From the grandfather clock in the hall, the one technically stolen despite family lore of it having been loaned, came the first chime at the hour of three o’clock.

The resonant sound, a G sharp that was supposed to be an F, echoed nicely over the oak floors downstairs despite their growing blanket of dust, spreading into the rooms in turn.

The living room.

The entryway.

The dining room.

The kitchen.

The small study off the kitchen, a room full of windows that should have been full of light. An overcast day robbed the reading nook of its potential glory and offered only a dull, gray illumination to Madeleine’s perusal of the aged text.

At the sounding of the bell, her lids slid coarsely over dry eyes, their pale skin wrinkled and paper thin.

Ever so slightly bowed the head that had bobbed along chilled mountain streams in the time before the second world war.

Gracefully parted lips that had kissed the same man, Philip, through sixty-three years of marriage, right up until that last kiss before parting at his deathbed a decade ago.

Without leaving their place upon the text peacefully relaxed the hands that had held seven children, thirteen grandchildren, and four great-grandchildren. Did the light falter in that instant?

Perhaps the world paused, some energy taken away or held at bay a moment, like lightning in reverse.

A wink of darkness, and then a silence, every so brief.

Perhaps it was a stray density of clouds moving in front of the waning winter sun.

Perhaps a figure, looming and dark, graced the presence of this solitary study. Within her frail breast the diaphragm caught, paused for half a second.

An unnatural moment, or you could call it the most natural moment.

Not a hiccup.

Not a prelude to a cough.

A caesura, if you will, in the lifelong push and pull of life’s breath within waiting and eager lungs.

Only her lungs were not so eager, taught and withered, a little extra ragged from that decade of smoking in her thirties.

As midlife crises go, that hadn’t been so bad, but maybe the flirtations with the pool boy went too far. Again, the clock struck, the same slightly discordant G sharp, reminding again that it ought to be fixed or ought to have been fixed long ago.

Fixed after being set down rather roughly, trudged up the street under the cover of night as a first anniversary present, at a time in their marriage when a box of chocolates would have been more in keeping with their finances.

A very small box of chocolates.

A chocolate, but a nice one, like a truffle or cordial cherry with liqueur in it. The pause in breathing lingered, just long enough to make itself known.

Within her mind, Madeleine knew what this meant, felt its chill omen upon her soul.

This lack of breath, a harbinger of a greater nothing.

The greatest nothing.

Or the next something.

She never had decided on that, though Phillip had held doggedly to his Presbyterean roots through the lean years as much as through the worldly temptations of the fat years.

Frankly, his faith seemed to fare a little better during the lean years, as is often the case.

Thick and thin, she had remained steadfast in her indecisive agnosticism, somehow managing to win every argument about religion or at least leaving it at a draw.

As suddenly as it had stopped, the pattern resumed, a short rasping breath that crept up her throat, barely having the strength to cross the threshold of her mouth.

Defiant to the end, the corners of said mouth tensed into a shadow of a grin, a smile goodbye.

Eyelids fluttered, an all but imperceptible twitch as she wished they were open, to read one more line or more morbidly to see the passing more clearly.

She chided herself inwardly at the folly of it, to see the coming of nothing.

Absurd.

Ridiculous.

So childish for a woman her age.

How terrifying. Eyes that were dry turned damp.

Tears flooded the space between the tired eyes, once sparkling blue like captured stars, now faded gray like stones in a creek, and the lids so resistant to command.

The salty water did not escape, whether for lack of volume or in one final nod to a lifetime of stoic perseverance through the sordid travails of life.

The child that didn’t make it.

The years apart while Philip paid his dues with the company.

The defiant daughter storming away, though returning many years later.

The secretary.

The slow fade into old age, all beneath the spectre of possible dementia. In the oak outside a crow cawed, a weak rejoinder to the sounding of the clock.

A small bird huddling from the rain under star shaped leaves declared its existence, frail and black.

It would be a portent if it were larger, a raven or a magpie.

It would tell of things to come or not to be.

Being what it was, all it could do was declare its own existence from the damp shadow of a backyard tree. The clock chimed for the third time.

Coincidental to the events in the other room, the chime would be the clock’s last.

A grandson’s efforts at refurbishment several years before had run their course, dust and evaporating oil leaving one critical pin locked in place, aged and miniscule gears unable to move, to turn, to fulfill its purpose.

Dead. Outside a distant flash of lightning registered as a faint turn of pink upon closed eyelids, a muted vision of nature’s fury.

Energy unleashed, taken back, consumed and dispersed.

Though full of potential, to destroy or to move the world forward, so often the brilliant surge of electricity comes to nothing, just an exchange between heaven and earth.

Seen.

Noted.

Allowed to pass.

A searing of the air in startling white to be followed by a clap of thunder that today would go unheard. Shoulders slumped another inch, chest deflated as another breath did not come.

Within that chest a heart beat, determined against the coming tide, an ebb tide, slack water receding away from the shores of the living.

As determined as it had been through chasing toddlers across the park, nights of renewed passion after fights with Phillip, and against the ache of loss each time another child moved out, another friend passed away, another bit of her world faded to dust.

One.

Two.

Three.

Done. In the space of three strikes of the old clock and a little after, three measly seconds between each chime, Madeleine had gone from alive, a bundle of memories and thoughts, to not.

A form without function.

A discarded thing.

A forgotten figure.

A pile of well organized dust just waiting to return to the source.

Now was the time for her to rejoin Philip, see which one of them was right.

Or maybe she would slip into nothing as he had.

For now the rain continued to fall outside, undeterred.

The book remained open, a treasure of knowledge now inaccessible to eyes and a mind past knowing.

Or off to full knowing.

Or done knowing.

Either way, not here.

Gone.

Forever gone from the fickle embrace of a world cold and exciting in turn, invigorating and depleting.

The world remained; Madeleine was gone.


English 1010 might have been a very boring course for a physics major if not for an exceptional instructor named Raymond Walker. He was determined to make it interesting for all of his students. The Composition I class that he taught was generally about writing a variety of essays. He wanted to take it further than that. He hoped it would be a challenge. “This is an opportunity for extra credit,” he told them during the first week. “I’ll add points to your final grade if you do it. Just write a short story. The only requirement is that it is 1,000 to 3,000 words and that it is written by no one else but you.” He explained that an A would be ten extra points, a B would be five extra points, and a C would be three extra points. Anything else would not be eligible for extra credit. “Your short stories, if you decide to try to write one, will be due two weeks before the final exam,” he said. For student Benjamin Jones this seemed to be a chance to improve what otherwise might be a low grade. He was only taking the course because Motlow State Community College required it. In two years he planned to transfer to Tennessee Technological University and complete a degree in physics. Math and science were the subjects in which he always excelled, not English. By the first week of December, he had completed his short story but with doubt that it would be good enough for extra points. He titled it “Autumn under the Maples” because it was under the maple trees on the campus that he frequently studied on pleasant fall afternoons. The short story was mainly autobiographical. It contained numerous misspelled words and grammatical errors, but its content was worthy of ten extra points on his final grade. The short story was better than anything Walker had read since he had started teaching at the small community college. It was so good that he decided to make a copy of it and keep it. He marked a C at the top of the first page and returned it to Benjamin when he handed back the papers to the other students. Benjamin was discouraged because he had spent a lot of time writing it. Nevertheless, he had received the kind of grade he was expecting. He promptly wadded the short story and threw it into a wastebasket before he left the classroom. It was the last time he would attempt to write anything like it again. The short story remained in Walker’s filing cabinet for a year. However, the instructor did not forget about it. He bravely took it out and read it again. He thought the ideas in the short story were fantastic. With some work, it could be developed into a novel, Walker decided. He spent the next two years expanding it into a 90,000-word manuscript. He sent a query to three literary agents and the third one said he wanted to read it. Within four weeks, he signed a contract with a large agency in New York. In the following month, four major publishers bid on the novel. It was sold to one of them and he received a generous advance. Meanwhile, Benjamin did not make it to Tennessee Tech after finishing at the community college. Instead, he was struck by an automobile while trying to cross Jackson Street in nearby Tullahoma. He was walking to the post office when a drunk driver steered into the wrong lane and hit him. An ambulance carried him to Harton Hospital and then he was airlifted by helicopter to Vanderbilt Hospital in Nashville. After two weeks in its trauma unit, he was told by his doctors there was a possibility that he might never walk again. After months of physical therapy, he was able to slowly walk with a cane. “I’ve never been happier!” Walker told his pretty wife on the day he married her two years after his novel was published. He had renamed it In the Shadow of Autumn Maples and changed the name of the main character to Benjamin Adams, and the book quickly climbed to the top ten lists of The New York Times and USA Today . Raymond Walker was the guest on many television shows and toured the country promoting the sales of his book. “I’m already one of the most famous authors in the world,” he told her. “We can go anywhere! We can do anything!” They moved to Los Angeles after the book was turned into a movie. And Walker never attempted to write anything again. He did not have to. A small disability check and Medicare did little to help Benjamin. He was handicapped and poor, and his wife, after a few years of marriage, divorced him and took their two children with her. He did not see them again. He smoked too much and he drank too much, and he was addicted to his pain medication. He had already given up on his dream to be a physicist. He had never imagined that life could be so unhappy for him. “I’m miserable,” he said to no one, because there was no one there to listen to him. It was quite a life for Walker. He did not have to teach; he did not have to grade tests; he did not have students in the room who did not want to be there. He looked good. He felt good. He and his wife had three children. His children were all attractive and smart. He had a large home with a swimming pool in a desirable neighborhood. He drove a Porsche 911. His friends were celebrities. He was tanned, but obese, and still had his dark hair. “What more could I want?” he said to everyone who listened to him. There was nothing for him to do, he was bored, so that in October he and his family went to Paris for two months. He toured the city, his wife shopped, and their children stayed with their tutor in the hotel. All of them learned to speak French, and they ate at the finest restaurants. He was particularly pleased when he saw his novel, In the Shadow of Autumn Maples by Raymond Walker, in the bookstores in Paris. His wife never wore the same clothes twice, she did not have to, and his children were quiet and mannerly and never unruly. While Walker and his family were in Europe, fire destroyed Benjamin’s house. The wires of an old space heater had short-circuited while he was asleep. Suddenly he had almost nothing left, and there was nowhere for him to live. He bought a used tent in a Goodwill store and camped with other homeless people under an Interstate 24 overpass. While the traffic droned overhead, he dreamed about the life he once thought he could have. It was difficult for him to understand why he did not have a good-paying job and why his wife and children were no longer with him. He was twenty-five years old and sleeping on a rug laid across the hard pavement. Benjamin died within another year. He was sleeping under the interstate overpass on a very cold night in January. Many of the homeless people had left for one of the town’s warm shelters. He stayed. Benjamin was frozen when he was found the next morning. On his face were the same eyeglasses he had been wearing when he was a student in Raymond Walker’s English 1010 class. He wore a coat that he had found in a dumpster. He was covered with an old army blanket that he had been given by another homeless person. His clothes were the same clothes that he had been wearing since his house burned down. The shoes on his feet were old and worn out. His slim body was placed in a cardboard coffin. Three people went to his funeral. They were all homeless people that he had met. His ex-wife refused to go, and she would not tell anyone how his children could be contacted. Benjamin died with less than ten dollars in his wallet. He certainly would not be remembered as the physicist he wanted to be or the author of the ideas in a short story that got the attention of the publishing industry. If someone had mentioned Benjamin Jones to his Composition I instructor, he would say he was not able to recall his name or remember his face. It seemed that Benjamin had somehow been dealt a bad hand of cards to play in the unfair game of life. He was buried in the very back of Tullahoma’s Evergreen Cemetery, the same graveyard where author Stephen Crane was buried almost 125 years before. Benjamin had not been dead long when Walker was driving east on Interstate 110 in Los Angeles and a drunk driver suddenly switched lanes and struck his car. Some of the witnesses thought he had stopped breathing before an ambulance arrived there. It took him to the emergency room at a nearby hospital, Good Samaritan, and he remained there for almost two weeks. His doctors told him there was a possibility that he might never walk again. He had months of physical therapy ahead of him. Eventually he could walk slowly with a cane. By then, bookstores were almost giving away In the Shadow of Autumn Maples by Raymond Walker. Its movie was shown only occasionally on television, usually in the middle of the night. He was no longer the successful author that he had wanted to be, and his wife divorced him and took their children with her. She took most of his money also. He was smoking too much and drinking too much, and he was addicted to his pain medication. He fell asleep with a cigarette in his hand while sitting in his living room at two o’clock in the morning. It ignited the curtains behind the couch and fire quickly spread throughout the house. Three fire engines arrived, but they were too late. The fire destroyed most of his home, and he had not paid its insurance premiums for months. Walker realized it was time to get out of Los Angeles. He had enough cash to buy a bus ticket, $448, back to Tullahoma with the idea that Motlow State Community College might hire him again. He was drunk when he went for an interview with the dean of the school of liberal arts, and the dean knew it. There was no way they were going to allow a drunken one-time author to teach their classes. “I’m miserable,” he said to no one, because there was no one there to listen to him now. He had come from Los Angeles without a jacket, and with winter coming on soon, he used the last money he had left to buy a coat, a tent, and a sleeping bag at Goodwill. He left there wearing the coat with the tent and sleeping bag strapped to his back. Walker did not know where to go. He met other homeless people who led him to a camp under an overpass under Interstate 24. He stayed there until January, when the temperatures remained below ten degrees for several days. Walker died in his sleeping bag under his tent, but nobody knew when he died. His body was then thin and frozen. No one really knew anything about him. They didn’t know that he had an ex-wife and children in California so they could not be contacted and come to the funeral. His withered body was placed in a cardboard coffin. One person was at the graveyard to say good-bye, a lean unidentified bespectacled homeless person. Workers in the grounds crew at the cemetery volunteered to be pallbearers. A priest from Saint Paul the Apostle Catholic Church agreed to come to say a prayer. He was buried in the back of Evergreen Cemetery, not far from where author Stephen Crane was buried in 1900, and not far from the grave of another homeless man, whose ideas for a short story for a while interested readers around the world.


Day unknown; somewhere in interstellar space or the Red Planet’s proximity. The location has no bearing. Even if we had known there is only so much we can do. We are just adrift; flying like a dead stick in the endless expanse. The hope of returning to the original path seems dwindling. We look at each other’s haggard face for some light but there is nothing beside the hollow staring back at you. To sum it up, all is lost save our sanity, at least at the moment. “Something? Anything?” cried Ryan. “Oh, you want a story? A game? Or just some stupid idea?” flared Taniya. It should have settled Ryan, however, whenever Taniya was worked out, her uncanny, fast tone - where her words slipped, mixed, and sounded something else altogether - surfaced. “Don’t you dare!” she yelled as Mae’s smile widened. “Please,” complained Mae. “How can anyone keep calm when your true tone leaks out?” “Good, good,” said Ryan, nodding. “Catfight! Some entertainment at last.” “You are just... argh,” Taniya grunted, excusing herself. “Come on, give her a run,” said Ryan, hoping to have his dose of a happy time. “You bet,” shouted Taniya over her shoulder. “How is one supposed to keep himself engaged, eh?” Ryan’s words fell on deaf ears. The calm swept the room again. These days, the silence was the eleventh companion. You know that clingy type, who just cannot stand being separated, even for a moment. Such possessive was the eleventh member. How everyone was desperate to rid this guy off! And despite the best of the best efforts, we failed spectacularly. Our spirits were dampened beyond reckoning. Now that it had made its place amongst ourselves, it was creeping in our bodies and souls. How long it will be before it owns us? The dread was, despite our united front, growing without any check. It was not like so... not when we - the Dwellers, a dedicated group devoted to colonization - set out to Mars. Why the need had come, I shall discuss it shortly; for now, it was to find another way through the crisis we, the whole of humanity, had wrought by ourselves. We were the potential solution to the crisis until we were waylaid by a tragedy. Amid all the hubbub, thrill, and adrenaline, none had thought the Dwellers would hit an insurmountable circumstance. How could anyone? We were the next best hope for our species besides finding a cure. This should not have had come to pass. The working of fate is beyond our ken, at least mine at any rate. Those who read the stars and planets, hands and faces, and whatnot, did not forecast such a happening. Or perhaps, they chose not to. Whatever the truth is, I won’t be there to hear it. Well, the truth ! Climate change was the truth of the hour. How much was done, now that it something debatable and anyway, it is history. The thing is, we were slow, like a snail in efforts while beating the Porsche-911 when it came to business or riches. It was apparent, but who bothered. Yes, that included me as well. I thought someone else, the chosen one or a messiah, will come to save my butt while I go about my life; turned out, the whole world was in the same boat. When the focus was on climate change, something more sinister crept its way as it had done countless times before. The pandemics before SARS-CoV-2 were just warning shots fired in the air. Covid-19, however, was shot in the leg. If only we had heeded the words of wise environmentalists… It would a great injustice to leave out climate change’s pivotal role for it was the catalyst in the tragedy when a team of scientists went and studied melting polar caps, only to get injected with centuries-old viruses. These pathogens did not affect anyone; hence, they were brought back to civilization. Why they did not affect anyone right away? Well, that is something beyond my tiny brain. The only thing I’m certain of: The conditions were not met there; and it was not until the mid of 2025 that the circumstances were feasible from them, almost one and a half year later. Once these scientists disbanded, traveling to various parts of the world, the viruses came in contact with their successors. Only lord what plans they hatched, transforming one of its kind into something even they did not think of. How they did it, that is a topic for a big brain, ill-suited to mine. Seven months down the line, humanity was pushed to the brink. The Antediluvian Virus was dubbed as the most perfect virus, almost as if it was bio-engineered. With mortality of 50 percent and R o value 8, the pandemic was unlike anything seen in history. Even if your life was spared, the consequences that followed after recovery were severe; most killed themselves within days after making full recovery, for carrying on was no less than torture. Then, there was a choice to make! Stay and find a cure; or escape and brave a new world. Of course, it would take a miracle in uniting all minds to a single cause. Regrettably, 2026 was not the year for a miracle. Hence, the humankind split into two fractions. Whichever option shone brighter than the other, all will follow the suit. Though, it looked highly unlikely any choice would prevail. My fears were well-founded. Six months before our catastrophe, we - the Dwellers, numbering 110 fired mission onto the Red Planet. Should the Covid-19 pandemic had not wreaked havoc, things had been different. At the very least, we would have, in all the grace of a better future, had a so-so settlement on Mars. The delay had birthed a number of uncertainties, resulting in a huge backfire even before we began towards the planet. Resources spacecraft were sent before us. Then, with two spacecraft - Hope, dedicated to exploration while the other, Venturer was devoted to experimentation, we commenced. Venturer also had general enthusiasts - who were ready to shoulder the burden of colonization. So, we embarked on the journey with little hopes and baggage of uncertainties. I’m not the type who’d save the world. In fact, had my body caved in during the testing, I would not be here. They told me I had the ability to withstand the pressure, and also mental fortitude - a thorough lie! And I relented because it felt good! What else was there do rather than wait for death to knock? Might as well try something; that way, my name would make it in good books. Eight months ride to Mars; enough provision to last half a year; and long hours of sleep. You could probably sleep for 45 days straight thanks to this ridiculous tech called Therapeutic Hypothemia - where your metabolism is reduced by 50-70 percent and you just fall into torpor. Why was it not invented before? Venturer was loaded with several labs and species, all the toys and equipment these brainy people require. Scientists and common people occupied the spacecraft as it was a humongous beast. That environment was for brainy people and people talking big; assuredly, not my type. Hence, I found myself on Hope - a little, tiny thing floating in the vast expanse, where only 10 souls lived. These people were into stars and interstellar planes and planets and asteroids. With time, I gained some insights conversing and observing these geniuses. Taniya, however, was a different story for she was an astrophysicist; and I’d be damned! I do not get half the things she says. Everything was, well, as it was supposed to be. We’d get to the planet; establish ourselves; build a so-so civilization; grow some plants and trees; and welcome our fellow humans after a year or two. Yay! We have had saved humanity. Piece of cake, right? Yep, so we had thought. The fate, however, had something in store for us. Something nobody had even dared to imagine. In our bid to save all, we overlooked several things. The haphazardly built or redesigned spacecraft; bringing anyone on-board who was willing to risk; space weather; and the list goes on. Hope and Venturer were two months away from the destination when fate unveiled its surprise. A massive solar storm hit both spacecraft. The coronal mass ejection fried the circuits, disturbing whole radio contact back at the earth. Since Venturer was the first in the path, it took the hit pretty hard, and the explosion tore it apart, killing everything in its wake. The beast shielded Hope from getting shredded to pieces, but could not safeguard it thoroughly, causing a power outage. Without radio contact, we’d never know where were we. No electric power meant no equipment to work with. And now, doomed for sure, I awaited death. “How long you think, Reinhardt and Berna will take?” Mae said, looking into the gloom. “If their brains cannot figure out something, I guess then there is nothing to do,” sighed Ryan. “You’ve been awfully quiet, Amvit! What is the matter?” “W-well,” stumbled I, “what is there to say?” “Hmm...” Ryan pinched the bridge of his nose, “True that! Something ought to be done or I shall lose my mind.” There was nothing, and I guess everybody knew that. Still, losing ourselves to madness seemed a bitter choice. In the next two days, we witnessed fights, arguments followed by periods of silence. The insanity was creeping its way into our minds. Only a matter of time before we lose ourselves for good as Mickie had. The guy had injected himself with a lethal dose of saline solution. The solution was for cryogenics testing - to see and experiment with a longer duration while traveling in space. If my guess is right then it prevented ice crystals from forming in your cell and hence, you can hibernate just like other mammals. Well, Mickie founded another use of it. “Is everybody here?” Reinhardt said, the lines on the forehead were deeper than the last I had seen of him. That is what stress does for he and Berna shouldered the burden of our survival. I thought it was quite foolish even to hope, but these guys, they just do not give up. And since the power outage, they have been about it. Holed up in a room, devising some unearthly plan to outwit this plight. The silent nods encouraged him to go on with his findings. “I present to you three choices: we do ourselves just as Mickie had as it will spare us the slow death; we can fix Hope, but we will miss landing on the planet as the integration drift will push us farther; or we can try to make for it and risk crashing.” As I said, there was no hope; only vainglorious efforts. Ryan opened and closed his mouth several times. It was Mae who uttered, “The last two have their risks. The only thing certain is death in all three choices.” “Well, there’s the fourth: how about doing nothing and letting the people back home send for us!” Berna let out a chortle. “They are fighting a pandemic. You really believe they’d send out a party just to rescue our sorry asses? That would cost billions! If I were there, I’d invest it in finding a cure.” “Let me get this clear, help isn’t coming,” Reinhardt proclaimed, just as I had thought: We were on our own. “We try for the planet,” said I. How strange is hope! I told myself over and over there was none, and yet I was hoping, at least, one of us will survive. That person might just live enough for others to come and tell what happened. Tell the story - why we failed in rescuing the world and saving our kind. I guess it all boils down to passing your story to the next. The deeds you did; the choices you encountered; how you spent your last days. Humans are simple creatures after all. So, I wrote the happenings up till now, in case that person forgets the series of events. It is not detailed but will aid the one or maybe more survivors - I don’t know, where their memories will fail them. After all the tussle and raging arguments, we formed an accord: We’d make for the Red Planet! If it is me who survives you will hear more of the new life! Fingers crossed…


Olivia woke up to the bright sun peeking through her half-opened blinds. She yawned as she sat up in bed and drowsily looked at the clock on her bedside table. It read 7:22 am. She took the sun’s early greeting as a welcome into the new year. Today was New Year's day. The realization struck Olivia and she rushed to get ready for work. For Olivia and Seek For the Better You, the company she worked for, New Year’s Day was the most important and busiest day of the year. She had completely forgotten about the early start time they had implemented to try and fit in as many people as they could and she silently prayed she wouldn’t be too late. Seek For the Better You, also known as S4BU, was a company dedicated to help people break their bad habits, find their true calling, and ultimately leave behind their unwanted and unenjoyable lives. Olivia could understand why the first day of the new year would bring the most customers. People used the new year as a fresh start. Most who came in looking to start a new life had been wanting to for a while and used the arrival of the new year as their final push.

S4BU’s large white building loomed over Olivia, mocking her 10 minute late arrival as she rushed inside. She swerved a disheveled small woman who was standing inside the front entrance, oblivious to Olivia’s hasty entrance. She hopped in the elevator and set the destination for floor 3. As she traveled up, the glass elevator revealed a very full waiting room on the second floor. It’s what Olivia was expecting, but the large crowds of people guaranteed her a long and tiring day. The elevator door smoothly slid open and Olivia wasted no time heading to her boss’s office to apologize for her tardiness. She politely knocked and her boss, Miriam, called her in. When Olivia entered her boss’s organized and brightly lit office, she saw that Miriam didn’t look annoyed or mad, but exhausted. “I’m so sorry for how late I am,” Olivia blurted out. “I totally forgot about our early start-” Olivia was cut off by a wave of Miriam’s hand in the air.

“It’s alright, Olivia. Your first customer should be waiting in your office as I told him you should be in soon,” Miriam quietly said. Olivia realized Miriam must’ve had a lot to deal with already that morning and she thanked Miriam and excused herself.

She anxiously headed over to her office wondering who her first customer would be. The people who came to S4BU consisted of every possible type of person. There were young people in their early 20s and 30s who had no idea what to do with their lives and were seeking to find a purpose, there were those in their 40s and 50s who hated their careers and life choices and wanted a fresh start, and then there were those in their 70s and 80s who had lost a great amount and wanted something in their life to look forward to and to live for. The age limit of 18+ prevented youngsters from coming in. Olivia understood that it was because they were still legally under their parents supervision and needed to follow their rules, but she felt sorry for those who were born into a rough family environment and had to wait to change the bad hand they were dealt in life.

She opened the door to her familiar office to see a large burly man sitting in front of her desk, his back to her as she walked through the door. “Good morning,” Olivia said to the man as she sat behind her desk. “Sorry I’m late. Let’s not waste any more time. You can go ahead and tell me why you’re here and I can outline the different ways we can go about finding a proper solution to your problem.” The man introduced himself as Bartholomew and his southern accent was strong as he explained the reason he was there. He took his time explaining his life as a farmer and how his constant working diminished his chances at finding love. “I really only became a farmer because my father was one, but I am not a fan let me tell you. Those long hot days, the constant prayer for rain, and lastly nobody really wants to marry a farmer. So I guess I just want to start over. Find a career I really want and give myself another chance at love.” Olivia nodded at the man and smiled kindly. She found it adorable that this huge rough looking man was so keen on finding true love.

“Well the good news is this sounds like we can find an effective solution. I’m going to give you a few aptitude tests to find out what career would best suit you and I’ll do some research on great programs and groups you can join to meet new people who are also looking for a life long partner.” Bartholomew grinned at Olivia, his chipped front teeth not quite reaching his bottom set of teeth.

“Thank ya so much! I am greatly appreciative of you and your patience.” “Of course!” Olivia said smiling. “I will send these tests off with you and once you send them back we can set up another meeting and hopefully you can start anew.” Olivia walked the man out and sat back down once he left her office. She smiled to herself. Bartholomew was a very kind man and although he was very chatty, it was a good start to the morning.

The morning slowly turned into afternoon as Olivia worked with many different people, helping them through their life problems and offering them solutions to the various situations they were in. Olivia did not have a break from her appointments for 3 straight hours. And after her 50 minute break she was met with another endless stream of meetings. The clock hit 6 and Olivia received a message from Miriam telling her she had one last appointment. She looked up as a hunched over figure rushed through Olivia’s open office door and took a seat on the plush wooden seat. Olivia sat up in her seat and eyed the small person. They were wearing a large jacket, the hood pulled over their head. “Hello how can I help you today?” Olivia asked. She was a little suspicious of the strange figure, but she wanted to quickly get through this last appointment and go home. The person looked up at Olivia and she realized it was the woman she had almost run into in the lobby early that morning.

“Ok well…” The woman paused and glanced nervously around the room. “Do you record these conversations? Or- can anyone hear me?” The small woman looked down at her hands, unable to meet Olivia’s eyes.

“They are not, no. It’s a part of our mission statement to protect our customer’s privacy,” Olivia answered. She was even more suspicious of the strange woman, but this was not the first time a customer was hesitant about sharing their life story.

“Mhm, ok.” The woman nervously shifted in her seat. “Listen,” the woman whispered, finally looking at Olivia. She motioned for her to lean in closer. “I’ve done some… not so great things,” she said, still whispering. “I’m… well… I mean.” She sighed. “I’m running from the police and I need you to help me change my identity or do something because I have a wonderful daughter at home who I’m not going to leave. And I’m not going to jail. So that’s why I’m here.” She leaned back in her chair and breathed out a sigh of relief. Olivia squinted her eyes at the lady and pursed her lips, thinking. “Well, that is certainly the… uh… the problem you have there.” Olivia had never had to deal with a fugitive before, but she was fully aware of the rules against aiding in anything illegal or withholding any illegal information from the company and ultimately the police. Olivia did feel for the woman, who mentioned she had a young daughter she needed to take care of. “Have you thought of putting your child in foster care and then turning yourself in? This might give you a chance of receiving a lesser sentence or punishment.” “I’m not leaving my daughter!” The woman practically shouted at Olivia, but immediately put her hand over her mouth. She took a deep breath before speaking again. “She’s so young, and she needs me! No matter what, I’m not putting her in some sketchy adoption center and allowing for the possibility of some horrible family to get a hold of her. Just- please. Please help me.” The woman quickly swiped at the tears that had begun to silently roll down her thin face. Olivia quickly typed something into her computer and scanned the results and nodded at the screen before turning back to the woman.

“Ok,” she said. “There’s this very underground organization I know of. They may be able to help you. Give you somewhere to hide, take care of your child, and help give you a new identity so that the police can’t find you. It’s risky, but I believe they will be successful at helping you.” Olivia passed a small piece of paper over to the woman, an address and other important information scribbled on the front. The woman stared at Olivia and thanked her over and over again. Olivia just smiled. “It’s the least I can do.” The woman thanked Olivia again as she left the office. Olivia went home more exhausted than she thought she would be. It was tiring being a partial therapist, partial life counselor, and partial business woman all in one. The endless people’s lives she had tried to fix in one day was a great feat and was not something to be taken lightly. She was also not proud of what she had done to help the fugitive who had bravely entered Olivia’s office, desperate to find any possible way to not abandon her daughter. Although it went against the company’s strict rules, she had done what she felt she had to. She would probably never find out if it was indeed the right choice or not, but she felt in her heart that it was.

That night, Olivia reflected back on all the appointments she had. All the people who had wanted to start anew, to leave their old lives behind, and who wanted to find their purpose in this confusing game called life. She was thankful she was able to help them, to play a part in their journey to a new successful life. Olivia knew this was her purpose and she slept peacefully that night knowing she had helped so many turn from their old habits and lifestyles and change for the better.


“This is so boring,” Fran huffed, rolling her eyes at her friend across the table. “Come on, just give it a chance. The book says all we have to do now is close our eyes and take deep breaths. What if it actually works?” said Seline with the fetching look she always used to get Francine to follow along with her insane schemes. “Nothing is going to happen, Sel. This is all absurd.” “If nothing happens, then we’ll just go back to our shitty lives and forget we ever tried. Ok?” Fran groaned but held Seline’s fingers, which felt clammy in her apparent excitement. Or perhaps desperation described it better. Between their joined hands was a black-red candle, lit with a flame that wiggled frantically amid their discussion. Crystals and stones of various colors encircled the relic and trailed all around the room because Seline had read that these would protect them from any unwanted spirits.

The book explained that if any dark entities slipped in while they were ‘away’, anything could happen.

“We need to call in our protectors,” Seline said aloud as she thought of that possibility. “What?” stabbed Fran, opening one eye to check for any indication of how serious she was about this next step. “Our angels, ancestors, our higher selves.” Fran stifled laughter, saying, “Great Aunt Lily, the one that died chasing her dog across the train tracks back in 1891, please look after us as we travel to the underworld.” She waggled her eyebrows and waved magic hands all around their setup while Seline sat, unimpressed, until she finished.

“Don’t joke! Did you really have a Great Aunt Lily? We’re sorry, Lily! She didn’t mean it.”

Seline moved to grab her tarot deck from its satchel beside her. She inhaled slowly and closed her eyes as she shuffled and said, “All of our watchers, our loved ones on the other side, our familiars, our guides, and angels. Please be with us as we make this journey beyond the veil.”

At this, Fran sat back, quiet. She let out an impatient sigh but closed her eyes as instructed while Seline continued.

“We want to journey to the other side to ask for an escape. We want to jump. We want to recreate our timeline. This one is poisoned. It no longer serves us. Will you help us find the path that we desire?”

She took another deep breath, in through her nose, then out through her mouth. She placed the deck just beside the trepid candle and coughed to call the attention of Fran, who might have been falling asleep, but actually felt herself slipping into a kind of trance, caught up in the strange ambiance Seline had summoned into the room.

Seline was eyeing her now, looking from her to the deck, inviting her to pick a card. Fran did and viewed it herself before unsurely placing it on the table on the other side of the candle.

“Ressurection,” Seline’s blue eyes flickered eagerly as they met with Fran’s. She opened her mouth, smiling, but seemed lost for words.

“What does it mean?” Fran asked anxiously. “It means,” she paused, searching for the word, “death.” “What!” Fran replied, too loudly for the moment. The sound startled them both and even more so when Fran pushed herself away from the table, scraping her chair across the floor as she went.

“No! Francine, do not break the circle,” Seline said cautiously, referring to the loop of salt that went all the way around them, enclosing them with the candles, stones, and curios that had been strategically placed with purpose.

“Please,” Seline begged, “Sit.”

Fran did. She was breathing heavily, nervously, but she looked over at her best friend, who had been by her side through so much. Who she would run away to when her boyfriend came home drunk. Whose shower she could use when hers was running cold. Who always looked out for her.

Seline began again, sensing that her companion had calmed down enough to hear her. “Death,” she said, the word pricking both their ears but with the next word came an immediate sense of relief, “Rebirth.” Fran sat up straighter, signaling that she was ready to hear more. “Rebirth?” she replied meekly. “Look,” Seline said, hovering a black-painted fingertip over the image on the card. She pointed to a golden angel who was sounding a trumpet, then moved down to show three children who stood rejoicing and glowing from their little gray caskets. Yellow flowers bloomed from the sides of their stone beds, while underneath them appeared dead and crumpled weeds that stood there before they had risen.

“See?” Seline continued, sensing that Fran now understood, “We need to release that what no longer serves us.” She looked up at her now, all seriousness in her blazing blue eyes. “We need to kill it to live the lives we deserve.”

Without wanting to show it, Fran was feeling nervous again. She would usually follow Seline into anything. She trusted her with her whole life, but this was getting a little too serious for her liking. There was a heavy feeling steadily taking hold of her. Her breathing was low and deep, and felt like it had a life of its own. She could feel drops of sweat rolling down her chest. Seline took Fran’s hands and held them tight. She closed her eyes and swayed a little as she began to chant, “We call to you! Our watchers, loved ones, familiars, guides, our angels on the other side, please guide our path out of the darkness. We surrender that which no longer serves us. We relinquish it to you. Please illuminate our path to well-being.” Silence then fell. Fran held on as long as she could before fluttering her eyes open to witness Seline, whose faint movements she had felt but was startled to see now. Her body was jerking strangely in circular motions, her chin was erect, and her eyes rolled back to show their whites between vaguely blinking eyelids. The whole scene made Fran feel like she didn’t belong there; like she was watching something private that was not her business to see. She closed her eyes and hoped it would soon be over.

Fran exhaled in relief as Seline finished at last, saying, “We thank you for your guidance and are forever beholden to your service.”

A yank at her left hand signaled for Fran to follow suit.

“Um, yeah. Thank you,” Fran offered.

Seline finished with a deep breath and finally released her friend, looking at her excitedly.

“Didn’t that feel amazing?! I think it actually might have worked!” “What do you mean?” Fran asked, feigning passive. “I guess we’ll just have to see how reality treats us these next few days. Then, we’ll know.” Seline got up, feeling buoyant. She began extinguishing candles and thoughtfully plucking up the stones, then placing them back in the silk purse she kept them in.

Fran felt suddenly nauseous as the smell of smoke and herbs filled her lungs.

“I think I’m going to head home. I’m not feeling so great.” Seline looked at her with concern but gave her a warm hug goodbye.

“Call me when you get in,” she shouted as Fran softly shut the apartment door.

Fran forgot to text Seline when she got home.

She arrived to her boyfriend passed out drunk on the couch with the TV blaring after-hour commercial programming. He didn’t even budge when she accidentally kicked over a pile of boxes they hadn’t bothered to unpack months after moving in together.

She walked through the living room and straight into the bathroom, where she turned on the yellow light to look at herself in the mirror. She grimaced at how tired she appeared, then turned the faucet for hot water and splashed the burning liquid onto her face. When she looked again, she was scrubbed all pink and splotchy. Wiping tears from her eyes, she turned from herself.

Though her stomach rumbled, having skipped dinner for Seline’s seance, she walked straight to the mattress on the floor in the otherwise empty bedroom. She’d had enough of this day, and after kicking off her jeans, she threw herself into bed to finally put an end to it.

As she closed her eyes, Fran stifled the pained cries that erupted from within. She hated that she’d gone along with Seline’s plan. How could she hope for anything better than what she was living right now? It was all she had known, and there was no way out no matter what she tried, least of all some crystal magic bullshit.

In what felt like moments later, Fran was awoken by rays of sun flashing in her eyes. She took a startled inhale and was confronted with a fresh floral scent. Whirling her head around, she located the source: a huge bouquet of white and yellow flowers sitting atop a bedside table she didn’t recognize.

She sat up, confused and a little scared. Where was she? This was her bedroom, but there were curtains where dusty blinds used to be. In a corner that was previously stark and empty, there was a cushion with a decorative pillow placed upon it. And beside her typically lonely mattress there was the mysterious new nightstand and beautiful flowers.

After standing up cautiously, sure she was waking in an eerily realistic dream, she peeked from the bedroom door to see if her boyfriend was still sleeping where she left him on the couch. He wasn’t there. But what was there instead made her forget all about him. She stepped into the room and spun slowly, taking in her surroundings with wild, unbelieving eyes.

The space was like something from her wildest dreams. Every inch was filled with adornments reminiscent of her favorite things. Prints of ocean scenes were hung on the walls, and the TV that was previously set up on a dusty old chest now sat between vintage books on a small wooden side table. There was even a bicycle that did not belong to her propped up by the front door.

Covering her mouth, Fran crumpled to the floor, trembling and shaking her head in disbelief. Her heaving cries of shock were interrupted by the sound of her cell phone ringing from where she left it in her jeans pocket.

She moved tentatively back to her bedroom to answer it, afraid that any sudden movements would wake her from the bliss she’d slipped into.

“Fran,” said Seline as soon as she answered.

“Holy shit, Seline. Is this real?” asked Fran through joyful sobs.

“Fran, where is Toby?” asked Seline in a shaking voice.

“What? I don’t know. He wasn’t here when I woke up,” Fran wiped her nose as she walked to scan the small apartment once again. “Oh, my god. It’s all so beautiful!” she exclaimed, distracted by what she found in her new bathroom. “Have you turned on the news today?” Seline asked, her desperation taking Fran by surprise. “No, why? Aren’t you happy, Seline? Didn’t it work for you too?” “Just turn on the news. It’s Toby. Your Toby. On every channel.” This stopped Fran dead in her tracks. She made her way to a new sofa, draped with cozy blankets, and sat before reaching to grab the remote control from a pristine glass coffee table. The television flashed on, and Fran jumped at the volume of it.

She remembered how it had been blaring while Toby slept last night. She wished now that she had stopped to shut it off, that she had pulled him to stand and go to bed with her. Maybe then she wouldn’t be seeing his face on the screen as a newscaster declared, “The young man was found dead by a jogger this morning. Cause of death is yet to be determined.”


In a forgotten corner of a small, decrepit town nestled deep within the Appalachian mountains, a sinister legend whispered through the shadows. The townsfolk rarely spoke of it openly, but every man, woman, and child knew the story of the Devil's Bargain. It was said that, once in a generation, a desperate soul could make a deal with the devil himself, but the price was steep, and the consequences, dire. For Thomas Barrett, a once-prosperous businessman who had fallen on hard times, desperation had become his daily companion. His family was teetering on the brink of destitution, and his business was crumbling faster than the decaying timbers of his ancestral home. The mounting debts and relentless creditors had driven him to the brink of madness. One moonless night, as the winds howled like tormented spirits and rain pelted the world outside, Thomas found himself sitting alone at his creaking oak desk. He stared at a stack of unpaid bills and felt a gnawing emptiness in his chest. It was then that he remembered the ancient legend passed down through generations. A spark of desperation flared within him, and he resolved to make the Devil's Bargain. With trembling hands, he scrawled a letter to the devil, addressing it to a certain cave that stood sentinel at the edge of town. The cave, known as the Devil's Hollow, was a place few dared to approach, for it was said to be a gateway to the underworld. Thomas sealed the letter with wax and placed it on his doorstep. As the clock struck midnight, he watched the letter vanish into the darkness, seemingly carried away by an unseen hand. Days turned into weeks, and Thomas's despair deepened. The creditors grew more relentless, and the wolf of hunger loomed closer to his family's door. Just when he thought all hope was lost, a chilling presence filled his room one night. He could feel eyes upon him, eyes colder and more malevolent than any he had ever known. Then, a voice, like the rustle of autumn leaves on a tombstone, whispered in his ear. "Thomas Barrett, I have heard your plea." Turning, he beheld a figure draped in shadows, its eyes blazing like twin embers in the darkness. It was the devil himself, come to collect his due. "Who are you?" Thomas stammered, his voice quaking with fear. "I am the one you sought," the devil replied. "You asked for my help, and I have come to offer it. But remember, Thomas Barrett, nothing in this world is free." With those ominous words, the devil laid out the terms of their agreement. In exchange for Thomas's soul, the devil would grant him immense wealth, success beyond his wildest dreams, and the power to control the minds of those around him. The catch was that he would have to carry out a task for the devil when called upon, no questions asked. Thomas, desperate and consumed by greed, agreed to the devil's terms. A chilling contract, written in blood, appeared before him, and he affixed his signature with trembling hands. In an instant, the contract vanished, and the devil disappeared into the shadows. True to his word, Thomas's fortunes reversed overnight. His failing business surged with newfound life, and his family lived in opulence. He became a revered figure in the town, wielding power and influence like a king. Yet, the darkness that now dwelled within him was undeniable, a constant reminder of the pact he had made. Years passed, and Thomas had nearly forgotten the devil's bargain. But on a stormy night, as he sat by the fire, a bone-chilling wind swept through his mansion. It carried with it the scent of brimstone and the echoing laughter of the devil. He knew the time had come to fulfill his end of the agreement. The devil's voice echoed in his mind, instructing him to journey to the very cave where he had first made the pact. With a heavy heart, Thomas set out, his every step weighted by dread. He knew not what the devil would demand of him, but he understood that there would be no escape. Entering Devil's Hollow, the cave's eerie glow bathed him in an otherworldly light. At its heart, he found a desolate altar, upon which lay a single white rose, untouched by the ravages of time. The devil materialized beside the altar, his presence more formidable than ever. "Thomas Barrett," the devil hissed, "I have come to collect." "What do you want?" Thomas pleaded, his voice a mere whisper. The devil's eyes bore into him, and a wicked grin twisted his lips. "Your daughter, Emily." Thomas recoiled in horror. "No! Not my daughter! She is innocent! She knows nothing of our pact!" "That is precisely why I want her," the devil replied. "I crave the soul of one untouched by sin, one pure and uncorrupted. She shall serve as my vessel in this world, and in return, your debt shall be considered paid." Tears welled up in Thomas's eyes as he realized the depth of his folly. He had traded his own soul for wealth and power, and now he faced the unthinkable prospect of sacrificing his beloved daughter to the devil. "I beg you, spare her," Thomas implored. "Take anything else, but spare her." The devil's laughter echoed through the cave, a sound that chilled Thomas to his very core. "There is no bargaining now, Thomas Barrett. You made your choice, and now you must face the consequences." With a wave of his hand, the devil conjured chains that bound Thomas to the altar. As he helplessly watched, the devil plucked the white rose from the stone and crushed it in his hand, releasing a swirl of black smoke that enveloped Emily, who lay asleep in her bed at that very moment. Thomas's heart shattered as he realized that there was no escape. The price of his bargain had been paid, and his daughter was now a vessel for the malevolent spirit of the devil. With a final, bone-chilling cackle, the devil vanished into the darkness, leaving Thomas alone in the desolate cave. The next morning, the townsfolk discovered Thomas Barrett's lifeless body in Devil's Hollow, his face twisted in eternal torment. The mansion that had once been a symbol of his wealth and power stood in ruins, consumed by flames that seemed to dance with the very fires of hell. Emily, now inhabited by the devil's spirit, wandered the town, her innocent demeanor replaced by a sinister malevolence that sent shivers down the spines of all who crossed her path. The legend of the Devil's Bargain lived on in the town, a cautionary tale of the dangers of making deals with the devil. The people spoke of Thomas Barrett's tragic fate, a once-prosperous man who had sacrificed everything for worldly riches and power, only to be consumed by the darkness he had invited into his life. And so, the small, decrepit town in the heart of the Appalachian mountains remained a place where the shadows whispered of the Devil's Hollow, a place where desperate souls were warned of the price they might pay for making deals with the devil in the dead of night, under the cold, moonless sky.


Resolve. At the academy it was stated that this was a characteristic that set him apart from the other candidates. Crawling through muddy water and beneath barbed wire became another day in the office for him. In their early 20’s, the other students knew little of loss or pain. Cowboys from small farming towns mostly, seeking the glory from the heroism promised to them by the officers that came to the career fair along with the FFA teaching students how to properly milk cattle. It was no surprise that half of them opted to pursue a badge instead of reaching for an utter. There was no drive for them, no deeper meaning for them to be here. No resolution to the restlessness they felt aside from the escape from the clutch of the small farming towns that held them down like a cinderblock tied to the leg of someone who has upset the mob. Jon was the exception; he replayed the night on repeat in his head. A call received 1 AM that he chose to ignore thinking it was another telemarketer like the one that had bothered him the night before. The next morning, he woke up to 23 missed calls from his mother, 32 from his father, and one, one lone missed call from his younger sister, Ashley. He started with this one, thinking it odd that the volume of calls was not as high as the others. Her voice sounded scattered and timid like she could not properly collect her thoughts “Hey sorry to wake you up I’m… I’m probably being paranoid, but I’m walking home from this Alt-J concert I went to and I swear this guy is like… he keeps making the same turns as me… anyway wanted to pretend I was calling the cops to see if it would work so ignore this next part; HI, YES OFFICER I THINK THAT THIS GUY IS LIKE FOLLOWING ME HO….” The message cut out abruptly. Jon cursed under his breath. Her ancient I-phone had a terrible battery life, and half the time he tried to contact her it was dead. He tried the latest message from his father “JON WAKE UP, ASHLEY IS MISSING, SHE DIDN’T COME HOME LAST NIGHT WE NEED TO KNOW IF SHE WENT TO STAY WITH YOU.” The blood in Jon’s veins grew thick and he felt as if he might faint. He tried to find leads himself after it happened. How could he not? He used the last known location of his sister on Find my Friend, the corner of 5 th  and Cedar, and wandered for hours hoping to find some shred of evidence that everyone else had somehow overlooked, to no avail. When Jon failed, he crawled into a bottle of navy strength gin and stayed there until one night while on his usual bender, the Alt-J song “Tesselate” came on the radio, and he was instantly reminded of why he was there in the first place. The next week he applied to the police academy. Jon raised his hand in a small classroom filled with other police academy candidates. The students behind him could see that the first two knuckles on his right hand were bruised from sparring. Jon had gained notoriety for taking the exercises a little too seriously. Like many in his situation he sought out self-inflicted forms of physical harm to cope with the insurmountable thought that it was his fault his sister was still missing. “Use a calm voice and build a rapport with the individual by telling them basic information about yourself and asking them about themselves.” The class was in suicide prevention, and the question related to what an officer should say when a tortured soul was threatening to jump. Under his breath Jon muttered, “That’s what they did for me at least.” “Sorry, what was that, Jon?” “That’s what I would do, at the very least, sir.” Upon receiving his badge, Jon sought out trouble. He sped towards active shootings and received three complaints about unnecessary brutality when arresting a dealer attempting to peddle something stronger than marijuana to a minor. While not strictly by the book, the actions, in his mind at least, were justified. A slap on the wrist or community service for someone creating a drug habit in children was just not enough for Jon to be satisfied, so again the bruises on the first two knuckles of his right hand formed. His captain disagreed with his self-imposed sense of justice, and his antics frequently landed him in hot water. So today, when Jon was called in to answer for his latest antics he made the walk across the office like a dog with his tail tucked between his legs to the condescending looks of the other officers, including his own partner, who didn’t share his affinity for going overboard and was frequently the reason he was turned in. “Have a seat there, Jon.” The captain took out a folder of all his indiscretions and slammed it down onto the desk with an authoritative crash. “Do you know what this is Jon?” “Fan mail?” “Perhaps letters from admiring parents thanking me for keeping their children off drugs?” “Or better yet, an apology letter from you to your ex-wife, begging her to come back and promising not to spend New Year’s Eve in the office chastising your best officer instead of with your only daughter.” “Enough, you smug prick.” “I’m suspending you from field work, effective immediately, if I see you away from that desk in the next month, you’re done, is that clear son?” “As crystal.” Jon slumped back down in his chair and stared at all the paperwork on his desk leaning like a tower with poor foundation in downtown San Francisco. Jon turned on two radios, one for music and the other the police radio he was so accustomed to listening to in hopes that some form of incident would call him into battle. The static on radio 2 crackled “reports of a drunk driver heading eastbound on I-8” Jon flipped through the case files, and lethargically typed out incident reports on his computer. As the night wore on more and more officers left on patrol or to go home to their respective families until Jon was the only one remaining. In the spotlight of his desk lamp, he felt like one of the suspects he had interrogated so many times before. Alt-J came onto radio 1 “Breezeblocks”. Jon opened the drawer to his desk and stared at the bottle of navy strength gin he kept there to remind himself of how far he had come. From the front pocket of his uniform, he took out his 5 year coin, then used it to pop the cork out of the top of the bottle. They say it only takes one sip for an alcoholic to return to their former condition regardless of how much time had elapsed. A familiar numb came over him and the pain from the song softened slightly and made the night a little more bearable. The volume of the bottle waned like a moon hiding from astronomers as the days grew longer, until half of it sat empty on the desk. Jon rested his head on a pillow sized stack of papers and drifted slowing into a restless sleep. The static from radio 2 stirred him from his drunken stupor “Missing person, last known location corner of 5 th  and Cedar. White female, late 20’s.” Jon sat up like a child who had just discovered what happened when you stick a fork into an electrical outlet. He got to his feet, without hesitation holstered his gun and stumbled past the other desks, dropping lamps and paperwork as he walked. He unlocked his squad car and after multiple tries guided the keys into the ignition. In a craze he sped past stop signs and made his way toward the crossroad his sister had disappeared from years before. A white sedan sped fast through the intersection, trying to catch a yellow light. The driver was a man of small stature with a large beard and square framed transition glasses. Jon dropped his phone between the seats and did not care to ease up on the gas pedal as he fished for the device in between them. Thinking he was invincible with the sirens on, Jon slammed into the driver’s site of the small sedan and sent both vehicles into a whirlwind of bent metal and glass shards. Recovering more quickly than the other driver, Jon emerged from his car with a sense of dread that filled his lungs, displacing the cold air of the winter night. He stumbled towards the window of the white sedan and cringed at the blood dripping down the man’s forehead. Shards of glass littered his clothing, and the airbag failed to deploy, meaning that the combined momentum from the two vehicles was transferred directly into the skull of the dead man in the driver’s seat. Jon checked for a pulse, mostly out of habit, knowing the answer would not bring him peace. Nothing. Jon tried the handle, but it was fused to the car. He reached into the right pocked of the man through the window to check for identification, and when his hand emerged again small cuts from the glass added to the bruised decorations on his hand like some demented Christmas tree. Joseph P. Kosh. 144323 Cedar Street. Jon paused. The voice from his instructor rang in his ears. “52 percent of all car accidents happen within a 5 minute radius of the residence.” Jon typed the address into his phone, and sure enough 4 blocks over stood the residence of Joseph P. Kosh. His career was over, he knew this. Beating up a drug dealer was nothing when compared to murdering a civilian on New Year’s Eve while driving drunk in a squad car. In his altered state Jon decided the most logical course of action would be to try to explain to the family what had happened to their father, or son, or uncle. He owed them that, at least some feeble attempt to describe why he was driving in the state he was in. He stumbled the 4 blocks to the house, an old brick home that was poorly kept with faded paint and ancient windowpanes that clung to the house for dear life. Jon limped up the steps and made it to the front door. He knocked. No answer. He tried again. Nothing. I’ll leave a note, it won’t be long before someone reports the accident, and the captain finds a way to hang me out to dry for good. Jon took a small lockpick set out from the inside of his wallet. Not strictly standard issue, but when the occasion arose the kit was invaluable. A few turns later he was in. He stumbled into the small house. The floor was littered with Bud Light cans, and an ashtray overflowed on the small wooden coffee table. The place reeked of nicotine and something else that Jon could not quite place. Mold perhaps? He clicked on the light from his toolbelt and scanned the house for signs of other occupants. Nothing. Walking through the living room he passed a small bathroom that smelled of urine and middle school body spray. Continuing down the hall he found the bedroom. Above the bed was a picture of a clown smiling brightly in the florescent light cast upon him. “Bit of a creep Joseph” Jon mumbled to himself. Quickly regretting his decision to enter the home of his victim he scanned the room for a piece of paper onto which he could scribble a half-hearted apology for any relation that might care to know how Joseph had passed. Upon the desk in the corner a laptop stood open. Jon moved the mouse, deciding that an email would do if it meant spending one less second in this god forsaken clown sewer. The laptop came to life to an opened email from Southwest airlines. A one-way flight to Mexico, red eye, leaving at 12pm. Odd, Jon thought to himself, some form of new year’s resolution perhaps? A new start in a different country? Jon shined the light around the room further to make sure he was alone. His light caught the closet, the sliding door to which stood open. A perfect row of multicolored sweaters stood lined up with individual tags on each one. Leaving the desk, Jon began inspecting the tags, starting with the one furthest to the left of the closet. Sarah P. 1991 – Pearl Jam. He tried the next, Kristy S. 1992 – Nirvana. The tags continued, one for each year, always a woman’s name, always with a concert corresponding to the year scribbled on the tag. Jon’s hands began to shake, and from down the street he heard sirens approaching. “No, no, no, no, no, no, not yet” 2003, 2013, 2017….. then finally, 2022. Jon stared in disbelief at the red sweater he had bought his sister 5 years prior, upon the tag, in neat small handwriting were the words “Ashley P. 2022 – Alt J.”


It had been twenty-four years since she’d last seen it, but the place looked exactly the same. Sarah, a withered and depressed, woman, had seen too much sadness in her life to believe she could ever be brought down by a simple decaying abandoned building. And yet, here she was. Her will crumbling. Her faith washing away with the rain, standing before this brick and stone. Clothing, tattered and worn, provided no protection from the rain. Although her skin was wrinkled and soaked, she did not feel the cold. The rain poured down as if God himself was crying. Each drop of rain adding weight to the steps of the people who passed. The building loomed gloomy and treacherous over the precession, taunting them with its dangerous and hollow darkness. The memories and secrets that this building held scared the passing pedestrians. It put speed in to their steps, unconsciously driving them forward until the overwhelming shadow was far enough behind them that their minds could once again rest. In the few moments that Sarah had been standing there, most people who passed thought she was just another crazy street person who was lost and drunk; not worthy of their time. They were more concerned with rushing by, thinking of someplace safe and warm they would rather be. They could not be concerned with this sad, decrepit woman who stood crying in front of an abandoned building; although, no one could see her tears. The rain hid her torment from the rest of the world, for now at least. That is exactly the way Sarah wanted it. Why share a pain no one else would understand? But she was here now to face it, to face the pain. Twenty-four years. She could not believe it had really been that long. He would have been twenty-four years old. But thoughts like that were just a distraction. The place had shut down not long after she was a patient. Too much filth and grime had built up. Hospitals are supposed to be clean and white. Sarah didn’t think that this place had ever been clean or white, even on its first day. But this place was always meant for the lesser, the lower, the unimportant. So, did it really matter if the ceiling leaked or there were blood stains on the sheets? She now stood outside and realized that while it seemed so derelict and dirty, it really did look exactly the way it had before. Sarah had been like a child herself when she first arrived, or at least she was as innocent and unworldly as a one. She had only lived in two homes. The one she was born in and the one she shared with David. David had been a nice man. Sarah’s mother and father had selected well. But you can’t make strangers into a couple overnight. Sarah had been so scared the first night they were together. She was still scared now sometimes, and they had been married for twenty-five years. The first few months had been pleasant and illuminating. Sarah learned many new things about what it takes to be a wife. She was not unhappy, but was not settled. David was a stranger, and love did not yet seem to be a factor in their relationship. The night they arrived at the hospital was rainy and cold, just like this night so many years later. Sarah had been in absolute terror. Her body was ripping apart. Just getting from the car she had stopped twice, doubled over in pain. At the door, an astute orderly recognized her distress and brought a wheelchair. Her wide eyes admitted no thanks, only fear. David pushed the wheelchair, gently maneuvering around chairs and other people. Her condition was very obvious, so they didn’t have to wait. Straight to the OB ward they went. Sarah had known she was pregnant. It was obvious after two months of no bleeding. But, even though she had only a vague understanding of anatomy and procreation, her body had felt so different. She had immediately guessed correctly that she was pregnant. It felt part of her; an extension of her being. Sarah also had known right away that it was a boy. David was not so sure and very superstitious. He refused to even acknowledge the possibility of a child until Sarah started to gain weight. Finally, one night when David put his hand on Sarah’s stomach and felt the baby kick, he smiled, sighed, and seemed to accept the obvious. The night he came, there was no doubt. Uncertainty, pain, fear, but they both new he was about to arrive, and they both, in their way, were hopeful. They were still strangers to each other in so many ways, but they had this together. They were now bound forever by this single union of their two selves. Nature is tricky in that it sometimes makes hard things easy, laying the trap of a false sense of security. Sarah labored, and David paced. The night was long, but uncomplicated. He came into the world as he should; strong, loud, alive. Everyone was overjoyed. Sarah and David beamed at their son. They were completely lost, tranquil and proud. Sarah desperately need sleep. A nurse came and said that he could sleep in the nursery for the night. Sarah was reluctant but could barely keep her eyes open. The nurse gently picked him up and quietly left the room. Sarah was asleep before the door closed. As she thought back on that night now, she lowered her head in shame. She should have never been so weak. She should have never let him go from her side. For the millionth time, she cast blame upon herself. David was right. That night, she failed at her first task of being a mother. God must have known she was incapable. She knew something was wrong when the nurse woke her. It was not a gentle tug from sleep, but a shaking call. The nurse asked where David was. Sarah didn’t know. She was groggy and felt ill. Something was wrong. The nurse looked like she was about to cry. She spoke softly and said the words that would haunt Sarah for the rest of her life. He died. Sarah stared at the nurse. She could remember the horror that washed over her. It couldn’t be true. She had just given birth. He had been right there. She leaned over the bed rail and threw up. David came rushing in. Someone had obviously told him what happened. He did not rush to Sarah’s side. While she had fear, he had anger in his eyes. He yelled at the nurses. He yelled at Sarah. What had happened? Who was to blame? Sarah did not listen to any of it. She would later learn the details of his one and final night. But the details didn’t matter. She had let him go. She had not been there. Now twenty-four years later she stood in front of the building where his whole life had taken place. She had not known she would be facing this today. She didn’t come to this part of town often, and had blindly walked down the street without thinking. Maybe the rain distracted her. Maybe she needed to see the place again. It was cold, and she knew she couldn’t stand here much longer. Not without drawing attention; a crazy lady standing in front of a crumbling hospital, crying. She turned her back to the building, and started to walk away. As she moved, she had hoped the memories would become distant as well, wash away. They did not. She still could smell him. Still could feel his warmth, even through the rain. She could still feel the terror and David’s anger, that had never really gone away. No other children had come. No other opportunities for redemption. She felt alone in the world. The following years had not been kind. While she entered the hospital as a child, she left a broken woman. David told her to forget him. Move on. But she never did. She knew that he had been there, been her love, been her child. She remembered, and that was all that mattered.


There is a scene, in a film of recent fame, during which our antagonist shines a teasing light on the origin of his malaise (incidentally, an incumbent desire to rule the known world). The madman opens his bruised heart to reveal that his father used to go about making “outrageous claims - like he invented the question mark”; he offers a biography that suggests a man not easily impressed, and perhaps not adept at discerning, even, between impressive and ridiculous. It is left to the viewer to determine how softly one might weigh this revelation against the dark balance of our madman’s considerable accounts. The point, at least for one Dory H. Scott, is that we cannot really ever understand the actual nature of cause and effect. Nor, for that matter, can we be trusted to ascertain the importance of any single action - not even with the advantage of time, or hindsight, as we call it. The human mind, for all its deft and incalculable workings, is easily confused and led astray. Truly, it is a common human propensity that we often attribute significance where it is unnecessary, or undeserved, while happenings of great import, on the other hand, elude our recognition. It is equally true that while we cling to the illusions of self-direction and manifest destiny, our lives are always on the brink of hazard - only a short series of unknowable formulae removed from chaos. Great thinkers of past and present have wrestled with this conundrum; it has been attached countless explication: notably, the American sociologist Robert K. Merton, rising to prominence in the 1950s, developed his theory of unintended consequences, in which he outlined the phenomena of unexpected benefits and unexpected drawbacks. Merton’s work borrowed heavily from the ideas put forth first by the Scotsman Adam Smith, and the later-born, but no less illumined John Locke, in an effort to describe what some now flippantly lament as Murphy’s Law (this notion that when it matters most, when it is absolutely inconvenient, even the best-laid plans will face unforeseen disaster). But it is Merton’s third category of unintended consequences - perverse results - that brings us to Dory H. Scott’s fantastic story. But before we delve into the lurid details of Dory’s final moments, let us take pause to reflect on the man himself, lest we appear curious only of the grim and shocking minutia of his end. For, as it happens, Dory was a man quite like most other men; his existence was defined alternately by careful routine and moderate abandon - the pendulum of most temperaments, really; he had friends, people for whom he cared, and who, in turn, cared for him; he had few enemies, and fewer still of cunning or guile, so he persisted with them, largely untroubled. In short, Dory H. Scott put his proverbial pants on one leg at a time, as they say.

In light of the rather common aspects of this biography, the sensible reader might be forgiven for inclining toward doubt regarding the veracity of this particular story’s subject. But let me assure even the most sensible among you, this account is free of invention, and unmarked by exaggeration - both of these being as unnecessary to this story as a hat might be to a goose. It would be a mistake, similarly, to try and attribute moral significance to Dory’s case. More and more this narrator has noticed eruptions of karmic subscription to explain the occurrence of especially good things happening for people, or especially bad things befalling them. This narrator’s own spiritual aesthetic aside, (there is simply no place for it in this story), the recent popularization of ancient Eastern processes - of reciprocity and comeuppance, for example - seem rather too glibly attached to any act, whether wholly breathtaking, utterly menacing, or plainly drab. If, as it turns out, we are being held to account, and in some remote corner of an ethereal office-space the ledger clacks incessantly without mercy or malice, well then, in that case, we will have to reconsider Dory’s case entirely. Until then, however, we must forgo the present urge to see Dory’s shocking finale as anything more or less than a bit of bad luck. On this note, it may interest the curious reader to know that Dory considered himself to be luckier than most. This opinion was afforded considerable sway by enduring personal habits, such as rescuing even the most diminutive of currencies from a fate of utter irrelevancy - see a penny, pick it up…you get the idea. (Incidentally, Dory eschewed contributing his found wealth toward his at large allowance, being of the opinion that one could make available from found tender either the good fortune, figuratively, or the comparatively meagre fortune, literally, but not both. Had he happened to have come across a Brinks truck, abandoned and awaiting his claim, presumably he would have recalibrated this distinction - but he did not, and so amongst Dory’s properties upon his death was a Peek Freans biscuit-tin stuffed with unspent good fortune, in the amount of two hundred and thirty-six dollars, twelve cents.) In the same vein of superstition, finding himself at the business end of a black cat’s path, Dory would announce the innocence of his intentions, and politely wait for the cat to make up its own mind about things. It is a seldom advertised fact about black cats in general that they honour the same right of way protocols that govern traffic roundabouts in most major European city-centres - a fact that escaped Dory’s observance, and a small irony, given the sensational nature of his demise. Nevertheless, the fact remains that Dory was a man of enduring habit - a truth that did little, sadly, to prolong his life, but that perhaps does further pique our appetite for not altogether inadmissible biographical bric-a-brac. For the truth is that well before he succumbed to the great bodily insult that put his name, however briefly, on the lips and in the ears of the rubbernecking crowd, Dory had long laboured under the impression that while things were inarguably happening to him, precious few things were happening because of him. Accordingly, what Dory desired more than anything was a modicum of control. All around him Dory saw grand and important people doing grand and important things - the very fabric of time and space seemed to part obligingly as they moved through the world, and they cast a shimmering ripple in their wake. Buy, sell, keep, change - these, and many more, were the verbs of men and women of action. These people went about saying “look what I have done”, in the off-chance that one had yet to notice. Dory recognized that he was not one of these people. Of course, he ought not to have been so sure - his penultimate act, if nothing else, could easily be construed as a superb triumph of will.

Finally, I will take the precursive step of answering to the charges of misdiagnosis and misinformation that will surely come from those readers who find themselves interminably unable to accept the occurrence of spectacular rarities. (Charles Dickens, distinguished and admired as he was, found himself employed in precisely this defense, famously (read: scandalously) rebutting against accusations of sensationalism, and worse. The watchdogs of The Academy charged that the Master of English Literature was pandering to a comparably low denomination, eliciting fear and worry over the possibility that this same manner of death attributed to his character - fictional though he was - might actually constitute a legitimate worry for any one of the good, real people of nineteenth-century England. In support of his creative liberty, Dickens produced a litany of documented cases - the most recent describing an unfortunate ne’er-do-well from County Cork, whose remains were eventually discovered by neighbours, many of whom admitted to having been lured to the dead man’s simple dwelling under the spell of a not at all unpleasant, if heady, aroma. One can only imagine the ghastly reactions, and self-loathing, once the gory truth was laid bare. Were the Great Author alive today, he would surely take no small vindication in the continuing evidence of his fiction.) This is all very interesting, you say, but what of Dory H.Scott? What of his fate? (And if only Dory had grasped the inescapable, true nature of fate, perhaps…well, he didn’t, so it remains for us to recount the grisly consequence.) On a rather ordinary Friday afternoon, having yet shaken the ill smog of another thankless work week that shadowed nearly behind him, Dory found himself at a desperately familiar crossroads. Traffic, both pedestrian and mechanical, moved blithely past him. It seemed to Dory, again, that the people around him were travelling with purpose, while he was simply undertaking the requisite steps that would deliver him from Point A - of which he despaired - to Point B - of which he was coming to despair more and more. This narrator could hypothesize at length (as indeed he has, in private) on the precise complaint that drove Dory to invoke such a drastic measure of rebellion on a day that was very much like any other, but there is little evidence, in fact, of the proverbial, back-breaking straw.

Witnesses, of which there were a great many - it being at the peak of commuter delirium - recall that Dory did not respond to the green light (an invitation to exercise the relative safety of the cross-walk that he would certainly have been intimate with after so many years of urban navigation). Some admitted to pushing brusquely past him, even issuing brief but pointed condemnations over their shoulders at the inconvenience of his remaining prone in the midst of their urgent transit. Others, more imaginatively recounted that Dory was murmuring breathlessly in a strange, rapid tongue. Rumours of terrorism quickly gained traction with the eager press; even less savoury, suggestions of satanism and Dory’s clandestine dedication to the Black Arts abounded in the tabloids for weeks afterward. But these reports were specious and self-serving, and only indict a society become insensate to slander and slight. What we do know, is that on the corner of Granville and 12th, precisely five minutes before six o’clock on a warm, but not hot, early evening, Dory H. Scott burst into flames, to the horror and threat of many in his immediate proximity, and I am sad to report, to the inconvenience of still others, who were heard to remark that “some idiot” had lit himself on fire and brought an already irritable homeward hoard to a standstill. It bears noting that of the 81 mobile devices employed during the first frantic moments of Dory’s combustion, no fewer than 79 of these served no greater purpose than to record the terrible spectacle through 1080p hi-definition video capture. A scant two good samaritans thought it more appropriate - the incident seeming of adequate concern to Dory’s welfare, at the very least - that they exercised their capacity to immediately contact the relevant authorities. The social commentary that abounded post-haste missed the mark entirely. Dory had sought control where there was none to be had - an entirely too metaphysical explanation for such a visceral happening. Of course, the suggestion that Dory purposefully willed incineration at his own hand - unless we are quite mistaken about his person - is absurd. Yet the subsequent inquests discerned no accelerants, and precious little informed conjecture surfaced as to the actual cause of this perverse result. This narrator, impartial though he is, cannot help but wonder whether the truth has been hushed from the public record, for surely it speaks to a dramatic occasion of utter extremity - either of defiance or despair - and of a man who lost his place in the world, never to find it back.


As soon as they turned into the cul-de-sac, Leone felt cold. ‘Pull over, please,’ she said, more sharply than she intended. ‘Sorry?’ Tom turned the radio down. ‘Please!’ she said. ‘Pull over, just for a moment. I want to… can we…’ She couldn’t finish her sentences. Air wheezed in through a tight throat. ‘Hold on, we’re nearly there,’ Tom reassured her, parking outside Number 8. Leone could see her mother peering between the slats of the blinds in the living room, and it was already too late. ‘Okay - what’s the problem?’ Tom asked. Leone's mother disappeared from the window, and a moment later the front door of Number 8 opened. ‘Doesn’t matter,’ Leone said. Then there was no further time for Tom to ask – not that he would, now that she’d told him it didn’t matter – and no further time for Leone to explain. ‘I thought you were going to be here in time for lunch!’ her mother was saying at Tom’s window. ‘Hello, dear,’ she said to Leone, before turning her smile on Tom again. ‘Hallo Mrs Carson!’ Tom said. ‘Thank you so much for agreeing -’ ‘Oh, it’s no trouble, no trouble at all!’ Mrs Carson said. ‘Well – are you coming in?’ Lunch was as awful as any meal Leone remembered from her teenage years. The ham was thin as rotten silk, the bread was the cheap white pap they sold in supermarkets and the salad cream tasted a little sour. Her mother watched her with narrowed eyes while she ate. ‘I could cook us something for dinner if you like?’ Leone said. ‘I’m quite capable of cooking, thank you, dear,’ her mother said. ‘Though it doesn’t look as if you think much of my food. You really ought to finish it up, if you can manage it. Not pregnant, are you?’ ‘Mum!’ ‘She was quite a little piggy as a child,’ Mrs Carson confided to Tom. ‘No wonder she wanted to be a cook when she grew up!’ ‘I’m a sous-chef, Mum, not a cook,’ Leone said, putting down her sandwich. ‘Not a chef at the moment, are you?’ Mrs Carson said. ‘Eat your sandwich. You were the one who wanted to organise fundraising for famine victims in Sudan, and here you are wasting food.’ ‘I didn’t organise the fundraising, Mum,’ Leone said. ‘That was Miss James at my primary school, and my whole class got involved.’ ‘Sponsored swim,’ Mrs Carson told Tom. ‘Pestered the whole street to sponsor her. Mind you, I expect you did something similar when you were ten years old.’ ‘Not really,’ Tom said. ‘My parents split up when I was six – Dad remarried and moved to Canada, and Mum died when I was nine. By the time we were ten, me and my sister were concentrating on what happened to us.’ Leone’s mother made a faint ‘Ah’ of sympathy. ‘It did me a lot of good, though,’ Tom said. ‘My aunt and uncle took us in. That’s why I trained as a sports physio – that’s what she did for a living, and it looked like a great job. Plenty of opportunities, good pay, and she loved it – worked freelance for a local rugby club and had a treatment room at the physiotherapy centre three days a week.’ ‘She sounds fascinating,’ said Leone’s mother. ‘It always amazes me, women who work. I never had time for a career – I had Leone to look after. It isn’t nice for a little girl to come home to an empty house.’ ‘I wouldn’t have minded,’ Leone said. ‘I kept telling you – I would have been happier if you’d gone out to work like all the other mothers and let me have my own key. I always felt you didn’t trust me to make myself a sandwich and get started on my homework.’ Her mother’s face folded into an expression that might have been fury or misery. Leone cringed. She knew what was coming next. ‘Shall I wash up?’ Tom asked. Mrs Carson didn’t reply immediately. Leone could have told him that her mother would never be distracted from making a full reaction to an insult. As a young child, Leone would always apologize as soon as she knew she’d upset her mother – as a teenager, she’d run from the room and not come back. Neither had worked. The hurt and offense would still be waiting for her when she returned. ‘You are very kind,’ Mrs Carson said eventually, directing her comments so obviously to Tom that Leone growled in frustration. ‘But no, you go and relax, I’ll wash up. Leone can show you to your room. Her room.’ ‘It hasn’t been my room since 2009,’ Leone said. ‘I left home, Mum. Remember?’ Mrs Carson stood up slowly and collected their plates in silence, while Leone worked through that last remark. She’d just loaded a gun and handed it over to her enemy. Mrs Carson broke the silence as she reached the dining room door. ‘It is always your room, Leone,’ she said. ‘Whenever you need to return home, your room will always be ready for you. You and your boyfriend. And I shouldn’t have to say this, but… it was you who phoned me last week asking whether you and your boyfriend could come and live with me until you get your… careers… back on track.’ The door shut quietly behind her. ‘I can’t stand this,’ Leone said. The silence stretched out. Tom leaned his elbows on the table and sighed quietly. ‘This is a mistake,’ Leone said. ‘We can’t live here, even for a week. There must be somewhere else we can go?’ After a long pause, Tom said; ‘You should apologize.’ It was the shock of a bucketful of icy water, tipped over her head from behind with no warning. Tom had always been gentle and easy-going, deflecting arguments and refusing to rise to tension, but he’d always backed her up when it mattered. Always. Until now. Leone thought of how she could explain this to Tom. About her attempts to apologize as a young child – always met with that hurt look, the silent smug accusation that an apology meant only that she’d admitted her guilt, and couldn’t be forgiven. An apology wouldn’t change what came next. Her mother would wait for a chance to return the insult at a time when it would hurt Leone the most; always delivered with a jolly laugh that passed off the new insult as a joke, nothing for Leone to get upset over. ‘Your mother’s been very kind, letting us stay at such short notice,’ Tom said. ‘She knows this might go on for months, and yet…’ ‘I can’t stand staying here for months!’ Leone yelled. The sounds from the kitchen ceased for a long moment, then they both heard the soft clack of a plate being set into a draining rack. ‘There must be somewhere else we can go?’ Leone said, more quietly. Tom put both hands lightly on the table. ‘We’ve been through this. There’s no-one. My dad’s in Canada and has his house full with my half-sisters; my aunt and uncle live in sheltered accommodation, and all of our friends are in the same boat as us; laid off, scrambling for what jobs there are out there and not able to keep up the rent on their flats. This is the best we can do, and Leone – really – it’s pretty good. Let’s just be glad you still have your mother. I really wish I still had mine.’ But my mother despises me, Leone wanted to say. Sneers at my career ambitions. Tells me all the details of her friends’ grandchildren, their birthdays, how sweet they are to their grannies. Lets me know when her friends’ daughters admit how lovely it is to give up work and spend their lives looking after their kiddies. ‘Go to your room and rest,’ Tom said, his words echoing her mother’s dismissals all down the years. ‘I’ll give your mother a hand with the washing up and fetch you a mug of tea later. Have a think, see whether you can find any alternative we haven’t considered yet.’ Tom went to the kitchen, and Leone heard only; ‘Oh Tom! You really don’t need to help – but thank you…’ before the kitchen door shut on them both. She went to her old room and found the same wallpaper, her discarded teen paperbacks and the same purple quilt she’d walked out on years before. Only the smell was different – stale and sour. She dropped heavily onto the bed, feeling the elderly springs clank beneath her back, and stared up at the stickers on the ceiling. She woke in the gloom of the evening, the streetlights outside shining on the bookcase and the bedside table. There was no mug of tea. For a moment, she thought of repeating that crowning success of her teenage years - opening the window and sliding out, walking to the high street and asking at every counter till she found a café that needed a good cook and was willing to let her sleep in the corner of a store-room until she sorted out somewhere better to live. Then she accepted the hard reality. Right now, for all her references and qualifications, it was unlikely she'd find anywhere to work, even as a cook in a takeaway outlet. That terrifying freedom she’d won as a teenager was back in that different life when nothing was impossible and she could do anything she wanted if she put the work in. She was back where she started, and no longer young enough to warrant a chance at a new start at the bottom of the jobs ladder. Leone opened the bedroom door as quietly as possible. The living room door was ajar, and she could hear Tom talking quietly. Then her mother’s voice. ‘I wish Leone could hear this! I’m so glad she has you, Tom. If you can persuade her to agree with you, I’m sure we’ll all get along nicely.’ Whatever Tom said next made her mother chuckle. Unlikely he’d defended her stance, or her decision to work until she made enough of a reputation to win a chef’s place in a famous restaurant. Leone closed her bedroom door silently and sat on the bed, staring out at the deserted street outside and knowing that this time there was no escape.