I would never have thought that Mr. Arnold was a meathead back in the day. That’s the thing about time. It’s like an Instagram post you’ve run through a hundred filters. It gets to the point where you wouldn’t even recognize where that final image started. I believe the film buffs call the story that is about to unfold a ‘romp.’ Buckle up. You’re not gonna believe where this one is going. I sure didn’t. Our story begins when the substitute English teacher drops the “C” word. The tea is that they caught the cancer late—like Stage 4—and spread to the brain—late. Oof. Everyone turns to their phones and gets to work. Albie, our resident snoop, digs up the 1994 high school yearbook from the library in no time flat and strikes gold. The picture starts trending on social media and immediately goes viral—at least by Bayside High standards. “Billy Biceps,” the caption reads. It is unmistakable. It is Mr. Arnold alright. A teenage version. Flashing that double bicep pose like the Austrian Oak himself, except while sporting a bad eighties mustache and shaggy do. Something needs to be done. Mr. Arnold can’t go down like this. Not on my watch. Gear is a bitch. A real ticking time bomb. If only he had never started juicing. He probably would have never got cancer. Let’s back up. Mr. Arnold isn't just our High School English teacher; he's much more. He’s the one who wrote out Jay-Z lyrics in the style of E.E. Cummings. The one who assigned us “A Wrinkle in Time.” And explained how time travel a/k/a tessering worked in the book—sound being transformed into light and warping space to transport you where you need to go. “All you have to do is close your eyes and hum,” Mr. Arnold said. And in typical Mr. Arnold fashion, he started humming out “Sweet Home Alabama.” Mr. Arnold is a real one. The cool teacher. “Oh, Captain! My Captain!” All that. Everyone in our class comes to him first before their parents with any life crisis that comes up. He's the one our parents complain about. And for me, he is “The Dude.” The Dude who said, “Does anyone else think they can catch lightning in a bottle like Aiden, just did” while reading the poem I submitted to the student Lit Mag aloud to the class. And Inaya heard him say it. Inaya, you could say, is a Heather. If you know what I mean. Inaya snaps me, with the Bitmoji of her face in a Spider-Gwen costume popping up on my iPhone, and the text comes in saying, “I was tired from a late-night pre-cal sesh. Then I was bored during AP Bio. Now I’m tired of being bored. So, I’ve spent the last half hour breadcrumbing my Stanny-Stan-Stan. Anyway, you hear about Mr. Arnold?” Stan is a fan. But like a fan who is obsessed. Eminem. Marshal Mathers. Bueller. Is anyone getting this? I snap her back instantly, telling Inaya to meet me in the library. Inaya’s already there, waiting by the circular stacks, wearing a fire ensemble. Shit, to be honest, her whole vibe is fire. I pull her into one of the study rooms. “We’ve got to find one of the teachers who went to school with Mr. Arnold, stat,” I say. “And what good is that gonna do?” “Intel. We need intel. If we are going to help Mr. Arnold, we need to get the real tea. Find out how this started and how deep into the sauce he was. Like, was this a summer of love type of thing, or was he like a genuine, Jersey Shore, GTL Gorilla?” “No cap, Aiden. Mr. Arnold gives off strong GTL Gorilla vibes.” “Facts.” “Is it just me, or was young Mr. Arnold dripping with rizz? Talk about a Glow-up. Minus the stash. The stash has to go.” “I didn’t think you were into buff dudes?” “Teenybopper Mr. Arnold is a whole meal. We could smash.” “Jesus.” “I’m kidding! It’s Mr. Arnold. Don’t be so salty. Besides, I’m saving myself for Timothée Chalamet.” “Timothée Chalamet is a bad meme. An AI composite. I mean, really. What, did Timmy ask you to Homecoming?” This isn’t idle chat. I’m trying to work up the courage to ask Inaya to Homecoming but feel like I’m choking on my tongue. “No. Still waiting on Timmy. Sigh. A girl can dream. Let’s go find that yearbook.” She didn’t take the bait. So, that’s an L. “I’d go with Mr. Arnold though,” she teases. “Or some young stud that comes up with an ingenious plan to save his… manly bits?” “Done and done,” she says, smiling. Maybe there's a chance after all, I think. Inaya and I scour some old yearbooks and finally realize that Ms. Paino was a classmate of Mr. Arnold, back before the button-downs and sweaters and the spectacled readers. I find Ms. Paino in the teacher’s lounge. I’m on the AP track and in the running for one of the runners-up slots for valedictorian. Therefore, I’m grandfathered into barging into the teacher’s lounge unannounced. “Aiden, what are you doing here?” “I need the tea on Mr. Arnold, spill it,” I say. “What do you mean? About his illness?” “About the nineties. How did our resident Mr. Rogers lookalike get on the gear?” “Oh, that. So, you saw the Billy Biceps pic that’s going around, and you think…” “Think. I know. Now spill it.” “If you really want to know... I suppose it's harmless. It all started when Billy's high school girlfriend dumped him for a jock right before Homecoming. What was her name? N-Nnn-Na. What was it? Nad-ee-ah. Nadia. That’s it. How could I forget? A tall drink of water. Came over with her family from St. Petersburg, and she had that husky, deep, Russian accent. All the boys were eating it up. Climbing over one another to get her attention. They were all jealous of Mr. Arnold for punching her dance card. Nadia, though. She was looking to trade up. Looking for someone buff. That’s how she ended up with Slater. Captain of the soccer team. I mean, he was a bit of a snack. Isn’t that how you all say it?” “Wait, what’s a ‘dance card?’ No, never mind. What happened when this e-girl ghosted Mr. Arnold?” “Billy ditched the Homecoming Dance. Ended up at the Blockbuster Video in the Taunton Strip Mall instead.” “Blockbuster?” “Think Netflix, with physical tapes you bring home to watch, then return.” “Tapes?” “VHS cassettes.” “Cahh-sets? Okay. Whatever that is.” “You had to rewind them too. ‘Be Kind. Rewind.’ That was their motto!” “Rewind?” “Well, it’s a physical tape, like a movie reel, so you had to put it in the VCR and press rewind or else it was a real pain for the next person. And sometimes when the staff was rewinding a tape a customer didn't rewind before returning, they’d put the wrong video in the case. That was the worst.” “VCR? Never mind. What happened?” “Anyway, they gave Billy the wrong VHS tape. A real, ‘Be Kind. Rewind’ faux pas. Instead of getting ‘Adventures in Babysitting,’ he ended up with ‘Pumping Iron.’ The rest was history. Billy hit the weights hard that spring and summer. Hard, hard. And he got… swole… as the kids would say. Then it became kind of like an addiction. Before you know it, he’s greasing himself up and entering competitions.” “So how does this ‘rewinding’ of the tape work?” “Uhhh, it is like a movie reel. There are little spools on the tapes and a spinning grip in the machine. The VCR uses a little motor. The wheels just turn in reverse. And the tape rewinds.” “Interesting. So, we’re talking, the fall of 1993. That’s when the big yikes happened.” “I suppose,” Ms. Paino said. “Shouldn’t you be in study hall?” “I’m on my way – right now – thanks!” * * * I walk through the hallways at a brisk clip, dodging the other kids and swearing revenge on Nadia, that no-good ratchet Russian cheater who left Mr. Arnold for Mr. Beefcakes! Now I know why he always sneered when referring to Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, and Chekhov. The Russians , he would say, with emphasis, as if twisting his mustache in derision. Everywhere I go, I keep noticing a creepy 40-something dude in the hallway, looking like the only clothed person in a nudist colony. He is wearing a vintage Metallica T-shirt with white lettering on black. His bleach-blonde hair is styled in a mangy bowl cut. The first time I see him he’s cutting through the gym scuffing the coating on the laminate floor. Not two minutes later, I spot him down the hall coming around the corner to the cafeteria. The chances this guy has a hall pass are slim to none. This time he walks right up to me, grabs me by the shoulders, and says, “Aiden, it’s you.” “Uhh, yeah. And who are you?” “Eddie Edge,” he says, placing his hands on hips. “What is a… am I supposed to be impressed?” “You need to come with me. It’s about Mr. Arnold. There isn’t much time.” “Okay boomer.” “Follow me.” He starts speeding off toward the bus lot behind the cafeteria before I can catch up. “We’re going where? To do what?” “Look kid. I owe Mr. Arnold. I was a kid in his class years ago when he first started teaching. About twenty years ago now. What an inspiration! It’s something I’ve got to do. For all our sake.” “You have any proof?” “You could go back to the 1998 Yearbook and check me out on this. But there isn’t any time. The rift will only be open for about ten more minutes. By next period, it’ll be gone forever.” “So, what are you suggesting we do to help Mr. Arnold? Humor me.” “What else? Isn’t it obvious? We have to return to 1993 and make sure Mr. Arnold checks out the right flic at Blockbuster Video. Everything depends on it. If he never gets cancer, Inaya never dies...” “Inaya? Dies? What does she have to... Whoah. For real. Are you mental bro?” “I’m telling you right now that I’m here to take you back…” “And who, what exactly are you supposed to be?” “We’ve been over this. I don’t have time to explain. Try to keep up. We have to ride the short bus.” “That old relic in the bus barn? That hasn’t been used for years. What does that have to do with Mr. Arnold?” “Well, I’m not saying we ride it literally. We need to catch a vibe.” “A vibe? It’s giving… let’s see… an ’07 shaved-head Britney Spears vibe. Is that an old enough reference for you? You getting me, bruh ?” “We need to channel a time rift. A musical one. A real nineties vibe. And bridge that rift through space and time. Shred that wave until we clear the barrel and come out the other side 'Gleaming the Cube' style without getting ragdolled in the process. It is all vibrations. All thrumming strings. Like on a record. And you can rewind it. That’s how it works. Taking the short way around. Pun intended. You ever read ‘A Wrinkle in Time?’” “I’m shook. You are like, literally, the second person today explaining rewinding to me.” “Trust me. It’s easy. To get back to the fall of 1993 all we have to do is start playing ‘Linger’ by the Cranberries on repeat in the short bus. Works every time.” “Wait. You are saying time travel is sound based? Mr. Arnold told us something about that. Tessering. Are you saying that’s a real thing?” “You think it’s a coincidence, bruh? Come on kid. Or should I start calling you Meg? There’s no time to waste.” “Wait? You read Madeline L’Engle?” “Read it? I inspired it. Do you think she just made up Charles Wallace? I go by Eddie Edge, but obviously, that is not my real name. It’s copyright infringement, kid. Plain and simple. That girl should be in time jail.” Okay, okay. The explanation slaps. My mind is officially blown. Low key. But I am no fool. I text Inaya and Albie to hunt down the 1998 Yearbook. Stat. * * * Don’t ask me how this dough-brained cringeasaurus finessed me into accompanying him onto the short bus. When Inaya hadn’t even gotten back to me yet. Using a YA novel no less. Might as well have been dangling a bag of Skittles in front of a Highlighter Kid. Just saying it out loud sounds highly sus. But that is what’s happening right now. When we get out to the school bus graveyard, the short bus with its four rear windows is grinning at us. It is covered in hot pink, electric blue, and lime green stripes, and checkered with pastel graffiti. There is a pink baby elephant, a mint green alien in a flying saucer, and a lavender chimpanzee dangling from the top of the rear bay doors. There’s also a bright orange giraffe by the automatic door, giving boarding passengers the side eye. And the grill is painted like a grinning carnival clown. Eddie Edge steps inside first and sits in the driver’s seat. I come in and sit directly behind in the first row. He pulls a black rectangular thingy out of his pocket and sticks it into a slot next to the steering wheel. He turns his head back to me and says, “You ready?” I shrug. A haunting humming sound gives way to a catchy melody. It reverberates around us and the bus starts gently shaking. A haunting voice takes center stage, singing, “If you could return… do you have to… do you have to.” It was a vibe. It was giving me a headache. The bus was glitching now. The air was filled with static. I was getting a bit dizzy, like the way your eyes unfocus when you’re staring too long at a picture. “You know I’m such a fool….fooo—oooool.” “Jusss waittt. Close your eyes. The dizzzziiiinnneessss will fade. Just count back from ten.” By the time I reach one, all is silent. Solid. Still. As it should be. I open my eyes and we are at the Taunton Strip Mall. “Come on. There isn’t much time,” Eddie Edge says. And as we walk out of the bus, I notice there is no graffiti anywhere. A big blue sign on the front of the biggest storefront reads “Blockbuster Video” in bright block letters. “Alright, kid. You’ve got to head in there. The task is simple. Swap out the ‘Pumping Iron’ VHS that is in the wrong case for ‘Adventures in Babysitting.' Easy peasy. Got it?” “Oh, is that all,” I say. And I run up to the glass doors. * * * As I enter the store, I hear a jingling from a bell over the door. I take stock of my surroundings. Rows of cases line the shelves. There is a candy display at the counter. A popcorn popper going like gangbusters. A red curtain behind a section at the far end. There is a dopy stoner-looking dude at the counter, and a perky girl with an up-do next to him, chewing bubble gum, popping bubbles, and smacking her gums obnoxiously. And they are playing some movie on a weird boxy screen above the register. Some old flic with a gofer running from some guy in a bucket hat. I quickly try to problem-solve this bitch. Step 1. Find the ‘Adventures in Babysitting’ tape. Step 2. Distract the lip-smacking candy girl. Step 3. Make the swap. Step 4. Get the hell out of dodge. Turning my head I see an aisle that says, “New Releases.” That must be where ‘Adventures in Babysitting’ is. But what about ‘Pumping Iron?’ That’s an older film. I make a b-line for the curtained room and pull back the curtain. Oh boy! The second I open the curtain I realize that I am in an age with no internet. It never occurred to me the lengths people had to go to back in the day. Jeez Louise! “Hey kid!” the stoner dude says, “Adults only. Can’t you read the sign!” I take the L, sulking back to the counter. “Sorry,” I say. “I’m looking for ‘Pumping Iron.’ You know where it is?” He shakes his head in disapproval. “Come with me, kid.” I follow the gangly dope head back to the stacks on the back wall. There is a sign indicating this is the ‘Arnold Schwarzenegger’ section. He immediately finds the cassette and opens it up. “Sorry kid, it looks like somebody checked this one out.” “Could you check?” I ask. “I really was looking forward to watching this one. Oh wait. What about ‘Adventures in Babysitting?’ I want to check that out too." We go back to New Releases section and he hands me the case. While the dope head checks the computer, I ask the Chewing Gum Girl for some popcorn. “How much do you want?” "Do you take ApplePay?" “Apple, what? It’s free with a purchase kid,” she says, angrily filling a tub and plopping it down on the counter. Spotting the rewind machine on the counter behind her, I knock over the tub. Chewing Gum Girl curses under her breath, comes over with a broom, and starts cleaning. I sneak around and spot the ‘Adventures in Babysitting’ cassette in the rewinder and make the swap and I am back in the short bus in no time flat. “Not bad, kid.” “Thanks, Eddie. Or should I say Charles? Where to now?” “You’re riding solo, kid. Just pick any Taylor Swift song. You’ll be back in no time.” “Hey, you know what happens with Inaya and me?” “At Homecoming?” he asks. “Bussin!” I say, grinning ear to ear.


Part 1 Jean Davis In a raging swath of flame mankind—those who turned away from the One Truth—burned. This emptiness took hold from inside them suddenly, and they cried out as one—finally one—and their pain and terror of knowing in their last moments that they were too late to change, that they had thrown away their final chance at salvation, struck me as I watched atop a great hill of black and gold. The Visitor was beside me, scorching me with his radiance. Larger than I could comprehend, but who hovered beside me not much taller than I was. A thousand rings of golden flames churned around him—a light brighter and hotter than the sun circling within it. Then the Visitor laughed. The Conference—that’s the name we called it, at least—was sterile and made from hard, concrete angles. A government building. My shoes tapped the waxed slab floor as I walked in, florescent tube lights buzzing above me every few yards, and the walls just white enough I was forced to squint. The man slowing his pace to keep in line with mine was going on about where everything was, pointing down this hallway and that, describing in abundant detail the corridor naming system in place to help visitors not get lost. “Just visitors?” There was a groan in my voice and an even deeper sarcasm. I didn’t have to look at him to know how he squirmed. The CIA must not teach its lackeys how to process sarcastic teenage girls. I snorted, then glanced down a passing hallway—they all looked the exact same and by this point I had no idea where I was or where exactly I was going. I slowed just enough for Oliver to get half a step in front of me. “Your room is located in hallway F,” Oliver said, “along with the other women. The men are all located in hallway B.” “Where do we eat?” Oliver frowned. “Like I said, it’s down this way, then a right, follow hallway B all the way down, take a left, then another right down hallway C, go all the way to the end before taking another left, then—“ “I’ll find it myself.” I toyed with my necklace, twisting it in my fingers. The rose quartz stone was confined in a round aluminum cage, bound by a simple black string around my neck. I squeezed it tightly as the buzz of hundreds of voices rattled my bones. We turned the corner and came to the doors of the Chamber. Oliver pushed open the doors and went in first, and I followed, met with a flare of anxiety at the sea of people before me. The Chamber was like a theater, tables and seats lining well over fifty—maybe even more—rows, gradually working itself down to the far end of the room where a stage rose back up, topped with a long table and even more chairs. The floor was that cheap government carpet, and the walls were carved out like a giant ribcage. For all the chairs the room had, no one was seated. I could tell Oliver was nervous, too, postured a little too straight in his grey suit, as I followed him down the main steps towards the front. All around me I was swallowed by a sea of people—all different races, all speaking different languages, and all very heated. “Oh my God.” My voice was a whisper and drowned in the raging sea of others. I realized in that moment that this was all actually happening—and what this was for had been real. The Visitation. I was halfway down the Chamber when I stopped and actually took a moment to listen. An Indian woman, well dressed, probably in her mid-fifties, stood before a Muslim man whose back was towards me. He yelled and pointed a harsh finger at her, although she took it all with the slightest possible smile, one that could be seen as either confident or arrogant. I was enthralled, before the corners of my vision began to fuzz, and a wave of nausea smacked me like a rock on the coast. I could understand these people. All of them. And they were speaking languages I had no ability to understand. Some weren’t even ones I recognized, coming from cultures I wouldn’t be able to find on a map if I was given all the time in the world to do so. The Indian woman took note of me stumbling into a chair and brushed the man aside. He stormed off as she approached and laid a hand on my shoulder. “All a bit of a shock once you realize it, huh?” I looked up at her. She had a kind face, well-used features, a round nose, and black hair wound in a tight braid reaching over her shoulder and down to her waist. “Yet another gift from the Visitation.” As if triggered by the word, fire and death leaped across my vision. I clenched my eyes closed and groaned, hoping that would relay exactly what I thought about the Visitation’s “gifts”. The woman brushed some of my hair from my face with the care of a mother but with the look of someone who had a lot of pain within herself. Conveniently, a pitcher of water and an empty glass were beside me on the table, like a dozen were on all of the tables. She poured me a glass and handed it to me. “If the nausea persists, come find me later. I’ll give you some medicine.” By the time I opened my eyes from chugging the water, my head brimming with cool clarity, she was gone, melded back into the throng. My heart leaped as I realized Oliver had abandoned me, too. I stood, feeling predatory eyes on me from a group of four men, all with dark skin and white robes native to the Middle East. One of those men I recognized as the one who had been arguing with the Indian woman. His hair was black and coarse beneath a brimless hat matching his outfit. His brow was angular and bound in the middle, beneath resting the black eyes of a killer. I pushed my way further down the Chamber, away from them. Oliver’s voice came from the stage, stiff and rehearsed, and the noise died to a low hum. “As I’m sure everyone has discovered the commonality between you, I’ll get right to it. Everyone here has been Visited. One person from every walk of life, culture, and country from around the world. We simply want to know why. Why not Visit world leaders or religious leaders? Why instead choose doctors, teachers, convicts, and children? “In this completely safe, highly monitored facility, we want you all to compare your stories, your theories, and your pasts to try and find the common links between you. Maybe then we can understand why you were the ones Visited and work to communicate with the Visitors further.” “He forgets to mention the armed goons waiting for us on the outside.” I perked up at the sound of English and an American accent. Close to me stood a black man not much older than me with cornrows, a hard brow, and a clenched jaw. Tattoos covered almost every inch of his skin. He spoke to anyone who’d listen as Oliver continued to drone on. “Be on point when this shit’s over or we may not be making it back home.” “You think they’ll kill us?” “You think when the government’s gotten what they want from us, they won’t? They’ll just let us all waltz outta here and go back home?” No one said anything else after that, but just turned their focus back to Oliver and listened with distraught expressions—the kind of look that makes men dangerous, like they’re caged animals looking for an escape and will kill to get it. I continued to walk down the steps, listening to Oliver. He was rambling on about the cafeteria schedule and how the Chamber would always be opened as a central place of discourse and how we were highly encouraged to seek each other out and learn things about everyone so we could “solve this puzzle together”, although we were the ones who were stuck here. “It is a great show of friendship and faith that we have delegates here from all around the world,” he continued. “Please keep that in mind and show each other respect.” I found myself frowning at his tone and word choice. A glance at those immediately surrounding me revealed that only some had the same reaction, the majority of the delegates taking his words at face value. His subtext gave a whole other message; watch your back, because not all of us are here for the same reason. It took me forty-five minutes before I found my room. The plaque on my door read “Jean Davis”, so everyone and their brother would know exactly who they’d find inside. That made me uneasy. Hundreds of strangers knew exactly where I slept. “Doctors, teachers, convicts, and children.” I wondered if Oliver was referring to me with that last remark. I hadn’t seen any children since I arrived. Convicts, though… I thought back to the man with a killer’s eyes and those who surrounded him. How their eyes clawed at my clothes, praying to their god to get me alone. A trembling shudder and the feeling of being watched made me slam the door and lock it behind me, leaving me in a humming white light. It only took me two steps to bump my bed, still staring at the door, clutching my necklace. My knuckles were white as I sat on the bed’s edge and slowly unlaced my high-tops. My room was more of a closet with a bed, nightstand, and a small dresser. The bathroom was communal and located a few doors down. Easing myself further into bed, I tried to fall asleep but found myself staring at the sliver of light bursting in from underneath the door. Only a few times did shadows move across it, breaking the streak before moving on, opening and closing doors of their own further down the hall. Fire raged in my vision, and I opened my eyes to find the ceiling, but no Visitor. My grip around my necklace was so tight it hurt. I didn’t want to be Visited again. It was haunting and painful, forcing thoughts into my head that I wanted nothing to do with. I was perfectly fine with how I was and needed no one or nothing else. That was a lie, and it stung as soon as I thought it. I cursed the Visitor. He was the one who made me this way, taking away the freedom of my own thoughts and forcing me to constantly confront the lies I told myself. But again, I knew that was a lie. The Visitor had no control over how I had been made. Only one did. The One. I found myself drifting off again into a black sleep, and after a momentary struggle, I let it take me. My dad stood before me, a handsome man in his mid-thirties with thick stubble, short black hair, dripping a puddle of water onto the floor and clutching a towel around his waist. My backpack was on the floor, today’s homework spilled out. I stared at him, trembling as he tried to explain himself, the woman dressing hurriedly behind him. A year later, I could feel my mom’s eyes on me, scolding me with silence, then averting when I looked at her. She hadn’t spoken to me for three days since I had finally told her that her husband was a traitor. I suddenly found myself alone, sitting on the floor, back to the couch, numbing my mind with the fluttering glow of the TV. She was out somewhere—she never told me where—and I was home. The house was dark. It was the way I liked it when I was alone. I had never been afraid of the dark but found solace in it; I found that I could melt into the darkness and become nothing. Lose the skin of Jean Davis and walk naked and incorporeal. It would help with some of the pain, some of the guilt—both for not telling her sooner and telling her at all. But not all of it would leave with my body as I strode high through the blackness, toes sinking into the carpet. A lot of it would remain clung to me, digging claws into my back and not letting me go. Tonight was the night that would change. Tonight was the night that would end. I sank slowly into the bathtub, cringing as the water burned, but continuing down until I was submerged to my throat. Even that pain was nothing to the tightness in my chest, my constant shame. I thought back to earlier that evening when I found my mom sitting numb, sucking a cigarette and clutching a wine glass, only a thin maroon ring remaining inside. “Mom?” I was stupid to talk to her when she was like that, but I wanted to tell her the amazing fucking news. Her head tilted my way to let me know she was listening. “I’m going to be a sister.” I thought maybe I should’ve left a note, but I didn’t think anyone would care to read it. Mom wouldn’t. She’d probably laugh and go have another drink. Misery was her solace now, and she’d want to keep that comfort. And dad… He had a new family now. There was no need for me. He was married to someone younger and prettier, someone still enchanted by his Sauvé, and would soon have a son—the one he always wanted—and would be happy. He wanted me to be happy, too. Happy for him and his new family. He called me and told me the news and I heard genuine excitement in his voice, the kind that was always foreign to me. In a messed-up kind of way, I did feel happy for him. Maybe he wouldn’t be so disappointed anymore, with me and with mom. Maybe now he had what he had always wanted and wouldn’t ruin this family, too. I pictured this new kid—my little brother—and my dad playing catch and riding bikes and laughing and hoped that he would be a good dad to him. That this kid wouldn’t turn out like me. A failure. Tears streaked my cheeks and my pillow was soaked through. It took me twenty minutes to stop hyperventilating enough to get dressed and open my door to the blaring light of the hallway. A dull throb beat above my left eye as I brushed my teeth, and I wondered if that woman from yesterday was around. I didn’t know her name, so I had no idea which door to knock on. I decided to just bite through it and make my way to the cafeteria. I blinked back one last splash of water, watching beads run down my face like tears. I had bags under my eyes and my hair was a mess. I felt out of place, out of my skin, like I shouldn’t be here, like I shouldn’t be anywhere. There was this strong pull to go home, but not my home. It was an eternal place, somewhere I had never been nor dreamed of going. I wiped off my face, ran my hands through my hair, fluffing it up in a more kempt way, then left the bathroom. Instinctively I glanced down the hall before turning towards the direction of the cafeteria and stopped. I turned back to find a young Asian man coming from one of the bedrooms about five yards away. I frowned, he spotted me, and I got an unnerving urge to turn and run. He stared at me for a moment too long, then turned and walked the other direction, disappearing around a corner. Before I knew what I was doing, my legs took me to the room the man had come from. The plaque read “Naya Ravel”, the door was unlocked, and the room itself was empty. Unlike the movies, it wasn’t ransacked, either. It was pristine, as if nothing had been touched at all, and I wondered what he could’ve been doing here. I stood in the midst of a cafeteria trembling with voices and motion, my tray light with a couple pieces of toast, a cup of oatmeal, and a coffee. I scanned the room, the tables, and those sitting at them. My throat was dry, and my head was pounding. I’d just go back to my room. Turning towards the exit, I was met by the Indian woman’s eyes on me. She sat at a table by herself, smiled, and waved me over. I approached reluctantly. “Feeling better?” “A little.” I remained standing at the edge of the table, not committing myself to sitting. The woman arched a brow at that, then offered me the seat. “I promise I don’t bite. I’m Dr. Naya Ravel.” The bench was plastic and uncomfortable as I sat across from Naya. Did I tell her about the man I saw coming from her room? Did she know? What would she do? What did she have to hide? Oliver’s hidden message to the delegates played back in my head. “Watch your back because not all of us are here for the same reason.” A gasp caught in my throat as the Visitor appeared suddenly behind her, churning its rings in a metallic screech, the ball of light upon me like a great eye, seeing my thoughts, my shame, my longing. I screamed.


There's a one day in past no one remembers... "I wish people could see that. No one is going to believe us." Miró put his camera on. "You were saying?" Tomazo smiled. His friend was always here to solve his non-existent crisis. "So, what are you going to say to our fans?" Tomazo stuttered. "We-we're about to jump from the plane, you know," When he spotted Miró, he added: ",with other members of Wackos International." Miró rolled his eyes at the nervous youngster. "Tomazo, Tomazo, what I am going to do with you? You're not scared of jumping from 700 metres but speaking to the public it's mortifying? Unbelievable." Tomazo pulled on his friend's parachute to make sure everything was in perfect shape. "I can assure you- fine, fine, check it for the thousandth time." Miró let his friend do the checks and went to look for other boys. "Hello, Wackos! Some words of encouragement for our fans?" They began to shout: "We gonna jump, you better watch it. 700 metres and no one's dying!" Miró laughed and joined them with chanting. "Are you guys ready, an aeroplane is here in a minute?" Instead of an answer, they started to dress up. Joel, the oldest of the group, smiled at Miró. "If I want to show my abs, I would do it in a gym. Not with you grinning behind the lens. Shoo!" "You never let me have fun, do you, Joel?" Miró grinned when Joel threw his sweaty top at him. "I'll show my sixpack to anyone, Miró." Emmanuel laughed. The cameraman pointed the camera at him, smiling. Emmo twisted his top over his head, wiggling around with his hips. Other boys cheered. "Why are you not ready? The pilot's already here." Tomazo entered the locker room, then twisted himself to run away, embarrassed to death. "Tomazo! Our virgin boy, don't you worry, we're leaving so you can get ready," shouted Arno. Miró stared at him in disbelief. How dare is he? ", chill, I am on my way out." The youngster added and left the locker room, laughing. When only Miró left, secretly leaving the camera on, he asked Tomazo: "What's the issue? My younger brother sometimes doesn't think about what he's doing, hell, he never thinks. That doesn't mean he's right about you." "Some scars are better to stay hidden, Miró." "Let me help you, then. I think you can trust me, after all." Tomazo shivered but then let him help. "Is it safe to jump with this?" He poked the thin tube hanging off his stomach. "I'll be fine, believe me. I need a tape, and you need to hold it for a moment." Miró nodded. "Hey, you will not rip me apart, hold it tight!" Tomazo blushed. It sounded harsh but Miró waved it off. "Tomazo, calm down, we are both men. You can actually hit me, you know?" The younger of the men shook his head. "No, Miró, I will not. Besides, Wackos are ready to game on. Don't tell me you can't hear their bickering from outside." Mir´o slapped his arm and together they went outside. Every parachutist was checking its stuff, buckling themselves and joking about presidents and priests. Tomazo had to smile. They disagree, first, with this idea. But Miró was convincing and group of eight men and three women build up enough courage to set the meeting. To actually jump. With Tomazo, shy boy from Texas, first. He breathed in and out. He grabbed the rope. He breathed in and out again. Then he raised his thumb up and shouted: "On three!" Pilot laughed and slightly shifted the plane on the side. Tomazo screeched and he was gone. Free fall from the plane. Alone, dropping fast, yet he was relaxed. Screaming his lungs out, he let happiness fill him to the brink. Then he pulled the string and opened his parachute. At first nothing happened, then violent thrust of wind raised him up. Tomazo realized the parachute opened already and clutched the harness, maneuvering as he was taught in the class. Briefly, he could see Joel and Marianne, Wackos official founders, screaming and laughing around. Then others jumped in synchronized motion. Finally, they all reached Tomazo and caught him from both sides, creating a Wacko "circle of bravery". Tomazo couldn't hold back tears. Bunch of colleagues now turned into something Tomazo never had. A family. They were doing it for him. And with him. "That was amazing!" Emmo landed first, laughing his ass off from relief. "I'll kill you, when you land hard, men!" He shouted at the sky where men were falling. "It's not over. Next week, we are deep diving in Marine Trench." Miró remarked, being killed immediately with a look of slightly scared Emmanuel. "Are you okay, Tomazo?" When everyone landed, Miró run to his friend. He was white as a sheet, shivering. And big blotch of blood was trickling from his stomach. "Call an emergency, quick!" He shouted, breaking the panic silence. Joel run in search of signal while others were helping to unbuckle Tomazo from his parachute. "I'll be fine, no stress." He whispered, attempting to relax them. Arno shook his head and nipped: "You idiot! You cut yourself open and expect us to believe you'll be good?!" Miró wasn't in mood to scold him, focused on Tomazo, who was clutching his left arm in attempt to fight shivers. Emmanuel managed to free him from the harness and they lay him down. "The helicopter is on the way." Joel absent-mindedly wiped his face of sweat and announced the news. "Hey, buddy, what's that?" Hanzo, Joel's younger brother, commented when Miró accidentally pulled out Tomazo's suit. "Uhm," Tomazo went silent. "Heck no, Tomazo, they deserve to know. Now, grow into big boy pants and tell them!" Miró pinched his shoulder, sober look on his sweaty face. ",uh, I got PEG tube. Two years ago." Everyone went silent for a while, then Emmo sighed: "You ruined it now. I always thought you're gay vampire." The Wackos burst into a laugh. "Why gay? I get that part with not eating your food, but gay? Do you think you are turning me on? You're handsome, that's without doubt, but you know, I'm wet while looking at girls. Sorry, Marianne. It's rude to say it aloud." She waved it off, looking nervous as blood didn't stop trickling, making him less able to communicate. "Where's the-" Arno growled when they heard deafening noise from helicopter's rotating blades. After surgery, Tomazo was bored from watching cartoons and he switched the channel to evening news. He started to laugh, waking up his roommate. "Shush you, trying to get some sleep, wait- it's that you?" Tomazo swallowed tears and nodded. The evening news were full of his face. To be clear, Wackos International group was served as the main dish for local media. There was a record from Miró and also the part he was unaware of. The part of their conversation in the locker room. He reached for his phone, shaking. This hit him home. But before the phone connected to Miró, he knocked at the door and invited himself inside. With box of chocolates and grin plastered on his face. "I guess you would like to kick me. So I melted them first." "How could you? I trusted you with my- with this!" He pointed at his bandaged stomach. "Because you trusted me, I didn't tell a soul. Nor did you. Though you should be proud. Nothing of this would happen, if you didn't stand up for them. You save them, risking your own life. And now, you are part of us. Raining men. Wackos. Seize the day and save sorrow for the funeral." With these words he left the room, leaving Tomazo to think about the past he was running from. "What he was talking about? Who did you save?" His roommate wondered. "My name is Tomazo Fretta. I was deployed to rescue mission of American soldiers, held in captivity, in Iraq's war camps. I was attacked, bombed and I came home, damaged but saved them all. It was rainy, rainy day, when Tomazo Fretta, walked that way. I wanted to forget it, but Miró is right. I should be proud of what I did. Not pushing it away. And I owe them, my raining men...."


When I heard Aunt Maisie’s warble on the voice-mail I groaned. Although she and Uncle Leland are no-fuss visitors, the type who’d welcome a cheese sandwich at my kitchen table, I suspected they had an agenda behind their impromptu visit in late spring. They’re good friends with Genevieve’s family. I wanted an excuse for a knock-down belly-busting barbecue. I was in the mood to coax a T-bone steak to perfection on my shiny new thousand-dollar deluxe grill enthroned on the deck that I had lovingly refurbished most of the past year while Genevieve was working long hours at the city hospital. I wanted to bask in the admiration of friends and neighbors for completing the big deck/barbecue project. Instead, my aunt and uncle just wanted to hang out in the breakfast nook. Whatever. “The Crown Vic blew a gasket this past winter and we had to junk it,” Uncle Leland said, accepting with a sigh the mug of tea I handed him. “Hoo-eee, it’s an uncommon delight to be riding in luxury again.” I wished Genevieve was here to help carry my end of the conversation while I sliced and buttered. “Musta been a rough winter,” I said, “getting to and from work by dogsled.” Leland was a bookkeeper and Maisie worked part-time for the municipality. They also did odd jobs like Christmas shift at the post office and selling fishing worms to summer vacationers. They laughed appreciatively. “Good ole Pete, you haven’t lost your sense of humor here in the big city.” Leland looks like a garden gnome dressed like an accountant. He has that spry, mischievous aura and bulbous features. Maisie has apple cheeks, an unexpectedly sharp nose, and a mop of yellow-gray hair. Looking at them, you’d never guess they’d lost their only son to meningitis two decades ago. “We saved a passel of money, is what,” Maisie said. “And I lost ten pounds, toning my muscles as I tromped through waist-high snowbanks.” She patted her thighs proudly. “You know how he loves to drive, but not so much in winner,” she said, dropping the T in “winter” and thus making the harsh season into a positive. Typical Maisie. “You don’t realize how much you pay Royal Dutch every week until you decide to quit driving a gas guzzler,” Leland said. Yes, the company has rebranded to Shell, but these two keep calling it “Royal Dutch.” “We’re doing our bit to save the environment,” Maisie said, accepting the sandwich plate. She glanced at the clutter I had to push aside as I set down her plate. “What, is Genevieve away for a bit?” “Ye-es,” I said carefully. “We’re…” I thrust a plate at Leland, who took one glimpse at my desperate face and helped man-to-man with a digression on the price of cheese. “So, you saved up for a car?” I asked once we were safely past the topic of Genevieve. “Or is that a rental you drove up in?” Leland’s eyes shifted to Maisie and back to me. “Started to… but then I realized we had a chance to double our money!” He grinned. “Ever hear of N.F.Ts?” I blinked. In between rebuilding the deck and trying to placate Genevieve, I’d been researching NFTs, eventually concluding I didn’t feel comfortable jumping on a bandwagon whose name I could barely pronounce. (Come on, when’s the last time you heard “fungible” used in a conversation?) “So you got into NFTs…,” I said, “whose idea was that ?” I’d decided to stir up this lovey-dovey pair. The best defense is a good offense. If the family sent them here to talk to me about Genevieve—perhaps to advise me to take her back—I would instead get Maisie and Leland quarreling. Nothing like questions of money to provoke a squabble, right? Their spats were legendary in the family, with not much crockery surviving from their wedding set. Maisie chuckled. “Well, he started it… but, okay, I kept feeding it. I cut out articles for him... found a book. We might live in the boondocks of upper Maine, but we stay up to date.” “So, what priceless artwork did you buy the NFTs for?” I said. “Not some pixelated gorilla, I hope.” Leland nudged Maisie. “See, Pete knows all about ‘em. I told you he would.” He winked. “Sounds like you’ve been dipping into the alternative markets, too.” I shrugged; I play my cards close to the chest whenever I can. Something else that used to drive Genevieve nuts. “Problem is, the wiffy,” Maisie said. “Wi-Fi,” I corrected her gently (as nephews have to do). “Rhymes with hi-fi and tie-dye.” “You know what she means,” Leland said, loyally. “The WiFi’s pretty slow out there, and liable to interruptions. We know our limitations, so we went to the city to find a financial advisor.” “Joe and Betty’s girl was getting married,” Maisie said, “so we caught a ride with them—they were glad to share the driving,” After a digression about Joe’s cataracts and Betty’s breast and the wedding, Maisie said, “We stopped at the first place we saw that offered NTFs.” “NFTs,” I corrected. She waved this away and they sailed merrily along with the story, scarcely missing a beat. “It was an NFT on a painting by… who’s that guy?” Leland said. “You see his work everywhere…” “Oh-oh-oh-tip of my tongue! He does gorgeous work, gorgeous ,” Maisie said. “You know the Christmas cards we send out?” “Ah, Thomas Kinkade.” I recalled the pink and yellow hues of a saccharin Christmas. On the plus side, Kinkade was extremely popular so that meant high demand. I seemed to recall he had died… which would also work in Leland’s favor. Moreover, there was some scandal attached to the artist… that would also make the NFTs more valuable. But on the negative side, Kinkade was extremely prolific—the NFTs issued for his kitsch would be a dime a dozen. With all the swings and roundabouts of volatile prices, I figured Leland would pretty much break even. Leland nudged Maisie. “You see how polite this nephew of ours is?” he said to her and she murmured agreement. “I can see it in your eyes, Pete. You know the market for NFTs turned real soft… “Soft as a moldy peach,” I said, “especially for over-exposed artists like Kinkade, whose pictures are printed on every coffee cup and roll of toilet paper this side of the Appalachians.” Maisie looked like she’d been slapped. I suspected I’d never receive another Kinkade card. For a fleeting moment, I recalled Genevieve’s face the time—the one time—I dared comment on her choice of tableware. Her tastes, like my aunt’s, ran to the cozy and sentimental. I’d told Genevieve that I preferred not to eat my sardines on toast in the middle of a flower bed of lilies and forget-me-nots… and started nuclear winter. Why had things blown up for Genevieve and me? I studied Leland’s profile. He didn’t share Maisie’s style. Any reference to their décor was self-deprecating. Somehow they’d been able to negotiate a truce, these two. Maisie picked up her cup and said, “Would Genevieve be able to say hi if we drove by the city hospital, do you think?” “No way,” I said. “They’re too busy to spit.” Maisie was veering toward the subject of Genevieve and me. “Don’t tell me you lost your shirt on the NFTs,” I said, figuring I could keep distracting them by asking about their lives. The worst they could say was, “Mind your own beeswax.” But Leland had no false pride. “Ten cents on the dollar,” he said. “Ouch!” “Yep. So much for buying a new set of wheels.” Leland ran his fingers through his few strands of gray hair. I stared at him. I would never have admitted getting fleeced, not even with family. It seemed unmanly. Genevieve would have kicked me to the curb. Or would she? There was Maisie, placing her hand over Leland’s knuckles like she was wrapping her palm around a golden scepter. “The radio people came around to innerview him. My Lele here became a local celebrity.” She beamed. “They ran the piece a few times.” “And the worm business picked up,” Leland said. “Folks kept dropping by to ask if they could see my famous painting. And they’d buy a cup or two of worms.” “But the publicity meant we got targeted by identity thieves,” Maisie said. She dropped her voice ominously. “The nerve of some people!”  “The scum!” I said. “But the joke was on them,” Maisie said. “I’ll say!” Leland crowed. “We hadn’t a cent left to steal.” His expression darkened. “Boy, did I feel like a fool. Seems like the whole country knows…” “Well, so what?” she said. “Isn’t this what they mean by radical honesty? People learned from your experience. Takes a brave man to offer himself up like a life lesson.” I sighed in commiseration. This spring I was voted the worst-dressed teacher at the school. Genevieve had left me and I still hadn’t figured out the washing machine. “Yes, it takes guts to face the public,” I said. “Wish I could charge tuition fees at the School of Hard Knocks,” Leland said. “See? He even made it funny,” she said. He bristled. “Funny? It sure wasn’t funny…” “Oh, Lele, you didn’t mean it to be funny but, in a way, it was.” I nodded. “That’s the best kind of funny.” “And then there was that heckler,” he said. “She wasn’t a heckler,” Maisie said. “Sure seemed like one to me.” Leland gave a shudder as if remembering the encounter. “She was from out of town; you could tell by how fast she talked and how odd she looked. No sir, she was no Mainer.” “You say ‘odd’ like she had two heads,” Maisie said teasingly. “She had something up her nose—” Maisie hooted. “You say it like she had a cucumber stuck up her nose!” This caused a gale of hilarity while I sat blankly, waiting to hear about Leland’s brief career on the lecture circuit. From the description Maisie wheezed, I realized it was a small diamond nose piercing the “odd” stranger had. I made a mental note to wear my nose ring the next time I see them. I’ll help broaden their horizons: that’s what a good nephew does. “So she heckled you,” I said. “Then what?” “She challenged this and that, things I’d done, answers I’d received from authorities.” He polished his big-lensed glasses, which had fogged up when he’d been rolling with mirth. “I had all the paperwork, right there.” “Oh yes, he’s a real bloodhound,” she said. “Used to be a forensic accountant,” he said. “That gal thought she was going to take him down—but he turned it right around.” Maisie made a motion like she was steering a bus. “The library asked me to give my talk again,” he said. “There’s big interest in ID theft out here.” “We checked out some of the other library lectures,” Maisie said. “Lele, I said, let’s try that yoga class. He’s been having high blood pressure, what with the broken-down car, the worthless NFTs, and then getting his identity stolen.” “And don’t forget the septic tank problem,” Leland interjected. She patted his hand. “Any other man would be a puddle of stress hormone…” “Yeah, and she kept going on about yoga…” He smirked. “What choice did I have?” “High blood pressure—the silent killer!” she said. “Our doctor gave him some meds but also said, exercise and meditation.” “The problem with yoga class is,” he said gravely, “I sometimes fart.” She blithely ignored this. “It’s been very helpful. We do it every day now.” “So… your library lecture was a bust, but you discovered meditation and improved your health,” I said. “With all the swings and roundabouts, you came out about even.” I reflected… maybe I should try yoga. Genevieve was always saying I was too impatient and stressed. I pictured my aunt and uncle stretched out on yoga mats, possibly laughing too hard to get up from the “half lord of the fishes” pose. “Oh, no, the lecture wasn’t a bust,” Maisie said. “The chief librarian’s sister from New York was visiting,” Leland said. “Works for a big publishing house. She was the heckler,” he clarified. “She came to my next talk—” “The back-by-popular-demand version,” Maisie said, grinning. “Came up and talked to us afterward. Said she knew an agent who needed this kind of book, ‘What To Do When You Lose Your Shirt.’ She asked Lele to make an outline.” “An outline?” I replenished tea all around and collected the sandwich plates. I sneaked a glance at the stove clock. There was still time to call Genevieve and invite her over. She loved—loves, I guess—Maisie and Leland. She calls them the real deal, salt of the earth, and the family she never had. Yes, we were officially broken up, but I still had a box of Genevieve’s books. I could say Maisie and Leland were asking about her and by the way, I’d found some books. “Come on over and listen to their latest escapade,” I’d say. “The agent said if I provided enough detail they’d write the book for me,” he said. “I looked them right in the eye and said, ‘thanks, but I’ll take care of that myself.’” Maisie leaned closer to me. “Pete, a little bird told me you resigned from teaching recently. That’s good news for us—we’re hoping you can help us out.” I choked on my tea. I pictured telling Genevieve I had landed a freelance assignment. This was sort of in my area: English literature. And I wouldn’t have to deal with overcrowded classrooms and belligerent students. Moreover, it might be good to hang out with a couple of experts. Experts on marriage. I could use a few pointers. They were obviously used to dealing with the swings and roundabouts and coming out together. THE END


[Contains sensitive description] They’d blindfolded me, tied a silk scarf over my eyes and promised to return.

I was left alone in nothing but darkness, nothing but the black shadows of an unknown whereabouts. And, after the first few days, I had felt strong. I knew I could continue. A resilience had grown in me – a deep resilience which relied on nothing. Without my visual awareness, I had mostly lost the use of my hands and legs, too. But I’d kept the blindfold on voluntarily, veering up against the darkness and trying to claim it as my own.

By the second week, the weariness had begun to creep in.

A day arrived when, screaming into the void, I had grappled with the scarf and tore it from my head. It grazed behind my ears, taking up skin, but I was free. I examined the house around me, found that its windows were boarded-up and its doors locked tight. I flicked the light switches and saw that there was no electricity, no light. It was just me, a box full of non-perishable food and absolute silence. Nevertheless, with my eyes free, I laughed, I sang, I jogged. I bounded around the house, finally able to move without tripping up. Everything was still shadows, but I’d become a cat: nocturnal and able to navigate in the absence of light. I didn’t know if it were AM or PM because my circadian rhythm had now centralised on constant darkness.

That’s when the madness began to fester. I knew that there were animals with no eyes, evolved over millions of years to suit the dark tunnels and night skies that they call home, but I was no animal.

At least, not at first. The third week was marked by a childish giggling.

I’d shut down all the neurological pathways that had been constructed in my experience of adulthood – those of responsibly and morality, moulded and polished by the norms of life in the light. I began to piss wherever I wanted around the house instead of using the toilet and twitched whenever I felt a dust mote get too close. The hours no longer moved in cycles of twenty-four; rather, my days and nights had become marked by two-hour intervals of waking and napping. Even with free eyes, my sight diminished until eventually I was looking at the house through a very small, black ring. I lost my ability to smell, and then to taste. The dried seaweed in the box was the only thing that had any substance to it, even though usually I detested seafood. Everything else turned to bland mush in my cheeks. Week four was the worst.

My tongue felt like bark because I’d chewed on it too much and, in my mind, fantastic shapes and colours formed to entertain me: large, wafting shapes like the shadows of whales in water, only kaleidoscopic and insane. I spent hours at a time sitting and watching them float by, biting at my throbbing tongue and peeling the wood off the floor.

I was kind of happy.

There was a moment – maybe a few – when I was so enthralled, I pissed myself then and there, no longer able to remove myself from the lightshow that was going on inside my head.

Physically, I was in pain.

Piercing migraines bore through me like giant drills carving into a mountain of granite. I no longer wanted to move and so the blood had gone cold and stiff in my extremities, my bones ached and my muscles had become locked, rigid. I ground my teeth so hard they turned to chalky stumps in my mouth, exposing nerves which shocked me like lightning bolts. I didn’t recognise my own voice when I started screaming; I just heard the wailing going on and on like a siren. After a while, I wondered if I was in a war, if the house was going to be bombed. Eventually, I fell quiet.

Then I noticed the sound of my own sobs, but it wasn’t my voice. It was the voice of a tiny man at the end of time who wore a little trilby hat and played the piano. He was a 2D cartoon, drawn in black and white, but as he smiled at me, I felt how visceral and alive he really was, surrounded by the swirling redness of my mother’s womb. On the last day, a key turned in the door. As the cogs clicked and changed inside the lock, my mind envisioned a full cycle of the moon as if using an ancient method to assess time. I squirmed like an animal feeling the call of migration shaking through its bones.

It had been a month.

The test was over. I stood up, my wobbling knees, numb beneath me, sending me straight back onto the floor. I tried again, managing to anchor myself to the wall. I heard voices, but I didn’t speak English anymore. “Adam, how you doing?” A man appeared and I could see in the dullness that he was looking at me with sympathy. I let out a strange sound, something animal-like or monster-like. As two other men filtered in, the first man sighed in sorrow. “It’ll be over in a moment. Well done.” I heard shuffling behind me and slowly turned to see what the other men were doing. “It’s five o’clock, Adam. Sunrise. You ready?”

I let out the sound again and held myself against the wall, facing them. I saw a crowbar raise above one of the men’s heads. “Do it.” There were a few moments, then, that turned in on themselves.

Like a liquid universe being flipped in a pan, those moments washed through me with both an overwhelming sense of ordinariness and a suffocating absurdity. I watched the black figures of those men smash the walls of my new reality to pieces, and I did not want to do anything about it. I neither possessed the sense of justice and righteousness of a man, nor the instinctual dash of survival that defines an animal.

I simply looked at them. The men pulled the boards off the window. Sunlight poured in from outside, splitting my head in half as it entered my grossly-enlarged pupils. Its rays set my soul on fire and burned everything I’d ever known right out of my brain, scorching my nervous system and cleansing me new. I didn’t scream, although the pain was beyond words.

I didn’t look away. This is what I was here for. This is what I needed to know. I witnessed the birth and death of the universe a billion times over in the seconds that ticked by in that cataclysmic sunlight. I felt an iron grip secure my mouth shut, probably to stop the screams that I couldn’t hear, as I disappeared into the blinding whiteness of god, like a drop disappearing into the ocean and like an emerging germ saying goodbye to its seed. “Thank you” I said at last, in English, to the men who held me up. They smiled like angels. This was an ancient initiation rite of the Illuminati, designed to bring on an intense, psychedelic experience with nothing but the use of nature and determination.

I had passed the test. I had conquered life. I had moved into the sublime.


“Oh, so that’s why it’s called the Rope Pub!” “Haha! Yep, you betchya!” Iris Henness pulled the Reverend into a darkened room, her arm looped around his. He followed hesitantly, letting her lead him. The sight of her red hair, now in a messy bun, bouncing as she marched elated his spirits more than his surroundings. The Rope Pub was a large, matte black building inside and out. Through its large wooden doors, the only remnants of its past as a storage barn, lay a dimly lit dance floor. The lighting was difficult to adjust to, but as his eyes did, the Reverend took note of the pub’s layout. To the left of the entrance was a bar that spanned the entire length of the wall. A shelved display rose to the ceiling behind it holding all manner of liquors, all of which were half empty or more. The people of Birbour sure do love their drinks , Gregory thought, secretly wishing that he did as well. The seating was sparse with only a few benches pressed against the other three walls. Behind the bar, on the corner opposite the main door, was another exit labeled with red paint as the bathroom. Tall tables for resting drinks were scattered throughout the building, and no seats were provided. The mismatched furniture was arranged so that a square section of the room’s center was cleared for dance. From the ceiling rafters crossed thick swaths of rope, the kind used on massive sea vessels, with electrical wiring and bulbs running along their length. “Wow . . .” the Reverend breathed, mesmerized by the twinkling firefly bulbs as Iris led him onto the dance floor. A record player behind the bar played gentle music, the romantic sounds of Glenn Miller, Kay Kyser, and Bing Crosby. A few people mulled about, mostly at the bar or standing at tables, and the dance floor was completely vacant. Iris stopped and the Reverend, in his absentminded state, bumped into her. She grabbed his arms and spun him softly. “Woah there, big fella. Never been in a bar before?” She laughed. The Reverend’s cheeks reddened. “Oh, uh, actually . . . no. No I have not.” He rubbed the back of his neck anxiously. It was rare for him to dress in anything other than his pastoral vestment, but when 	Iris asked him to go out tonight, he scoured his trunk for some casual clothes, eventually settling on a leather jacket, plain shirt, and semi-formal dress pants. His shoes, however, were the same stiff dress shoes that he always donned. All of this unusual wardrobe paired with the new environment to put his hairs on end. Iris’ eyes widened a little, her brow arching. “You can’t be serious?” The Reverend looked away in embarrassment. She pulled his cheek to face her gingerly, like one of her precious books. “Hey, don’t worry about it. There’s a first time for everything.” She smiled reassuringly. The Reverend returned a shy grin. “Care to dance?” Iris asked as the record switched to a slow, lovely song about summer love. “I probably shouldn’t,” he responded, “It’s not very priestly of me to even be here . . . let alone to dance.” There was disappointment in his voice, Iris thought, and a certain longing to try it. She could tell that he liked the song and hoped, somewhat reasonably, that he felt similarly toward his company. 	“Hey, Hugh-” His dark eyes, shrouded with bags and worry, stopped their searching and fell on her. “Yeah?” He whispered, unused to his own name. She guided his hands to her sides and looped her own hands around his neck. “Why don’t you put the weight of the world away for a while? Hmm? Be here with me, just me, and show me you.” Her eyes were pleading, the Reverend frozen in place. They had only known each other for a few days, spending most of their shared time in the archives with Trenton, but, on the frequent occasion that Iris needed reprieve from the Doctor’s arrogance, she’d join him on visitation. With her, the hike up and down Birbour’s only street was not nearly so daunting and the locals were much friendlier. In addition, the woman herself made pleasant company. Her family was southern, hailing from South Carolina, and her accent reminded Hugh of home. Iris’ crystal-blue eyes were oceans in and of themselves, telling stories reminiscent of Hugh’s time with Captain Malcolm traveling to her from Juneau. As he’d stand at the bow of the M.M.S. Monet, staring out over the frothy blue waves, he’d find himself completely overwhelmed with the love of God’s creation. Likewise, he felt similarly when looking at her. “Okay,” he finally relented, and the two were off, swirling in slow circles around and around the dance floor. Her feet matched his as they discovered Hugh’s natural rhythmic aptitude. He led in a series of four, not so much concerned with the music as with the woman he now tightly held. She was positively breathtaking , glowing even in the dim light of the Rope Pub. As they twirled, the patrons of the bar abandoned their drinks to watch. Even the bartender, who was dutifully wiping the counter, paused to observe the spectacle. The music swelled, increasing tempo as the two spun ever faster in ever more complex patterns, tossing each other to and fro like wild, elegant animals. As the last note vanished into the rafters, soaking into the wood and ropes, Hugh held Iris off her feet, her weight completely at his mercy, and the two stared into each other’s eyes. His were dark, foreboding, and full of emotion. 	Contrarily, hers were bright blue stars beneath a cascading fire. They righted themselves as their audience applauded. Hugh’s cheeks erupted into flames. “Oh, yes, well, that was-” “Amazing?!” Iris exclaimed, latching onto him as she stumbled forward, perhaps purposefully. “Sorry! I’m still a little dizzy!” She pushed back from him. “You’re a natural! Are you sure you haven’t danced before?” He had. “Nope. Never,” Hugh shook his head, smiling broadly. His heart still danced, matching the rhythm in her chest. “I suppose it was beginner’s luck.” “Beginner’s luck? Hah! And I’m nine feet tall.” Iris responded disbelievingly. She shook her head incredulously, smiling. “One way or the other, we’re definitely making this a regular thing.” Hugh nodded. “Absolutely.” “Hey, you two. That was quite the show you put on there,” the bartender called. “Come get a drink. We don’t get quality entertainment in Birbour often. Most people here wouldn’t know a half-step from a whole note.” Exchanging grateful glances, the two approached the bar. The bartender was a monster of a man, at least a head taller than Hugh and twice as wide. Hair poked out from beneath a split collar, a beard spilled out across his front. His eyes were brown and his face was wrinkled from exposure like leather. Despite the gruff exterior, he offered a hospitable grin. “I think that display is worth a few drinks,” he said while pulling two glasses off a rack. “Name’s Morgan. Morgan Muller.” Mr. Muller poured Iris and Hugh a drop of bourbon. Iris downed the shot without hesitation, Hugh pushed it away. “I appreciate the gesture,” the Reverend slipped onto a bar stool, “But I don’t drink liquor . . . or anything else fermented, for that matter.” Mr. Muller nodded. “A man of the cloth ought not to anyhow,” he said, taking the glass back and downing the caramel liquid himself. “Iris tells me you’re helping look for Adam?” A man down the bar lifted his head from a drunken nap, cleared his throat, and slurred, “That’d be me . . .” “Doctor Trenton! You look like death!” Iris exclaimed. She rushed off to check on him. “Mr. Muller, can you get him some water?” “Water?!” Muller stifled a laugh. “In my bar? No, thank you!” “I don’t need it,” Trenton straightened himself, puffing out his chest with pride. “I am a man and can hold my liquor!” He burped loudly. Iris waved a thin hand before her nose and made a disgusted face. “Oh, Lord! Have you been drinking sewage or liquor?” “Both!” Trenton slurred again, swaying as he burst into a fit of laughter. Mr. Muller grunted disapprovingly. The Reverend joined the Doctor and Archivist down the bar, the Bartender mirroring their movement across the counter. “So you’re the investigator. I took you as just another drunkard seeking refuge Alaska, thinking they’d find peace in the wilderness out here as the Sheriff did,” Muller commented. Trenton raised a finger to protest but shook his head. “I am here for science, my good man.” “Then all hope is lost.” The Bartender's was was already set in a deep frown but, despite all laws of physics, it grew even deeper. “Not at all!” Trenton objected. “I’ve been pouring over the archives all week while these two,” he gestured to Hugh and Iris, “flirted across town!” They blushed, exchanging nervous glances, but did not respond. The Doctor rolled his eyes. “Regardless, I have been fortunate in my findings.” “What’ve you got? A lead?” Muller asked excitedly, remembering his fond conversations with Adam Peterson, the missing meteorologist and Trenton’s old college friend. “All roads lead to one David Rottenburough. From the closing of the newspaper, the opening of the mine, and the disappearance of the natives . . . all of it points to him! I ought to march right up to his estate right now and . . . and . . .” As the alcohol reconquered his brief sobriety, Doctor Trenton lost consciousness, slamming his head against the bar as he descended into a dizzying slumber. Iris tried to catch him, but failed, curling into herself and gasping. “Rottenburough?” Muller mumbled. “Blaming other’s for your problems again, Muller?” A young man entered the bar followed by three others. “No, Johnny.” Muller tensed up. “You boys here to cause trouble again?” “I sure hope not,” the Reverend joked, extending a hand to the men as they approached. “I’m-” “The bastard trying to steal my Iris?” The youngest of the group, barely a man and with short red hair, slapped his hand away. “I am not your property, Matthew! I told you this already!” Iris stepped between Hugh and the men. Matthew Flurry reached out to grab her, the stench of liquor pouring off him. It was the Reverend’s turn to intercept. He gently pulled Iris’ shoulders, placing her behind him and putting himself between Matthew and her. “We don’t want any trouble, son, but I think Iris wants some space,” he stated, fighting a rising anger. Iris huffed indignantly, pushing the Reverend to the side. His eyes opened wide with surprise. “I can handle a bar fight, Hugh!” She proudly proclaimed before smacking Matthew across the face. He was thrown to the side and the sound of skin-on-skin contact filled the bar as the record player scratched to a stop. Hugh was stunned. Trenton chuckled sleepily, mumbling something incomprehensible. The other men, Matthew’s brothers, stared slack-jawed. As they regained their composure, each reddening in the face, they began to clench their fists. “You shouldn’t have done that,” Lucky Flurry, the second youngest, said. “Bad idea,” Johnny Flurry, the oldest, chided. “Uh oh!” Mark Flurry smiled dumbly. Matthew spat, throwing a punch at Iris. She ducked and his fist landed squarely on the Reverend’s nose. He fell back against the bar, his rage taking him. “Sorry!” Iris yelled, grabbing a glass and shattering it against Lucky’s ugly mug. He fell into an unconscious heap. The other two, now fully understanding of the situation, descended. The following chaos ensued. Iris shouted at the top of her lungs, “Bar fight!!” Before dancing around the Flurry Boys, throwing punches and taking them in turn. Hugh, red in the face, started boxing Mark. Some strangers across the dance floor, seeing what amounted to be a professional tournament, started exchanging hands. Did they have a reason? Most likely no , thought Hugh as Mark’s massive fist connected with his cheek. He spat a tooth to the ground, wiping his mouth. Before long, even Muller hopped over the bar amidst the shouting and flailing bodies, intent on protecting what remained of his bar. Doctor Malone Trenton slept peacefully on a stool. Iris fought with the fervor of a Viking. Hugh took more hits than he delivered. What had started as a romantic evening turned into an all-or-nothing bar fight. Before long, the Reverend lost sight of Iris, being pushed instead toward the bathroom exit by Mark. As his back met the wall, one last punch sent him flying through the barely secured wood. The Reverend landed squarely in the mud and rain, gasping for air with his vision blurry. Mark took a step toward him, “I think you should let little Matthew have Iris. You aren’t very good at fighting, Pastor.” Hugh coughed. “Sorry, I’m not practiced in bar fights.” “I can tell,” Mark responded menacingly, his voice cold and low as he took a step toward Hugh, preparing to kick him. The Reverend crawled away from his attacker desperately. SMASH ! Glass cascaded like fireworks from around Mark’s head. The big oaf smiled, swaying on his feet before falling like a board next to Hugh. Behind him stood Doctor Trenton, struggling to stay upright in his drunken stupor. “Nobody . . . puts a hand . . . on my . . . brother,” he proclaimed before falling with a mighty SPLAT into the mud. Hugh pushed himself to his feet, a subtle bloodied smile on his face, and grabbed his brother. After pulling him to his feet, he placed Trenton’s arm over his shoulder to support his weight. “And here I thought you didn’t like me,” he chuckled. Something sounded behind him as he approached the door. There were woods behind the Rope Pub, the exterior lights flickered and plunged the brothers and unconscious fellon into darkness. BANG! BANG! BANG! The sound came in threes. The hairs on the Reverend’s neck stood on end as he faced the abyss. The rain created a nearly impenetrable sheet that separated the Rope Pub and Birbour from the seemingly endless Plyset Forest. The taiga’s loomed like shadowed giants that lorded over the Reverend and Doctor. Beyond them lay the fate of Adam Peterson and the harrowing tale that was contained within his diary. Mystery and horror intertwined as something grabbed a hold of Hugh Gregory’s soul, vying for it like a menacing spirit. BANG! BANG! BANG! The characteristic sound of something heavy, a rock or some form of solid earth, connecting with the hardwood of a tree filled the gaps between the rain's pitter-patters. Hugh scanned the darkness, backing toward the Rope Pub slowly with fear in his heart. Behind the pub, hidden in the darkness about ten to twelve feet above the ground, some tucked between leaves and limbs, others leaning out from tree trunks, floated countless pairs of fireflies that watched the Reverend.


“Look, whatever you think you saw,” Lord Reuben Edstatson says as we step close to each other. “I know what I saw, Lord Edstatson” I whisper back as we join our left hands loosely and circle each other. “I saw you and Mr. Woodrey in the drawing room off the hall…” I pause as the dance takes us further away from each other and I spin with the lady next to me. I can remember very clearly the moment I opened the door to what I thought would be an empty room, wanting a break from the crowd in the ballroom, to find it already occupied by two respectable young men. At least, I thought them respectable, though they might not be considered as such if anyone knew what they had been doing. We come back together and he takes my right hand in his left. We take a few hopping steps forward. “Must we speak of this now , Miss Hadnall?” he asks, as we take the same few hopping steps back, then repeat. “I think so.” I step around to face him and we join our other hands. “You cannot run away from the conversation this way.” We twirl together to the right, our steps in time with the upbeat music. “Perhaps I simply have nothing to say on the topic,” he says, and we switch to spin in the other direction. “So long as you do not plan to tell anyone, that is.” I don’t frown at him — someone might notice — but it is a near thing. “And perhaps I am not satisfied with that,” I say, as we move close before coming apart again, letting go of each other completely. We step forward in the same direction, over a foot of distance between us, and I join hands to circle with the gentleman of the pair next to us while he circles with the lady. We return to each other to circle once, then circle with the other couple again. When we come back together the second time, I ask, “What is Mr. Woodrey to you, exactly?” We each take two steps to the right, then two to the left, so that we end up, each time, as far away from each other as our joined hands will allow, which is still close enough to speak quietly. “We are… good friends,” he says. We continue to move from side to side. “Was that the first time, then?” His jaw tics, but he doesn’t say anything before the dance brings us apart again. I join with a circle of three other ladies, our left hands resting atop one another in the middle as we circle together, our partners circling around us in the opposite direction. After two full rotations, Lord Edsatson takes one of my hands again, and we transition back into our spot with a few hopping steps. “No,” he says, right before he twirls me, and it takes me a moment to realize that he is answering my question from before. It was not the first time. But if it was not the first — the only — time, then what does that mean? What could it possibly mean? “Why?” I ask, as he switches his right hand into my right and takes my left hand in his, so that our arms are crossed over each other in front of us. We begin to walk in a large circle. “That is none of your concern,” he says. I suppose that is true. I simply cannot understand what would have led two respectable young men from good families, one a lord and the other the younger brother of one, to participate in such ignoble activities as I caught them engaging in when I entered the drawing room. I do not agree to his statement, but I do him the grace of not pursuing the line of questioning further. “What of your future wife, then?” I inquire. Lord Edstatson is one of the most sought-after potential husbands of the season. My mother has been pushing me to try to gain his attention, in fact — she will be delighted about us sharing this dance, and will likely not stop talking about it for days, though I am sure he only agreed to it to have the chance to ask me to keep quiet. Even with his title and prestige, his prospects would be greatly diminished if word spread about his actions behind closed doors. “When I take a wife…” he bites out, not sounding even the slightest bit happy with the prospect. We complete our circle and he switches our hands again so they are no longer crossed, bringing me in front of him. He steps forward as I step backward, and we begin to circle another pair as they circle us. “My wife will provide me with an heir, and be provided finances and freedom in return. My private affairs will not concern her.” “You desire a marriage of convenience, then?” He only replies with a quick, “I do,” as we each take one step back, releasing our hands. I curtsy and he bows, and the dance is over. I have more which I wish to say, to ask, but I know that now is not a good time. It would not do to chase after my dance partner as he retreats, after all. I step off the dance floor to take a break against the wall as the pairs for the next dance line up on the dancefloor. Across the room, I see Lord Edstatson move to stand next to Mr. Leopold Woodrey. They are known to be good friends, and there is nothing unusual about gentlemen passing time together between dances at these events, but I cannot help but observe their every gesture in light of what I have discovered about them. I wonder how long they have been… doing such things, and without even a hint of a rumor. I would know, because Mother always keeps up on all of the society gossip, and there is no way she would have missed a rumor like this. She would have told me, and would not have pushed me to get Lord Edstatson’s attention if such things were even suspected. Though, thinking of my Mother and plans for me gives me an idea of my own. A way to perhaps be satisfied with the outcome of this season, considering this newfound information. I wait until a few dances have passed and I have danced with a few other potential suitors before I make my way over to the refreshment table, where Lord Edstatson and Mr. Woodrey happen to be standing. “Good evening,” I murmur, curtsying shallowly to both of them. They both return the greeting, though Mr. Woodrey is watching me wearily. “Do not worry, Mr. Woodrey, I will keep your secret. Though I do have an… idea, I would like you to consider.” “So, you are blackmailing us?” Mr. Woodrey asks sharply, though quietly. I shake my head. “No, of course not. My silence is not contingent on your acceptance. My request is this: Lord Edstatson will court me, and after a reasonable amount of time has passed, he will propose to me, and we will marry.” Both men frown at me, though Mr. Woodrey’s is deeper. “I have no interest in having any kind of… romantic attachments to my spouse. I believe I explained that to you,” Lord Edstatson says slowly. “Nor do I. I wish from marriage what you described for your future wife: financial stability and freedom. And the status that comes with your position, of course. I do not want a husband who will expect me to be devoted to him, or who will desire to know my whereabouts and pastimes every minute of the day. And besides, I already know your secret, so you will not need to attempt to hide it from me. And if we are wed, you will never need to worry about me spreading rumors about you, for it would affect me as well. So, what do you say?” Lord Edstatson looks at Mr. Woodrey, and they seem to hold a whole conversation in a matter of seconds, without ever speaking a single word. Eventually, Mr. Woodrey gives a subtle nod. Lord Edstatson turns back to meet my eye. “Very well, Miss Adelaide Hadnall. I shall call upon you in the morning.” I nod, then take a pastry and walk away, unable to keep a small smile off my face. It would be a joy to marry a man whose interests I know lie elsewhere.


Just get me to the church on time… EDWARD “Edward, says Father, you can’t go to France today. You need to spray the fields in Lower Farm. The conditions are perfect.” Edward looks up from the paper he was reading as he was eating breakfast and looks out of the window. Father is right, the sky is blue and cloud free, it looks like there is almost no wind. The April of 1974 has been particularly cold and damp, and in truth, a day like this couldn’t be wasted.

He really ought to postpone his trip to France by a day. Surely it couldn’t be that big a deal to arrive there just one day late? Especially if he phoned to explain the situation to Marie. He has responsibilities after all, responsibilities he can’t shirk away from.

“I’ll think of it Father” he answers pushing his empty bowl to the side and folding his copy of Times as he stands up

As he climbs up the stair to his bedroom, he thinks of Marie, of her disappointment. He hates the thought that he may be hurting her. Then, he thinks of his responsibilities, of the terrible weather of the past few weeks and how he hasn’t been able to spray. Marie ought to understand, she is so clever, she will see why he can’t make it today.

Once upstairs, in his room, he looks at his grey suit, hanging from his wardrobe door, with a clean white shirt and a light blue bow tie. Marie picked the silk bow tie out for him because it is “The exact same shade as his beautiful eyes”. Below are his carefully polished shoes.

On the floor, are yesterday’s discarded overalls, with his T-shirt still inside them. His socks are coiled on the floor, in front of the overall legs. He likes to take all his clothes off at once when he undresses, in one fell swoop. It is faster than taking all the items of clothing off one by one and folding them, it is more efficient, and it leaves him with more time to soak in the bathtub after work before he goes to sleep or goes out.

He hasn’t been going out lately, because Marie isn’t around. He misses her so much.

Sighing, he takes his pyjama off and gets dressed. Then he goes down to the farm office and picks up the phone. MARIE

Maman, when I think of you on that morning, I imagine you were up at 5 am. In my mind’s eye, you bound out of bed, your heart singing in glee. I can guess exactly how excited you must have been at the prospect of Edward’s arrival later that day.

In those days, Edward was your be all and end all. He was your sun, your moon and your stars. He occupied pretty much every single one of your waking thoughts… Apart from the time you spent working on Theodore Dreiser’s books and your thesis, it goes without saying.

I think it is likely that you eventually got out of bed, at around seven am, after a long while tossing and turning and trying to get a few hours more sleep, realising it was pointless because you were so excited and nervous, pinching yourself repeatedly to make sure that it wasn’t a dream.

I may be pushing it as I write this but I fancy you executed a few dance steps when you got up. When I am in a particularly vicious mood, I picture you as Maria dancing and singing “I feel pretty” in

West Side Story . This is doubly ironic and nasty because you never saw West Side Story until 2021, that you only ever watched the Spielberg revamp of the movie and an extremely Disney-ish one at that.

But then I always thought you had this Disney Princess vibe about you. Even nowadays, you sometimes remind me of a Disney Princess and it is not just because you are so pretty and dainty.

I picture you getting out of bed and starting to list everything you need to do to prepare for his arrival. You must phone the restaurant to make sure the booking is still OK, check on the flowers, and to do your hair, your make-up and above all, you must meet your best friends for coffee to tell them all about Edward, his blue eyes, his charming smile, his dimples, his dry wit, his farm and your plans for the future.

Then, you heard the phone ringing in the living room. A few seconds later, your mother knocked on the door and said: “Marie chérie! It is Edward on the phone for you.”

I picture you rushing towards the living room and the phone, your heart overflowing with love for Edward.

THE (mostly) RELIABLE NARRATOR I always have known the story. It often came up at dinner parties, it was  one of those amusing light-hearted stories that Maman told so well and so wittily. It also came up quite regularly when they fought.

As a small child I would tell it to my friends and peers, to try and entertain them with it, but they never believed me, and they called me a liar.

Maman, when she was in a good mood, liked to minimise the importance of the event. It wasn’t that bad she said, it was only the civil ceremony they had had to postpone.

Later in life, up to today actually, I learned to use what happened on that day to my advantage. I have a flexible perception of time and that story is really the best excuse ever. What is a ten-minute delay here or there in comparison to a whole 24 hours? Absolutely nothing, that’s what.

I have also used it as justification for my oddness, for my many eccentricities. I will explain that I know I am a little peculiar, but then, the apple never falls far from the tree and so you ought to know this about my past. It works quite well, people laugh and claim to forgive me after they hear the story, especially when it is told with force amusing expressions and a slightly self-deprecating tone. I have, after all, inherited Marie’s talents as a comedienne. I also have Edward’s bad-boy one-sided grin, the one that would have permitted him to get away with murder, that allowed him to get away with so much… except that on me, it is a bad girl smile and it doesn’t stay in place long without me bursting into laughter. And all that charm, it helps… a lot.

However, when I sit down and ponder on what happened on that day, when I am truly honest about my feelings, I don’t want to laugh. Rage and pain fill my heart as I ask the following question:

“WHO THE FUCK MARRIES A GUY WHO TURNS UP TO HIS WEDDING ONE WHOLE DAY LATE?”