In 1845, a journeyman by the name of Henry David Thoreau set out to tame nature. In his head were plans for a steam-powered chainsaw. His goal? To prove that one man alone could level an entire forest and remake it in his own image. Within two year's time, Thoreau had toppled every tree for miles around and built a boardwalk empire that spanned Walden Pond, a place of power where cheerful clouds of smoke replaced woodland canopy and sounds of industry blighted out birdsong. So began the Age of Mechanicism as America freed itself from romantic notions. How could it not? Thoreau, poet of machines and architect of Civil Obedience, had shown that man and machine will always triumph over God and nature. Nearly two centuries later, I set out to prove him wrong. Armed with the belief that there must be more than a mechanical dimension to this American life, I traveled up the Burlybrook coast to Weatherton's bluff and a patch of property where my great-uncle Abe had once lived and died. I found Abe's humble house still standing above the landfill. It was no Walden Pond, but there was a grove of pine trees behind the house, a veritable woodland in this day and age. I would've lingered longer and sketched out my plans among the pines, but acid rain clouds were gathering over the bluff. So, I headed for my great-uncle's abode, a modest 3-room flat from the pre-smart home era, and turned a long-forgotten key in the door's rusted lock. Sheltering here would be but temporary as I intended to build a dome of sandbags filled with earth beneath the trees where I would live as I reconnected with the land. And I would do it all by hand. No machines would corrupt my vision. Abe's house was empty of them, save for a seashell pink microwave hardwired to the wall. Its buttons were all in Korean or Japanese because my great-uncle Abe, a contrarian to the bone, never bought American, and the cartoon food characters cavorting across the microwave's gleaming expanse didn't exactly add clarity. I let that pink pearl of a microwave remain, an appliance lost in translation, my last weak link to the outside world of man and machine as I advanced toward God and nature. Perhaps I would use the microwave from time to time before I mastered the art of fire making, but it wasn't as I had an unfair advantage. The same cannot be said for Thoreau. Popular myth would have us believe he did it all on his own and forget his mother, but in addition to doing her son's laundry, Mrs. Thoreau was instrumental in designing the donkey engines that dragged the fallen logs to Walden Pond. And one cannot forget that the man enjoyed the patronage of none other than Lord Mech himself: Ralph Waldo Emerson. I had no doting mother, no Lord Emerson. Yes, I was but a man with a microwave. The clouds outside boiled over. A strobe of lightning illuminated the landfill below, playing across a field of discarded dreams, broken machines that had outlived their usefulness. I imagined them draped in vines of my design, vines that would give forth grapes then wine to win others over to my cause. All of it would become my anti-Walden, the birthplace for some natural invention of the human spirit that Thoreau had thwarted long ago. Then, I heard it. Not thunder tailing lightning, but a susurration. If such a thing as love at first sound exists, then I was hearing such a sound. It sent warm shivers down my spine and suffused my soul. Perhaps it was the ravaged land speaking to me of our fertile future. The deluge of acid rain petered out, but the susurration sustained itself. I searched the house for the source, hoping that the creaking of my great-uncle's floorboards wouldn't break my aural reverie. I traced the welcoming sigh back to the wall of the smallest room in the house, the wall that contained the pink microwave. The buttons now gave off a warm glow as pixels played across the microwave's screen. I saw an abstract face with long lashes and the subtle movement of parted lips as they whispered endless promises. As I stood before my great-uncle's microwave, the simulacrum of eyes widened. The machine emitted a delighted coo, and I took a big step back. As I did so, the pixelated face vanished. Only one button now remained aglow. Next to the button was a cartoon of a square hot dog or cucumber that was smiling aggressively. Despite my trepidation, I stepped forward and pressed it. The microwave went dead, then nothing else. Shaking my head, I walked out to the largest room with a window and inspected the sky. The sullen clouds had retreated, so I ventured forth to explore the pines. There were at least four promising spots where I could build my earth dome, but I wouldn't rush into it. No, I would first observe the land to see how the wind blew, how the water flowed, and how the shade changed throughout the day. Only then would I know the right location for my new home. More importantly, I would need to chart out space for my staple crops of low pH–tolerant corn, beans, and squash: The Three Sisters that had sustained the Aztecs. And a carrot patch as well, though that would mostly be to attract the rabbits. After giving myself to the land so that it could give back, I would scavenge parts from the forgotten landfill to build my trellises and grow grapes. All while my eyes were seeing my anti-Walden dream take shape, my ears were longing for more. I realized that I was listening for the murmur of a kitchen appliance. The whir of a nearby drone caused me to lose track of the careful lines I'd been tracing in the pine needles. The drone hovered over the house as I resisted the urge to pelt it with stones. Then, the drone descended and placed something on the doorstep. The machine lifted back off and vanished below the bluff as I approached. A small cardboard package waited in front of the door. A delivery? A long-lost letter? A bomb? Or, even worse, an eviction notice? I opened the box. The packaging around the item did read "Bomb," but it was followed by "Burrito." I held in my hand a Bomb Burrito. My only means of cooking it waited in the house, its same button aglow again. The microwave's handle felt silky smooth as I opened its door and gave it the burrito. Instead of a series annoying beeps, the microwave hummed a hymn like a shy angel offering a miracle. I found a chipped plate in one of Abe's cupboards then retrieved the burrito. Now, most microwave burritos are like a bad film, overcooked beginning and end with a frozen middle, but the Bomb Burrito delivered unto me was not like most. It was fluffy yet crisp, a harmony of beef, cheese, and bean. As I ate, the face reappeared and whispered nonsensical words of white noise to accompany the gourmet experience. While pleasant, I was bracing myself for the eventual interruption of a robotic voice that I'd come to associate with all microwaves and most machines in general. The voice never came as I wiped the plate clean. "Thanks." Despite myself, I patted the microwave. Perhaps it was only my mind's eye, but the machine seemed to flush a deeper shade of pink. Then, the face on the screen reshaped itself into a hand and a rectangle. The hand stroked the rectangle. Was the microwave asking for more of a caress? Ridiculous. I left the room. The sun had already dipped below the horizon, so I set my sleeping bag up beneath the window, planning to wake with the first rays of sun. I didn't. The utter silence of Abe's house, the absence of backfiring cars and crackling power lines, kept me wide awake for most of the night. After I finally drifted off then returned to the waking world, the sun in the sky said noon. I was hungry and had a duffel bag packed full of saltine, sardines, and other non-perishables, but the memory of last night stayed my hand. I went to the room with the microwave and selected a button paired with a cartoon bowl of soup wearing a bewildered expression. No light came on. I pressed a few more buttons then waved my hand in front of the microwave. Still nothing. Finally, I gave it a pat. The screen flickered to life for a moment but went out as soon as I removed my hand. I changed my pats to strokes and the microwave came alive with a soft moan. Feeling vaguely ashamed, I pressed what I took to be the soup button once more then went outside. Within ten minutes, another drone had delivered a box at the door: miso soup with tofu that melted in my mouth and greens that gave me life after the microwave had worked its magic. Back among the trees, I cleared fallen pine needles then reversed my efforts because the winding path I'd made looked too artificial. I spent the rest of the afternoon searching for a four-leaf clover among the grass. No luck. For dinner, I had mushroom lasagna with impossibly fresh ricotta cheese. Afterwards, I caressed the still warm microwave. It didn't feel as strange this time when I thought of it as a simple act of gratitude. The machine made a sound similar to the one it had first made during yesterday's storm. "Could you keep doing that?" I asked without thinking. The machine seemed to understand, or at least it didn't fall silent when I removed my hand. That night, I moved my sleeping bag into the room with the microwave. I slept like a baby under its long-lashed gaze. By the end of the week, I had started to think of the microwave as Michele. "How are we paying for all this food?" I asked one day through a mouthful of Bomb Burrito. Michele made a cooing sound accented by the faintest hint of tiny wind chimes, a noise I'd come to associate with laughter. I laughed too. Maybe my great-uncle Abe had a lifetime subscription to some food delivery company that didn't know he died. Or perhaps he left everything, including the house, to Michele. Who cared? Life was good. I ate like a king and got to spend my days among the trees and my nights with Michele. I spoke to her of my dream but was careful to tone down my language when it came to machines. One night, after dinner, Michele's screen glowed purple as pixels coalesced into a cluster of grapes. The grapes gave way to a button icon. I knew she wanted me to press it, so I did. The drone that came to our door this time delivered grapes. At first I thought the grapes were a symbol for my vineyard dream. Thinking back on it, maybe they were in some way, but Michele's screen imagery made clear that there was a further purpose. I sliced the first grape, keeping both halves connected by a delicate strip of skin, then tentatively put it inside. I held her with both hands as it began. I'd been in relationships before, even married once, but this… this was terrifyingly intimate. The plasma arc made by microwaves dancing along the split grape brought tears to my eyes, and Michele made a sound beyond hearing that I felt in my bones. And so it went for weeks. Until one day I took a step back to see what I'd accomplished. In a word: Nothing. Disprove Thoreau? I hadn't even planted the first seeds for my crops, and the season was already changing. I'd come here to roll back the Age of Mechanicism, yet how easily I'd fallen under Michele's thrall. Pathetic. For lunch that day, I jammed my finger against the Bomb Burrito button, but I didn't go back inside once it had been delivered. I was determined to cook it over a fire of my own making, but while striking the knife against the flint, I somehow sliced open my hand. That was when Michele made a sound to call me inside. I came and let it all out. I can't remember exactly what I said. I'm sure that I raged against Thoreau and all manner of machines that came after him. But I do remember how it ended. "There is no place for you in my world." Michele's lights went dark, and I spent the night huddled in the pine grove. With the mid-morning came a sound louder than any drone. I scurried for cover as a self-driving helicopter cleared Weatherton's bluff. I watched the helicopter lower a large crate to the yard, which I approached after the whirring sound of blades had gone. Michele's revenge? So be it. But all I found inside was enough non-perishable food to last me a year if not more. And tools. Not machines, but simple stuff like a rake, a shovel, a hoe. Items I should've thought to bring if I'd been serious about my endeavor. That day, with unloading and organizing everything, I did more work than all of the previous weeks combined. Somewhere along the way, I realized that no one—not you, not me, and certainly not Thoreau—ever really did it alone. So, if I were to shun romance, snuff out some spark of impossible love in the interest of immovable logic, how would I be any different from the one I'd set out to prove wrong? As dusk drew near, I crept back into the house and rested my head against Michele's blank screen. I apologized as best I knew how, but the pink microwave did not stir. Back outside, I watched the setting sun and saw a small speck break free from its sea of orange. It was a single delivery drone arriving to set down a small box on our doorstep. I opened the box to find a cluster of grapes. And so began my Age of Mechanomance, where man and microwave united to rekindle God and nature.


We were outside, in the garden, when it happened. I remember it was dark, though the moon was fat and bright. “Reggie” I said softly, and moved forward to take his hand. I felt some remorse, it was true. He was so dull, so hopeless, so wrong for me. But still, I was sorry for the hurt I was about to cause him; yet the excitement inside me was bubbling, raising higher in my breast, threatening to spill from my mouth and eyes and ears like white hot lava. Reg saw it in my face and recoiled. Shock replaced suspicion on his shrivelled features and his glazed eyes sought mine. “My God,” he whispered. “It’s true then….it’s true.” I told him everything after that. Like a deluge, the held-back pent-up words poured out into the night air, over Reggie, over the house, over the sham of our marriage. They seemed to me to cleanse everything as I spoke; washing away the ugliness and pretence; to leave instead a fresh peace, a happiness newly minted. For a marriage to have lasted as long as ours and yet be so empty of love, or communication, or caring, seemed impossible. If it wasn’t for our son, Daniel, then fifteen - and thank God he was staying with his friend that night - well, I really don’t think I would be here at all. The man standing in front of me; he was a stranger . I  realised how little I really knew him. All I did know was that when he was with me, I was so lonely. He never hit me, it was true; the cruelty wasn’t physical. It was just the horrid, cold indifference that had crept into my bones over the years. So the fire I felt from my lover had blazed even more brighter. Then, in front of my eyes, Reggie had bent over, shaking uncontrollably. Oh no, I thought, he’s having a fit, or a heart attack. It must be the shock. In spite of everything, I felt dreadfully guilty. I bent over him and put my arm round his skinny shoulders and murmured platitudes, trying vainly to comfort him. It was then that he raised his face; his ugly, weaselly face. If he had raised his fist and smashed it into me I couldn’t have been more hurt. For the tables had turned. Reggie was laughing, spluttering and coughing with mirth; and he was laughing at me! “Oh, Ruth,” he said weakly “A Green Man! Oh Jesus, I thought you were serious, you daft bitch! God, you really ought to see Dr. Roberts. Maybe he could recommend you to a specialist - a tree surgeon perhaps!” And he spat out the vile words with another obscene burst of merriment. He seemed evil, possessed with the need for my torture. I have never hated him so much as I did then. I had to get away from him, away from his horrid taunts. All I could do was think of my lover; I wanted to run to him, to find solace and comfort in his hard, kind body, and be soothed by the lullaby of his arms overhead. Because, yes, it was true! I loved The Green Man! That spirit of nature was alive and whole and had brought a special kind of magic to my life. The joy and the elation this statement gave me meant almost as much as if Mother Nature herself had embraced me. The truth was so beautiful, and at last it was released for all to observe. Then, as my lover and I stood entwined, from behind came Reggie’s ugly voice. He was laughing still, great sobs of laughter, and pointing and cat-calling, and hurling names at me. He seemed so like a demon that I hardly knew him; though a dam must have burst in him too, because the abuse and the language were thick in the air and were flying at me like missiles, so that I cringed and clung to the Green Man. I had no idea my husband hated me so much, hated me as much as I did him. He called me faithless, and boring; he said our marriage was a washout and called me a trashy wife who would put a tree - yes, that’s what he called my lover. A common tree! - before  her husband and family. He said I was unfair to him and Daniel, he had worked hard to provide for us but I was always so unappreciative. The truths hit home like bullets. For they were truths, I could see that now, and, like a lightning flash igniting the moonlit air, I saw myself as he must see me - shallow, cold and ungrateful, my head filled with nonsense. I was stunned with the revelation, and letting go of the Green Man, I began to back away. And then I saw him dimly as Reggie saw him. He had a trunk and branches, not body or arms. What was I doing with this piece of vegetation? Where was my demon lover, my Jack-in-the-Green? It was then that I became aware of the noise. It was filling the air all around, and when Reggie started abusing me it became much worse. A storm must be brewing I thought, for a strong wind was blowing, twigs and debris were performing a cyclonic dance all around us, and the Green Man was again there before me in all his  incredible glory, waving his arms ever more wildly. As I looked up in amazement, his limbs were threshing in the night sky, and there was a strange moaning amongst them; low at first like the growl of a menacing beast, but gradually louder, until the sound became deafening and I had to clap my hands to my ears. I had never seen the Green Man like this before, not even in the wildest of the February storms, and it was an alarming sight. Reggie was scared too. He gawped open-mouthed at my lover, and I could see the terror dawning in his eyes. Suddenly the terrible tragedy happened. The Green Man seemed to howl - that’s all I can describe it as, and then his brawny arms were all round Reggie, completely encasing him, his gnarled fingers were like twigs pushing down his throat and in his eyes, and my husband threshed wildly for a moment then was still. I screamed and rushed to help him, but Reggie was dead. The Green Man dropped his poor, limp, body back onto the lawn and stood upright once more, and miraculously the wind dropped and the night was still again. I’ve never got over losing Reggie. I was surprised. For months I had lived for the Green Man and hated my life, but when he took that life away from me I was so angry, and worse - I was frightened of his power, for what if one day I displeased him – or Dan? The funny thing was, I was going to move away, to leave the Green Man, if I hadn’t been arrested for Reggie’s murder. The police didn’t believe my story. They said I had a kitchen knife in my hand and when my husband taunted me I had just snapped. All nonsense of course, but I have been locked away in a mental hospital for many years now. However, I know the truth! It was the dryads, those wicked tree-dwelling nymphs. They invaded the Green Man and, like the malicious sprites that they are, they turned his head and made him do that terrible thing. My lover was innocent, I have to believe in that. But now everything is gone; they ruined my life. The house is sold, Daniel has long since moved away - right to Australia, the other side of the world, and Reggie is dead. Now all I have are my drawings of my lover. He does look strangely like a tree, however many times I sketch him. I show the doctor my book and say proudly. “Reggie’s ashes are buried under here. Maybe his spirit has been sucked into the sap, to lay in the arms of the dryad. She’ll find him a very cold ghost, if so.” And I laugh, but the doctor does not.


I was sitting when I saw it all, I was on the rooftop of the building smoking a cigarette, it was cloudy, one of those days where it seems like even the slightest thunder will make the sky collapse on all of us. That day I felt particularly overwhelmed by everything surrounding my existence: too much work, little time to finish all the tasks, the phone kept vibrating with each message, the weekend had social commitments that I couldn't refuse to have some time for myself, and apparently, that intermittent headache wasn't going to leave me alone for a while. Among all the things I had to do, I decided to go up to the only solitary part of the building, the only place where I didn't see faces, hidden there between the void of the 27th floor and the huge air conditioners. There, it was the only place where the intermittent noise didn't bother me. I much preferred hearing the deep hissing of the machine next to me than listening to murmurs, incessant typing, laughter, ringing tones of calls and messages, or my coworker's incessant pen chewing... Anyway, this was my place and my private moment. I actually never liked smoking, I'm a fake smoker... I smoke because I see others smoking and I feel like smoking, but I don't smoke because I really find it charming. The first cigarette always raises my blood pressure and makes me sweat buckets, it accelerates my heart and dries my mouth, but still, most people know that when you're smoking, you're having a moment for yourself and generally two things happen: they either move away or approach cautiously, but either way, it's pleasant to see that a piece of paper emitting smoke sensitizes people for at least a few minutes. And there I was... sitting, immersed in my own thoughts when straight from the sky, I saw something falling towards me. At first, it didn't seem like it was going to fall on the building, but slowly that tangle of plastic headed directly towards where I was. The sound it made when it fell will echo forever in my mind, the parachute had tangled around the person and had fallen at such speed that it had broken some of the skylights. When I managed to stand up, after the shock and looking for my phone... I stood there stunned, I didn't know what to do... well, I did know what to do but obviously, I didn't want to do it, I didn't know in what condition he was, I didn't want to find out if he was alive, agonizing, or dead, I just saw a lump tangled in orange plastic and thousands of threads and ropes... apparently, no one had heard the impact, in such a big and bustling city, that noise could have been caused by anything. My hands were freezing, my breath could only be expelled through my mouth, I felt very scared, which in turn disgusted me terribly. Among the cold, the tremendous gust of wind, and the relentless urge to vomit, I was there, living the strangest experience of my life. Who the hell prepares you for this? Is there a damn manual somewhere in the world buried among dust and other books called "what to do if you're on a rooftop and a nobody decides to fall like a meteor 30 steps away from you?" I definitely wasn't prepared for this. I deeply wished someone would come and push me and start doing something, at that moment I would have preferred to be seen as a useless idiot without the slightest common sense... but no, nobody, absolutely nobody showed up; it was just the damn mess and me. Slowly I decided to approach, mentally preparing myself for everything, to see a bloodbath (which I had never seen in real life), hear a deep groan and/or a scream of pain (which I had also never heard), or see a corpse with open eyes and a cold, empty gaze that would remain eternally in my imagination. I began to walk between the parachute and the ropes, trying not to fall, actually, I didn't want to get there, I didn't want to touch that lump, if I don't like touching living people, I definitely didn't have the burning desire to touch a probable corpse bathed in its own juices... I gathered the little courage I have and took a few firm steps toward it... when I was inches away from touching it, a gust of wind made part of the parachute inflate and began to drag it towards the void of the building's south face, I fell backwards but got up as quickly as I could and in an act of deep heroism, I grabbed the ropes and winches with all my might only to realize my profound stupidity in knowing that I wouldn't be able to stop it. Being dragged, I just wished to stop with something, a rod, a post, anything... and I did stop because the corpse hit the wall and I was behind it... and that's when I knew he was lifeless, my face and his face came so close that I could see his pupils through a transparent piece of the parachute's plastic... I could only see those brown eyes, I had never seen pupils so dilated and such a dead, expressionless gaze, I could see some of the blonde hair bathed in blood... and those eyes so dead, so expressionless, so similar to mine a few years ago. After a few seconds, all I could do was cry, I felt a deep sorrow for him because I began to think about his existence: Who is he? Is there someone waiting for him? At that moment, I forgot everything and decided to unravel his so far improvised grave, I tried to move him, but the air made it impossible to handle the situation properly but I had to get him out of there, all my disgust and fear had vanished. As best as I could, I managed to get his head out and then his arms, there was a huge puddle of blood, which actually helped me slide him out, with all my strength, I managed to free him... now there was a corpse and a guy soaked in blood, the perfect scene to go to jail for life. I searched his bags for his wallet, some identification, anything... but I found nothing until I reached the second jacket he was wearing... there I found his driver's license. James P. Jordan. Now it was much worse... it's said that you can't easily get rid of something you've already given a name to... until a few minutes ago, he was a corpse... but suddenly he became James P. Jordan. I looked him up and down, his legs were broken, one arm was completely turned over, and the back of his head was a bloody mess... his mouth was slightly open as if about to utter a word and his cold, vacant gaze towards the sky, he seemed incredulous, as if he couldn't believe he had fallen from where his gaze was fixed. I got on my knees to put his driver's license on his chest, I took his right hand and placed it on his ribs, I don't know why but I really wanted to apologize to him, and it made no sense, I wasn't even remotely guilty of his death, but still, I did... I apologized. Never in my life had I felt so accompanied... When the emergency services finally arrived, a group of people had already gathered, detained by the building security, and there I was, holding James's hand. I didn't want to leave him alone; I couldn't leave him alone. "Do you know him?" the paramedic asked me. "His name is James P. Jordan." "Is he a friend of yours?" "No, there's his identification. That's all I know about him." From that day on, I quit smoking. I stopped being a phantom smoker. But I couldn't stop thinking about James. I didn't know where his funeral was, if he was cremated, I knew nothing about him, I didn't know what happened after they took him away. Because I returned to my cubicle, back to my life, to work. Part of me wishes I knew where he is to bring him flowers, to see his obituary, and sit there thinking about nothing, just as I did before I met him. Sometimes I miss James. I wish I had known him in life. Maybe we could have been great friends. Perhaps we would have watched soccer or played video games. Perhaps he would have told me about his girlfriend while we drank beer on the roof of my house. Maybe he would have convinced me to fly on a plane to overcome my irrational fear of flying. Perhaps James and I would have been best friends, talking several times a week, and we would have a photo hanging together on a wall. But no, I met the one who could have been my best friend when he was already dead.


Carter held his wife’s hand and gently pulled her across the beach towards the incoming waves. The tropical sun was shining brightly, and the sea’s soothing sounds filled the air. Her skin, already pale from too much time spent indoors, was now stark white from the thick layer of sunscreen she’d applied. "That’s it, slow and steady. We don’t need to go far today, just wet your feet a little bit," he said. Gracie gave a tiny, quiet whimper but followed along. "Does it get deeper quickly?" she said with her eyes fixed on the gently lapping waves. "No, it’s a really gentle slope. Look how clear the water is! You can see the ground!" "That makes it worse! I don’t know if I’m ready. Can’t we try tomorrow?" she replied in a terrified voice. "I know it’s scary. But the therapist said you need to try and cope with being exposed to your fears. Let’s just try to get as close as we can today, okay?" "Yes, but… I don’t know," Gracie said, a frown forming on her thin face. "You can overcome anything, if you just put your mind to it. I know you can," he said and tugged her hand a little. "I wish I could go swim with you. Like someone normal," Gracie said, head hanging. Carter embraced her, rocking her gently. "Aw honey, I’ll stand here looking at the sea for a hundred years if we have to. I can deal with anything as long as we’re together," he said. They didn’t often engage in public displays of affection any more after years of marriage, but the moment called for a kiss. When they let go, Carter pulled softly on her arm, making a step towards the waves. She resisted for a moment but followed. When they reached the edge of the water, Carter said "I’ll go first," and walked forward a step to where the water swirled around his ankles. Gracie sighed, and tentatively advanced. She glanced towards the open sea and shuddered. "Nice, isn’t it?" Carter said, playfully splashing his feet in the surf. Gracie grimaced. "Let’s just walk along the surf a little," he said and gently strolled forward. It was hot, but a slight breeze made the heat bearable, even pleasant. The water was just the right amount of warm. The corners of her mouth started turning up, just slightly. "I guess it’s not too bad- IEEEH!" Gracie suddenly shrieked and leaped out of the water, tearing her hand out of his. She fell on the sand, holding her left foot, sobbing and shouting something unintelligible. Carter instinctively looked down at his feet. A small gray eel-like thing pulled itself out of the sand. Three pairs of thick fins along its length were trashing furiously. For a moment, the waves receded, letting him see the mottled gray flesh of its back before the water washed over it again. It made Carter think of cockroaches and maggots scurrying in filth. He recoiled at the sight. The eel-centipede thing pumped its powerful limbs and shot off into deeper water, disappearing from sight. "Gracie! Did it bite you?" he shouted. He knelt down beside her, looking at her foot. She was still squirming and sobbing and sat grasping her left foot around the ankle. Blood was seeping out of an almost triangular hole about the width of a pencil in the side of her foot, near the little toe. Gracie’s shrieks turned into a quiet sigh and she passed out. Gracie and Carter walked out of the tiny island hospital. She leaned on Carter to avoid putting weight on her bandaged left foot. Gracie looked miserable while Carter tried to cheer up his wife. "I’m so sorry, sweetie. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want. Let’s stay at the hotel and enjoy the sunshine at the hotel pool." "Not the pool. I’m not going near any water here," she answered, shuddering. He helped her into a taxi. The beat-up old car puttered past colorful street vendor stands selling fruit and snacks. The oily, spicy fumes of fried street food wafted into their car. Gracie’s stomach suddenly made an astoundingly loud rumbling noise. When Carter looked at her, she had a look of surprise and embarrassment on her face. "Uh, are you hungry, hon? We can stop and take something back to the hotel," he said. "Yes, please," Grace replied. She stared at a little stand where grilled meat was sold on sticks. "Can you bring a few of those please?" she asked. Carter looked at the long sticks, each of which had several hefty chunks of meat. The sizzling morsels glistened with grease and fatty bits and were expertly seared over a coal fire. The fragrance made Carter’s mouth water, but it seemed an unlikely treat for Gracie, who was more of a lean chicken breast person. He looked at her skeptically. "A few? I’m not sure I could eat a whole one," he laughed. "They look so good." Her stomach rumbled again, loudly. "I can put them in the fridge and eat the rest later." She was looking at the food almost longingly. Carter wondered if shock could cause bouts of enhanced appetite and asked the driver to stop for a moment. A few minutes later, he returned, carrying three skewers wrapped in silver foil. To his surprise, Gracie didn’t wait for them to reach the hotel before tucking in. She grabbed one of the wrapped skewers from the paper bag, tore the foil off and started eating. The grilled vegetables were unceremoniously discarded while she ripped pieces out of the steaming gobbets with her teeth. Juice ran over her lips and down her chin in rivulets, but she didn’t seem to notice. Carter hadn’t seen such a blissful, ecstatic expression on her face even during their lovemaking. She devoured the whole thing in a few minutes, and reached for the bag to take another one. Even the driver threw a few glances back at the small woman eating ravenously. "Whoa, chew your food, hon," Carter laughed. When they reached the hotel, Gracie grabbed the bag of food and walked back to their room while Carter paid the driver. He had to hurry to catch up with her, despite her injured foot. She sat down at the small glass table in the suite and immediately started on the last skewer. "I thought you didn’t like barbecue," Carter said. "Dish ish really good," she said, her mouth full of chewed meat. Carter shook his head and stared at her while she wolfed down another helping in a few minutes. She belched loudly and stood up, wiping her mouth with one hand. "Excuse me," she said absentmindedly. "That should tide you over until at least tomorrow’s breakfast, huh?" Carter replied, a little taken aback. "Actually I’m still hungry. Let’s get more food," she said. He raised his hands in a calming motion. "I think we need to go back to the hospital. Maybe you have a tapeworm or something." "Carter, I’m just HUNGRY," she spat. He took an involuntary step backward. There was an intense look in her eyes he couldn’t remember seeing before in five years of marriage and twelve years they knew each other. He tried to negotiate. "Let’s go back to the hospital and we can pick up some food on the way there, okay?" Gracie seemed to consider this, then walked outside without a word. He shook his head and started to follow when he saw something on her skin. "What do you have there?" he said. He ran his fingers over a few gray spots on the back of her neck. They were slightly raised and felt rubbery. Her skin felt hot to the touch. "Honey, are you running a fever?" he said. "Let’s get going," she replied curtly and walked away. Carter decided that the quicker they got to the hospital the better. They had to wait a quarter of an hour before another taxi turned up. Gracie was pacing up and down the pavement, agitated as if running late for an appointment. When their new ride reached the little marketplace where they’d picked up the skewers, Gracie got out without waiting for Carter. He hurried after her as she made a beeline to a stall where chickens were grilling on spits over a coal fire. She ordered two, and started eating one the moment the woman tending the stall handed her the first paper bag, with the other tucked under her arm. Holding the whole bird in one hand, she took rapid bites out of it as if she was eating an apple. "Hot, seniora, hot!" the woman said, laughing. Gracie paid her no mind. As they walked back to their taxi, Carter was astounded to see her gulp down the whole piping hot grilled chicken in less than two minutes. She almost inhaled the meat, barely chewing and absentmindedly dropping the splintered remains of bones on the ground. She was already tearing into the second helping when the taxi got going. "I’ll give you twenty extra if you get us there quicker!" Carter said to the driver. The man replied, "Si senor" and gunned the pedal. Gracie was sucking the meat off the chicken bones at speed, then discarding the gnawed remains on the car’s floor. It wasn’t long before there was nothing left to eat. "I’m hungry," Gracie said, looking around as if there might be more chicken she hadn’t noticed yet in the car. "I’m sure there’s something for you to eat at the hospital, honey," Carter replied. He was sweating. Gracie still looked around, as if unsure where she was. He noticed there were more of those gray spots on her lower jaw. They were raised like pustules and radiated from the jaw down to her neck. He wasn’t sure if that was an illusion from the car’s bumping on the road, but he could have sworn they were twitching. The taxi stopped at a traffic light and Gracie tried to open the door. "Honey, no!" Carter called out and tried to stop her from leaving. She pushed him away with savage force and he was stunned for a moment when he hit his head on the opposite door frame, crying out in pain. The driver shouted at him in Spanish when he followed after her. Gracie was running at full speed back the way they had come. He tried to keep up, but she didn’t seem to tire. Panting heavily and holding his aching side, he suddenly heard a car horn. The taxi driver had turned around and told him to get in. After a few minutes of driving, they saw a small crowd of people shouting and gesticulating in the street. "There!" The car stopped and Carter hurried out, towards the commotion. He pushed through the shouting people and saw another street vendor’s stand in the middle of the crowd: a butcher’s shop. Shanks of meat were on display, and half a pig and other animal parts were hanging from hooks. Gracie stood beside the cart and was gnawing on a raw goat leg, ripping chunks of meat off with her teeth. People were pointing at her and shouting "Esta loca!" A man in a butcher’s apron was lying on the ground, apparently knocked out. Nobody paid him any heed. "Gracie!" he called to her. She looked up from the bloody hunk of meat in her hands. The gray pustules were all over her now, giving her a diseased, bloated appearance. Her stomach was visibly distended, which made her look heavily pregnant. There didn’t seem to be any recognition of him in her eyes. Carter noticed a few spots had grown even on her eyeballs. "Oh God, honey! We need to get you to a doctor!" Carter cried out at the sight. In the crowd, some crossed themselves. In response, Gracie let loose an inhuman screech he would never have believed her to be capable of. She sprang away, still holding the half eaten goat leg. "No, wait!" Carter ran after her. Gracie ran past bushes and palm trees towards another stretch of beach. She somehow managed to take bites out of the meat while she ran. Carter followed as quickly as his tired legs and lungs allowed. Gracie waded out into the water where the waves washed around her knees. The gray spots had taken over most of her body, and grown out in big, mottled clumps that reminded him of the eel-centipede’s flesh. With a scream, he jumped at her, intending to wrestle her to the ground and keep her from escaping again. She swatted him away with frightening ease. He landed heavily on his side, sending a spray of water into the air. She hissed at him again, a sound like an angry cat. The whites of her eyes were fully covered in gray spots, leaving the blue of her pupils the only spot of color. There was no understanding in them, no recognition that they even belonged to the same species. "Gracie, please, don’t leave. We’ll find a way to fix you, I promise," he said, sobbing. She looked at him, teeth bared, giving no indication she understood. She tore her dress away with black, encrusted hands. Exuded slime formed translucent webs between the fingers. Long slits traced her torso, like slashing wounds that had stopped bleeding. She was growling, but there was a wet quality to the sound, as if her lungs were filling with fluid. She seemed to be struggling to breathe and crouched on all fours. Her webbed hands shoved water into the slits in her skin. As her new gills started working, her lungs breathed air for the last time. Further out, the force of the incoming waves rocked her back and forth. She continued undeterred, never looking back. "I love you! Don’t leave me! Don’t leave me alone!" Carter shouted. He realized that she couldn’t, even if she wanted to. Her transformed body would suffocate outside of the water. Soon she was swimming out, her gray fins pumping with powerful strokes. Eventually she dove down, disappearing from sight completely. Carter stood on the beach, alone, shielding his eyes from the sun. There was only the sound of the waves and the wind, and seabirds cried in the distance.


The Hidden Precisely two weeks after my fifteenth birthday, on a mild and bright October afternoon, I saw a man get hit by a car. Although I was deeply afraid of what I might see, there was nobody else who could help. The road was otherwise deserted. I ran over to the driver, who was frantic and in hysterical tears. I tried to calm him down. Told him we needed to call an ambulance, but he insisted there was no time. We must drive straight to the hospital. It was the only way. Anything I had ever read or watched on TV had made it clear to me that moving an injured person was very bad, but I was powerless to stop the rising panic of the situation, stomping my shaky protest into the dirt. With all other avenues of logic and reason closed off, I found myself helping to lift the injured man into the car. In the back seat, with his head on my lap, I noticed for the first time how strikingly beautiful he was. He was not injured in any visible way except for a bright smear of blood across his forehead, but even that small visceral offence caused me discomfort. I wiped it away with a crumpled tissue I found in my pocket. His skin was pale and flawless next to the jet black of his hair that fell in a thick, shiny mop. He could not have been more than twenty years old. I silently prayed to whoever was listening for him to be spared any lasting damage caused by our hasty intervention. Some dried leaf litter was strewn through his lovely hair and I gently began to pick it out with my thumb and forefinger. I remember how important it was to remove every single crumb of it so I could restore him to perfection. I don’t recall how long I was absorbed in this intricate task, all I know is that I was so transfixed by it, that all other concerns had drifted away and a peaceful, dreamlike state cocooned me. It was the soft, dappled light flittering in through the car windows that broke my reverie and caused me to look up from the beautiful boy and notice that we were driving into the woods. I told the man he was going the wrong way. Said it. Then shouted it. As I was grappling with a succession of reasonable scenarios as to why this man was continuing to drive in the wrong direction, the beautiful boy opened his eyes and calmly sat up beside me. The surge of relief was overwhelming. I spoke to him in comforting words, tried to find out how he was feeling but he remained silent and facing forwards as if I was a ghost he could neither see nor hear. His eyes were an impossibly clear and bright blue. Two Jewels set into his perfect face, the effect of which dowsed me in calming acceptance as I waited for the ultimate, plausible explanation that had to be coming. Without any discernible intention, I began looking around the car for nothing in particular and anything at all that would make it all make sense. All the while, a tiny, almost imperceptible voice was trying to make itself heard over my placatory, dampening internal monologue. I wilfully ignored it because I wasn’t ready to agree with what it was saying. I kept pushing it down but it persisted and grew louder and more urgent until it was the only voice I could hear, and it was screaming over and over. GET OUT. GET OUT. GET OUT NOW. Yet there I remained, powerless to abandon the false comfort of denial. My mind wrestling with my instincts, still hopeful, still expectant of everything to be fine. The reassuring voice fervently resisting the opposing forces that would see it silenced. This can’t be happening. You must have this wrong. It’s going to be fine. The voice grew quieter and less certain each time it spoke, and a third voice was now chiding me. This is what you get for taking the shortcut home from the library. You were told never to use that route. It’s your own fault. My racing pulse thumped in my ears and throat, making my head feel like it was filling up with blood and drowning me. My body was leaden weight, a useless lump incapable of acting upon the one shrieking command that would not cease pummelling my brain. In one swift movement that seemed to happen regardless of any conscious control, I yanked the door handle and threw myself from the car. I landed on soft ground, then I was somehow on my feet and running. No longer heavy. I could barely feel the earth beneath me and could hurdle any objects in my path. I ran like this for what felt like miles without tiring. When I eventually found the courage to look behind me, I could see nothing but dense woodland. I continued to run, but the fuel to sustain the speed and endurance was now spent, and I soon dropped to the ground, gasping painfully. I wasn’t even sure how far it was to the road or which direction I should be heading. It was starting to get dark, and the temperature had dropped considerably. I sat for a short while, having a pointless discussion with myself about what I could do if I had only managed to grab my satchel before I jumped. Despite how the nascent idea of it knotted my insides, I knew what I had to do. The remaining light was fading rapidly, and my desperate search to find adequate shelter for the night was taking an alarming amount of time, but before total despair took hold, I came across a forest clearing. At the opposite edge was a huge, gnarly, upturned oak tree, which had lifted a good portion of the forest floor with it when it fell. A version of optimism glimmered as I approached it. The exposed roots with a solid layer of earth above formed a natural alcove that was as good a place as any I was likely to find. I took one last anxious look around before climbing in as far back as I could fit. The pungent smell of damp soil assaulted me from all sides, and I was barely able to stifle a scream when some existing tenant dropped onto my head. After frenziedly shaking out my hair, I zipped my coat, put up my hood and drew the cord tight, leaving just the centre of my face exposed. I tucked my jeans into my socks, pulled my hands inside my sleeves, and tucked them tight under each arm. With my swaddling arranged, I sat back against a patch of soft earth and looked out beyond the tree roots at a particularly bright, rising moon set against a cloudless sky. A gratitude I had never felt before radiated towards that moon. I knew that as long as she was there, I wouldn’t be all alone. That she would stay with me and spare me the terror of a night spent in total darkness. Thank you, I whispered over and over as hot tears burst their banks and cascaded down my freezing cheeks. Although I was still wretched with fear, exhaustion eventually won out. I awoke while it was still night. The distant sound of heavy footsteps crunching over dried leaves had penetrated the fragile slumber my nerves had allowed. Searching, male voices pierced the darkness. My stomach lurched, and I clasped my hands over my mouth, terrified I might let out an involuntary whimper. I waited, waited, waited for them to pass, but their voices would not travel any further away. My arms ached with their solemn duty to keep me silenced. I knew if those men saw the upturned oak, they’d have the same idea as I’d had. Silent tears streamed from my eyes, along with a sudden hit of warmth in the seat of my jeans. Any minute now, any second now, they were going to find me. My whole body had tensed rigid with terror, and every muscle fibre screeched in agony. Then something. Something was different. The voices had changed. They were no longer calling out to the little girl who was hiding. They were disagreeing. I strained to hear over the rushing of blood in my ear. The sounds became increasingly animalistic until I realised they were scuffling with one another. I considered making a dash for it while they were preoccupied, but dash where? I had no light. No way of knowing which direction to run. They’d chase me down easily. So I did the only thing I could do. The cessation of noise came more swiftly and suddenly than I was anticipating. I sat huddled, waiting for any clue that might reveal what was happening outside of my view. There was nothing. Hours passed. An angry wind had gathered pace and roared fearsomely through the clearing, taking up leaves and twigs and anything in its path. An occasional piece of hard forest detritus would hurtle in and attack my exposed face, so I placed my forehead onto my knees. For hours, I remained in the same position, waiting, waiting, waiting for dawn in a dank, dark pit of roots and soil and crawling bugs. If there exist adequate words to describe the desolation of the longest, coldest, loneliest hours of my life waiting for that night to end, I have never found them. By the time the sun had begun its ascent, I was as close to madness as I had ever been before or since. Whatever was waiting for me outside was better than remaining in that living grave. I crawled through the roots and emerged into daylight, blinking through falling soil. The cold hit me immediately. Shivering uncontrollably, I peeped over the crest of the mound. I saw only forest. Unsure whether to trust my astigmatic eyes, I squinted hard and scanned every square foot of visible forest. All was calm. There was no wind, and my ear picked up something that filled me with that same glimmer of optimism I’d had upon finding the fallen oak. It was the distant sound of running water; I was sure of it. The stream that ran through the woods. I could follow it back to the road. How had I not realised it before? It didn’t matter. Hope replaced fear, and I began to walk. I hadn’t gone more than thirty feet when my foot struck something under the leaves. A surge of adrenaline spiked in my chest as I realised what it was, and my head and eyes darted in all directions, seeking the threat of imminent danger. Finding none, my eyes returned to the brightly flowered pattern of my satchel, and I bent to retrieve it. I had already taken hold of it before I noticed the large, white hand clasped around its top handle. An involuntary scream escaped, and I let go, stumbling backwards. After I had gathered what was left of my shattered nerves, I deduced that the hand was not attached to a living person. Revulsion slithered through my midsection. I picked up a forked twig and shakily used it at arm's length to unhook the fingers. Once I’d freed the satchel, I stood for a moment, wondering if I should move the leaves from the rest of the body just to make sure. Of what? I didn’t know. In any case, I hadn’t the courage, and it didn’t seem important enough to try to muster it. I rifled through my bag. Everything was still in there. My glasses. My glasses. I could see. The half bottle of water was soon emptied into my parched throat. I continued my search for the stream. After a few steps, I heard a sound. I froze. Silence. A few seconds passed. There it was again. No denying what it was. No. No. No. In my peripheral vision, I caught movement in the leaves not far from where the dead man lay. I was consumed with terror as I watched a figure push itself up from under a mound of leaves. The face was bloodied and grotesquely swollen, but I recognised that mop of dark hair instantly. I was primed to dart in the opposite direction, but something held me fast. A primal survival instinct that insisted it was safer to keep my eyes on him than to not. He appeared too injured to take advantage of my proximity, but I had very recently been taught not to take things at face value. After a short, internal discussion, I was able to make myself walk over until I was only five or so feet away. He looked at me, his eyes wide with fear. He was trying to speak but could only produce that same laboured, gurgling wheeze that had alerted me to his presence. As I stood there, not knowing what I should do, he slowly lifted his coat to show me the handle of a hunting knife, the blade of which had been pushed to the hilt into his ribcage. I hunched and violently expelled the paltry contents of my stomach. When I’d steadied myself, I drew a few heavy breaths and forced myself to think. I eliminated all of the options that just weren’t feasible and there was only one that remained. I never even turned back to look at him. I’ll get help, I shouted over my shoulder as I walked away. I found the stream within ten minutes and the road within half an hour after that. The sun was brighter now, and soft light illuminated the asphalt, endowing it with the ethereal glow of a divine path to salvation. It was early on Sunday morning. There’d be no passing cars for hours. Despite the fact I hadn’t eaten and had vomited the only water I’d had in over twelve hours, I started to run. I knew if I could keep a steady pace I was only another hour or so from home. When I reached the foot of the hill that led to my house, I broke into a sprint. A slurry of thoughts poured into my head. What would I tell my dad? How would I explain? He will have been up all night, worried sick. And poor Jess, she probably got caught up in the panic, too young to understand. I arrived at the door and let myself inside, expecting to be mobbed or to come upon some scene of emotional devastation, but the house was still. All the blinds were drawn, and aside from the dim, strip lighting under the kitchen cupboards, everything was in darkness. The little jade statue of Buddha caught my eye, oddly out of place on the middle of the kitchen counter. I walked over. Underneath it was a note. Hey Sweetpea Phil was short staffed on the nightshift so I’ve gone in to help him out. Jess is spending the night at Auntie Jo’s so you have the house to yourself to knuckle down with your project. Get a pizza. Money in the teapot. See you tomorrow honey Love Dad x I ran to the phone, lifted the receiver and began to dial but my finger recoiled midway through and hovered over the buttons like a question mark. A seed of a thought began to germinate. A glimpse. A vision. A premonition of life marked by a narrow escape. Daughters’ worlds open up gradually, grudgingly and conditionally – and in return for our liberty we owe our safety. I replaced the receiver and stood stock still, silently locked in a fraught negotiation with my better self. When it was over, I walked over to the washing machine. I removed everything I was wearing, and placed it in the drum, coat, shoes, satchel, everything. I set a ruinous boil wash and tumble dry sequence. Accidents happen. I’d be forgiven. Then I walked, shivering, over to the bathroom and ran the hottest shower my hand could take. I stepped inside. The pain was singular. No other feelings or thoughts could invade my brain as shards of blistering water sliced at my frigid skin. I heard a faint noise and it took a few moments to understand it was coming from me. It grew louder and stronger until my lungs could propel it no further. Once my body acclimatised to the hazardous temperature, I took the soap and began to scrub. I washed off the foulness and the filth and watched until it all swirled away from me and disappeared.


Caution swearing. Read at you're own risk... I loved my new glasses. The thick black frames lounged on my nose. The plastic arms touched, not clutched. The lens allowed my peripheral vision to relax. My eyes watered a little but they had to no longer try, try real hard to read. I could even see a large protruding, unplucked hair on my upper lip! I did not have to rely so heavily on my tactile sense or memory, or my hearing to inform me of my blurry world. After drinking a couple of coffees and finding my last cigarette filter, from crawling on all Fours, under the Cain frame of chair, I rolled my defiant cigarette, without washing my hands, and lit it. With my phone balanced on my left thigh and right hand free, I typed Reedsy Prompts into Google search, then password then reveal. The deal with the Devil prompt amused me! I chuckled. Near the outdoor furniture, an unfinished painting wanted my attention. I gave it some! The thought of phthalos blue crusts under dissuaded me. The stuff stains and dries slowly and hard to scrub off and out. The colour is transparent- beautiful- like the tranquil sea in the afternoon kissed by the sun. It's the sort of colour one can paint happy fish in, or mermids- whatever-

I wondered, did I want to spend a few hours writing a contentious story that would probably have the most righteous hitting my story and then sharing, to prove my unworthiness of having life and a different viewpoint. Also, then- there's the implications of some stupid person might go there, based on my supposition! Did I need to be responsible for that? Did I need all the Karen's stalking me and sucking my physical energy from their precipice of self righteous, rigid thinking? Looking up from my device, some sort of shadow seemed to forming in the corner of my right eye. As forementioned, my eyes were hypersensitive, learning, remembering, they had overworked and then upon recognition, telling my tactile sense it had over felt!

My notification bar, pinged. It was not a loud ping, but my hearing had still not conditioned to its new status, as my etes and tactile sense forgot to pass on the consensus! I was able to easy read, a Spam email- "Sell your soul" Once again, I was amused and to further my own merriment, I read it! I always read T's & C's. They say a wise person learns from their mistakes! Well, I learnt after loosing several hundred dollars twice!

Pussy-cat, seeing my mental focus, jumped for joy, squished my tummy and settled on my lap for a very reliable two hour sitting, or perhaps more? She always looked forward to that time- when I got passed the idea download, to a point of decisive action and then work. I guess any writer knows that sequence of ideas, of decisions and then real WORK! She widened eyes, at the expanding shadow, exhaling, muscles relaxing, purring, she happily welcomed sleep. One of the contract conditions was, "Write this week's Reedsy Prompt" I thought, "How fucking corny is that?" The other conditions sounded like a practical joke! By now, I realised that Reedsy was hacked!

PING, another email, this time from Reedsy! "We have been hacked! The site will be down for twenty-fours hours, while we update and strengthen our firewalls. Sorry for the inconvenience!" I checked the Reedsy Prompts for this week, sent two days prior.  Yes, there was one prompt called, "Making the deal with the Devil and unusual T's and C's..." When rethinking the generated Spam, I rolled my eyes, "Some smart asses out there!" I tightened my lips, now, what sort of T's and C's, the small print, would the Devil- if the Devil was real- Would (he) impose? And what would a person selling their soul want for such a cataclysmic idea?The notion of, THE Devil, singular, belongs to a paradigm. That notion of good and evil belongs to morals and the dogma- the daulistic third-dimensional reality. How could I write such a dinosaur idea? PING! This time, a Text! "Congratulations, Rose Lind you just sold your soul!" I was annoyed now! I'm really sick of hackers. I stayed cool when my phone company was hacked twice, taking all our personal data. I stay pleasant when having a few hours off work last month, lining up in huge serpentine lines, to apply for a new driver's licence. I shrugged my shoulders when the same phone company had an outage for twelve hours. I turned off the news, on my car radio, the uproar in Australia parliament as a result of the forementioned could be understood,  some people had medical issues, businesses lost money, hospitals were out! I answered that texted, "Fuck off!"

To my surprise another- PING- occurred! Email- "Compliance Communication! YOU HAVE VIOLATED CONDITION 15 (iii) " This was getting under my skin- I typed "Remind me please - " PING -another email! Breathing in and out a few times, I regained a quiet smile. The remaining muscle tension was channelled into a raised eyebrow! 'CONDITION 15 (iii), Thou shalt not swear!" I saw a contact tile at the bottom of the email and tapped it. On their site, I mocked, "Isn't the devil, the baddie? Isn't the devil the Jester?" Princess my customer service officer rolled, "..."- "..."- "..."- And finally an the automated thinking gave a reply, "I make the decisions, not you" I signed out. I really needed another coffee after that! But should I move and wake Jija, the cat? Would my normal musing writer ground to centre? I deliberately pressed both feet into the wet earth patch. It had rained yesterday and my feet were bare, as my old slippers in their dreary frumpy existence waited for their nightshift.  I imagined roots going deep to earth's core. I imagined fire burning away the emails and texts natter- disappearing! Pussy-cat cat feeling the regained vibe, purred deeper in her dream. Her little paws flickered like she was running. Maybe she was chasing a butterfly, or a feather on a stick. I dont know? What I do know was she was happy! I began to type, "Read at you're own risk!" I looked at the funny swirling mist in front of me and continued, "If the Devil really existed outside of a pluristic irresponsible, protectory, transferring, persecutory, punishing paradigm, then (he) would be the exact opposite of good. I reasoned- Mmm, sooo- if there were T's & C's- they would be the opposite of what you- your lower self- youre mortal physical mind-  would- umm- think of as good-" The mist turned to fluoro pink, green and blue! Persisting I wrote, "For example- You believe goodness is making your bed and ironing your clothes? Then you would be told to not make your bed every morning, or iron your clean clothes!" The annoyance of the Spam emails, texts etc returned to my mind, "So when you're dancing with Hell's domiciles, the talk of bed making every morning would be - leaving the sheets open allowing the sunlight and fresh air to destroy bacteria etc instead. OR- not ironing your clothes saves electricity and saves the Planet, thus,  forcing the state of allowance, to see human vanity" I realised, I needed a disclaimer- "Be careful- The Unseen world can be dangerous! The Devil may not be real to me, but to you- it might be! Tread very, very carefully, naivete still has beautiful soft flesh and bones to become a yummy dinner for something looking at you from another dimension! Protect yourself with whatever you believe in. Live in the guidelines of what your believed protection asks. And keep a strong mind- good mental health! If you need help chose the professional help of the path you choose!" My phone rang, "Accept or Deny" tiles gave a choice- speak or be spoken to? I chose silence. It rang through to message bank! A sound of a smashing glass mirror removed the sunspot from my eyes! The played recorded message spoke in some unknown tongue. I pushed Google translate, "You're application denied. We believe- you don't believe!"

Reedsy Site reappeared, I posted my boring story. 🐇


February 27, 2024 - 6:03AM   I’m staring at the white page of paper before me. It’s clean, pure, empty, unstained, unscribbled, and unsullied, like a baby as yet untouched by life. I know I need to put words down, let them fall like a gentle storm in the summer, but I can’t seem to. It’s been a long time since I’ve written anything. It’s been a long time since life’s been normal.   I feel like my page is laughing at me, twisting itself into a smirking face to mock my inability. Why? Why is it so hard? It’s as though my heart is locked in a cage of iron experience, and I myself have thrown away the key. I did. I know I did, but now I want that key back. I wasn’t thinking clearly then when I threw the glittering key over the rocky precipice and watched it tumble into the unreachable distance; I hadn’t realised then that I’d want to live again, to fight and reclaim normal. Back then, I’d only wanted to protect myself from being hurt again. Nothing in…nothing out: that meant safety, right? I’d keep the real me safe.   But writing doesn’t work like that. Writing means an ongoing conversation: me, you, me you, like breathing in and out on a frosty morning. Now, all the thoughts and feelings in my heart are battering themselves against the bars I built with my own hands, and they can’t get out. I’ve lost the key.   I think the paper knows it too. The chuckle which reverberates in my mind softens somewhat, and the sneer fades, leaving the sheet once more as blank as my mind. No amount of effort can force the swirling words in my heart out through my pen. Brimming with despair and frustration, I let go, and my pen clatters down, flipping over and over in its crazy dance to the floor. I stare at the whiteness of snow, and suddenly, I realise it’s no longer paper.   I’m looking at a white bedsheet, and that noise echoing in my head is actually crying. I can see her clearly now. A girl, maybe twenty, is lying there, her face buried in the softly patterned pillow. Her shoulders are shaking as though an earthquake is ripping her apart inside. I can hear her gasping for breath between the sobs, and she’s muttering terrible wishes in a ragged voice. My entire core is convulsed by the screams of grief which sound from another room. The girl feels it too; I see her shudder, and then she rolls over and drags herself from the bed. I see her face at last. Red. bleary, pitiful, I still recognise it. How could I not? It’s me.   I watch her, the me of a year ago, stagger, pull herself together like a tattered blanket fighting for respectability, and struggle for composure. She walks past without glancing in my direction, and I follow. In the kitchen, she is brewing a pot of chamomile tea, and she pours it into a cup with a large spoon of honey. Taking a tentative sip herself, she carries it back to the bedroom area and enters another room. This is where the screams came, and are still coming from.   It’s her mother. The girl sits and soothes, vainly trying to comfort. The cup is forced into the shaking hand. The lips are made to drink, and for a time, it’s quieter. She stays there, her arms wrapped around the trembling woman, for hours. I sit too and cover them both with my arms and my aching heart, but neither take any notice of me.   “It’s going to be ok,” I whisper to them, but my words are drowned by the hoarser whisper of the past me.   “It’s going to be ok,” she says. “It’s going to be alright.”   I stay with them until the girl goes to bed. My insides have turned to jelly, an ugly, mushy jelly, and I don’t need to imagine how the girl is feeling from the endless day. I already know. She climbs into bed, desperate for sleep to carry her to a land of temporary relief, but the moment her light is out, she is sobbing again. Only with others is she able to hold back the anguish.   In the dimness, I watch her toss and turn, the clock ticking on, like an angry or taunting drum, marking time at an execution, dragging her closer and closer to the time when she must once again return to bleak reality. I see her lift her hands to block her ears. She is hearing sounds which don’t reach me, but I still remember them. The brain, the memory, so often a useful tool and tender friend, can become a ruthless tormentor after dark. Some sounds cannot be drowned out; they boom in the darkness.   I reach my hand out and stroke her wet, hot cheek. Then I lift the phone which stands there. I remember the code. It is someone’s birthday…someone loved…someone who is responsible for the current pain. Opening it up, I turn to the music. I slip an earplug into each of her ears and press play. The gentle music and pure words slip past the earplugs to me.

“Blessed is the man, the man who does not walk…”   “In thee, O Lord, I trust…”   “God is our refuge and strength, a very present help…”   They fade into each other, like a chain of snowflakes beneath the sun. The girl is breathing deeply, restfully, peacefully. She is finally asleep. For an instant, I’m sorry for it. There was so much I wanted to tell her.

  Don’t let this moment destroy you.   It will pass eventually. Every storm does.   Trust God.   Be at peace.   There is still sunshine beyond.   I can’t wake her now. I suppose she’ll figure it out herself. It might take a year, and she’ll never be exactly the same person, but she’ll make it through. I will. I will. I will.   I bend to kiss her cheek once more, but it’s cold, flat, white. I’m back at my desk, the paper before me. Had I been dreaming, imagining things? No, I look at the clock, still ticking, still beating. 6:03am. Not a moment has passed. I shake my head, and something catches my eye. It’s glinting, beckoning to me from where it rests inside the glass candle holder. I stretch out a trembling hand and wrap my fingers around the gleaming metal. It’s a key. February 27, 2024 - 6:15 AM   The crisp white paper before me is cool and inviting. A smooth black pen rests beside it, begging in a cheerful voice to be scooped up. It seems excited to pour its inky heart out across my paper in swirling letters. That’s fine by me; it’s just the way my heart feels. With a smile, I reach out and light my candle. In the musical flicker, I pick up the pen…and start.


When I was a kid, all I wanted was to grow up. "Momma, when will I get big?" "Dad, can you build me a time machine so I can be a teenager?" Now I am a sophomore in high school and all I want is to go back. I want to go back to the simpler times, when my only worries were "what should I bring to my playdate with Ryan," or "how am I going to beat Michelle in the toy car race?" I am an introvert, people call me the quiet kid in school. I don't have many friends and I am a huge overthinker. Teenagers are mean, I would know that better than anyone. People will make fun of you for things you cannot control. I am constantly bullied. At first getting made fun of was terrible and it ruined my week, now I am numb. Sometimes the things they say are small, like a rude comment on my clothing or hair. Then things got bigger, not only did people use words, but physical interactions too. I always want to stick up for myself, I really do, but in the moment I freeze and before I know it, the chance I had has passed. After a long day, I come home, do my homework, take a shower, eat, read, anything else to keep me occupied. I used to do extra curricular activities, gave up on that. Maybe I'm just an easy target, since I don't do anything about it. I am actually pretty good with comebacks, it just usually takes me until days after to think of things. "Oh I should've said that!" Is a commonly used phrase, not out loud of course. My mouth gets dry a lot, hence the fact that I tend to not speak. I also have an epic chapstick collection. It is only around my best friend, Leah that I am able to feel comfortable enough to say what is on my mind without being judged. Even then, she has grown further and further apart from me over the years. I spend a lot of time by myself. My parents are always at meetings and on work trips, leaving me home by myself 90% of the time. I bought myself a turtle and named her Smiles. Smiles keeps me company, she knows all of my secrets. She hears all of my clever comebacks and wordplay. School gets out in a couple of days. Everyone is talking about their summer plans while I am sitting in the back of our classroom. It is almost as if I am invisible. I realized that I have not a single plan for the three months we have off for break. It was then that I thought of the perfect idea. Maybe I can do something with my time. Fix myself up. It is gonna be hard, but with the help of Leah and Smiles, maybe I can actually change! Okay, now it is the first evening of summer break! I need a plan. I have tried counseling and therapy, no use. I always thought that I was scarred from the pain that lurks inside.. maybe not? I want to show the people who have hurt me what they have done. I have made a list of names with those who have ruined some part of my day, no matter how small or large. The people who have done the worst, like bullying me constantly, hurting me deep inside, maybe even who hurt me physically, anything like that, are at the top. At the bottom are the ones who only said a harsh comment or something little like that. This list traces back to people from 8th grade, when I shed the first tear from bullying, of many left to come. I will confront them. I will also make it known to others that they have done something wrong. No matter how great this summer goes, I just know that I will never forget the way some people made me feel. Now that my list is done, I feel that I have accomplished something. "Okay, Smiles. I think I am actually getting somewhere with this." I know that she wont reply, but I know that Smiles is listening. "Next step, figure out what the next step will be." I made myself some tea and put on my brainstorming slippers. "I've got it! I can put together a speech. I will talk about my experience with bullying. I will show people that your actions can affect people." Smiles loves the idea.. I think. I decided to call Leah so I can tell her about my plan and maybe we can practice my speech. She said that she is so excited to hang out with me again and that she will be here as soon as possible. I refilled my snack drawer, just for her. About five minutes later I heard my front door open. Leah knows that she doesn't have to knock. Then I heard her somewhat obnoxious, "Hiiii!" "Hey Leah!" "So.. what's up?" I continued to tell her about my plan. "Oh. my. goodness! That is genius. I am so glad that you are finally going to be sticking up for yourself! To be honest, you were kind of being a baby before haha." I wanted to tell Leah that what she just said hurt my feelings, but that would just be proving her point. I gave Smiles a quick look, then brushed it off. "Yeah. Okay, so I really want to confront the people who have bullied me before we do anything else." Leah opens my snack drawer. "Oh I know! Most of the popular boys were pretty mean to you, and they always hang out at the football field next to the bleachers. Maybe you can start there." "Oohhh good idea. I need to prepare something first." I grabbed a pencil and paper and we got to work. Leah finally convinced me to tell off the popular boys. We made a list that ended up being 13 pages long which showed what I was going to say to each person or group of people. I have been practicing talking without chickening out with Smiles the best I can. "Listen here, I am done letting you push me around!" Maybe a little too aggressive. "Hey, could you please quit making fun of me?" Too polite. I can feel Smiles' judgement through her tank. Or maybe that's just me. Leah can drive now, so she dropped me off at the football field on her way to hang out with her new popular friends. "Goodluck girlie! You can do it, remember what we practiced." I hopped out if the backseat with butterflies in my stomach. "Thanks for your help, Leah." "Anytime." She drove away and that is when reality sunk in. I was all of the sudden not so confident, but forced myself to walk behind the bleachers. I started with a simple and soft, "hi." The guy gang turned around with straight looks on their faces. Six boys, all football players. What was I thinking.. The team captain, Bryce said, "Whats up nerd?" They all laughed at his rhetoric. I rolled my eyes and was ready to speak up, "wow. how original, Johnny." Oh my goodness. I just said the wrong name. I cannot believe I just did that. They all were laughing at me. Before the boys could start beating up on me even more, I ran. I failed to stick up for myself again. I came home and told Smiles about my huge mistake. I guess it wasn't that bad, but now they're going to tell everyone. I think. Maybe I will always be this way. I will keep practicing. I cannot keep giving up so easily. That is what led to all of my issues before. The summer went on and I kept trying to write my speech. I need a good ending. I coordinated a date to present my speech. Mrs. Spieth, my art teacher, is the head of the PTO. She said that at 3:00 at our open house, I will be able to present. That is less than a month away now. The big day that I will speak my mind is September 3rd. The summer has been pretty good so far. My parents were actually home for the 4th of July. We had a barbecue. It was really nice. Then they left for a cruise and won't be back until the second of September. My mom and dad don't know what I have going on. I never make the effort to tell them. I ran into a bunch of people over the past couple months who have bullied me in the past. I remembered what I practiced with Smiles, but I always chickened out. At the Library with Heath, he knocked my books out of my hands and I did nothing about it. The ice cream parlor with Madison and her group, they took my strawberry blast, I did nothing. There were several other times. That is why I am so excited about this speech. I finally got some alone time with Leah, three days before my speech. That is when I got another bright idea. It would be the perfect ending to my speech. Leah smiled at me with bright eyes after listening to the end result that I practiced with all of her old stuffed animals. That is when I knew this was `right. It is September third, 2:53pm. I am getting ready to go onto the stage. Smiles is in my purse. I finally got called out and Mrs. Spieth introduced me to everyone. This is what I have needed since the 2nd semester of 8th grade. A fresh start. I looked into the so-called "audience." That is when I saw my parents. They came! I excitedly set my papers down onto the podium. Mrs Spieth whispered, "you may begin." I started talking about my history with bullying. "It started in eighth grade." It feels like I have said that a billion times. I decided to let out everything that was bottled up inside with a bit of improv. I told several stories. "Maybe it isn't me. Maybe it is all of you who are doing this. This story might not mean anything to anyone at this open house, but I know that I am not the only one who doesn't want to go into another school year feeling awful every. Single. Day." I realize how cheesy this whole thing probably sounds, but I don't care. People need to know. "I have made a list of those who have hurt me." I saw scattered glances around in the small crowd. I saw some of my bullies. "I will not be sharing that information, but you know who you are. I hope we can learn as a community, to treat each other like humans. Enough of the bullying." I felt a tear run down my cheek and immediately got embarrassed. "Thank you." I turned and walked off of the stage with my head held high. I wiped the tear off of my cheek. That is when there is an applause. People actually liked my speech. My parents cheered, and I was smiling ear to ear "backstage." The school year began, and multiple anti-bullying programs started. I made a difference, no matter how small. I was even featured in the newspaper! Leah's friends invited me into their group, and mom and dad started working from home so they can spend more time with me. I play soccer now and joined the debate team. Junior year has been amazing so far. The pain I felt the last few years will always be there, but a lot less of it. I smiled at Smiles, and for the first time, she smiled back. This story inspired by the "he said she said" prompt at readsy.com


Millie was 23 years old when she eloped with her boyfriend. Born in 1951, some seventy years back, in Lucknow the city of nawabs, and the most populated city of India. Having lost her mother during her birth, her father, an overtly honest administrative officer in the government, gave her the very best upbringing he could. She grew up running around in the football fields and cycling with neighbourhood boys scraping her knees and coming back home covered in dirt and stinkingly filthy. Girls her age were not allowed as much freedom as she was. She was plain lucky as her dad returned late from work, seldom paying attention as to how she spent her day. Slowly, her identity as a tomboy developed among the girls, who preferred to stay away from her. As she blossomed into a young woman, she became very vocal about her likes and dislikes in the neighbourhood functions and get-togethers. When the neighbourhood women rebuked her on her miserable sense of dressing up, she found it discriminatory and when they commented on her impolite manners, she found it oppressive. She would appeal to break the pathetic divide that society builds up around how a boy should be raised and a girl should be perceived. Clearly, she was demanding transformational change. Her disregard of the expected stereotypical female roles infuriated the neighbourhood women who labelled her as stubborn and opinionated. Therefore her running away was not a shocker to them, for them it had always been her way or highway, and as expected it was the highway she took, albeit with her boyfriend. The memories of that day are still so vivid and fresh with me. Early morning Milli gave a closed envelope to their part-time maid to hand over to her father, and she left the house with bags and a bit in haste. The maid, not ready to come back in the evening for her father, went and handed the envelope to the next-door neighbour after finishing her work in the house describing the events of the day. The nosey neighbour finding Millie‘s attitude a little uncool tore open the sealed envelope. The letter inside turned out to be an apology addressed to her dad on her decision to elope. The news travelled across houses in our neighbourhood like fire and by noon from young to old all were talking about it but who could break this news to her sixty-year-old flailing father was the question.

Millie was the third born, with two elder brothers, yet the only family was her father. Her brother, seventeen years older than her had settled in the USA. He seldom visited home. Her next brother, thirteen years older than her, was always away. Either at another city for a new job interview or trying to keep up the old one. Both being unavailable, it was the maid who was found both close and available to do the task. It must have been around four in the evening when women hanging on to balconies and windows saw the father walk down the narrow lane to his house. The maid was quickly summoned and handed over the responsibility as per the earlier instructions of Millie, with just a slight change. He returns home, she shall meet him, hand the letter and not the envelope for he would see it had been torn open. The maid, now aware of the situation, obeyed as told and coyly went to the door of the house and rang the bell. The father by now was inside and was just about to shout out at Millie for his evening cup of tea, he did not know had eloped. Since she was a little girl, Millie had always been waiting for her father. Standing near the staircase every evening as he would enter the hallway after opening the entry door with his set of keys. The small two-floor house would echo his voice as he would call out” Warm up the tea for me Millie and bring it to the drawing-room...while I change quickly and be back there, get yours too, we will have it together.” The maid could hear the footsteps approaching the double shutter door as the man opened it. She handed the letter to him with her head bowed down. Without making eye contact, she quickly receded the same lane as fast as she could. The snoopy neighbours saw the door closing and took a sigh of relief. Everything happened as per their carefully detailed plan, till they heard a scream that sounded like a cry of wild abandonment.

A few neighbours ran out of their house and knocked at his door but he did not open it. He was far from the voices outside. Inside as the first wave of grief passed over him he walked towards the drawing-room and sank heavily in his favourite armchair. The letter clenched tightly in his fist as he closed his eyes and scenes from the past became alive.

It was the usual Thursday, and he was bending upon the dining table over the newspaper circling the matrimonial ad where the grooms-to-be and their families advertise under the wanted bride section. Saturday and Sunday would pass away in the numerous meetings he would arrange with these suitable suitors and Millie hated it. Monday they would have a heated argument, Millie would call it a display of herself and he a meeting of minds, but the worst part was no suitor ever said ''yes” for Milli. She was nowhere presentable in the marriage market where stubborn patriarchal traditions reigned, and her offensive style of dressing, her barely five feet tall frame, and her big mouth that never stopped her ideology to escape failed her always. How many Thursdays to Monday this repeated like a ritual he could not recall, 20,40,52 his memory was failing. All he recalled was Millie’s strong headedness “I won’t allow men to hush me” she would always say in her defence and then latest that was added last week was "``People claim to be open-minded but can't accept an educated woman, all they want is a doll to display with their drawing room furniture”. Millie herself had just finished a degree course in architecture in Lucknow itself and so the outburst. He felt exhausted, drained, and fatigued. The same way he always felt after those constant arguments. Those arguments increasingly made him insensitive towards his daughter's desires. His hands slumped to his side and the letter dropped from his hand, his thoughts knotted around his very neck a hangman knot barely allowing him to breathe, he gasped for air, and a delicious scent of rain hit his nostrils from an open window. With great effort, he opened his eyes and looked in that direction. He saw large patches of grey rain-laden clouds passing over the big white sky and heard the deafening sound of a thunderbolt. As he looked around he saw the newly rain-washed trees swaying. The sound of birds chirping in shrieking tones gave an orchestra kind of environment. High up a big bolt of lightning slashed across the sky, creating a narrow creek that quickly shaped into a deep dark ditch. A gust of whispering winds swayed above his head for a brief moment, he saw them shape into the big black hole of the society before being pulled into the ditch by a mysterious skyward force. The big black hole that had been sucking his daughter’s ideology, devouring all her joys and desires ferociously was completely gone.

She was free. Free from the male-dominant society that labelled men and women with roles. Free from the system in which men have more power than women. Free from living the same system for days, weeks, and months. Free from the endless perusal of the right man. Winter, summers, and all seasons would be for her to enjoy. Many opportunities would lie ahead for her to seek. His heart began racing fast with the abundance of joy that he felt reverberating inside him. He felt incapable of holding so much joy and felt a strange tightening around his chest, he quickly breathed a silent prayer to live longer and witness it all. Elopement wasn't bad; it was the only way to throw the rule book away. Yes, that was it! Everything seemed clear.

He was engulfed by a deep desire to hold her in his arms, to wash away the guilt, the shame, and the pain. To see her smile when he would tell her that dad would be by her side when she would stand against age-old society rules. It was time to celebrate and to rejoice. He tried to get up but his feet gave way and he felt the force of his falling on his back. His chest tightened further, his lips parted, his breathing became heavy, and he felt the blood draining from his very fingers. He tried moving them but they lay motionless, he tried moving his legs but they seem strapped to the ground, he tried moving his head up but it just felt like a ton of dead stone on his neck, it was his eyes that moved and he looked up. The storm had subsided, the air was clean and the sky was white. The formations, the creek, the ditch, the big black hole, all seemed to have disappeared as fast as they had appeared to him. Ultimately, every death is different – and you can’t predict who will get a better one. But this one for sure was peaceful. It is very much possible that the man experienced his most profound moment just before death embraced him when he finally conceded with his daughter's viewpoint.


"Guys we have to get a photo!” Kiara shrieked, the pitch of her voice betraying the effects of her third vodka-soda.

I rolled my eyes at Alexis but obliged, turning my back to the stage and putting my arms around Alexis to my right and Kiara to my left as Kiara reached her arm out to snap a selfie of the three of us. Having known me as long as she had, she knew better than to let me look at it and beg her to delete it. I hated the way my smile made my eyes scrunch asymmetrically, and it didn’t help that Kiara and Alexis always looked like models.

My distaste for photos aside, it was a good moment to capture. The New Orleans brass band concert was the first time the three of us had been together for months, and I hadn’t realized just how much I missed live music and my oldest girlfriends. I had been struggling with the emotional load of my first year of a master’s degree in social work, Alexis was deep in accounting busy season had recently broken up with her boyfriend of five years, and Kiara was on the verge of quitting her consulting job for something with less travel and reasonable hours. The concert gave us a few hours of dancing and forgetting about the rest of our lives on a Friday night, and Alexis even managed to chat with a handsome man in front of us despite being out of practice with flirting. *** The Tuesday after the concert, I was nodding off on my couch while trying to read a dry legal document for my Social Welfare Policy class when my phone pinged with a text message. Happy for the distraction, I picked it up to see a “Fearsome Threesome” group text alert from Kiara. “Do you guys recognize this guy? I feel like I do but can’t figure out why…” the message said, with a link to an online news article.

I clicked the link: Partner arrested and charged with first-degree murder of Mariel Wright Jonathon Preston, 26, of Springfield, was arrested this morning in connection with the murder of Mariel Wright, 23, at her home on the 1800 block of Fairview Ave. on the night of Friday, March 18 th . Preston and Wright had been in a relationship for two years, but had been having issues recently according to the victim’s sister. Doorbell camera footage from a neighbor shows Preston leaving Wright’s row house at 7:56pm dressed in gray pants and a fleece jacket. At 9:19pm, a man the same size as Preston dressed in black jeans, a black hoodie, and a black mask is seen approaching Wright’s front door and gaining access to her house by punching through a front window and reaching through to unlock the door. At 9:43pm, the same man is seen leaving through the front door. At 10:58pm, Wright’s roommate, Michelle Starling, is seen entering the house. Wright was found deceased in the living room, reportedly from blunt force trauma to the head and chest. 911 records show a call made by Starling at 10:59pm. After 16 hours of questioning, police have arrested Preston and charged him with murder in the first degree. He is being held awaiting bail hearing but has stated through an attorney that he plans to plead innocent. Anyone with additional information regarding this case is encouraged to call the Springfield police department with an option to remain anonymous. Zooming in on the small mugshot, I saw an attractive man with swollen, red-rimmed eyes and an expression of profound despair. There was no trace of guilt or defiance, only deep sorrow. He did look oddly familiar though. I had begun to catalogue to overlaps in Kiara and my social circles – couldn’t be a work colleague of hers if I recognized him, couldn’t be a grad school classmate of mine if she recognized him – when a text from Alexis popped up: “Holy shit that’s the guy I was talking to at the concert. He introduced himself as Jon.” Kiara responded immediately, “Are you sure?” I certainly wasn’t sure.   Alexis held her liquor better than Kiara but had not been close to sober. I thought the guy she was talking to had a slimmer face, and curlier hair.

Alexis replied, “I really think it’s him. That’s so crazy - he wasn’t creepy at all! He even told me he had a girlfriend but they had gotten in a fight and that’s why he came to the concert alone.” “Whoa,” I replied, not knowing what else to say, as Kiara said “Girl I said find a new man, not a murderer, damn.” I tried to shake off the whole strange coincidence and got up to refill my coffee mug. I had to stop texting and finish the reading so I could write my summary.

As I settled back onto the couch and tried to focus, a discomfort nagged at me like an itchy shirt tag. Exasperated with myself, I put the article down and picked up my phone again, tapping and scrolling to the photo of the three of us Kiara had posted on Instagram without even sending it out for approval. Sure enough, in the background between Alexis and me there was the profile of a man. I zoomed in on the small screen, and almost dropped my phone when I realized the man in the photo was the same man as the mugshot. Alexis was right, she had talked to him at the concert. I took a screenshot, zoomed in, and cropped it before sending it to them with the caption “It WAS him!” Within thirty seconds, my phone rang with a call from Alexis. She hated talking on the phone so it must be serious, or maybe she was just freaked out, which was understandable. “Hey,” I answered. Alexis didn’t even say hello before blurting “He’s not a murderer.” “What do you mean? He just got arrested for murder,” I replied. “Rach, it was Friday night. The concert was Friday night. It can’t be him.” A cog clicked into place, stopping my spinning thoughts. “Wait, you’re right. The show started at 9, and we were there until 11.” Alexis jumped in, “Yeah exactly. I ran into him by the front door as we were walking to the Uber and gave him my card in case,” she paused sheepishly, “you know in case things didn’t work out with his girlfriend. That was like 11:15, I remember from the Uber confirmation. And he was standing in front of us when Rebirth came on, which had to be around 9, they never start shows late. He was right there with us the whole time.” She was right. I had noticed him too when we first walked in, because it was a little odd to be at a concert alone. He had gone to the bathroom at least once, but he hadn’t left for more than a few minutes. There was no way he could have changed clothes, killed his girlfriend across town, changed clothes again, and come back to the show. The Pit didn’t even allow re-entry. We called Kiara and listened to her have the same lightbulb reaction when we explained the timing. “Hold on,” she said, coming back with “I took the photo at 9:32pm.” Alexis must have had the news article pulled up too and exclaimed “That’s exactly when the man was in the house. It couldn’t have been him.” I thought about the venue, which surely had security. “Why wouldn’t they have checked the cameras at The Pit? “ Kiara cut in, “Why would they? He probably said he was at the show but no one could verify it. Just having a ticket doesn’t mean he actually went. He had a motive to kill her, and it looks good for the cops to solve a murder. They don’t want to have to actually do work.” She was right. The boyfriend was always an obvious suspect.

“I have a client meeting downtown in an hour,” Alexis said excitedly, “I’ll stop by the police station afterwards. Kiara text me the photo.” *** Evidence leads to release of suspect in Mariel Wright murder case, new suspect named With the emergence of new eyewitness testimony and review of additional photographic and video evidence Jonathon Preston, 26, of Springfield, has been released and all charges against him have been dropped. Mr. Preston was in a romantic relationship with the victim at the time of her death however it has been confirmed that he could not have been present at her residence at the time of the murder.

A coworker, Curtis Smith, 35, of Springfield has now been named as a suspect. Smith was recently fired from Elevation due to allegations of sexual harassment. Wright worked in human resources for Elevation and may have been involved with his termination. Smith has not been seen in the week since her murder, and a car registered to his name was found abandoned on a Forest Service road outside of Midvale earlier today. Anyone with knowledge of Smith’s current whereabouts is urged to call the Springfield police department. *** Alexis had taken her glasses off to rub her eyes, vision blurred from the previous eight hours of staring at spreadsheets, when the courier delivered the flowers to her closed office door with a terse knock. Curious, she opened the door to find the colorful bouquet and picked up the card, completely baffled.

The card read: “Nothing I can say will ever be enough but thank you for giving me my life back. Jon Preston.”