apartment, clean myself up, get to Crayon, discuss the revenue, sales, and marketing performance to the board and pitch my new idea." Then I’d figure out what happened to me and who stole my watch. “Perfect.” Except that I couldn’t find my keys anywhere. I pulled all of my pockets inside out. I even pulled my pants down and back up just in case they were tucked into the waistband. I tugged on the drivers side handle thinking that maybe the door would be unlocked and the keys would be inside. But no. Nope. Frustrated. I kicked the door over and over angrily and then I flung myself onto the hood and flailed my arms and legs about violently until I had no energy left. Exhausted, I just laid there looking up at the grey sky panting heavily and moaning. My eyes got too heavy to keep open. “Are you hungry?”a monotone voice asked. “What?” My eyes shot open. Standing in front of me, leaning slightly forward, was a thin well tailored server with a little moustache and a black bow tie. Elegant. He said, “well if you’re hungry, and sophisticated, I would recommend the Pate de foie volaille with our clafoutis aux myrtilles and a café aux noisettes. It’s a playful little combination and a personal favourite.” His face was completely expressionless. I ran my palm over my hair and looked around while rubbing the back of my neck. The server remained motionless with his eyes fixed upon me. “Yeah, yeah that sounds good. That sounds great”, i stammered. The server bowed his head and whisked himself away into the kitchen. I looked at my wrist. My Rolex showed that the time was 1:12. “Ha! I made it to lunch.” “Are you alright Todd?” Harrison Knox, the chairman of the board asked, as he took a sip from his old fashioned. The members of the board were all present, impeccably dressed. They sat motionless and silent, facing me. Before I could speak the server arrived with my food and placed it in front of me. Harrison was still waiting for an answer. I told him the truth. “I’m a very important business man, CEO of a major company”, I said. “Yes”,the board agreed in unison. “I am very successful” “Yes that’s true”, they all said, nodding their heads in agreement. “My secretary Rachel is very efficient and furthermore she is a total hardbody and I’ve been having a sexy affair with her because I myself am very handsome, and it’s very chic.” “Yes that’s true, she certainly is and you surely are.” The members of the board shook their heads approvingly. I tucked into my food. “Shall we start the big meeting?” I asked with my mouth full. “Yes, lets get down to business and begin the big important business meeting now”, Harrison said. He lit up a cigar and winked at me. Then I gave a fantastic presentation while I ate. The board was so impressed that they all shook my hand and patted me on the back and I was given a promotion and a raise and I felt like a million bucks, and the food, the food in that place was exquisite.... A young woman and a hipster looking guy wearing a pink cap were sitting next to each other across the street in a coffee shop watching Todd mutter incoherently to himself while eating a bologna sandwich. “That poor man. I gave him a sandwich and a coffee on my way to class this morning” Todd was shaking hands with the air. “Yeah he wanted my phone.” “He’s always out there. Every day. Wearing those same old dirty clothes. I wonder what his deal is. Like what goes on in his head-who is he talking to. Ya know? I wonder who he was, before he ended up out there.” The hipster looking guy with the pink hat shrugged. “I dunno.” Silence. The hipster looking guy with the pink cap touched the young woman’s hand. “I was late to class this morning. I almost just skipped class altogether, I hate statistics. I didn’t even have time to eat breakfast. I’m starving. Are you hungry?”