“Luke! Wait. Where are you going?” She cried. Luke didn’t wait. He kept running. She could see a car some metres away. He boarded the car and it drove off. “Oh! Luke. Where have you gone? Please don’t leave me. We need you. I love you.” She knelt on the floor crying. She opened her tear filled eyes. It was early hours of the morning. She turned. Luke was fast asleep. She pulled herself up to the bathroom. As she washed her face, she wondered what the dream meant. It had been recurrent for the past two weeks. It had come three times the previous week. She had told Luke about the dream. He just dismissed it.           ****** “Luke, I’m worried. This is the third time I'm having this dream. Everything is the same. No changes. Everything is exactly the same.” “Come on Sheila. How can you believe in a mere dream? It’s like believing in a fiction.” “But, Luke sometimes dreams come true. Fiction can become reality.” “What am I to infer from what you’re saying? Do you mean I would leave you and Cody?” “No. Come on don't give me that sad look. I’m just worried. It’s recurrent.” “You don't have to. It’s when you worry about something too much, reality steps in. Your fears become real.” “Ok. But… Honey, is there something you need to tell me? I'm all ears. I promise I will listen.” “Mmmm. No. Not all. Everything is fine. Work is fine. If there is, I'll sure let you know.” “Ok dear. Please just be careful.” “I'll sure do. I love you.” “Love you too, honey.” They embraced each other. Luke set off for work while she got Cody prepared for school.          ******* She slid back into bed. Luke turned and placed his hand around her. This is the third time she has had the same dream in that week but this time the car was closer. She could see the silhouette of the driver. It matched that of a female. She had decided not to confront him on the matter anymore. I know something is wrong. I know Luke has something up his sleeves. But, is he living me for someone else? I'll definitely find out. Oh! God please help me. These were the thoughts running through her mind. The next morning she made breakfast for him. As he sat to eat, she also sat vis-à-vis him. “Why the stare?” “Nothing.” “Ok.” “Luke, do you remember the first time we met?” “Yeah! I do. You almost fell while running down the stairs to catch the bus. I held you and you fell into my arms.” “No,” she laughed. “That wasn’t the first. That was the second.” “Ok. When was the first?” “The first was inside the art exhibition hall. I stood speechless looking at a painting. You came and stood beside me. You asked if I like it and I said I deeply do. You said it looked dreamy and asked what it was all about. I told you it had two meanings. One, it talked about, ‘the heart cry of one for a fallen tomorrow' and two, ‘the decline in the beauty of nature'.” “Yeah! I can still remember vividly. I got you that painting as a birthday gift.” “Yeah! That’s the one hanging at the corridor,” she laughed. “Hmmm. It’s good to go down memory lane a times. You’ve had a good laugh this morning.” “Oh! That’s true.” “Hey, I'm late for work. We’ll talk more when I come back.” “Ok! Don’t stay late.” “I’ll try.” He stood up and gave her a kiss on her forehead and left while she got Cody prepared for school. It was break time at work. Luke’s phone rang. It was Olivia. Doesn't she have any other thing to do at this time? Must she always call.

“Hello.” “Hello! Honey. How are you?” “I'm fine.” “Are you sure you are? You sound cold.” “Olivia, I was just in the middle of something important when you called.” “So I’m not important?” “No… you are. I’m just kind of busy.” “But, I thought you should be on break?” “Yeah. You’re correct but today I have a spill over. Just need some few minutes to finish up.” “Ok. No problem.” “Thank you.” “Are you coming for dinner tonight?” “No. I… don’t… think so.” “But why? You promised. I have got everything ready. I'm preparing your favourite meal.” “Oh! I’m so sorry. We’ll reschedule another day.” “When? What other day?” “Tomorrow. Next. Don't worry, I’ll make it up to you.” “But, why can’t you make it tonight?” “Work has been hectic. I have a backlog on ground. Don’t worry, we'll sure have a good time together.” “Ok honey. Promise me.” “Yeah. I promise.” “Love you.” “I love you too.” He heaved a sigh when the call ended and shook his head. For some days, he didn’t pick her calls. He also avoided taking the route around her office. He thinks she might keep late to watch him pass. Luke had gone to work. Unknowing to him that last night he was trailed by Olivia. She was in her car waiting for Sheila to take Cody to school. She followed them behind. She came back to Cody’s school later. He was at the playing field. She took at the gate looking at him. Cody turned and he saw a woman staring at him. She waved to him and he waved back at her. He told his teacher that there was a woman staring at him and he didn’t know her. His teacher alerted the security guards. She told them she was having a view of the surrounding and that she was looking for a new school for her son. She was asked to go in and make enquires which she did.      ******* “Mum, do you know what happened in school today?” “Oh! Cody, how do you expect your mum to know if you don’t tell her. Your mum is not telepathic.” “Ok…” “She's not Jean Grey,” they said it together and laughed. “Ok, Cody love, tell me what happened.” “Mum, when I was on the playing field. I saw a woman staring at me. She waved to me with a smile and I waved back at her. I told my teacher and she alerted the security guards.” “Then what happened?” “I saw them talking to her and later she went into the school.” “Did you see her again?” “The next time I saw her, she was entering her car. She then drove off.” “Oh! Cody.” Luke was back from work. He was having his shower when his phone beeped. It was a message from Olivia. The phone was beside Sheila. She glanced to read the message. Don't think I don’t know where you live. Don’t think I don’t know your wife and son. I was at his school today. He’s a cute boy. Please… come back home. “Darling.” “Yeah! Can we have dinner now?” “Darling. Who is Olivia? “She… she’s a colleague. How did you know about her?” “Please, don’t ask any further. A colleague that went to our son’s school.” “How did you know?” “Cody came from school today…, she breathed heavily.” “Please calm down and talk to me.” He moved close and held her. She took off his hand. “Cody came from school today. He said he saw a woman staring at him. He said she smiled and waved at him.” “Oh! My God. Where is he? Where is my son?” “He’s upstairs sleeping. While you were bathing, your phone beeped. It was right beside me. I glanced and I saw this message.” She handed over the phone to him. He read It, “What!,” he shouted. “So all this while you've been having an affair. I have been having the same episode of dreams. I told you about it and you dismissed it. You said they were all fiction. I even told you to confide in me that I was all ears. All you said was that there was nothing to tell.” “Oh! I’m so sorry. I didn’t know how to tell you. We were friends before I married you. She was out of town for a long time. Then out of the blues, she came back and we got intimate.” “It seems she’s obsessed with you. I’m no longer safe with you neither is Cody.” “No you are. I love you. I love Cody. You’re my wife. He’s my son. You two make my world complete. I’ll be lost without you and Cody.” “But… you've opened a can of worms.” “Don't worry I’ll close it back. I promise.” “Ok.” Luke scheduled a meeting with Olivia. He warned her to stay clear his life and that of his family. She didn’t heed. She kept calling and sending messages even at late night hours. Luke reported to the police. She was given a restraint order. It didn’t slow her down. She devised another means. She knew he liked listening to 10pm news and she also knew the TV station she worked with was his favourite so she lobbied to always read the news. Since she was good at the game, she was granted the offer. They had brought it long before to her doorsteps but she refused so they were glad she finally took the offer. Luke was frustrated. Sheila was fed up with the whole situation. He had come back from work one day. He noticed Sheila wasn’t lying in the couch reading and waiting for him as she usually does. He called her name but there was no response. Where is she? Is she in the bathroom? He thought. When he entered the bedroom. He saw a note lying on the bed. He picked it up and read it. Twelve Truths About You

1)	You’ve been a wonderful husband. 2)	You’ve been so caring. 3)	You’ve showed unusual empathy. 4)	You dote on me lavishly. 5)	You’ve been so supportive of my dreams. 6)	You listen to me when I need someone to. 7)	You don’t have a big ego. 8)	You’ve been a loving father to our son. 9)	You’ve always given me a shoulder to lean on. 10)	You always had wonderful places in mind for us to go on vacation. 11)	Your ideas have been out of the box.

12)	You’re a high flyer. Your ambitions are as high as the mountain. It’s a huge delight. Thank you for been there for me. Thank you for been there for Cody. We love you. I'll miss you. I know he will too. By the time you’re reading this. We’ll be off in the air. If you want to see me, you know where to find me. Love, Sheila. Luke didn’t wait to change. He dropped his bag, entered his car and sped to the airport. He ran to the counter and asked if any plane had taken off. He was told there had been a bit delay in departure but the plane was about taking off. He thanked the receptionist but before he was allowed access through, the plane had taken off. He stood in the rain, tears streamed down his face.


The butcher was a burly man. He wore overalls, work boots and a blue work shirt. He didn’t know what to think when he saw three men approaching his land. They didn’t appear to be anyone he recognized— and he knew pretty much everyone in Redfield. Another troubling factor was the way these men were dressed. The butcher didn’t dwell on other people’s clothing, mainly because he didn’t dress like a dandy himself. But the way these men were dressed was somewhere between caring too little and not enough. One man had boots that appeared worn, but his coat looked new. Another man wore a dirty brown derby with a hole in it— a bullet hole, perhaps— but his white shirt, with its collar undone was devoid of wrinkles and stains. Then there was the one man who looked like he had just stepped out of a clothing store. His hat was a black gambler with a brown band. His pants were black denim and tucked into a pair of leather boots the color of chestnut. He wore a black vest over a white shirt. They all wore red bandanas around their necks. “Evening,” said the man in the gambler hat. “Hello,” said the butcher. The two locked eyes, but the man in the gambler’s hat wore a demented grin. It was the kind of grin that could only belong to the devil himself. But the man in the gambler’s hat somehow scared the butcher more so than Satan— a feat accomplished by no man. “You know who we are, old-timer?” he asked, grinning that awful grin. “Not really,” the butcher replied. “Am I supposed to?” The one in the derby chuckled as if he found some unknown humor in the butcher’s question only he was privy to while the other man just shook his head, his face expressionless as he cut off a piece of jerky with a skinny knife. “The butchers of Chester Valley,” said gambler hat. “That mean something to you?” “I think I hear a gang go by that name.” “You’re looking at them.” “What do you want with me?” “What you got to give?” “Not much.” “Mr. Henry and Mr. James are going to help themselves to whatever you got. And you ain’t lifting no finger in hinderance, you hear?” “I hear,” said the butcher with reluctance. “You get not protest on my part.” “Swell,” said gambler hat with that same sinister grin. “Mr. James, Mr. Henry, proceed.” The butcher helplessly watched as the men named James and Henry looted his home. “Aren’t you going to join them?” he asked gambler hat. “I think it would be best to keep an eye on you, old-timer,” he said. “For all I know, you just may be packing a pistol in them overalls.” “What’s your name?” the butcher asked. “Schumacher,” he said. “German.” “Hated it.” “That you’re German?” “My name. Don’t know what possessed God to born me a Schumacher. ‘Cause I sure as hell didn’t see myself making shoes for a living.” “But you saw yourself being an outlaw?” “Just one more thing I had no control of.” “At a certain point, son you got to start taking accountability for your actions.” “Let’s get one thing straight, old-timer,” said Schumacher, drawing his Colt and pulling the hammer back. “You ain’t my pops. And I ain’t your son, you hear?” “I hear,” the butcher nodded. “Didn’t mean to offend you.” “What’s your name?” said Schumacher, holstering his weapon. “Butcher.” “A butcher named Butcher?” “Like my father and his before him.” Then he said with a grin, “Well, ain’t you grow up to do like your daddy done.” Mr. Henry and Mr. James came out with various belongings, but for the most part clothes. “We’re going to be taking your wagon,” said Schumacher. “If you don’t mind.” “Not that my minding makes much difference.” “It don’t.” “I figured.” The butcher watched the men carry out his belongings. Apart from not having a choice on having these men raid his home, the butcher felt personal belongings can always be replaced, but at least he had his life. But then he saw the man called Mr. Henry carrying a familiar case under his arm. “Schumacher,” said Butcher. “Take whatever you need. But you see that black box under Mr. Henry’s arm? My only request is that you don’t take that.” “I ain’t taking no requests, old-timer.” “Please,” Butcher pleaded. “Most everything else I can replace. But I can’t replace what’s in that box.” “You saying it’s valuable, old-timer?” “You have no idea.” “All the more reason for us to take it off your hands.” Butcher shoved Schumacher and ran after Mr. Henry. He felt the impact before he heard the gunshot. Butcher was on the ground when he realized he had been shot. As he tried to get back up, the impact of another shot brought him down again. Mr. Henry stood and watched as Butcher crawled towards him. He watched as Mr. James fired his third and final shot in the man’s head. Butcher stopped moving as blood pooled into the dirt. Mr. James pulled the lever on his sawed-off Winchester 1892, ejecting the spent shell. “Open the box Mr. Henry,” said Schumacher. “Wonder what was worth dying over.” “Okay,” Henry said, giggling as he undid the latch and opened the box. It was a Single Action Army in a blue finish with pearl grips. A snake was carved into the grips. “Fuck,” said Schumacher. “Bastard died for some goddamned pistol.” “Maybe it had a sentimental value or something,” said Henry. “Or something.” “What about the rest?” said James. “We still taking the loot?” “Course we still taking the loot. Pack it up before we end up leaving more corpses.” 5 Years Later Henry hadn’t even noticed the man sitting in the corner when he came in. It wasn’t like the saloon was lit up with excitement or something. It was dimly lit, never crowded, and without music— mostly because he shot the piano player over an argument he couldn’t remember. He stood at the bar and drank his whisky straight from the bottle and ranted about killing a man. He wasn’t worried the patrons— what few there were— would try to turn him in. It wasn’t that they feared him. But rather, they too had their faces posted on flyers throughout the territories. “Then he says, don’t kill me son ,” said Henry. “ I won’t tell ‘em what you look like . Then I says, I wasn’t even thinkin’ that. I was just thinkin’ to have a reason to shoot something. So, then the dumb fuck thought he was fast. Thing is the bullet was faster.” Henry punctuated this with boisterous laughter. Maybe it was because he was drunk. But Henry hadn’t noticed the man get up from the table in the corner or felt him as he leaned against the bar to his right. It was when the man spoke did Henry become aware of his presence. “Beer,” said the man in a voice like a whisper. Henry looked at the man as if he had materialized out of thin air. He was ready to write him off and get back to his story but as the man went for his pocket, Henry noticed the butt his gun which he wore on his left hip with the butt facing outwards— an indication this man was a right handed shooter. Henry wasn’t a knowledgeable man, but he knew enough about guns and gunmen. But it wasn’t the way the man wore his pistol that had gotten his attention. It was the carving of a snake into the pearl handle. It wasn’t the first time he had seen the design, though he had only seen it on one other gun. “What you packing, mister,” Henry asked. “You talking to me?” The man asked. “Yeah.” “Single Action Army. Blue finish. Pearl handle.” “You gots snakes on that handle?” “I believe I do.” “If ‘n you don’t mind my asking, may I ask where you gone and get that gun?” “You may,” the man nodded once and proceeded to drink his beer. Henry waited for a response. When he didn’t get one, he said, “And?” “Bought it off a gunsmith in Milton some years back. Had to pay extra to get that carving.” “You sure about that, mister?” “Why care about my gun so much? You want it?” “No, mister. I know a man who just so happens to have the same exact pistol.” “Down to the pearl handle?” “Down to the snakes on the handle.” “Maybe your friend just so happen to get his gun from the same gunsmith from the same town as me.” “I doubt that.” “I told you where I got mine. Where your friend get his?” Henry didn’t know what to say. Maybe the stranger had a point. Maybe the gun wasn’t the same gun. Maybe a carving of a snake on a pearl handle is just a carving of a snake on a pearl handle. “Maybe I’m mistaken,” Henry said before draining the last of the whiskey. “Maybe you is.” His pants were blue denim and untucked into his boots, his shirt black, and his boots were brown and worn. He also had a tan coat, and a black stalker hat. Henry watched as the man left the saloon. He moved away from the bar to watch the man as he walked down the main street, past the store, the bank, and the only other saloon in town, to the hotel. Mr. Henry wasn’t much of a thinking man, but he thought he better tell Mr. Schumacher. 15 minutes later “Maybe we ought to quit,” said James. “While we’re still ahead.” “Getting too old for the life, Mr. James?” Schumacher asked. “Maybe the life is getting too old for us.” “Say you retire. What then? What else kinda life you know to live?” “I’ll figure it out.” “And if you don’t what then?” “There’s got to be more than this. All this robbing and killing. There ain’t always going to be people who’ll back down. Like that man a few years back.” “As I recall, you didn’t hesitate to kill him.” “Don’t mean I can’t feel bad about it.” “I just always thought we were going to be outlaws to ‘till the end.” “Thing about the end,” said James, chopping off a piece of jerking with his skinny knife. “It can come now, or it can come later. Ain’t nothing stopping it from coming. I suppose I prefer it come later.” “Sounds nice and all,” said Schumacher, holding his hands out over the campfire. “But that involves me having to be something I can’t be. I rather die now doing this than down the road being something I ain’t got the patience nor the heart for.” Schumacher heard the galloping of a horse followed by a neigh. But his guard went down when he heard Henry call out to them. “You’re back early,” said Schumacher. “What happen, you burn down the saloon?” “What is it?” said James. “Saw a man at the saloon,” said Henry, recounting his encounter. “He had a gun that look a lot like your gun.” “For Pete’s sake,” said Schumacher, frustrated. “Who don’t carry a gun.” “It was a Colt with a pearl handle. And a snake on the handle. Just like yours.” Schumacher thought back to all those years ago. Back when they came across the butcher. It was just a gun like any other. Sure, it had a pearl handle. So what? Plenty of people carried pistols with pearl handles. It was about as original an idea as carrying two pistols. It was the one killing that bothered him. “So, what,” Schumacher said after pondering. “It don’t mean nothing. All it means is that snake ain’t one of a kind.” “I guess,” said Henry. “Maybe two of a kind.” Whatever dread Schumacher had was replaced by another idea. He carried around the butcher’s gun but hadn’t had occasion to use it. Mainly because he was more accustomed to his Colt 1878— a double action revolver. But the idea of walking around with a pair of twin snakes on his hips was exciting, though as vain as it was. “Let’s find the find the sonofabitch,” said Schumacher. “What?” said James. “Let’s find him and take his snake.” “We don’t even know where to look for him.” “He’s at the hotel,” Henry provided. “There you go,” said Schumacher, grinning that grin even a madman would fear. “Probably sleeping by now. Let’s go procure that pistol.” “Something don’t feel right, boss,” said James. “What’s the matter? You turning yellow?” “Not a chance. I ain’t never been afraid to pull the trigger. Not then, not now.” “That settles it,” said Schumacher. “Let’s go.” 20 minutes later The three men entered the hotel. Schumacher approached the man at the desk. “Evening,” he said, tilting his hat. “Was wondering if you mind telling me which one of these rooms I might find a man in a black stalker hat and light brown jacket. You might’ve also noticed he was walking around with a pearl handle on his pistol.” “I’m sorry mister, but I can’t just go around giving out that kind of information.” Schumacher slowly unholstered his pistol, placed it on the counter and pulled the hammer back for effect. “3B second floor end of the hallway. Can’t miss it.” Schumacher held out his hand. At first the clerk was confused. But after a second he understood what Schumacher was asking for as he took out a spare room key and placed it in his open palm. “Appreciated,” said Schumacher, grinning. The three men ascended the stairs to the second floor towards the room number the clerk provided. “This is it,” said Schumacher. “Mr. Henry you stay out here. “Mr. James, with me.” James worked the lever on his sawed-off Winchester rifle in acknowledgment. Schumacher quietly unlocked the door. Then the two men rushed into the room and opened fire. eight shots had been fired between the two gunmen before they realized the bed was empty. “The hell?” said Schumacher. “What is it?” said Henry in the hallway. “You get him? You got that sumbitch?” “No, it’s—” James didn’t even get a chance to finish his sentence when the shot came from the door. Instinctively, Schumacher took out his second gun, a Schofield with a shorter barrel, and fanned the hammer to fire rapidly. He had emptied the revolver by the time he realized he was shooting at Henry. Why was he shooting Henry? Did Henry shoot James? Before he realized Henry was being used as a human shield, Henry’s body was shoved onto him, pinning Schumacher to the ground. He had gotten the corpse of his friend— if he could call him that— off him when hands grasped the collar of his coat and sent Schumacher crashing through another set of doors. The night air told him he was back outside— balcony most likely. The kick took him by surprise, before he could get his bearings. The banister gave way, sending Schumacher over the ledge. His right leg and back took most of the impact from the fall— he might’ve heard something crack. Schumacher was on his stomach as he crawled. Where? It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he got away from the sonofabitch trying to kill him. It was no use. He was suddenly devoid of moonlight. He turned his head to look back at the stranger. Schumacher turned his body over to draw the Colt. Before he could even pull the hammer back, the stranger kicked the gun out of Schumacher’s hand. “How many guns you got?” he asked out of jest. “Damn you!” Schumacher spat. “I believe this belongs to me,” said the stranger, kneeling down to pick up the Colt with the pearl handle. “Yup, that be my pa’s handiwork.” “Your pa?” “Being a butcher was his trade. Carving was his hobby though. See, I got us a pair of pistols— one for me and one for him. It was supposed to be a tool. At least that’s how I handle mine. But he had to go and replace the wood handles with pearl ones and carve snakes into them.” “What that mean?” Asked Schumacher, who was still very much in pain. “The snakes.” The stranger examined the Colt as he held it by the barrel. “I don’t really know,” said the stranger. “Maybe my pa just fancied snakes. Or maybe he thought the carvings would look neat and scare folks into surrendering. You kind of robbed me of the opportunity to ask him.” “So, now you going to rob me of my life?” “The way you live, I wouldn’t call it robbing.” The butcher’s son stood up and tucked the second pearl handled pistol in his belt. “I ain’t going to kill you. I just came to get what’s mine. But I did promise to hand you over to the Santos Brothers.” The Santos Brothers were a gang made up of Americans, Mexicans, and at least one Indian. After doing a bank job in Smithfield, Schumacher had left the gang to fend for themselves as he managed to slip away unscathed. Schumacher knew they blamed him for the job going south, and that they wanted his head. “I know there’s a price on your head. But I think Mr. Henry and Mr. James will more than suffice.” “You a bounty hunter?” Schumacher asked distastefully. “You ought to have been a shoemaker. There’d have been a living in it.” “You’re one to talk, bounty hunter.” “My pa slaughtered animals. I slaughter men. Ain’t much difference.” Butcher walked away as thunderous gallops grew louder. Pretty soon Schumacher would meet his end. He would’ve preferred the bullet or the gallows, instead of a rusty machete. For the first time in a long time, he was afraid.


Heavy bodies dance to the booming bass, reeking of alcohol and pushing against me. I navigate the crowd, rubbing against more skin than clothes, and reach the kitchen. It's unrecognizable as our house now. The white-marbled counter is littered with plastic cups and dirty plates, and I start grabbing stuff and shoving it into an overflowing trash bin, with which the party guests must've made a game of to see how tall it could go without falling. I see my sister Cecil dancing a couple feet away, blonde locks and white smile bouncing above a sea of heads. Her arms wrap around a pretty stranger. I shake my head. I can't understand her for the life of me. I toss the bag to the floor and don't bother to replace the trash bin. "Her party, her mess," I tell myself, already knowing I'll be cleaning this tomorrow. Still, in a mix of rebellion and procrastination, I leave the trash and march upstairs (holding my breath as I pass some guys smoking on the steps). There's a couple e-books on my phone I have queued up, and I find it pleasant to think I'll be spending New Year's Eve reading while her friends are throwing up beer. I walk to my room when I see the lights on under the bathroom door. My gut burns. I told Cecil a billion times that upstairs was off-limits. I glare at the door and my back tingles at the thought of puke clogging up the toilet I'll have to use tomorrow. And the bathroom was just one thing—drunk couples tumbling into my bedroom, into Mom's bedroom? Jaw clenched, I slam my hand on the doorknob and yank the door open. I scream. A skinny brown-haired boy, sitting fully-clothed on my toilet, stares at me with a book in his hands. "What-" I start. His long hair brushes against his black glasses and reveal his eyes, green and glinting. "I'm.." "What are you doing here?" I blurt. It comes out all hard and cold and I don't mean it. Thankfully, he laughs softly and scratches his head. "I... I've been asking myself the same thing." I blink at him. I don't know what to do. "Upstairs are off-limits." He looks at me and there's a shift in his eyes. He grabs his book. "Sorry- yes, I'm leaving." He stands and glances about the bathroom apologetically. I watch, hating myself for feeling like the rude one. I feel guilty nonetheless—I would've done the same as him, at a party I didn't belong in. "Are you a friend of Cecil's?" I ask. He shakes his head. "Nah, my brother's a friend of hers. He dragged me along." I nod, but he's looking at the book in his hands. "He fancies her, I think. I honestly don't know why. No offense! You're her older sister, right?" "Yeah." We stand in the bathroom for a fat minute. My hands are itching to pull out that e-book and my bedroom is just behind me. The boy purses his lips and I catch a glimpse of his eyes. There's anxiety there—dread. I remember the crowds and the stench of alcohol downstairs and almost physically shudder. Which is terrifying, because I kind of have to pee now. "I'm gonna just be in my room," I say. He looks at me, eyes big. "So you can hang here, I guess.. if you want." He beams at me and I can tell he's trying to hide it. He must think I'm like Cecil, think I'm judging him. "Oh, wait, I have to use the bathroom!" I say. He nods vigorously and comes towards me and I step aside for him to pass before entering and closing the door. I relieve myself, shaking my head. After flushing and washing my hands, I call out, "It's all yours!" With a laugh, I open the door. The hallway is empty. I hear cheers from downstairs and glance at a clock on the wall: 11:59pm. Hah, of course. I consider going down to join the countdown, but instead smile and go into my room, slipping into the cool covers. I pull out my phone and search through my e-book list. I had caught a glimpse of the book he was reading, and I type it into the search bar. I settle in with a grin, and read.


Spring. The time when the grass becomes greener and the leaves turn brighter. It’s also the time when the annual Spring Festival takes place in the city of Sacramento, California. People all over the city come together on this Saturday and enjoy this event. There are different tents for food and other sold goods, live music and performances, rides, game booths, and to end off the night, a fireworks show. It is an overall, enjoyable occasion, but maybe not for everyone. Eva is a college student in her sophomore year who has a passion for painting. There are joys in grabbing a paintbrush and creating a piece of work where there are no limitations, but when it comes to her personal life, joy doesn’t exist as she’s constantly fighting the negative thoughts that have been attacking her mind for years. Her family forcefully brings her to the festival to get some fresh air, instead of staying isolated in her room, letting her thoughts rot her brain. Vince, another student in his junior year of college, flew from New York during his spring break to spend time with his grandmother, as he does every year. He’s studying to become an architect, so he takes his school and work very seriously. His aura makes him unapproachable, which is why he isn’t close to many people, but it hasn’t occurred to anyone that that idea does put a burden on him. He never wished for people to keep a distance from him, but they did and believed that was okay for him because he’ll become successful for himself and his family. Success was all that they cared about when it came to him. Vince had been accompanying his grandmother around the festival until his Aunt Janice came to take over. “Don’t worry about me. Go and make some memories on your own for once while you’re in this town” Vince’s grandmother whispered, then winked before she walked away with Aunt Janice. Eva had been sitting on the grass with all the other festival go-ers, listening to the live music. She was drawing in her notebook to pass the time by, since her mother wouldn’t let her leave until after the fireworks show had ended. She stood up to walk around and look for something new to occupy her. She bumped into a man that looked the same age as her who was taking a picture for another family. Apparently, they bumped into each other pretty hard to where her sunglasses on her head fell to the ground. “That was my fault. I am so sorry,” Vince apologized. “It’s fine,” Eva said while picking up her glasses and blowing off the dirt on the lenses. She walked away to grab a napkin from one of the food tents and sat back down on the grass. As she was cleaning her glasses with the napkin and her half-filled water bottle, Vince comes her way and apologizes once more, but this time with a bag of chips he bought from a food tent. She accepted the chips and he sat about five feet away from her. They didn’t know it, but in their minds, they were both questioning why the other was alone at this festival full of families, friends, and couples. Most people had their company, but soon, they would be each other’s company. “Do you enjoy going to events by yourself or are you waiting for anyone?” Eva started. “I was with my grandmother, but she decided to leave me alone to have fun. She thinks I need a break from being such a serious person…but she’s right. These kinds of things are nice,” Vince explains. “What about you, if I may ask?” “My mom forced me to come here. She thinks being cooped up in my room all the time is bad for me. I hate to admit it, but she is right because being outside gives me inspiration for my paintings.” Their conversation went on for hours, talking about their lives. Even though they both enjoyed listening to one another’s stories, sharing pictures of their own career-related work on their phones, they each couldn’t help but feel a pinch of sadness about how the other felt about their own life. On one hand, Vince was amazed at how much freedom Eva feels when she creates new artwork, but at the same time, his heart tugged at the fact that she couldn’t paint her reality to become more happier or secure around her family. On the other hand, Eva felt inspired by how much initiative Vince has taken on his career as an architect. She was fascinated from seeing the blueprints he created and how he has been helping his uncle with designing buildings in his town. However, there was a sense of despair when he discussed how much people only appreciate him for being on top of his education and career. She noticed his gloomy expression when he stated that he wished people looked beyond those capabilities and cared about him, and not just his work. People view buildings and think it looks beautiful from the outside as they pass by and just disregard the structure built inside of it; this was Vince’s perspective on how his life was like, and Eva completely understood that. Vince went to grab a blanket in his car for him and Eva to sit on. They talked all night about each other’s’ interests and futures. Although it wasn’t addressed, they both understood to not pry into one another’s personal life because they had respected each other that much. However, throughout the night, they each couldn’t help but feel the need to know how the other came to be the person they are today and why they aren’t the person they wished to be. There was a lot more that they needed to learn about each other, and if only time persisted, then they could. They joked and shared laughs until the fireworks suddenly shot up in the sky. There was silence between the two amongst the “oohhs” and “aahhs” from the children around them, but their minds were loud with wonders about the other and when they will see each other again. Their hearts felt that there was a reason they needed to stay connected. The show ended, and so did their light-hearted conversation that would be unforgettable for the both of them. “It was great meeting you. I actually had a wonderful time, which doesn’t happen often, so I guess you’re lucky,” Eva joked. “Well, I’m honored. I also had a great time with you, so thank you. I mean it.” “Would you like to meet again one day? We can go to a café near by or come back here and-“ “Actually, my flight leaves tomorrow morning.” “Oh,” said Eva with a saddened tone. “My week of spring break ends here, unfortunately, but now I’m wishing this was the start,” Vince says apologetically. “I’ll be back next year during break, so we can meet up and continue our conversation because I would love to know more about you.” Eva smiles and says, “Yes, I agree. Let’s exchange phone numbers, so we don’t lose contact.” Vince complies and they both enter in their contacts on the other’s phone as people are ushering out of the park to drive back home, since the event was over. When they finish, they bid each other goodbye and go their separate ways with disappointment and hope in their hearts. Eva walks towards where her mother’s car was parked until she hears Vince call out her name, causing her to stop in her tracks and turn around. “We’ll meet again in the spring time,” Vince ensures.


Trigger warning: suicide

As Beth climbed the thirteen flights of stairs to the fourteenth floor, she rehearsed in her mind what she was going to say to Devon when she broke the news to him that she was leaving him.

With each step, her resolve to finally follow through on this, now 8-month endeavor of ceasing her six-year relationship with Devon, a failed and failed again writer who was never quite able to write that breakthrough novel he always talked about.

Over the course of the six years, escalating fiercely to new extremes in just the past few months, Devon had grown even more entrenched in his dream of becoming a writer, even more than what Beth had grown accustomed to calling “normal behavior”.

She was actually going to do it this time.

No hesitations.

No cold feet.

No backing down, giving in, and sinking into the same depression she had been dealing with for much too long.

I deserve better, she told herself.

Beth reached the final step on her journey upward. She opened the stairwell door into the hallway she was all too familiar with. She walked down, door after door until she reached her destination.

She pulled her key ring out, began to undo his key from her ring. She would give it back to him after she had broken up with him.

Beth took a deep breath in, held it. Doubt arose in her gut. She blew it out along with the lungful of air.

Beth knew she was doing the right thing, but as with most cases, the most right thing never really means the easiest thing to do.

Sure their relationship was strained, and he never seemed to have time for just the two of them - at least not without resorting to mentioning or redirecting the topic of conversation back to his writing.

She really did love him. it just. . . wasn’t the same anymore. He wasn’t in it and Beth could clearly see that now.

She inserted the key, turned it, and pushed through the door.

The scene she stumbled into startled her. She stood in the doorframe, unaware of her inability to move while she gazed at the open window across the room.

The curtains moved about as the wind blew them and the position Devon was currently in, half in half out, made it almost looked as if the curtains were some sort of cape.

“What the hell are you doing?” Beth finally managed to say, unsure of how long she was actually standing there before speaking.

Devon stumbled back out of the window. He held something under his right arm.

“Jesus! You scared me!” he said, holding his free hand over his chest.

“I scared you?” Beth said, moving further into the room. “You scared me! What are you doing hanging out of the window?”

Devon held up a finger to Beth, appearing to try to catch his breath after the scare Beth had supposedly given him.

Beth crossed her arms, felt the keyring in one hand, the unclipped apartment key in the other, and suddenly was reminded of her original intent in coming over in the first place.

She resolved again to follow through, no matter what.

“So, are you going to tell me what you were doing hanging outside of the window on the fourteenth floor of an apartment building?” “Thirteenth, technically.”

“Whatever, answer me.”

“Well, you know how I’ve been trying to write my novel?”

The question was laughable to Beth as if that had not been the topic of discussion for the majority of their relationship.

“Yes.” She kept it short, realizing that being too blunt was just going to make the inevitable breakup all the harder.

“I figured out what I need to do to make it actually work. I know how I’m going to be able to finish it,” Devon said with a smile that made Beth’s heat race.

Ignore it , Beth told herself.

“Ok, what does that have to do with you out on a ledge? And what’s that under your arm?” Beth craned her neck to try to see it better. “That’s not your typewriter, is it? Were you going to throw it out?”

“Yes, and yes,” Devon said looking down at the typewriter under his arm, patting it like it was a pet.

“But you love your old typewriter.”

Don’t get emotionally sucked in Beth.

“I know,” Devon said, as he finally stopped petting the inanimate object. “Let me explain.”

“Please.”

“I realized that all this time I was doing it all wrong. I wasn’t being the type of writer that I needed to be to make my work...” he stopped to search for the word. “Pop!” He exploded the fingers of his hand as he said the last word.

Beth squinted her eyes at Devon, cocked her head to the side.

“I need to become a ghost writer.”

“Ghost Rider? Like, that crappy Nicholas Cage movie? I thought you hated it?”

Devon stood there, silent. A few seconds passed and his face didn’t change a bit, he just stared at Beth with a blank stare on his face.

Then, he finally answered her, “No.”

“No, you don’t like those movies or no -”

“No, not a ghost rider,”: Devon interrupted, “a ghost wri-t-er.” He pronounced the ‘t’ in writer harshly, like the clap of a snare drum.

“A ghost writer?”

“Yes, a ghost writer. That’s what’s going to set me apart from the rest. It’s what will release all of my pent up creativity.”

“Ok, sure. You’re going to get someone else's idea, get paid by them for you to write it and then you both benefit from it. I still don’t get what you hanging out of your apartment window has anything to do with it. And why would that require you to toss your typewriter out on the street fourteen floors below?”

“Thirteen . . .” He shook off his train of thought with a frustrated grunt. “No, that’s not what being a ghost writer means.”

Beth was confused, it showed in her face. “Ummm, I’m pretty sure that is in fact what it means.”

This conversation felt all too familiar. She didn’t want to get sucked even further into it. She couldn’t help it.

“Well, that’s not the kind I’m talking about then.” He heaved a sigh, an echo of many of their past conversations, mirrored in this one.

Beth rubbed the apartment ket back and forth between her index and pointer finger.

Devon shifted the clunky typewriter to under his other arm, “I’m talking about becoming a ghost so that I can write my stories that way.”

“You mean . . . like a ghost, ghost?” Beth lifted her hands up to the side of her head, “Oooooooooh. . .”

Devon shook his head, let out another sigh of annoyance, “When you put it that way, it sounds stupid. How do you do that? You always somehow manage to make whatever I say sound stupid?”

Beth felt the rumblings of an argument coming on.

“You can’t be serious right now? I mean, come on.” Beth said, lowering her hands that she didn’t even realize she had kept up. “You don’t honestly think that that’s a thing, right?”

“Of course it’s a thing. I’ve done a lot of research on the topic. This is going to work.”

Then it hit Beth. She knew why he was in the window when she first arrived. He planned to jump out of the window to kill himself. To become ‘a ghost’ so that he could ghost write.

“I knew you wouldn’t understand,” Devon said, turning back towards the window. He raised his foot and put it through. “You never did. But soon you will. I’ll show you. I’ll show everyone.”

Beth froze. She didn’t know what to do at this moment. In the few minutes they talked together, she realized she didn’t have the guts to break-up with him, but she also knew that if she stopped him from climbing through the window, she would be stuck in a relationship she hated and despised.

She grappled with a thought that no one should ever even have to possibly entertain.

What if she let him die?

Beth shuddered.

Could she actually sit by and watch idly as someone else ended their life right before her very eyes?

Devon swung his other leg out of the window so that he was now sitting on the ledge, both feet dangling over the empty air just outside of his window.

He’s got to be joking...right? Beth thought to herself. This can’t be happening. . .

She was wrong.

Before she could even react, Devon took a sideways look at her, said, “see you on the other side.” and fell from the window., typewriter underarm.

Since that fateful day in Devon’s apartment, Devon went on to become a national bestseller with critics and fans alike praising his work as, quote, “pure genius!”, “an honest to god piece of art” and “Simply ethereal”.

He wrote such works as “When the Clock Strikes Six”, “Two Tiny Chairs”, “Green Umbrellas”, and “The Snowman with a Gun” as well as such instant classics as his poem, “American Bird” and his memoir “One Flew over One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest” where he got super meta about how he stumbled upon his ingenious idea of becoming a ghostwriter.

He collected as many accolades and awards a writer could ever dream of, winning them hands down, left and right outselling the Harry Potter series by J.K. Rowling and all of Stephen King’s books - combined.

He was dubbed a pioneer in the arts of ghostwriting. A true innovator, willing to go to any length for the love and pursuit of his craft.

Beth was glad that she hadn’t gone through with the break-up and knew she would have grown to regret it for the rest of her life.


It all started with COVID-19. The whole world was crumbling, and everyone was wondering what was going to happen. Most worried if they would have their jobs, If they could travel to see their friends after it all ended. What no one imagined came close to reality. They couldn't imagine that it was only the beginning and that it would end the world.

It started with a new surge in cases when the world was sure the virus had waned. Then the doctors noticed something alarming. Those that got it before were immune, and those that hadn't got it then developed a high fever, followed by unconsciousness. Those that made it through changed utterly. They changed physically, race, they even lost all memories of who they had been. It was as though they became born anew. The doctors didn't realize then that it was more than a change; it was a mutation. This is how the Covlings were born. Think Changelings or shapeshifters, but very real. It did not matter the country, race, societal standing. No one infected was safe.

They became more robust, ruthless, and they soon outnumbered the humans. The world, as we knew it collapsed. The hospitals were overwhelmed and couldn't keep track of who was whom. Governments collapsed. Families were separated. And the new race saw the opportunity to take over the world. The humans became rejects, second class citizens who lived on the outskirts, and the Covlings prospered. They made sure never to marry or live with the normals as they called them. Florie was just a girl who loved a man. She met a man, Simon, just before the resurgence of the virus. She loved him during COVID, and they had a torrid four months. Their relationship came to an abrupt end when he suddenly got sick with the virus. But she had one certainty in her mind; Simon was the love of her life. She had dated many men before the apocalypse, but none had ever loved her the way he had. She felt lost in this new world without him. He had been her anchor and built her up, supported her, cherished her. She believed that even if he was a Covling, some of him would remember her and the love they shared. Now she was all alone and wanted to see if she could find him on the other end of the Earth. She set out to what used to be Edinburgh to find him. The city of their love, where they met. She passed the ruins of Brig o' Doon, where they had their first kiss. Her fingers trailed the stone, she found the place where they etched their initials. A tear trailed down her cheek. She remembered their last conversation. It had been a fight, and he left her several messages. The day she saw him last didn't start out any different from any other day. It was a long morning where she didn't want to wake up. She lay in bed for a while before checking her messages. The first thing she saw was him saying ' bye ' and

'I'm not doing this .'

She tried to read all the messages he left throughout the night.

And some of them popped out as she scrolled up the screen.

I love you ,  remember that.

I wasn't going to say sorry .

No more .

Fuck it.

It's not fair on me .

Invested so much time, effort, and love into you. You probably hurt now.

I guess you'll turn it back on me .

Maybe this is what you do, you ruin things .

I said I was happy, but I was fucking screaming inside. I asked you for one thing .

I'm in fucking pieces .

She was upset by his messages and decided not to respond. He was silly. She couldn't believe he wanted to end things just because there had been flirting with someone else. By the time she decided to respond days later, he had been admitted with the virus.  She tried tracking him down, but it was hard to get information about what had happened to patients admitted initially. That is when she realized she had lost the One. The one thing that she had that meant something to her. She had spent all this time chasing after all the wrong things and only realized when it was gone what she did want. She only wanted one thing, him. And now he was gone.

She cried and prayed for God to tell her how to get him back because she couldn't live without him. All she could see and think in those days was him. She sank into a stupor reliving all the beautiful moments they had shared. She was an orphan and had been alone as long as she could remember. All her relationships in the past had led to pain. Simon had been the one man who made her feel like she mattered, and her life would amount to something. He was the only constant, the only thing that kept her together. He pieced her together every day until she almost felt whole. And now she was crumbling again.

She turned onto Ferry road and was further haunted by all the memories of the places lined ahead they used to go to, as she walked on looking in the windows. She gazed in listlessly, her mind trapped in the past in memories of what had been. She haunted all the places they used to go to. Where Simon first told her he wanted to leave his wife. The date where he told her he wanted everything. When she got to the restaurant where he proposed, she decided to go in on impulse. She walked in and was drawn to their favorite booth. Sliding into one of the seats, her mind started reminiscing all the times spent there. Absentmindedly, her hands trailed the wall, and she found a brick that seemed loose. She tugged at it, and a note fell out. It was addressed to her in his handwriting. She was overcome with deep emotion and opened it while her hands shook. 'Dear Florie, I'm writing this while I still can.

I don't remember much.

But I remember your name and this place.

I think it is crucial. Find me here, I will come back if I can. There is a fog that prevents us from remembering.

But your name slips through once in a while with a sense of urgency. I'll be here when I remember again. I want to know you. -Simon

She knew that no matter what, she had to find Simon. That their story would never end. Without him, life was bleak and dark. The world was falling apart, and everything was burning, but she knew, together, they could make it work. They could find a new Edinburgh amidst the ruins.


Nick tossed about in bed. He couldn’t sleep. He gave up trying to keep his eyes shut because he knew it was useless. And his pillow was on the wrong side of the bed.  Nick sat up and put the pillow on the right side of the bed. He straightened his blankets and lay down on the bed, still unable to sleep. He stared at his ceiling. And then he stared at the window. There was the moon. How round and bright it was. He got up and went to the window to get a closer look.  Nick admired the moon. He lived in a flat on the 7 th floor. From up there, he saw someone dressed from head to toe in black sneaking around. Nick’s bedroom door opened and someone came in. “Nick,”  It was Nick’s half brother, Alfred or as Nick called him, Al. Nick’s parents left him when he was two. First his dad and then his mom. It was his most traumatic experience. Nick had been sent to a foster family with his half brother Al. They had shared the same mother. The Wools family had taken them in. Nick now had a new mother and father, Brittany and Samuel. Nick was also introduced to his new sister Precious. “I couldn’t sleep either,” said Al taking out some chocolate buttons from his pockets.

 Nick licked his lips at the sight of them. They were one of his favourite foods. He didn’t mention the person in black to Al but took a chocolate button and popped it into his mouth.  “So...”  There was a big CRASH and the window exploded into hundreds of tiny pieces. “What the-,” said, Al. “What’s going on!” yelled Brittany and Samuel from their bedroom. “I don’t know,” yelled Precious back.  Nick and Al ran to their parents’ room. “What happened?” asked Samuel. “Nick’s window got broken,” said Al. “How?” asked Brittany. “I don’t know. We were just-” “What were you doing?” demanded Brittany. “We were just eating chocolate-” “I want some too,” said Precious at once. “We were just in my room and then the window shattered into pieces,’ said Nick. “How?” asked Brittany. “We don’t know!” said Nick and Al at the same time. Samuel grunted. “A window can’t just shatter into pieces by itself.” “What if something was thrown at the window?” suggested Precious. “That might be it. Let’s check what happened to it,” said Samuel.  They went up and found among the glass pieces, a small grey pebble. “Who would do that?” wondered Samuel aloud.  Nick thought that was the time to tell them about the person in black. “Before that happened, I saw a person in black, dressed like a robber, sneaking around.” The family stared at him at this news. “Why didn’t you tell us?” asked Samuel. “I… I don’t know,” muttered Nick.  Al bent down and picked up the pebble. “Why did the person in black throw the pebble at the window?” asked Al. “For what reason?” “Quick!” said Samuel. “Check if anything is stolen.” “Don’t be silly Sam,” said Brittany. We live on the 7 th floor. The person couldn’t have climbed up here,”  Precious looked out of the window. “Look here!”  Everyone went to the window and peered out. There was a ladder leading to Nick’s window from the 6 th floor’s balcony.  “Would you look at that,” said Samuel. “The person in black’s living in the same place as us.”  Everyone stared at each other in shock. “Does that mean this place isn’t safe?” asked Brittany. “Maybe… we’ll have to move,” said Samuel. “Is anything missing?” “Nick dug into his drawers. All was there. He searched his cupboard. Everything seemed to be in place. “Why is your backpack thrown in the corner?” asked Precious. “I didn’t put it there,” said Nick and went to get it. He opened a zip and felt about in it. There was nothing in it. “Oh no, it’s missing!” he exclaimed. “What’s missing?” asked Samuel.  Nick looked at Al. “The chain,” he said. “Huh?” said Precious. “Our mother gave Nick a gold chain when she left,” said Al. “Is it real gold?” asked Brittany. “Yeah,” said Nick. “Well we can get it back; we know the person stays in this building,’ said Samuel. But for now, how about you sleep in Al’s room, Nick?”  Nick brought a sleeping bag into Al’s room and they talked about stuff and ate chocolate buttons and had a spooky story contest and they fell asleep.  In the morning, Nick woke up with Al’s foot on his face. He pushed it off and got up and started getting ready for breakfast. Nick woke up Al and they had a swordfight with their toothbrushes and were very late for breakfast.  Brittany and Samuel didn’t mind though that they were late. Brittany just made them toast and served it to them. After breakfast, Samuel led them to the couch and said that they were all going to have a talk. “We are going to go to the 6 th floor and find out who are the people living there,” said Samuel. Brittany was shocked. “But that wasn’t what you said Sam!” “How else are we going to find the person in black?” “Can I come?” asked Precious “No, you’re not coming, it’s too dangerous,” said Samuel. “Just Nick and me,” “And me,” said Al. “Yes, and Al,” added Samuel.  After the talk, the three of them went to the ground floor and went to the guard to talk. “Who is living on the 6 th floor?” asked Samuel. “Eh, only Edgar Walker, the Jones family and Martha Crick,” said the guard a little surprised. “Thank you,” said Samuel and turned to Nick and Al. “First we’ll visit Martha Crick and then the Jones family and then Edgar Walker.”  Nick and Al nodded. They left for the 6 th floor with the guard looking at them with a puzzled expression.  They took the stairs to the 6 th floor. There were five rooms. Only three of them were used. Nick, Al and Samuel wondered which one to enter.  Little did they know the guard had heard them talking and he had called the police because he thought something suspicious was going on.  “Let’s go in this one,” said Al pointing at a door that said, 101. Samuel knocked on the door and opened it. “Hello? Sorry to disturb you but-” Samuel stopped mid-sentence and looked around the room.  It was empty. “Oh,” said Nick and Al. “To the next room.” They went to room 102 and knocked on it. A lady with a blue pleated skirt appeared at the doorway. She was carrying a baby and holding a milk bottle. Nick thought that she must be Martha Crick. “Hi um, is your husband in?” asked Samuel.  Martha looked surprised. “My husband?” she repeated. My husband left me nine years ago!” Nick’s stomach gave a weird jolt. It had been nine years since his mother left him. “We’re sorry for disturbing you,” said Samuel politely. “It’s alright then,” said Martha and shut the door.  Nick knew that the woman’s face looked familiar. He couldn’t put his hand on it. It might’ve been his mother but he had forgotten her name as well as his father’s. He only remembered his surname which was Walker.  They came to door 102. Samuel knocked on the door. A small girl opened the door. “What do you want?” asked the girl. “Is there any boys in your family?” asked Al. “Well my father and my brothers,” replied the girl. “Were all of them in the house last night?” asked Nick. “No, my father was at work and my brother’s slept at their friend’s house,” said the girl and then frowned. “Why are you so nosy?” “Oh we’re not being nosy,” said Al. “Some toxic gas was released yesterday and it wasn’t safe for people to go out. That’s why we’re making sure no one went outside last night.” “Oh,” said the girl and shut the door. “How un-polite,” said Samuel and walked to the last door, 103.  A man opened the door. “Hello, are you Mr Edgar Walker?” asked Samuel. Have you been anywhere last night?”  But Edgar Walker was staring at Nick. Nick told himself that this couldn’t be his father as there were lots of other Walkers out there. “No, I haven’t,” said Edgar, still looking at Nick.  Precious and Brittany appeared from nowhere holding hands. “Then what’s that?” asked Precious pointing at Edgar’s trouser pocket. “That’s my chain!” shouted Nick.  The police arrived with the guard behind them. “What’s all this about?” asked one policeman.  “This man stole my chain from me in the night!” said Nick.  Now the guard looked mightily confused. “What?” he said.  The policeman went to Edgar and took out the chain from his pocket and handed it to Nick. “B-but that’s mine!” protested Edgar. “You climbed the ladder and broke the window and took the chain,” said Samuel. “I never did such things,” said Edgar. “You can’t accuse me without proof!” “I have proof,” said Al smugly. He brought out his phone from his pockets and showed them a video of the man in black entering the room from the window. The man searched underneath the bed and on top of cupboards and then searched in Nick’s bag and brought out the chain. When the man climbed out of the window, his mask dropped and he was revealed as Edgar Walker.  The police handcuffed Edgar and led him outside. Martha Crick came out and stared at Edgar. They shared a look at each other. And then they looked at Nick. “Do you think we should tell him?” asked Martha. “Nah, he’s better off not knowing,” said Edgar as he sat in the back seat of the police car.  The cars zoomed off to the police station and Martha was nowhere to be found. And then Nick knew something. Martha and Edgar were his parents.  With a sigh, Nick followed his other parents home.


I call her, the phone rings, and rings, and then suddenly, voicemail. "Weird." I mutter to myself. I check her location and once again the technology of Apple has failed me. Why does this thing always seem to glitch out when I get worried? I tend not to bother her with multiple calls at a time, but this time I am just really worried. I know that she doesn't like it when I blow up her phone, but I need to know she's okay. If anything, at least maybe she will appreciate how much I care about her. I call her again. The phone rings, and rings, and then suddenly, voicemail. "Damnit..." I say to myself again. Now I am genuinely growing worried. It is 11:30 P.M., and I know she has been off work for an hour now. Why is her location off? Why isn't she answering? Maybe she got into an accident on her way home. Maybe she got carjacked and they tossed her phone into an ocean or something. Maybe she got picked up off the street and God forbid anything happened to her. Or maybe... I call again. The phone rings, and rings, and then suddenly, voicemail. I don't say anything this time. Instead, a feeling of fear begins to wash over me. The last time we spoke on the phone, she answered so frantically and hung up in such a rush. I can tell she is going through a lot right now. We haven't seen each other in about three weeks. She told me she has been going through a lot with her job and her mother and her living situation and that she just needs some time to sort everything out. Still, as far as I know, everything is good between us. I have afforded her some space for the time being, but tonight something has just come over me. I can't deal with the thought of her stressing, worrying about everything too much like I do. Seeking comfort in unusual places. I only hope that it all didn't become too much for her. Maybe she adopted some bad habits to cope with the stress. Maybe she is strung out in some drug house right now, in danger around those animals. Maybe she had a mental break and hurt herself or worse. Tears begin to well in my eyes as once again I call her. The phone rings, and rings, and then suddenly, voicemail. "Please" I plead with myself, or whoever may be listening. At this point I just miss her so much, I really just want to hear her voice, to know that everything is okay. She has gotten so distantly lately, she seems strained anytime I talk to her. Her stress has mounted to a point where I am lucky to get an "I love you too." I just feel so bad for her. I wish she was here so I could hold her in my arms and tell her everything is going to be okay. I want to relieve her stress in every which way and let her know that as long as we have each other, everything is going to work out. I call again, the phone rings, and rings, and then suddenly, voicemail. I know she has been spending a lot of time at her friend's house, staying there to unwind and get away from her mom. I'm not sure what exactly it is her and her mom are arguing about, she hasn't bothered to tell me. I only hope she is safe in the company of friends. The thoughts start to creep in, but I know my beloved, and that she would never betray my trust. The bond we share is far too strong, true love doesn't come often, but when it does, you can just feel it. I love her with all of my heart, and nothing could ever change that. When she answers the phone, be it today or tomorrow or whenever that time comes, I am just going to spill my entire heart to her because I want her to know what she means to me. She is my everything. I call again. The phone rings, and rings, and suddenly, voicemail. "Fuck" I blurt out through tears. They now stream down my cheek uncontrollably as my mind churns in a whirlwind of doubt and discomfort. I am hardly thinking straight at this point. I call fifteen more times, and fifteen more times, the phone rings, and rings, and suddenly, voicemail. I have no thought in my mind other than to keep calling, and keep calling, and to not give up until I hear her voice. I am close to calling the police just in case she is in danger or dead somewhere. So many intrusive thoughts race through my mind, each more disgusting and vivid than the last. I call again, the phone rings, and rings, and suddenly, a voice answers! Momentarily I am relieved, but quickly I realize, this is not her voice. "Hello?" I say. "Who is this?" A man's voice responds. "This is Katherine's boyfriend" I respond, it's strange, she never mentioned her friend was a boy. He lets out a soft chuckle, he pauses for a moment and says "I'm sorry dude, she's asleep, and I don't think she considers you that..." "What?" I respond. My heart falls to the floor. Surely he misspoke, or perhaps I misheard him. "She's been here for a week bro, and this ain't the only place she has been. I don't got time for this shit, I'll let her explain." He says as he hangs up the phone. A tremendous feeling of grief washes over me. For a moment, I am absolutely floored by these comments. Quickly, I come to my senses. This must just be one of her friends fucking with me. Maybe the friend she was staying with has a boyfriend and they just thought it would be funny to play a trick on me. Maybe she was just off to the side, finding a quick laugh in my discomfort. It's the least I could do for her in her time of need. I'd like to say she would never embarrass me like that, but it wouldn't be the first time. Whatever the case may be, everything is going to be okay when I get her explanation tomorrow. Hopefully I wake up to it, I love the sweet messages she used to leave me every morning before all of this stress was put on her.


 Ruth Emory's attic was proof that when things were out of sight they were also out of mind. She had been de-cluttering up there for almost a week. She had made it through a mountain of boxes filled with old dishes, discarded pots and pans, clothes and half finished knitting projects gone awry. Now that the great wall of boxes had been reduced there were only a few pieces of furniture left. There were 2 rockers, Jim's roll-top desk, a bright yellow kitchen step stool (circa 1950) and an ancient floor lamp that was mostly brass and weighed a ton. She would have to get her next door neighbor, Ned, to bring that thing down.

She sat down on the step-stool and started from top to bottom throwing away bent paper clips, a box of rusty staples, a collection of almost dry pens and nubs of pencils. In the next to last drawer there was a small pile of receipts. Good Lord, in 1970 bread was 25 cents a loaf, milk was $1.32 a gallon and you could get a dozen eggs for 60 cents! Those were the days...maybe she would keep this receipt for framing.

In the last drawer, under an old bank book she found a small heart shaped box made out of Myrtle wood. It was tiny enough to slide into a pocket. It HAD to have come from Bandon on the Oregon coast because that is where they bought myrtle wood. She had opened it gingerly and inside on a small piece of satin was a key… For the past four months Ruth had found it increasingly difficult to get up in the mornings. It wasn't because she was sleep deprived because she slept a lot (sleep was a safe haven). It wasn't because of a hangover from too many whiskey shots or mood stabilizers and it definitely wasn't because she had just turned eighty. It was all because her husband had unexpectedly been catapulted into the Great Beyond like some cannonball shot from a cannon.

She hated this new husband-less life. Honestly, she felt like she had been abandoned in a Memory Minefield. Last week she had turned on the TV to watch the weather report and found the channel had been left on OPB (their favorite station). MONDAY NIGHT MURDERS and MYSTERIES was on. They had watched this religiously every week for the past three years; cuddled together on the sofa, ferreting out clues over a big bowl of homemade buttered popcorn. And remembering this, her grief exploded like those memory mines in the minefield- (BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!) She turned off the TV as quickly as she could and called the Salvation Army, who came the next morning and hauled it away.

Even driving through town to do errands was fraught with the possibility of unexpected explosions. If she had a doctor's appointment she had to drive by St. Mary's hospital where their only child, Gracie, was born. If she had a dental appointment or an eye exam she had to pass Pioneer Cemetery where they had buried Gracie eight years later after an outbreak of meningitis had brought the town to its knees. They had sat shoulder to shoulder on hard metal chairs at the graveside; stony- faced even though their hearts felt like pulsating masses of shattered glass.

Just yesterday, she had driven past the fancy restaurant on the corner of Fifth and Maple where Jim had planned a surprise costume party for her seventy-fifth birthday. He was a man of precision, a chemical engineer by profession, with a love of conquering obstacles. His eye for detail was a gift. She could almost hear him say, "Ruthie, it's just like my dad said..you have to be vigilant because the devil is in the details!" He had hired a caterer from Portland and a swing band. He even came up with a theme (the Fabulous Forties) and put together her costume as well, with the help of Agnes Stillwater, who owned the fancy Vintage Dress shop downtown. The white limousine he rented to whisk them away to the restaurant was quite the surprise! When they arrived at the restaurant he blindfolded her and led her past the streamers and the balloons into the ladies room where Agnes had hung her costume. Oh what a sweet costume it was, too...a black and white polka dot dress complete with a circle skirt held high by a crinoline half slip. She couoldn't believe that the stockings actually had seams up the back and the low wedge heels with the ankle straps were very much like a pair she once owned.

She had sat down on the bathroom bench and was sliding one stocking over an outstretched leg when he said, "Honey, remember when we were in Bandon and you were putting on your stockings, just like now and I reached over and..."

"Oh stop Jim! How you go on!" but she blushed a little remembering their honeymoon in Bandon. He bent down and kissed her and said, "You are my Baby Ruth, sweet as candy!" Calling her the name of his favorite candy bar was an old joke of theirs.

When they emerged from the ladies room she felt like a princess and when the band started playing Glenn Miller songs they danced and whirled and shimmied around the room, secure among their friends and warmed by love then, (BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!) She had to pull the car over and park as the memory of that day engulfed her. She sat there for thirty minutes and cried her eyes out. When she came to the end of her tears, she searched in her purse for Jim's death certificate and pulled it out to look at it for the umpteenth time. It grounded her in the present, pulled her from the past where things weren't real anymore. Death...this was real. She had begged him to skip his weekly poker game. None of his friends drove except Sam and he wasn’t going because he was giving a lecture that night down at the Junior College. She would take him but she couldn’t see well enough at night to drive; neither of them could. When she suggested a Taxi he said. “Honey, you are a worry wart! It’s only a mile away; I will be fine.” She was awakened just after midnight by the doorbell. Oh, for god’s sake, had he forgotten his house key again? She wrapped her robe around her and yelled, “OK, I’m coming!” She opened the door saying, “I can’t believe you forgot….” There were two policemen standing on the porch; one tall and one short and both shifting their weight from one foot to the other, clutching their police caps awkwardly in front of them. “Mrs. Emory, may we come inside?” the tall one asked. “Oh…well, of course!” she answered in a voice that sounded foreign to her ears.

They sat in the two armchairs across from the sofa. As they began to speak, she felt as if some unseen force was strangling her. “Ma’am,” said the short one, “There has been an accident. Your husband’s car was hit by an 18 wheeler.” The tall one continued. “The driver fell asleep at the wheel and crossed into the oncoming lane and there was nothing your husband could do to avoid… the fatal crash.” Her throat felt tight and she found it difficult to take a deep breath. Her hands felt clammy. She looked at each one as they spoke, directly into their eyes. Maybe it was all a big lie…she would know by their eyes. All she saw there was compassion. “The coroner said that your husband didn’t suffer... that it was instantaneous.” Said the short officer. “Ma’am, is there someone we can call for you?” “No, no…” she said, “there isn’t anyone I want to call just yet.”  “We are very sorry for your loss,” the two officers said in unison. After they had gone she sat for a long time staring at the business cards they left on the coffee table. Somewhere a dog barked. It was so quiet she had heard the ticking of the wall clock and timed her breathing to it’s rhythm; in and out, in and out. Little by little things began to sink in and grief enveloped her like a straight jacket. The more she steeled herself against it, the tighter it became. She had the memorial service at their home with a lot of help from Ned and his wife, Gilda. Even though she was surrounded by friends she felt lost without Jim. There was enough food to feed half the city of Salem: steaming crock pots filled with hearty soups, trays of finger sandwiches, tossed salad, potato salad, green pea and water chestnut salad, corn muffins and numerous cakes, pies and cookies. People huddled in small groups whispering together on the back deck and in the hallway. When she teared up her friends averted their eyes and followed this with vain attempts at encouragement.

“Ruthie, honey, ya know Jim would want you to carry on, to live life to the fullest and…well, thrive,” said Ned’s wife. To which Ruth thought, Thrive rhymes with Alive and since I have become the walking dead I don’t suppose thriving is something I will be doing. Catherine Amos, the head cashier at the Dollar Store chimed in, “I know just how you feel, Ruth. When I lost my Gregory I thought I would NEVER smile again.” Ruth had watched her hands gesticulating to make her point. She smelled like whiskey and cigarettes. “It seemed like the pain would NEVER go away, it would just go on and on with my heart breaking over and over. But it didn’t last forever. It does get better. It did for me and it will for you too.” Ruth appreciated their efforts, she just didn’t believe she would THRIVE or that this godawful pain would get any better at all. She dutifully made her way amongst the guests. As her mother once said, when you have to do something and there is no way around it you have to just buck up! So, Ruth had received hugs and pats on the back graciously. What she really wanted to do was give each one of them a resounding smack right across the kisser, for no good reason except that they were ALIVE. She wanted to scream, “Get out of here, the whole lot of you, and take all this goddam food with you!” None of them really knew Jim. They didn’t know how he was good hearted to the bone. They didn’t know that he got up each day and wrapped kindness around him like a cloak; passing it on throughout his day to anyone in need. She didn’t scream though…she just held onto all those awful words and they bounced inside her skull from one side to the other like a ping pong ball. She sat in Jim’s leather armchair in the midst of this crowd of people and smoothed out the material of her black dress stretched across her lap. She said, “Thank you, so much” a million times while she concentrated on the tiny flower bud pattern on the living room drapes and on dust motes riding on beams of light from the final days of Indian Summer. Ruth tackled the holidays (oh, how she had dreaded this) one at a time. She managed to put the lighted pumpkin decorations and the flying ghost mobile on the porch at Halloween. She bought and gave out candy to the kids oohing and aahing, perfunctorily at their costumes. Ned and Gilda invited her to Thanksgiving dinner with friends and family and she accepted, but by eight o’clock in the morning on Thanksgiving day she had chickened out. She didn’t want turkey, trimmings, friends or family. So she called in sick like she used to have to do sometimes when she was working and she felt guilty about it but she couldn’t face it, she just couldn’t. So she called Gilda and explained that she had come down with a very bad cold, holding her nostrils together as she spoke. “ I know, of all things…it just hit me last night and so I think I will be spending the day in bed” she had said.

She didn’t though, she went straight to the bedroom threw a small travel bag on the bed and filled it with a nightgown, underwear, a pair of jeans, a tee shirt and a sweater, locked up the house and headed to Bandon. She parked the car at a rest-stop halfway there and called the Seaside Cabin Retreat. They had one cabin left. She could check in by four. She arrived at three and stopped on a cliff where there was a parking lot and a trail down to the ocean. She sat on a bench and watched the sea gulls dive and swoop, heard the crashing of waves against rock and felt the salty air on her face, in her heart, down to her soul and leaned into the peace of it. The cabin (quite expensive at the holiday rate) was charming. She had unpacked, started a fire and brewed a pot of tea. She had crackers, cheese and an apple for dinner. She and Jim had always loved this coastal town. It had been their special place. They had lived in Salem for nearly forty years but she felt like a stranger there now. It wasn’t the same without Jim. It was empty. She was empty. As she sat watching the fire, a plan emerged. She would sell the house and move here where she and Jim had begun. She slept like a baby that night under a mountain of quilts. She had fallen asleep to the sound of the waves and to the coast wind knocking against the cabin shutters. In the morning she decided she would go through the house room by room and give away anything that wasn’t essential. A few months later, by the time she found the key her house could have been showcased in a minimalist magazine. Photos, books and journals neatly boxed. The sofa and coffee table were given to a young couple two blocks over. She kept a bed, one end table and a small dresser; odds and ends for cleaning, a mop, vacuum and broom. She reduced the kitchen to small appliances and four place settings of dishes and silverware. She had 4 mugs, 4 glasses and 4 pots to cook with. Her realtor had said that staging this house, so clean and clutter free, would be a breeze! She had three bids the first week and the second week an offer was received for cash at the listed price from a doctor and his wife who had just started a practice in town. On a whim, she brought the heart shaped box, the old bank book and the key next door to Ned to see if he could make heads of tails out of it. He might know if this bank existed. The name on the front was partially worn off but she could make out First Bank of… she thought it should have said, the First Bank of Mysteries. There were pages of faded entries for $2000.00 deposited like clockwork every month from January of 1980 through January of 2020. That added up to $720,000.00! Where had this money come from and why hadn’t she known about it?

“Hmmm,” Ned said when he saw the key. “This is a key to a safe deposit box. It has our code number on it. Let me look in up on the computer… What do ya know,” he said, “It’s a key to Jim’s safety deposit box at our bank.” “ What? We have always banked there but we don’t have a safe deposit box.” “Maybe YOU don’t, but JIM does. I haven’t a clue about the bank book, though…it could be anywhere. Without the full name, I couldn’t even begin to guess…shall we go see what’s in Jim’s box? Once there, he handed her a form to fill out and sign for proof of identity. He said he would also need a copy of Jim’s Death Certificate and he was sorry that he hadn’t thought of that sooner. “Not a problem, I have it right here, “ she said, fishing it out of her purse. He raised an eyebrow quizzically. “Well…carrying it around comes in mighty handy, doesn’t it” Ruth said. In the box there was a folder which was marked, READ LAST-AFTER OPENING ENVELOPE. Inside the envelope was an index card with “827 Fig Street, Bandon, Oregon” written on the front and a house key taped to the back. Both of their mouths dropped open in surprise. Inside the folder was the deed to the house, fully paid for in January 2020 and letter from Jim. Ned gave her a hug and said he would leave her for a bit while she read this. My dearest Ruth…I know this is a shock because if you are reading this I have died. I have to apologize for lying to you because all those times when you asked me about money matters I told you I had set up a plan to supplement our retirement. This is it. I planned it in case I died first so that you could return to the town we loved all our married life. We will be together again one day. Meanwhile, love me when you hear the waves and the wind and think of my kisses when you feel the salty air on your face and Know that I will always be near, loving you from where I am. My Baby Ruth… I love you forever, Jim.


“Follow me on a thought experiment. The setting: someone else’s mouth. No, you are not a dentist. This is not a thought experiment about the morality of certain extractions or the way dentistry has become an aesthetic practice and what inequalities may result from that. This is simply a kiss. Well, maybe not so simply.” Doctor Caldwell was the professor whose class you were lucky to get a spot in, the one with the reputation for being quirky and innovative (some might say funny), a peer who would insist, call me Alex . That day, in her elective Landscape of the Soul, Alex wandered casually between the tables in suede moccasins, pausing now and then to look a student pointedly in the eye. “It’s a first kiss. And it’s a doomed kiss. The mouth in question is one you have been wondering about—maybe for a few hours, since you saw it across the room and it said its first hello , or maybe for months or years. But you know this mouth.”

I sat forward in my seat. My fingers paused over my keyboard and, as I watched Alex’s hands make graceful, practiced gestures, I thought about a mouth I knew once.

“You’ve studied the way its lips brush together when their owner speaks, and how wide this mouth opens in laughter, the way those lips slowly part, revealing almost-straight top-teeth in a shy grin, (maybe a slight overbite, or maybe one tilted incisor— you are not a dentist, but you know these things, or maybe that one tilted tooth prompted you to Google it), but also the way those lips fasten themselves in a tight line when their owner is upset, or the way he twists his tongue in thought, or she sticks the tip of her tongue out, biting it gently when she thinks of something particularly pleasant.” I saw the mouth. His two front teeth are slightly uneven, one of them pushed out of place in a childhood playground accident. I was carried along by the current in Alex’s voice.

“But these are all things you see with your eyes, and your eyes are closed now. You’re exploring that mouth with your other senses. You feel those lips brush against yours, softly at first like the stroke of a pen just beginning a new story. You like where the story is going, so you give a little encouragement— part your lips, offer your mouth as a plot point.

“There is nothing pointy about this kiss. It’s all saturated pillows of moss like green velvet. This mouth is a jungle and you are an explorer, collecting samples of the native flora and fauna. (Fun fact, you will share identical oral microbiomes for approximately 90 minutes after this kiss. And this realization makes you feel connected rather than repelled).”

The class rippled with giggles and groans but Alex didn’t seem to notice, just continued the lecture, her voice swelling with feeling.

“It even tastes like round, soft things: a wheel of brie, baked inside a puff pastry, all warmth and air and salt, and a delightful crackle that’s really just electricity popping in your head.

“This body is a strange continent, but your fingers begin to explore its ridges and crevices, taking time to marvel at every feature—the small of a back, the curve of a hip, the fleshy marsh of a cheek. A hand moves up your arm and you feel daffodils sprout in its wake. A thumb brushes that spot where your jaw meets your skull— that soft dimple under your earlobe; you shudder and the earthquake opens a new fault line inside of you.” Alex’s voice was jaunty and polished, but she’d stopped looking at us. Her gaze lingered vacantly on the back wall. I noticed, only because of the change when she paused—not too long, but long enough for her energy to shift. Her eyes re-focused with a tiny shudder, and her chin tipped down as she addressed us again, not as an audience, hidden out of view by some bright spotlight, but as her students, here in this room with faded green carpet and heavy wood trim around the windows. “And now we’ve arrived at the point of the exercise. This is a thought experiment, right? Not a gratuitous fantasy. So what is the question? What are the logical and moral implications?” The room was silent for a few seconds, students shuffling, exchanging glances, snickering until my bolder classmates began to throw out ideas: Make sure you don’t forget your friends or your other responsibilities? Wear a condom! “Remember,” Alex interjected, “this is a doomed kiss. You know going into it that this first kiss, no matter how good, will be your last (or second- or third-to-last, depending on your style and level of discipline). There’s no chance a relationship will work. Maybe one of you is a cat person and one is a dog person. Maybe one of you is a Capulet and one is a Montague, and you’re not into tragedy. Maybe one of you is leaving overseas for a fellowship and the other got their dream job. As a dentist." Here she laughed, a staccato hah! that she sucked back in through her nose. "Maybe one of you is engaged. The point is that the microbes you exchanged will last a lot longer than your moment. But it still happened. What are the consequences?” “You’re sad,” I said before I could stop my words.

Alex’s blue eyes locked into mine. “That’s interesting, Noelle. Let’s explore that. Why are you sad?” I felt my cheeks burn, but I evicted my words. “Because you lost something special. You barely even got to enjoy it and it’s gone.” “Hmm. So you wouldn’t agree it’s better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all?” “I didn’t say it wouldn’t be worth it,” I argued. “Maybe sadness is a price that’s worth it.” “Very interesting!” Alex beamed at me as if I’d said something brilliant. “What does the class think about that?” I sat and tried not to listen while my classmates discussed my invisible, hypothetical sadness. Probably Alex’s sadness, too. Then Alex jumped back in. “Our experiences—maybe even this thought experiment, because I wanted to create an empathetic experience that hopefully each of you could relate to on a visceral and emotional level—can open up new places inside of us. A forest. Someplace quiet and dark where the ground is covered in delicate fern, and you walk softly so as not to crush anything. Big trees fall and die here, but small things—new things—grow from their fallen bodies.” I swore Alex looked right into me when she asked, “What do you do with that new place it's opened up inside you? Our sadness and vulnerability can inspire empathy and introspection. It can change the way we look at the world. Energy cannot be created or destroyed. It merely changes forms. These woods grew from you, and the energy of that kiss. What do you do with this energy now?”

More stupid answers from the class. Channel it into something productive? Sing karaoke? Write sad literature? Then someone shouted out a completely different idea. “Burn the forest down. Release the energy.” I watched Alex and saw her face turn pale. ⧫⧫⧫ This is what I think about months later, when we’re all back home, attending lectures from laptops in our childhood bedrooms. This is what I think about when his text arrives and my stomach does a flip.

You know this mouth…. I've never tasted the flavor of his last meal or harbored his microbes in my body, but I've gone through the thought experiment (or maybe, I realize, just the gratuitous fantasy part). Our kiss would smell like jasmine (his grandma grew jasmine and it was his favorite flower—he gave me a sprig, once) and our lips would touch like petals rustling in an evening breeze.

Just the smell of jasmine, or fresh bread like we’d enjoy in the coffee shop where we studied together on weekends, would send me into my own woods. I’ve camped out there in the years since we parted, thinking of him through quiet weekends and rainy afternoons. Sometimes, in the beginning, I’d text him something—maybe a clever unicorn GIF or a recipe for challah French toast. But never once did he respond. His silence sent a shiver through the treetops.

Here is the forest in me: it’s made of western hemlocks bending under long beards of moss, and spruce pines drowning in a green sea of kudzu, each consumed trunk reaching up from the rolling sheet of club-shaped leaves like a supplicating hand. It's so heavy. I remember Alex’s forest. She’d made it sound so frothy and full of life. Good, non-suffocating life. The “circle of life” kind of life. And still, her eyes, so far off, her mind drifting back to us with a chilling shudder. She’s made melancholy into a career. I don’t want to be Alex, cool and admired, but aloof, living alone in a pile of books, tying her fate around one sacred redwood (an engaged dentist, no less!) while vines grow around her feet. I don’t want to carry the weight of that space inside me. I don’t want to be this lonely.

Only witches live in the woods. Witches and wolves, but not princes. And he’s not a prince anyway, I realize, with his lopsided teeth and disappearing for two years—never a word after we left for college. But here he is in this little blue speech bubble with four simple words: “Hey, how are you?” As if it were really that simple! That's how I know there is no forest inside of him, at least not one that I’ve inhabited, none created by an energy we shared. So then what does he want? I had been waiting for that text. Now it's here and my shock morphs into anger as I try to think up a reply. Oh hey how's it going? Did you just get off a deserted island?

Ok, let’s do a thought experiment. What would the implications be? I send a reply dripping with sarcasm and he probably laughs, not knowing the bitterness behind it. He sends a lighthearted reply, I send a picture of a cat in a party hat, he sends...what would he send? I don’t even know anymore. A picture of him and his girlfriend? And how do I react to that? A lie? Oh, you guys are so cute… And maybe it goes on like that for weeks or months, during which we never see each other, and then eventually we can all go back to our respective campuses, and we forget each other again. Only I don’t forget. I just go back with a forest denser and heavier than ever. My anger grows into a little flame. I’m ready to burn the forest down and release the energy. I picture it— hot tongues licking up the moss beards and the kudzu in a quick gulp and burping out light and rainbows as the fire erupts in flashes of blue, purple. It’s beautiful and I’m free. This is what I think about as my finger hovers over the delete button.


"Miss Kayla Swanson, you are cordially invited to this years June Jamboree on the 2nd of June 2024. Dress code as required. Men in suits and a black tie. Women in black and white dresses. We hope to see you there." I can't believe I'm invited to this year's June Jamboree, the social event of the year. This is unbelievable. I wonder why I'm invited but I don't care. Keep the dramatics down Kayla. I'm calm. I have to find a dress, a black and white dress. I leave my home and go to the mall. I spend hours at the mall trying to find the right dress. I think I found the right dress. It's not too long. The dress comes right above my knees with a parting down the right side of my leg. I love the way the dress looks on me. This is the dress for me. I pay for the dress and leave. I need shoes now. I leave the dress store and go to my favorite shoe store. It didn't take me long to find the perfect black heels. The heels accentuates my legs. They will go perfect with my dress. I happily leave the mall with my new dress and shoes when I see the woman who gets on my nerves. The woman in this whole town who I can't stand, Savannah Mitchell. She has this squeaky voice that will literally put holes in your head. Every year she gets invited to the June Jamboree and every year she throws it in my face. Not this year she won't. I don't pay her any attention. I just walk to my car and get in and drive home. Today is the day of the Jamboree. I wake-up early have breakfast and go to the salon. I want my curls to bounce. I love when my curls have texture. It took Marisa three hours to do my hair. I love the way my hair looks. I arrive home. Now time for my make-up. It takes me half an hour to do my make-up. My make-up is done. It's time for me to put my dress and heels on. Wow, I don't recognize myself. I look stunning. Time for me to go. I grab my purse, the invitation and my car keys. I carefully walk down the stairs, out the front door and to my car. I can't stop wondering why I was invited. The people who plan the Jamboree usually don't invited journalist. Anyways, I'm going to have a good time. I arrive at the hotel five. The most expensive and luxurious hotel in Coral Bay. It looks like the whole town is here. The Riley family who literally built Coral Bay and who host the Jamboree every year only invites the rich and famous. Why is the whole town here? That is a mystery. I get out of my car and hand the keys to the valet. I walk to the front door and show my invitation. The lady allows me to enter. Wow, the hotel is beautiful. I walk to the ballroom and enter. This is just beautiful. I feel like a princess walking inside of a castle. The Jamboree is also called the black and white Gala. Everyone looks amazing. I find a couple of my friends who are also shocked to be here. We talk about the Jamboree and the Riley family. After a while I excuse myself. I need some air. I walk to the balcony. The hotel over looks the ocean. I close my eyes and breath in the cool fresh air. "What are we going to do?" I hear voices coming from the other side of the balcony. I move closer. "We have to expose the Riley family for who they are and we have to do it tonight." Oh My God! Someone is after the Riley family. But why? The Riley family isn't perfect. Everyone in Coral Bay knows that. The Riley family built this town. The voices have quiet down. I peek around the corner. No one is there. I didn't recognize those voices. One was a man and the other a woman. What should I do? Should I go warn security? I look inside the ballroom. Everyone is having a good time. Why would anyone want to ruin it? The smiles and laughter is everywhere. Everyone is dancing, drinking champagne and eating. I have to put my journalist hat on and investigate. I enter the ballroom. I look around and see my whole town is here. It is a beautiful site to see. This is basically the only time the entire population of Coral Bay is in one room together. I see the Riley family huddle together. Mr. and Mrs. Riley hugging and kissing. There is Jake and his sister Jessica talking. They seem like a normal family, only with a lot of money. Could these people be after money? This is the first time I see Mrs. Riley smiling. She looks beautiful. Mr. Riley is a tough man who hold nothing back. Right now, I see a loving husband and father. The Riley children, Jake and Jessica. What can I say about them? Jake is just like his father and Jessica is known throughout Coral Bay as a spoil brat. But not tonight. Tonight they seem different. I can't point my finger as to why. Whatever the Riley family did to those two individuals, I can't let them and their vendetta ruin the whole night for the people and for the Riley family. I walk around the ballroom trying to figure out who the voices belong to. One by one I listen to each voice of the guest. I eliminate half go the guest. Then I go to the other side of the ballroom and listen to each voice. I eliminate the other half until I come up to two people. I don't recognize them as Coral Bay residents. I slowly walk up to them. I hear them talking. "By the time we finish tonight, the Riley family will be no more. Are you with me? "Of course, I am." That's them. I take a picture of the couple and leave. They are going to hurt the Riley family. I have to tell security. I go and find security. I walk up to them and tell them what I heard. I show them the picture of the couple. A couple of minutes later, I hear a man and a woman yelling and screaming as security is taking them away. Everyone is looking at them wondering who they are including the Riley family. Mr. Riley goes to the stage and tells everyone not to pay attention to the two strangers. Mr. Riley walks off the stage and goes back to his family. I see him whispering something to Mrs. Riley. After the two strangers are led away by security, the town of Coral Bay enjoys themselves including me. I do wonder what the couple had on the Riley family. One day I will hopefully find out.