The crystal wind chimes swayed on the small wooden porch, shooting rainbows through the screen door. The bursts of color danced in the natural light, jumping with each clink. The summer breeze traveled a great distance to find this home, making a final stop at the lilac bushes lining the yard before coming inside.

Johanna basked in the rays steaming through the massive french-windows. She sat motionless— slumped into the uncomfortable wood couch with her legs and arms dangling over the sides. She was in a trance with the dripping glass of ice water on the coffee table. Johanna’s total consumption by the water wasn't rooted in appreciation, peace, drugs or any other pleasant place. Her preoccupation with the minutiae of reality was an elected numbness. She wasn't feeling anything in particular. If she had the awareness to look at herself, she’d probably say she felt like she was watching condensation on a glass of water. Chatter in the kitchen picked up a couple notches. The awkward cackles nudging Johanna’s bubble of solitude. So she added some spice to the spectacle of condensation, treating the falling drops as competitors in a race. She picked winners, made hypothetical bets, and even began naming some of the contestants. The level of creativity increased proportionally with the probability of one of those distant voices coming into the room to check on her.

She’s changed so much since her mom died and she’s the only one who can’t see it. Some losses are just too much. Johanna expected the world to stop when she lost her mom and broke when it didn’t. Favorite foods became normal food. Family and friends became people she knows. Waking up became a hassle, and so did falling asleep. Johanna came to see life as a requirement, not a gift.

The only recognizable trait in Johanna was the will to escape. She used to run away from being alone, but now she runs away to find solitude. All of the energy she used to spend loving, caring, listening, and wondering is boxed up. The glass of water is what she has now.

When nothing except that cup existed in her mind, that’s when it happened. The prisms of color from the chimes froze, the ringing cut off, and the action on the glass disappeared. Time came to a halt, and even then, it took Johanna a few seconds to notice. At that moment everything went dark.

# Johanna opened her eyes to find herself seated in a middle-school sized desk. Facing the dried-gum laden desk was a box TV strapped to a dirty brown metal cart. The scent of pencil shavings and rubber eraser circulated the room. A hint of chalk-eraser particles stung Johanna’s throat.

She dropped her eyelids and tilted back, filling her lungs for a bothered sigh. “It’s always something,” Johanna mumbled, treating the experience as if it was a normal occurrence. When everything seems like shit it just kind of all blends together.

She pulled herself up to look around when a VHS clicked into the VCR, a man popping onto the low-resolution screen.

“Well hello there,” the man said with an upbeat tone, “Welcome to the Temporal Temp Agency tutorial video. I’m Luke and I’ll be showing you around the joint. Let’s get rolling.” Luke looked like a mid-80s aerobics instructor professionally fitted for a funeral tuxedo. Johanna squinted her eyes and leaned forward with intrigued disgust. To her own surprise, his cheesy smile and demeanor was able to elicit an actual emotion. She jerked around in the desk to scan the room before settling back into the screen.

“Now, I’m sure you have a million questions,” Luke said approaching the camera, “so let me clear the air on a few that pop up the most.” “You are not dead, this is not a dream, and for those free spirits out there, you are not tripping face. You have, however,” raising his index finger with a smile, “been selected for a position at the TTA and are now in the interview stage. Congratulations.” Johanna peeked at her hand, digging her nail into her palm. Yup, she could feel it.

“Interview?” Johanna asked as she searched for cameras. The room collapsed to a cage as she not only failed to find a camera, but any type of exit. No doors, windows, or vents.

The possibility of flight removed, an urge to bash somebody jolted around Johanna’s body, but who could she get her hands on? The nostalgic fumes of pencil shavings and rubber grew thick, Johanna now pushing and pulling each breath. The anger gave her a bit of life. “Anddd— probably the most important thing to you at this exact moment,” Luke said, “You are not a prisoner. Despite the lack of exit points.” “Who is this wide-eyed, buck toothed underbite having loser with that haircut?,” Johanna yelled to the empty room, “Is this torture? I mean come on, that’s a face even a mother would need to learn to love.” The TV cut off. The tiny red power light fading black.

“About time,” Johanna said, “Come show your face.” She pushed herself from the desk, screeching it across the wood as she powered toward the cart. As she lifted her leg to deliver a big boot to the TV, the screen came alive with a sharp static and an unnecessarily close shot of Luke smiling.

“Will you continue or would you like to return home? Please use the provided remote to make your choice now.” Johanna’s eyes darted around the room, rushing back to her desk where a metallic silver remote was now sitting in the pencil holder. She comes to a halt after snatching it up in a hurry, realizing it only contains two unlabeled buttons. Who even put this here? Panic crept up and tightened Johanna’s stomach.

“You have ten seconds– please make a selection now.” Did she want to continue? Did she really care about going back home? “Well shhhh,” Johanna said as she pressed a button without looking.

“So you want to continue, huh? Love that choice,” Luke said, “Let’s get into what we’re all about here at TTA.”

# Johanna felt a tinge of relief as she wasn’t particularly enthused about returning to her reality.

“Here at the TTA our mission is simple; encourage progress and ensure the survival of humanity. We achieve this through the monitoring and adjusting of the timeline.” Johanna inhaled a massive amount of chalky air for a deep sigh. Luke seemed to pause.

“Don’t think of TTA as a small, privileged group of manipulators. We are a tool for humanity created and controlled by the people.” “Well I wasn’t thinking that until you said it,” Johanna mumbled.

“As every movie involving time travel has told you,” Luke continued, “the smallest interaction can have serious consequences, so timeline adjustments are few and far between. Practically all the work we do here is research, observation, simulation, and identification.” Out of nowhere, Luke exploded with emotion, jumping into a squatting position, “Which is why your selection as adjustment agent, the one who actually alters the timeline, is so frickin’ awesome.” But like a zero-turn mower, Luke turned on a dime, throwing his lips back and cheeks up for a forced transition to a somber, serious demeanor.

“The TTA maintains the upper echelon of integrity through a simple practice; voluntary participation and absolutely zero personal benefit. This means while your time here at TTA will be the most significant moments of your life, you’ll have no memory or records of your sacrifice.” “What the hell does he mean sacrifice ?” Johanna asked herself.

“I mean the ultimate sacrifice, Johanna,” Luke said as he popped out of the TV and appeared six inches from her face.

Johanna threw an instinctive left hook aimed directly at Luke’s jaw, but he cracked his neck fully horizontal for the dodge before taking a step back and raising both hands armed with the peace symbol. Johanna froze with helplessness and a realization she didn’t really care what was going on. She decided to let the scene unfold. “Now, I know what you’re thinking,” Luke said walking slowly like a teacher, “Time travel isn’t possible— can’t be. And well, that is technically correct.” “Isn’t time travel— I don’t know,” Johanna started, “Like your whole thing here? You said I’m not dreaming or hallucinating, so how are we here?” “So, you’re not dreaming right now, but you did fall asleep and that’s where TTA exists. When you dream, your brain manufactures scenarios to help you make sense of your consciousness. What has, could, and will happen get all jumbled together. But did you know there’s a requirement necessary to dream, Johanna?” “A requirement?” Johanna asked, “Everybody dreams all the time. What the hell are you even talking about?” “How do you know everybody dreams, Johanna?” Luke snapped, “Did you read it somewhere? Did you actually seem somebody physically dream? No— you didn’t. You just assume that’s the case.” Luke and Johanna, both equally annoyed, just glared until Luke seemed to remember he was at his job.

“The requirement of dreaming, Johanna,” Luke said, “Is a sufficient desire to process life. If the brain lacks the inclination to understand what’s going on around it, you end up here—TTA headquarters. It’s not like we recruited you here— you showed up at the doorstep and we’re just here to guide you.” “Sounds like a creative way to describe dreaming,” Johanna said, “But let’s say you are just relaying facts. How do I know this isn’t a dream? And how could TTA change anything if it can only exist in sleep?” “To answer your first question, it doesn’t matter what you think. To answer your second question, dreams influence reality. Known here at TTA as an obvious truth, we call it DIR— like the phrase “no der.” “Fu—,” Johanna started.

“We don’t assassinate villains, sabotage nukes, or force a person to turn left instead of right. Instead, we identify the dream cycles of certain individuals at particular points and influence trajectory. We use dreams, of both good and bad people, to help their unconscious brain gravitate toward a desired outcome.” “Okay, I’ve heard enough,” Johanna said, “Send me—.”

“Johanna, if you want to leave, leave,” Luke said as he raised an open hand toward a new door labeled “Home.”

“The reason you’re here is because you want to escape your reality,” Luke said, “In the few moments you’re not zoned out in la-la land, you constantly try to manifest time to come to a halt. Well, time has come to a halt, literally.” Johanna pulled her stare away from Luke and directed it at the door. She contemplated the specific aspects of what it would mean to go home, turning back to Luke with a more accepting gaze.

“Let me be blunt,” Luke said, “You waste the time you have on Earth. And here at TTA, we know you’ll continue to waste that time.” “I do not,” Johanna snapped. She wanted to follow up with an example, but couldn’t push anything out. Luke stared with true empathy in his eyes. “So what’s the ultimate sacrifice and why do you think I would even want to join this type of thing?” Johanna asked.

“The ultimate sacrifice is your time,” Luke said, “Your time assisting with the progress of humanity at the TTA is deducted from your time allowed on Earth.” Luke provided a long pause for her to absorb the agreement proposed.

“I’d also like to point out the same goes for me,” Luke said, “So I’d greatly appreciate you not wasting my sacrifice.” “That’s just crazy,” Johanna said, “I don’t want to end my life- or take years off my existence. I admit I’ve been disillusioned with, well everything lately, but I don’t want to die. There’s a million things I still want to do.”

Luke smiled and said, “There’s a reason why the good always die young, Johanna. They are people exactly like you; full of beautiful intentions, intense emotions, and world-class abilities. But more often than not, those gifts become a curse when they lose somebody or something early in life. The inherent ability to make the world a better place is locked away, trapped in everlasting depression and unrelenting sadness. Here, we can remove those feelings and let you reach your potential.” Johanna clenched her jaw to stop the tears from falling. “Your mom was a lovely woman and she loved you more than anything in existence. She wouldn’t want you wasting your life.” Johanna burst into tears— a full on stream. The tension that pulled her shoulders and neck since her mom’s first cancer diagnosis released, her body melting into the desk.

“You were chosen because you can change the world and unlike most people, you don’t want recognition,” Luke said, “Altruism can’t be learned so when it is available, it can’t be wasted. If you were vain, you’d at least care about something, but you’re lost Johanna. You belong here.”

Johanna’s vision, blurred by the bout of tears, cleared as she wiped her eyes and rose to her feet.

“I’m done trying to escape. I’m done wasting my life,” Johanna said. “I’m glad you’re joining the team. I think you’ll love—“ “No,” Johanna said, “I’m going home. You were right about my Mom not wanting me to waste my life, but you didn’t know her. If she was here she would break your neck for trying to manipulate me when I’m this low. I don’t know what game you want me to play, but I’m out.” Johanna walked through the door and back into her reality, opening her eyes to find a glass of water on a hot summer day. She chugged it down and got up. # The instant Johanna walked through the door, a man dressed in an identical tuxedo to Luke swung it back open. “You truly are the master, Luke. The numbers are in and you’ve done it again. Humanity’s timeline extended 3.7%.” Luke manifested a clipboard out of thin air and broke it over his knee with jubilation. The other guy grabbed a child’s shirt out of his tuxedo. He put it on and preceded to hunch over and flex to rip it in half. The two performed a well-rehearsed hand shake and dance routine before Luke conjured a door labeled “Main Office.” They wrapped their arms around one another and walked on through.

Operation #53: Final Progress Report “The JJ Special” Earth Time : 4:35 PM CST Earth Date: July 13th, 1997 Location of Adjustment: TTA Meeting Room “F” Individuals present: Agent Luke and Johanna Jackson AKA “JJ Special" Methods:

Agent Luke created, organized, and completed operation “The JJ Special.” The agent staged a fake TTA interview for the subject, summoning her at a particularly vulnerable moment, shortly after the death of her mother. Agent utilized nostalgic smells and visuals within the environment to mimic the location where the subject first learned of her mother’s impending death. Agent instituted measures eliciting fear and helplessness in order for the subject to achieve an emotional breakthrough, thus avoiding a mediocre and ineffectual existence. Agent intentionally provided a lackluster performance and sales pitch to ensure the subject would not attempt to join TTA. Agent selected the emotion of anger as a primary motivator for subject moving forward. Subject departed TTA Meeting Room “F.”

Agent removed visual and auditory memory of the subject per TTA protocol, but left emotional and subconscious memory intact to ensure the subject’s progress toward the designated TTA goal. Upon her return to consciousness, the subject’s preference for solitude and inaction diminished significantly. While the subject had lost desire to live by the time of intervention, the anger sparked during the session with the Agent became a place holder. Subject was subsequently radicalized by a number of TTA adjustment agents in relation to animal welfare and ethical responsibility at future vulnerable dates. Agents identified animal welfare and ethical responsibility as areas of opportunity based on the death of the subject’s mother (cancer related to factory farms). Actions by other TTA agents were undertaken with the intent of amplifying the magnitude of the subject’s actions on Earth and are not included in this report.

Summary of Results: The subject is classified as a Category 1 super-influencer, single-handedly producing the largest positive impact in TTA history. Without intervention, it is estimated she would have left no lasting impact on humanity, likely succumbing to suicide by age 30.

Subject achieved the Category 1 level of influence by disrupting current civilization’s dependence on the industrialized slaughter/consumption of animals. Subject terminated life functions for a total of 83 cattle farmers, 4 CEOs, and 2 politicians over the span of 43 years. The subject remained anonymous, even following her death. The subject’s actions did result in a brief period of increased political conflict, financial turmoil, and a number of false imprisonments, but all collateral damage was negligible.

Initial report indicates 3.7% extension of the humanity timeline with a significant improvement in quality of life for all animals on Earth. Further reports should clarify the source of progress for extension, as TTA typically utilizes prevention measures and this operation had unexpected and wide-ranging implications. Unbeknownst to the agents at the start of the operation, the intervention led to drastic changes in climate control, ethical evolution, interplanetary travel, and technological progress.


It was the morning of December 31st, New Year’s Eve, a time when most people were anxiously awaiting to dress up and go to some glamorous party to celebrate the new year.

But not Jade, she was at home in her pajamas thinking about the last six months of her life and how she wouldn’t be celebrating the new year the way she had been hoping for, in fact, she wouldn’t be celebrating at all. Jade sat on the sofa heartbroken, she was finally supposed to meet him, the man of her dreams. A man she met online, a man that she fell in love with. But instead of holding him tonight she was holding an empty champagne glass in one hand and a box of Kleenex in the other.

Six months ago Jade had met Lorenzo a

52-year-old Italian from Pisa, Italy.  Their correspondence started with a few messages on the dating site and quickly moved to text and email. Jade couldn’t believe how everything flowed so easily with this man.

His emails read like poetry, he told her about his family and how he came to be in the United States for work. He was a single father of a teenage daughter and also took care of his elderly mother. She had expressed to him how much she always wanted to go to Italy and she talked about all the books and information she had on his country. He loved this. Jade had raised her children all by herself as well, but they were now young adults living their own lives and that left Jade more alone than ever. Her last romantic relationship was a little over two years ago and ended just as bad as all the previous ones.

Her streak of bad relationships was probably one for the record books. But she refused to give up on love, despite how many times men have broken her heart. She believed with all her heart that one day she would find the “one” to spend the rest of her life with. She prayed it would be Lorenzo. As much as she adored Lorenzo, deep down there was a little bit of fear, a little doubt. Could he really be the one she has waited for her entire life? Was he real?  Was this destiny?  They shared this feeling, the feeling that something great and divine had brought them together, with all her broken relationships and the loss of his wife in recent years. They were convinced they were brought together to share in the joy of love again. Each the lost puzzle piece to the other’s life.

She remembered the moment she heard his voice for the first time she melted like butter. His laughter warmed her heart and awoken her spirit, something she hadn’t felt in a very long time. She knew that no matter what she was going to give her all to this relationship they were building. She decided to push her fear and doubt aside and instead be fueled but faith, trust, and love.

Within a couple of months, she was head over heels in love with him and he said he felt the same about her.

Her friends thought she was moving too fast, but Jade always had a ‘go for it’ attitude.  The unfortunate part of her situation is that he was an engineer working overseas, even though he lived in the United States, in a different state then hers but to them, that was just geography. “True love conquers all”, is what they would say to each other.

But was it true love? Jade knew that she wore her heart on her sleeve and she always believed the best in people. As far as she was concerned he was perfect for her, she hadn’t found any holes in his story and he was always forthright when she had questions for him. All these months she has waited patiently for him to finish his work overseas and finally come to meet her face to face. During the six months apart they had missed birthdays and holidays, they decided that they would start the new year together. It would be the moment they started their ‘real’ life together.

But here she sat, a few hours before the new year and no Lorenzo. He told her his work was taking longer than expected and couldn’t leave yet.  To make matters worse she hadn’t spoken with him on the phone in hours, which was not normal.  They always talked on the phone, at least twice a day. That is one of the many things she loved about him, he has called her every day for six months. All that doubt and fear pushed its way to the surface, the tears flowed down her face, and her heart ached. She didn’t want to listen to the fear or the doubt. But she had invested so much time and emotion into this relationship, she wasn’t sure her heart could recover if he turned out not to be the man he has portrayed himself to be. But what could she do?

She watched as the time ticked by, she tried calling him but the call wasn't going through, she was so frustrated with the connection problems they seemed to have.

She just wanted to hear his voice, which always made her feel better. Instead, she decided to stop with the pity party and she turned on the TV, it was an hour before the ball dropped to ring in the new year, she poured herself another glass of champagne and popped some popcorn...emotional eating always made her feel better too. She sat there trying to watch the festivities but her mind kept going back to Lorenzo, and all the same, thoughts kept twirling in her mind. It was driving her crazy. Even the champagne wasn’t settling her mind down. Before she knew it the celebrities on TV were counting down to the new year...5...4...3...2...1… Her doorbell rang.


That’s the thing about this city. No matter how many times I drive through it or traverse it by foot, I get the same impression. This metropolis of the Southwest values style over substance. Straight south of us, about four hours away, is Houston, a place I don’t particularly care for, but one that does have a certain distinctiveness and flair. For one, officials decided long ago not having any zoning, which means, arguably, you could see a slaughterhouse right next to a senior citizen’s home. It’s the kind of quirkiness for which a number of Houstonians are quite proud. However, the city is also grounded in the oil and shipping industries, which give that city something of a blue-collar feel. Also, south of us, one will find Austin and San Antonio, two metropolitan communities with connections to Texas’ present and past. The former is home to the University of Texas and the state capital, and its life revolves around the burnt orange of the Longhorns and the “Eyes of Texas.” Thrown in a thriving music scene, and one will see what makes Austin tick. Within San Antonio, there remains what’s left of an old Spanish mission called The Alamo. It was there, the legend goes, that more than 180 Texians fought to the last man against Santa Anna’s invading army. Never mind that Texas was part of Mexico at the time, and in Santa Anna’ eyes, as well as many of his compatriots, the Texians he invited to settle the land were trying to steal it by force. Visit the Alamo City, and one will witness Texas pride at its peak, as well as a blended Tex-Mex culture. About an hour to our west is Fort Worth, also known as Cowtown. Don’t laugh, the residents of that city embrace the name, for it’s there are the Fort Worth Stockyards, to which cattle are brought for sale. It’s a link to Texas’ past, where, at least according to Hollywood, where the Lone Star State was home to nothing but cowboys and bandits. Fort Worth also has a true blue-collar feel, where getting one’s hands dirty and earning a living via back-breaking worked is not looked down upon. If you haven’t already guessed, my city is Dallas, commonly known as “Big D,” a metropolitan landscaped consisting of numerous streets, endless buildings, along with an Amtrak station. Yet, for all it has, Dallas truly has no substance. When one mentions my city to outsider, usually their first thoughts are of the long-running television series “Dallas,” in which oil men walked around the city wearing finely tailored suits and 10-gallon hats, and “Walker, Texas Ranger,” which featured a senior citizen beating up criminals much younger and bigger than him. In the more than 20 years of living in Big D, I have yet to encounter anyone matching the descriptions of either J.R. Ewing or Cordell Walker. Since its incorporation in 1856, Dallas has grown into a major metropolis that is home to a federal reserve bank, a major newspaper and multiple business and residential high-rises. However, even with all that, there is an emptiness to Big D, one that doesn’t exist in places like New York or Chicago. There, as well as in other small and large metropolises through the nation, one can feel their heartbeat and sense the fabric that ties the citizens together. Not so with Big D. Sure, Dallas has a lot going for it. There is the Texas State Fair and the original Cotton Bowl stadium, the latter of which hosts the annual Red River Shootout between Texas and Oklahoma. The stadium used to host the annual Cotton Bowl Classic every Jan. 1, but now that game is played in nearby Arlington at the home of the Dallas Cowboys. In a way, though, the Cowboys have been a good metaphor for Dallas, in that throughout their history, the so-called “America’s Team,” has placed more emphasis on style over substance, whether it was the polished looked of Tom Landry’s teams or the current regime of Jerry Jones, which features an emphasis on making money. Even their current stadium is pure Dallas, as it was built to house more than 100,000 people who can watch a contest in what’s best described as an athletic amusement park. The fact it’s located near Six Flags over Texas, an actual amusement facility, is quite appropriate. The Cowboys have much success during their more than 60 years of existence. However, more often than not, they’ve failed in crunch time because they had no solid core upon which to draw, much like the city they supposedly represent. In the 1960s, and in subsequent years, Dallas’ opponents often said if you figuratively “punched them in the mouth,” the Cowboys wouldn’t know what to do. There was truth to that, because the Cowboys, were more interested in looking good. They had to maintain their “style” above all else. Other teams, understood the final score was the most important thing, not how you looked getting there. While a one- or two-point win satisfied most competitors, Cowboy players and coaches, most of the time, viewed such triumphs with disdain, because they did not look perfect in achieving victory. Such is the way life in Big D, where being seen with the right people, wearing the right clothes and shopping at expensive restaurants and stores are musts if one if to be a true Dallasite. Let’s just say that Dallas does its very best to a southwestern version of Hollywood, although those television and movie portrayals would believe one to think otherwise. If you look good, stand tall and present yourself in an acceptable manner, you can make it in Dallas. Your true self is irrelevant. That’s why celebrities and athletes who speak their mind, or could care less about appearance, would never cut it in Big D. Here, one must look and act and certain way, not be true to one’s self. I could never imagine the late, great Ted Williams working or playing in Dallas. A solid celluloid example of Dallas-based thinking can be found in the Norris film “Lone Wolf McQuade,” arguably the inspiration for Walker Texas Ranger. In it, Norris plays a Texas Ranger willing to do what it takes to catch the villain, including the bending the rules. Most of all, he doesn’t mind being bloodied and getting dirty along with way. This latter point doesn’t sit well with his boss, who wants his Rangers to have a certain “style,” one that is presentable to the public. Results don’t matter, it’s how one looks doing them that counts. I’ll give credit to Dallas’ leaders, all the way back to the ones who were here before the city became incorporated. Over time, they made sure Dallas obtained everything necessary to make it major metropolis. It presents a skyline that’s impressive whether viewing it from ground or air. However, that’s all there is, because there isn’t much beneath. Perhaps that’s the way Dallas’ founders wanted, and, if so, they got their wish. After all, its style, not substance that counts, and Dallas lives by that motto every day of the week.


"So...you've been inside?" "Yeah, I explored the house and then called you to check it out for yourself. Idiot. No, I haven't been in, yet." "Sarcasm's a new look for you, not liking it. Someone broke into your house and you call me ? Why? No one else wanted to deal with this mess? Or were they just not in the mood to come over in the middle of the night and look for possible criminals?" "You have the least to lose, you know...if you happen to die." "Thanks." It was true, even if it was a low blow. "Just go inside!" I urged him. "It's your house. You go in." "Why did you come over, if you don't even want to help?" "Ugh, you're intolerable." "Cause I think and question your actions? I'm sorry if you're not used to it, but some of us use our brains on a daily basis." "Do you want to argue out here all night, or actually catch the robber?" "Fine, let's both go in then." Why did I even call him? I didn't need this, not now. His annoying, arrogant behaviour was never welcome, let alone when I was freaking out about being robbed. Although it was a good distraction, even if it's only temporary. I unlocked the door, and reached for the lights, he caught my hand, shaking his head. He started signing something, but without the moonlight and the street lamps I could barely make out his silhouette, not to mention understand his gesturing. I stared at him hoping my eyes would get used to the dark, but nothing. He stopped the gesturing and leaned in close. This was new. "I think we should stay together, seeing as you'd be useless on your own." What?! I was about to protest, when he took hold of my hand, feeling the warmth of his, I realised how cold mine were. I was nervous, maybe even scared. "Let's first check upstairs, okay?" He sounded so gentle and caring. I know Ashley said he was sweet deep down, I just always thought it was too deep down for it to ever show. He was the one in our friend group I barely talked to and not out of chance. I did in general feel uncomfortable talking to guys, however with Jamie and Gavin it seemed easier, but Justin. He's just so- A creak! I gasped as I managed to hold in the string of curse words trying to escape. Justin just looked at me, I couldn't see his expression, it probably featured annoyance. Now I was sure of it, I was scared. I heard a voice coming from one of the rooms, I tried signalling Justin, but he didn't seem interested, and I was not about to check it out on my own. We crept around, me hiding behind his shoulder, keeping my fear under control, barely managing. As we finished with the living room arriving back at the front door, Justin flicked on the lights. "Tell me honestly, was it you?" He seemed concerned, very out of place emotion for the situation, I thought. "What?" "Did you break the window?" He sighed. "Nellie, have you seen the doctor Ashley recommended?" "No. I don't want to go to a shrink. I'm fine, other than the whole stalker thing. It wasn't me, okay? I didn't break my own window. I'm not crazy!" He didn't believe me, I could see it in his eyes. He seemed worried, trying to take hold of my hand, but I pulled away. Why does everyone keep looking at me like that? All pitiful and concerned for my mental health. What about my physical health? No one ever thinks about the actual problem. The stalker. "Please, just... I'll go with you if that helps." "Justin, I'm not ill, okay? Why can no one wrap their mind around that? The only sick one is that weird guy following me around." "Nellie. If there's no problem, then at least you'll get to say I told you so, isn't that worth it? You always want to stick it to me, now I'm letting you." He smirked, knowing very well how to bait me into going. "What if they find something? What if I'm misdiagnosed, maybe even mistreated, what if they give me some meds, that hurt me?" "They would notice before anything serious happens." "Oh, really? What if they don't? Would you risk me getting poisoned ?" "Oh, come on, they study for almost a decade, I think they know what they're doing. Besides this is only a consultation to see if you even need tests. It's not a big deal, promise." "Will you go to one too?" "Hell no." He replied without missing a beat. How could he expect me to not think it a big deal when he himself is so repulsed by it. "So why should I?" "Cause you're sick! Okay? We all see it! It's not healthy. This, the whole delusion about stalkers and doctors poisoning you! You're imagining it all! No one ever saw that guy, the stalker, you keep talking about, only you! We try our best to handle it, we come whenever you cry wolf. Like now, even though I knew that probably no one was in your house, I came! Just to make you feel safe! But we can't keep doing this, we all have our own problems and lives to deal with! You. Need. To. See. A doctor!" He facepalmed himself and pulled his hand down his face, groaning. "This is not how I wanted to do this. Sorry. I didn't want to shout. I, we worry about you. If not for yourself then for us, go." "Why do you even care?" Even I was surprised that I could talk. His yelling would've made me broke down if it weren't for the topic. (I'm bad at handling conflict.) Or at the least made me speechless for a few minutes, but somehow I found my voice. "You're our friend, how could we not?" "You are not my friend, we barely talk." All I knew about him was that he's an orphan. I hung out with him and even watched him play, but talk, have a conversation? Nah, only if we were forced, even then it was mostly weather and school. "We talk enough for me to care for you. How did you say it? I'm sorry if you're not used to it but some of us use our hearts on a day to day basis." "That's a very cheesy li-" I couldn't finish my sentence, as my breath hitched, my body froze, except for my heart which beat as if I'd just ran a mile. The stalker, he was here. I could see him outside the window. To an untrained eye, they were undetectable, mostly with the lamps reflecting on the glass, but I've seen that dark red hoodie enough times to recognise it. All those times, they were never this close. Most of the times there was a whole football field between us and I was surrounded by people. "They're here." I kept repeating in my head. I must've said it out loud as well, cause Justin shook me, and asked: "Who's here?!" "The stalker." "Where is he? Nellie, point, or say something!" I raised my hand, my eyes and attention still transfixed on the lean stature across the street. "I can't see anyone. Wait, is that...?!"


We held hands that night, lying in bed together and crying. Both of us felt it. We felt each other’s heartache, heartache so intense it felt like we were dying. Dying there in that bed together, but also birthing something newer and better.

Once upon a time we were laughing together and consumed by our then romantic relationships. Fortunately for us, the men were best friends just like we were. It couldn’t have been more perfect! Except, it wasn’t.

What made us swoon slowly became the stuff of nightmares. I woke up from mine, but you just weren’t ready yet. He left you still feeling exhilarated, but I could see behind the mask. I could feel the coldness. I could see the marks he left. You couldn’t see them, but your body betrayed you.

As I proceeded to travel on beside your dimming light, I met another soulmate. He was different. I was sure of it. He readily-filled the lonely places, and he dazzled me with new light. The same light you were experiencing, but yours smelled like gas. I came to realize that mine did too. Time went on, and our happy times together were less and less. My recollection was an unraveling so fast it made my head spin. The distance between us grew larger and larger until we stood on either side of an abyss. We couldn’t see each other anymore. I couldn’t risk falling in to save you, and you couldn’t even risk throwing me a frayed rope.

Eventually we parted. I think I knew it had to happen, but the pain—oh my god—the pain was so intense. I missed you with every fiber of my being. I thought about you every single day. I was in anguish knowing you were being deceived and hurt in ways I didn’t want to imagine, ways that I saw sometimes reflected back in my own mirror. As time passed, I threw myself into my new relationship. He knew just what to say. He encouraged the distancing with you. In fact, he encouraged the distancing with anyone close to me. He controlled my every movement, which I saw as him being my Savior, my protector. I couldn’t see what was going on, even as I obsessed over why you couldn’t see it in your own relationship.

I heard of your grandmother’s passing: the nurturer of your childhood. I was filled with dread for you and your already dismal state of mind. Of course I had your number memorized, so I texted you a cryptic message of my condolences. You didn’t know my number and questioned, but I knew you knew it was me. I should’ve thought it through though: it probably caused you trouble at home. The thought now makes me cringe.

My own journey was a struggle and I found myself wading through a murky swamp of despair, lonely and sad to my core. I often thought about how you would’ve helped me pull myself out of the dirty water. You were once a life preserver to me, but now you were hanging on for your own life. My soul hurt. Then one day I felt your return. You reached out. Your pain so palpable, I could taste it. Your bruises so visible, they hurt my eyes. His evil so intense, I feared for your life. Your desperation heartbreaking, but your courage mounting. Your story unfolded into my lap. You finally got away. You did your best, and your best was good enough. You made it through to the other side, only to hit another wall. He couldn’t let you go without a fight. The fear you felt, I felt. I finally had my best friend back, but would I be able to hold onto you? Your life was in constant turmoil, and you didn’t know if this day would be your last. We both looked over our shoulders together. I was right beside you. Your fight now became my fight. I watched as you endured endless battles with the devil himself. I watched myself turn into a protective momma bear as we fought against a system that doesn’t hold water for battered women. It brought us both to our knees. Day after day brought on new attacks against your life. I witnessed them alongside you. Even then, you listened to me and started to question whether your biggest supporter wasn’t in a battle for her own life. You gave me what was left in you to help me fight as well, knowing I had to come full circle just as you had. Our friendship was rekindled. It was like the old days, like no time had passed. You sang at my wedding and held my new baby in your arms. Ours was a story of friendship renewed and refreshed. Unfortunately, you also watched as my devil emotionally impaired me for what may be the rest of my life. You watched as I sank into a depression so deep, you were sure it swallowed me whole. The rope. You threw it this time, but I couldn’t quite grasp it. My Big Bang came with a betrayal that shook my core. All that was left was a shell. I didn’t have visible bruises, but you helped dress them just the same. You helped me find the girl you always saw with YOUR eyes. She was just as courageous as you had been. We felt each other so deeply, it went without saying that we were the best of friends. As we soothed each other in the dark that night, crying and laughing, I realized that we were more than just those two girls who met in college. Long days ahead lied in wait for me as I came full circle; longer nights for you reliving your hell in your dreams. We were warriors, fighting life’s battles together, each one a soldier who would carry the other one on her back out of the trenches if necessary.

And when I told you it was me on the phone, you said you knew it was me all along. You felt it. You felt it like you would if I was your sister.  Soul sisters. Written for my real life soul sister—Sabrina.


Just four minutes shy of ending my shift, a fare slides into the backseat of my cab, slams the door shut, and says, “Follow that car.”

A rapid flood of emotions and thoughts cascade through my brain at lightning speed. Most of them are positive because this is my favorite kind of fare. No matter what happens, I enjoy myself and still make some money.

Being a cabbie means dealing with all kinds of people in different parts of their day, in a full spectrum of moods, and wearing various levels of deodorant and perfume from non-existent to permeating, which leads to a variable rainbow of messes to clean, bitching to listen to, and private conversations to pretend to ignore.

But, predictable fares like this make my day because they are just too damn fun.

In the ten seconds since my fare entered my cab and made his request, I’ve said and done nothing. I haven’t even raised my head to see which car he’s referring to or look at the man in my backseat.

These seconds of silence are fun. This is truly the only part of my standard weekend late-night fares that is up for grabs. What happens next is dependent on the customer and his tenacity. He either doesn’t like confrontation and is able to “read a room” and silently exits my cab or he’s had enough “liquid courage” at one or more of the bars on Fremont Avenue to repeat his demand. At which point, the games begin. Either way, it’s an enjoyable end to my shift. I close my eyes and wait for it.

“Hey, asshole! That red Toyota Camry up ahead that’s stuck at the light. Follow it. Now .” I pull out my fare clipboard and pretend to jot down some notes as I respond, “No.”

Three seconds of dead air follow as the fare tries to comprehend my response.

“What do you mean ‘no’?” “As in the opposite of yes. As in I am not following a red Toyota Camry or any other vehicle for you. So, get out of my cab. Now .” I hear him scoff. “What is your problem?” I make an over-exaggerated sigh, even hanging my head in the process.

“Assholes like you are my problem. I’m here every weekend taking pathetic drunks like yourself home. I have no problem with that. It’s much better than you driving while blitzed and killing some family on their way home from the movies or making some poor kid an orphan because you killed their parents on date night. And it puts money in my pocket. I am fine with that.

“But, I’m not going to follow some poor girl who’s had the good sense to leave the bar without giving you her number. Or she’s left before you were able to roofie her drink. So get your punk ass outta my cab before I drag you out and beat your brainless head in.” He seems to choke on his contempt, causing a combination of a snort and laugh to come out before he speaks. “Yeah, well, you can try, old man. I’m not asking you to follow that car because I’m stalking some chick. She stole my wallet and she took off in that red Camry that is still at the light.” I finally turn and take my first look at this fare. He is exactly as I knew he would be. Young, white, thick dark hair, with about four days of stubble, and wearing brand name clothes to impress as many young girls as possible.

“If she took your wallet, how do you expect to pay me?” He rolls his eyes and hikes up a leg of his three hundred dollar jeans and pulls several hundred dollar bills out of his sock.

“I never keep my money in one place, especially in bars like that. Now, floor it after that Camry.” He takes a look at me and adds with a voice just above a whisper, “Uh, please, uh, sir.” A short, harsh laugh escapes from me. That was probably the first time this punk has used the word please in months. As I pull away from the curb, my CB squawks. “Bobby, what’s your status?” “Leaving The Inferno now with a final Amber Alert.” I hear Janice’s two-pack-a-day raspy chuckle/cough. “Copy. Follow protocol.” “Roger that.” My fare gasps as he throws his weight back into the seat. “What the hell do you mean by ‘Amber Alert’?” I haven’t kidnapped any kid. Stop the car. Now.” Seeing his wide-eyed panic in my rearview mirror causes me to chuckle again. “Slow your roll, Trump, Junior, just relax. It’s just a code we use for saps like you. Don’t get your boxer briefs in a wad. You don’t need to call Daddy’s lawyer just yet.” I look in the rearview again and see his breathing slow down. He shakes his head and rolls his eyes. A second later, a look of puzzlement furrows his brow. “What did you mean by ‘saps like me’?” I sigh and answer for the fourth time this weekend. “This happens all the time, especially in the spring and summer. Saps like you get their wallets lifted by some of our local ladies.” “Why’d you call it an Amber Alert, then? You spooked the shit out of me.” “Because the girl who scammed you said her name was Amber, right? Let me guess. You were sitting on stools at the bar. After several drinks and way-too-successful flirting by you, she squeezes your knee and whispers in your ear that she’s using the restroom. It takes a few minutes until you realize she’s not coming back and your wallet is gone. Though, I’m guessing you discovered it sooner than most since you saw what car she got into.” His brown eyes grow almost as wide as his mouth, causing me to laugh again. “Happens every season. The handlers choose a name and all the girls use it until they’re told to change it. Last time, it was Katie. That one never seems to die out. In the nineties, I swear they cycled between the same three names. Every damn time it was either Michelle, Jennifer, or Lisa.” “Ah, I get it. The boss guy chooses a name that a lot of girls have so it makes it harder to find them later.” “Exactly.”

“So, right now, every one of these slut-thieves, is using the name Amber right now. Un-fucking-believable.” I consider trying to keep my temper from flaring up. I know Janice and my boss would prefer that. But, it’s been a long weekend. Besides, I’m too old to let shit that angers me slide.

“Why do rich, spoiled, lazy pricks like yourself, always call girls who won’t sleep with you sluts? Especially when you call the girls who do sleep with you the same fucking name?” “Whoa, easy, Pops. I’m just angry I was robbed.” “No, you weren’t. Your father was robbed. That’s actually his money you’re toting around in your wallet and sock, right?” I can almost hear his spine stiffen. But, he stays silent. “Yep. You’re what twenty-three, twenty-four? Daddy is grooming you to take over his company, but you keep coming up with excuses to stay in school because you’re enjoying the good life of going to one damn class a day and doing whatever you feel like the rest of the time too much to give it up. We both know, you’ll come up with some story to tell your dad about this and he’ll keep filling your pockets and bank account. Hell, maybe you’ll even tell him the truth since you were actually robbed. You’ll have to change a few details, of course, since you wouldn’t be able to admit that a girl got the better of you. “By the way, calling any girl a slut in front of a working man with a wife and daughters is a stupid and dangerous thing to do. Especially when that man is a cabbie who could leave your rich, punk ass somewhere you don’t want to be left. Understood?” Before he can stumble out some bullshit denial and threat to sue me, I park my cab along the curb. I turn around and watch him look at the police station we’re currently parked in front of. He starts to speak, but I put my hand up like a stop sign.

“Just don’t. Trust me when I tell you that you didn’t really want me to follow that Camry. In case you didn’t notice, “Amber” was not driving. The handlers hire drivers with special talents. Think of them as bouncers behind wheels. Dealing with one of them would cause you to lose more than your wallet, like maybe a few teeth or a kidney.

“Just walk in those double doors there and tell the desk sergeant you’ve been the victim of an Amber Alert. They’ll have you fill out some forms. You can call your dad or a roommate or whoever to come get you and take you home. Now, give me one of those hundreds, and have a good night.” I see him look at my meter. It reads $23.75. We both know he will pay. He doesn’t argue and hands it over as he slides out.

As soon as he’s closed my door, I leave. Over the years, I’ve learned to never delay ending a fare. A delayed ending, especially in front of a police station, will only cause more complications and paperwork. I don’t have the patience for either one.

My radio squawks again. I smile as Janice asks her standard question at the end of every weekend shift. “How much he give you?” “A C-Note. How did our Ambers do tonight?”

“Good. Seven grand all total.” I nod and smile. “Okay. I’ll be back in nine minutes. Have my cut ready. Tomorrow we’ll choose a new name for next week. You should have seen the last guy when he heard ‘Amber Alert’. It made my damn week.” Janice gives her standard laugh/cough. “That was a fun one. See you in a few.” “Roger that. By the way, we need to paint the Camry again.”


Here it is again, the piss end of golden hour. The sun hovers four degrees below the horizon, soon to break free from the relative brightness of civil twilight. Do you know the difference between all the kinds of half-darkness? I do. I can tell you. That might just take my mind off this thing I need to do, but my body is like a soft, untamed animal, stopped dead in its tracks in the snow like in concrete. There’s the civil, like I just said, in case you missed it. In that kind of light, blood appears a dark maroon colour, nearly brown, diarrhoea of the veins. I look down, swallow. The spots start at my feet, holding themselves on the surface of the snow, and then, as they grow heavier towards the house, carving deeper and deeper grooves in the whiteness. So she didn’t bleed too heavily to begin with, but as she stumbled forward, the boot stamps grow larger, more elongated; she’d started dragging her feet. Then another blow from behind, and a fallen snow angel with broken wings. I see the head and belly wounds clearly, the top one bright and fresh, the bottom one, well, not so much. I swallow. She’s losing it now. The rude impact of the ground, cushioned only lightly by the ankle-deep snow, jolts the liquids in her, like a glass full of water on a stormy ship. When I was a child, I could remember everything, whether it had happened or not. Now, I only remember things that have happened to other people. The second type of twilight is nautical. The darkness progresses as the sun falls, falls further, from six to twelve degrees below the line of sight, which in this flat rigid world is everywhere I turn. It’s called nautical because the stars are twinkly enough for sailors to be able to make them out, but the horizon remains so stark the heavenly bodies can be pitted against it for directions. I have begun my ascent to the house. She didn’t walk up the stairs, she crawled. She’d given up holding onto her belly halfway up. I can tell because of the smell, and the volume, the dripping. Dear god, or whatever else there might be, because why would this place even need a god if so little is alive to watch over, and that which is can be deleted so easily, with such primitive tools. The knife is in my pocket, a kitchen knife with a plastic handle. When I was young, I had memories of murders so gruesome they could make a grown man faint in an instant. But now, I only remember real things, things right in front of my eyes that burn images on the insides of the eyelids. Finally, before the night falls, there’s astronomical twilight. The sky lights up in a million fibre-optic blips, messages from the past blinking their way down to Earth. I have the key to the house, and so I turn the key in the lock. In these dark conditions, blood becomes black, like coca-cola, but not so fizzy, and definitely not as sweet, so perhaps this is a bad comparison. I hope she died on the other side of the door, crawled like a fox into her hole and gave up there, so that this it it, no more mess, just in the hall. Lo and behold, she did. I often hope they’d died quickly and stayed put, and the lord if such shall be my judge will forgive me, for this is a small offense: that hope I cannot shake. And sometimes I think it’s a merciful hope, a hope to shorten suffering, mine and theirs. I grope for the light switch on the wall with the hand that hadn’t held the knife. It lay far, far from the red trail leading to the house. No wonder they couldn’t find it. But a blood hound, a recollector of foreign memories, like me, knows exactly where to look, where in the frenzy of footsteps to find the DNA they will need, they will want to establish facts and punish perpetrators . The light is on, I swallow. No vomiting. It pushes the clean-up too far outside of nature, a mass of things that shouldn’t be seen outside of the body, suddenly all mixed together. A human offal hotpot. Dry heaving, that’s fine, no lunch, better safe than sorry. It has been exactly fifteen 24-hour increments — not days, mind you, they’re no days — since the sun last rose around here. It teases all the way into golden hour, dawning, dawning, and down, back again like a ball that hadn’t been kicked hard enough to roll through the goal marker of the horizon. These words, dawn and dusk and twilight , I can see how they can mean beautiful things to people. How they can mark time in a way that makes sense to god’s creatures, those who live by the rhythm of light and dark. How they can bring drama, hope, joy, melancholy. But to us here, creatures with no god, creatures that shouldn’t even be here, because we’re not designed for this, those words mean little, because they never happen truly, never fully realise themselves in this long, long night. Twenty more increments to go before the fiery ball tries hard enough for us to see. I have come, I have seen, I will conquer. I’ll start on the inside, as always, and work my way back out. The porch light I find the switch for turns out far too dim, so I will bring a spotlight from my car, designed for these occasions specifically, for the polar night’s many twilights. I’ve put on my bodysuit already, but forgot the mask in the car. Hence the retching, from the smell. I’ll get my brushes, my sprays, my paper. When people ask me what it’s like, they think it’s scientific, and therefore also magical, a blend of mastery and mystery. But how could it possibly be glamorous to clean, I think though I don’t ask them. I’d hate to appear rude. On dates, at first I tell girls I’m a cleaner, just to test them, and their faces drop. But if I tell the truth and nothing but the truth, the full works, blood and sweat, sometimes tears, they light up, like I’m a live episode of a true crime series. That must be very exciting, to see all these places up close . Tomorrow, I will return the knife to the police. I’ll apologise to them with all the words I have prepared: I’d forgotten to wear my gloves when I picked it up, I will be sorry for contaminating the evidence, I will promise to call next time without touching, and they’ll shake their heads. There are some things I won’t mention, things I knew about her, things that aren’t relevant now because she’s been annulled, things that aren’t relevant because what has once happened cannot unhappen. When I was young, I used to remember things that didn’t happen at all, but now I know how to make them.


Affixing Blame. Dave swings the Ute out in a wide curve onto main road sealed surfaces. First time in a long time, rain tumbled down. His mind full of ribs showing through baby lamb fleece, gasping, and drought affected ewes pushing mewing offspring away. After the latest downpour, he has to head to town, talk to mates, discuss planting crops. Fixated on likelihood the drought has broken, he didn’t see an off-white minivan until he straightened his wheel. Too late to do anything but breathe a word, half obscenity, and half prayer. Oncoming driver, swerves sharply and hits their horn as sound screams in Dave’s head. Passing on his left and veering off, already dirty cream panels skid into roadside dirt. Rain has partially washed road dirt away, but still persistent mud sticks. Bouncing wildly over rough ground. Eventually the van pulls up inches from a fence post in a great cloud of dust. Hovering above as if escaping spirits. A vehicle definitely not made for off-road work. Looks like a box chucked out of roadside mail vans buffeted further by jet-streamed air pulled along by passing road trains. Smells of burnt rubber on bitumen, loose granules settling, familiar as stock moving through dry sale yards. Except minus urine and faeces, telling more about selling precious stock rather than a roadside. Might be able to save some stock, now if the drought has broken. Thank God, no collision. Dave can’t believe he’s still seated, fingers glued to the wheel, not hit. Not dead. As if he needed any proof his number isn’t up yet. Hasn't felt like this since local Demons footie team won its first premiership. Mixed in with walking around showgrounds side-show alley, holding Jessica’s sweaty hand right before he graduated high school. A better time, more plenty, more persistent seasonal rains. Other driver moved but also remained seated. Probably in shock. Or afraid of potential confrontation. Dave’s never had an accident in more than two decades, longer if learning to drive in grey stubble paddocks is counted. Innumerable years driving various farm vehicles. Reassures himself, got good driver status . Didn’t look. Knows he didn’t look. Just pulled out wide, taking up too much road. Knew from glancing dotted white lines. What’s happening to him? Can't keep a focus for longer than it takes his dogs to push stock up into a shearing shed chase. He gets out stiffly and hobbles over toward the van, ticking as it cools. Stumbling more than walking, too slow. Bowels felt ready to dissolve as he walks. Don’t shit yourself too, mate . Shame. Then he realises – no witnesses. His word against this fellow. Good, feels better than a moment ago. Relief rushes like untangled fencing wire. Stranger, behind the other wheel, sees Dave and swings out his legs, but stays seated. Purple trousers already attracting dust. Face white but he manages a grin, of sorts. Brushing clunks of dreadlocks back off his brow. Dave notices three gold rings through one ear. Rainbow scarf tucked behind his dirty T-shirt neckline. Hiss of a CD, more a whirring, is that supposed to be music? ‘Bit close,’ Dave says. ‘Certainly was. You okay?’ ‘Yup. You?’ ‘Fine. Bit shaky from rough landing.’ Not enough to shift this guy’s phone from easy reach on the passenger’s seat. Even if a curtain material, which blocks views inside the van, still flops about. More appropriate to match heavy flock wallpaper in some old English mansion, thinks Dave. ‘You want to check your stock, might be a few boxes behind, fallen.’ Dave points, curious. ‘Catch my breath first.’ Says Jia, thinking of farmers owning guns. Hearing crazy Wolf Creek actor’s laugh. Recalling disappearing tourists. Victims whose only sin they stopped to help strangers on Outback Highways. Disobeyed his own rules, never come this far from coastal safety. Best keep cool. Looks at his steady fingers, not believing his calm. No accusations nor anger. So, Dave decides to seize initiative. ‘You were coming down at a fair clip. Didn’t you see me?’ Jia looks up at Dave, one eyebrow raised, brow crinkled; liar! But says nothing. Safer. Like last night outside a rundown hotel. Tense situation, likely someone might be hurt, if he hadn't decided to slink away, mouth clammed shut. ‘Could cause a nasty accident, driving so fast. Farm vehicles all along this road, you know. Combines, harvesters and tractors.’ Although Dave doubts this guy could tell any differences. ‘Stock and kangaroos too.’ Less now, road edges, long paddock, government land, whatever name you attached to verges just as dried up and unproductive as fenced paddocks. ‘You not from round here.’ ‘No.’ Never expected to crutch ewes, sew a dog’s gashed leg back together, untangle emus from fencing and know chicks were hiding off nearby in scrub shadows. Kick aside drooping tomato bushes, realize a few scrawny hens are going unnourished. Dave sniffs air, wet roads, lizards will soon be active, and smells triumph. They both know what really happened, neither willing to take things further. He can sense this fellow’s resignation. ‘Well take a bit more care when you get back on the road, eh? We’ll say no more about it.’ Jia gives Dave a brief nod. As if he’s going anywhere near police stations to make a report, or risk further van inspections. Police closing swaths of highway, looking for reasons, never quite able to factor in human behavior. ‘You don’t want to be a country road statistic.’ ‘Seen enough of those road safety ads. Due for a break.’ ‘Nearest town, 20 clicks, good coffee at the service station.’ ‘Thanks.’ Dave latches onto notions he’d better get out while going’s good, and sets off down road edges towards his Ute before one last look. ‘You be alright?’ ‘Fine.’ Says Jia ducking back into his van and starting the engine. Ugly dark smoke wafts out of a reluctant exhaust pipe. Won’t be long before bashed-around thing gives up the ghost thinks Dave as this stranger-tormentor pulls back onto roadsides and stops again, this time safely tucked off near a stand of mulga bush. Now Jia’s fingers are shaking as he rolls a smoke. Dave speeds away, wanting as many miles as possible between him and the minivan. Bloody ridiculous he thinks, way some people drive! Shouldn’t be allowed on roads, particularly now they are wet. Shouldn’t be allowed behind a wheel. Might have killed him, driving like that.


'Hello there. Who are you?' I stare at the strangers crowding around my bed. Something is familiar about them, but I can't exactly grasp what. 'I'm your daughter, Mama,' says the familiar stranger, a young woman with dark hair, the same shade as mine. 'Daughter,' I muse, glancing at her. I look inquiringly at two other men. 'Who are you?' 'I'm your husband,' says the man, who looks as if he's in his 60's. 'This is your son, Lacey.' He nods toward the man. 'Husband. Son. Who's Lacey?' 'Oh, Mama,' cries the daughter. She flings her arms over me, the husband and the son joining in. 'You're Lacey, Mama. You're Lacey.' That night, I laughed a lot. The daughter told me her name was Lauren, the husband told me his name was Todd, and the son told me his name was Teddy. 'Teddy,' I chuckle. 'Funny name.' Teddy's cheeks flush. 'You thought of it, Mum. You said that you named me after your favourite teddy bear.' 'Huh,' I muse again. We played board games galore. Todd was especially good at it, but I always lost. 'That's alright, Mama,' says Lauren, patting me on the back. 'No one can be good at everything. I nod. As the daughter, husband, and son left, I waved them off. They promised they hoped they would come back again soon. And to my surprise, I hoped so too. # The busy noises of the city fill my ears. Cars zoom past and the skyscrapers brush the sky. I linger outside the bakery stores, the scent of food tempting me forward, but then I smell something better. Freedom. I inhale the smell of freedom. The familiar strangers have left, but I am determined to find them. 'Daughter?' I call, but my voice is drowned by the chatter of the crowd. 'Husband? Son?' 'You alright, Mrs?' says a man about the son's age. 'Need help finding someone?' 'Are you my son?' I ask. I can't exactly remember what he looks like anymore. 'Umm...' says the man. He shuffles away. Hmm. The real son wouldn't have done that. Suddenly, someone shouts, 'Oh, Mrs Cotton! Thank goodness I've found you!' A stranger comes up to me, sweat streaming down her face. 'I thought we lost you! Come on, let's get you back up to your room at the Village. 'Are you my daughter?' I ask. 'What's the Village?' 'Mrs Cotton,' sighs the woman sadly. 'Dear Mrs Cotton. Your daughter is coming next week, like normal. Remember? She always comes on Sunday afternoon, you know.' 'Don't know,' I murmur, feeling stupid. # 'Great news, Mrs Cotton! Your daughter, Lauren, is coming to work here at the Village and she'll help us look after you. Isn't that good?' 'So good.' I choke out, but inside I'm hitting myself for forgetting the daughter's name was Lauren. 'When?' 'Now!' says a voice, and a young woman bursts into my room with a smile. 'Where's Lauren?' I ask. 'It's me, Mama,' says the stranger, her face falling. 'Oh, it is Lauren!' I laugh. But deep inside, I still did not remember who this person was. # 'Good morning, Mama,' someone says. 'It's morning?' I mumbled. 'Yes, Mama. It's morning. I made your favourite. Freshly squeezed orange juice with avocado and cottage cheese! Yum.' 'Not my favourite,' I say. 'But, but, when I was little, you always said this was your favourite, Mama.' I cannot recall saying that, I think stubbornly. Another lady creeps in. She says something to the woman, thinking I can't hear her. I can. 'Mrs Cotton-I'm mean, Lacey, doesn't really have a favourite, anymore, Lauren.' 'That's ok,' says the Lauren person, brightening. 'As soon as Mama tries this, she'll remember. I know she will.' Lauren hands me the plate. I pick it up. Here goes nothing, I think. Picking up the orange liquid, I sniff it. Smells ... edible. I take the tiniest sip. Eww! It's tastes so cold and weird. However, I force a smile. Then, I picked up a fork and picked at the avocado and cheese. I gingerly scoop a little bit of each on it. Lauren and the lady watch with wide eyes. I shovel it into my mouth. Before I can stop myself, I cried, 'ACK!' At the top of my voice. The taste is so horrible, I drop the plate onto the floor. SMASH! It shatters into a thousand pieces. Oh no, I think. Lauren isn't going to be happy. I was right. Lauren looks up at me. 'Mama?' The question I've been asking myself all morning slips out. 'Who's Mama?' Lauren bites her lip. Her soft eyes well up with tears. She started to sob, and she ran out the door as tears began to leak out. 'Oh no.' I whispered. I knew I had done something terribly wrong. 'What did I do?' I cried, looking at the lady. 'Oh, Mrs Cotton,' she says. 'I-I'm going to get a broom to sweep this mess up, alright? Stay put, Mrs Cotton.' Shaking her head slightly, the lady leaves the room too. What did I do wrong? # I ring the bell. My curtain flutters slightly as the wind whooshes in through the open window. I sink into the warm bed covers, the only place I ever feel safe in. Ring. Ring. Ring. My door opens. 'Yes, Mrs Cotton?' says a woman. 'Bright.' I whisper. 'Here, I'll close the curtains for you.' The curtains gently scrape closed. 'There. All better?' 'Still bright.' 'Oh, my. Poor Mrs Cotton. You must be hallucinating again. Would you like me to get you your eye mask? It might help.' I shake my head. A sleep mask won't fill the hole in my heart. I always feel the hole in my heart. Like ... something is missing in there. 'Alright, Mrs Cotton. 'Lauren, Todd, and Teddy are coming tomorrow, by the way.' I don't answer, but in my head I'm thinking, Who is Lisa, Todd and Teddy? # 'Hi, Mama.' 'Hi, Mum.' 'Hi, Lacey.' I looked at the familiar strangers. 'Hello there. Who are you?'


Take the pink sponge rollers out of your hair quickly because it’s Sunday morning and everyone is already rushing toward the car to go to church. Slip the black Goody comb through your dense, hot combed, jet-black, Ultra Sheen-glazed hair and style your curls because it is important to look shiny, crisp, and coiffured at your church. When it doesn’t look good, keep combing it over and over, even when Mom is banging on the door. When you finally open it, angry because your hair is still a flat, lackluster mushroom-shape, do not give Mom any attitude when she slaps your face and pulls you out of your room by your hair, down the hall, down the steps, until you finally break free, still trying to fix your hair because you have to go to church with impressive hair. Do not look at her hatefully when you break free because she will slap you three times instead of just the two. Suck your lip to remove the blood; don’t wipe it with your finger because Mom will say you are making a production out of it. Keep a straight face and don’t look hateful in the car when she describes to your father and your four siblings how she slapped the hell out of your vain self and pulled some of your hair out for your primping in the mirror, exposing your punishment to everyone, even though it was done privately and could have stayed that way if it were discipline, not a Mom-temper tantrum. Be patient during the long ride that starts in the idyllic tree-lined street in your neighborhood, crosses into the next town, traverses the downtown, over the railroad tracks, over the drawbridge, and into the hood. Ignore the shenanigans occurring on the way to church, like your mother placing a topless ceramic mug filled to the brim with coffee, on the car’s dashboard. Do not react to your mother’s shrieking and name calling at your father when a drop of her coffee laps over the lip of the cup because he could have driven over the bumps in the road more smoothly to prevent the liquid from spilling during the 45-minute car ride, she said. Wonder again if people live in the houses that look like small square boxes with roofs, have peeling paint, crumbling steps, and tires, furniture, and mattresses strewn in the yards around the corner from Mount Zion Baptist church. Then ask your father if anyone lives in those houses, even though he never answers that question when you ask him every Sunday. When you get to church and the car is finally parked, after 10 minutes of your father searching for a parking space, be careful when you open the car door because there are expensive cars there, packed tight. Walk quickly in your semi-high, black heels and long skirt to the church because you are late again, but do not switch your hips because you do not want people to believe that you are a fast-tail girl. Go to the bathroom first to check to make sure that your hair looks fine. Do not pay attention to the sour smell in the bathroom, the cracked linoleum, or the leaking sink. Do not be upset that your hair looks puffy because the humidity got to it and it was pulled halfway around a house. Go to the basement and into the corner room where your age group is having class, and everyone is already there. In Sunday School do not laugh at Ms. Ida May when she tries to teach, even though you cannot understand what she is saying because she works her mouth and mushy words tumble out. Do not join in with the other kids who are fooling around in Ms. Ida May’s class because you don’t know how to fool around. Notice that Ms. Ida May wears her white church suit that looks like a nurse’s uniform every Sunday, looking like a walking black and white picture. Think about why Ms. Ida May has always been there and will always be there. When it is your turn to read in Sunday School, read each word correctly and in your real voice. Do not pretend to not know how to read and do not speak with a black brogue just to fit in like Tracey Hightower, who was a soft-spoken, sweet girl last year when she was new to church, but now is mean and womanish acting - walking wide-legged and and throwing her developing hips into it, rolling her eyes and popping her neck at you and your sister for no reason every Sunday. Don't be surprised when sixth, seventh, and eighth graders cannot read words like ‘the, come, thus, thee because it happens every Sunday. Try to say hello the right way to Antwon because he is always cool and confident, even if he cannot read. Do not sound stiff when you talk to cool, black, church kids. Do not feel disappointed because when Antwon nodded and said, “Sup” you blew it and said “Hello,” way too timid and proper sounding. When you line up to march into the choir stand with the youth choir and high voice Tonya gives you the dirty eye and tells you and your sister Belinda off, ignore her. Remember that you and Belinda always have each other, and you don’t need the tough, black church girls. The youth pre-teen choir gets to sing with the teen choir today, and they will sing fast, loud, hand-clapping songs. You will sing in the alto section, and so you cannot sit by Belinda because she is a soprano. You will be fine because you will get to sit by Carolyn, Lisa, and Sheila and they have never made fun of you. Do not get caught by Ms. McDonald, the choir director, talking to Carolyn, Lisa, and Sheila during church. Instead, pass notes. When the choir director starts directing the choir to move back and forth to the music, admit to yourself that you do not want to rock in rhythm with the choir, even though you can. Stand still.


“You may be able to kill me but you’ll never stop me. Mark my words, I’ll come back and search for as long as I have to until I find you, and when I do, you’ll wish you never did this to me OR to my family.” Rosalind King is seen from the streets, dangling from the roof of the building like a picture hanging from a tattered string. The crowd below stares in fear as they watch her slowly slip, inch by inch until finally Roz lets go, barreling to the ground. There’s a scream. Everything goes black. Taryn Wheeler practically throws herself out of bed when she is jolted awake, panting and disoriented from the horrible dream she was having. It was just a dream. She thinks to herself. Taryn gets up and hops in the shower, itching to wash off the sweat dripping from her brow. When she gets out it’s 7:00am. School starts in an hour and a half. She runs down the stairs, greeting her little brother, Luke, as she passes him on the staircase. “Morning, hon.” “Morning Mom,” Taryn says back, “What’s for breakfast?” She sits down at the table where a plate of eggs, bacon and toast sits already prepared. She scoffs it down, then grabs her backpack and heads out the door towards Cottage Street to her bus stop. “Sky!” She calls as Skylar Larkin walks up the road towards their stop. Skylar runs up to her. “Hey! Did you get my text last night?” Taryn asks. “Yes, oh my god! Gage frickin’ Pierce?” Skylar screeches. “I know, can you believe it? He’s so cute and he wants me , Taryn Wheeler to go to the dance with him! I need to find a dress! Wanna come with me after school?” “Duh! Can your mom drop us off?” Skylar asks. “Yeah!” “Cool! Can’t wait.” The bus picks them up at 10:10. Once they arrive, they go to their lockers to grab their books for homeroom and each head their separate ways. They’re both in grade 11 and 16-years-old. They go to Lester B. Pearson Secondary in a town called Foxdale. Tare-Bear<3: omg he’s totally staring @ me Queen Skyxoxo: Gage? stop it Tare-Bear<3: seriously!!! wut do I do? Queen Skyxoxo: idk? smile? Tare-Bear<3: he just looked away Queen Skyxoxo: :( Five hours later. Taryn and Skylar have their last period of the day together. They walk into the classroom and sit at their desks, situated directly next to each other. “Oh my god, class straight up sucks without you!” Taryn exclaims. “I know, right? Everyone in my first four classes is so lame!” “If you ladies don’t mind, I might begin my class.” Says Mister Reid, interrupting their conversation. The girls respond in unison, “Sorry Mister read.” When class ends, Taryn calls her mom to ask for a ride to the mall. “She’s on her way.” Taryn says to Skylar. “Alright.” Skylar responds. When they get to the mall they head straight for their favourite dress store, Ritchies. Taryn hurries through the store picking up multiple dresses before heading to the changeroom to try them all on. The girls have to wait at the host table for someone to unlock a changeroom for Taryn to use. Minutes later, a girl dressed in a black ankle-length dress comes around the corner to answer the ring. She has brown hair and big green eyes. She was only about a foot away from the girls when something visibly changed in Taryn’s demeanor. Skylar looked at Taryn with worry, “Tare? Tare-Bear? Ar-are you okay?” Taryn didn’t respond but instead, in the blink of an eye and with no forewarning at all she leapt over the host table and on top of the girl. Taryn’s hands were around the girl’s neck and there was something evil in her eyes. Before Skylar had even realized what was happening Taryn was strangling the stranger. “Taryn!” Skylar called running towards the girls flailing around on the ground. She grabbed Taryn’s shoulders and tried pulling her off but she couldn’t. This was not Taryn, at least not the one Skylar had accompanied to the mall a mere 20 minutes ago. “You’ll pay for what you did to my parents. They were crushed when they found out I was gone. I saw it, I felt it.” The sound came from Taryn’s mouth, but it did not come from her. It was distorted and angry and it terrified Skylar. The stranger’s face was turning purple now and Skylar knew that if she didn’t stop this, this girl would die. She screamed, “TARYN! WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING, YOU’RE GOING TO KILL HER!” With one strenuous yank, Skylar had managed to get Taryn off and once she was up, she ran. Skylar followed as Taryn ran outside and down the street until finally, she collapsed on the front lawn of someone’s house. She fell unconscious. Skylar sat on the lawn until Taryn came to and when she did, she was visibly exhausted. Her brows were furrowed and she was breathing heavily. “W-What just happened?” She asked. Skylar was shocked, “Do you really not remember?” She stares at Taryn expectantly. When she doesn’t respond Skylar says, “Taryn, you just strangled a stranger in there. If I hadn’t gotten you off of her, she’d be dead. How could you not remember something like that?” Taryn goes silent now. She pulls out her phone and texts her mom. The ride home was silent like the night. When Taryn got home, she went straight up to her room, threw on her headphones and laid in bed until she fell asleep. “Have you got my shit?” Asks a young boy. “Depends. How much have you got?” Roz demands. The boy looks around carefully before pulling a wad of cash out of his pocket. “Hundred and fifty.” He says. “That’ll get you a gram of pot, only.” “I was hoping for more than just pot.” He says. “Not my problem, this shit ain’t free. Take it or leave it.” Reluctantly, the boy hands Roz the cash. “Now fuck off.” Roz says, shoeing him away with her hands. Taryn springs up in her bed as the sound of her alarm scares her back to consciousness. 7:00am. Time to get up. She checks her phone for any texts from Skylar. There’s none. She sighs. On her way down the stairs this morning she doesn’t greet Luke as he runs up the stairs past her. He puts his hand up for a high-five, Taryn ignores it. “Morning, hon.” Her mom says joyfully. “Hi Mom.” Taryn pushes the words out as if it takes all of what little energy she has left. “You look down, sweetheart. Are you feeling okay?” “Not really; I slept awful.” Taryn says. “Did you have another dream?” “Yeah, but this one wasn’t scary. Just weird.” “Wanna talk about it?” “No thanks.” Taryn takes one bite of her toast before standing up and leaving the house for her bus stop. “I hope your day gets better, baby!” Her Mom calls after her while she’s heading down the street. Taryn is standing at the bus stop with her arms folded when she sees Skylar heading towards her. She doesn’t call for her this time. She tilts her head down as if to hide from her best friend, afraid of what she’ll say. She grows more and more nervous the closer Skylar gets, but to Taryn’s surprise, Skylar greets her happily. “Hey, girl!” She says. “Hey…” Taryn responds carefully. “How are you feeling today, Tare-Bear?” “Uhm, alright, I guess. Sorry about yesterday.” Taryn says slowly, chewing on each word before she spits them out. How bizarre? She thinks to herself. As if apologizing for almost strangling a stranger to death at the mall is something that happens as frequently as bumping into someone while walking through a busy hallway. There’s a moment of silence. The bus pulls up. The girls sit next to each other at the back and Taryn pulls out her phone. She’s expecting this car ride to be as silent as the last one the two had together. “It’s okay.” Skylar says. “I’m not sure what happened yesterday, but I know it wasn’t you. You seemed really messed up about it. Maybe you should see a doctor.” “What, and admit to trying to strangle someone? I’ll go to jail, Sky.” “Juvie, actually. You’d go to juvie.” Skylar teases, smiling shyly afterwards, testing the turbulent waters. Taryn giggles. “I get it if you don’t wanna see a doctor, but at least consider it. Something could be wrong.” “I think something is wrong.” Taryn pauses, “Don’t tell anyone this, but I’ve been having these dreams.” “What dreams?” Skylar prods. “Well, dreams about a girl; around our age. Her name is Roz, I think. At least that’s what people keep calling her in my dreams. It started yesterday morning. She was hanging from Town Hall and she threatened this girl standing above her but like, to the side, not directly above her. And then she falls. I woke up just before she hit the ground but I was seeing everything from like, her perspective, I guess? So, it felt like I was falling.” “Did the girl push her?” Skylar asks. “No, it was someone else, a man. And then last night, I dreamt about Roz again. She was selling drugs, I think, to a boy around our age as well.” “16 and buying and selling drugs?” Skylar asks doubtfully. “I know it sounds crazy but yes. And then Roz brought the money home to her parents and everybody got a cut. It was almost as if her parents told her to sell them, or at least knew she was doing it and were like, okay with it…” Taryn trailed off, her eyes shifted and Skylar could see she was zoning out. She snaps her fingers in front of Taryn’s face. “Taryn?” She asks. Taryn shakes her head as she re-focusses. “Hmm? Oh, sorry.” The bus arrives at their school and the girls head to class. Queen Skyxoxo: SOS. meet me in the stairwell by Corado’s class NOW. “Can I go to the bathroom?” Taryn asks her teacher. Tare-Bear<3: omw “Look at this.” Skylar holds out her phone. It’s an article and the title reads: 16-YEAR-OLD FALLS TO DEATH FROM FOXDALE’S TOWN HALL; CITY-WIDE MAN-HUNT FOR CULPRIT UNDERWAY What does this mean? She asks herself. “Where did you find this?” Taryn demands. “I was curious about your dreams so I searched “roz pushed from top of building foxdale” on Google and this article was the first thing that came up.” “So, I’ve been dreaming about a real person who was really murdered?” Taryn asks in shock. “Seems that way.” “Well, what does this mean? Why is it happening to me?” Skylar doesn’t answer, she appears to be consumed in her phone. “Sky?” Taryn asks again. “Oh my god. Look.” Skylar holds up her phone once more, but this time there is a picture of two girls. Taryn recognizes the first as Roz. The second girl has brown hair and big green eyes. “Is this Roz?” Skylar asks. “Yeah, and that’s the girl from Ritchies. The one I…” “Holy shit.” Says Skylar. Taryn gulps. “Wait a second, at the store when you were on top of that girl, you said something. Well, you didn’t really say it —” “What do you mean?” Taryn interrupts. “Well, like, they weren’t words exactly, they were more like sounds, it didn’t sound like you. It didn’t sound like a human. ” “But did you understand it?” Taryn begs. “Yeah, you said something about her doing something to your parents. And something about how you were “gone”.” Skylar air-quoted the word “gone”. “My parents? What does this have to do with them?” Taryn asks. “Not your parents, Taryn. Rosalind’s parents.” Skylar says. “What does all this mean?” Taryn asks. “I think we’d better go find that girl from Ritchies.” Skylar says. The girls decide to leave school, skipping the rest of the day. They head to Ritchies to see if they can find the girl from Taryn’s dream. When they get there, they don’t see her, but she must not have told anyone about what happened because nobody stopped the girls from going in. They went up to the clerk and described the girl from Taryn’s dream. They had to lie and tell the clerk that they were related to the girl just to get her phone number. But it worked. 2895550199: Hi, this is gonna sound crazy but I need ur help. My name is Taryn, and I tried to hurt u at Ritchies yesterday. I’m sorry about that but u need to understand that it wasn’t me. It has something to do with Rosalind King. Call me. Thx. The girls waited. Minutes later, Taryn’s phone rang. “It’s her.” Taryn says. She answers the phone, “He-hello?” “Is this Taryn?” Answers a female voice on the other line. “Yes. What’s your name?” “It’s Jayda. Can you come over?” “What’s your address?” Taryn asks. “And I’m bringing my friend, the one who was with me at Ritchies.” “Okay. It’s 12 The Boulevard, Foxdale. See you soon.” The girls catch the bus to The Boulevard and walk to Jayda’s house from the stop. When they get there, Jayda answers the door. She invites the girls inside. Jayda and Skylar sit on the couch and Taryn sits on a chair to the side. Jayda looks to be the same age but if she lives with her parents, they’re not home. Jayda doesn’t waste a second. She turns to Taryn and asks, “What do you know about Roz King?” Taryn begins to explain the dreams she was having and how ever since attacking Jayda at Ritchies she hasn’t been feeling like herself. “Wait a second. Are you trying to tell me that you’re like, possessed or something?” Jayda asks in a frustrated voice. “Well, how else do you explain this? I’m just trying to figure out why, if not because I’m possessed, am I having dreams about Roz and attacking people I’ve never met before while simultaneously giving you shit for “what you did”,” Taryn does air quotes, “to my parents?” Jayda stares off somewhere for a minute. Taryn and Skylar look at each other while she thinks. “Jayda, can you please tell us how you knew Rosalind?” Skylar asks. “Well, I met her in grade nine. We instantly became best friends. We did everything together. But one day, I heard about an incident, I guess you could call it, at school where Roz had apparently been selling drugs to kids and splitting the profit with her parents. It was so messed up. I tried telling her what she was doing was wrong, but she wouldn’t listen. It seemed like that lifestyle was sort of sucking her in, and I didn’t want to be a part of it, so I told my parents. But then they called the cops, and like a day later CPS came and took Roz away, sent her parents to prison. Roz was crushed, but more, she was angry at me for telling on her.” “What happened to her then?” Skylar asks. “I don’t know, foster care, I think. She stopped showing up to school. But sometimes I’d wake up in the middle of the night to the sound of scratching on my window, but when I’d get up to see what it was, nothing was there.” Skylar listened intently; Taryn didn’t say anything. “One day, we ran into each other on the sidewalk outside of Town Hall, she was in a hurry. I tried talking to her but she didn’t say anything. Instead, she just ran inside the building and up the stairs until she got to the roof. I followed her. The whole way up I heard fast footsteps behind me, like someone was chasing after us, or maybe Roz. When I got to the roof I flung open the door and jumped behind a wall to wait and see if someone came after me. I didn’t see Roz. A man came through the door. I watched him walk out onto the roof and approach the side of the building. He started talking to someone, and it wasn’t until then that I realized Roz had tried hiding from the man by hanging from the roof. I guess she thought he would leave when he couldn’t see her so she could pull herself back up. It didn’t happen that way.” Skylar was hanging by a string now, “What happened?” She asks. “The man stepped on her fingers until Roz let go of the building, and she fell. I heard everybody below screaming and crying, yelling for 911, and then the man turned around and ran back down the stairs. They never found him.” As Jayda finished her story she teared up, Skylar felt her pain, but when she turned to look at Taryn, her sadness changed to fear. Skylar watched as her best friend contorted into something supernatural. Her clothes tore, her face darkened, she grew two feet and her shoulder blades poked so far out of her back that it looked like Taryn’s skin would rip. Skylar covered her ears as Taryn opened her mouth and the cry of a banshee rang out so loud it was deafening. Skylar fled, but the couch they were sitting on flipped from the force of Skylar’s flee to the front door. Jayda got stuck underneath it. Taryn lunged for Jayda, sinking sharp, yellow nails into the skin atop her shoulders. Jayda screamed and Skylar broke for the door. She covered her ears once again as the sound of a predator ripping through the live body of its prey filled the room, followed by the smell of decay which came so immediately that Skylar knew whatever was happening behind her as she raced for the door, was something she would never forget.


Oct. 22 A bead of sweat drips from my forehead as I run. I wonder how I’m still going. A small breeze is blowing now. A small mercy. I just have to take one more step. Just one more. Don’t stop yet. The sun is beating down on me as I run. I wonder how the prehistoric men did this kind of stuff. I don't know why I signed up for this. Oct.20 It is a surprisingly hot day to be fall. The air smells richly of fallen leaves and cut grass. I am wearing a bright yellow t-shirt and blue jeans. I zone out trying to remember what I had for lunch today. “Earth to Rielly!” I jump being drawn from my thoughts. My BFF Katie is walking beside me “what” I grumble, tired from the long school day. “I just thought that you would like to sign up for this race.” “ oh yes, I would love it if I could go outside and run around in the sun sweating to death wearing tank tops and short-shorts.” I say in a high-pitched sarcastic voice. We both break down laughing at that knowing that I would never wear short shorts with a tank top in public much less even own any pairs of shorts shorts. “Yeah, well I can't go to it because I will be busy that day. Plus if you go,” she says it was a stupid looking grin, “You might just get a giant trophy for your effort.” I laugh as if a trophy can sway me. “ it would look perfect on my empty walls trophies.” I answer showing out how likely I would be to actually get the trophy. “ well if you wanted to sign up it is in the gym after school tomorrow.” She says as we go in opposite directions. once I get home I decide I would contemplate signing up for the race knowing Katie wouldn't be there so I just might be able to do it. I decided I might as well while trying to fall asleep in bed.  Oct. 21 It's 8th period right Now and I'm so hungry I’m surprised my ribs aren't showing. I think I'm hallucinating because it smells like pizza rolls in here. I’m in math. My favorite class if only it wasn't at the end of the day. I struggle with my 8's in multiplication and I I just don't feel like doing math right now so I just fiddle with my pencil. Finally I hear a loud annoying high-pitched tone showing the end of class. I get up and leave happily. I meet up with Katie at my locker. “So, you going to the gym?” she askes me when she gets to my locker. I start to wonder what she means but after a minute I remember. “ lead the way Madam.” I say bowing to her. After I finished shoving my books in my backpack I follow Katie to where she leads. We enter the large poorly lit room we call the gym. There is a line leading to a paper taped to the wall. The line is very short. As expected. There is only 5 people in front of me. I’m the 6th to sign up. Looking at the other names I might just have a chance at winning. When I get home I searched the cupboards for a plastic water bottle. The race is tomorrow so I might as well prepare. I stick my water bottle now full with light blue Gatorade ( my favorite flavor) in the fridge door. I lay out a pair of clothes for the next day, a pink T-shirt and black Caprice. I get ready for bed and soon fall asleep. Oct.22  I feel groggy getting up. I get dressed for the day and in the process almost fell asleep. I hastily eat breakfast, brush my teeth, do my hair. I tie my hair up into a ponytail. I grabbed my Gatorade and a granola bar for the drive to the race. I jump into the car with my mom. we arrive soon at the place where the races being held. I get out as I bend and stretch my muscles. There's not much I can do to prepare for a race. It's almost time to start and I make my way to the line. I wait for three little words as everyone lines up with me. Ready. I set my stance ready to Leap Forward. Set. I take one quick but deep breath. Go! I burst into a Sprint.  I sprint trying to get ahead. I slow a little to be on par with the second place personal the moment. After few minutes I speed up to a semi Sprint till I get a few feet from the person first at the moment. I Pace myself to stay in between first and second. I go between sprinting in jogging every few minutes trying to save my energy. I time my breathing was my steps. I feel my feet hit the ground hard. Already tired I have ran one fourth of a mile. my heart thumps heard in my chest and my back is covered in sweat. I take a swish at my Gatorade gladly. My chest Rises and Falls as I pound my feet to the ground. I made it to the 1/2 of a mile mark. Feels like I've been running for hours. I almost trip and sweat drips into my eyes. It stings but I can't slow down. I speed up to now keep par with the runner in first. There is7 people here racing with me. There would have been more but the cross-country couldn't come for this race because they were busy. Again, I Stumble. My limbs tired I take a drink. I’m at 3/4 of a mile as I Sprint towards the finish line outpacing the person that was at first place keeping a distance of a foot between us as I sprint. I can't let her catch up with me. Again I try to force my self to speed up. A bead of sweat drips down my forehead as I run. I wonder how I'm still going. A small breeze is blowing now. A small Mercy. I just have to take one more step. Just one more. Don't stop yet. The sun is beating down on me. I wonder how the prehistoric men did this kind of stuff. I don't know why I signed up for this. The Finish Line is only 10ft. away now.9,8,7,6,5. I Sprint towards the Finish Line hoping to leave my opponents in the dust. 4,3,2. I take one more sleep towards the Finish Line. One more foot. I step across the line. Slowing, I feel like I could collapse. The others filters through the gap called me finish line. I won. I actually won. I Collapse to the ground chugging my Gatorade in a heaving pile of sweat. I did it. I smiled goofily but exhausted. I sit up and try to wipe the sweat off my brow. I laugh. “I did it,” I say it in a whisper, “I actually did it.” I earn a gold medal and brag to my family and friends on the way home. The moment I get in bed I actually passed out and peacefully sleep in for the weekend.