It was nearly Christmas again, the man thought to himself. Another Christmas without Emily, and this year without any of the family and grandchildren visiting. “I guess we'll just make do this year, Traveler. Yes, just you and me,” he said, as he reached out and stroked Traveler's long coat of fur. It had been three years since he lost his wife, Emily, and to be honest, life seemed stale. If not for the companionship of Traveler, he would probably not have any reason to get out of bed in the morning.

Traveler had been a birthday surprise for Emily four years ago. She just adored Traveler. The dog had come by his name because the man and Emily had taken a two-week-long road trip when he was a pup. The pup went with them and had been a very agreeable travel companion. Today, the man was noticing a slowness in his own routine, and a numbness in his arm and hand. “Where did I put down my coffee?” he thought to himself.

He and Emily had married at the usual age for the time, at 18, back in the summer of 1959. The man had worked hard for his dad's menswear and uniform shop downtown called Murray & Sons. He worked weekends and summers, as did the man's older brother, Robert, until tragedy struck the Murray family. Big Brother Robert, whom the man had always looked up to, had died in an accident. He was crossing the busy street running an errand for his dad's shop when he was struck by a large Buick going too fast through an intersection while running a stop sign. The man's father and mother were never quite the same and the man had resolved to focus on the work at hand and be there for his parents. He tried to put the memory of his brother's young life behind him.

Emily had been instrumental in the success of their chosen life pursuit. In the 1970’s, the man's dad had handed over the reins of the shop, and Emily had helped with merchandise ordering and keeping the books. They had raised up a son and daughter together, and the son had gone into accounting and the daughter had learned the family business. It was just a few months before Emily’s death that the man had handed over the mantle of the menswear shop to his daughter and her husband and had finally retired so that Emily and he could do the little things that they had always wanted to do.

It wasn't long until Emily was diagnosed and then gone. This, of course, had changed the man in profound ways. He really did not want to do the little things he once did while Emily was alive. The man's day consisted of getting up and dressed, letting Traveler out to take care of nature, and feeding himself and Traveler in the kitchen. “A can of Canine Cookout for you, Traveler, and a buttered everything bagel for me”. It had been steadily snowing out the window all morning. The snow was building up so much that it had triggered an old memory of long ago.

The Christmas of 1948 , the man thought, as he dreamily gazed out at the snow from the kitchen window. “Yes, Christmas, 1948,” he said out loud. That was the Christmas when under the tree were two shiny brand new Flexible Flyer Airline Pursuits; yes, one for me, and one for my brother, Robert . We were just the tender ages of seven and nine. We sledded all the rest of Christmas Day and the vacation week and weekend following Christmas, but little did we know the real treat was to come in the form of the Blizzard after the first of January. Yes, it was just after “ringing in” the New Year, and the town was closed down for a handful of days. Dad really got his money's worth out of the Flyers that week. Robert and I barely came in except for lunch, and even that was just a quick slurp of tomato soup.

The man chuckled to himself, thinking of when he and his brother were young, innocent, carefree, and had played together in the snow for seemingly endless hours, sledding down a rather large hill behind the house again and again. The man's coffee had cooled to room temperature and Traveler had curled up at the man's feet for a little nap before his fond memory of the sleds and his brother had dissipated. It was at this time that the man had heard an eerily familiar voice behind him. “You know you still have the Flyers in the attic, Charlie.”

The man snapped around to see where the voice came from behind him. “Robert, can this be?” The man was pale with surprise. “But you're dead. How can you be here?” the man asked with incredulity.

“Well, Charlie you have not had an actual, genuinely happy thought (about me) since I left. Yes, it is true that you had sad memories that you mulled over and pushed back down, but not a happy thought or memory.”

The man responded, “Robert, your passing was so wrenching for mom and dad, and I guess for me, too.” “Yes, I can understand.” Robert, standing right there in the man’s kitchen against all possibility, stared out the kitchen window at the accumulating snow, and then appeared to have a flash of an idea on his youthful face. “Charlie, why don't we dig out the Flyers and find a hill?” The man seemed uneasy with the notion. “Robert I am old. I can't just go traipsing out into the cold snow and slide down a huge hill on an old rusty relic. I might break something, and I’m not talking about the Flyer.” “Charlie, I would have never had to beg you to do something adventurous before...,” The man interrupted his brother, “but this is now, Robert, and I can't move as I once did. I am not young anymore.” “Okay Gramps,” Robert said teasingly, “then I will get them out of the attic myself.” Robert pulled down the ladder from the attic and began rummaging. “Golly Charlie, all this stuff!” Robert made his way down a narrow walkway that took him in the direction of a small window on the far wall. With a reflection of the snow casting a white light into that part of the attic, he began to make out the familiar expectant shapes of two old friends of smooth wood and gleaming metal propped up in the corner. Making his way toward the figures, he let out a “Eureka, Charlie, found ‘em! I’m handing them down.”

Robert wrestled one toward the ladder, handing it down to Charlie and returning for the second Flyer. He slid that one down to his anticipating brother and stepped back down the ladder, noticing as he went that Charlie had also begun to take on a more youthful look than he had before. Robert looked Charlie straight in the eye; “are you ready, kiddo?” Each brother grabbed what then appeared to be a shiny new Flexible Flyer, opening the front door and excitedly walking out to the collecting snow.

Charlie, with a new spring in his step and a youthful gleam in his eye, looked at his big brother and said, “Let’s Fly!”


Giulia heard about the witch from a widow, an acquaintance of her mother's. The widow was rich and had three successful sons. Her husband had died of a fever, leaving behind an immense estate. Using the acumen and wealth which God had bestowed upon her, the widow shrewdly recuperated her husband's crumbling holdings, educated her sons, and married them off to rich and powerful families. The youngest of her sons was rumored to be betrothed to the daughter of the house of Valois. There was also a rumor that the widow has had illicit relationships with men as young as her sons.

Giulia did not pay attention to those rumors. She admired the widow. Giulia's mother did not approve of their meetings, but her mother did not approve of any woman who had a tongue in her mouth. As far as her mother was concerned the widow was the spawn of the devil. She warned Giulia to stay away from her. To Giulia, the widow was a strong and independent woman who made subservient women like her mother uncomfortable. The widow’s sharp features, sharp eyes, and sharp movements attracted and terrified men and women alike. They did not like her but they were drawn to her, especially men. To Giulia, she represented a small but powerful light in a sea of darkness, where women like her were abused and mistreated. Giulia would visit the widow almost every week. The widow would listen intently and give Giulia advice. The conversation would often veer towards children, men, and cookery. The widow would say that men's viciousness did not scare her but their stupidity. Giulia personally was more scared of their viciousness than their stupidity. Giulia's husband, Enzo, used to come home every night and beat her over the most ridiculous of things. Food was the most common incitement. The old widow would say that Enzo was a vicious creature that she had warned Giulia's mother about. Enzo had broken a tooth of the old widow's youngest son. She had taken Enzo's family to court, and Giulia's father-in-law had apologized feverishly and made Enzo apologize as well. Although Enzo had to be beaten senseless by his father before he uttered the word sorry to the widow and her son. Giulia tried many things that the widow suggested but nothing stopped the beating. Eventually, the widow confronted Enzo. First time in her life, she saw Enzo unable to be mean to a woman. He growled and groaned but didn't utter a word of defiance. For months, he didn't touch Giulia until he came home one night with his eyes swollen shut and beat her for serving him a stale meal. The widow sympathized with her because her own late husband was a spendthrift. He had drunk and whored away almost half his inheritance before he passed away of a terrible fever. The widow would call him her silly old darling. The widow loved him but was glad that he died for he would have made her children destitute. The widow herself had lived her childhood in poverty and disgrace under the banner of a prominent family which had lost its wealth to the mistakes of vicious, silly, and irresponsible men. However, her family name had allowed her to get married in a nouveau-arrived family of Habsburg, risen to prominence single-handedly by the old widow's father-in-law who was an orphan, who worked in the docks of Venice until with industriousness and humility he becomes one of the wealthiest merchants in the city. Although the widow’s father-in-law made her uncomfortable with his intelligent gaze, he was one of the few men the widow admired. He disapproved of her marriage with his son but had to agree after a public insistence from her late husband.

When they first met. The widow was charmed by her bold young beau, slender and popular with no care in the world. He would spend more on perfume than her family spent on rations. They lived a life of luxury and new dignity she had never known. She dined with every prominent family, met with the pope, and ate at the house of Medici. But when her father-in-law died of a sudden heart ailment, their family estate fell into the hands of her husband. Within a few years, her husband, unbridled, had lost and spent half of the family's fortune.

Giulia’s marriage was like the old widow’s except that Enzo was also violent. He beat her hard and often. Sometimes, she wished she was never born. It felt like there was never a time when life was worth living. The ink of the present had smudged the memories of the past. Sometimes, she questioned whether the memories from her past were ever real. The pain, the beatings, and the horrors she experienced were the only thing that felt real.

After one particularly bad beating, Giulia went to the widow's house. It had taken her a week to gather her courage. She had become anxious and, for the first time, she feared for her life. When the old widow saw Giulia’s face, she had grown furious. She wanted to confront Enzo but Giulia pleaded with her. It was her fault, she insisted. She was not a good wife to him. She could not give him a son. Giulia cried herself to sleep in the widow's embrace. After she woke up, she was not frantic and felt secure.

In the evening, Giulia sat in the widow’s bedroom brooding over the fact that she had to go home to him. The terror came back. The widow found Giulia sobbing and she said,

"You cannot live like that, child."

"I fear for myself but most of all I fear for my children and their future. He will ruin everything." "For them, you need to be strong, Giulia. I know you can. You are one of the strongest women I know." That made Giulia feel better. Coming from her, it meant a lot to her. Giulia looked into the widow's sharp eyes. "I want to be strong like you. I want to do what you did" The widow began, "You have heard bad rumors about me. You still want to be like me" Giulia nodded. The widow told her to seek Paolina the witch.

*** When Giulia entered the witch's place, she could not believe her eyes. She found herself in a room which was much bigger than what it looked from the outside. The room was lit wonderfully with candlelight. It smelt like lavender and rosemary and myriad other smells Giulia wished she knew. The floor was covered with the loveliest of carpets, which she could feel through the soles of her shoes. The walls were lined with sofas on which sat a score of women. All were veiled like she was yet every eye was different. Some were stronger than others. Others, younger. She could tell from those who had suffered more than she had. Life worse than hers she could have never imagined yet here she was sitting among women who had seen much worse than her. Giulia sat next to a girl with olive skin. Her eyes looked exotic and she had some sort of mark between her forehead. In front of Giulia sat a girl with brown hair and brown eyes. Giulia could tell that the girl was pregnant because she wore a dress that was too loose, she was with a boy too young to be a husband and sat too intimate to be her brother. The girl did not come here for childbirth. It was too early for that. Giulia almost fainted when the realization came to her. The anxiety brought her back to her own problems. What was she doing here? Consorting with a witch? I am a terrible terrible human being, she thought. She remembered her husband, but she remembered him as young and cocky but gentle. Oh! He used to be so kind to me. Only if his father was alive. However, this time Giulia did not blame herself. She did deserve the beatings. It was not her fault that he squandered a large portion of his inheritance. She loved him, despite the beating, despite the abuse, but she could never forgive him for ruining her children’s lives. It was her turn. She pushed the heavy arched wooden door open. She went in and found herself in awe. This room was grander than the last one. She had never seen so many objects under the bright golden light of what she could only describe as a suspended star, a glowing orb that was not harsh but smooth and pleasing to the eye. The light shone upon everything but it shined the objects differently. She brought her hands in front of her and they were the most beautiful hands she had ever seen. In front of her was a huge table filled with hundreds of apparatus, of the most complicated assortment, filled with potions of vivid colors. Colors she had never seen. Smells she had never smelt.

Giulia saw a small woman with dark brown skin. She had never seen a person like that before. Her hair was curly and short. Her skin was smooth and shining like a polished apple. She had heard about such people that worked at the ports but had never seen them before. The brown woman was searching for books amongst the thousands lined from end to end on shelves that reach from the ground to the distant roof. Like books, hundreds of jars lined the wall, jars of distinct shapes and sizes, stored within them were life forms she had never seen. There were also chairs and clocks and chests. As Giulia scanned the room, her eyes fell on a woman, absorbed in a book on a standing table, across the room from her. She was a slender woman in a red dress with long hair the color of deep-burnished copper, and rosy white skin. She was taller than most men Giulia had seen. Her high cheeks and sharp jaw did not suggest in the slightest that she was older than thirty. One word jumped into her mind red.

Giulia stood engrossed in the red woman as the woman stood engrossed in her studies.

"Giulia", the woman said, "Come here darling, would you?" Those words brought Giulia out of her trance. She should have questioned how the woman came to know her name. But no suspicion came to her mind. It was as though all the despair was sucked out of her being. She faintly remembered feeling the opposite. Fear and anxiety had shrouded her existence. Standing in this magical place, Giulia felt immense love brewing inside her heart. She felt one with the red woman. One with all the women sitting outside. One with the little brown girl. She had never felt this happy, this awed, and this protected before. She did not feel like a lone scared animal anymore but part of a whole that nurtured and cherished her. Giulia felt part of a sisterhood.

The woman removed Giulia's veil. And Arm in arm, the woman walked Giulia to a desk. She beckoned Giulia to sit on a chair as the woman took the chair opposite of hers. Giulia was mesmerized by the woman's hair, her slender neck, and her lips. Never in her life had she seen lips that red. The woman noticed Giulia's gaze and said,

"I apply lip paint on my lips. When I first saw the consort of the emperor of China, I asked her about it and she gave me her lip paint. I determined its ingredients and created my own lip paint."

"Are you the witch?", asked Giulia, but she instantly regretted it.

The woman leaned back on her chair and replied, "When a woman is confident and powerful, they call her a witch. Besides, Paolina the potion-maker sounds better than Paolina the witch.

"How did you know my name?", asked Giulia "I know a lot about you. I know that you have two girls. You have a pious mother. And you have an abusive husband, whom you are here for.", said Paolina and gave Giulia a knowing look.

On the verge of tears, Giulia looked down. Paolina leaned forward and took Giulia's hand into her hand, "You are a strong woman, Giulia. Do you know how many women waste their entire life like that? It is easier to live like a slave than to break the chains of tradition and propriety."

"I am doing this for my children", said Giulia, "How do I pay you?"

"An ounce of blood", replied Paolina.

"Blood? Why?", asked Giulia. "I need them to make potions," said Paolina as she stood up and went to her work table that had all the apparatus.

The little brown girl hurried next to Paolina "We have to make Aqua Tofana", said Paolina, "Bring me dragon-blood, belladonna, arsenic, and lead." The girl scurried off as Paolina boiled some liquid in a pot. She mixed all the ingredients when the brown girl came back. Paolina poured the contents into a glass vial. The potion looked colorless. For some reason, Giulia had expected a red like that of Paolina's hair.

Paolina walked up to Giulia in her long elegant strides and placed the vial in Giulia's hand. The potion was warm to the touch. Polina's hand was warmer when she placed her delicate hand on Giulia's face.

Giulia hugged this strange woman who felt like an older sister to her.

"Come back and I will give you some lip paint," said Paolina with a smile on her face. "Remember, whenever you need me, I will be here to help."

Giulia nodded her head and asked, "Did you gave the same potion to the widow"

Paolina nodded her head and said, "Be strong for your kids. Your husband will have a fever for three days. It will not be sudden. Everything will look natural."

Giulia was ill for three days before she died. Everything looked natural.


“You will bring peace to the earth,” my dad said. “So start acting like it.” I hated it when my parents lectured me like that. They firmly believed that I would make world peace someday. On the day I was born, my dad took me to go get my future foretold. The fortune-teller told him about a prophecy that said I would bring world peace. The prophecy said that on January 23, a child would be born. That child would immediately go to get his fortune told. They would have the power to heal themselves. It also described how the child looked, and he looked exactly like me. This child was supposed to save the world and make it flawless. So now, ever since then, they’ve always wanted me to be perfect. Every time I messed up, they would always give me the same lecture about how I was supposed to bring peace to the world and that I should act like it. I wasn’t even sure if I believed it anyway. Why me of all people. I thought that there was no way I could bring peace to the world. I didn’t stand out at all. I wasn’t any stronger, faster, or smarter than anyone else. I was just an ordinary person. If that fortune was true, then it would’ve been for someone else. My sister’s voice snapped me back into reality. “Fufu, come play with me,” she called. I sighed. My little sister refused to leave me alone. Every day she would ask me to play. I used to try to ignore her, but eventually, I gave in. I walked over to her room. I saw her in there, sitting on the floor with her dolls. She had fair skin. Her hair was light brown and went all the way down her back. She was pretty short. My sister had amber eyes that sparkled in the sun.

“What do you want to play today?” I asked her, wanting to hurry up and get this over with. “Today we’re going on vacation to the beach,” she said. I picked up the doll that I always used. My sister picked up her doll and we both pretended to build sandcastles and swim in the ocean. We played for a long time until it was time for dinner. “Dinner time!” my mom called from downstairs. My sister and I descended the stairs and into the kitchen. We sat down at the kitchen table.

“Tonight we’re having meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and cauliflower.” I was disgusted. I hated cauliflower and my parents knew it. No matter how many times I told them that, they would always insist that I eat it because I needed to be healthy to bring world peace. That didn’t even make much sense in my opinion, but I just went along with it. At dinner that night, we talked about how everyone’s day was. It was boring because my parents, as usual, got sidetracked and somehow ended up talking about politics. My sister and I sat there in silence until we eventually got into a conversation ourselves. “Guess what?” my sister Melody said. “What?” I asked. “Tomorrow is the end-of-the-year party!” I had forgotten that I was about two weeks behind my sister. We hadn’t even started the end of the year testing. We were going to start tomorrow and keep testing for a whole week. All we got was an end of the year lunch which was a cupcake and juice, one each. That was basically what we got if it was someone’s birthday. On the other hand, Melody got pizza, hot dogs, and burgers. And there was dessert too! I wasn’t too surprised about this because Melody’s class always got more or better stuff than mine. Everything was normal in my life for a while. Until my dad told me something. “Today’s the day,” he said dramatically. I just stood there, confused. “Today’s the day for what?” “Today you have to prove yourself. There is something in the prophecy that I’ve never told you about. We were always pretty certain that you were the prophetic child, but we were never sure. The prophecy states that to be sure of your future, you have to go through a few tests to prove yourself.” “What kind of tests?” I asked him.

“The tests were listed in the prophecy. There’s a test of knowledge, strength, honesty, courage, and virtue. You must pass all these tests.” “Which one is first?” “The first one is the test of knowledge.” “How do I take the test?” “You must go back to the person who told you about your future. She will guide you from there. Get in the car. I’ll take you to her.” My dad grabbed his keys and put his shoes on. I slipped my shoes on and got in the car. My dad sat in the driver’s seat and I sat in the passenger seat. He turned the key, buckled his seatbelt, and started to pull out the driveway. We sat in silence for about fifteen minutes until we made it. We parked at a fortune-telling booth. Then my father wished me luck and sent me inside. I walked into the booth. “Hello? Anyone here?” I asked. Someone came out of the shadows. “So, you’re the boy from the prophecy. I remember seeing you as a baby,” said the person. I looked at her. Her face looked only a teensy bit familiar.

“Follow me.” She led me to a back room. This room contained many things. There were many items that I didn’t recognize. There was also a crystal ball and what appeared to be a mirror under a sheet. She yanked the sheet off and I figured out that it was not a mirror. I had no idea what it was. It looked like some sort of portal, but I wasn’t sure. It was a big rectangle made out of something purple. The inside was red and looked swirly, as if it were spinning. She gestured for me to go in.

I walked through the portal and the whole room started to spin. When I made it through to the other side, I saw something magnificent. I appeared to be in a bookstore. Suddenly, a loud voice started talking. “Are you Fuleusochenfu Kyo?”ok “I am,” I said. “Who are you?” “That is for me to know and for you to find out. Or maybe not find out at all if you fail this test.” “What kind of test is this? What will I be doing?” I asked. “You will be trying to escape.” I was a little confused. What did he mean by escape? Escape from what? The bookstore started to fill with sand. I panicked.

“What’s going on? What am I supposed to do?” I shouted. “I told you, you must escape,” said the voice. “But how?” The voice went away. The room was filling at a rapid rate. I looked around for a way out. I saw that there was a door to the left of me. I ran towards it. I tried to open it but there was sand blocking it. The sand was way too heavy. I pushed the sand away but it just kept falling. There was no way I could get out through that door. I saw a window but it was too high for me to reach. Luckily there was a large pile of sand in front of it. I stood on the sand and tried to go through the window, but the pile of sand collapsed under me. I had no idea how I was going to escape. When I had almost given up hope, the voice came back. “There are two ways to escape. You can either find a way to get out or answer this question.” “What’s the question?” I asked, eager to escape. “The question is more of a riddle actually. You measure my life in hours and I serve you by expiring. I’m quick when I’m thin and slow when I’m fat. The wind is my enemy. What am I?” I was stumped. I had no idea what the answer to his riddle was but I needed to figure it out fast. I thought as hard as I could but the answer evaded me. The sand was rising higher. It was almost to my neck at this point. I could barely move through all this sand. I kept thinking. Then I got an idea. I looked around the bookstore for anything that might help me answer the riddle. I saw books with various different pictures on the covers, but none of them could answer the riddle. Then I saw one. A book with a picture of a candle on it. I immediately knew that this was the answer. “The answer is a caaannnlll,” I said. My speech came out muffled because the sand was nearly covering my entire mouth. I tried again. “The answer is a candle,” I said. This time my speech was a lot clearer. “That is correct,” said the voice. The sand stopped coming in. A hole appeared in the wall and the sand started to go through there. “You have passed the test,” the voice boomed. “Thanks, but you still never told me your name.” “I am known as the Guardian of Knowledge. On your next test, you will meet the Guardian of Virtue.” “When does the test start?” I asked. “The next test starts right now.”

The floor opened up and I fell. I seemed to be falling for so long. It almost seemed like a bottomless pit. I started gaining speed as I was falling. Eventually, I started to stop slowly. I started to float in midair. I wondered what was going on. Then another voice started talking. This one sounded different.

“Are you ready for this test?” asked the voice. “I’m ready,” I answered boldly. “Then let the test begin!” I blinked. When I opened my eyes, my surroundings were completely different. I was in a city and there was crime everywhere. Everywhere I looked I saw people robbing each other. I was right beside a hospital. “In that hospital, there is the equipment that your grandpa needs to live,” said the voice. I was amazed. My grandpa had been sick for about three months and if he didn’t get special treatment, he would die. My family couldn’t afford the treatment. I debated stealing the equipment. Why shouldn’t I? Everyone around me was stealing so it wouldn’t make much of a difference if I did too. I went into the hospital to steal it. Then I thought about something. Maybe this was the test. It was a test of virtue after all. The test could be to see if I was going to steal it or not. I tried to shake those thoughts away. Even if that was the test, why should I care? This was for my grandpa and I would choose him over a test any day. I didn’t want to steal because I knew it wasn’t the right thing to do. If my grandpa knew that I had stolen the equipment, he would be mad at me. My grandpa wouldn’t want to live by using stolen equipment. I decided that I wouldn’t do it. “I won’t do it!” I yelled at the voice. “Wise decision.” I braced myself, expecting to fall through the floor again. But this time, something else happened. Instead of falling, I started floating. I wasn’t expecting this. I floated up and to the right until I made it to another room. It wasn’t really a room though. I was standing in the middle of some train tracks. Other people were standing there too. I heard a train coming. I knew I had to get these people to safety. I grabbed a few children and rushed them off of the train tracks. “Everybody move!” I shouted. “Everyone get off the train tracks!” Most of them started to run away, but a few of them kept standing there, shocked. “Come on people! Move it!” I tried again. Some of them still didn’t move. I continued to push people out of the way. The train had almost reached us. I knew I couldn’t get everyone out of the way in time. I stood in front of the train and braced myself for impact. The train hit me at full force. I was knocked back, off of the train tracks. I slid across the dirt. When I recovered, I looked at myself. I had many bruises and I was bleeding pretty badly on my back. My guess was that I slid over something sharp. My head hurt very badly and at this rate, I was going to bleed out. I needed to do something. I couldn’t die. I had too much to live for. I didn’t know if I believed my fortune at first, but now I do. It was my destiny to save the world. I couldn’t die yet. All of a sudden, I started to float. I looked around and saw that I was emitting a bluish glow. I was like a floating orb. My body started to feel better. The ache started to go away. I was healing myself. I stayed in the air for a little while, about five minutes. Then I fell to the ground. Luckily, I wasn’t floating that high. The voice started to talk. “You are the boy! The prophecy states that only the hero is able to heal himself. No one else. You don’t have to take the rest of the tests.” Someone came out of the shadows. This person had gray skin and pointed eyes, kind of like an elf. He was very short. He had tussled white hair. When he saw me, he bowed. “I am the Guardian of Courage.” More people who looked like him walked in. They stated their names and bowed to me too. “We’re at your service,” they said, still bowing. It was official. I was the hero that was supposed to unite the world. I haven’t done it yet though. Every time I try, it doesn’t work. No one believes in me. I try to make peace, but no one listens. Someday they will listen though. And that will be the day I fulfill my destiny.


It had been almost four minutes. It was not agony or ecstasy. It was one song, and dance can play funny tricks on the mind while an artist performs. Time speeds up when the music is slow and conversely takes forever even when the beat seems impossibly fast. Faith had only one week to pick the music, prepare the dance, and find something to wear. She had not felt this sort of excitement and anxiety in decades, especially not for herself. Faith had never been much for risk-taking and now was certainly not the time to change her mind. Her dreams of professionally performing never materialized, but she never regretted her path. She often taught others about dance, how to view dance, and even how to dance. For years, she stood in front of mirrors, in converted rooms meant for anything but artistic movement, or in any space large enough to move to share her passion for dance. Sometimes that space was no larger than a closet, but it did not matter. Now, all she had to do was take this leap. It was not a matter of courage per se; it was truly a matter of about five feet and might result in deep admiration or devastating embarrassment. Faith finished her turn, took a deep breath, waltzed back a few more steps, and then started her pas de bourrée. She then added her glissade. She was nearing the end of the piece. The auditorium was perfectly quiet save for the harmonica and its player’s gravelly voice taking turns. She was hoping for a perfect split leap in the air. It would look impressive, sail through the air, and land gracefully. Theoretically, it was that simple. The execution was the true leap itself. She launched off her left foot and felt her right leg glide up into the air. Her thoughts seemed to slow as her body rose into the lighted darkness.

Why did I agree to this benefit concert? No one wants to see a forty-four-year-old dancer. There are reasons why dancers retire. Gracefulness and style are no match for inhuman flexibility and waif-like stature. This is a nightmare. I should have stayed in my classroom. Books and papers are much safer than audiences who audibly display their opinions. I agreed too quickly. A high school teacher has never performed for this cause before, and it has been years since anyone has asked me to perform. Choreograph…yes. Teach…yes. Direct even…yes. Just dance…no. Her arms bowed through first and extended up toward the canned lights above her. The music behind her swept through the air like a warm breeze.  She could feel the extension of her whole body as her feet ascended to their limits above the stage. It was then that Faith looked out among the seats. What must my daughter think? She’s an athlete and dance has never excited her. She attends concerts, participates in workshops, and even lets me talk about dance during musicals when we watch them. I’m embarrassing her. She must be sitting out there cringing over her mother in a leotard performing with artists more than half her age. Maybe I should have paid more attention to that face she made when I explained this performance. Faith’s exhale indicated her descent, and she could feel gravity pulling her muscles back through the empty space below. It was all coming to an end. Her limbs felt weightless as she continued back down to reality. One last moment, a bow, and then a quick retreat off stage left. The promise of an ending made her heart beat faster as she looked to see that she was still a fair distance above the black matte beneath her. Why don’t companies commission dancers whose passion lies in simple movements? Why must dance impress solely on how hard the body exceeds expectations? I’ve seen senior citizens and children entertain while professionals induce napping. It doesn’t have to be all or none. Dance tells people’s stories, shares their emotions, and helps them find meaning. Every age and ability can do that. Any body can move so people empathize. I have missed this… Her right foot touched down with barely a whisper as her left foot slid perfectly through first to stop in front of her. The dance was concluding. She felt her lungs swell and her arms pulled in. In that moment, she had to choose to open herself again to the world or remain closed. Without a moment’s hesitation, Faith brought her arms up and stretched them wide to embrace whatever response the people in the audience shared. Blues Traveler faded into silence and she took another deep breath. Her eyes scanned the dark room where she knew so many of her colleagues, students, and even family were sitting. She allowed the tiniest smirk to creep up the right side of her downstage face as she watched the dust particles become suspended in the path of the lilac spotlight.

There are so many artists in this world who just need to be asked to shine. We need their lights as much as they need to be seen. People don’t lose their dreams when they get older. They lose the belief that anyone wants them to be seen. It was not over. Before a cavalcade of applause, a few random claps, or even utter silence could ensue, Faith leapt once more. It was not as grand as the leap seconds ago, but it changed her position so she could look in a new direction. The spotlight shifted and she gracefully allowed her arms to fall just above her sides. Looking over her right shoulder she let the light illuminate her shadowed glance onto the wall. We all need to ignite our fires and be warmed by the glow of others. The smirk released into a knowing smile on Faith’s face. They may not have been the perfect split leaps, but it was a perfect moment. She found her light and a dance that started forty years ago was only paused again as Faith breathed into her lasting pose.


I ran. I promised myself I’d be fast enough this time, but I wasn’t. It was raining ants again. My breath caught in my throat as fear washed over me. I sped up, the wind blowing hard with the smell of ants dancing on the air. Thunder rumbled hotly above me, making the hair on the back of my neck start to prick up. I cursed under my breath from the sidewalk where I was, feeling the sprinkle of the first couple of them in my hair and on my shoulders. I tried to shake them off as I kept running along, my house nearly in sight from here. It started to rain harder, and I could feel dozens of little legs itching their ways up the back of my neck and down my legs, tickling almost.  I finally lunged up onto the rickety porch under the roof, rubbing my reddened face as I panted. I shook out my legs and arms desperately, running my hands through my hair to get the ants all out. Several of them fell to the chipped wood below my feet, squirming before disappearing below the porch. I could feel more of them though, my fingers curling in fear. I kept trying, but I knew it was too late. I felt wriggling all over, their little red bodies clinging onto my skin and follicles and whatever else they could latch onto. They had started to burrow into my skin, sealing their path behind themselves. Fuck. I run my nails through my hair again, trying to stay calm. I study the little white dots where they had just dug under my skin, like little inverted freckles all over me. Before I can think of anything else, my mother opens up the front door with a funny look on her face. “Hun? What’re you doing? Get in here, it’s storming out there.” I looked up at her with a swallow, slowly coming closer to step after her into the house. The ants inside me twitched. They flicked their little antenna, and it itched. They kept burrowing and digging deeper until they reached my veins. Then they itched those, too. I was steadily going pale, nearly tearing a hole into my cheek with my canines. My mother paid me no mind, going back to the living room. I tried to calm my breathing, leaving against the kitchen island. The ants were still going, little legs prickling against my capillaries as they made their way inside of my heart. They felt over my flesh, nuzzled into the muscles.  I didn’t realize tears were blurring my eyes until it was too late. My heart felt heavy, and so did my lungs when they managed to find their way there, too. It’s when I felt them coming up along my brainstem that I whimpered, and went into the living room. “Mom..” I said, getting her to turn around. She cooed a soft sound out. “Honey, what’s wrong?” I cried harder, wiping at my eyes with my wrist. “I.. you know how I told you about how I don’t like the ants?” I said. She sighed a little then. “Love.. we talked about this. Just brush them off, like everyone else. Everyone has to deal with them.” I shake my head back at her. “No, mom.. I can’t brush them off. They dig in.. they crawl all over. I don’t know what to do anymore.” She shakes her head, and then kisses the top of mine. “I’m sorry hun, I can’t help you. Maybe go lie down for a bit, yeah?” She steps away from me, and leaves me alone in the living room.

I don’t know how long I stood there staring at the floor. I hated it when it rained. When she was younger, it only rained a couple times a year. Now it was almost everyday, with the itching and crawling and burrowing. I had tried to look it up in the past, or ask my friends. But they didn’t get it. They told me to try to ignore the ants. One of them tried to buy me an ant brush to get them off. It helped a little, but they still burrowed in. After a while, I didn’t want to leave the house anymore, in case it rained that day and more ants got in. I wiped my face once more before running up to my room. I needed them out, and I’d do it myself if I had to. They were feeling heavier with each minute, tugging my lungs down and making it hard to breathe. I went to my room and locked the door. From under my pillow, I pulled the switchblade I’d stolen from my Dad’s tools in the garage. I sat myself at my desk, fingers shaking a little from around the blade. The ants bumped their ways back and forth through my veins, stretching them. They started their way into my skull, bumping along the sides of the bone and making little imprints on my brain. The only thing I could focus on was the sensation of them inside me, and how my whole body screamed that this was wrong.

They didn’t even hurt, they didn’t bite down or have venom or sting me at all. But they wouldn’t stop digging, and the fact that others could just brush them away drove me insane. The ants danced their little legs against my temples and skull, a rhythmic little marching over my whole body like a heartbeat from under the floorboards. Glancing down to my hands, the knife was held stiff between my whitened knuckles. I gritted my teeth, and brought the blade to my arm. With numb fingers, I slid it across my skin, pressing deep. Red spilled out and smeared over my arm. None of it was ants, but the itching still stopped. The digging, the tunneling, the marching. It all went quiet. Hands shaking, I slump onto my desk with a relieved sigh.


Adam Daedalus Rocket was not born with the middle name Daedalus, or the last name Rocket. He chose his own names. The kids in the orphanage taunted him relentlessly. “You’re a moron to dream you can go to the stars, the shortest kid in the class. Elton John’s

Rocket Man  is not even a real astronaut, but some character in a dumb song!” The jeering that stung the most? “ Your parents didn’t even care enough to keep you. You were unloved.” There was no time for anything but school as far as he was concerned. He made no friends and kept to himself. “He’s an odd one,” his classmates would say. “His eyes are more on a comet 50 light years away, an asteroid belt 100, or a galaxy. He’s a joke.” But even the meanest students had to admit, if only to themselves, Adam was obsessed with astronauts to his bones. He worked not just hard, but singularly driven, and he’d make it to NASA Space Academy. By the time he was thirty, he’d blasted off the blue marble of earth more times than anyone. He was the genuine article, streaking away in the early dawn, the curvature of the earth shimmering in the sun. Assigned missions for his skill, but also because he had no one to leave behind, his only ambition was to travel in space, alone. And now he was on a mission with more risk than ever before. When he reached Mars, it would be 500 years into the future and take less than a day. A special engine with never used technology lay waiting in the belly of his bullet shaped spacecraft,

Icarus.

At first, he ripped through the sky as usual, the rocket fuel roaring behind him, his body riding a bunking bronco. But this bronco was powered by Einstein’s Theory of Relativity, and he was the first man to chase time. Once the fuel engines played out, an unproven gravity control engaged, and the new engine woke.

Icarus  reared up and howled. She leaped to her stride. With his chest compressed in G forces sucking his breath, he launched into the future at what felt to him like a million-million miles per hour. But he wasn’t scared. He laughed as the first years in minutes distanced behind him. On earth, time moved fast as well. At first, his heart stirred at the miracle of life; perfect blue oceans, swirling clouds of weather systems, and the shimmering lights from the cities of the eastern seaboard of the United States. The earth was in its supreme glory that early morning. But then the sight of earth pierced his stomach as if stabbed by a Satan’s herald. This terrified him with a grief he didn’t know, his blood rushing like his heart was on fire and would soon burst from his throat.

Just a few years had passed compressed into the first hours after launch, and the earth had flashed a different kind of glory. Behind his spacecraft, malevolent evil rose in mushroomed clouds, the lost hope of a nuclear insanity. What would take weeks, or years, or decades on earth, for him was just a few hours, and ended in a hulking dead planet, the last gasping breath of a sorrowful and smoldering wasteland, leaving only debris and death.

Ahead of him loomed ever closer the colony of Mars. But as he approached, 500 years unfolded. The colony transformed into a vast metropolis. What looked like clear domes fabricated by giant honey bees covered towers of high rises, their sparkling lights reminding him of London, New York, or Hong Kong. In an instant, he felt the deck beneath him shudder as his ship went into orbit, guided by an unseen force. His communications consul sounded out with what the Commander first thought was the voice of God. “Welcome to Mars, Commander. We’ve been waiting for you.” *** “You were the first sent and the last to arrive,” Dr. Felix Fitzwalter said. A scientist, he had rumpled white hair, an old man. In the earth weeks that the Commander had spent on Mars, from what he could tell, the city stood near exhaustion, trash blowing in the streets, empty buildings, and collapsed schools with Martian sand drifting in doorways. When he saw people, they gathered together like aging denizens of Greece, dressed in robes, and talking in groups like chittering sparrows. “And you’re our last hope,” interrupted Chairman Mathews, his face like a politician, sycophant, and beady eyed. The Doctor glanced at the Chairman, scowling with his white eyebrows, his forehead furrowed. But Commander Rocket’s questions never stopped. “Why the last to arrive? Who came first? And why am I the last hope?”

Dr. Fitzwalter chuckled. As he did, his formidable belly jiggled. He wore a scarlet Mars Federation logo on his white robe. “Let me explain.” Again, Chairman Mathews stared down the doctor. “A travesty. This is what happens when humanity has the power to destroy. It’s human nature. Earth is just one more example.” He snapped his fingers. “Gone... But it’s fate and messing with time that’s a sin. Earth paid the price, Commander.” The doctor stood up and towered over Mathews from behind him. “What you don’t know, Commander, is your fellow astronauts came after you and died hundreds of years ago. But they told us about you, the speed of your ship fast enough to come well after them. It’s only you, Commander, who arrived over 500 years from earth’s catastrophe. You’re the last.” Commander Rocket nodded. He’d guessed if he could reach Mars in a few months, others could also. He wasn’t surprised he was the fastest. “Why is everyone on Mars so old? The streets are empty? Where is everybody?” “That’s why you’re the last hope, some of the misguided say,” said Chairman Mathews. “But you can’t mess with fate. Half our population thinks you’re the Messiah. There’s a better place ahead of us.” “You see, Commander,” said the Doctor. “We can’t procreate. We can’t conceive. It seems the DNA alterations we used to extend our lives modified us. A sad irony, given we were pursuing life extension.” “Modified!” Mathews declared. “Just like earth, we’re dying also! We live until 200, but our youngest are nearly 100! It's blasphemy and there’s nothing we can do.”

The Doctor took a seat next to the Commander and leaned in towards him. He gripped the Commander’s eyes with his own. “We can’t seem to complete artificial insemination because of the DNA infection. We’ve concluded we need an uninfected man and a natural birth.

YOU

don’t have damaged DNA, and we assume, can perform naturally.” The Commander put his hand on his own head as he realized. “So you want me to have a baby? Who with?” The doctor smiled. *** The woman, Evelyn, chosen for the Commander, was over 100 years old, looked 30, and embraced the excitement of life like a sixteen-year-old. She was having no nonsense from Adam. If they were going to do this, they would do it her way, and by golly they were going to have a baby post haste. “You’re doing a heroic service for the continuance of life on Mars,” Evelyn said, snuggling down next to the Commander. They were outside the Mars Interstellar Research Center (MIRC). She scanned the Commander up and down while he fidgeted. “I’m not really sure how this works,” he said. Evelyn laughed. “You’re not sure how sex works?” The Commander turned red. “It’s not that, it’s…it’s...” And so began to everyone’s observation, a love affair. And it worked. After the entire Mars community held their collective breath, Adam, Jr. was born, a bawling blue-eyed boy. The Commander, to everyone’s surprise, became a doting father.

Mars City glowed like first time grandparents while he pushed the baby carriage (which he insisted on doing). The gossiping matrons passed him, pretending it wasn’t on purpose. “Good afternoon, Commander. Your boy is quite the handsome young man!” The Commander would light up with the broadest ‘proud poppa’ smile imaginable. “He is, isn’t he?” It wasn’t just Adam Jr. that captured his father’s eye. The Commander and Evelyn were inseparable. He would sneak looks at his wife doing the simplest of tasks, preparing dinner (he cleaned up), painting at her easel with her delicate fingers (she was an artist), and laying out his manuals to help him study the new science. His heart would break just at the sight of her. Dr. Fitzwalter was beyond delighted. “You realize, Mathews, where this is headed?” “Yes. You want this Rocket Man to be a very busy man,” replied Mathews. “It’s a sin is what it is.” The Doctor flicked his forefinger at Mathews, dismissing him. “We’ll marry each of them off if that makes you happy, but there’s an issue. I’ve never seen a man more in love with one woman. How will it go with another woman?” He placed his hand on his chin and his mind on the repercussions. But neither man knew ‘the repercussions’ would shortly become unnecessary. *** The Commander knew something was up when Dr. Fitzwalter and Matthews brought him and Evelyn in. Dr. Fitzwalter stood with his back to the Commander as he gazed out the conference room window, fifty stories high, a purple gray overcast day above the sheen of the clear domes. Behind the glass of each building were fewer and fewer people. The city was dying. “We’ve had our hopes, Commander, but tests show Evelyn has, for lack of a better term, infected you. There’ll be no more babies.” “And you were the last hope, remember?” Mathews said, smirking. “The last DNA from earth. This is written as I expected and caused by our own sin. We will all surely die.” “So what now?” The Commander asked. Dr. Fitzwalter turned. “Now you live your life — you, Evelyn, and your son.” So the Commander did live his life, and what a life it was. For the next fifteen years he was a husband and father. The Martians accepted the inevitable death of the race, not with sadness, but with a celebration of life. Festivals were commonplace, fireworks flared the sky with blues and reds as only the Martians could do. Bursting into space itself was a man-made Martian aurora borealis like the tides of heaven flowing forth. And why not? They were living, and living is about life, not death. But within those rising beacons in the sky were also messages for any civilization to hear.

‘Is anyone there? We are alone and dying. Help us.’ Adam Jr. was sixteen before his father knew it. They both learned together the Martian science of rocket propulsion. With a dying race, the mission was more about building a library of knowledge for whoever might come to a dead planet. The actual engineers with the knowledge of advanced science became ever scarcer. As the Commander aged, he turned gray. He was surprised when Dr. Fitzwalter called him in once again to the MIRC Facility. After small talk, the Doctor said, “We’ve had a turn, an unlikely possibility, but our scientists are telling us you may have one more mission. If you’re willing, that is.” The Commander’s radar tickled the crook of his neck.

Why was the Doctor so shy about getting to the point?  “I’m pretty old for missions, Doctor. I’m not the man I used to be.” “Here’s the thing Commander.” The Doctor spoke quietly, but his eyes glinted with excitement. “Our remaining engineers say they’ve possibly rewritten the rules of spaceflight—not to mention completely defying conventional physics. An impossible drive, they call it the EmDrive.” In his gut, the Commander knew his life on Mars was going to end. “So how does this affect me?” “We can send you back Commander, back to the actual day, 24 earth hours

AFTER  you blasted off earth. NASA will think you were only gone one day. But after decades, you will return nine weeks and three days before the beginning of the nuclear war. As you know, relativity has been proven to take us forward in time as we approach the speed of light, but going

BACK  in time is thought of as impossible. Einstein, over 500 years ago, predicted it was impossible. But our people are hoping to bend, if you will, the space-time continuum. Unfortunately, if we send our own Mars spacecraft back and the future changes just from the simple observation of what we’re doing, our spacecraft won’t make it. We might never exist once the past changes. The only chance for success is to send objects that actually came from the past. You, and your spacecraft, certainly qualify. And we’re hoping, desperately hoping, your memories on Mars will also stay intact.” The Commander hesitated, the pit of his stomach soured as he thought of Evelyn, his son Adam. “That means by returning to Earth I can change the future. But if I’m successful, will everything that I experienced on Mars never happen?” “Precisely. At least not in our plane of reality. We surmise infinite planes, each with their own past and future.” The Commander’s eyes glistened. “Why go back Doctor? To die with everyone else on earth?” “No Commander. Not to die in a nuclear blast. To prevent it. And if possible, send another type of message.” *** Harnessed in the command seat of

Icarus,

feeling the adrenaline spike in his chest, the Commander guided his spacecraft through space. Mars receded as the centuries unraveled over three years of flight to return to earth. The clear globes covering the planet’s cities faded. Mars slowly turned into the red planet with only a colony remaining. Two photos, the only objects from Mars he brought with him, were taped to the rear monitor. His loneliness grew in the silence of space, and he couldn’t help willing himself back. He couldn’t help weeping for his own death, for a false hope of return. Space turned a cold shoulder as he

burned out his fuse, alone in the emptiness . He pressed his hands white against the bulkhead, his forehead pressed against the monitor next to the photos, pleading against the reversal of time. Ahead of him, the dead planet of earth turned from the darkest agony to an aqua blue beneath living clouds of swirling white. It was now three years since he’d left Mars. He was back 500. As the re-entry through the earth’s atmosphere scorched around him, Icarus’ wings were aflame, he rode a comet ablaze in the sky.

No, you haven’t gone too close to the sun,  he thought.

You have lived, and loved.

Touchdown on earth occurred in exactly the three years he was scheduled.

I’m old, but not too old , he thought.

I’m still a Rocket Man after all. *** “You have about three months, Madam President.” The Commander petitioned his case, spilling his memory to those gathered in the oval office. The President, Secretary of State Forsyth, three others.

Why won’t these people believe me? The President shook her head dismissively. “Again, Commander, you’re telling me you

SAW  earth destroyed by nuclear war? This seems preposterous, you must admit.” Secretary of State Forsyth, dressed in a slick black suit, the party logo of a black taloned hawk on his lapel, chimed in to the President as if the Commander wasn’t there. “The enemy has ways of injecting disinformation into our people. This man has no background in anything but spacecraft. No world view.” The Commander was ready to give up. Exhausted, he was tired of explaining what he saw when he left earth the day before, but also what he found on Mars 500 years ahead; the dying of life, the infections, Evelyn and Adam. In final frustration, he thrust to the front of his seat, spilling his coffee. “I left one day ago, Madam President. Look at me! I’ve aged at least thirty years.” Secretary Forsyth stared only at the President as he spoke. “You can’t travel

BACK  in time. This spaceman could be some sort of double agent for all we know. But for the look of his supposed aging, he’s only been gone one day. That can be faked. Worse, we’d be violating our Preemptive Policy. This could mean your impeachment Madam President, losing the coming election. This is not a time for naïve olive branches, but peace through strength.” “Walk with me Commander,” The President said. The two of them strolled to the Rose Garden. Snow flurries were falling in the early evening but The President ignored the cold. “I can try, Commander,” she said. “I’ll tell your story. But I can’t promise anything. You know Commander, if you’re right, have you thought of what happens if we contact the Mars Colony

NOW  with what you’ve told us about their DNA?” *** The Commander approached security in a brisk walk, like he always did. At the desk, a young woman called out to him. “Hey Space Cowboy,” she said. A tiny brunette, her eyes sparkled. “Rocket Man,” the Commander said, correcting her. “You look more like a space cowboy to me. You need to slow down. The world isn’t going anywhere.” The Commander laughed. “Yes, I suppose not,” he said. As he stepped outside the White House, the stars were out. It had stopped snowing, and the night was clear and brisk. I’ve seen two worlds die, he thought. Does that have something to do with why haven’t we seen anybody? Reaching into his pocket, he took out the photos of Evelyn and his son, Adam. The photos began to

BLUR,  then crystalize in bright yellow fireflies of flakes rising in the air. He grasped but realized he couldn’t hold a piece of light, a story, a memory. The sparks were soon gone as no more than a dream. Mars rose on the east horizon, a reddish speck of light — the only life a fledgling colony.


“You’ll never believe who I saw last night…” Jen tried to sound casual, looking down at the fork in her hand instead of at Megan across the table.

“Try me.” Megan’s green eyes sparkled as she took a sip from her mimosa.

“Logan Hansen!” Jen announced in a voice that disgusted her—one that carried a false note of astonishment, she thought. She’d been working on taming her incredulousness for the last fourteen hours, but talking to Megan, she could feel that note creeping back in to the story. “I went to see my niece’s play, and he was there! I guess he has a son that goes to school with Gaby?” “Yeah, Logan’s been back in town for a while now,” Megan said with a nonchalance that made Jen drive her fork hard into her french toast. “Yeah? You never mentioned it. I thought you were supposed to be a newscaster.”

“All the news that’s fit to tell.” Megan shrugged her broad shoulders. “So did you talk to him?” “No. He was all the way across the auditorium, and anyway, no, it just felt like it would be weird.” “What’s so weird about saying hi to an old friend?” “He was busy. He has his kid, just…” Jen could feel her cheeks tingling, and she could see Megan registering her reaction, the slow-spreading smile. She should not have brought it up. “He’s totally available,” Megan said, leaning forward over the white table cloth. “That’s not—” “It so is! Don’t pretend that’s not why you brought it up. This is exactly the scoop you’re looking for.” It may have been, Jen admitted to herself. She hadn’t been able to shake the thought of Logan since she’d spotted him sitting across the aisle of the auditorium, occupying a spot where Jen had a decent view of his three-quarter profile. It was definitely him. Of course, Logan had changed some in the last twenty-four years. His brown hair was shorter than she remembered it, and maybe it was streaked with a few gray highlights. His shoulders weren’t thrown back in the assured but eager-to-impress posture of his youth; they rolled forward unselfconsciously as he sat and watched his son on stage. Still, the sight of Logan had affected her. It was a ridiculous cliche. Jen could feel her heart sprinting, feel tension curling in little ribbons down her arms. It was hard to concentrate on the play that Logan seemed fully absorbed in. He didn’t lean over and whisper to anyone on his right or left, no conspiratorial glances or smiles. Just the stage. He’d seemed to be there alone. “What? Divorced?” Jen ventured. “That’s the spirit!” Megan pounded her fist lightly on the table, rattling the flatware. Then her smile faded. “No. Tragically widowed, actually.” “Oh,” was all Jen could express out loud, the only voice she could give to the sinking, chastising guilt that came over her on hearing that news. “That’s terrible,” she breathed, almost an afterthought.

“Yeah, I mean, it’s probably been about a year, and I think he’s doing ok. That’s when he came back to town. His wife had been sick before.” Leave it to Megan to know everything. As the revered evening newscaster, Megan saw every local press release, but as the PTA president with a warm, magnetic personality, she always seemed to have her finger on the pulse of the local gossip. It seemed like one or another of her four kids was friends with someone from every family that Megan and Jen had known growing up together. When she talked to Megan every few months, Jen felt like she’d never left her hometown. “Anyway, water under the bridge,” Megan concluded. “Don’t let that scare you away.” Jen was terrified—terrified by her own curiosity, and by the little flutter she felt in the pit of her stomach. “I’m not scared,” she protested. “I just don’t feel the need to act out some rebound scenario with a bereaved friend I haven’t seen in twenty years. It’s ridiculous, Megan!” “Fine, sorry. You brought it up.” Megan sighed and leaned back in the chair with her mimosa. “If you’re not ready to move on, I’ll drop it. I’m just saying that there are plenty of fish in the sea. They’re yours to reel in when you’re ready. But I suspect this one is your white whale.”

Jen’s smile ached in her cheeks. “How do you know everything all the time?” “Mother’s intuition?” Megan drained the last of her mimosa and set the glass down. “Come on, Jen, you were totally stuck on him. I mean it— stuck. Neither one of you would make a move. It was painful.” “That’s not how I remember it. We were just friends.” “Yes, I think you two invented the friend zone back then,” Megan laughed. “He never—” Jen began. “No?” Megan was giving her the denial look—that deep stare, head tilted, blond eyebrows raised. “He was into you !” Jen reminded her. “Puppy love.” Megan waved her hand dismissively. “With you it was the real thing, whether he knew it or not.” “I think he did not,” Jen said. “I’m just saying. He’s here and single; you’re here and single, like it or not. Aren’t you a little curious? I know where to find him…” Jen had not spent the last two decades pining away for Logan Hansen. She had made a move—she’d moved five hours away, gone to school, moved on. That’s what she told herself as she sat at the Dancing Fox Cafe’s outdoor patio, her hand twirling a fork while curiosity and embarrassment wrestled inside of her. Where was the embarrassment coming from, Jen wondered? So what? She’d had a probably-unrequited crush on a friend as a teen-ager. Who hadn’t? So why this discomfort that had been tormenting her since last night? Seeing Logan in the auditorium where they’d shared so many rehearsals and laughs and dance spins, where they’d delivered lines in such close proximity she could smell his breath, had been like a flash flood and, with her foundations already washed away, it had dredged up a lot of sediment. It had muddied the waters of her life until things were too murky to distinguish that confused teen-aged Jen from the mature, confident woman of forty-one. All of the old insecurity, the jealousy, and the longing came flooding back. Here she was, watching and wondering about Logan with honest-to-god sweaty palms, while the thought of Jen had probably not crossed his mind that night—probably not for years and years. Jen resented the power Logan Hansen still held over her. But how to convey that to Megan? “Of course I’m curious,” Jen said, carefully laying her fork down. “But I don’t know if this is good for me. I don’t think I can take any more rejection right now.”

“Oh, Honey…” Megan’s manicured hand grabbed Jen’s where it rested over her fork. “Break ups suck.” She paused and let her own love pour into Jen’s body through her French tips. “Eleven years!” Jen said, grabbing on to Megan’s hand. “We were together eleven years and all of the sudden he’s like you’re not fun anymore. Bye! ” The full story had been more nuanced, but no less of a surprising gut punch. “Phil was an idiot. Which is exactly why you need a corrective experience,” Megan said. “And you think Logan would be a corrective experience?” Jen scoffed. Megan grinned. “Well, maybe corrective in a different sense. You know, like a chance to go back and correct something you’ve regretted.” Jen took another bite of French toast as she considered Megan’s perspective. She had wished last night, as she stared at the back of Logan’s head, that she had been brave enough years ago to explore the truth with him. Now, with nothing but her own sense of self-preservation to hold her back, maybe this was the chance. “I mean, it’s a badass take-control move,” Megan said. “Anyway, I’m sure Logan would be thrilled to see you again.” Jen felt the corners of her mouth lifting unbidden. “If I found you persuasive,” she said, twirling her last bite through her plate, “What then?” Megan smiled with a look that Jen recognized as triumphant. She waved the waiter over to their table and gestured for the check. “Then I’d say I need some Windex, some shampoo, and some dog food.” *** Logan, it turned out, was a manager at the GigaMart. Megan ambushed speed bumps and swung her SUV into a parking space with a sharp turn. She ushered Jen through the scurrying Saturday morning crowd that swarmed the big box store like worker ants. She did not pause outside the groaning automatic doors for a purple plastic shopping cart. “If you’re going to talk to the manager, you’ll need to pull a Karen,” Megan instructed. “It’s time to put those acting skills to use again.” Jen understood. “I could buy something and throw away the receipt.” She threw her shoulders back and lowered her voice half an octave. "This is ridiculous! I demand a full cash refund! Let me speak to your manager!" “Nice, you’ve still got it,” Megan said. “But you’re going to need to be more original than that. It probably happens so much here that an assistant manager could handle it.” “I could demand a brand that doesn’t exist?” Jen morphed her posture once again, putting one hand delicately on her hip and waving the other through the air as if she were conducting a dramatic cadenza. “I can’t believe you don’t carry Opportunistique ! It’s the only gluten-free granola bar made with goat probiotics and it’s the only thing I’ll buy from now on. I insist you bring the manager out.” Megan chuckled appreciatively through her nose. “I haven’t heard that one before. Go for it. I’ll be waiting in the wings. I wasn’t kidding about the Windex.” She squeezed Jen’s hand. “Good luck,” and then she recoiled. “Oh, my god! You’re sweating. Are you really that into him?” Jen looked away with a shrug. “Stage fright?” “You’re going to be fine. Just think of him in his underwear.” Both women dissolved into giggles. “Thank you for that image,” Jen said, looking toward the line that snaked through layers of stanchions as it wound its way to the customer service counter. “It’s ok, I’ll have plenty of time to rehearse my lines. Or else run away.” “Ok. Break a leg,” Megan said before turning toward Home Goods. “I’ll meet you back here once you’ve scored your corrective experience.” For a while Jen considered her character and motivation. She toyed with the idea of an accent or a tic, for old time’s sake. Then she noticed people staring at the seemingly random fluctuations in her facial expressions and decided to go for something more authentic. She could feel her heart accelerating as she approached the front of the line. Her hands fidgeted with the hem of her shirt. She should have worn something cuter than the black v-neck. She thought of all the things that could go wrong in this surprise/assault reunion. What if he took her for a stalker? What if he was already dating the floor manager? What if he wasn’t even working today? Jen considered stepping out of line as she concentrated on the tight feeling around her collar bone. It would be so easy to wait for Megan in the comfort of the food court. But sometime in the last twenty-four hours, Jen had developed a desire for the truth. She had looked away enough times, in the service of her comfort, that she understood the danger of it, whether it was breaking eye contact with Logan or keeping her eyes on the television, avoiding the distance that had crept between her and Phil. The truth was not a comfortable feeling, Jen realized, but it felt necessary today, and it drove her feet forward. A corrective experience , she told herself. And then the early-twenties purple vest guy behind the counter was calling Next guest, please, and Jen entered the zen of the spotlight—the place where all of her apprehension melted away and her character merged with her objective. Jen strode confidently toward the white quartz counter, stopped, and established firm eye contact with Purple Vest before stating, “I need to talk to the store manager.” “You need to talk to my manager?” Purple Vest repeated, his thick eyebrows bunching like caterpillars. He seemed more confused than resistant. Jen dug her heels in, but warmed her tone into something heavy but sweet—condensed milk in black coffee. “I need to talk to your manager.” He picked up the intercom phone. “Manager to customer service, please. Manager to customer service.” *** Logan stood before her, a solid black tie under his purple vest, churning out an empty smile that ended at his lips. His blue eyes that Jen had remembered as so animated were stagnant pools as they appraised her behind glasses. And yet it was Logan. His name tag left no room for doubt. “How can I help you?” Logan asked. His voice still conveyed a practiced charm, though it was stretched thin and worn like an actor repeating his line for the thousandth time. Jen’s throat sank into her stomach. “Hi! It’s good to see you.” The words poured out of her against her will. “Um...good morning, Logan said, almost a question. “Thanks for stopping by.” Jen watched a change come over his face, saw his eyes begin to come alive and search. She wondered if he’d find her in his memory—how deeply and under what she was buried. “I wanted to talk to you,” she began, and wondered where to go from there. It’s me—your friend, your co-star, your partner in crime… did not feel right. She would not just hand that to him. He had to find her on his own, she decided. “Um, the granola bars,” she blurted out, and she could feel her cheeks burning.

“Sorry?” Logan blinked and adjusted his glasses. Me, too , Jen thought as she watched his hands. “You don’t carry my favorite brand. Opportunistique . With a 'Q'. Um... probiotics. They’re really good for you.” Jen kicked herself as Logan picked up a pen and scrawled the word onto a piece of scrap paper. “Sure, I’ll look into it. Is there anything else?” For three seconds Jen considered whether the domain name opportunistique.com was available and what she could put there as a coded message to Logan. She had an old box with pictures, but it was back in a closet at home. A line, then? Lord, what fools these mortals be!

Instead, she opened her mouth and took a deep breath. “Yeah, Logan, I was wondering if you’d like to...go out—hang out—sometime this week?” Jen could see Logan become flustered. She still recognized “flustered” on him, in his shy smile and slow, contemplative chuckle. “Okay, yeah,” he said. He drew out his words in a long breath, his eyes alive beneath his glasses, two dragonflies circling, appraising. As far as Logan knew, she was an incredibly forward disgruntled customer, but she liked the effect it was having. She could remember this look, but never directed toward her. Jen dug deeper into her role. “How about tonight,” she said, flipping a lock of black hair over her shoulder with studied nonchalance. She smiled slowly, deliberately. “Dancing Fox? You tell me what time.”

“I know that place,” Logan said, just above a whisper, seemingly to himself. “Uh. Seven?” “Perfect!” Jen smiled her most perfect smile as her chest danced and twirled. “See you then.” Quit while you’re ahead, the voice inside her head told her. Drop the microphone; walk away . She turned to go, then glanced over her shoulder to see Logan shaking his head. He stopped and smiled as their eyes connected once again. “Hey, you never told me your name. I’m at a disadvantage here.” Logan tapped the name tag over his heart on his purple vest. “Jennifer.” “See you tonight, Jennifer. I’ll look into the granola bars.” His smile, gaining confidence, extended all the way to his eyes. Smooth, graceful, Jen reminded herself as she glided toward her exit, fighting the impulse to run.

She spotted Megan at a purple melamine table in the food court, a bulging canvas bag draped over her shoulder. “Well? You were gone a while. What happened?” “He has no idea who I am,” Jen said, her voice flat with shock. “Oh, Honey.” Megan’s body crumpled a little in her chair. “His memory seems like a bit of a sieve. He’s terrible with faces. I’m sorry.” Jen slid into the chair across from Megan. “We’re meeting up tonight. I think he might have flirted with me.” Jen’s poise collapsed into laughter. “You vixen!” Megan exclaimed. “You can’t be in the friend zone if you’re not a friend. Well played.” Jen caught her breath and sighed from the bottom of her stomach. “We’ll see. Second chance at a first impression,” she said, though inside she could already feel the benefit of this corrective experience. She felt interesting, attractive even. Older and wiser. The truth could change from moment to moment. Her job was less to uncover it than to create it. “Ready for our next stop?” Megan asked. “We’re going to a real store. We have to get you ready for your hot date.”


Jonathan Moore. That was me, a 19 year old guy who lived with three cats. I was currently flying. Yes, flying, and not in an airplane or helicopter or whatever you might be thinking. I was floating up in the sky, chasing after a bird that stole my favorite watch. It was like something out of a cartoon, really. A little magpie snatched the shiny watch that I had accidentally left out on my front porch. When I had gone out to retrieve it, the bird came up out of nowhere and took it in his little black beak. Right now, I was flying above a forest and close behind the bird. I was about to reach out and grab at the bird when he dove down into a large pine tree. I slowed down and stopped right in front of the pine needles of the tree. The magpie was much smaller than I was, of course, so it could fit right in the branches easier than I could. I assumed that it had a nest, and didn't want to mess it up, so I slowed down. "Come on, dude," I sighed. "Can I have that back, please?" Saying please didn't help. The bird peeked out of the pine, looking smug that he had obtained the object. I brushed my messy brown hair out of my face. I had never flown while chasing something. That was fun, I thought. What wasn't fun, however, was that the bird wouldn't let go of my possession. Through the tree, I spotted a small nest made out of leaves and branches and similar objects. Among them was my watch, the magpie's most recently acquisition. He cawed at me as if he was laughing, then flew away. Jokes on him, I could probably reach through the branches and grab the watch back. I reached in, but couldn't quite make it. Okay, jokes on me, I guess. I backed up, still floating, and tried again. This time, I shoved the branch out of the way. Somehow, the nest was fine, and I could finally reach the silver watch. When I got it out, though, I realized that the glass was broken. I frowned, upset, and put the watch back in the nest. The bird came back after a few moments and stared at me. "It's okay, I guess." I told him. "You can have it." He tilted his head as if he were confused and chirped again. He probably didn't like me being near his nest, I decided, so I floated down to the ground. I sat down on a large stone and rested my feet on the grassy flooring of the forest. Flying always made me tired, and it was nice to rest. I was still kind of upset that I had lost my watch to a silly bird, but I'd get over it. A loud chirp came from behind me, making me jump. The magpie stood on the ground in front of me, watching. I felt like he was making fun of me. I pulled out my phone and took a picture of the bird, saving it for future memories. In the background was the tree where his nest was located. "Are you lost?" A voice came from behind me. I turned and found that the voice belonged to a young girl, probably 14 or so. She had noticeable curly ginger hair and freckles. She was also wearing overalls, and no shoes or socks. I shook my head. "No, I was just.. Taking a walk." I hadn't told anyone about how I could fly, and I wasn't about to start. It wasn't as if it were an everyday thing, either. She'd probably think I was joking. She squinted her eyes suspiciously. Then she said, "But, um, I saw you up in the sky." "That's pretty odd. I've been, er, down here the whole time. Walking. Like I said." I don't know if you could tell, but I was a great liar. "No," she said with surprising confidence. "You were in the sky. Like, just now, too. I was watching." "Oh." This whole exchange was pretty pointless. Our conversation paused (thankfully) as the magpie screeched again loudly. I forgot that he was there. His loud chirping made us both look over at him. The girl smiled at the bird and said, "Hey, Samantha." "Samantha?" I looked over at the bird, confused. I wasn't aware that the bird was female. Then again, I shouldn't have assumed. Sorry, Samantha. "Yeah, she's in my classes." Wait, what? I took a second to reply. "You lost me." "Sam," the girl gestured to the bird. I looked at the girl. "Right, uh-" "What's up, Rebecca?" I turned, and the bird was gone. In its place was a girl with blonde hair and a hoodie. Her hands were in her pockets and she glared at me. She looked upset with me. "..Uh, wait, so you're a bird?" I asked quietly. Samantha didn't reply. Instead, Rebecca laughed. "Yeah, she's a shapeshifter," Rebecca told me. "She's only told me, though. You can't just go around telling anyone. You know that." "Oh, me? Yeah, sure." I agreed awkwardly. "Wait. You stole my watch?" I didn't mean for that to be a question, since I knew she really did steal my watch. It came out that way, though, so I guess I was asking now. Samantha looked at me with a frown. Then she spoke, showing her teeth and revealing that she had colorful braces. "Well, yeah. It was broken. I was going to fix it, until you started to follow me. It really freaked me out. Even still, I feel like you're a creepy man." She kept messing with something in her jacket pocket, which sort of concerned me. "I didn't know that shapeshifters existed," I explained nervously. "I thought you were just a bird." She didn't seem like she believed me. Rebecca stepped over by her side and whispered something to Samantha. I watched as they communicated, and Samantha eventually relaxed. I took out my phone again as they spoke, texting my friends to let them know I may be late to the event I was supposed to be going to. All of a sudden I heard, "Okay, now give me the pepper spray." My head snapped up. "What?" I barely caught it, but I saw Samantha hand Rebecca the object that was in her hoodie reluctantly. She looked over at me with what looked like contempt. I would be scared, but I was kind of busy being proud of her for not trusting strangers. It was the sort of thing I would teach my future kids. The only thing I wondered was where she got pepper spray. "Alright," Rebecca smiled, interrupting my thoughts. "Now, the man can leave." I put my phone away. "I can leave?" I didn't know that I had to get permission to leave. "You legally have to," Samantha let me know professionally. "Please leave the property, sir, you are trespassing and I can call the authorities." "Okay," I replied, standing up. "I will leave." "Bye," Rebecca gave a friendly wave. I started to fly up. As I was leaving, I heard Samantha say,  "Don't come back." When I got up to the clouds, I realized that I had left my watch with the girls. Oh well, I thought, they could have it. As I sped back home, I thought about the experience. The watch, Rebecca and Samantha, and the fact that I could easily have gotten pepper sprayed... That's all :) (1,260 words)


                          LISTEN TO THE DARK                                                           By Sherry Miller     Sherice set the receiver in the cradle. She played roughly with her hands, wringing an invisible sponge. Go away, persistent ghost. Please. Stop haunting me, she wanted to scream. Hiding her face in her crossed arms on the kitchen table, she cried. Mind phantoms came only in the dark. At night. When it was the blackest. Phantasms from childhood looming over her bed. Always trying to grab her. Take her away. Probably to somewhere really scary. But right now, during the day, the monster was staring her down. At four o’clock in the afternoon. She unlocked her fingers. And replayed the phone call in her head. Such harsh words from Aunt Bess. She almost didn’t answer it an hour ago. But the brr-inng brr-inng wouldn’t give up. A deep breath had helped her cope. “Hi Bess. How was the funeral?” she mustered. “Why weren’t you there? He was your Uncle and you couldn’t even say goodbye?” “I didn’t feel well. Ooh, stomach’s still a little ah– “Can’t even talk to you, Sherice. You’ve always been stubborn, too – “- achey. Took some anti-acids, though.” “- independent. Right now, I need to, don’t know. I’m too – “I didn’t mean to let – “ – disappointed in you…” “- you down.”     Sherice couldn’t get the sound of her Aunt’s hysterical sobbing out of her mind. “So disappointed.”     And then…bang! Slam! On the other end. That spoke louder than her Aunt’s stinging words.

    Uncle Bo died last week. His funeral was today. His lights off forever. Laid in a casket. Ironic, wasn’t it? His funeral was today. But she couldn’t…just couldn’t go. Not after what he did. She was only seven years old.     Sherice looked up, glared at the clock. 5:15 p.m. Slipping into evening. Too soon. Just then …Fear, the ghost, decided to float in. Striking at her from a distance. Her keen ears always ready for this, she detected the faintest rumble. A storm. Almost here. Of course. Why not? Sherice glanced out the window. The sky lit up, showing tree shadows shaking wildly, furiously fighting off the stark whiteness around them. The blackness won. It always did.     The next instant…Boom-mmmm rolled around the room, hung stubbornly to the ceiling, the walls in the kitchen, and thrummed-thrummed on Sherice’s eardrums. Like ice rubbing across her skin, she shivered, folded her arms around herself. Not now. Please. No storm. I can’t take it. Droplets formed, dripped down her nose and into her eyes, salty and stinging, her blond bangs brown and wet plastering against her forehead. Tears pooled in her eyelids. She tried to blink away the ensuing horror show. Outside, gusts, possibly forty miles per hour now…whining, squealing. She felt cold air slap at her.     “Go away. Leave me alone,” she shrieked, hurrying to the window, ajar just two inches, slamming it shut. Smoky clouds roiled like water boiling in a pot out there. Going in mad circles. Churning. Faster and faster. How long would this storm last? One hour. Maybe two. No matter. She couldn’t take it. Not even for a minute. Every time one happened, she was certain she would die. LISTEN TO THE DARK – Miller                                                                                2     Maybe open the garage door. Get in the Impala. Drive away. Into the storm. Away from the storm. Whatever. Just don’t be closed in like this, Sherice thought. It was getting darker and darker. Can’t be stuck crushed by four walls when the brunt of the storm really hit. She was safer out there, wasn’t she? In open air. Where she could run. Hide. A knot formed in her chest and twisted. Self-conversing wasn’t helping. Soon it was hard to breathe. She gasped.     She stared at the tiffany light over the butcher block table. All pink and blue and sage green. Grasping at a lonely cord tethered overhead. It swung ever so slightly. Its motion startled her. Did she imagine it? Lights flickered throughout the house. And the fridge made a moaning sound. As if it knew how she felt. At least there was some solace in an appliance here and there. A fridge that had a seemingly human reaction to black, white, black, white, on, off, on, off.     A flash. Intense. Jagged in the sky. Like teeth about to bite. Stark. White hot. Chomping. Crack! Ahhhhh, ehhh. A scream flew out from deep within her knotted chest. Spit out her mouth. The thin membrane on her lips tingled. Aghhhhhhhh. Again. Her muscles tightened. Her eyes grew wide. Terror, yes terror inside. Eating at her. The storm…almost at her doorstep now. And…the lights flickering. On, off. On, off.     Bright lines streaked like a wall breaking up, crackling, crashing to the ground. Sherice shook, began to count. One-one thousand. Two-one thousand. Three-one thousand. Thunder so loud, she covered her ears. Her lamps and Tiffany flickered again.     “Don’t! Don’t go out! Electricity, stay on!”     Okay, breathe. Like the Psychologist said. It’s not your fault you’re like this, Sherice. Breathe. In. Out. In. Out. Become one with the storm. Just hope the lights don’t go out. Because it will be dark. Real dark.     It hit her. My God! What was she thinking? Fifteen flashlights positioned throughout her 1700 square foot home and none of them in her hand. The big one. That’s right. The sportsman LED lantern was in the pantry. Though light it gave off was eerie, it filled an entire room. At least 100 hours of the 200 left. She’d grab that one. More rumbling met her ears as she swung open the squeaky wooden door. It needed fixing desperately. Later.     She forgot to snap on the light switch on the outside wall. Because the Tiffany did a good job blanching the small space. Only a minute. Only a minute in this stuffy place. Where was it? She scoured the shelves. There. She fixated on the grass-green base of the flashlight hiding among cereal boxes and Oatmeal. And her favorite chocolate chunk granola bars. Comfort food.     Then…flash! One-one thousand. Explosive! Like a bomb hit. The wood floor vibrated under her slippers. Flick-flick. The lights. On. Off. On. Off! It felt as if the house shifted. The pantry door shuddered, swung, slammed shut. On! Off! Off!     “No. No. No. Oh my God!” Sherice screamed as inky stillness swallowed her. She spun around. Faint orbs of gray undulated. Her eyes wouldn’t adjust. She thrust her arms out, feeling for the knob, anything. Pain lodged in her chest. The sound she heard couldn’t have been her own. It sounded like…like…a movie theater. Blood-curdling screams. Horror. The casket opens. The monster sits up. Jumps. Crusty fingers reaching…squeezing…around her neck.     Words shouted. In the pantry? In her brain? “The boogeyman’s going to get you! Ooh-ooh, the boogeyman’s in there. He’s gonna get you!”     Uncle Bo’s voice. Clear. Gruff. Giggling. She was seven years old. LISTEN TO THE DARK – Miller                                                                                3     “Let me out!” Her eyes darted about. Her arms flailed. Fighting. Punching. Someone was in here with her. Was going to kill her. Stab her. The boogey man. “Let me out!”     Sherice crumpled to the floor. In the past. And now…here. In the present. Where was the lantern? It fell. On the floor. She fumbled around. Finally feeling the hard square base, she pressed the button in. Dim. Its safe light was dimming. So much for 100 hours left. But then… miraculously…the lights…On! Though she was locked in the pantry by a faulty door, light filtered in through the cracks. With all her might, she shoved at the door. It opened.       Sherice touched her throat. Dozens of sharp pinpricks. She opened her mouth, forcing out “I screamed too hard. I can’t talk.” It sounded raw, scratchy. She swallowed. It was like a ball stuck in her throat. But…light. Everywhere. One-one thousand. Two-one thousand. Three-one thousand. Four-one thousand. Five-one thousand. Sherice smiled. The storm was bowling ball sounds now. Her family spent so much time at the bowling alley, it was comfortable to hear. The wind fell to a whisper.     Sherice was suddenly hungry and tired. She poured a glass of Pinot Grigio, eyeing the shades of gray through the window. Night. And more darkness. She ate a piece of toast buttered with Nutella. More comfort food. She showered downstairs, soaping up, trying to wash all the terror away. She rinsed the glass, setting it upside down to dry. She slipped into her jammies draped over the rod in the downstairs shower.     She walked out of the kitchen, turned, hesitated. Now…upstairs. To bed. Time for her usual ritual. Worse because it was the night of Bo’s funeral. Worse because Aunt Bess was hopping mad. Okay, here goes. Just do it. One by one. Then it won’t seem so bad. Sherice approached the bottom of the staircase. She pushed up on the toggle. The Tiffany went off. The toggle next to it slicked easily. The kitchen light. Off. Next, she ran up the stairs. Quick! In case the invisible monster was chasing her. At the top of the stairs, she flicked the next switch. The stair light? Out. She turned, dared peek into the darkness. Squinting. No one there. Right? She dashed to the space between the bathroom and bedroom. Bathroom switch. Up and…Out. She rushed to her bed, flipped on the nightlight. How she needed that. Ever since she was seven. She couldn’t sleep otherwise. One last one. The bedroom. Sherice touched the switch, waited a moment. She had to time it precisely. Give herself time to run. She pushed down. Hard. Bedroom. Out.     On! The light came back on. By itself! Sherice froze. A voice. Deep. Swirling around her. A man’s. Distinct. Uncle Bo’s. “I’m sorry.”     So weird. And strange. But a calm swept over her. Of course she’d keep the nightlight on. Always. “I’m sorry, too,” she whispered.