I’m a liar. I’m really good at lying. I never understood why I feel the need to constantly tell stories, but it has become something of habit. I want to say that it is my general insecurity about my weight, and my poor personal choices, but I know that there has to be more to it than that. I’ve let so many people down, and it’s a shame really. I’ve missed out on some serious friendships because of the way I am. I’m a handful, and I know that. I sincerely wish I could just be myself, but I’m ashamed of who I am. I’ve been lying for as long as I can remember. I used to tell kids in middle school that I was actually a ninja, or a wizard, or a vampire— whatever was trendy at the time. But I wouldn’t just say it once and move on, oh no, I would push it and elaborate into the story until it was like a wild fire blowing through a forest. Thing is, once it got to that point, there was no way for me to stop it, and it would burn out of control until it fizzled out into smoke. Smoke, just like the stories I was sharing. I make myself sick sometimes thinking about the things that I say and why I say them. It’s maddening. I thought that before it was to impress people, and while, sure that is a reason some of the times now I can’t help but think it is more or less just a part of who I am now. I lie about everything. There isn’t a story i’ve shared that I haven’t embellished even a little for no reason. I’m a sucker for the reactions, and the attention, i’ll admit. One of the worst things though, is how my lying has gotten me in trouble, and I don’t seem to learn. I believe this is the reason behind my severe anxiety. I feel guilty all of the time! I am always looking over my shoulder and pretending that everything is okay but deep down I know I am doing something that is not okay. How do I fix this? What can I do to change? It seems like any time I try to improve and do better I fall back like an old dog doing the same tricks. I feel like this is something that, if I don’t get past, will hinder me for the rest of my life. It scares me how much I buy into my own bullshit, and I want nothing more than to be free from this. I have people who love and care about me and don’t even know the real me because of how masqueraded i’ve let myself become in my lies. It’s maddening. I feel like I have become a monster, uncontrollable. Vile, and self-loathing because I have built up such a facade. I lead two lives, and sometimes I wonder which one is really in control. There is so much people don’t know about me, that I don’t know about myself. It’s terrifying. I look in the mirror and I can see it, and I wonder if anyone else can. So many people believe that I am truly a decent person and it’s hard for me to swallow. I don’t feel that way, I feel toxic. I am a venom, venom that sneaks its way into your drink and burns you from the inside out. I will watch you let your guard down for me, and rely on me while I keep myself jaded. I will watch you believe in me, trust me, love me — all the while filling your heads with myths. I will convince you that you love this false me, knowing full well I can’t deliver what i’ve sold you. Then, when I have gotten you in your most fragile state, I will strike — like a python and blindside you. Leaving you in shock, confused, and hurt. I will cut and run, and I won’t think twice about it. I know I do this because i’ve done this so many times. Poor Meghan, poor Lorelei, poor Maggie, poor Nicole, Poor Mikayla. I am the worst, and I want more than anything to stop. It has become me, and I have become it. I am a downward spiral. At work, I lie. I lie about everything I do outside of work. After I clock out I punch out and I go home and sit in the dark and I write this, or I watch television, or I sleep. I make up stories about anything.. women, adventures, anything. I want to spice up my life, and in some twisted sociopathic way I believe that this is the only way to do it. It’s grotesque. My best friends, friends I have had for years have no idea who I am, but neither do I. I want to get help, I want to better myself and be honest, but I am uncertain how I can do this anymore. I sometimes honestly believe I might be a sociopath, and it used to scare the shit out of me, but it doesn’t anymore. Now, I feel empty. I don’t feel anything about this assumption, and I believe that is more terrifying than being afraid of it. Am I wired differently? Am I different? How can I change? I don’t know what I am doing writing all this down.. but it seems somewhat therapeutic. My therapist told me to write, and I started to. I’m trying to be honest with him, and it’s only been one visit and I believe I truly was sincere. I could pin-point when I wanted to lie though, and I stopped myself. Maybe I want to be fixed and because of that I put in the effort with him. But if I can do it with him can I do it with anyone else? Time will tell.


Linoleum: A Tale of Loss and Madness Bob’s eyes flickered ceaselessly around the small room, seeming to fall everywhere at once, everywhere except for the wall they avoided. He smoked and paced, never still, exhaling reinforcement into the smoke-filled room. Bob’s hand shook, it usually did. The pitching cherry caught his eye, a drunken firefly in the haze. Bob’s eyes stilled, as he caught the rhythm of his hand’s dance, then with earnestness, he took the lead. His hand blurred, penning a disappearing masterwork in the air, the cigarette burning down towards the callous. He moved frantically, he saw it all coming together, it was— Bob yelped in pain and outrage, hurling the butt, and sucking his fingers, as the manuscript faded into nothing. He yelled hoarsely in frustration; he shook, a bull considering a charge then, stopped. The only other occupant was an old dog, asleep in the corner. In a display of nonchalance, that his jerking eyes called a lie, he pulled another cigarette from the crumpled pack. He aimed the pack back to his pocket, but his shaking hand missed, and Bob watched the pack fall to the dirty linoleum with a frown. He sighed, let the cigarette and resumed his pacing. “Possessions never meant anything to me.” Bob declared. The dog snuffled in his sleep. “I’m not crazy!” Bob exclaimed over his shoulder, more forcefully than the unasked question warranted. The dog looked up in sleepy confusion. Bob draped him with a glare, then waved it off with annoyance and plowed into the smoke. It seemed to bristle at his trespass, but was unable to veer from its indifferently welcoming nature. From deep in the haze there was an almost inaudible whisper, “Well, that’s not true.” Emerging from the smoke with new resolve, Bob tried to stick out his index finger, but stopped half way, realizing it was still in use holding the cigarette and opted for his little finger instead. “I’ve got a bed,” he listed. He added his ring finger to the count, “and a guitar.” Now, he was just holding his hand up in the air. There was a yap from the corner; the old hound had decided to join in, not really interested, but refusing to be left out. “And a dog,” Bob agreed, with a nod of affection to his only companion. Bob tried to add another finger to the list, but wiggling his thumb didn’t seem right, and the rest were all in use. “Named Bob,” he shot at the dog, getting frustrated and stalling for time. Bob the Dog cocked his head slightly, and gave a guttural inquiry as to whose fault that was. The dog being right didn’t improve Bob’s mood, and the finger list situation was deteriorating rapidly. With a growl of frustration, Bob hurled his cigarette at Bob the Dog, it sailed wide and the dog pretended not to notice. Bob shook himself out and changed gears, he looked down at his free hands with determination. He wiggled his fingers and cracked his knuckles with a victorious laugh and…still couldn’t achieve the dexterity to hold up three fingers and keep two down. Bob deflected his frustrations back at Bob the Dog, pointing at the floor in accusation. “Who pisses on my floor! “, he accused, pointing, till his scowl turned to a lecherous grin. “That’s right,” he screamed in triumph, “I’ve got a floor”. He fell to his knees on the grimy linoleum holding up his four outstretched fingers, and kissed the floor in victory. Bob the Dog gave a disgusted snort, and began licking his asshole. “So, what?” Bob threw at the dog, “So, what!” Bob the Dog looked up from his grooming, and skeptically waited for a point. “So, what…”, Bob seemed to be out of ideas. “I’ve got pockets?” he tried. “Full of ….” Reaching into his right pocket for a lifeline, he found, “…Kleenex,”. Shit, but he had another chance. “And…,“ Bob reached deep into his left pocket and found nothing but his leg. The bottom was broken through. He pulled his hand out, releasing a galaxy of dust that floated, alive for a moment, and then sunk down towards oblivion. Bob tried to find a meaning, “Lint?” he said, feeling there should have been more. Bob the Dog the Dog stood up, circled once and flopped back into the same position. The dog glanced back at Bob sadly and then closed his eyes. Shit, he’d thought he had more than that, but he had nothing, nothing but… “Holes.” Bob whispered. He looked down at the muddy, stained, indistinguishably colored linoleum and saw the fallen pack of cigarettes. His eyes stilled, as he seemed to try out a thought. He started slowly, like he was sounding out the words, “Where everything important to me just…”, then gained some long-buried confidence, “seems to fall right down my leg.” Bob stopped, and looked down, the crumpled softpack waiting lonely below. “And onto the floor?” he tried, uncertainly. That wasn’t right, something there; but he was losing it. Bob the Dog’s chest rose and fell peacefully, snuffling softly, still, it was Bob’s only chance. “My closest friend?”, he implored. Bob the Dog snorted groggily, looked up and met Bob’s eye. Bob was pulled into the dogs mind, some senses expanding so far, others, nearly gone. He was content, and as he accepted his place he began to feel the symphony of life and death that was forever playing all around; beautiful, sad, deranged; it was everything that was and would be, and every being that lived had a part the song. Bob fell back into himself, it was like jumping from bed into a frozen lake. The symphony and comfort were gone. Tears filled Bob’s eyes. Bob the Dog farted. Bob gaped up in disgust and was met by a big shit-eating grin. The Dog’s point now seemingly proven, he turned in a circle, and peacefully melted down to a blob on the floor. Bob looked down. “Linoleum…” He turned in his circle and then lay down into the floor. “Linoleum,” he whispered. His head drooped and his cheek joined with the floor, in cool comfort. “Supports my head. Gives me something to believe.” Bob’s eyes closed, the floor was warm. He slept and dreamed, or maybe just remembered. He was a young man meandering happily down the water’s edge, holding a cheap metal detector in one hand and a brown bagged bottle in the other. Smiling, enjoying the day, oblivious to the glares of the surrounding people. “That’s me,” laughed Bob. He was so young, in his prime and loving. He was singing, and Bob sang along with himself. “On the beachfront, combing the sand, metal meter, in my hand…” Young Bob trailed off. He never had figured out the end. He roamed on up the beach, stooping occasionally to pick up a few coins and deposit them in his worn khaki cargo pants. “Sporting a pocket full of change”, Bob sang softly, finishing the tune. That sounded alright, or maybe it was shit. He dug his toe into sand and felt warm linoleum just below the surface. He looked down and was standing on cement. Bob was older now, the world had tried to wear him down, he was beaten, but still had the spirit of the boy on the beach hidden underneath. Bob’s face lit with a sad wistful smile, “That’s me on the street with a violin under my chin, playing with a grin.” He’d loved to play the violin, these were his most peaceful memories. Bob closed his eyes and listened for the tune. His smile wilted as the grating screeches of music and incoherent lyrics resolved. People shied back. “Singing gibberish.” All his strings were broken. Security moving in. Bob squeezed his eyes shut, trying to wake. He didn’t. He was restrained. His last moments of freedom. “That’s me on the back of the bus.” Bob was back in the smoky room. In front of him the door, on the wall he didn’t look at, opened. Inside was a white room with no sharp corners, a single prisoner inside. “That’s me in the cell.” Bob met his eyes, and both pairs stilled. Bob In The Cell lay down, softly repeating a mantra. “That’s me inside your head.” “That’s me inside your head.” “That’s me inside your head.” Bob closed the door.


Working at the mall was rarely intriguing. Interesting occasionally, funny sometimes, but always with a thick blanket of boredom and monotony. Helping customers and stocking the small shelves had become an essentially autonomous process for me, and most days my mind would settle into a trance, only waking when my scheduled breaks gave me a moment of escape. Of course, escape is a pretty limited ordeal when you have to be back at the store in 10 minutes. When there's nothing but mall and parking lots for half a mile in every direction, there just aren't many options. People watching, wandering the mall, every now and then a brief moment of curiosity when a new shop moves in. Trying to guess what sort of goods or services will be offered based on the newly installed sign. Meeting the new shift regulars. But Precision Offerings was different than the other new stores, and that, for once, made my job intriguing. For starters, no one seemed to even know they were looking to move in before they opened. Usually a space is open for a month or two between one seasonal shop and the next. Not so for Precision Offerings. One Friday, space C-18 was the Summer Supply Store, on Saturday they were completely hauled out, and Precision Offerings was open by 10AM Sunday. At least, they had a sign up saying they were open. I'd only caught a glimpse from a floor above on my way in that morning, it looked like their store was still pretty empty. But the lights were on and the door was open. I decided I'd wait until lunch to take a closer look. I clocked in, tranced out, and before long it was time to eat. Unpacking my bag lunch, I'm faced with a new dilemma. My gluten-free, vegan room mate has prepared a lovely concoction of garlicky herbal spreads and strange super-fruits that I'm sure he'd been looking forward to. But instead, he's probably unwrapping my leftovers from Taco Macho and the potato wedges I'd tossed together for lunch. Damn. On my way to the food court, I can take a small detour to check out the new store. There's no line, but that's not too surprising for the very first day. Walking into the mostly white store, I'm struck by my inability to identify what kind of place it is. One one shelf, there's some motor oil and an.. alternator? I'm not great with car parts. Another shelf has a very finely crafted Victorian style doll. Near what I took to be the checkout counter, there was a small food case with a single muffin, a pastrami on rye sandwich, and two oranges. Each shelf in the store was bare except for a single item or small collection of related things, but I couldn't come up with any reasoning to link them all together. "Would you like a sandwich, or some oranges?" the clerk asked me. Wearing mostly white, I'd almost not noticed him standing behind the counter. He looked like most mall clerks do, young, well kept, but with a smile that says "I'd rather be on my phone". "Oh, actually.." I replied, suddenly remembering my lunch dilemma, ".. a sandwich does sound pretty good. How much is it?" "$6.17 with tax" he said. Not a bad deal for lunch, and worth trying out the new grub. Plus I wouldn't have to wait in line at the Wendy's downstairs. "So, first day, huh? I work a couple floors down. How's business?" I asked. "It's been just fine, like usual. New place, same store, you know?" "Oh, so you moved in from somewhere else? That explains how you got set up so quick. It's usually a longer process" I said, with a slightly impressed tone. "Well, truth is, it's really easy to set up a Perfect Offerings store. No signage, no displays, just a few shelves and a tiny inventory" he explained, gesturing to the mostly empty floor. "Setting up on the first day is almost exactly the same as any other day, just in a new spot." "Ok, well, now you've got me stumped. I see what you have on display here, but.. what kind of shop is this, exactly?" I asked, finally letting my curiosity get the best of me. He smiled, and with a practiced delivery said "Precision Offerings sells exactly what you need, when you need it, and not a single thing more. Guaranteed." I waited for the punchline, but he said no more. His phone rang, and he quickly thanked me for my business before getting into a conversation with someone who was having car troubles. While I ate lunch, which was pretty tasty actually, I wondered just what he'd meant. It was surely some corporate slogan that only holds up when interpreted in a specific way, but usually I can figure out what they mean. I'll have to come back to it sometime, break is just about up and I still need to piss. Over the next few days, I can't stop wondering about Precision Offerings. I started using my morning break to walk by, and peer in through the windows. Every day, there were new items in the store. Strangely, they were entirely new each day. A pinata, recliner, and hand made wooden loom one day, balloons, duct tape, and tax software the next. Nothing was ever on sale for more than a day. It wasn't long before I realized what I was actually seeing, and the revelation made me angry. The only way someone could make money selling such a diverse selection of stuff is if the stuff is coming to them for free. This wasn't a pawn shop trying to sell anything worth anything, it was something different. I started to suspect this was some sort of specialized fencing operation. Steal a few things here, a few things there, from shops and stores around the mall, then sell them in a weird little store. Like I said before, the mall was usually pretty boring, so my mind had lots of time to speculate. That's how I found myself devising a plan to follow the clerk one night. I stayed late after my shift, and waited for him to close the store. As usual, the shelves were empty at this point, I still hadn't figured out what he did with the unsold items. He turned off the lights, pulled down the security gate, and locked up. Then, with almost uncanny precision, he turned to look straight at me. "Hello, I have seen you watching my store. I think you're ready to ask some questions, but it will be much easier if you meet me here in the morning before I open. Will you come?" he asked, as though he were casually inviting me to go get a drink. "I.. uh.. sure" I uttered, the words barely making it out over my surprise at being called out so swiftly. "Great. See you then!" And with that, he put on his headphones and strolled off. I considered following him, but just as I did, he looked back and gave me a friendly wave. Maybe I shouldn't. I didn't sleep very well that night. "Ok, I'm not going to beat around the bush. I'm going to tell you how this works, and you won't believe me, but it's the truth." The clerk, who's name turned out to be Claude, was giving me an earnest look with no indication of sarcasm. "Every morning, when I open the store, there's a box behind the counter. In the box is The List, and today's items. The List tells me what each thing is, and how much it will sell for. I set the things up, and then wait for the customers." "Everything sells, every single day. I don't know how, or why, but every thing I put up on the shelves gets bought. I've put things up there that make absolutely no sense to sell, old newspapers, broken plates, VHS tapes, you name it. But no matter what it is, if it comes from the box and it's on the list, it gets bought. That's it. That's the whole store." "Bullshit" I said. "Everyone knows mall shops are games of margins. No one sells 100% of their stock, regardless of what they sell." "I know, I know. I didn't believe it at first either. But it always works. Every single day." His expression was still serious. I was starting to wonder just how committed he was to this trolling. "Well, I guess that makes your job pretty easy then, huh?" I asked. "It is effortless. I do not have to manage inventory, deal with complaints or returns, or run promotions. I open the store, I sell the items, and I go home." "Huh. How's the pay?" I asked, deciding to entertain this little nonsense for the moment. "It's pretty good." He showed me. It was. "Hah. Wow. How do you wind up with such a sweet gig?" "Here's the part you really won't believe. You just.. ask." He said, looking expectantly at me. "So I just say, 'Can I have a job?'" I asked. "Don't you already have one?" he replied. "This is a full time position, you can't work a second job with it." "Sure, but for that pay, and such an easy gig, I'd leave my old shop behind in a heartbeat. You know, if it was real, and not some elaborate prank." "Of course" he said. "I just realized, I didn't ask you your name yet." "Me? I'm Nick." I told him, surprised it hadn't come up yet. "Nick, check this out." He reached into a drawer, pulled out a box knife, and cut into the box behind the counter. Lying neatly on top was a small metal nametag. "Nick". He handed it to me. "Size L, waist 38?" he asked, as he handed me a shrunk wrapped pile of white clothing. "What the hell is this?" I asked. "Nick, this is your new job. Assuming you're still interested?" And that's how I started at Precision Offerings. The easiest job I've ever had, at the weirdest shop that mall ever had, which was maybe the worst decision I ever made.


A man was lost, hopeless, and alone in a desert that seemed to expand beyond the horizon endlessly. He walked over dune after dune for miles without purpose for he did not know whether he would ever escape this scorched land. He was at the mercy of the fiery wind as were the sand grains that raked his flesh. His thoughts in his wearisome head led him to the belief that this was the whole of his world. No edge, no end, and no escape foreseen. Memory of anywhere but here forsook him then. This was the cruel and merciless world wherein he would inevitably see the Noseless One, he thought, before being dragged into His shadows. His body, emotions, and thoughts were slowly approaching the End. Why weep? Why curse the land? He reflected. By *his own hands* he laid the cobblestones for the road which led him hither. He fell to his knees and felt the sting of the boiling sand. Even in his ascent to the crest of a dune that nearly shrouded the desert with its size, the man only beheld more aimless dunes in the forlorn horizon, condemned to the same lake of sand and fire as his soul. He then noticed some ways yonder a piece of paper that was folded up as if with human care. It lay buried halfway in the sand, becoming gradually unearthed by the wind. The man, now perplexed with its presence, walked to the where paper had hitherto lain and plucked it from the mouth of the sand. He unfolded it and held it delicately as one would hold a talisman. On it was written in large simple handwriting: I love you! The words of this mysterious short letter dumbfounded the man so severely that he was about to cast it away, feeling as he had been struck by a malevolent curse. He checked himself short, however, and reread the handwriting. The words he began to recognize but he knew not how. Warm, sweet, and euphonious were these words to his heart as he read them aloud again and again. He only wished to know its source. He knew not the source of this land—it was eternal as far as he knew in his haze of thoughts—but he wished at least to know the source of this enigmatic letter. Suddenly, as he had been gazing about the once barren desert, his eyes balked at a ribbon of bright colors below. Erelong, the colors manifested in the form of an exotic creature and the man quickly saw that it was a woman. His dull eyes brighten at the sight of her. She had auburn hair, a sun-kissed countenance and green eyes which cared not for the hot and dry hell they were in. Stupefied by the beautiful sight, the man thought time stopped and the earth he felt cool. She usurped the whole of everything he saw. The desert ceased to be his everything. Every light hitting his retina became hers. She appeared as lost as he and laid her gentle eyes on him from afar. She ambled to the summit of the dune whereon the man stood helpless. Every footprint she left in the sand, the man could have sworn, became of quartz. Her presence was unexplainable and the man thought her magical. The woman beamed and walked with grace to the man in a way that bespoke familiarity, whereof the man could not comprehend. Feeling the air chill around him, the man smiled back as a sudden joy began to pour into his vena cavas and fill his parched heart. He was happy to see the woman but he did not know why. Perhaps, because he was no longer lonesome? The man thought and thought but that wasn’t the reason. No. He felt there was something more. They walked to each other until their eyes met at a meter’s distance. “Did you write in that piece of paper?” He asked. The woman giggled then nodded sincerely. The man felt his heart hesitate. “Why, of all places, did you leave it here? Was that for me?” The woman’s cheeks rose and her mouth curved into a bright smile. “Yes, those words were written for you. As for why I chose to leave it here, I have been longing for the day you would find me. This is your last journey and I could not bear to remain hidden from you any longer. I had to show you how I care! You think no one cares about you or loves you but you’re wrong. I love you! O my dear! you have been blind all this time, but now that you can see me,” her eyes widened desperately, “you can see that I exist, right?” The man, overwhelmed by her impassioned words, took a step back. “Who do you happen to be?” The woman gazed blankly at him as her happiness began to fall with a heavy sigh. “Dear, I blame you none for your confusion. This is a strange enchanting land you have wandered into; where no one can follow you but I.” Sadness began cloud her eyes. “Through your calms and storms, sunrises and sunsets, days and nights I know you have felt my spirit. Alas, it pains me to say this, a few trying years have past and you have forgotten me. You no longer called out to me though I was always just a pray away. Can you surmise who I am now?” “Forgive me, miss, for I am a clueless man. I have not an inkling who you are,” the man felt guilty to say. She walked a step forward with forgiving eyes and smiled a sad fainter smile. She took his hands in hers, not taking her gaze off him. “I am Hope. I am what you have lost and what you need right this moment. I am the sustenance of your soul; the reason you live for today and dream for tomorrow; the reason the bees buzz and the birds croon about you. I bring the sunrise to your mornings and the stars to your nights. I rejoice with you and I suffer with you! I care for and love you above any mortal that treads upon the earth! Do you not see, dear? O I bless the heavens that I found you!” “Hope. That is a lovely name you have, miss,” the man began, oddly calmer. Although he was hesitant to believe her to be who she said she was, he felt joy, undeserving joy from the compassionate words her soft voice poured his way. Benigner words have never been spoken to him in all his life but from her. He felt himself unworthy. No. He cannot have a share in this divine. He thought. He with shame and reluctance removed his hands from hers. “I’m afraid I’m not who you want. You should go along now. I-it’s not safe here in this wretched heat.” At this the woman stepped a foot closer to the man, to his great surprise, and with angelic gentleness place her hands at his shoulders. “You are not who I want; you are who I need. Dear, I am a part of you! Don’t you see? The death of man is also the death of man’s hope.” His body began to lose its senses, beginning at his legs which by this time were weighing him numb. The man squinted over her shoulder and dark portentous clouds rolling over the distant dunes, consuming them whole, came in sight. The man was oddly mesmerized by the moving shapes of yon clouds and wanted to go closer to them, to see whether he may find his peace in the black fog. “I will never stop loving you,” the woman went on with mist in her eyes. “I will never stop believing in you. Do you believe in me? It is bad enough that you are lost in heart, mind, and spirit. The reality beyond as you may know, is worse. You are a lost man in a lost world. You have lost much in that world, I know. Things that you once believed in: Beauty, Truth, Hope, and Love. And I know the world has flogged and skinned your soul again and a-again.” Upon saying this, as an ill-fated dam, her rivers of tears broke forth. “But I beseech you to listen. You are not hopeless! Your only fault was losing sight of me but I forgive you. I know you see those approaching clouds, but please relinquish your want of going there! You have me, okay? As long as you have me, they can never harm us. I bid you rid yourself of these pains!” She threw her arms suddenly around the man, whose icy heart began to thaw from the new fire of emotions that had ignited from within. He was at a loss for words. Even in the pain she felt for him she smiled and her bedewed eyes shimmered at his with serenity; however the man’s state, she was happy to be there with him. She embraced him warmly and the fires of the Sun beating down on them tamed thence. He saw his eyes reflect brilliantly in her emerald orbs and the icy sheath of his heart evaporated at last in flames of love which now danced joyfully for this woman. “I-I love you,” the man spoke breathlessly. Upon hearing this, the woman’s countenance blossomed as a midsummer rose. Traces of her tears from minutes ago vanished in her sidereal eyes. The man thought it impossible but she did smile a smile more hopeful and beautiful than all she bestowed him before. He could have believed her to be a star who had taken the form of a woman—nay—a goddess beyond compare. Had he discovered something of after death or of before life? He pondered. For how could a woman steeped in utmost beauty walk before a miserable wight in a miserable land and wish him goodness and love without return? O how he wished her to be his to cherish forever! His agonized soul finally calmed when the woman lifted her palm up to his cheek. “Thank you, for letting me into your heart again.” With her arms still woven around the man, she kept him alive amid the scorched dunes. Dry winds began to violently stir the biting sand as the inexorable pale orb in the sky swelled. The black clouds were rolling closer and the land was slowly killing the man’s body yet his soul was preserved in the arms of Hope. He clinged to her as the winds roared and tore at his limbs and buried his head in her shoulders as tears fell down his face. The woman’s hair had the softness of feathers and the man cherished the embrace of this divinity until the whole wasteland became consumed in a storm of sand and darkness. The man screamed for his life as he felt the desert under his feet being swept away by the clouds. “Do not be afraid, dear.” The woman whispered to his ears. Somehow, the man heard her through the deafening storm and immediately calmed. The sandstorm raged on and all was silent but her voice. “I will give you a kiss so you will never forget me.” The last thing he remembered was her kiss upon his unworthy lips. He had glimpsed into the ninth sphere, he thought, of paradise. The man awoke from his sleep. He crawled out of his bed and stumbled toward the nearest window and beheld from his apartment room the smoggy city with dark skyscrapers looming ominously before a gray sun. He looked four storeys below and saw Pandemonium. It was hard to believe that he would have preferred to remain among the unsullied sand dunes, as a monarch of a desert land with Hope as his queen, over the the comforts of his apartment, but the truth could not have been clearer. The man wept for he felt lost, hopeless, and alone in a dark corrupt world. The ring of a doorbell abruptly startled the man out of his bout of misery, and he rushed to the sink, washed himself and tamed his disheveled hair before approaching the door which rung once more. As he slowly unbarred the door, his capacity to speak was lost. On the other side was a woman. She had auburn hair and green eyes which cared not for the smoggy city they were in. “Hi! I’m your new neighbor. I just moved in yesterday a few doors down and I, uh, wanted to give you this!” She held out a salad bowl. “I-I made it this morning,” she said with a warm smile, a smile the man thought uncannily familiar. The man, smitten with awe, could not but smile, receive her offering, and nod to her gratefully. The woman required nothing more from his response to be happy and went on, “I hope to see you again! You’re welcome to come by later for dinner.” She departed from the man but not before gazing back at him and waving her hand as she returned to her room down the corridor. His smile did not fade. He did not know how but he knew then that the flames of Hope still danced and rejoiced within him. He was not hopeless anymore; he was lost in darkness but now he found a candlelight and can begin finding his way; and although he was alone in that moment, by dinnertime he will be alone no more.


She left again. This time she took my boys with her.. I still don't know what it is I did that was so wrong. All I've done the past month was try to help her kick her habit. The pills were tearing our family apart, and then, just when I thought we were finally getting back to ourselves, out the door she went. I had helped her through the shakes, the sweats, the vomiting, and not to mention what came from the other end. Coming down and detoxing isn't a pretty thing to see first hand, let alone feel. I just wanted my wife back. She said she was just going to visit family a few states over for the upcoming holiday. I should have listened to my gut and never let her leave that day. When i heard that click as the door shut behind them I knew everything would be changed forever. I got the call this morning, shes's not coming back. She says we will alternate weeks with the boys but I know that won't last very long. It will never be enough for her. Nothing ever is. No matter how much time or how much money i spent, it was never enough. Tonight a bottle of Jack is all I have too keep me warm. I miss you so much.... Please come back Author's note: I know this is very short. While it is a work of fiction it was inspired by real events that happened to my brother.


I haven’t been to a bonfire since I was twelve years old. For the last eighteen years I’ve avoided them, stayed late at work on Bonfire Night, squeezed my eyes tight at the sounds of fireworks. All because of what happened that night all those years ago; I still hear the screaming of my friends, see the jerking movement of shadowy figures between flickers of dancing firelight. We had no idea how specific the rules were, we figured it was just a bit of fun. Stuff a few old clothes with straw, make a passable effigy of a person and call it the Guy. Shove him on the fire and watch him burn. Now I think about it, the whole thing couldn’t fail to have a dark and twisted background could it? More so than the treason thing I mean. Everyone knows the story. Guy Fawkes wanted to bring down the Protestant King and his government, in order to restore the monarchy to the Catholics who’d paid for and organised his attempt. Some people (wrongly) think of Guy Fawkes as some kind of freedom-fighter anarchist, much like they think of Che Guevara, the squalid killer and totalitarian tyrant, as an idealist for social equality. But that’s their choice, after all ignorance is bliss, and the truth of it is probably lost to the mists of time. It hardly matters. The only truth that really matters is the one that plays out every November 5th. I didn’t find out the truth for many years after it happened, but now I understand. I’ve been working in local government – a very specific department of local government – for many years now in a position open only to a few. Open only to people who have seen the things I’ve seen. And that’s how I know what I need to tell you. So I’ll tell you what happened to me first, because it’s the same thing that could happen to you. To anyone. To your kids, after they tell you they’re doing one thing and actually do something completely different. I’m not saying you need to watch them 24/7, but I am saying you need to watch them on the night of November 4th. My parents knew we were having a sleep-over at Tommy’s house. They just had no idea his parents were away. How could they have known? I was pretty adept at lying through my teeth about such things at that age. In any case, we snuck out at about 11.30pm, which to us was ridiculously late, and set about making our own bonfire. Our guy was made from Tommy’s clothes. There had been a vote, of sorts, and he’d lost. We figured his parents wouldn’t notice his stuff missing because he had the most clothes. Kid-logic, I guess. The straw had been taken from the bales up on the fields behind the houses and we enthusiastically stuffed the old jeans and jumper with straw, and tied the two bits together with string. We stuck a large stick through his neck so it protruded out, and the sack filled with yet more straw was then shoved ceremoniously onto the stick as his head. We thought it was brilliant. A life-size Guy all of our own. Before long the fire was blazing, and we started to worry that it was too big. Although we were pretty far from the town, through the woods and up on the fields, we wondered if people would spot us. Specifically, our parents. We were too young to think seriously about the police or fire brigade, or anyone else for that matter. And, now I think on it, I am astounded that no one came to investigate the fire that must have been like a beacon in that dark night, even through the woods. I had no idea that what we were doing was deeply, deeply dangerous. And not just because of the flames and the stupidity of being a twelve year old far from home on a dark night. I warn you, the next part of this is not pleasant, but I must tell you anyway. I am not likely to be allowed to live having disclosed this truth, but disclose it I must for your sake. Tommy and Ross were making the final adjustments to the Guy, fiddling with the cheap shoes that wouldn’t stay on the straw sticking out of the jeans and trying to fit the gloves at the end of the arm. I was standing a little further back, gazing in rapt awe at the leaping tongues of flame lapping at the dry wood we’d piled up. I remember the cracking of old sticks, the showers of pretty embers as larger logs split apart glowing briefly against the black grass. Shadows flickered all around us. And then the screaming started. I turned at Ross’s first panicked cry, and froze at the sight. The glove he’d been struggling with had his wrist in a vice-like grip, and Tommy was staggering back clutching his nose, reeling away from straw-man’s leg which had clearly just kicked him. Blood showed between his fingers, and for a moment I was transfixed by the sight, before my eyes were torn away by the terrified cry Ross made as the Guy took hold of his other arm and hurled him into the flames. The scream he uttered was something that has stayed with me my entire life, a howl of desperate, disbelieving horror and agony like the squeal of a petrified animal, and then lost in the crackle of flames. I only just managed to snatch Tommy out of reach as the gloved hand grabbed at him, and I dragged him back as the lurching nightmare lumbered forward on unsteady legs. It was its silence that almost cost me my life, that implacably relentless malice so unlike any threat I could have imagined with my childlike brain that it nearly rooted me to the spot with unfocused, confused terror. I hadn’t even had time to process what had happened to Ross, and I think the screaming in my ears was my own. The creature took another staggering step, its misshapen filthy bag-head wobbling unsteadily on its pole, its arms swinging as though ready to fall off. Tommy ran at it, tears streaming down his blood-splattered face, and shoved it hard in the chest, trying to push it into the fire. He was screaming too. The thing was knocked back, its arms flailing, but it didn’t fall into the flames. Instead it snatched at Tommy’s hand, pulling him down with it. Tommy fell on the other side of it, so that the writhing straw-man’s back blocked him from sight as it rolled over. I tried to move, to answer Tommy’s ghastly screams for help, but I couldn’t. I was motionless, impotent with fear. Tommy’s screams became gurgles as the thing made odd, frantic movements with its arm, which I realised with a hideous dawning horror were the motions of a man stuffing a Guy with straw. Somehow at that thought my mind cleared, and I ran forward, and saw what was happening to my friend. The sight has never left me. Tommy lying by the fire, his hair catching alight, his eyes staring unseeing at the stars overhead. Orange light and black shadows playing over his dead face, his features frozen in a look of unutterable horror. And the straw-demon, forcing more and more straw into his chest cavity, not caring that my friend was already gone. Again and again its gloved had thrust more straw inside him, as though oblivious to all else. I don’t know what I was thinking. All rational thought had long since gone from me. But from somewhere far away I saw myself dive at the monster, yelling in that primal terrified way humans have always yelled when fighting a last stand against a superior foe. But the thing was unbalanced. Hunched as it was over the body of my friend, it was unable to steady itself, and it fell easily to the side, knocking into the hungry fire. It was instantly ablaze. The old straw burst into flame with an almost impossible speed, the brilliant light and heat consuming it within moments. I stepped back, watching in grim horror as the thing writhed and danced, flailing uselessly at its tormentor, before collapsing, lying like just another guy burning on a bonfire. I turned and fled, I’m not proud of that. I left Tommy and Ross up there, and I didn’t look back. I spent the night outside Tommy’s house, because I didn’t have the keys. In the morning my parents found me, sitting motionless by the front door, my arms around my knees. I managed to garble out what had happened, and from that they and the police figured we’d been attacked by someone or something. They didn’t believe the story as I told it, of course, and put most of it down to a child’s shock. The remains of the bonfire were searched, but no sign was ever found of Tommy or Ross. Somehow or other news of my story eventually found its way to the ears of the innocently-named Department for Fire Safety at the local Council. It’s their job to make sure such things don’t happen, and before long I’d been inducted into their ranks. That’s where I learned the truth, and was forbidden to tell it. But tell it I will, if only to keep you safe. Or possibly to get my own back a little. I have no love for my erstwhile employers, as you’ve probably deduced from all this, and I don’t agree with their methods. The point is the first “guy” of the year, the first one completed on November 5th, contains the restless and tortured spirit of the man himself. Fawkes. Condemned eternally to return and be punished over, and over, and over again. It’s ghastly. It’s horrific. But that’s just how it is. I’m so used to it now the story doesn’t affect me anymore, which I suppose is part of the reason I hate my job. For what it’s done to me. Anyway, the Church has always known, and back in the old days firewood was hard enough to come by as it was, so no one built their own bonfires. It was all controlled by the churches and they largely made sure people were safe and the punishment went on and on, year after dreadful year. But as times changed, the secular authorities like the one I work for took over, and the job became less about keeping people safe and more about keeping the awful truth a secret. We make sure the first Guy built on November 5th is made by people who knew what they’re doing, in a controlled environment, and that when he returns he burns quickly without taking anyone with him. After all he does not return to the flames without a fight, as Tommy and Ross learned to their tragic detriment. Unfortunately for us, we’d built our guy shortly after midnight on 5th November, in a spot coincidentally between the Council patrols. No one stopped us finishing that effigy, no one checked with the lab whether it was safe. It sometimes happens. And the clean-up operation is usually a logistical and public relations nightmare, with the focus almost entirely on hushing it up. I can’t stand it anymore. The witness relocation programmes, the hush-money. The 24/7 surveillance of survivors. It’s wrong. I think people would rather be trusted to face the issue themselves. So now you know. Remember remember, the 5th of .


It is the year 2067. Many decades have passed since the gates of Azeroth opened for the days of Vanilla WoW. Little did the players of that time back in 2003 know that over 50 years later, the game they loved so much would still be going strong. Dozens of expansion packs later, the current level cap is now 340. Several new races - and classes - are in place. A new class of item, called 'Primordials' have been introduced. The geography of today's Azeroth would be mostly known to early 2000's players, with several sub-equatorial land masses now a part of the landscape (Gondwana, Pangaea and the Poles). As the early-day players grew older and became adults and eventually grandparents, WoW accounts and characters were passed down through generations of real-life families. It became commonplace for WoW 'heirlooms' to be passed down through online generations in the game that had been in existence for the past 50 years. These online items hold almost as much sentimental value as real-life heirlooms do for some. As it's players matured, so did the game. At one point, Blizzard introduced graveyards into the game - where players could pay tribute to family members & friends who had previously passed away. This is held with a high degree of sacredness & respect by the online WoW community - long gone are the days of guild raids on fallen players funerals. There is now an annual 'Rememberance Day' event in WoW where players gather at memorials to remember loved ones that have passed away. This is a free day in the WoW subscription so many inactive players come back just for this event. One of the most surprising things however, is that each realm now has an in-game president. Yes, that's right. Elections are held each year where players cast an in-game vote at Goldshire Inn to select the candidate of their choosing. Candidates must first be nominated by their guild to cast their name in the ballot. Each guild can only put forward 1 person. The president serves a maximum 2-year term after re-election. The role of this president, much like a real-life president, is to represent the interests of the players through being a direct point of contact to Blizzard. Each realm president gets 4 face-to-face meetings a year with Blizzard devs to discuss issues such as in-game experience, class balance, PVP enjoyment and server specific issues. It is expected that the presidents quit their real-life job to fully dedicate themselves to their in-game role; Blizzard makes up for this by reimbursing the presidents with a nominal salary in Bitcoin and providing an in-game Whitehouse with presidential attire. Stay tuned as I continue to report on the exciting new world of future-WoW.


I look down to the crib and there is Aishling, quietly napping with her minuscule hands covering her face, just as I had left her 5 minutes ago. You’d know the feeling if you’re a parent. The first few weeks can be summed up to awkwardly watching the baby sleep while thoughts and emotions overload your being. Fear, that it’ll choke on its own saliva. Wonder, about having contributed to the birth of a living entity. Speculation, on its health and acquisition of sensations. That’s how my mom would describe the first few weeks of my birth. I can’t imagine the overwhelming situation that they had to go through. Today, I stare at Aishling, and none of these emotions or thoughts come to mind. I love my daughter, but it is her development that intrigues me. I could hear Christine’s soft steps approach me. She gently wraps her arms around me from behind, peaking at Aishling from the side. - “How much do you love our little daughter” She asked as she joined me in contemplating the baby. - “Hah, words can’t describe my love for her, I already told you.” She reaches her hand into the crib and caresses Aishling’s fingers. - “I feel she’s a bit cold.” - “Yeah, I’ll turn up the heat in a bit” Christine holds me tighter around her arms. - “I think we made the right decision, going for this option.” - “Yeah, I agree.” Silence filled Aishling’s pink bedroom, but the thoughts going through my mind were almost deafening. It was the same kind of silence which loomed over every sitting with my wife. That is, every sitting we had as a couple, ever since the day the doctor had diagnosed me with low sperm count. We both loved children and couldn’t wait to have our own. We shared intrigue and excitement about being able to raise critical thinkers, who’d defy the nonsense of everyday conversations, and lead fulfilling lives. The stillness of the bedroom reminded me of how much infertility had at some point strained our marriage. That time when the house, in its entirety, stood quietly still, only interrupted by the faint weeping of Christine in the bathroom. Whenever I brought up the subject of my infertility, she would always say that “its ok” and expressed her unconditional love for me. But I could still feel the void that grew between us. Since the day she made her way into our home, Aishling filled that void with tenderness and love. - “You know, she really looks like the baby I always imagined I’d have.” - “I’m glad.” I answered. - “When do you think she’ll start crawling?” - “I don’t know? 8 months?” - “Hm, and when will she start walking?” - “Should be around the 12 months mark.” - “Ow, that’s interesting. And when will she pronounce her first word?” - “It’ll be a year and a half into her life. The word is going to be mama.” I tweaked the setting. - “Haha! That’s adorable.” Christine’s smile lit up her face. - “You still haven’t asked the most interesting question.” - “I just saved it for last. When will she gain consciousness?” - “The factory has that setting hard wired into the Bio-robotic brain. It takes the AI approximately 2 years of gathering and analyzing data.” - “What data will it gather?” Christine asked. - “Virtues and morals we teach Aishling, as well as our own behavior and habits.” - “Why does it gather our behavior and habits?” - “It allows the AI to create Aishling’s personality. It’s basically a simulation of how a human child would have developed if we had raised him or her. It needs to gather the personal characteristics of its human parents to create a unique individual.” - “I can’t wait to see how she develops. Listen, I’ll go check on the meatloaf. Make sure to unplug her from the power socket when she’s fully charged” - “I will, don’t worry. Soon enough, she’ll be doing it on her own.


“Why are you such a pessimistic asshole?” My date asks once the words leave my mouth. I look at her with my “are you actually asking me that?” face. “You’re the one who accepted the blind date honey, you knew exactly what was going to happen because I know for a fact Johnny (My good friend) doesn’t skimp on the details when describing me to people.” “All he said to me was you were Jewish (I’m not, I just don’t tip or waste money) and funny but so far all you’ve been is just a melancholy prick over some girl who doesn’t bother talking to you anymore.” She leaves her mouth agape and stares at me in utter awe. Not the amorous awe but the awe of someone who can’t believe who they’re talking to. “Ok first off, I’m not Jewish but I have no problem with them, and second off this girl broke my heart and I’m just trying to tell you what to avoid.” The minute that last sentence left my mouth I knew I was in for it. This was it. She was going to destroy me with words just like that. Instead she grabbed her twenty dollar glass of wine and threw it into my face leaving my designer shirt in a purple mess along with staining my suit. “Fuck. You.” She says before stammering off out of the restaurant. I raise my finger for the waiter who drops the check. I grab my wallet from my inside pocket and grab the money and put the exact change on the table and walk out. “I see your date didn’t go well monsieur.” Says the receptionist. I look at him and shake my head. “No shit monsieur. Vous ne parlez pas francais. So don’t fucking try.” The receptionist motions for two goons to get me out but I place my hand in front of them. “I’ve got this ok?” I put my hands down and turn around towards the door but before I could get another step I feel four hand close down on me and pick me up, keep in mind I’m only a hundred twenty pounds and five foot six, and throw me out hitting my nose on the pavement and sending my glasses flying. After walking for what seemed like an eternity back to my studio apartment. I slowly make my way to the couch and fall face first. Another plunder I thought in my head. I lift myself up and walk to my bathroom, my intention to take my medications which two of the three I’m out of. Only one I have left is the ones for my allergies. Anxiety and depression will have to wait until the pharmacist is opened tomorrow morning. I sat back on my couch and grab my phone and called Johnny. “Ethan I didn’t expect a call this early. I’m with my wife right now at the supermarket. We’re picking up diapers for little Kevin” Oh poor Johnny I think; stuck with a woman who’s cheating on him. “What did you say about cheating?” Fuck… “Um….” I really messed up this time. This isn’t the first time this happened but I’ll make something up first before I tell you more stories from my life. “You see the girl you set me up with is a big cheater.” “She’s the most catholic girl I’ve met in my entire life…” I could already hear the confusion in his voice. I couldn’t think of anything else so I went to the next big thing. “She’s an anti-Semite.” I already knew it would backfire on me. “It went bad huh?” That was pretty much my whole life summed up in a sentence the books over folks you can pretty much stop reading here I die at the end. I’m just joking please keep reading. “Yeah very bad, she called me a melancholy asshole and threw wine on me. Twenty dollar wine too!” According to my mother my father’s family was full of Jewish heritage but I seriously doubted that since she hated his guts and was too an anti-Semite. “Look man; meet me at the bar tomorrow we’ll talk all about it ok?” “Alright Johnny I’ll talk to you then.” I put the phone face down on my table and lay back in my couch. I close my eyes and rub them. After a moment of silence the T.V. flutters to life with a press of a button. Then my feet drag me to the kitchen where I look upon the emptiness of my refrigerator. A lone Chinese carton full of rice, vegetables, and chicken that then suddenly is put into the microwave set for two minutes. I watch it slowly turn and turn inside for the remainder while listening to the latest celebrity scandals playing on the T.V. I grab the carton and plop down on the couch. It only seemed like a month ago when she was sitting right next to me. Her beautiful dyed hair with her big soulful eyes, her supple bosom that seemed to never be at home inside a shirt, her arms around me and mine around her playing with the piercings that she had put it in herself during high school in southern Texas. It had taken her nearly three years for her to finally see me in a romantic relationship and not just best friends anymore. It was the greatest two years of my life. She was the best I ever had but in a flash she was gone. Gone from my life when a man walked up to her and said those god damned words. “I’m sorry I cheated on you.” No not those… “I love you.” Those “I Love You.” Is fucking bullshit, especially when it comes from a man who cheated on you and repeatedly does it and you listen to it. When I said to her all those other times she didn’t fall head over heels for me. All she ever did was just look at me and smile and say “I love you too Ethan, you’re my best friend.” BUT TO HIM?! “I love you so damn much babe.” YEAH BULLSHIT I wake up from my fever dream and see the T.V. on the fritz and my carton of Chinese empty. Just like my will of continuing to date while the love of my life is with a cheating bastard who’s just a carbon copy of all the other boyfriends she’s had throughout her entire life. Some lowlife piece of shi- A knock from my door? Who would want to visit me? The mail slot slowly opens letting the light from the hallway cut through the darkness of my apartment and letter is handed to me. “Rent due by next week.” Oh of course. None of my friends but the damned landlord Takanewa or something like that. I open the letter and see twelve thousand dollars in finances listed. I grimace and put the letter on my coffee table and walk to my bed and try to forget things for a while. It didn’t work “I had a dream where I was being eaten by a woman who looked eerily similar to my ex. Then once she had eaten me I was in her stomach and inside I could only see a bunch of digested me’s.” Johnny raises his hand and takes a swig from his beer and just a tiny bit of foam stays in his mustache which he wipes off with his cloth jacket. “That’s some freaky shit, but look man… you’ve got to forget about Sarah ok?” I nod and my head and grab my glass of wine and take a swig. “I try but I’ve known her for ten years of my life and she still finds ways to appear at the oddest of times.” I rub my head and take another swig. “Look you just got to be honest with her ok? Her leading you on and staying in your life for god knows how long isn’t going to do either of you any good. Maybe for her because she obviously enjoys watching you suffer.” In a sense he was right and I knew deep down that he was. That’ why the moment he finished I pulled out of my phone and clicked her contact info and pressed down on the little green phone symbol. “Wait are you calling her right now?” I nod my head yes and Johnny cheers and orders another beer and glass of wine for me. I take the call in a small nook where two bathrooms meet. “Hello?” I hear her sweet Latina voice over the line and for a moment I smile as the all the good memories of me and her come flooding back. The times in high school we would be lying in our beds and just be laughing at some stupid video she sent to me, or be showing me the cute outfits she would want to wear. Then it all comes crashing back around me when all the bad memories which far outweigh the good come also flooding back. “Sarah it’s Ethan and we need to talk.” I tried to sound serious but it was quite hard to do. Especially since this was the day I never looked forwards to having to do. Leave her behind and not have her in my life anymore. “Look Ethan I’ve told you before what’s happening between us and I’m afraid we can’t be together.” Just like the icy knife in my heart that I remembered. Fucking Bitch “I know and that’s why I’m telling you I’m done with you.” If I had a dollar for every time I’ve said that to her I wouldn’t be living in a studio apartment. “I can’t keep doing this to myself and I don’t want you in my life anymore.” If I had a full bottle of anti-depressants for every time I said that to her I would have a life time supply and enough for my great grandchildren. “What do you mean? Are you finally done with me?” No shit bitch is the first words that pop into my brain. “Yes Sarah. This is my final goodbye to you.” If I had a dog for every time I’ve said that I would have a dog waiting for me at home. “Can we at least have one more dinner together? For old time’s sake?” “No Sarah… no more dinners, meetings in the park, no more anything.” “So this is really it between me and you?” “Yes…” “It was fun while it lasted.” “Not for me you sociopathic bitch.” I pressed end call and deleted her as a contact. I take a deep sigh of relief and immediately regret everything I just did. What am I supposed to do without her in my life? Jesus I have to get her back. Somehow I have to… In my eyes, masturbating to your ex girlfriend’s pictures isn’t a necessarily bad thing. Morally no it is but it’s justified in this instance. It’s been nearly two weeks since I left her behind in my life and at this point I just want another female in my life. Just to hold someone and feel like I belong. Though it’s going to take a little while since I’ve been ordering nothing but take-out and pizza and the only reason I’ve left is to get some more alcohol. I’m glad my work let me have this month long vacation. Suddenly a cool fan is blowing on my face and I’m asking myself now. When did I get to my therapist’s office? “So how have you been Ethan? Anything happen recently?” My doctor says looking at me with an inquisitive look. I think for a moment and I wonder for a moment. Pondering. Questioning. What the fuck is the point of living. “Well I finally got rid of Sarah from my life…” My therapist nods and jots something down. Probably something along the lines of ‘fucking retarded why would he give her up? His best friend.’ “How are you feeling because of this huge change in your life? You’ve known her for ten or so years and now.” I didn’t know what to feel. I admit I did somewhat lie. Her boyfriend is new and I don’t know him at all. Maybe I was wrong? Honestly I don’t have any feelings for her anymore, at least not right now since I haven’t been talking to her… “I don’t feel sad about it, but I don’t feel good either. Just stuck in some gray zone I haven’t been able to leave. My vacation is nearly over so at least I can have work to keep my mind off of it for the most part but still. I miss her but I know she’ll just bring pain or maybe something else for a change… I really don’t know.” At this moment I can see him continue writing notes. “I think you should keep your distance for good. Especially sense you haven’t talked to her in what? Two, three weeks?” This is another lie I told him, in reality I did take her offer for one last meeting. It was four days ago and I haven’t been able to get it off my mind. Four Days Ago I walk to the restaurant that me and her agreed to meet at and as I walk I start to second guess my decision I’m making. I close my eyes and take off my glasses and just let my feet walk towards the direction I feel they should go. I picture myself walking to my apartment using the main road but when I reopen my eyes I see myself standing in front of the restaurant. I sigh but a smile goes across my face as I see her car park across the street between a pink Chevrolet and a black… I couldn’t tell what the other one was but she quickly crossed the street with a smile on her face. The both of us were half tempted to embrace and possibly even kiss but before either could take place we just have a light hug and let go after a few more seconds. “I’m glad you came here Ethan. I was a little worried you would just leave me for good without proper closure.” I see a smile forming on the corner of her lips and I smile back. “I’m glad you didn’t completely ignore my message.” Her smile is completed on her face and it’s a masterpiece before me. She brushes her hair behind her ear as the waiter comes to take our order. It’s almost like all the other times we went on a date together. She ordered some pasta dish and so did I. I can’t exactly remember our conversation we were having though but it was sweet. Once the night ended we embraced and she kissed me. I told her to call me later which she agreed to. Present “My friend Johnny also got into a bit of trouble and he isn’t talking to me anymore.” “What happened between the two of you? From what you’ve told me the two of you were very close.” “So are me and his wife.” Yeah… I fucked her. It was during a time where Sarah left me and me and his wife were decent acquaintances. “It was during a rough patch with Sarah and he was on a business trip. She comforted me and it grew deeper than just friends. He was gone for eight days and we made love six of those days.” “And you’ve kept this a secret from him?” “Yes and so has she. Up until two days ago when Johnny’s life came to a brief stop.” “What do you mean exactly?” “Guess I’ll start from start.” Three Days ago I decided to keep the dinner rendezvous with Sarah a secret from Johnny as me and him met at the bar later that day. As we walked inside the bad and sat in our usual space in the corner of the bar in a small booth I could tell there was something wrong with him but I didn’t want to ask him just yet. “Two beers.” Johnny finally says after ten minutes of silence. He raises his hand when the bartender looks around who nods and brings two mugs of beer. Frankly I’m mostly a wine person but I felt like a beer would be alright for now. “So what’s happening Johnny?” I ask. He looks at me and sighs. I can tell its bad news and I’m afraid to hear it. Could it be about his wife and her trail of pool boys? Or possibly he wal- “I had sex with a hooker last night.” Oh no is the first words that come to mind. “It was the best sex I’ve ever had.” He said still with an almost traumatized look on his face. “But she was sixteen.” I pause for a moment and so does he in order to let this to properly process. “This has to be some kind of joke…” I say slowly. He shakes his head. “Afterwards she showed me her license because I didn’t believe her either.” A tear started running down his face and ran into his mustache. “I have to pay her and her dip shit boyfriend or something like that two thousand dollars or else they’ll find and tell my wife and the police and oh Christ Ethan.” He says nearly breaking down and swigging from his mug. “I can’t just get that kind of money without anyone knowing.” “Sell your car.” I say almost immediately. He pauses and thinks about it. The inner workings of our minds start to work. “Do you know if they have any proof you did it?” “Boyfriend recorded it… who can I sell it to this short notice?” “Me.” I say getting my checkbook from my inside pocket. “Look man don’t worry I promise I’ll pay you back.” I nod and hand him the life saving check. He grabs the beer and gulps the remainder down and walks out of the bar with his marriage still somewhat intact. I wanted to tell him of his wife’s affair but I honestly didn’t have the heart just then. Good news is I have a car at the very least. Present “So he cheated on his wife with an underage prostitute who had her boyfriend record the whole ordeal.” “Yeah that’s what happened. He ended up paying her but she still told his wife.” “I assume her reaction was less than perfect.” He says with a smile. I couldn’t help but crack up at his face. “You son of a bitch Jules. This is supposed to be a therapy session not you fucking around.” He laughs too and we just take a moment to stop. “Maybe I should find a therapist who isn’t my friend?” “No no tell me what happened.” I sigh and continue with the story. Yesterday The day before all I did was be on the phone with Sarah. From nine a.m. to eleven p.m. Jumping topic to topic, watching movies, talking about some books, and talking about the relationship she’s in now. It was all very sweet and we agreed to talk again another time. Then I get a call from Johnny’s wife, Ashley at twelve. “Ethan I need you to come here as fast as possible. It’s about Johnny…” I can hear tears through the phone and her stuttering. “I’ll be in there in just a few minutes I have a car now, okay?” I wait a moment for her response but all I hear are tears. “Ashley?” “I’ll be here.” I get up from my couch and grab my coat as I walk out and down to the street below. After hopping into my new car I drive along the busy streets. All the while I’m wondering what could have happened. I’m honestly scared out of my mind at this point. It didn’t help when I finally drove up the driveway I entered the house and was immediately embraced by Ashley. “What happened?” “Johnny fucked a minor…” Fuck. I didn’t know what to say to this until I turned around and saw Johnny standing there with a tire iron. “Johnny?” “You’re not taking my son.” He says. Ashley nods and pushes me behind her. I panic and grab a small ashtray and hold it behind my back as Johnny goes into the kid’s room. I step in front of Ashley and pray to whatever god would listen to me at the moment. Johnny then walks out with his one month old baby in arm. As he turns around to leave the house I jump to action and smash the ceramic ashtray over his head. Present “Ok well I think I know why he isn’t talking to you anymore.” Jules says writing something down. “Yeah… Ashley is making me stay with her and Kevin just in case he ever returns.” I say this while thinking to myself “Kevin is her son correct?” “Yeah he’s her son… he’s also mine too. At least me and Ashley aren’t too sure. We’re supposed to go to the doctor sometime this week.” “That must be rough on you, your possible baby being taken away by a deranged man.” “I think that’s why I acted up. I think he was last seen in somewhere in San Francisco but I’m not too sure.” “At least he’s two states away.” “Yeah thankful for that but still, you’ve got to wonder what he’s doing.” Here at the Golden Gate Bridge I’m reflecting on my life now. Police have a warrant out for me for attempted kidnapping, soliciting sex with a minor, having sex with a minor, and for manslaughter of a man I hit on my drive down here. All I’ve got left now is this bridge… always wanted to take my son Kevin down here just like my father brought me. Now I’m here alone. What have I done to deserve this? It was my wife who drove me to this. She never wanted to have sex and never wanted to satisfy me after those two business trips. I’m glad I did that actually. Glad I fucked that little teen bitch. Showed her a damn good time. Fuck it. I step onto the ledge on the bridge and let Kevin’s face be the last thing I remember as I tilted off the edge. It was a week after they recovered Johnny’s body from the San Francisco bay. With his body already covered in filth and somewhat already decomposing we decided to cremate him. I’ve moved into Ashley’s home when the tests to see if I was the father came in. It turns out I am and Ashley didn’t want her son to be without a father but she didn’t want me like that at least not at that point with Johnny dying. I let her have all the time she needed to heal from her loss and when she needed me I was there to comfort her. It was a rough year after his suicide. My dating life evaporated and Sarah finally left on her own terms. Last I heard she had overdosed on cocaine and lost one of her legs to diabetes. It felt good to hear that though I knew it was wrong of me to not feel bad for her but after all she had put me through? It was well deserved. It wasn’t until the year after Johnny died where Ashley slowly started to want me and it was on February Fifteenth Two-Thousand and Seventeen we were married. I was glad I finally found another person. After years of being tormented by constant stream of girls who didn’t want anything serious I finally had someone. As I look at Kevin run around the yard with his friends I can’t help but look at my life before I meet Ashley, before I had him. The few weeks before he was a part of my life, dating person after person, being miserable and struggling to scrape together enough cash for rent, and now I have a family of my own. Though it wasn’t always mine, I’m living in another man’s dream that I’m very much enjoying. “What are you thinking about?” Ashley asks wrapping her arms around my shoulder as we watch Kevin play in the snow with his friends. “How far we’ve come, and how much that little kid changed my life.” “Our lives.” She says I smile when I hear those words. “Our Lives.


Theirs was a typical relationship. For the first few years the two were completely inseparable. He couldn't stop thinking about her. She treated him like a proverbial king. They were so emotionally connected that they finished each other's sentences but after their five year anniversary, the 'love' endorphins greatly dissipated. The admiration and mutual respect were still in abundance but it was definitely different from that point on. Though solid, the relationship was on a slightly downward arc. There were no specific reasons for it. They didn't fight or argue. It was just a naturally-occurring decline in carnal attraction. The downside to knowing your partner so well is that everything they do becomes very familiar. There were no surprises anymore. She knew all of his rituals and he knew her routines. Life and ordinary complacency got in the way of maintaining their initial spark. Suddenly her cute quirks were no longer endearing. They grated on his nerves and it was exactly the same for her. His personality was annoying at times. Anyone observing them might have marveled at how the same traits went from cherished to aggravating in just a few years. It was just human nature. We become desensitized to the same old thing, no matter how amazing it might have seemed before. This static trend continued for a few more years. She wanted more and more time to 'find herself'. His company in and out of the bedroom was less desired; and he was hurt by that ongoing physical rejection. It was the first marriage for both so they had no frame of reference to gauge their perspectives against a previous relationship. At different times they both assumed it just reflected a normal couple's growth. Even if that so-called 'growth' was expanding in opposite directions. In the next few years, they had a handful of very heated arguments. It was never physical but there was definitely some simmering animosity and resentment below the surface. Their philosophical disagreements grew broader. Not surprisingly, their intimate relationship also dwindled to smoldering ashes. Despite these personal woes, they excelled in their professional lives. They acquired a very nice home and many desirable possessions in the trade-off. It was perhaps the complicated financial entanglements which kept them together during this difficult phase. Near the eve of the holidays, he fretted over what to buy for her. He had to settle on a gift card from her favorite store. In the beginning of the relationship, he knew exactly what she desired but the further they drew apart, the more private and secretive she became. All the personal 'space' she used to find herself, was also a distance buffer away from him. His gift card idea was uninspired and boring but at least it insured she could get what she really wanted. It was the 'safe bet'. She opened it up and couldn't even feign enthusiasm. A sigh of disgust escaped her lips. He threw up his arms in frustrated surrender. He was officially out of patience. In her hands she held his gift. The small box was expertly wrapped and topped with an ornate bow. He was filled with a sense of dread. It clearly wasn't large enough to contain what he really wanted and he didn't want to cause any more of a rift between them. If it was possible, he was even less of an actor than she was. He couldn't even begin to fake his true feelings; even to prevent a fight. He pulled at the ribbon slowly. The bow unraveled and fell to the floor. As he pulled the lid off the box, he tried to prepare for whatever was inside. Instead of an electronic gadget that he expected, there was only a single piece of paper in the bottom. It wasn't even as thick as a gift card. He nervously reached inside to retrieve it. In bold lettering it read: "The bearer of this coupon is entitled to one (1) no-strings-attached, sexual encounter with the person of his choice. There will be absolutely no repercussions from his spouse." As she stood in front of him, he read the card a half dozen times to make sure he read it correctly. His initial reaction was that of confusion. Then doubt. The whole thing stunk of a cunning trap, or a cringeworthy joke. On the back of the embossed card was a clever, very relevant footnote. "No, it's not a 'trap'. I promise." "That's the very sort of thing that a wife's 'gotcha' trap would proclaim."; He thought in amusement to himself. He made brief eye contact with her for the first time since reading the bizarre coupon. She wasn't smiling. She looked dead serious. Was she gauging his reaction to the one-time 'infidelity coupon offer', or just trying to reassure him it was really ok to use it. He couldn't decide. "Is this some sort of joke, or test?"; He stammered. She shook her head slowly from side to side. There was no hint of amusement on her lips. It was apparently a serious offer. His mind began to wander at the unlikely possibilities. If it really was a serious proposition, who would he choose? There were several ladies who had caught his eyes over the years but that would only open up another can of worms. Then as logic returned to his brain, he began to question the real reason for this unusual 'gift'. Why would she offer to let him have an unanswered dalliance? It was more than just a little bit suspicious. People generally only display that level of unjealous 'generosity' when they had already taken a turn on the infidelity merry-go-round, themselves. It was almost as if she was trying to assuage her own guilty conscience. His mind reeled at the terrifying possibility. Rage, fear, suspicion, and disgust coursed through his veins. As much as it pained him to visualize, it would make sense and explain a great deal about their strained relationship. Regardless, he dared not ask 'that' question. He wasn't sure if he could handle the answer. Instead he just stood looking downward with mouth agape. She spoke, to break the pregnant pause. "I know what you're thinking. No one else in the world knows you as well as I do. I've already went through those same dark emotions. Many, many times, I've anticipated your unspoken questions about the coupon. I've also imagined how you would respond, if the situation was reversed. No, it's not a joke or a trap to see how you would respond. And no, I've never been unfaithful to you, sweetheart. Our distance in the past few years and my lack of affection is because of my own distractions and personal issues. I'm deeply sorry about the wall I've erected around myself. It's not you. It's me. Please try to be patient as I slowly remove those bricks, ok? For this reason, I want to offer you some form of... 'compensation'. All I ask is that you try to avoid an emotional connection with whomever you choose to hand it to." Tears of relief welled up in his eyes. He extended his arm and handed her the coupon. It was the best gift he ever received.


Growing up my family lived about 10 minutes away from my Aunt Patty. Aunt Patty lived in this giant old historic colonial on 300 acres with a 15 horse stable, huge barn, pond. The works. My four cousins who lived there were the “cool cousins” of our family: all older, and bigger, and constantly finding new ways to torment me. With cheap babysitting available to my parents courtesy of Amy Lynn (Second oldest “cool cousin”) I passed most of my summers darting in and out of hay bales and causing mischief in the barns of this kingdom. The cicadas’ roar provided an ambient soundtrack to the day I found myself ankle deep in the pond, trembling. Roger, the youngest cool cousin, was daring me to wade further into the pond, jeering me for my fear of the snapping turtle who presided over the pond. “Worst case is you lose a toe! Stop being a pussy!” Not an uncommon scene for those summers, all things considered. Just as I was about to make my fateful choice to risk loss of toe by turtle rather than face the wrath of Roger, a small croak snapped both of our attention away from my cowering. I splashed out of the pond before Roger could protest, though I doubt he noticed. His attention was fully focused ten a small patch in the reeds ten feet away. There sat bullfrog, a small one by pond standards, but a beastly little guy nonetheless. “Awesome!” Roger bellowed, and in one motion, using his super-human-older-cousin-strength, he scooped it up and sprinted back towards the house. Suddenly alone by the pond I faced a predicament. Happy with my full set of toes, should I retreat to the safety of the adults inside? Or should I try to earn some cool points by tagging along and seeing what the plan was for our amphibious friend. My curiosity got the best of me and I took off after Roger. I caught up to him in what he called his secret hideout — the crawl space under the back porch. It took half a second for my eyes to adjust to the dim lighting of the claustraphobic clubhouse but when they did they registered a couple of things in succession, without immediately connecting their implications. 1. The frog was sitting extremely still on a rock in the middle of the dirt and dust ground of the hideout. 2. Roger was standing above the frog, now looking at me with a smile to which the word “devious” doesn’t begin, and never will, do justice. 3. Complementing the smile, Roger had in his right hand a rock the size of a soft ball. 4. Aforementioned hand was precariously, if not malignantly, hovering directly above the frog. “He better not drop that rock or it’ll hurt the frog,” I thought. “You better not drop that rock it’ll hurt the fro — AHHHH” I yelped as it became too late. Roger, with all of the force of his 5'6'’ eight grader frame, drove the rock down and *through* the frog. The result was remnant of a dropped watermelon, if watermelons were filled with intestines and had heads that could have eyes dangling out of them. I shrieked, and sprinted to the safety of the adults inside, Rogers cackle resonating off of the wooden ceiling, dirt foor, and cement walls of his hideout cum torture chamber.


Walking through the brush that is the deep East Texas woodlands, Chris stumbled upon an odd fiddle. Attempting to pick it up, he realizes just how heavy it is, and that, alone, he will not be able to pick it up. As he stands up again, contemplating the oddity of the situation that’s unfolding around him, a man clears his throat behind him. Spinning around, startled, Chris sees a gentleman wearing a black suit, white undershirt, and red tie and a fedora that matches his suit. “Well hello, kiddo. What’s a guy like you want with a fiddle?” The mans accent was like molasses rolling off his tongue. “Nothing, sir. I just thought it was a bit peculiar that a fiddle was in the woods here” “Oh, don’t be naïve, kid. You’ve heard all the stories. ‘Devil challenges some kid to a fiddle battle. Devil looses’. For the record, I don’t loose fiddle battles” Chris looked around him anxiously. He wasn’t sure if he should run, or stay, and honestly wasn’t sure this wasn’t some hallucination of his. “Well. I’m not too keen. on battling you with fiddles” “Oh no, of course not. I wouldn’t even dream of it. No, I have a better offer for you. I’ll give you anything you want, for your soul.” The man smiled a devilish grin at Chris, and offered out his hand, “Do we have a deal, Chris?” “How’d you know my name again?” Chris pondered out loud. “Oh, come on, kiddo! You think only heaven has the list of people? Hell, we make up over half of them.” The Devil laughed hearitly, and the smell of sulfer emanated from his mouth. Chris pondered on this for a few seconds, before coming to a concussion. “Alright,” He knew in the back of his head that he would regret this “I’m down” “Excellent!” The devil pulled out a pen and a piece of paper, and handed it over to Chris. “Now, I’ll just need you to draw that for me. Oh, and don’t worry. Your soul is already mine. When you agreed. Verbal contracts are binding, after all. My game, my rules, and all that garbage” Chris looked at the devil with an expression of shock and surprise. “You want me to draw what my desire is?” He felt his stomach drop. He was a terrible artist.


It was a quiet afternoon in early October; the forecast called for rain, but there was only the occasional wayward cloud drifting across a pale blue sky. I sat and listened to summer’s dying breath whispering through the trees, lightly splashed with red and orange at the tips. Aside from the clicking of a leaf skipping down the sidewalk on a cool breeze, it was quiet. I noticed thin strings of smoke twisting and whipping from the top of my hookah, and it reminded me of...well, nothing. I wasn’t thinking, just noticing. No thoughts of love and loss, no life and death, no yesterdays and tomorrows, just silent awareness of the here and now. I sip my tea and smile, treasuring these rare few moments where I can take the time to recognize life happening around me, not to me. It’s a sort of stillness that feels like it’s deep within the soul, not resonating, but just calmly sitting. No fidgeting, no impulsive need to check my phone, just...there. It brings on a sense of true appreciation for the world around you, and I guess you could say that’s valuable in times like these, where uncertainty and chaos loom on the horizon. Stepping away from the constant screeching of shock value and sensationalism is almost like stepping into another world - a world where the wind blows through your hair, your lungs fill with the smell of grass and leaves, and you just feel whole. I stop thinking of myself, of my worries and anxieties, of couldas and wouldas and shouldas. It’s like they just don’t exist out here on the porch, like I’m on the other side of life in this faded and chipped Adirondack chair, looking at it through a clear pane of glass. The smokescreens and sleight-of-hand that televisions and the internet throw don’t apply here, it’s just the wind, the trees, and the buzzing of cicadas calling out for one last hoorah before their time is up. I find myself admiring the stoic wisdom of the trees as I watch their branches sway gently in the breeze. Occasionally a leaf will flip and tumble gently toward the ground, but it isn’t thrown or dropped. It’s as if the tree just opens it’s hand and lets the leaf go where it may without a thought for where and how, unconcerned with the loss of it’s companion, maybe just quietly appreciative of the time they spent together. There’s a metaphor there somewhere, something noble and graceful about how we approach life, or at least how we should. I couldn’t be bothered to think too deeply on it though. Maybe it will come to me eventually, maybe I already know, maybe it’s nothing at all; for now, I’ll just sip my tea and admire.