Richard had ignored the signs. His had been a demise that crept upon him slowly, his self-worth stolen in the lonely work hours, validation kept from him at home. If it wasn’t the expectations of his career peeling back the last of his resolve, it was his high-strung wife with her exhaustive demands. She taxed him to the brink of collapse. His three children had pushed him to the edges of bankruptcy with their private schools, designer clothes, and rehab stints. He loved them, but they had drifted from his reach, caught in the rip current of daily activities. His life had faltered, picked up momentum, and now lay in utter ruins as he rifled through the paperwork the nurse handed him. “It will be okay, Mr. Darden,” she lingered with eye contact, forcing a faint smile. “I know. It has to be,” he muttered unintelligibly, “there must be a way to right things.” When he stepped outside, the sun’s glare, which normally accosted his sensibilities, held him in its warmth. The hospital grounds were steeped in green hues, awakening his senses, the air rife with smells, fragrant and sweet. For the first time in many days, no months, he felt a connection to the ordered flow of nature, on the cusp of an infinite understanding. Then he glanced downward, the paperwork stark in its finality. He bit his lip, tasting the metallic bitterness, the one tangible sign that he was still alive. “Pancreatic cancer,” he said the words aloud, as if putting them to sound might help make sense of it. The discouragement and despair funneled into a sudden anger. He grasped for a way back to that time before his death sentence. It had to be a misunderstanding; they confused the lab results with someone else. He was in his prime, a recent promotion to Director-level, the possibility of realigning his finances, and now it was being stripped from him, not slowly, but in a quick rage. His diagnosis was unfathomable. It wasn’t a solid wall he was pinned against. The denial was amorphous, wrapping its arms around him from all angles. “How could I have only two to three weeks left?” The question went unanswered. He knew he was asking a ghost. Richard teetered, his balance being swept up in the movement of passer-byers, the chirpings of the mockingbirds. He sat with a spinning heaviness on the vacant bench, feeling his inner reserves collapsing, surveying his options in his mind’s eye. It was too much to sustain, and he cradled his forehead in the palms of his tired hands. He could feel a tear, one at first, followed by many rolling down the inside of his cheek, skirting his nose and the corners of his lips. They raced a hurried path to the edges of his chin where he watched the saline drops fall into the Bermuda grass below. His body rocked to the rhythm of the release, a cathartic movement. In his concentrated focus, Richard hadn’t felt the presence of his bench companion, and he was jarred back into the present by her question, a soft utterance, “You’re trying to find the perfect thing to bargain, aren’t you?” He slipped his palms over his eyes, wiping away the errant tears. He was afraid to meet her gaze. “I am willing to trade anything, at this point,” he said, slowly turning to face this stranger with the gentleness in her voice. She stared straight ahead, her hand reaching to tame the hem of her white dress as it fluttered with the insolent breeze. She sighed, not from exasperation, but an empathetic exhale. “It’s natural to think you can buy your way out of this fix. There are all those sayings you grow up with like ‘where there’s a will, there’s a way.’ Or ‘never give up.’ ‘Perseverance pays off.’ I can go on and on,” her thoughts trailed into the silence. She tucked the dress under her knee, reigning in the difficulties, yanking away the flirtation of the breeze. Richard averted the truth, “I mean, you know it can happen. You hear about friends of friends who get cancer or MS or have that unexpected heart attack, but you never think it will be you. It can’t be me. I haven’t even started living yet,” he raised his eyebrows with the ponderance, “Meg and I were supposed to take all these grand trips once the kids were through college. I’ve been mired in work for decades with the thought that there would be a payoff in retirement, and maybe even an early one of that.” He sat up straight, a conviction flowing through him, “I will do anything, anything to change it. I’ll go to church. I’ll volunteer. I’ll make amends with my kids,” pausing he continued, “And Meg. I’ll make her happy. I’ll adopt a dog, or a child, yes, a child. I’ll take in a homeless person. I’ll do whatever it takes.” His steadfastness warped into a frantic anguish, his voice tilting into desperation, “I’ll admit to all my sins, the ones known and unknown. I’ll change. I’ll be a better person…I’ll never take anything or anyone for granted again. I won’t. I promise.” His voice receded into the blank nothingness; his pleas fading alongside his vision of himself. She let her hand rest on his knee. Her tone, caring and pure, she urged, “Live fully with no regrets. Enjoy the way ice cream tastes and how sweet the melody is in your favorite song. Laugh at the simple observations your kids make, and revel in the kindnesses that abound. Don’t waste any more time. There is no space for grieving yourself.” Richard shook his head with acknowledgment and closed his eyes, allowing the tenderness of her advice and touch to wash over him. For a moment, he felt whole. Once steadied in his thoughts, he said, “I needed someone to show me another way to accept my failings. I needed someone to listen.” Glancing to his right, the bench was empty, as if she had never been there. Richard swiveled to see behind him, raising to a half stand, his bent leg resting on the bench. He looked back and forth quickly and turned around, surmising he would see her disappearing in the distance, but she was gone. “Where did she go?” he whispered, struck by the seeming elusiveness. He could still smell the scent of her perfume. Lowering himself back on the bench, Richard reached into the inside pocket of his sports coat, and pulled out the scratch-off lottery ticket that he had purchased at the gas station on his morning drive. He half-chuckled at himself, toying with the possibility that lightning could strike twice in a single day. With a penny that felt gritty in between his fingers, he carefully rubbed away the grey coating. The small flecks stuck to the card and his hand, as he shook it away. For the second time in a span of hours, he sat motionless, shaking the card and looking at it again, bringing it close to his field of vision. “You unlucky bastard! There is no way!” he laughed a hearty laugh, scanning the grounds with the hope of seeing his disappearing friend. His focus fell on the cherry willow, weighted in white blossoms. It labored in the gust of wind, its wispy branches shifting then returning to their natural bent. He wished he could share his newfound windfall, but only misery loves company, and she was long departed. Instead, his gaze alighted on a young female, holding her newborn, as she was being pushed to a waiting vehicle. They looked serene in their passage to the life that awaited. Richard instinctively jumped up and ran toward them, his bargaining complete. “Please take this and do something good, something beautiful, something you’ll be proud of,” he implored. She struggled to understand the exchange and the ticket he had handed her. She clutched her infant closely to her chest and eyed the gift. Sprinting away, Richard turned back and playfully yelled, “Remember this moment, remember me!” His legs carried him across the open lawn toward the parking lot, chasing a realization, a shred of happiness still within grasp. He tore into his dark blue Lexus, and sped toward the main thoroughfare, intent to get home to share his profound news. His family mattered; they were the only thing that mattered. Weaving in and out of traffic, delicate maneuvers to spare time, he dialed the office. “Yes, Charlie’s line please,” he stammered to the annoying receptionist, the one who always clicked her teeth and twirled the ends of her hair. “Charlie! Hey – it’s me Rich. This request, well it’s not really a request, I won’t, well you see, I’m taking the next two weeks off from work. I know, I know, it’s last minute, but it’s got to be done, and you’ll understand. It will all make sense soon. No, it can’t wait. You’ll see – trust me. You’ve been great, swell, I’m not sure of the right word, but thank you,” and he let the call disconnect. The commute afforded him twenty minutes to mull over his approach, torn between telling them the truth about his illness, or offering them a two-week vacation to San Francisco. He had always wanted to visit northern California, to feel the chilled air walking along the pier, exploring the myriad neighborhoods on their slanted streets, the smells of sea and city-life combined. Would it be fair to keep his secret? They could persist in the experience of something new, together and without the confines of his prognosis. Pulling into the driveway, he shut off the engine, looking up at the façade of his Colonial-style house. His heart tugged at the innumerable times he failed to notice the enormity of what he had, and the larger scope of what he had to lose. A light in the upstairs bedroom was extinguished. The quiet of the evening beckoned, a solitude in knowing the inevitable loomed. Once inside, Richard shouted, “I'm home!” The gathered silence broke into distant murmurings and grumbles. “Hey, everyone come down here. It’s important. We need to talk as a family,” he let the words tumble out with a forced positivity, a weakening bravado. He sat down at the kitchen bar uncertain how he would tell them, if he could tell them, flipping the message in his mind, wondering how they would react to his mortality. Maura, his youngest and sole daughter, would be depleted yet resilient. She was daddy’s girl, the one he could count on in the worst of situations. Drake would be despondent, but it would blend with his normal angst. Dylan was the wild card, the eldest son who was dutiful in his support. Meg would be a quiet disaster, and he realized how much he loved her. “What’s up, Dad?” Maura bounced into the room with her resilience. Meg came from the laundry room with a folded basket of clothes, as Drake leaned in the entryway of the kitchen. “Dylan!” bellowed Richard. “Coming, Dad,” he shouted back, simultaneously appearing next to Drake. “This better be good,” said Meg, tiring of holding the basket. Richard took a deep breath and relaxed into a smile, a sad optimism in the words that followed, “I have something to tell you.”


           “Mei?”

2 hours left.            “Mei!”

Would it happen again?            “Mei!” The black-haired girl jolted back to the table in front of her. “Can you please pass the rice? It’s gonna get cold.”            “Y-yeah.” Mei picked up the bowl from the far end of the table and passed it across to her sister. “Here. Sorry.”            The small family continued to eat their dinner as they did every night. Her parents focused on devouring every morsel that they were denied as children, her sister picking the peas out of her rice, and Mei shaping the food away from the center, clearing her view of the silver rabbit in the center.

Why did it choose me?            She stared at the tiny creature. A symbol of luck and prosperity in her family. The dishes had been passed down for generations through her mother’s side. Mei remembered her mother telling her and her sister stories of rabbits from when she was a child. “You can always trust a rabbit,” she would say. She’d tell tales of small rabbits that lived in her backyard. She would watch them eat the grass and do her best not to disturb them. “But they won’t always trust you.”            “Mei?” Her father put his hand on her shoulder. She looked up and saw the empty table in front of her. “It’s your turn for dishes tonight.” A pile of dishes sat in the sink.

1 hour left.            “Can’t Jun do them tonight?”            “You’re turn,” he said, pointing to a chore chart magnetized to the fridge. He exited the kitchen and patted her on the shoulder.            She picked up the brush and began to scrub a bowl. At the bottom of it, the same rabbit that had been on her plate could be seen through the bubbles. She could clearly see the silver animal. It was seemingly resting, its ears smooth against its back and its deceptively long legs tucked underneath its body. It seemed to sleep among the pool of bubbles that grew with every swirl of the brush in Mei’s hand.            “I think it’s clean.”            Mei almost dropped the bowl in surprise. Her sister had come into the kitchen and opened the fridge.            “I’m just here for dessert and a show,” she trailed off, grabbing a pudding cup from the fridge. “You’ve clearly got a system here.”            Mei put her head down and picked up another plate.            “What is it?”            “What?”            “Something has been on your mind since dinner. What is it?”

You only noticed at dinner?            Mei kept her head down and continued to wash the dish. Her sister sighed, rolling her eyes as she began to leave. “Jun?”            “Yes?”            “Do you remember that rabbit you caught when we were kids?”            “How could I forget?” Jun laughed. She straightened her back and pursed her lips. “’I told you that they are friends! Would you like if a friend kept you as a pet?’” She slumped back down to her normal posture, “and it was so hard to catch, too.”            Mei exhaled lightly, almost laughing with her sister. “She was pretty upset with you.”            “Yup. Why do you ask?”            “I just…I saw a rabbit in the yard the other night and it reminded me of that.”            Mei continued to clean the dishes as Jun finished her pudding. The older of the two dropped her spoon into the sink and exited the kitchen, dropping the empty, disposable cup into the trash can.

20 minutes.            With the dishes done, Mei went to her room and sat at her desk. She grabbed a pencil and began to work on a new sketch, one of her newest friends. The moment the graphite pressed against the page she felt at peace. The fluid strokes spilled out of her mind, bringing it to life the way only she could. She thought her sketch might hop right onto her desk.            Suddenly, her alarm began to play, letting Mei know that it was time. She closed her notebook and shoved it into crocheted bag. She slung it over her shoulder and headed to the kitchen. She grabbed a carrot from the fridge and a small rabbit plate from the set. Both went into her bag with care as she headed for the patio door.            “I’m heading down to the shore for a walk,” Mei called to the house, “I’ll be back soon.”            “Be careful down there at this hour. You know what they say about a full moon night.”

Trust me, dad, I’m well aware.            Mei walked outside and closed the door behind her. She hopped the railing and felt the sand between her toes. It sent slight chills up her body as she walked down the beach, but she welcomed every step. Her gaze was fixed across the waves as the moonlight danced across each tiny ebb and flow. Every star reflected itself on the black water. The breeze lightly swept across her face and pushed her hair gently back, causing her to hold her head up, a position foreign to her. She saw the moon in all its light. She kneeled down and removed the items from the bag. The plate, the carrot, and the sketchbook. She broke the carrot in half and placed both pieces on the plate. She turned back to the moon and saw a small nose poke out from behind it, wiggling in interest. I’m here. It’s okay. Suddenly, it became a face with whiskers that began to emerge from behind the large plate in the sky. Then, more and more of the creature slipped out and began jumping from star to star, sending bright ripples throughout the sky as if a rock were skipping across a pond. As it got closer, its size seemed to diminish. By the time it landed across from Mei, it was no larger than the average rabbit she had seen in her yard. It came closer and made its way to the carrot pieces on the plate. The silver rabbit began to eat the carrot. After a moment, it nuzzled one half away and cocked its head at the design on the plate. It made a noise that sounded almost like laughter. Mei giggled seemingly with the creature. She grabbed her sketchbook and began to draw once again. This time, her muse was right there, perfectly posed for her. You are a peculiar rabbit. The animal slowly inched toward her. It peeked into her book to see what Mei was drawing before stepping into her lap and curling into a ball. She accepted the loving gesture, just as she knew her mother would have before her. Thank you, my friend.


                                                           The Code Talker                                                            Suzanne Marsh

           The young boy entered the hogan, where his grandfather Charlie (Two Shirts) Palmer lived. Charlie was something of a novelty among the Navajo, he had been a Code Talker on Iwo Jima during World War II. The boy knew that his grandfather was a hero among the people but now he wanted to hear the words of the story from his grandfather. The hogan, with its dirt floors, held together with mud and twigs, woven branches forming the roof.  The young boy lived in Phoenix, today was the first time he would meet his grandfather. When he entered he found his grandfather sitting cross legged in front of some sort of steam. Charlie motioned his grandson to sit across from him.  “The Great Spirit will tell you about Iwo Jima. First you must concentrate on the steam that will fill the hogan. If the Great Spirit chooses to, he will tell the story through me.” Charlies' grandson nodded. Charlie, began his chant as he pulled the steam toward the two of them. He spoke once again, now in a dream like state:            “so, my grandson you want to have knowledge of the Code Talkers, I was one             as was my brother Jimmy. It was many years ago during World War II, the             Marines were recruiting men from the Navajo Nation. We were not told why             just that we were going to fight the enemy of all Americans, the Japanese.  I was fifteen and             Jimmy was seventeen. We told a lie to become Marines. We wanted to fight for our             country despite the way the Navajo Nation had been treated by the white man.            The smoke inside the hogan, began to swirl as if the wind were beckoning. Charlie began his chant to summon his memories of Iwo Jima.  The boy did as his grandfather did, inhaling the smoke and motioning it toward him. A strange looked crossed Charlies' face as he began:            It was February 13 th , 1945, the first marines landed on Iwo Jima. I was part of the 5 th Marines. I was surprised to see that this rock reminded me of Arizona, Navajo land, the mountain had a name; Suribachi. Bullets were flying at us from all directions as we landed.

We jumped out of the Higgins boats as quickly as we could.

I ran quickly for cover, with my radio strapped to my back.

I was a prime target and Sergeant Marks had the job of keeping me safe.

The Japanese were intent on keeping Iwo Jima, we were just as determined to fight for this piece of rock. The Marines were told to protect us at all costs, those were orders from the high command, we were very important, we code talkers. I was frightened by the killing that was taking place. Jimmy, went with his company, while I stayed with mine. We had come into together had seen each other for the last time.

We waded ashore as I held my rifle above my head, Jimmy did the same. We wished each other luck; went our separate ways. Our company headed toward Suribachi, while Jimmy's company headed toward the Lee side of the island, it was the last time I saw Jimmy alive.

           The Japanese were entrenched, in tunnels all over this miserable hunk of rock. Our platoon had just begun to set up when we heard the roar of planes. I quickly got my radio off of my back, placed it in the fox hole and began to send a coded message. “Da-ha-th-hi” which means Hummingbird translated fighter planes. I sent that messages several times. Then the Japanese began bombing and strafing the area. I could make out clearly the huge orange circle on the planes. I remember yelling frantically: “jay-sho” which is Navajo for Buzzard, that always seemed to me to be very appropriate since buzzards circle then swoop down. I sent the number of planes it was all coded in Navajo.

           Late that night, we could hear movement, the Japanese were emerging from their tunnels. They would begin their patrols soon. I sent a message to the decoder informing him of our need for “jay-sho and gini, which were the dive bombers. Very soon after that the bombs rained down on the Japanese patrol. Thus far we were safe. The next morning we moved toward a pill box the Japanese had built. We used flame throwers on them. We could hear their screams as they burned. This is not something I am proud of but it was necessary. Any time we would find a tunnel we used flame throwers.

To you it must seem barbaric, but when your life is at stake and you are fighting the enemy, then it does not seem so; at least at the time.            Bullets once again began to whiz over our heads. Fear filled me as I told myself I was a Navajo warrior. We fought off the Japanese patrol, the Army Air Force did a job getting them away from us. Then we settled down for a little shut eye. The following morning dawned gray, just like our spirits. Suddenly , bombs began to fall from the sky. I grabbed my radio and began to send our code as rapidly as possible. The whirr of the bombs coming down is a sound I will never forget. I could see those orange circles. The code talker that I sent the message to was your Uncle Jimmy. I could hear the bombs over the radio, his platoon was in bigger trouble than ours. He kept saying gini over and over. Then the radio went dead. I had no to time to consider anything other than to get the message out we needed da-ha-th-hi immediately. Very soon, our silver birds arrived and rescued us.  I knew in my heart that Jimmy was dead. I could not cry, not then, but I cry now for my brother, he was only seventeen, when he went to be with the Great Spirit.

           Look, my grandson, into the smoke. Jimmy's face is there as is mine, soon I will join him and             the Great Spirit. These things happen. Jimmy two shirts was returned to my mother and             father after the war. His remains are in the desert.” The old man, came out of the memories then. He was not sure exactly what he had shared with his grandson. Charlies' grandson smiled at him.            “Grandfather, you have given me a great gift of your memories. I shall not forget             the story of your bravery and Uncle Jimmy's. Someday Grandfather I will pass             this memory to my sons, we will keep your bravery alive.”     Several weeks later, Charlie Two Shirts Palmer received his Congressional Medal of Honor, long over due. He passed quietly in his Hogan.

We was the last of the code talkers, today the people will sing his praise. All the original code talkers are gone now but their bravery lives on.


Tabitha turns to the left, turns to the right. Purses her lips.     ‘How do I look?’     Jacob glances over his newspaper. She’s in the green floral number. He weighs his answer for a moment.     ‘Terrible.’     Tabitha sucks in her tummy a bit and gives her bosom a hoick.     ‘Really?’     Jacob returns to his article.     ‘Dog’s dinner, my darling.’ He raises an eyebrow at his inadvertent alliteration, then wryly adds: ‘Diabolical.’     ‘Oh. I thought you liked this dress.’     ‘I did, dear. Past tense. It looked fabulous on you, when you still had the wonderful, waifish figure for it.’ He’s pleased with this appraisal, thinks it not only fair but also slightly poetic.     She sighs.     ‘Yes, dear.’     She heads back upstairs to change.     Jacob returns his attention to the newspaper, whistling the flat edge of a half-remembered melody.     A junior minister has been fired and fined – that’s the fourth this year – for breaching the Public Truth and Honesty Act. In a press conference in October, Ms Redfield told reporters that 16,000 affordable homes had been built the previous year. But a fact-check under the Freedom of Information Act revealed that while 16,000 homes had been built, only 400 of them were classed as ‘affordable’. In her defence, Ms Redfield stated it was ‘An honest mistake, a slip of the tongue.’     Jacob tsks, turns the page.     In the next article, a pop musician has taken an ‘influencer’ to court, seeking damages. The influencer, apparently, made several social media posts in which they proclaimed the singer’s latest song ‘brilliant’, ‘refreshing’ and ‘like, all the feels’. Unfortunately, though, the influencer was known to use sarcasm in their posts, and the pop musician is claiming public dishonesty on the part of the influencer has caused reputational damage and financial loss.

A tricky one , thinks Jacob. Surely a matter of demonstrating intent .     Bringing this legislation to parliament was one of the hardest, and finest, achievements of his forty-year career in the civil service. Stamping out the parameters nearly broke the entire department, but by god they got it through in the end.     Glad of his retirement, he turns the page.     The reports are all doom and gloom. Journalists, no longer allowed to ‘spin’ their findings to meet their biased editorial viewpoints, simply encapsulate events under increasingly bland headlines: ‘War still happening’; ‘Death of notable person’; ‘Economy far worse than ever before’. It paints a rather forlorn picture.     Still, it’s good to know what’s what.     Jacob remembers the old days, having to seek out the glimmer of facts through the quagmire of lies, opinions and wilful misinterpretations; the multi-layered double-speak of the post-truth world. He remembers the 'bad decades', around the dawn of the digital age, wherein public figures moved, in a few decades, from facades of integrity to cover-ups to shifty falsehoods to brazen, balls-out bullshitting. (He blushes at the language, but damn it, he feels strongly about this!) You could say what you liked, in those hellish days, as long as you had ten thousand twitter bots ready to back you up.

These are simpler times , thinks Jacob. If you lie and you’re caught, you’re out. That’s that. The truth is no longer ‘out there’; it’s right here. Like it or lump it, as his mother used to say.     True, the Public Truth and Honesty Act only really applies to politicians, broadcasters, public figures, and only covers public statements, press briefings, published articles, etc. It is not against the law, per se, for a man to tell a mistruth in his own home, to his own wife, in order to help her maintain a delusion. But it is a good code to live by, as Jacob frequently reminds Tabitha. Moral virtue begins with honesty.     He folds his paper onto the occasional table, and in his carpet slippers pads silently up the stairs. He pauses outside Tabitha’s bedroom – formerly the spare room but, if truth be told, their relationship has cooled somewhat in recent years. He hears a cupboard door close. The sigh of a mattress as the sizeable bulk that was once his wife’s pert bottom is lowered onto it. He holds his breath and his heart quickens as he hears Tabitha sob, snort, mutter something to herself. Sniffle and sob some more.     If the first casualty of war is the truth, then the first casualty of the truth is peace.     She asked his opinion. It’s not his fault if she doesn’t like the answer.     And the truth is, she has let herself go in recent years. An extra slice here, a skipped exercise class there. Her slim figure turned curvy, then voluptuous, now ‘plus-size’ as the adverts would say. Damned adverts, softening the edges of every truth they purport to convey. Jacob often regrets that they were unable to include advertisers under the purview of the legislation, given they are the most inherently dishonest people in society. Is ‘plus-size’ a euphemism (probably acceptable) or is it a downright lie (frankly illegal)? Shouldn’t they just say ‘fat’, plain and simple? He thinks to write to his MP, though wonders if three emails in a week may be too many. He doesn’t want people to think he’s some kind of busybody, a curtain-twitcher in his retirement. A sticky-beak, as his mother would say.     Jacob returns to the living room via the kitchen, where he pours himself a small measure of blended whisky. Looking out at the gathering dark, he weighs up passing the evening watching the remainder of a documentary about ancient Greece, which he fell asleep in front of the other night, or starting a new book – perhaps the one with the new theory about Jack the Ripper. Since the passing of the Act, he’s found films, novels, all forms of fiction a little too synthetic, implausible. He can no longer get behind the protagonists, knowing full well that they were made up by someone’s over-active imagination for the sake of pecuniary advantage. Cynics masquerading as romantics. Liars, in short. They don’t fool Jacob.     He decides on the book, and is just settling into his armchair when he hears Tabitha on the stairs. The adjectives that have been circling in his mind begin to crystalise: trashy, conceited, slutty; or maybe frumpy, dowdy, matronly, depending which way she’s gone. He doesn’t want to use any of them, doesn’t want to insult his wife, but it will be handy to have some answers ready for when she asks.     But her steps move straight past the living room, and he hears the click of the front door opening, the finality of it closing.     He’s quick to his feet. Catches the scent of perfume as he reaches to open the latch.     She doesn’t turn.     ‘Where are you going?’     She stops, but doesn’t look back.     ‘I asked you a question.’     The implication being, therefore, that he requires a truthful answer.     She half-turns. She has her dark jacket on so he can’t see what she’s wearing, aside from a knee-length black skirt and thick, modest tights (which do nothing for her calves, if he’s honest).     ‘I’m going out.’     ‘Where to?’ he asks sharply.     ‘A bar,’ she replies.     ‘A bar?’     He means as in what bar , but her response is cutting. ‘You know, a drinking establishment where people meet in order to be sociable and have fun.’     She sniffs and holds her chin high. Mascara can’t hide the redness of her eyes.     ‘I know what a bar is, dear. I meant - it’s a bit sudden.’     ‘It’s been planned for days.’     ‘But I didn’t know.’     ‘That’s because you’re not invited.’     His heart begins to thump.     ‘Who – who with?’ His voice falters, almost a whisper.     Tabitha inhales deeply, turns to face him fully, and Jacob’s world lurches.     ‘I’m going to a bar with Gregory. He’s a man I know through my aerobics classes. I enjoy spending time with him because he’s polite and courteous. He’s also a considerate and very capable lover, and his penis is considerably “plus-sized”, one might say, compared to yours. I'm sorry if that’s more information than you required, Jacob, but I know how you value the importance of honesty.’ Her jaw clenches, nostrils flare. She looks bolder than he’s seen her in . . . years. ‘We plan to move in together in the near future, once I’ve found a way to tell you what I’ve just told you. Oh, looks like I just did!’     Jacob grips the doorframe, the world around him fuzzing out of focus, everything centred on his wife, his life, those wonderful lips that kissed him that night at the Enigma nightclub all those decades ago, that told him ‘I will’, that laughed and smiled with him in those older, happier days before it all went so wrong, so disappointing, so bitter. He wants to reach a hand out, to ask what he can do, what he did wrong, how he can fix it, but then a deeper feeling cuts through to the surface, and his heart burns in his chest.     ‘You – you lied to me,’ he gasps, almost in satisfaction.     ‘No I didn’t,’ she says with a smile. ‘I didn’t need to because you didn’t ask, because you didn’t care to notice. Goodbye, Jacob. I’ll be back in the morning to collect some things. It would be nice if you weren’t here.’     ‘You look like –’ he says quickly, flustered, gabbling, but his mind won’t bring forth the rehearsed adjectives. ‘You can’t go out looking like some cheap–’     ‘Yes I can, Jacob, because - to paraphrase one of those old fictional movies we used to love: frankly, my dear, I don’t give a flying fuck what you think.’     She smiles tightly and walks away.

She looks quite good in those heels , he thinks, her silver hair silken in the streetlights.


(Content Warning: Fantasy Violence, Brief Language.) “Are you there, God? It’s me…” Jake said, falling to his knees. The gargoyles attacked Sapphire City without warning and left nothing but utter destruction in their wake. No one knew where the stone creatures came from or why they attacked, but one thing was certain, they didn’t come from Heaven. How could they? Heaven is supposed to be a place of peaceful tranquility and harmony, right? At least that’s what Jake thought, staring at the wreckage around him. He saw broken pictures of happy memories buried beneath mounds of broken lumber and glass that used to be his home. Elk street was utterly devastated. There were no cries for help nor soft whimpers for things lost because everyone was dead. Jake believed God worked in mysterious ways and that everything happened for a reason, but what good could come from this carnage? He placed his hands on his face and wept once more. Why did the gargoyles take his wife? What purpose would that serve? Wallowing in self-pity, madness seeped into Jake’s wounds like poisonous venom. The cuts on his arms and legs stung as the night air licked his skin, but that was the least of his worries. He needed salvation from his savior. He needed something to believe in. He needed hope. “Oh, God. I know it’s been a while since you heard my voice, but I beg you, hear it now.” Jake lifted his watery eyes to the stars above and prayed, “Please give me the strength to find my wife, Barbara. She was taken by foul demons with wings.” He paused for a moment, but only a moment, and took a deep breath. “Give me the strength to carry on. Give me the conviction to face my horrors. Please God… give me the courage to kill every last one of those bastards!”

Jake waited for a response, but none came. Perhaps silence was the sign he needed because in the stillness of the night, the sound of flapping wings swooped by like a roaring hurricane. Looking towards the fiery horizon, Jake spotted a lone gargoyle soaring above, observing the wreckage his friends had left behind. Following the winged creature was the only way to find Barbara, and although it might lead to a gruesome end, Jake decided to take the risk. Without his beloved wife, life would be meaningless. He waited for the stone beast to fly by and swiftly followed. Jake’s heart pounded in his chest, and he wondered if fear would betray his pursuit. I hope these monsters don’t have super hearing! Luckily for Jake, the gargoyle didn’t fly very fast, allowing him to keep up relatively well, considering the obliterated landscape. Whether this was by choice or freaky happenstance, Jake didn’t care. Maybe the creature injured itself in the attack.

The gargoyle buzzed around like a pesky bee before disappearing down a sinkhole. Jake peered over the ledge and wished he had wings. “Damn! How can I get down there?” he yelled, chastising himself. I knew I should have brought some rope with me!

“Just jump in, my dear fellow!” Jake’s senses tingled, igniting an already lit fuse. The low voice was unexpected but most welcome in the present circumstances. Jake saw an old man with a long white beard dangling down to his knees. His bushy eyebrows flowed down his forehead like twin waterfalls, and his eyes were bathed in light. He wore tattered clothes stained with dirt, which was to be expected, and walked along with a long oak stick. This was a pale comparison to Jake’s blue jeans and flannel shirt. “I can’t jump in there,” Jake mumbled. “I will surely fall to my death!” The old man wobbled over for a closer look and rubbed his beard. “Now, now, have a little faith. It doesn’t look that deep!”

Jake bent over and grabbed a broken brick. “Let’s test that theory, shall we?” He tossed the heavy chunk down the abyss and waited for the sound of impact. After a few minutes, Jake scrunched his lips and lifted his brow. “It appears that this pit is deeper than I thought.”

“Nonsense!” fired the old man. “Listen, I know you probably mean well, but I have to get down there. Those things took my wife, and I plan on saving her.” “Hmmm… This reminds me of the time when I went on a blind date,” the old man scoffed. “The woman was nice and all, but she wasn’t very bright.” He paused to rub his beard again and continued, “I was completely dumbfounded when she told me that after three weeks of taking fish oil supplements, she still couldn’t breathe underwater!”

Jake narrowed his eyes and grimaced. “How does that story relate to this situation? Who are you anyway?”

“My name is Henry, and my point is this, stop being so afraid and ignorant and go after her!”

“I will trust me! I just wish I had some rope or something… My name’s Jake, by the way.”

Henry made his way to Jake and extended his hand for the customary handshake, and Jake thought it rude to ignore the kind gesture. “Nice to meet you, Henry.”

In a hasty Gotcha’ Moment , Henry placed his palm on Jake’s chest and pushed him over the edge. He chuckled, hearing Jake scream for his life as he fell further and further down the hole. “It’s nice to meet you too, ha, ha!!”

Every single strand of hair on Jake’s body stood erect as he fell. After a while, he stopped yelling because his throat was parched, and his vocal cords were sore. The gust of wind gushing around Jake became thicker like a thousand fluffy clouds, and his momentum slowed to a screeching halt as his feet gently kissed the ground. Somehow Jake was alive, and standing behind him laughing like a wild hyena was the old man, Henry. “Ha, ha, ha! I told you to have a little faith!” Jake scowled and clenched his fists. “Are you crazy?! That could have killed me! How is this possible anyway?!” “That is not for us to question, my dear fellow,” chuckled Henry. “This reminds me of the time I saw a sign in my favorite restaurant that read: No Shoes, No Shirt, No Service . So, you know what I did?” “I don’t care, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me anyway,” Jake said, shaking his head. “I wore my best shoes, a brand-new fancy shirt, and strolled into that eatery with my butt cheeks flappin’ in the wind. The sign didn’t say No Pants , so I didn’t think I needed to wear any!”

“What does that have to do with anything!” Jake yelled. Henry brushed his beard and whispered, “My point is, you should never take things at face value. Just because a sign tells you something doesn’t mean it’s the whole truth.” He paused and placed his old wrinkly hand on Jake’s shoulder. “It’s called faith… Now let’s go find your wife!”

Jake looked around the cavern and hugged the whispering winds that blew around them. A tunnel with a fourteen-foot girth penetrated the subterranean underworld and was lit with a thousand torches. It looked like it went on for miles. Jake couldn’t believe that they lived above this unknown passage without anyone knowing about it. “Well, my dear fellow,” began Henry, “what are we waiting for?” Caught off guard, Jake replied, “Oh, I’m just surprised that you would help me. What’s in it for you?” Henry recoiled and ruffled his face. “Why does someone have to do something in order to get? I never understood that notion. Sometimes people do things because they want to!” He stabbed the earth with his oak stick and trudged forward. “Come along, we better get a move on. Besides, I don’t have anything else to do now that my house lies in ruins.” Jake followed the old man through the musty tunnel and mulled over what he said. Doing something because you wanted to and not wanting anything in return never entered his mind before. That was the way of the world. You scratch my back, and I’ll stab yours. A simple yet barbaric way of life where one person gets lifted high while the other gets cut down. Thoughts of Barbara flooded Jake’s mind giving him a welcome reprieve from the transactional dealings from the world above. He wondered if his beloved wife was still alive.

Casting the tangled cobwebs of bewilderment aside, a subtle flapping sound echoed further down the tunnel. Henry and Jake halted their steps and listened more intently. “Do you hear that, Henry?” “I might be old, but I’m not deaf! Of course, I heard that.”

Henry pointed forward and quietly moved ahead. If that noise was the sound of terror coming for them, they would face it head-on. “Quickly now!” whispered Henry. “We must move like shadows in the night!”

“What if I can’t?” Henry turned and saw the trepidation on Jake’s face. Taking a deep breath, Henry warned, “Do not give in to fear. You must believe in yourself and remember the steadfast desire that drove you down here in the first place.”

Jake nodded and took the lead. The flapping sound grew louder as they ventured further through the shaft. Turning the bend, Jake came face to face with the gargoyle that led him to this place. The stone beast was obliviously hurt from the battle above and was lying on the cold soil, desperately fluttering its wings trying to take flight. Upon closer examination, Jake noticed black ichor gushing from its neck. Jake knelt ready to choke the creature with trembling hands but quickly withdrew as it snarled at him like a cornered possum playing dead. Shuffling backward, Jake fell to the ground and shielded his face expecting the monster to rip him apart. Whack! Henry bashed the gargoyle’s head with only moments to spare before it had the chance to land a killing blow. “Hah! That will show you, demon!”

Jake uncovered his eyes and saw the stone monster quiver and die with a final gasp. “Wow, that was amazing! What did you do?” Old man Henry lifted his chin and defiantly roared, “I squashed this insect like the bug he was!” Jake reached for Henry’s hand and was lifted to his feet. “Jake, you must hear me now if you want to save your wife.” “What is it, Henry?” Henry narrowed his eyes and held his beard like a precious loved one. “You must never hesitate against evil, for they will show you no mercy. Strike with powerful devotion and thrive against the horrors of this world!” Jake tucked his lips into a thin line and nodded. “Say you understand,” Henry ordered.” “I do.” “SAY IT!” Erupting with emotion, Jake yelled, “I will thrive against this evil and save my wife! I will!!”

Henry scrunched his lips and gave Jake a reassuring pat on the back. “That’s what I want to hear. Come along now. We have much more traveling to endure.” The road ahead was surprisingly unburdened. Jake and Henry expected to find more opposition along the way, but they knew the unspeakable horrors of this underground passage would soon be upon them. Ever vigilant, they marched forward. As they journeyed further, they came to a narrow shaft where water flowed down both sides of the wall. The crystal-clear liquid was a bastion of salvation for Jake, who was tired and thirsty. He cupped his hands and filled them full. Kissing his lips together, he dipped his head for a drink.

Before his lips could taste the water, Henry snapped his oak staff across Jake’s hands, spilling the water. “What are you doing? I’m thirsty!” “Do not drink that water!” Henry growled. “For all we know, it might be liquid poison!” Jake shrugged. “Don’t be silly, Henry. I think your old age is catching up with you.” Henry amplified his voice to a thunderous level, not caring if anything else would hear him. “Drink that water, and you will die! We must not let this world fool us!” Silence gripped Jake’s neck, and no words could escape. “One time,” Henry exclaimed, “I talked to a man who drank the sea. He told me about the time he peed for several months, causing a great flood that lasted one hundred and fifty days. I had to venture deep within his soul to close the windows of firmament to abate the rising waters.”

“That’s absurd! Old age has indeed gotten the better of you!” fired Jake. “Come, let us continue our journey.” Jake felt terrible about leaving the water behind but found solace when he finally laid eyes on an open cavern bathed in dancing shadows. Tied to a pole in the center of the room was Jake’s wife, Barbara. She was gagged with a white cloth and couldn’t speak. Her clothes were shredded, and black mascara stained her cheeks. From the reaction of her eyes, Jake knew she was happy to see him. “Hang on, I’ll get you free!” Jake shouted. “No, you fool!” Henry scolded. He tried to grab Jake, but it was too late. Stepping away from the darkness was a giant thirty-foot gargoyle monster with golden wings and black staple-like fur. A silver crown adorned with red rubies rested upon the demon's head. The mammoth creature had razor-sharp tusks and fingernails, which it used to swing at Jake. The hollow chamber shook as the King Gargoyle stomped the ground, trying to squash the unwanted intruder. Jake ducked and weaved while Henry amplified his voice once more, distracting the enormous monstrosity away from his friend. With a little breathing room, Jake quickly made his way to his wife and untied her. Barbara collapsed into her husband’s arms but still had enough strength to wobble along with him. This did not go unnoticed. The King growled a fearsome howl, spread his mighty winds, and flapped them wildly. The rush of wind knocked Henry, Jake, and Barbara to the floor. Laughing as only a monster could, the King lunged forward with his maw wide open ready to devour the reunited lovers. Making a lunge of his own, Henry dashed in front of Jake and Barbara and was snatched up in the gargoyle's mouth. The King rose, trying to mash his mouth closed, but Henry stood within holding his magnificent oak staff against the upper and lower parts of the monster's jaw. The power of this beast was too much, and Henry watched his spear bow and splinter. It would only be a few seconds before his saving grace would break. Jake looked at his friend confined in the gargoyles mullet and screamed, “Henry, no!!”

Old man Henry smiled, knowing the end would soon be upon him. He looked at Jake and Barbara and smiled, knowing they had accomplished what they set out to do. “Remember to thrive !”

Crunch! The King chomped down, snapping Henry’s oak staff like a toothpick. As the monster chewed on the old man’s bones, a sharp jagged piece of the spear flew through the air towards Jake. Henry’s last words echoed through his mind…. Thrive! Remember to thrive! Without rational thought, Jake exploded into the air, grabbed the soaring spear that was once Henry’s staff, and threw it straight and true at the King’s heart. “Thrive on this, you bastard!” The spear stabbed deeply. The King squealed horribly and breathed his last breath. Like a mountain, he fell to his death, and the chamber began to collapse. Suddenly, a thousand yellow eyes blinked in the darkness and emerged. It was an army horde of gargoyles, and they were angry. Jake scooped Barbara up and ran as fast as he could. Sprinting down the crumpling passageway with flapping wings and destruction hot on their heels, Jake prayed to his sacred God. “Are you there, God? It’s me… Please hear my prayers, for we need you now! Please deliver us from this evil!”

By some miracle, Jake felt a surge of energy and ran faster. Rounding the bend, a bright light shined down from the world above. He couldn’t explain it, but he knew salvation was just moments away. The gargoyle army was only inches away from snatching the loving couple but missed their chance. When Jake and Barbara entered the light, they were instantly transported back to the top from whence they came. The few unlucky gargoyles who ventured into the light were vaporized, and the others were crushed in the collapsing tunnel. The sinkhole closed, and the evil born from it was no more. Jake hugged Barbara as tight as he could, but nothing could have prepared him for what he saw next. Old man Henry emerged from the golden light and smiled. “How can this be?” Jake asked. “Do you not know who I really am?” “Are you, G-God?” Jake stuttered. “Ah… now you see!” Henry boasted. “Is that what you really look like?” “I can take any form I wish,” Henry confessed. He placed his warm hands on Jake’s shoulder and continued, “I want you to remember something for me. The greatest gift I have given to all living things is free will. I cannot control everything in this universe; that’s why I work in mysterious ways. When I saw this evil rise, I knew I had to help, but I couldn’t do it alone. Thank you for your help, Jake. Promise me that you will forever thrive no matter what I throw at you. Your species is strong yet flawed in your magnificent ways!”

“I will. I promise!” Jake said. Jake turned to Barbra, who was speechless and kissed her. When his gaze returned to Henry, he was gone, and the destruction left behind from the gargoyles was erased like it never happened. Evil never thrives in the presence of good.

The End Daniel R. Hayes


When the passenger, carrying a leather knapsack with the gold initials FK on it and a passport sticker showing the bearer was traveling from Prague to San Francisco, departed the train onto a rickety platform separating the tracks from a one-story, faded wood plank station, with no other buildings in sight, eerily identified by a sign hanging at a cockeyed angle, that read Desert^ion Springs; the “ion” added, to affirm what was plainly obvious. If a rattlesnake greets the passenger on the platform, but the passenger, not seeing the snake, goes into a minor trauma when the snake says, “That your name son, FK? That’s what it says on your knapsack.” If the passenger, who appears to be in his mid-twenties, dressed in a three-piece Edwardian suit, soiled from his long sea and land passage, having never seen a snake before except in old scripture paintings, says, “FK are my initials, not my name but I fear what you have to say will be the words of a serpent of ill will, but I’ll answer to FK, just the same just to bring a sparseness to our conversation.” And if the snake now pleased with the passenger's arrival in Desert Springs, tells the passenger he’s been waiting what seems to be an eternity for his advent, or so it looks like from the snake's point of view. Then the snake begins to loudly, using a colorful language spoken exclusively in the Southwest, weave the story of the fortune of the town, which spellbinds the passenger so that he becomes oblivious to the train leaving the station and now stands alone listening to the snakes tale of the magic found in the deserted town of Desert Springs. When FK wants to wait for the next train at the station, the snake answers, “There will be no train, but there is a means of travel much swifter, wild as the wind, the lickety-split of a coyote, through the magic of the peyote cactus.” “And how do I travel on a peyote cactus?” the passenger inquires. “Not on it, but in it, or the other way around, it’s in you. Well, once you drink the nectar of the peyote, it is, and then you’re a magic traveler, of course, I’ll be with you all the way, I can ride in your knapsack.” And the passenger followed the snake to a cluster of green ball-shaped cactus plants; some topped with pink blossoms and others with small dried out heads, which he told the passenger to promptly eat if he wanted to get on with his travels. If the passenger, now eager to continue his journey picks two small dried peyote heads and chews them even though they were very bitter and felt like his stomach was turning against him. With the coaching of the snake, he managed to keep them down for the thirty minutes that the snake said was needed for the magic to happen. The passenger did look at his watch and as the snake predicted when the thirty minutes passed everything in his stomach came back out of him leaving only the magic behind. When the passengers thinking processes is altered, by the magic of the peyote, rearranging his sense of time and space, opening and closing his eyes, colores blinking distinctively appearing brilliant and intense, while the snake circles around him, undulating and multiplying his form as if he had no distinctive form. Suddenly, the passenger's presence closed up; reality was not reliable, could anything be real from this point on. Then he braced himself for a surge of movement; his muscles tightened, his body tingled, he gasped as the tingling grew more intense. The snake says, “Sometimes, it helps to speak aloud about what you are feeling. It helps your mind register these new experiences and then let go. Trust me, FK.” The passenger inhales sharply as all his senses fire hot—and then separate and float away with a pleasant heat surging up and down his consciousness. The snake says, “FK, let me know what you feel. Shall I make it more—pleasurable for you?” The passenger not sure about the feelings of pleasure, lost memories swirl around his brain’s pleasure centers, he is swept up into a vortex of color, he howls with laughter,  “I am rushing down a raging colored river, a wild kaleidoscope, the colors—they’re flooding my whole body, so many colors, how can they all exist? How do they get in me? There are colors I can't see, but I can feel. So now they’re pushing out of me, taking me apart. Oh, God, I’m breaking into pieces, like beads becoming unstrung and spilling out onto the desert floor, mixing with the grains of sand.” When a coyote emerges from a swirl of colored dust, the snake hisses at the intrusion. The coyote joins the passenger in a dance, in slow, tantalizing motion, each cell of the passenger’s body rubs against the coyote and then pushes away. His cells are colored dots in a flash of intense feeling, much like an orgasm—an orgasm of light that illuminates the glowing coyote like a ghost coming out to a full moon. The passenger says, “The rainbow of light—I’m wet with it, with no perception of embarrassment,  I apologize I’m hardly myself anymore.”— he was the light . “These pinpricks of light—they are me, rubbing, rushing, writhing over me, again and again, can you join me?” And again. The rhythm of the movement mesmerizes the passenger, a wave breaks over his most sensitive places and then breaking again like an ocean set; until he thought even his consciousness would unravel in the exquisite pulsing. The coyote screams, moans, cries out, Stop; to the passenger, “Join me, unite with me, take me,” and yet still, the experience is prolonged. The passenger hears the coyote’s invitation, her solicitation, enticing him with her colorful coquetry, to be master of her den, but now inundated in a deluge of colored dots, dots swelling up over him, the smell of friction from dots colliding that reeked like an infinite number of dying flowers mixed with stink of unwashed dogs. The snake says, “Beware FK; the coyote is out to transform you, reassemble your kaleidoscope of colored dots, remake you, disrobe you, dress you in gray fur, with legs that run like the wind across the desert, you will catch fast-moving rabbits, and tear them open with canine teeth made for ripping flesh, that’s what will become of you, is that your destiny?” That could not be the truth, that could not be real, the passenger could not see that, and yet the flowered colors surged and changed, regrouped, wrenched apart, morphed into small fruits that matured in a twinkling—strawberries turning white, green, red, then redder and into the deepest, most luscious red; lemons greening and then yellowing to the most exquisite yellow of the coyote’s eyes. The sweet and then the sour filled him—taste had returned. He gathered the richness of flowers, fruits, and vegetables, experiencing their smells and tastes and colors in a fast-motion harvest, from new buds to dying leaves at a winter burial, and what of this female suitor, that beacons him? How will he respond to the warning of the snake? A skeletal structure of light that the passenger knew was the coyote appeared before him, gently gathering up the dust and dirt of the beautiful fruits and blowing them away. The passenger watched sadly and then in fascination as they turned into multicolored sparks and then winked out. The passenger held the coyote in his arms. The snake hissed a threatening lyric while two Red-Tailed Hawks screech a melody. The coyote pleads, “It’s time to let go, FK, stop resisting. You need to flow with the changes that come.” The passenger sniffed. “But… I’ve just never felt this way before. So—complete.” He let out a long and slow breath, yielding, the blue of his eyes flowed out of him, and yellow flowed in. The coyote vibrates against him, and then the passenger is vibrating as if they are becoming one, and maybe they are, or perhaps the passenger only wishes it. His glow diminishes as the dots of light slowly leave his body. What remains is the afterglow of goosebumps, like tiny lanterns of phosphor on a moonlit sea, disappearing in the fast-growing fur growing on the passenger's body. Soon the coyote will have her mate. She pauses to howl at the moon. The snake becomes restless, knowing he must strike the coyote and the passenger. The passenger struggles with the peyote mescaline that is transforming his mind and triggering his metamorphosis into a coyote, even though he begins to recognize his growing love for her and has already imagined the cubs they will have together. The coyote sees the snake who was lifting his head and most of his body out of the top of the passenger's knapsack. The coyote knows the snake is up to no good but needs to convey that message to FK. The coyote knows she must kill the serpent, knowing the risk of the snakes deadly venom, but she must get the snake in position, the transforming passenger lunges at the snake as the coyote clamps the flaring teeth of her jaw around the snake's neck.


Interviewer: Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Naswhit, for doing this interview with me. I really appreciate it. Harry: No problem. Bertha: It’s fine. Interviewer: ...All right then, let’s just get into it. Now Harry--do you mind if I call you Harry? Harry: Are you implying something by that? Interviewer: Not at all, Mr. Naswhit. Harry: But I thought you wanted to call me Harry! Interviewer: I, uh, it doesn’t really matter-- Harry: You can call me Harry. Interviewer: Okay then, so Harry-- Bertha: I call him Har. Interviewer: He.. you... okay, um, as I was saying-- Bertha: Even though he’s bald. Harry: Be quiet, Bertha, you’re embarrassing me. Interviewer: So as I was saying… no interruptions? Okay? So the first question I wanted to ask was-- Harry: But you already asked your first question. You asked if you could call-- Interviewer: I know! I know, Mr. Naswhit. I am fully aware, thank you. So if we could just get to the questions-- Bertha: We hit a squirrel on the way here. Harry: She’s lying. We just got here ten minutes ago. Besides, there aren’t any squirrels in Heaven. Interviewer: And that’s how I’d like to begin this interview, if you don’t mind. How did you two get here? Bertha: Well, it all started last night when we decided to spend the night in a graveyard. Harry: No we didn’t, you old hag. It was no one’s decision. You burned the house down with a gas leak from the stove and we both died in the fire. Bertha: Well, it was still my decision. I wanted to visit that graveyard. Graveyards are cool. Harry: Literally. Our tomb was about negative ninety degrees. Bertha: You’re negative ninety degrees. Harry: What-- Interviewer: Okay, we can move on to the next question, if that’s all right? Bertha: Fine. Harry: Fine. Interviewer: So, Bertha, what was it like setting fire to your house? Did you do it on purpose? Bertha: Absolutely. Harry: Not. Bertha: Dammit Harry, if you’d let me answer my own questions for just one minute-- Harry: You’re not capable of that. You’re a woman. Interviewer: Um, it’s 2018-- Harry: Shut up. Interviewer: Harry-- Harry: It’s Naswhit to you. Interviewer: Fine. Naswhit-- Harry: Mr. Naswhit. Bertha: Harry-- Harry: Shut up, Bertha. Bertha: No, the question was addressed to me. As for how it felt burning the house down, it was a completely-- Harry: Unintentional, useless action that everyone thought was stupid. Interviewer: Um, maybe we just move on to the next question, okay? Bertha: But you were asking me! Interviewer: I know, and I really wish you could answer, but your husband seems to-- Harry: We’re not married. Bertha: We’re siblings. Interviewer: B… but it says right here that you live together, and have two sons--I’m not quite sure I understand-- Harry: We’re from Arkansas. What did you expect? Bertha: I believe they call it “in chest” or something like that in the north. Harry: I think it’s “incest.” Anyways, we make love every night. Isn’t that right, Bertha? Bertha: M-hmm. Interviewer: I, uh, think I’m gonna gooo… Harry: No! Stay! Don’t make me use the arm, now. Bertha: Use the arm, Harry. Interviewer: Let go of me! Harry: Ha! Now, you just stay sitting in your chair, there. Bertha! Bertha: I’m right here, you old coot. You don’t have to shout. Harry: I left my hearing aids in Wyoming. Bertha: When were you in Wyoming? Harry: Just last fall--look, just give me the rope. Bertha: Hey you, stop! Harry! Harry: We could've stopped the escape if we had the rope right away--here--lie still, now. It’s just a chair. And some rope. Interviewer: They let you bring rope into Heaven? Harry: This is Heaven? Interviewer: ...Uh, yeah, it is. Harry: Well golly dang, I thought this was Hell, or at least Purgatory. Interviewer: Um, why? What--you’re literally surrounded by white! There are golden gates like five meters away from us! Harry: Oh, you stupid Europeans, with your metric system, think you’re so fancy and all. Well take that! And that! Interviewer: Please stop hitting me, Mr. Naswhit. Harry: Hmph. Bertha: Sit down again, honey. Don’t let some uppity European ruin your day. Interviewer: I’m from Canada. Bertha: Oh, whatever. It’s all the same to me. Those stupid foreigners think they can just cross our borders and take whatever they want-- Interviewer: I’ve never set foot inside the States in my entire life. Bertha: And for good reason! Interviewer: Can we just… can we just finish the interview so you can untie me? I’m on watch duty in, like, five minutes and I can’t go until I’ve asked all the questions on this clipboard. Bertha: Fi-- Harry: Sure. Bertha: Harry, can’t you ever let me finish a sen-- Harry: You’re a woman, Bertha. Let me do the talking. Interviewer: I’m a woman. Harry: You? Interviewer: Yes. Harry: ...You? Interviewer: For the love of God, yes! I don’t care that I have short hair! I’m twenty-one, and it also happens to be the twenty-first century, so please just-- Harry: Darn feminists. Ruin everything. Interviewer: Mr. Naswhit, please-- Harry: It’s Harry to you. Bertha: I’m Bertha. Interviewer: I know, Bertha. This is Heaven. I’m the one who-- Harry: This is Heaven? Interviewer: We’ve already established that! Harry: Well, I thought it was Purgatory. Interviewer: You’re a Christian. You don’t believe in Purgatory. Harry: Well, I didn’t think so either, and then when we came up we had to be interviewed by you and I was just thinking, well, this can’t ever be Heaven, because what kind of Heaven makes you be interviewed by a girl with short hair? Interviewer: Harry, for the freaking last time-- Bertha: It’s Mrs. Naswhit to you. Interviewer: I wasn’t talking to you! Bertha: Oysters! Interviewer: Whatever. I don’t care anymore. I’ll get in a heck ton of trouble, but I don’t care. One of you, untie me, please. The rope is making it hard to breathe. Harry: Bertha. Bertha: Harry. Interviewer: It doesn’t matter! Here, Bertha, okay? Bertha, untie me please. Bertha: Fine. Harry: Fine. Interviewer: Thank you. Harry: You’re welcome. Bertha: I’m the one who-- Harry: Well yes, but you’re a woman, you see-- Interviewer: Holy crap.


“Thanks, Doc. I appreciate all you’ve done.” I say, shaking Dr. Sullivan’s hand.            “I only wish I could have done more,” he says. “But it’s gone too far, I’m afraid. I’m sorry.”            “Nay, don’t be. I’m the one who always puts things off. It’s my own fault.” I shake his hand one more time and leave. As I exit the building, I’m in a world of my own. Passing a couple engaged in conversation, one smiles at me, but I don’t notice. I walk across the parking lot to my car, press my key fob to open the door and flop down in the driver’s seat. Sitting behind the stirring wheel, I feel as though my mind is racing a million miles a minute, but I’m not really thinking of anything. Blinking, I figure it’s just the shock of it all. Picking up the manilla envelope in the passenger seat, I read my name, David Noonan. Inside are the results of a series of tests that show the outcome is a diagnosis of pancreatic cancer. I came to see Dr. Sullivan because I was losing weight and had a backache that wouldn’t go away. Little did I know that these are symptoms of pancreatic cancer. In the end, Sullivan said I have a month or maybe a little more to live. I throw the envelope back on the seat and start the car. Looking into the rearview mirror, I see my slightly yellowish eyes and put my sunglasses on. While backing up, I sigh, “ That’s life for ya.” I’ve just celebrated my sixty-fifth birthday and recently retired. I owned my own business, a small computer chip etching firm. I did work for three or four computer manufacturers and kept myself and two other employees busy. The shop generated about three to four million a year, but after all the expenses, insurance, and such, I’d net nearly eighty grand or so. That isn’t too bad because I’m single, so all the money was mine. I never felt I should marry because I’m not too fond of the idea of burdening others. You know, like if I got sick or had money troubles. Why make them suffer because of me? I know love means sharing your problems, but that doesn’t sound fair. Besides, I have a sister, two nieces and a nephew. So it’s not like I don’t have a family. Starting a few years back, I bought a run-down log cabin in the mountain area of Moran, Wyoming, right next to Teton National Park. I’d work on it during my vacations, and now it’s where I live. The forest and mountains are gorgeous and so peaceful and quiet. The cabin itself is made from all hand-hued timbers. It has a small kitchen and two bedrooms, one on the main floor and a smaller one in the loft. The fireplace is constructed of river rocks that rises to the vaulted ceiling.  It sits on one acre of land and is reached by traveling up a gravel road. It will soon be winter, so the pine trees surrounding my cabin are active, with squirrels gathering pine cones. I have a neighbor about a mile down the road, Eleanor Perkins. She is a widow a couple of years older than I am.  She lives alone and keeps a flower and vegetable garden that she enjoys immensely/ She likes to be called Elli and sometimes treks up the hill to bring me vegetables or a plate of food. Elle is very kindhearted, and I like her a lot.            Turning into the dirt driveway, I’m greeted with much barking. My dog Blue dashes off the porch and dances excitedly by my car.  He jumps up on me when I open the car door.  I rub his head vigorously, causing his ears to flap. “Alright, alright! I love you too, but you’ve got to let me out!” About six years ago, I was hiking along the edge of the Teton National Park when I came across this thin hound mix of a dog. I don’t know if he was lost or someone had abandoned him, but he was thirsty and scared. I cupped my hand, poured him some water, and fed him beef jerky. I brought him home and cleaned him up. He seemed to be primarily bluetick, so I named him Blue. He’s my best friend and keeps an eye on me when we walk so he won’t get lost again. I love that old boy. That night I mix him up a bowl of kibble and make myself half a sandwich. I don’t have much of an appetite these days and don’t even finish that.  Starting a fire, I fetch the wine my employees bought as a retirement present. It’s a bottle of Pina Cabernet Sauvignon D’Adamo of Napa Vineyards. “This is pretty good stuff,” I tell Blue.  He wags his tail and cocks his head. I retrieve the corkscrew and sit in front of the fire. Blue jumps up on the couch and curls up beside me. After uncorking it, I down the first glass unceremoniously. I spend the rest of the evening trying to drown my sorrow in delicious red wine. I awaken late in the morning to the sound of Blue’s nails clicking on the hardwood floor, needing to go out.  Groaning loudly, I sit with my head in my hands. “Give me a minute, will ya, boy?” But Blue’s by the backdoor whining. Wincing and struggling, I lift myself off the couch, put on my slippers, and shuffle to the backdoor. Out in the yard, I have an old hand pump.  So as Blue takes off to do his business, I stick my head under the spout and pump the handle. The freezing mountain water gushes out onto my neck and head.  Gasping like a drowning man, I’m now fully awake. I pump the handle a few more times and drink from my cupped hand to slate the awful thirst in my throat. Blue has returned and sits in front of me, panting happily. I shake the water from my hair and push it back with my fingers. “How would you like a good breakfast this morning?” Blue hops around, not knowing what else to do, and follows me into the cabin. I fill his water bowl and give him fresh kibbles. I then fry three eggs and five pieces of thick bacon, make toast, and brew coffee. When it is ready, I crumble two strips of bacon and top Blue’s kibble with one of the fried eggs (over easy), and mix it all together. I have just taken a sip of my coffee and a bite of toast when Blue appears beside me. “Are you kidding me?” I ask him. “Did you even taste it?”   I take a couple more bites, but I’m already feeling full, so I throw Blue another piece of bacon and scrape the rest of my dish into the trash. I must clear my head because I’ve got things to arrange and preparations to make.  Picking up my walking stick, I call Blue. “Come on, boy. Let’s go for a walk.” At the end of the gravel road, we enter the park. It’s so nice to hear the birds chirping and the wind rustling through the pines. We come to a meadow of tall grass, and Blue immediately runs full steam ahead into it because he has chased up pheasants here before. Surrounding the meadow are the Grand Teton Mountains, their ragged peaks rising high to the clouds on this bright sunny day. I hear a babbling brook splashing over rocks as it races to join the Snake River not far from here.  My heart is uplifted at the sight of Blue bounding high over the tall grass. He’s making sure that he knows where I am. I’m reminded of dolphins playing in the waves. A tear trickles down my cheek, and I hastily wipe it away, not wanting to give in to my fate. Today I want to enjoy the hike and Blue. We take a path that I don’t recall ever having taken before. It meanders up until we reach a stone outcropping. It’s time for a break, and Blue needs some water. I unfold a travel bowl and fill it with water from my canteen, taking a sip myself.  Sitting down on the rocks, I hear Blue lapping thirstily. I slowly look around, surveying the beauty of the Tetons, the high rugged mountains with the forest below. Shadows of clouds racing over the valley in the distance, I see a portion of the river. The clouds appear to be flowing over the mountaintops.  I get a spiritual vibe, and even though I’m not religious, I whisper, “Amen.”   I examine our path and notice a cloud covering the top. It seems strange to me because we are not that high up. Suddenly I have a clear picture of what to do about my dilemma. The next morning I rise, shower, shave, and get dressed for the day.  I walk to my desk and take out a pad of paper.  Feeling a handwritten note will be more personal than a computer-printed one, and I write down everything I want to say.  I rewrite it several more times until I’m satisfied.  Finally, I fold it in half, write “Elli” on the outside, and prop it against the salt and pepper shakers. Next, I give her a call, “Elli? Hi, it’s Dave. Oh, good, and you? That’s good. Listen, I was wondering if I might ask you a favor. I’ll be gone for quite a while today, and I’d appreciate it if you could come by and check on Blue.  I’ll leave him tied up on the porch. Oh, you can? That’s great. Thank you so much, bye.” Before I leave, I make sure everything is correct. I call Blue to me and hug him tightly. Tears finally flow. Half an hour later, Elli arrives to check on Blue. He’s tied to the porch just like I said he would be. “Oh, dear. Dave didn’t leave you any water. Let’s go get some.”   The screendoor screeches and slams shut as she enters the cozy kitchen. “Smell like bacon in here!” she exclaims, “Smells good!” Passing the old wooden kitchen table, she sees the note addressed to her. “What’s this?”  She reaches for the paper and is startled by a gunshot from the park.  “It’s those damn kids again!” she says to Blue. “I’ll bet they’re the ones responsible for all the broken bottles by the trail!” Elli unfolds the note, “Dear Elli, I hate to do this to you, but you’re the only person I can trust. I have pancreatic cancer and not much time left to live. You know how independent I am, and I would hate to be a burden to my sister and you, feeling as though you would have to take care of me until I die. This is better for me. Please tell my sister I’m sorry and love her and the kids very much.  Lastly, would you take care of Blue for me? He’ll wonder where I am, and I know you’ll love him. Thanks for everything. You’ve been a good friend and neighbor. Love Dave” Realizing what the gunshot meant, Elli gasps and crumbles the note. “Oh Dave, Poor, poor Dave! You wouldn’t have been a burden.” she sobs.   Elli crosses over to Blue, wraps her arms around him, and cries intensely into his neck. Blue throws back his head and howls mournfully as if he understands.

 … Along a path in the Teton National Park, there is an outcropping of rock on which sits a ghost of a man, waiting.  He hears a rustling in the undergrowth and sees a bluetick dog emerge. “Blue!” Dave exclaims.   The spirit of the dog bounds to his long lost master, “ Why, it seems it was only yesterday that I left you to Elli.”  Blue is beyond joy as he wiggles and swirls all around him. “Did Ms. Elli take good care of you? I’d say she did because you look a little fatter!” Dave chuckles and ruffs up Blue’s fur. He then takes the dog’s head into his hands and kisses it on the head.  “I’ve missed you, boy.  But, listen, Blue, I’ve got something to tell you. Do you remember this path from before? The last time we were here, I said something was strange about the cloud being so low.  Well, I’ve been watching people coming and disappearing into that cloud for a while now. Some look like fellow hikers, while others appear to be campers or hunters. The thing is, they are all dead like us! So I figure it has to be the entrance to heaven for lost souls. In fact, I’m sure of it! I’ve been drawn to it for some time, except I couldn’t go without you. But here you are, so what do you say? Let’s go for a walk !” And the two of them set off, a man brimming with excitement and adventure as a bluetick dog prances beside him, hiking on the path to Glory.


The day I was followed was like any other Thanksgiving Day – until it wasn’t. As was my ritual, I was out for a run. I never did the local turkey trot. I don’t run to make friends. I run for the quiet. For the meditative act of deep breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. For the puff of air in front of my face, like a personal storm, pent-up emotions melted to mist. For the crunch of leaves beneath the rubber soles of my sneakers. The bite of winter’s first frost on the tip of my nose. The dampness that gathers beneath my shirt, the wet sweat at my hairline. The steady heat from my heartbeat glowing in my chest. I never felt as alive as I did when I was on a trail, with pine trees around me like tall green sentinels and light slanting through branches as if the sun itself was sentient. When I left that morning, my husband said, “I really wish you wouldn’t run on Broken Rock Trail. You know how I feel about that place.” “That was a year ago,” I replied, sighing as I pulled my ponytail through the back of my baseball cap. “Nothing has happened since. Relax.” “They never caught the guy,” my husband reminded me, leaning against the kitchen counter in his boxer shorts, a steaming cup of coffee in his right hand. “No one ever proved there was a guy. Maybe it wasn’t a kidnapping.” I bent down to tie my shoes. A new pair, with fresh soles. They felt bouncy, ready to break in. “Perhaps she decided to disappear because her husband was driving her nuts.” “The family said that she ran that trail every day. Why on earth would she suddenly get lost?”

“You’re overthinking it. Broken Rock has the best running trails in the area. I’m not staying home because there might be a lunatic,” I said, kissing him on the cheek. He smelled like toothpaste with a hint of spice, which I knew was the faint scent of his cologne left over from our date night. He put a muscled arm around my shoulders, pulled me into his chest. For a moment, I wanted to stay there. I could break in my new shoes another day and instead tumble back in bed, fall asleep after loving him, wake up with enough time to shower and fix my hair and pack the cooler with the pumpkin pies. “I love you,” he whispered. “And I love how strong you are. I know you can take care of yourself. But call me when you’re done, okay?” “You can always track me on Find my iPhone,” I point out. “If you’re that worried for no reason.” He smiled, kissed my forehead, pushed me away gently. “Have a good run, baby. I’ll be here when you get back.” *** I had planned on an hour of running, which was enough time to take me to Broken Rock, where I could pause, take a sip of water, and look at the view. For a while, I was completely alone, no one in the forest but chipmunks and sparrows and a single deer watching me with wide, black eyes from a copse of trees. I was surprised by another runner coming towards me on the trail, moving at a pace much faster than mine. He was tall and very lean, wearing a pair of polarized glasses, loose neon yellow shorts, and a gray quarter-zip jacket. He dipped his bald head, giving me the runner’s nod when he passed, recognition of a kindred spirit, a bolster of, “Hey, good job, we’re both out here doing a hard thing”. At least, that is what the runner’s nod usually means. It was hard to read him because of his big sunglasses, which I found odd. The morning was dappled and gray, and the sun was coming out only sparingly, teasing us. Not a day for running in sunglasses. To each their own, I guess , I thought, and pressed on, but there was a niggle in my mind. An unsettling. A change in the mood of the wood, like the man had shifted a piece of the peace. Even the wind paused, and maybe that was God, silencing the space so I could hear. But I didn’t need to hear the man’s footfalls to know he was following me. A woman doesn’t need to see danger to feel it. I wonder, sometimes, if we are born with this ability, or if the world builds it into us. Do our mothers teach us that we must be vigilant, or do we come out knowing that? Do we automatically understand that instinct can save us, but only if we are strong enough to listen to it? Fear taps like a finger on our backs, and it is only when you become a woman that you understand it is not to be shirked from. Look fear in the face, and she will help you. I turned around and saw the flash of neon yellow and the bright rainbow lenses of the polarized glasses. He was behind me, but not close, and that didn’t make any sense. My pace per mile was 11 minutes, 28 seconds. This man – this tall, lean man with light feet and sinewy legs – had been running much faster just minutes ago and going in the direction of the parking lot. Now, he was going in the direction of me, controlled and slow. Strategic. A hunter if I had ever seen one. Not safe not safe not safe. The words flooded my mind like a gush of water, a gush of panic that went cold and then hot, my body kicking on the adrenaline like it knew I needed gas. Deep breaths, in through the nose, out through the mouth. I must not look afraid. Predators like easy prey. I dared to take another glance back. He was keeping his distance, still. He wasn’t ready to pounce. Not yet. We were likely too close to the trailhead, or not near enough to where he wanted me. I would never be able to outrun this man. God gave women bodies capable of miracles, but speed is not one of them, not when matched with the biology of a male. So, if we cannot be faster, we must be smarter. Stronger of mind.

I love how strong you are. My husband was waiting for me. I remembered this, and something clicked inside. I would not die in these woods. I would not let this man take me, as he probably did to the woman a year ago, the woman I did not want to believe went missing. How absurd of me to think she ever got lost. Women don’t lose themselves. Men take us. In through the nose, out through the mouth. He was getting closer. *** I slid my phone from my pocket to make the call to Emergency Services. But terror bloomed in my chest as I looked at the black screen and realized my error, my possibly fatal error. Last night, when I fell asleep – I was tired and forgot to plug it in, my husband’s pet peeve. I had noticed the low battery in the car, but because I wasn’t running with music, and I knew this trail by heart, it didn’t matter. The phone was only there just in case. You idiot, my brain tells me, but I shout back, Not now. There will be time for self-deprecation later, if we survive this. Right now, you need to think. Think . I was now at the bottom of the small, steep incline leading to Broken Rock. If I could just get up there before him – even by seconds – I would have the advantage. It was an uneven and rocky climb, but I knew I could do it quickly if I pushed myself. If I called on that thing we call Grit, the deep and powerful strength that lies dormant until we are faced with a challenge that requires us to reach down inside ourselves with a claw and scrape at the edges of our limits. He was now close enough so I could hear his steps and breaths. Still running slower than he could, because I was apparently not worth the energy. Good. Let him think me slow and weak. I wouldn’t be surprised if Broken Rock was the place he planned to break me. I waited until I was halfway up the incline to make my move, to give him the least amount of time to outpace me. A look back told me that he was near the bottom, just starting the climb. I took my chance and sprinted, which I knew meant he would sprint, too – prey runs when it is afraid. My lungs burned and every tendon in my legs screamed as I ran, dodging slippery leaves and thick roots and hidden stones. But I knew where all the holes were, so I made it without tripping, and then I made a sharp left to conceal myself behind the bush at the top of the trail, where the path turned into nothing but a smooth boulder. I did not have time to catch my breath, only time to reach down for a rock.

The man emerged from the trees a second later, a disturbing sense of urgency emanating from him. There was a small, expectant smile on his lips as he scanned the boulder, looking for me. My guts twisted as I realized how right my instinct was. I slammed the rock against the side of his head just as he found me. The force knocked him to the ground, and I hit him again for good measure, blood pooling along his skull and dripping into his ear. His glasses fell and their perfect, clean lenses cracked. He moaned and moved. Not dead. And neither was I. I didn’t think about the possibility of him standing up as I sprinted back down the hill. I ran as fast as I could to the parking lot, my muscles crying out and my breath short, my body more tired, I think, from the fear than from the run. The adrenaline kept me going until I got to the parking lot. My car was still in its spot, next to a blue Toyota Prius. The rest of the lot was empty, so I took a pen from my glove compartment and scribbled the license plate number on the back of an old receipt. I turned my car on and drove home with shaking hands. It was there that I collapsed on the kitchen floor, causing my husband to drop his breakfast plate. The white ceramic shattered, the shards mixing with remnants of runny bright eggs and golden hash browns and thick ketchup so red that I vomited. He bent down and cradled me. What happened what happened what happened? “Call the police,” I gasped through tears. “You were right, baby. Call them and send them to Broken Rock.” *** They found the blood but not the man. At least, not that day. They tracked the license plate to an owner, and then the owner to an address, and when they visited the house, a man with a bandage across the left side of his head answered the door. He said he fell in the shower. They showed me his picture, and when I confirmed it was him, they got a warrant and searched the property. I wish it had all happened faster because locked in the guest room they found her. Alyssa Evans, age 26, missing for one year. Alive. In the spring, she wrote me a letter. Asked to meet for coffee. In person, she looked better than the photos the media had used, which had shown a pale, fragile, bony woman with sunken gray eyes and thin hair pulled into a ponytail. Her face had filled out, there was color in her cheeks, and her blonde hair was bright again. It had looked white in the news. “I admit that I don’t really know what to say,” she said when I sat down across from her. She pushed a latte towards me, plus a blueberry muffin, a chocolate croissant, and a sausage egg sandwich. “I didn’t know what you like, so I just… I bought everything. I know that breakfast food is not enough, but I don’t know how else to say thank you.” She smiled softly, sweetly, and I saw the open, young girl she was before Broken Rock. Saw that her eyes were blue, not gray. “Food is my love language,” she added. “Mine, too,” I said and accepted it all. We ate in silence for a few moments. I had decided to let her talk when she was ready. I certainly didn’t know what to say. I’ve had nightmares every night since Thanksgiving didn’t seem helpful or appropriate. I use drugs to sleep because when I close my eyes I see his face seemed even worse. When she finished her muffin, she looked out the window. “I haven’t gone running since he took me,” she whispered. “Neither have I.” We met eyes, and I reached my hand across the table to cover hers. “Run with me?” she whispered, her face pleading and grieving, and I understood the desperation, because without running I am a shell, too.

We met the next day at the trailhead. We took the first step together. We ran slow and steady and strong until we stood on Broken Rock. In through the nose, out through the mouth.


It appeared after a strong flash. An innocent baby still touched the skull. A Ouija board, many candles, a drop of blood, the eye of a calf, a common room. The three-legged monster with an elongated smile immediately knew that this kind of opportunity did not come often. Carelessly, someone had left a portal open to the earthly world and now, a little crawling human looked up at him from below with enormous curiosity. With smooth brown skin and large greenish eyes, the beautiful baby seemed interested in the tall ears and red eyes of the sinister visitor; who could do nothing but smile and display his pointed teeth. But when the monstrous being was fully illuminated by the candles, the baby fell silent and his eyes began to fill with tears, but before they could spill, the monster stopped and put on the friendliest face his ugliness allowed. The tiniest human creature laughed. The monstrous one continued to widen his eyes with tenderness to gain his trust. As he approached step by step, he thought that perhaps his witch sister or another relative had carelessly left the portal open, and the baby had crawled in unknowingly to its horrifying destiny. Now, after 200 years, he could try such a magnificent morsel again. His stomach growled eagerly; saliva gathered between his teeth until it dribbled from the corner of his mouth. The little one, seeing the sticky liquid running down his pointed chin, responded with a hearty laugh. He had to hurry, lest someone enter or remember that they had left the baby alone in the room, or worse yet, that the adorable child would start to scream and give the alert. Humans tend to care for their offspring 24 hours a day; this was a one-in-a-million opportunity. So, he crouched down to become even friendlier with his dinner. The monster kid approached carefully. As he sharpened his teeth with his tongue and kept his mouth tightly closed so his haste wouldn't be noticeable, he then spoke a simple invocation. Instantly, a buzzing plush bee materialized, singing a lullaby. The mesmerized child turned his head, following the toy, and like an unattainable carrot, the little one began to crawl towards it. The sinister being extended a black claw gently to take him, to squeeze his delicate blood. The plush toy continued to buzz cheerfully; the little one kept his gaze fixed, getting closer. The claw moved another centimeter, when it was about to strike at his victim, the baby opened his mouth and bit off his finger. The underworldly being screamed in horror and pain. What was happening? No one could suck a piece of his ethereal body, unless of course... and as the baby continued to chew, swallow, and spit out the nail remnants; the monstrous one took a step back, seeming to shrink. And it was there that he noticed the strangeness of the room he was in. The window was painted on the wall, the wardrobe was a cardboard box, the ceiling was very high and made of stone, there was a simple single bed and, of course, no crib where the adorable creature could sleep. It was at that moment that he realized the trap. A terror ran through the monster, he thought that there were no humans of his kind left, but the reality was different: he had fallen into a family of monster-eaters. And trying to touch the skull to activate the return portal, the tiny beast baby approached crawling, hoping for an extra piece of him. The underworldly being was terrified and searched for the portal to return to his domains, but just as he was invoking the magic words, the sister appeared from under the bed with an old saucepan. The sinister being's non-blood froze in terror, so he retreated into the closet, only to discover that the mother was lurking with a cursed jade doll to prevent his escape. Cornered in a corner, he prayed to avoid his fatal fate. But the baby seemed the worst, crawling and drooling without understanding anything at all, only savoring his instinct; an insatiable stomach that raced at full speed. By the time the child was about to reach him, the sister opened the sister opened the magic saucepan and sucked the monstrous being in an instant flash. The terrifying scream of the monster could be heard as the lid closed, causing the baby to start screaming. The mother, skilled in these situations, approached to sing him a lullaby and congratulated him on his feat of catching dinner. There was no way to explain to him that he should share the prey with the other family members, but it was the rule, everyone had participated in the trap and deserved a share of the feast. However, the predictable tantrum erupted with full force. The mother held her offspring in her arms, giving him all the love she could, while the sister turned on the light in the crypt where the spurious room was set up. Then she extinguished the candles to close the portal, put away the Ouija board, and returned the calf's eye to its formaldehyde jar. She moved the fake cardboard door covering the bars and removed the padlock. Outside, it was still early morning in the mausoleum. The tombs barely showed their crosses, the dome of the crypt gleamed with bright moonlight. They navigated through the tombstones of so many wretched souls lying there, and with wide smiles, they leaped in triumph. Even the owls grew restless at the trapped growls emanating from the pot and the ceaseless cries of the baby. They headed to the car, which turned on its headlights. Inside, dad was waiting for them, immediately hugging them for another successful night of hunting. How proud he was, and how proud the grandmother would feel if she saw them; she surely watched with satisfaction from beyond. Especially the smallest member, who continued to cry fiercely for another bite. There was no doubt that the little angel had a bright future in the family.