The answer to unhappy marriages

I sat there in a particular somber mood. I had to admit I was comfortably installed in the club saloon of British Airways waiting for the Barbados flight announcement. My wife had recently died under what the police thought might be suspicious circumstances. All this interest in her death was due to the fact she was a well known London socialite. She came from an extremely wealthy Texas farming family. The family had found sizable oil deposits on their lands. After several weeks of tedious investigation they finally abandoned the case through lack of evidence. It had been a trying time that left me suffering from a short depression followed by moody attitudes. Still a few days in Barbados might put to bed all moods and suspicions, also the polices’ extended dark shadow disturbing my life. Ah! The announcement, gate 15. As is often the case the call to gate was just call a little early for immediate boarding I took a seat mumbling about I could have stayed a few more comfortable minutes seated in the airline’s club The man seated next to me must have heard my mumblings, he said. “What did you say?” “I was just moaning about being called to early from the club’s privilege of traveling first class.” With that remark I turned and looked at my fellow passenger. He had a jovial face with a deep scar under his left eye. It gave him a rakish look as though he had been in a fencing duel. His slick dark black hair was swept back from his forehead. Woman must have thought him a distinguished individual. He extended his hand in a sign of friendship. “I know what you mean, I have experienced that annoyance a few times. My name is Clive Summerfield.” I replied by introducing myself. “Richard Davenport.“ “Just a minute aren’t you the Davenport the papers were talking about two weeks ago? There was a scandal about your wife’s death. “Yes, that's me. I am off to the sun of the Caribbean with its warm waters and golden sands to forget the whole ordeal. “For your wife, please accept my condolences. If you don’t mind me asking. Where are you staying?” “The Sandy Lane, and you?” “I used to stay there but at present I am a bit down on my luck so it’s the Coral Reef. They gave me a discount as I stayed there three weeks ago.” “I have experienced that life is often a question of luck. One never knows how the cards will fall. I think a little holiday might lift your spirits.” Richard replied. “Well it isn’t exactly a holiday. I represent an American Company that has just invented a revolutionary type of tooth-brush. It has a revolving head driven by a small battery driven motor inserted in its handle. I could show you one.” He started looking in his bag. At that moment the first class passengers were called. As I stood up I saw him looking at me from his bended position as he turned towards me. I noticed his eyes reflecting such a wilful look as if to say what a pity you seem a decent sort and I was starting to enjoy your company. In a moment of extending my friendship I said “Why don’t you come and have a drink with me tomorrow at the Sandy Lane at say, 6 o’clock.” “Love to, have a pleasant flight.” After a relaxing night I went for an early morning swim. The Sandy Lane is truly the epitome of luxury. The gardens down to the beach were full of delicate and interesting flowers sending off their perfumes in the early morning air. At six my guest walked into the bar. I had not appreciated that he was tall. A powerful looking man with an athletic build. Once he saw me his face light up with an engaging smile. He came forward with an outstretched hand. “I see you have taken a little sun, be careful it can be treacherous to our fair English skin. We shook hands. For a minute he stood back to look across the terrace at the flower beds leading to the beach. He then turned to me and said. “It is a truly beautiful place.” We ordered two gins and tonic and went out on the terrace. I raised a toast. “To the Caribbean, isles of pleasure where worries of yesterday are forgotten. May I call Clive and you call me Richard.” “With pleasure. Richard, you don’t appear to be a man with many worries?” “”I might say the same for you.” Clive replied. “What lucks in the heart of men is difficult to see. I have job worries and marriage problems. To change the subject I read a scandalous press story about you. In some way might have been involved in your wife’s death.” “Let’s talk about another subject if you don’t mind. I came here to forget about all the rumors stirred up in the press. At the airport you told me something about a tooth-brushes?” “Yes, I almost forgot I brought you an example. Clive pulled out of his inside breast pocket the famous rotating tooth-brush and handed it over to me. As he did so he said. “It is a company my father-in-law invested in.” “Its certainly a pleasant object to handle.” I pressed the starter bottom, the bristles started rotating. I could increase the speed, change the angel of the head. “Definitely an ingenious invention.” “Please accept it as a gift. It is a step down for me to be involved with a tooth-brush company. Until recently I had a most interesting publishing company. It’s a long story but I had to close it. The company was heading, in the not too distant future, for bankruptcy as it needed an influx of funds that were promised but never delivered. “Tell me a bit more about the publishing company.” The reason why I got interested in publishing was that I studied English literature at Oxford. When leaving the university my first job was with the publishing house of Harding and Harding. I spent twelve happy years with them. During that time I got married to an ambitious American woman, the only child of a wealthy Texan family. My wife pushed me into creating my own publishing company helped by her father’s financial fortune. The company lasted fifteen years with moderate success relying on occasional loans from my father-in- law. During this period both my wife’s parents died leaving my wife a sizable fortune. She sold most of the inherited assets in America and appointed a New York fund manager to invest the resulting cash. She told me she was no longer interested in supporting my publishing business. She had become a highly sought after member of various charities. I decided to close the company rather than face an uncertain future without the possibility of the family’s financial support when needed. You can imagine our marriage is not in a happy state of affairs. I looked for a job that consisted of traveling that would keep me away from home. My father in law had introduced me to a company he had an investment in that wanted someone to represent them in Central and South America.” “To me it seems odd that your wife lost interest in supporting your business.” “Oh! I think there are probably many reasons. One is that she has definitely fallen out of love with me and is probably having affairs with a younger man. She also claims I don’t pay enough attention to her as I am always at work or reading books. Tell me about yourself.” “I am a partner in a prestigious city law firm. Incidentally I was also at Oxford, but probably a few years before you. Before we started swapping Oxford colleges names and university stories. I will complete the story of my home life by saying we don’t have any children which in our marriage has been a very sore point. Several eminent doctors are of the opinion that my wife could not bear children. And you?” “Yes, one boy. We are not on very good terms with him after my wife and I had a violent quarrel with him some years ago. I believe he is living in Solo and has taken up an acting career. We see him occasionally when he is out of funds. His mother deals with that “It’s funny we both went to Oxford and married wealthy women that over the years seemed to have caused us more unhappiness than happiness. But perhaps I am speaking for myself. To be fair in the early years of our marriage we had moments of great happiness”. “Before you make us depressed let’s have some dinner.” Maybe it was the moonlit night, or an excellent wine I had ordered, or Clive’s wife’s problems but for some strange reason I felt the need to confide in him. I learnt forward over the dinning table and in a soft voice said. “I did kill my wife, they just could not find any evidence of how I did it. The moment I said it I regretted it. I had only just met the man, he might go to the police or blackmail me. Clive stopped eating while I could feel him searching for a way to reply. There was glint in his eyes showing me an idea was forming in his head. At this point he too leaned forward and said. “How brilliant, how did you do it?” “With a clever use of a special poison. Why do you ask? Surely you are not thinking you could do the same thing?” “Frankly, I have been vaguely contemplating the possibility of trying to kill her. Tell me, are you willing to give me the poison’s reference. “ “Yes, under certain conditions. Firstly, you appoint me as your lawyer and that any conversations between us will then be protected under law by the clients/lawyers relationship. Secondly, today is the 10th of October, on the same day a year from now we agree to meet here in the bar, at six. You pay for dinner this time.” I called for writing materials and drew up a short agreement for Clive to appoint me as his lawyer. He signed and agreed to a meeting one year later. I gave him the South American reference of the poison that left on tract in the human body after two hours. When I said good night to Clive in a slightly drunken state, we even embraced each other on parting. That night before I fell asleep I thought how strange this chance meeting with Clive Summerfield had turned out. A couple of men engage in a casual airport conversation both unhappily married to wealthy women, one had already devised a perfect murder the other might be putting his foot down on the same course. It must have been eight months later that I read in The Times obituaries about the tragic riding accident of a wealthy American socialite Catherine Summerfield. I immediately booked the Sandy Lane for October 9th. I was looking forward to seeing Clive. Over dinner on the night of the 10th I toasted with an excellent bottle of wine the death of our wives by committing perfect murders. I then suggested we disclose how this was achieved, I said I would start. “Finding the poison took me over a year. Once found I spent some time planning how I was going to administer it. My wife was very partial to Turkish delights which she kept in a box of her glove compartment in her car. When I saw that the box had only three left I inject one with the poison and waited. The waiting was nerve racking. It took three weeks before I received a call from the police that my wife had been found dead in her car. Why I was involved in a possible murder investigation? Unknown to me she had called a friend after parking her car. Apparently the friend did not pick up but she left a message saying she did not feel well and could she come for her. I think my husband. At that point the line went dead. With her remark, “I think my husband,” made the police suspicious that there might have been foul play as she had left me her large fortune. Also it was well known our marriage was on the rocks. The poison had work like a charm as she was found 4 hours after the time of her death. There was one Turkish delight left in the box. The police opened an investigation as there were many rumors of lovers and unkind speculation about me. They finally closed the case as there was a complete lack of evidence to suggest foul play. She was finally pronounced dead from a massive heart attack. The perfect murder. Before Clive embarked on his story I noticed he was in a pensive mood contemplating the perfect murder that always has the risk of being discovered. He awoke for his thoughts and related his story. I contacted your reference for the poison. Like you I had to devise a plan of how to administer it. Our property in the south of England has stables as my wife was an avid horse woman. She has two riding crops, one she always takes with her when riding. It is a work of art given to her by her father. The top of the handle screws off to allow a few drams of whiskey to be drunk while out riding. I mixed the poison with the whiskey and waited. It must have been two weeks later when my wife came back from a trip to America in a foul mood. To calm off she went to the stables to take out her favorite horse. The stable boy advised against it as her horse had not been exercised for a few days. My wife paid no notice of the stable boy’s remarks, and took the horse and her beloved crop. I got a call telling me there had been a tragic riding accident. When I got to the scene a doctor present was already signing her death certificate as a riding accident from a broken neck and serious head damages. Later that day the stable boy gave me her crop. When I opened it I found the whiskey had not been touched.” “Clive, it could have been the perfect murder but luck was on your side. I suggest we make our reunion a yearly date.” “Richard, an excellent idea. Next time you pay.” David Nutt December 2023


THE LAZY FLOP ON THE COUCH .. and more ! “ Oh is sooo good just to sit - actually flop and enjoy the view out the patio window and watch the trees swishing in the wind beyond the railing” says 70-something Vermont Issacs to herself. “ Oh, I forgot how nice it is just to flop and do nothing” Vermont word-thinking to herself once more as she melts into the couch. Vermont just realised she never gives herself permission to do just nothing; not needing the TV to stir up emotions with in-the-face horrible overseas news - which ain't relaxing; or flicking through the channels to be suddenly confronted by a passionate love scene that makes one realise that stripping naked in front of hubby for 'a hot roll in the hay' these days is not much chop for either parties. She breathed heavily to herself as she dissolved into the softness of the couch, and was by now camouflaged as a patterned throw-over rug ... “Just the sound of silence is oh so very wonderful when you are 70-something” “ Mind you” Vermont thinks on as the puffy cushions cradle so deliciously her stiff neck - “When I was in my 20-somethings the last thing I wanted to do was sit – it was all 'go go go' for me and my friends. Only grandmothers sit; and even 40-somethings sit. At 20- something I thought being 40-something was having one foot in the grave and I was cautiously waiting to hear that my parents had dropped dead from old age. Oh but 70-somethings should have at least some well-earned wisdom at least ! But the age of wisdom comes far too late I fear. If only it came upon us at birth !! If only we were smart and sensible and wise as a final gift from God as we emerged from the womb of our mothers into the big bright new world. If only we had a second go at life too ! If only we didn't stuff so much up. If only I married that guy I was head over heals in love with in Year 7 and not what now seems my 'desperate choice' so I could get married like all my friends were by the time they were 25. That awful feeling of being left on the shelf haunted us in our 20-somethings. In her wiser years of 60-something Vermont wrote this poem. She thought it summed up all the 'if only-s' she now ponders on (just occasionally) in her 70-somethings - If only the sky was blue each day..... If only the sun came out, what may ! If only love lasted a whole life long If only we had kept singing our song ! But ‘ if onlys ’ are never meant to be They are just our wishes – I can now see ! This life has no easy roads to tread With the trips and falls wherever we’re lead ! Peace comes and goes like a twinkling star It’s one step forward, then back so far ! But one day there will be that peace unknown When I walk from this earth, be it all alone ! But ‘ if only ’ was something never said Then we would accept wherever we’re led And then our today's and tomorrows too Could be wonderful, if only we knew !! As Vermont scans the glass of the window wondering whether it needs a wipe over when she eventually decides to pluck herself from the couch, she notices the finger marks of her two youngest grandchildren on the glass as the sun moves around the room picking out spots and marks on the glass, and suddenly her heart warms. Those lovely little fingers with chocolate and icecream imprints are like life itself - on a page in the tapestry of their lives. Little fingers mean that at 70-something I have produced a child and now grandchildren to carry on the 20-something me lost forever. At 70-something the mirror into her life tells her of those past years - of growth, lessons learnt, joy and sadness, love and hate - which are all now etched upon her face. In the corner of the lounge-room is a photograph of Vermont at 20-something. The long brown hair, the wrinkle-free face, the tight neck, the flat tummy in the bikini. “ Was I really a good-looker then? she thought to herself. I didn't think I was. I was always wanting to be as cute as Diane Harper, as good looking as Vanessa what's-her-name, as liked by the boys as was Bethany Norris (or some name like that)”. Vermont started to think more deeply as the sun moved right across onto her upper body – it felt warm and cosy on that couch and worth a bit more time out. “ Were they wasted years, were they years I made the most of or did I have no higher aims than the other kids in class 9B – kids like me with just normal intelligence, who left school and didn't want to be a brain surgeon or an astronaut – just get a job, make money, have respectable boyfriends (and not get pregnant), do a course to improve job prospects – and who eventually found a version of Mr Right, had babies, went back to work and had a nice house with a nice garden and just got on with life ”. Vermont quizzed her inner-self even more - “Is that enough ? Is that what we are here for ? Have I wasted 70-something years by being just ordinary. Did I do a good job at life, did I make others happy in the process, did I hurt many people, did I apologise if I did hurt anybody not meaning to, was a good mother and a good wife, and am I a good 70-something now - being useful and not just a face in the crowd with a limp from my sore arthritic hip, which certainly speaks louder than words as to my age ?” All this flooded through Vermont's head and in the end she had to stop questioning. She was there for a real bludge for a change, but ended up being very busy in her head. Too busy ! Vermont found herself slipping into a dream state as the sun now crossed onto her face. It was so pleasant, it was as if her face was being bathed with a warm cloth, washing away any negativity that lingered in her mind. Then it was like she was floating from the coach and into some heavenly peaceful sphere. Somewhere just so perfect, but the coach continued to cocoon her in softness as well. She had a vision of herself walking up a staircase, maybe into Heaven, she didn't know ? There were clouds surrounding the staircase, more and more surrounded her as she stepped higher and higher. As she moved upwards she felt and saw herself being shed of layers of herself – outer layers – layers just leaving and falling below. It was as if she had on ten layers of 'clothing' as she climbed the stairs, and the higher she moved up and up the more of the layers fell from her. They were like sheets of paper falling away from her being, and floating down, ever downwards until she stood naked in the purest sense at the top of the staircase. Naked but cleansed and without blemish and best of all as herself in her 20-somethings. A dream ? If it was it was brilliant ! “ Oh !” Vermont woke up with a fright when the doorbell rang. She realised she was still lying on the couch with her 70-something body now trying to move to answer the door, with all the aches and pains returning in the effort to get off the low couch. “ Where did I just go ? Where am I now ? Oh yes, back here, and that must be Joachin at the door … he is in his 40-somethings – he is my son – he is far too young to drop dead !”


“This is unbelievable!” Francis exclaimed as he held my self-portrait in his hands, “It looks just like you!” Francis “Franky” Cullins is my best friend, and he holds in his hands what I hoped to be the beginning of my illustrious career as an artist. I smile at him – a humble, gentle smile – as I contain the bubbling anxiety within the pit of my stomach. “Do you really think so?” I asked in what I hoped to be a tone that indicated only mild curiosity, and not that of a child seeking validation.            Franky looked from the painting and up to me with blazed excitement in his eyes. “This is no joke, Mort; what I have in my hands here is pure, uncut talent!” He lightly shook the painting in his hands as he said so, but abruptly stopped when he realized he was doing so, as if worrying he could ruin it. “As a matter of fact,” Franky continued, “I’d like to post this on your page and talk about the process of how you painted this if you’re all right with that.”            Honestly, I was taken aback by this offer. “What, like you want to be my manager or something?” I sarcastically asked him this as I chuckled, but Franky’s face remained sincere. His response to me felt so genuine, so lacking in the raillery I expected, that it took me some time to register it. “Why not? I’ve always believed in your work, Mort, even when no one else did. But with this…” he trailed off as he looked back down at my painting. Finally, he continued, “This was seriously all freehand?”            I nodded, “Yes, it really was. But, Franky, would you really want to be my manager? I don’t even know what that job would involve.” He waved his hand dismissively at me and smirked. “Exactly why you need one! Let me handle all the details, but this – you just need to worry about making more of this!” His smirk had grown into a wide grin as his eyes welled with moisturized droplets. I was stupefied at my friend's eagerness to want to work for me after seeing this latest piece of my work. I knew of course that this painting, and all others that followed, would be different, but to have this sort of hypnotic effect was entirely unexpected. “Yeah, okay,” I hesitantly agreed, “Go ahead and post it, then.”            Franky’s eyes widened in a somewhat disturbing display of ecstasy. “Perfect! I’ll get on that right now, and you do what you gotta do for your process and you get another painting out A-S-A-P! I promise you, Mort, this is going to be huge!”            Before I could even open my mouth to respond Franky had already darted out of my studio – which was just my room in our shared apartment – and into his room across the hall as I heard his door slam behind him in an eager swing. I stood silently amidst the canvases on easels which all displayed different degrees of blankness to what had the appearance of being worked on for several minutes of brush strokes, then forgotten. They stood around the room in a way that formed a labyrinth to the bed, one which only I knew the right way through. I looked at all of these unfinished and unbegun paintings and vowed they would not stay this way for long. Things were different now.            I got most of the way through a new painting I was working on, I believe I will title “Green Singers,” when I noticed I was at it for almost ten hours straight – no food, water, or bathroom breaks. I got myself into bed. I lay there for an unknowable amount of time as sleep eluded me, and I found myself thinking back to a conversation I’d had with an alluring stranger.            It was last week on a Thursday when I was at my favorite art exhibition in town which thankfully had a small coffee shop near the entrance. As I sipped at my caramel macchiato I was scrolling through the reactions (or lack thereof) one of my paintings received. It had been posted for approximately 72 hours and had garnered seven likes, while most of the comments were uninspired at best and rude at worst. One of them even said something along the lines of, “This is motel art at best. You look too scared to put any real expression into your work. Don’t quit your day job for this. Hope this helps.” What the hell was that even supposed to mean?            I dropped my phone on the table in such a frustrated way that my coffee trembled and nearly spilled. Not that I cared. I threw my hands over my face and exhaled in an admittedly overdramatic, defeated way. There I buried my face as I gathered myself when I heard someone sit down in the chair across from me. I looked up, expecting to see Franky. Instead, it was a man who I had never seen before – I recall little from his physical appearance, but I remember he was wearing an expensive-looking suit. And his eyes, those piercing emerald-green eyes with an intense and aged sheen the likes of which I had never seen before. “Can I help you?” I asked, making sure the irritated tone hinting at please-go-away was noticeable in my inflection.            The stranger gave me a smile that was warm and comforting, and I felt my disappointment in myself, and the world melt away from my chest. I know it’s weird to say, but I instantly felt comfortable with this man here. “I’m a fan of your work,” he said to me. His voice was velvety and sweet, “I wanted to meet you in person. But I have to say, there is room for improvement.” Of course, I thought to myself, another critic who thinks they can tell me how to paint. “Oh, yeah?” I said with the irritation back in force. I took another sip from my coffee.            “Oh, yes,” the man said, “but that’s not a bad thing – every great artist knows there is always room for improvement; it’s the knowledge that one would never achieve perfection, yet their pursuit for it is endless.” I rolled my eyes at him, though I guessed he did have a point. “Maybe you’re right. And I’m guessing you have the solution for that?” This was obviously a rhetorical question, yet the man kept his gaze locked in mine and he said, “It so happens, I do. What would you say if your paintings would become the epitome of perfection? That through your great works, your name would be immortalized, etched into the framework of history alongside Monet, Van Gogh, Michelangelo, and so many others.”            I laughed dryly at him, “For that –,” I paused, peering searchingly into my cup of coffee, now at room temperature. “For that – I would give everything.” That statement came out of me so much more sincerely than I would have expected from myself. Realizing this, I laughed at myself, raised my coffee, and gulped the rest of it down. I was feeling this odd sense of anticipation I could not explain, like the feeling a kid at a theme park gets when they are near the end of the line for a ride on one of the attractions. The man with the green eyes raised an eyebrow at me as he said, “While I admire the enthusiasm, I wouldn’t ask you for everything. If I were to perfect your art, I would ask for very little in return, in fact.”            Now it was my turn to raise my eyebrows, but in a more incredulous, disbelieving sort of way. “Wait you’re… Are you serious right now?” the man said nothing. He only kept that cool, soothing smile. I pressed on. “So, you could make me one of the greatest artists of all time and you would want, what, my soul? That’s what this is, right? Some low-budget Twilight Zone episode where you grant me my biggest dream, and all I give in return is my soul?” Now the man leaned forward in his chair, closer to me. I could smell him now; it was a scent that felt so refreshing as it ignited nostalgic feelings for events of my life that I could not recall ever happening. It soon dawned on me that the feelings of nostalgia his scent gave me were not like smelling freshly mowed grass and remembering a magical summer from childhood; this was a sense of longing for events in my life I had not yet lived.            “No, you don’t have to worry about that,” he said in a reserved timbre. “Despite what certain media would tell you, I don’t barter for souls.” I considered this, then asked him, “Well, then what do you want from me?”            “Two things,” he said, “If I immortalize you and your art, I need you to paint something for me – I will tell you what at a time of my choosing. Second, I need you, Jack Mortimer, to say five little words to me to endorse our contract.”            I was practically vibrating in my seat now with anticipation as if a colony of butterflies had birthed within me all at once. He didn’t need to tell me what those five words were that he needed as I could feel them on the tip of my tongue, ready to burst. I stood up and eagerly reached my hand out to shake his. He did the same. I fervently told him what he needed to hear, “I see you, Mr. Green.” ***            Three months had passed since I painted that self-portrait, which I allowed Franky to keep. He keeps it proudly hung in his new office where he works around the clock to get me new exhibits for my paintings. “Green Singers” had been a phenomenal success, and there had been twelve others so far after. He even got me a spot to talk on the Late-Night Show, which to be fair, didn’t seem too hard as they had reached out to him and practically begged for me to make an appearance.            But what I found most astonishing from this whole experience was that the scenes I painted seemed to come to life not long after they were finished. When I painted my hometown with a clearly visible view of the Andromeda Galaxy in the night sky, the next evening the miraculous anomaly was reported across the states which led astronomers stumped as to how it had suddenly become so bright to make it so visible to the naked eye. I painted snow in southern California, and the next day there was a blanket of almost twelve inches in Los Angeles. That’s what made it exceptionally convenient when, out of the millions of supporters and admirers across the globe, I discovered one truly bitter, ignorant critic.            His name was Elijah Quill, better known by his Reddit username as ElQt69 – a truly tasteless name to choose for one such as him. It didn’t take long for me to find a picture of him, as people like him are always so self-absorbed that their photos are aplenty and public to pair with their highly opinionated views. But Eli should’ve thought to be more careful which what he does with photos of himself on the internet.            After I had memorized his face, his body type, and what style he wears, it was almost too easy to paint his liking as I saw fit. Elijah Quill, in my depiction, was seen in a dark alley somewhere, having been beaten to death – the folds inside his pocket turned out to indicate he had been robbed after the fact. I kept this painting to myself, of course, but couldn’t resist the urge to google the news in the city I found that he lived in. There he was, the egotistical bastard, making the top headline. Good for him.            A few days after the oh-so-tragic passing of ElQt69, Franky came to see me. We no longer lived in that small apartment together as I had found a nice condo in the city. I buzzed him in, and he came in with that adoring, eager grin. That suck-up smile was starting to get on my nerves.            “Hey, Mort!” he said cheerfully. My God, he’s practically skipping towards me, I thought exasperatedly. “Listen, I got a new opening for you downtown. And if you’re okay with it, I’m thinking somewhere around five we can –” I held a hand to stop him, which he did instantly. “Hang on a second, Franky. There’s something I got to tell you.” Something I should’ve told you a long time ago.            He cocked his head to the side as he asked me, “Sure, what’s up?” I looked him into those weirdly adoring eyes as he waited. “I’m going to have to let you go, Franky.”            The look Franky gave me was as if I had just kicked a puppy across the room. “W-what?” he stammered.            I blinked, and said, “You’re fired, Franky. I’m sorry but, the truth is I don’t need you anymore. You can expect your last check in the mail.” Franky backed away, his legs trembling. His eyes darted about the room in disbelief. “I can’t believe this… I thought we was friends, Mort?” tears had already begun to roll down his face.            “We were, but let’s face it Franky – I’ve outgrown you. I'm sure you understand.”            Franky’s face turned beet-red as he exclaimed, “You can’t do this - we were a team!” I watched him begin to storm away and back to my front door, as he yelled over his shoulder, “You’ll regret this, Mort! It was both of us – together!” the door slammed. “Well, that was dramatic,” I said to no one. ***            That night, I awoke with a start. I was having some horrendous dreams, though I can’t remember the details. Now awake, I found that I was standing in my new studio, painting. The unfinished work before me showed horrid images that were difficult for the human mind to comprehend; hulking beasts of otherworldly proportions as they crowded and swarmed an unnamed city. People stacked haphazardly on pyres as they burned in a green, hellish inferno. The more I looked into this accursed piece, the more I felt my sanity quickly escaping me. I thought I heard voices chanting around me in some long-forgotten tongue, whispering names I had not heard nor possessed the power to pronounce. Summoning every ounce of my mental fortitude and strength, I managed to tear my gaze from the canvas as I knocked it to the floor. That’s when I saw behind it was another easel, and displayed on it was my painting of the murdered Elijah Quill, whose disproportionately crooked neck had upturned his face to look directly into my eyes. That one should not be there, I thought incredulously, it was hidden away.            “Come now, Mr. Mortimer. Such a beauty should never be kept hidden.” That voice, behind me. It was his voice. I spun around and saw the man – this Mr. Green – smiling at me. “You,” I said as I pointed an accusing finger at him, “You’re what made me paint that… that nightmare, aren’t you?!”            Mr. Green looked at the unfinished painting on the floor, then back to me. “That was our deal, Mort. One painting of my choosing, when I wish it. It would be in your best interest to uphold your end, and finish it.”            “No,” I muttered, “No. I will not bring that hell into being. The deal is off! You can take away this power – I've already gotten enough out of it anyway.” Mr. Green sighed at me, but coolly said, “I would have to agree. Thanks to your admirable work with Mr. Quill.”            I was taken aback by this. “What do you mean by that?” I demanded.            Mr. Green’s smile vanished. He sneered at me as he explained, “I told you when we first met that I do not barter for souls. I don’t have to, as your kind are always so eager to place it in the palm of my hand. For just the smallest taste of power and ultimate adoration, you burned yourself on the very pyre that you built.”            My jaw dropped open. “I... No…” But what could I say? What could I do?            “I go now,” Mr. Green continued with a returning smile - now sinister as a dealer in a rigged game of poker, “to prepare a place for you.” And with those parting words, he faded from view until all that was left were two floating orbs of emerald glaring at me until they, too, were gone.            alone again in the darkness of my condo, I began to see visions - things that were not of my home - of a similar layout to the one I used to live, in the apartment with Franky. On a table, I saw a mostly empty bottle of Jack Daniels. I turned and saw on the edge of the bed was Franky. He still lived in that tiny apartment, and here he was, drunk beyond all reason with tears flooding his face and snot oozing from a sniffling nose. I saw in his hands he held that self-portrait, the first of my paintings after that deal. “Damn you, Mort,” he whimpered. He produced a pocket lighter and set the flame to the bottom corner of my self-portrait.            “No, Franky, wait!” I screamed at him, but he didn’t appear to hear me. The flames ate up the canvas as they crept from the torso to the painted face. “Damn you to Hell, Mort,” Franky began to sob. The images of Franky's room vanished, and my own dwellings had returned. “This is unbelievable!” I cried as the last image of Franky disappeared. Standing here in the dark of my own vanity, I felt the effects of Franky’s actions with that damned painting. The fire started at my feet and quickly licked and raced up my legs, soon engulfing my body. I yelled, swatting at the flames, yet the inferno continued to spread all around me, and only me, as I raised my hands to my face and screamed.


It started with a q-tip.

It sounds stupid now, but I genuinely thought it would be the way to get back at my shitty landlord. Keep dropping used q-tips down the hole and once my lease was up and I was out, it would be their problem.

She did keep telling me she’d tear the house down the moment I was gone. Something about opportunities for apartments, I guess. The hole wasn’t big, maybe an inch or two across, but it seemed deep. Probably was a bubble in the concrete that wasn’t caught in construction, I reasoned. It did rest in the corner of my bathroom, and the poorly placed tile wasn’t urging me to give the build team much credit. I tried to shine a flashlight down it once, but the beam faded out quickly, the size of the hole not helping to pull the light in.

When summer started creeping in, it started to worry me that maybe the q-tips would start to stink, heating up in their little crypt until they sweat out all the ear-wax and dead skin they carried. They didn’t though, and I got a little more bold in what I threw down there. A few summer nosebleeds later and some stubborn curiosity on my part, three wads off blood soaked toilet paper now called the dark hole their home. It probably should have worried me how easily they slipped down the tight tunnel, but I was just stupidly proud that I had somehow done it at all. Nothing really happened in the following weeks; the hole actually got some attention from my friends, who would put their soda can tabs and cigarette butts down it whenever they visited.

The actual thing that made feel like I had, maybe just a little bit, messed up, was when I put a

scab down it. Maybe it was heat, but it looked like the whole floor bent itself to ease the skin’s descent. I had brushed it off, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that it wanted more.

I texted my friends about it, but all that did was give the hole a name: Audrey II. I didn’t find it very funny. Things progressed, though, and I ended up drunk and bored one night, struck with the intense desire to know how far down it went. I knew I had my old fishing pole and at least one weight in the shed, which wasn’t helping the ‘against’ side of the argument happening in my brain. Once I was back inside with a very poorly tied drop weight on just the first half of the rod, it didn’t take long for me to let it go down the hole. It felt like it was hours of being crouched, the uneven tiling dizzying to look at while the reel just spun away. When it stopped I nearly cheered, and I tied the line where it rested at the top. It took three rotations of the reel before the weight came back up. It was coated in grime and reeked like a infected wound. I almost threw up, and rushed to the kitchen sink to do so, knowing from experience the bathroom sink would most certainly plug. The rest of the night was hazy and full of dry heaving, and it was only until the morning that I’d realized I’d just left the weight on the floor.

I rushed to go clean it up, dreading a new stain or smell that’d make me have to buy a fancy new cleaner just to live with. When I got there though, the line was still in the hole, my messed up knot resting an inch outside the edge. There was no smell, but I didn’t dare pull it back up. Taking it as a blessing, I had cut the line with my teeth and let the rest join the weight. I moved my little bathroom houseplant over the hole, hoping the heavy pot would cover any smell that may come out. The thing was almost dead anyway, so I didn’t feel too bad depriving it of a little bit of sunlight. My lease was up in August, but the hole made it feel years away. The contract had back rent if I left early though, which was absolutely something I couldn’t afford.

I spent less and less time at home, but my plant was growing again.

After a few weeks I arranged to spend a couple of nights at a friend’s place, under the guise of my pipes being broken, but it was really just that my skin crawled every time I looked at that room. I hoped some time out of the place would soothe my anxieties enough to go in and actually plug the thing. I told myself I would pick up the sealant on my way home, and just burst in there, move the plant, and drown Audrey II in quick expanding foam. I would pick up masks, too. Something to breathe through in case the smell was overpowering. My mood was lightened when I considered that a smell that bad was a good revenge for the amount of times my landlord had screwed me over. I even made a list of what I needed and picked out the store I would stop by.

Half-way to my place my head gasket blew. At first I was so preoccupied with calling my car insurance and the fact the repair would cost a good chunk of what I’d saved up to move, that I didn’t realize I wasn’t within walking distance of any stores. I begged the tow truck when he got to me to just stop by somewhere, anywhere, but he gruffly told me he wasn’t allowed to make detours unless I specified it in the original request. So I sat in the truck’s sticky passenger seat, feeling my skin crawl with every mile closer to home. He drove off quickly after unloading my car, and I got the feeling he didn’t like being near the place either. It stood there, dusk casting eerie shadows every which way. It made me feel like a kid again, afraid of their own laundry pile without the nightlight. I stayed out for a few hours, using my phone light to check my car’s engine, trying to distract myself from the house. I even considered sleeping in my car, reasoning that it would be a warm summer night. I changed my mind when I realized somewhere along the line the passenger door would unlock if you pulled hard enough. The bathroom door was closed, I had made sure of it when I left. I would just go straight to the bedroom and lock it, tuck a towel under it, anything to shut myself out from the rest of the house. It sounded like a good plan, plus, what was I scared of? A gross bathroom? I’d worked a few jobs at fast food places on bathroom duty, it wouldn’t be anything I couldn’t handle.

I had opened the door and twisted inside like I was ripping off a band-aid, holding my breath and preparing for the worst. I don’t know what I thought the worst would be, but all I got was my dark, and surprisingly cold, living room. It felt empty, and the tension left my body immediately. I took a few deep breaths before locking the door behind me. I shivered, unaccustomed to the cold as the old house never had a good venting system to get rid of the extra heat even deep into the night.

The walk to my bedroom was uneventful and went miles to ease my anxieties. Once I was adjusted in my sheets I texted my friend to ask for a ride to the store. When I told them I was going to plug the hole, they playfully mourned Audrey II. I had laughed, and everything felt so mundane. It made me feel so stupid, being worried about the hole. I did sleep with the light on though.

When the time came to actually plug up Audrey II, my friends were with me. We moved my plant, more dead than I remembered it, and shoved the nozzle of the foam dispenser as deep as it could go. We drank that night, everyone but me dramatically mourning the plugging of the hole. I tried to play along, but I think they sensed how just plain relieved I was about it.


The sun dies its days death leaving a humid evening in its wake. The air is thick and oppressive heavy on the nose and damp in the mouth. A man sits at a hotel bar, he’s waiting for somebody to arrive. Somebody important. He takes a draw on his cigarette and knocks back the dregs of his bourbon. He signals the bartender for another. His eye catch on a dame in a red dress. All golden hair, curves and legs as far as the eye could see. Damn, she’s a pretty one. Strangely familiar, yet unknown, mysterious and alluring. Her high heels clack on the marble floor, she pauses for a split second and her head turns - red lips curve in a devilish smile as her eyes meet his. And then she’s gone. The man at the bar remembers another red dress. Twenty years past and no name to the memory, although her lips were still fresh as yesterday. She’d had that look, a Hollywood starlet, a diamond amongst river pebbles. He’d been taken with her from the moment he’d had eyes on her. A doll dizzy kid, he’d never stood a chance. His life changed forever. A dance, a kiss, she’d introduced him to a man in a fine grey suit. A man who drank Champaign with a cigarette ever-present in his mouth. A man with a flashing smile and the brightest baby blues you’d ever seen. A man with a smooth voice who held the whole room in the palm of his hand.

The man at the hotel bar wonders for a second if by some miracle or trick of fate it could be her. But no, the woman in the red dress would be his age now, not the fresh young thing here tonight. He stands and checks his watch. He has an hour by his reckoning, he makes his way to the restroom, splashes cold water over his face then raises his head to meet his reflection. His suit is immaculate, made by the best tailor in town. Shoes shiny. Cufflinks polished. He dons his hat and winks at the mirror. Not long now. He can feel the excitement running through his veins like a hit of the Docs’ cocaine. He returns to his stool and drums his fingers on the bar, knocks back another bourbon and lights another cigarette. He feels uneasy, something deep inside him. Like cockroaches crawling over his toes. He’s sweating but doesn’t take off his jacket, he needs the protection it provides, hard metal pressed reassuringly into his side like a soothing hand to a fevered brow. The city stirs from its slumber. Between the bedsheets of darkness, the slime and bugs of the city emerged from their dens or crawled from beneath their rocks. Ornamental women with diamonds on their necks and coldness in their eyes on the arms of men in fancy suits. Weighted handshakes as laughter rang in the bars and saloons of the city; not from mirth but for another purpose altogether, to hide the fear that yaps at the heals of its master. The man at the hotel bar loses himself in memory once again. He was six, maybe seven holding onto the skirt of his mother as they watched a parade pass through the streets. Folks had been yelling, a brass band played. Giants crowded the streets, for every man was a giant to him. He fell and lost his mother. He screamed and called out her name. The fear of a child filled his heart and he began to sob as the crowd carried him away. It seemed a hundred years and a hundred faces passed him by. A hummingbird trapped in his chest as he imagined monsters in the eyes of men. That was when she found him. He couldn’t remember her face - his only coming to her waist. A girl in a red polka-dot dress. She scooped him up in her arms, laughter in her eyes and brushed away his tears. Carried him safely back into his mother’s embrace. To him, she seemed a beautiful angel with honey hair and red lips, the most beautiful thing his young eyes had ever seen. The man at the hotel bar thought again of the woman in the red dress from a time passed. She’d raised him up from the graveyard of normality into the world of the lavish and extraordinary. He’d kissed the hand of the king that night in that smokey lounge.

Over-there in the grey suit, she’d pointed. Come she’d said, and he’d followed the woman in the red dress as she introduced him to his future. Champagne poured and there were girls, dozen to the dime. He was seduced as much by the lifestyle he saw as by her red dress and slow smiles. It was power. Those men, they weren’t afraid of nothin', they owned the city and they lived in style but more than that they had freedom. Class and abundance flowed from their fingers. Danger shone in their eyes. They were quick to smile and quicker to laugh. They seemed untouchable. That night when he followed her to bed he was as much following the man in the grey suit. Again he mused at fate. Wondered what his life would be if he hadn’t met her. Would he still be sitting here waiting to play God? The man in the hotel bar rouses himself from the past, it was time. The elevator doors opened and a short portly man steps out. He is slightly balding, a fuddy-duddy if ever there was- he walks quickly, eager to reach his destination. The man at the bar slips off his stool as quiet and sly as a jungle cat in pursuit of its prey. Not a soul notices his departure.

Music and voices blended into the constant thunder of traffic. Sirens and car horns combine in the fantasia of the city - climaxing in a crescendo as the adolescent night reaches adulthood. The pavement radiates the heat of the day rising with the smell of fast food and garbage, the bouquet completed with the faintest trace of ladies perfume. A heavy and suffocating stink that catches in the back of the throat. The man from the hotel bar walks at a leisurely pace concealing himself between the residents of the sidewalk. He stops and tips his hat to a pretty girl, with a fleeting Good evening Mam, his hat obscuring his face just as the portly man glances over his shoulder checking for anyone in pursuit. The pair continued in this fashion for some three or four blocks until the portly man turns onto the corner of 52nd Street. Bars and clubs line the sidewalk, sultry voices singing of lost love fight against jaunty big band tunes in a battle to dominate the night. A showgirl lights a cigarette under a harsh yellow streetlamp, taking a break from an already long night. The man from the hotel bar pauses, he looked up and notices the pale half moon dangling haphazardly in the dirty sky. He knows the portly man’s intended destination now, he recognises the lounge and street corner. He’s been here before. That night, the night with the woman in the red dress two decades earlier. It looks the same. Here where it began so shall it end, fate makes for an odd mistress he muses. He walks down a dimly lit corridor pushing past a scantily dressed cigar girl and slipping into a smokey room which swells with a crooning voice telling of longing and tragedy. The man from the hotel bar knows that voice, it awakens a half-forgotten dust-covered memory. Running through the lanes of boyhood in the baking summer heat. Cracked mud-pies abandoned to a parched and desiccated fate. His fathers’ voice ringing after him ignored in the pursuit of a golden pigtail tied with a red ribbon. Laughter on the breeze and mischief afoot. Who had she been? He couldn’t remember. Or perhaps he’d never known.

On a small stage in the centre of the room, the same room the man had danced long ago, she stands. In her red dress with her golden hair. The Dame from the lobby. Her voice is something special straight out of heaven and matched with a body wrapped in sin. Every man in the room has eyes for only her. He turns his attention to each table searching until he finds what he’s looking for. The portly man. No longer alone but sat at a table in the far left corner and accompanied by a handsome man in a grey suit. A bright smile flashes, hair turned to salt n' pepper with the years but eyes as true blue as they’d always been. The man from the hotel bar settles at a watchful distance, he orders another drink as he waits. He won’t move again until the night begins to fade. The hours slither past as tough guys, wise guys, cool cats and wannabes come and go in front of the man in the grey suit. The show finishes, the court closes and the man in the grey suit takes his leave off his subjects exiting out a side door to a dingy alleyway. The man from the hotel bar rises, one last lingering look at the dame in the red dress and then he too exits out of the side door. Two men stand in the night under the light of a pathetic waxy grey moon, too far away and too smog poisoned to cast even the faintest shadow on the grimy pavement. Two gunshots swallowed by the stale night. The side door opens again throwing a rectangle of golden haze onto a bloody tableau. One man splayed on the pavement a red hallo forming around his motionless head. The other man stands over him, smoking gun, limp in his hand. The woman in the red dress steps into the alleyway. You don’t look so hot. She says, her manner indicating she is simply picking up an old interrupted conversation.

A chuckle which ends in a wince of pain as the man from the hotel bar leans against the opposing wall of the alleyway. Gun_free hand pressed to his side, fingers match her dress in sticky colour. Gettin shot ain't so fun doll.

The woman in the red dress smiles. I wasn’t sure you’d remember me, been a while. Her voice is soft and gentle and that smile, the same one that drifted through his memories and heated his dreams. Impossible to forget even under the fog of time. Couldn’t forget you if I wanted, a man never forgets his first love, nor his childhood friend. Name or no name. The man from the hotel bar slumps against the wall, body sliding to the ground. How about I give you a name now then?

I’ve had many but I guess you can call me Fate if you’d like. The man from the hotel bar considers her for a moment and then nods. Well doll, I seem to have played my part here tonight. I reckon the rest is in your hands now. The man from the hotel bar turns his gaze away from the woman in the red dress and glances up towards the sky. The waxy moon doesn’t look so far away now, he closes his eyes and the last thing he feels is her lips against his cheek.


When my parents said they were flying in for a couple weeks this summer to visit the kids, I had no idea they meant the exact same week my in-laws were. I mean, I love my parents like life itself, but they really could have just picked another week. My parents, and my husband Eric’s parents, didn’t really get off to a good start with each other when we were dating. We were fresh out of high school, and my parents were fine with that, but Eric's weren’t. They said,

‘ You’re too young and will be immature with your choices. You need to wait until you're older.’

...Seriously?

Now I really don’t want you to think that I don’t love Eric’s parents, because I do. They’re very sweet people, but can just sometime’s get on your nerves if you know what I mean. Like last year at Christmas, they were staying with us and my mother-in-law started complaining about how I do everything wrong. I was washing the dishes the way I always do, and she said I put too much soap on them!

‘Honey you’re doing it all wrong. You’re only wasting money by using that much dish soap.’

I didn’t want to get frustrated at her, so tried to calmly reply that ‘It’s flu season, and I just wanted to be extra cautious that no one got sick.’

But of course she took that all wrong, and thought I was saying she and her husband were old and weak and would die if they got sick. So she went into this whole argument about how they were still ‘young at heart’ and didn’t need our help staying safe. Well, that’s the end of me washing dishes around her. I guess I just don’t like my mother-in-law. Her husband’s just fine, and he hasn’t done anything really irritating to me yet. So I guess it’s just me vs her. No I’m just joking, I’d never be mean. I think.

*

*

*

My wife’s parents are really nice.

...Okay, that was torcher. No, they aren’t. I really wish we could have that nice family where every holiday and family get-together goes perfect and smooth. You know those Christmas movies where everyone is happy when they're eating, because the food is perfect, the conversation is great, and then everyone cries a little bit when the grandparents leave because they’ll just miss them so much? Well, that’s the exact opposite of what happens at our family meals. Last Thanksgiving when my wife Lynn got schooled on dish washing, her dad and I were having our own little rumble in the living room. We were comparing our golfing bags to see who had the better one. He showed me all these pockets and special straps inside of his, and then literally started making fun of mine! I mean, he’s like what… 75?

And still acts like an 8 year old! He started saying all these things like

‘Well, I guess your bag will be great for your son.’  and, ‘Did you get that at a Toys R Us Eric?’

Come on- really? And then when we were watching football, he started cussing at our home team because they were messing up. I mean it was only a game and I shouldn’t have let it bother me, but for some reason it just did. I have this pet peeve for people cussing at unnecessary times. I mean I get it if you kinda have to, but there’s just no need to swear at a football game on your TV screen. It’s not like the quarterback can hear you or anything.

When we all sat down for the Thanksgiving dinner, my mom suggested that we say grace- which in my opinion, she should have never mentioned. That’s another big difference between my wife’s family and mine. My family is religious, and has this big deal about praying before we eat... but my wife’s family doesn't. They just eat whenever. So when both families have a meal together, there’s always an argument about praying.

‘Who wants to pray?’ my mothers cheery voice rang out. When nobody answered, the room started to feel a bit stuffy, and I swear I could hear crickets. ‘Uh, mom. Why don’t you just give us a quick prayer and we’ll eat.’ I tried to say so she’d hurry up and we could forget about this mess.  ‘No dear, I pray all the time and would love to hear someone else do it.’

At first I was kind of annoyed at her, but then started to change my mind. Lynn’s parents always made fun of my family for being religious, and I hated that. So when this prayer opportunity arose, I took my chances at letting them know.

‘Actually... Amy!’ who was my wife’s mom ‘Why don’t you pray?’

She looked at me with the most disgusted face. I could tell she was holding back from swearing at me.

‘Actually Eric, I think I’ll pass this time.’

She stiffly smiled, and my wife gave me the evil eye. I could tell she wanted me to stop messing around. I quickly said grace and then met her in the kitchen.

“What are you doing Eric?? Are you trying to embarrass my mother by making her pray?”

“No, I was just being polite.”

“Yeah right, be polite to an old atheist woman who hates praying.”

“Look Lynn, I know your family doesn't pray and believe in God, but mine does alright?” “Okay, okay fine. I get it. We just need to push our differences aside so we can have a nice meal together for once. But just please don’t do something like that again, it really just tenses things up.”

Almost as soon as she said ‘tenses up’ there was a loud beeping sound. The fire alarms were going off. I had completely forgotten about the turkey baking in the oven! The timer I set didn’t go off for some reason and smoke was pouring out of our oven. As I yanked the turkey out, Lynn opened the backdoor for me to set the pan on the patio.

My two kids were furiously waving pieces of cardboard by the fire alarms to try and get the smoke away from it so it’d stop beeping, but that only made it worse. My dad tried to make the kids stop and took them outside. My mother-in-law opened all of the windows in the house while my dad complained that we weren’t responsible enough to even watch food in the oven. “Dad! Not now okay. We’re adults and can handle this”

*  *  *

Well, Eric said we could handle this, but I don’t know. After all of the smoke cleared out of the house, the fire alarm was still going. Apparently it got jammed, and now wouldn’t turn off even when we tried to manually. The constant beeping sound was dulling our ears and everyone just stood outside. On top of that, I left the mashed potatoes on the dining room table unattended, and the dog got up and ate them all when we were outside. I guess we’ll be taking a trip to the vet sooner or later. Our kids weren’t much of a help because they were only complaining about how they were hungry and their ears hurt. I decided we couldn’t stay in the house any longer, because we were all starting to go a bit crazy. So I suggested we call someone to come fix the fire alarm, and while they’re here we go eat take-out in the park. We could make it a picnic. Everyone agreed and piled into our minivan. Being in the same car with everyone, including your in-laws was a bad idea though. We all started arguing about where to get food, because my parents were vegetarian and my husband's weren’t. It was pretty hectic, so I won’t even bother to go through that whole conversation. After about 15 minutes of arguing over food, we finally decided to go to a dine- in restaurant instead of having take-out. I felt kinda bad for our waitress though, because we were all pretty mad at each other , and took it out on her.

My father-in-law was upset that his steak wasn’t slightly pink, and my mom wanted more croutons on her salad. My kids wanted a hamburger, but they only served fish on the kids menu. I think I was the only one who didn’t care what I got, because I just wanted everyone to shut-up. When we finally made it home, we were excited to see if the repair man had fixed the fire alarm. But unfortunately, you could still hear it beeping from a mile away. When we got inside, no one was even there fixing it! The house was exactly how we left it. It turned out, with all the chaos no one had actually called anyone. We just assumed someone would magically come to fix the fire alarm. I still have no idea how we managed to pull that one off.

Anyways, like I said… both of our in-laws are planning to come down this summer at the same time. I just really, really hope it doesn't turn out like it did last year... or I might just leave the kids with them and let them deal with the in-laws. That’s who they came for after all right?


Gratitude So, the touchy-feely person in Human Resources sends me to a therapist to resolve my anger issues. I’m not angry, I’m just fed up with everyone. They are all such busy bodies and pretend all this interest in everyone else. I don’t think they care one way or the other. (Including my boss who ordered me to go.) He is so worried about saving his own job that he caves in to every ridiculous rule the management team creates. They are all worried someone’s feelings will get hurt. Don’t say this, don’t say that, brother! Anyway, I am explaining why I feel so frustrated with my office and the shrink says, ‘There must be something you are grateful for. Why don’t you keep a journal for ten days about what makes you grateful? See if your attitude towards things changes.” I’m grateful I only have to do this for ten days. Day 1 What am I grateful for today? Well, it is the weekend, so I’m grateful I don’t have to see all those phonies at work. And I’m grateful I don’t have to ride that crowded, filthy train. Of course, the mail was late and I have a package that the carrier would not leave. Now I have to go online and request that it be left at my door on Monday. What a hassle. Day 2 I went to church this morning. There was hardly anyone there. It’s not like everyone in the congregation doesn’t need a good sermon, and I am grateful that the sermon was good. It was about charity and walking in the other man’s shoes. How often does anyone do that for me? An it is definitely charity letting some of these people sing. Maybe next week we can have a sermon on the widow’s mite for some of these cheapskates. I am grateful that one of our members who had been really sick was back and looking much better. I missed her and her good singing. I probably should have gone to see her in the hospital. Day 3 Back to work. I’m grateful that I found a good parking spot at the train station, for once. The train was packed and both stations were madhouses. The Human Resources woman had to meet with me to confirm that the therapist was acceptable. I said he was, and am grateful I don’t have to start this business all over again. I noticed Frank was out today and Karla, the woman in the office next to him said his son had been in an accident. He was going to be okay but Frank was going to stay overnight in the hospital with him. I’m grateful for that. I am ashamed that Karla had to remind me of the boy’s name. The package was waiting inside the screen door when I got home. I’m grateful no porch pirates stole it. It was a picture of my daughter and her husband and their new baby. I’m grateful the baby doesn’t look like her father. He could be I the circus. But he is a good man and good husband. I am very grateful for that. Day 4 The train was better today. I had to park at the end of the lot though. Frank was back at work, said his son would be alright. I’m grateful for that and that Frank will be okay too. I didn’t realize how much I relied on him being here every day. He looked like he had not slept in days, poor guy. I know how you worry when one of your kids is hurt. Why aren’t drivers more careful? I should also be grateful that nothing that bad has happened to me. Day 5 The weather was nicer today. That meant there were more panhandlers at the station. I gave them all my cash and didn’t have any left for my coffee. Ah well, I should just be grateful I have a job and have any extra cash at all. The boss announced that the office staff has to be reduced. That means the newest hires will have to start looking for new jobs. I should write a reference letter for my new assistant. I am grateful I am not being let go. I worried about those young people on the ride home. At least our HR department is setting up a job and resume posting site. Day 6 There was no ice on the road today. I was grateful not to slide once on the way to the station. Frank decided to transfer to the New Mexico office. He doesn’t want any more icy winters. I will be sorry to see him go. I’m grateful I got to work with him for so many years.

With Frank leaving, that means one less person will be let go. But we will lose all that experience. To save money, the boss will keep the newest kid. The police found a homeless man dead outside the train station. They had removed the body by the time my train got there. I offered a word of gratitude that I am not in such a sad situation. Day 7 It’s Friday and I am grateful that I am going to make it through another week. It has been a difficult one. I am grateful for Karla; she is arranging Frank’s going away in addition to helping with the resume workshop for the kids we are letting go. I volunteered to pitch in with that. She seemed glad for the help. There was a woman with a dead battery at the train station. She was very upset. She didn’t have jumper cables and her phone was dead. We texted her family from my phone and I got out my jumper cables. Unfortunately, she was parked right next to a light pole and the cables wouldn’t reach. Luckily, another fellow gave her a push to an open space and together we got her on her way. I was really grateful for the help that man gave us. There still are kind people around. Day 8 Yahoo, the weekend. I was grateful for a beautiful morning and a full pot of coffee. I was grateful for a good porch, a comfy chair and the singing birds. I still had chores and errands and the storm windows to take down. I didn’t look forward to climbing up and down that ladder. Charles from next door saw me hauling it out. He hollered, “Hey Ben, you are too old to be on that ladder.” I hollered back, “Who else is gonna do this?” “Henry’s kid, Ashton, took all mine down for forty bucks.” “That’s a lot for a few windows.” “Cheaper than a hospital bill.” I paid Ashton forty bucks and was grateful to have somebody else do that chore. I am grateful for a neighbor like Charles. Day 9 I skipped yesterday and am writing this from my hospital bed. On the way home from church, I was in a bad accident. The other driver lost control of his car and hit me broadside. Sadly, he was not wearing his seatbelt and did not survive. I must remember to send his family my sympathies.

Laying here, I am grateful for so many things. I’m grateful for the EMTs, the emergency room staff and the person who invented seat belts. I am really grateful that I am not mangled. But my head did hit the window pretty hard and I can’t seem to hear. The doctor said, rather wrote a note, that my hearing may return. Oddly enough the sermon at church was about counting your blessings. Maybe I should think about that while I am waiting to be released. Day 10 This is my last required gratitude entry. I have decided to keep journaling every, well almost every day. My neighbor Charles brought me home and got me settled. We had a one-sided conversation about the instructions from the doctor and when he would check on me. Some members of the church brought a weeks’ worth of food. Ashton gathered my newspaper and mail today. My daughter and the baby will be here tomorrow. While I was sitting on the porch this evening, grateful to be alive and whole, I heard a mockingbird singing just for the joy of it. I have a lot to be grateful for. That shrink knew what he was talking about.


It was 1983, but not quite the version you remember. In third grade gifted class, we made these little terrariums. I thought they were the coolest. Mrs. Manchester lined us up in front of a formica table covered with newspaper, a bag of potting soil, and a box of gravel. We each got our own fishbowl and filled it up, added a lonely jade plant, spritzed water on top, and behold, we were gods. My fishbowl was green and tumbled like sea-glass, not smooth and transparent like everyone else’s.

“The pet store didn’t have enough new bowls,” Mrs. Manchester said. “Sorry, Eileen. I found this one in Mr. Reed’s storage closet.” Mr. Reed was our janitor, and he could fix anything. I didn’t mind getting an old bowl. It was beautiful. “Take them home tonight and make them your own,” Mrs. Manchester said. The next day, we shared our creations. Laura Jane Katz had stolen three plastic GI Joe soldiers from her brother Jim’s stash and put them in her terrarium. Her big brother, Tom, had rented War Games on VHS when their parents were at the dinner theater, and she’d been fixated on war ever since. “The Russians blew up a plane in Korea,” she said ominously. “Tom says they can blow us up, too.” Ben Sibely had found a baby bullfrog in his basement window well and held him prisoner in his fishbowl. We’d all just seen the movie about Adam Walsh’s kidnapping on primetime and felt sorry for the frog. Becca France had poured tiny square glitter all over her world. We just shook our heads. Most of our parents worked for Jensen Chemical. Didn’t she know she was poisoning the soil? Me, Eileen Luo, I loved the containment of the sphere, the elegance, the sense of purpose it gave me. I was responsible for my domain, and I would not abandon it. I’d added a pink Polka Dot plant from Mama’s garden, because lo, Let There Be Some Color . Hot lunch was spaghetti and meatballs, which made the cafeteria smell like tomatoes and vomit. Afterwards, we lined up for recess along the concrete block wall outside the cafeteria, under the black and yellow Fallout Shelter sign. We did drills now and then, and I never understood how standing under the sign would protect us from a nuclear bomb. Our school was nice and all, but I had doubts it had the money for being bomb-proof. If Clark Elementary were that rich, our lunch wouldn’t reek like barf every third Monday of the month. Outside, the sun had stopped rising in the sky. We didn’t notice at the time. It was cold for the middle of October in Harrisburg and we pulled our hoods over our heads. On the playground, I stood at the top of the metal slide, behind Becca. She did a flip effortlessly on the crossbar before gliding gracefully down. I envied her bravery and attempted to summon the gumption to follow. But down near the big gingko tree in the middle of the park, a gaggle of kids squatted, white Nikes and Tretorns in a circumference. Zip! The metal slide was cold on my legs, and I ran over to my classmates. Ben Sibely hid his fishbowl under his jacket. Cupped in his palms, he held a katydid the color of sour apple. Her antennae quivered between his fingers. “No, Ben,” Becca said firmly. “They sell crickets at the pet store for that.” “What’s the difference?” Ben said. “Those get eaten alive too. But this one’s free .” “That’s not fair to the katydid,” I protested. “She’s part of the park. She’s not part of the terrarium.” “Mr. T was part of my backyard,” Ben said, pointing to his frog. “And he’s hungry.” I was about to witness an animal sacrifice. A large bug to be chewed alive before our eyes. I could feel the spaghetti becoming real vomit, creeping up my esophagus. “You’re not God,” I said, sweat dripping down my armpits. What was God, anyway? My parents never talked about God much. Baba claimed Buddhist affiliations when people invited him to church potlucks. And Mama said when we died, it was like turning off a lamp. Ben stood firm and crossed his arms. “I’m his God. He’s my frog, and I have to feed him.”

Becca picked up a twig and tapped the glass. “Poor guy. He looks lonely.” Mr. T’s eyes were closed, like he’d resigned himself to his glass matrix. Ben dropped the katydid next to him, but Mr. T ignored it. “It’s not a real world. You shouldn’t butt in,” I said. “Why’d Mrs. Manchester give us a terrarium if we’re not gonna take care of it?” Ben said. “You should build a hole for your frog,” Laura Jane advised. “For when the nukes come.” Our bodies cast abbreviated shadows onto the cracked sidewalk. Unsure of what was to come, purple late-blooming asters tilted their faces away from the sky. Canadian geese tottered along the creek across the street, unsettled by the immobile sun. The pale blue sky yawned above, and for the rest of the day, nothing momentous happened at Clark Elementary. But an hour previously, three events had crystallized, causing the sun to stop in its tracks. Number One.  Halfway around the world, above the Black Sea, a low-orbit satellite for the US Strategic Defense Initiative malfunctioned. Like a thief dropping his crowbar onto a tile floor, the atmosphere released the satellite into Soviet airspace.

Number Two. At the Soviet Air Defense Force command center in Moscow, a computer chip glitched, resulting in the lone US satellite appearing as four-hundred high-speed missiles on radar, headed straight for the USSR. Number Three. A solar storm flared, releasing electromagnetic radiation and disrupting the radar system. It resembled a massive jam of the Soviet defense operation. Calls to General Secretary Andropov were made. He had no choice. There was no question what had to be done. This meant war, and certain nuclear winter. At that point, the invisible hand intervened, stopped the Earth from turning, and interrupted the sun in its worn path across the Heavens. See, Earth had been at it for almost five billion years. If you’d been watching animals evolve into brilliant flashing cuttlefish, only to have them sicken and die in a nuclear Armageddon, wouldn’t you feel a bit gypped? Back in class, Mrs. Manchester read us a chapter of Where the Red Fern Grows and we ate Jiffy Pop for a snack. When school let out, the sun had not shifted in the sky. Our great yellow school bus stopped before the railroad tracks, creaked its front door open, peered across, and lurched us home, all under the mid-morning sun. At eight in the evening, I sat with my terrarium on my bed, cardinals still chirping in the dogwood in front of my bedroom. A Lone Star Tick crept up the leaves of the Polka Dot plant. I reached in the bowl, plucked the tick out and squashed it in a Kleenex. I breathed a sigh of relief. And then, I saw it. All of us gods saving our little worlds, our dear creatures, our terraformed dioramas. I saw Ben feeding Mr. T. brown crickets from Concord Pet Supply, Laura Jane sheltering her GI Joes into a cut-up chocolate milk carton, Becca adding green slime to the glitter coating her dirt. As I held the green fishbowl, I saw the invisible hand hold our planet, sweep away errant satellites out past Earth’s orbit, shield us from the sun’s wrathful outbursts, reset computers, turn back anxieties, rewind incalculable misunderstandings, stall omnipresent fears, and postpone inevitable death. You don’t remember that 1983, because the gods were looking out for you.


D arkness... then light. It's blinding. Closing my eyes isn't helping. I try to cover them with my hands, but my arms resist. When I try again, they still won't move. They're bound! Why? What's going on?! I can barely move to find comfort on the cold hard surface I'm lying on. I squirm as my heart pounds faster, each beat matching the rhythm of my panicked breath. I need to calm down, so I can figure out what's happening to me . A repugnant sulphur taste coats my mouth. I try asking for water - even though I can't tell if anyone is nearby - but my attempt to speak only makes me gag. “Take it easy, big guy. Nobody’s going to hurt you - just relax.” Her voice is angelic, and she's close enough that I can see her silhouette. My vision is still too bright and pixelated to make out what she looks like, though. “Here, have a drink. I’m sure you’re thirsty.” the sweet sound of her voice fills my ears once again. Something small touches my lips… A straw! I lunge at the straw and slurp up the water as hastily as I can until she takes it away. I’m still so incredibly thirsty, but there’s nothing I can do except relax. “Vitals are stable. Vision still seems to be adjusting, as expected at this point. Fine motor skills appear to be working properly. Commencing gross motor test. Security, on the ready.” She is speaking to someone else now and using a much more professional tone. “Copy that.” says a male voice. I watch the figure of the woman as she moves outside of my perception. The bindings holding my arms let go. I immediately rub my wrists in discomfort… they’re surprisingly hairy! I can’t stand up yet - my ankles are still secure. I rub my eyes and scan the room, but still can’t see much - just shapes and outlines enveloped in light. “I’m still here,” the woman says, “I’m just going to raise your bed.” There’s a short beeping noise before half of my bed lifts, bringing me almost to a stand. I can finally see her now - she is a petite woman with blonde hair tied back in a bun. She’s wearing a long, white lab coat and holding a tablet in her hand. A cup and straw sit on the table next to her - I stretch my arm out to grab the cup, but I can’t reach it. She picks it up and holds it to my mouth again, but this time I take it from her. I chug back the entire cup and try to speak again, but can only grunt; so I point to the inside of the cup instead. “No, I can’t do that…” she tells me as she takes the cup back and places it on the table. She’s watching me intently now. I stay calm even though I don’t like her response. She’s close enough that I should be able to reach her, but I’m not about to hurt her over a cup of water. The woman moves closer to the door and then taps the screen of her tablet. Another short beep accompanies the release of the thick steel clasps around my ankles. Stumbling to the floor, I try to stand, but I still need to support myself with my hands on the floor. My eyes fixate on the woman as she lifts her arm below her face. “Hmm. Gross motor skills are working as expected; However, GP-92 is displaying unusual traits. Not red-level, just strange. Directive?” S he says, speaking into a smartwatch. “Subject H-380 has been terminated, it was also displaying traits that it shouldn’t have.” The voice is stern and speaking to her through the device, “Traits that were too aggressive for its matrix. GP-92 somehow had its fundamental personality matrix swapped with the terminated subject. Whoever made this grave mistake is going to be memory wiped and fired!" The woman has a grim look on her face as she takes a deep breath. She presses a button on her watch and raises her wrist in front of her mouth. “GP-92 is non-aggressive. I recommend further study on this unintended development. Especially since GP-92 has passed the preliminary functions test with ease.” She is looking directly into my eyes as she speaks, while I look straight back into hers. “GP-92’s rightful vessel has been terminated. We don’t have the authority or any reason to proceed with your proposal. Terminate the subject.” No! I won't be terminated! I want to live! I jump up and feel the urge to beat on my chest. Letting out a roar, my arm swings - sending equipment flying, and knocking off all the wires on me. The woman screams and runs out the door. As I turn my head to look her way, several bullets whiz by my face, one of them grazes my cheek. I try yelling at them to stop, but the only thing I can voice is another loud ROAR! Hoping to become a more difficult target, I begin making a commotion with their equipment. A table smashed right through a large mirror, creating a hole big enough to walk through. More bullets pass my head as I hurry to escape into the room behind it. “STOP HIM NOW!” That same voice yells, this time it’s loud and clear; “BEFORE HE REALIZES WHAT THAT BODY IS CAPABLE OF!” There are three people in the room, all wearing the same white coat. The bullets stop firing as I approach them. “ARE YOU CRAZY!? SHOOT HIM!” It’s that voice… I know exactly which one ordered my termination now. “But - he’s too close! I can’t risk hitting you guys!” A man shouts from the first room. “He’s about to do much worse than your bullets! KILL HIM NOW! That’s an order!” I scoop the man up in my arms as he finishes speaking. I can feel his bones cracking, even though I’m not trying to crush him. I still need him alive - I have to loosen my grip. He’s still crying out in agony as I hold him in front of me, using him as a human shield. As the shooting stops, the woman rushes into the room shouting; “Filament, rooster, guardian, six, one, three!” “No!” The man I’m holding spoke up “Kill codes... are unique to their matrix -” I don’t like the sound of that, so I cover up his mouth with my hand. “ Oh no! I only work with the gorilla matrix, I - I don’t know the human code!” The woman cries. What does that mean? Am I… a gorilla? This can’t be happening! My breathing hastens as my body trembles fiercely. What am I? I can’t even ask them! AGH! Still holding on to my hostage, I lunge at a door, turning my body so my side bashes into it, smashing it right off its hinges. As I run down the hallway, alarms begin to sound throughout the building. “Code red -- Lockdown is in effect -- Code red --” a PA system repeats its message while I make my way to a door with an "Exit" sign above it. Scientists peer out of their office windows until the force of my movement shatters the glass. They duck out of the way to avoid a barrage of crystalline shards. I barrel into the door, smashing this one down as well. A security guard on the other side jumps and lifts his gun in one swift movement. I swing my arm to push him aside, sending him flying into the wall where he collapses in a heap. The room before me is bare aside from an elevator door. “Please - you have to let him go! You’ll kill him if you keep handling him like that!” The woman is here in the room now - pleading with me. “What’s your plan when you escape, anyway?” I try to respond, but once again, I can only grunt. I smash the floor with my fist, breaking a hole right through it while causing the building to shake a little bit. “You want to speak to me... don’t you? That must be frustrating. I’ll tell you what -” “What are you doing, Doctor Green!? You’re going to get yourself killed!” The security guard I knocked out is conscious again, trying to warn her away. “He’s got a human matrix, I’m sure we can reason with him! He wasn't even violent until after Donavan ordered his termination!” Turning to look at me, Doctor Green says; “ Please let him go. We can find a way for you to communicate… and then we can talk about this. You just… have to let Don go…” How can I refuse that? I let go of Donavan, his body falling limp at my feet. Doctor Green rushes over to check on him, placing two fingers on his neck. “He’s alive! Just unconscious. You hurt him pretty bad, though - Medic! ” I begin to back away, inching closer to the elevator - which still hasn’t arrived. The alarm is still buzzing and playing its message; That’s why!! It’s not coming because of the lockdown. Damn it! I need a backup plan! Turning around, I put my fingers in the middle of the elevator doors. As I begin to pull the doors apart, three sudden, sharp pains pierce my back.

Everything is going black. **** Once again I find myself waking up in a small room, but this time I’m alone, and on the floor - on a pile of straw. At least this time I’m not bound to anything - and I’m still alive. That’s a good sign. The room is spinning, so I’m not even going to try standing up. A few minutes later, the door swings open and the woman walks through it, pulling a large whiteboard on wheels. She pulls a fat marker out of her pocket, plucks the lid off and writes on the board - but I can’t tell what she’s writing. “I’m told that our humans only need to see the connection between the spoken and written word... That this is enough to unlock a full literacy spectrum. Let’s hope this works - my writing here says: "My name is Doctor Amaya Green.’ Are you able to read it now?” The markings on the board start taking the form of letters and words right in front of my eyes. I can read it! This made me bounce up and down with excitement! Doctor Green smiles as she hands me the marker; “You try now. Tell me what my name is.” Taking the marker from her, I walk up to the board and scribble on it. It’s all squiggles and lines at first. Pretty soon, the markings start resembling letters, then legible words; ‘~~^~ <% (~^pf’ ‘Am ~Green name’ ‘You are name Doctor’ ‘Doctor Amaya Green.’ “Good!!” She's wearing a huge smile. “You can call me Amaya. Now, you need a name too. Can I call you Nick? That’s what your name would have been if you had made it to your rightful body.” ‘Yes.’ “Wow, you are astonishing, you know that? We’ve tried cross-implanting before, and it was disastrous -” "What do you mean? What am I, Amaya?” “...Oh! I’m sorry! I’m getting ahead of myself! We’re a government facility that manufactures androids for war. We produce synthetic humans and gorillas for espionage and target elimination.” Amaya pauses to wipe the board clean. “So, you’re an android… an augmented gorilla body with a synthetic human mind.” ‘I’m a robot?’ “No, not exactly… Oh, how do I explain this?” Amaya scrunches her forehead and twists her lips. She then brightens up and snaps her fingers. “We grew your body from real gorilla cells... and designed a quantum computer chip as your base personality. It's like a limitless artificial intelligence that can only grow more complex and unique. Our gorilla bodies are also augmented with physical enhancements. That's why you were such a powerhouse earlier today. You are a living, breathing being… you get a cut, you bleed. You are much more than just a robot.” That was a lot to take in... But it gives me some hope. I write another question: ‘Can you put my chip into a human body?’ “...If we could, Don wouldn’t have ordered your termination. You were not cheap to create. As soon as we install the chip, it begins taking over your body. It merges with you on a cellular level, literally becoming you. Everything a living body depends on starts in that chip, right down to your nervous system. You even get to experience emotions and imperfections. Everything about you will develop like a real human being. But it renders the chip obsolete - it'll never work again in another vessel. You’re stuck with what you are, should you choose to live…” Amaya is looking at me with concern now, as she moves in closer. She puts her hand under mine, lifting it up to elbow height, and then places her other hand on top of it. Her eyes lock on to mine as she continues speaking; “Listen - you can’t do our human work because of your appearance. You can’t do the gorilla work because you’re too human. You won’t fit in with society - neither humans nor gorillas. Don’s order was… the humane thing to do - given the circumstances. So you have a choice. I can recite your kill code and you won’t feel a thing - or we can keep you here until we figure something out for you. If you’re a burden for too long, though, Don will give the order again.” Pulling my hand away, I use my forearm to wipe the board clean so that I can write in large letters; ‘I WANT TO LIVE.’ **** It has been two weeks since I decided to give life a try. Most of the staff are still uneasy around me, but Amaya has always been kind. She has been sitting with me to chat every day. Most days, I don’t even need to write on the board. I'm happy gazing into her bright blue eyes while she tells me about her day and life outside the facility. She has the biggest and brightest smile in the building. “You’re a great listener! Better than anyone I’ve met.” She tells me with a grin after one of her stories. Then, glancing at the clock, her smile gets even bigger; “I have a surprise for you, Nick!” I can hear the enthusiasm in her voice as she stands up, and now I can’t help but stand with her. “I haven’t told you yet, but I’ve been researching - and even scouring the dark web - for anything that might help you. A few days ago I found a hacker that has successfully transferred quantum intelligence from one vessel to another... so I arranged to bring her and her equipment here!” The excitement of this incredible news made me jump up and down. “I’m glad you approve! She should be nearly done setting up.” Holding out her hand to me and smiling, Amaya asks “Shall we go?” in a playfully dramatic tone. Taking her hand, she started leading me to another room down the hall. As we enter the room, I see a tall woman turning around to look at us. She pushes a section of her red curly hair away from her eyes as she greets us. “Hi! I’m Maggie. You must be Nick, I heard so much about you!” She is a fast speaker with a lot of energy; “Wow. Okay, I really hope this works. I’ve only done this with computers, never with a living thing! Doctor Green and I poured over my data and she believes this can work for you, though, so… here we are! Oh jeez… I’m sorry I’m just so nervous and excited about all this! Nick… there are risks. If this fails, any number of bad things could happen, including your death. Can you nod your head if you understand and want to proceed?” I nod my head immediately. Maggie tells me to lie down on the floor next to one of the facility’s synthetic humans. It's already hooked up to a lot of wires and a few large machines. She takes her time to carefully attach a second set to my body. “Okay Nick, all set. Are you ready?” Maggie asks. I look up at Amaya, who smiles and nods at me with the reassurance I need. Nodding back, I close my eyes. I can hear the tapping sounds of a keyboard, and then the sound of a loud computer firing up… **** Opening my eyes, I find Amaya waiting right there in front of my face, eyes wide with concern and wonder. “Nick? Are you alright? How are you feeling?” She asks. “I - I feel… I can talk!?” I can finally respond to her! I lift my hands to look at them; I have human hands! “It worked? I’m human now?” I still can’t believe what’s happening to me. “YES!” Amaya and Maggie both shriek at the same time. Maggie excitedly bounces over to her laptop and starts typing while Amaya helps me sit up. Amaya takes a moment to stare at me while her eyes start welling up with tears. I raise my hand to wipe away the tears and smile at her. “I’m alright…” I tell her, even though I'm still feeling light-headed. She let herself fall right into my chest, embracing me in a long, tight hug. Hugging her back just as tight, I shed tears of joy along with her. “Thank you, Amaya.” I tell her as she pushes herself back to look at me. “No need to thank me, Nick. You mean the world to me. I’m just glad you’re still here!” On the inside, a storm of emotions overwhelms my body. I love her - I’m sure of it. But I don’t want to scare her or push her away. All that I feel safe saying is “Me too, Amaya. You are my world. ”