1.  The farmhouse sat atop a slightly-sloping hill and looked out towards Ménerbes. To the west, a clock tower perched on a *colline* of a nearby town and white bluffs guarded the property to the east. The whole property sloped gently south except for the flat grassy section behind the farmhouse. It was flat because that’s the way it needed to be for farming hundreds of years ago, Pierre said. He did not know what they farmed but figured it was grain since flat ground was easier for animals to process grain. It was a cold and sunny morning. The ground was wet and cold and there was a damp breeze out of the south. I heard about *Le Mistral* but never felt it. Pierre compared it to the *Santa Ana* winds of California. This was too mild to be *Le Mistral,* but I hoped it would blow before I left so I could feel its strength. It was mid-November and the olives were in full harvest. The fig tree by the stone wall had lost most of its leaves but the remaining few danced in the wind. The mulberry tree covering the gravel terrace in front of the farmhouse still had its dark green leaves and the branches hung low and flat. Down the hill the silver tops of the olive trees shined in the sun. I leaned down to pet *Lola* behind the ear on the windowsill. Her face was too small for her body and her closely-set and wide eyes looked up at me. She jumped onto the gravel terrace and climbed up the mulberry tree. I walked over gravel and wet fig and mulberry leaves and around the thigh-high stone wall where the gravel turned to grass. The previous day’s harvest was sitting in gray and red crates on the stone wall with thin slits running along the sides but not wide enough for olives to fall out. I grabbed a handful off the top. They were dewy and green. I flicked a few wet leaves and twigs to the ground and admired their beauty and oiliness on my skin. I dropped them back in the crate and wiped my wet hands on my pants. I carried an empty crate in each hand and walked towards the spot where we finished the day before. My knee-high rubber boots were damp and cold but fit perfectly. The damp cold early morning ground numbed my feet. I made a note to warm my boots inside overnight. Pierre was already in the groves. I heard the *“tat, tat, tattatat tat”* of olives hitting his crate. He was harvesting a shorter *olivier* on the eastern edge near wild thyme and rows of pine trees leading up *Mt. Perreal*. Through the forest and up the mountain the sun shined below the tops of the pine trees. The sunlight came in patches and shimmered through the forest. The pine trees stood straight spaced closely together and swayed gently in the morning wind. “*Bonjour, monsieur*” “*Boujour*”, I replied. “*Les fruits sont incroyables*” *“Oui”* I dropped my crates and started on a branch opposite him. The limbs drooped and nearly touched the ground from the weight of the olives. When picked, the limbs would rise again. The ripest fell to the ground when shook and we picked them up off the ground once we picked all we could pick standing up. “They must be happy to shed all this weight”, I said. “*Oui*. Do you think they talk among themselves?” “Maybe” “I do” “How so?”, I asked. “Between their roots and their branches”. He pointed to a branch entangled in a branch of another tree: “You see how this branch touches that tree?” “Yes” “I believe that is how they communicate” “Interesting”, I said. “What do they talk about?” “About how grateful they are to shed the weight!” The sun rose above the tops of the trees. I started to warm up and removed my jacket while two blue jays sang for us on the next tree. The blue jays flew away, then I thought I heard sheep bells in the direction of the mountain. The other day returning from Apt, a shepherd and his sheep dogs and sheep crossed the road and blocked the way to the farmhouse. There were many sheep and beautiful white dogs larger than the sheep protecting the flock. The sheep wore steel bells around their necks and it sounded like wooden spoons hitting tin cups as they moved together guarded by the dogs. I was surprised how much the shepherd looked like a shepherd. He stood at the rear of the flock with his shepherd stick looking biblical. Pierre and I watched them move slowly into the vineyard to the north. I thought I heard the bells of the sheep. It was a distinct sound, the sound of sheep bells. Instead a hunter and his two dogs emerged from the pine trees. The dogs wore steel bells and were sniffing for tracks and zigzagging in front of the hunter. The hunter carried a wood-trimmed double barrel shotgun slung over his right shoulder and stepped high through the dry brush under the pine trees. The hunter looked up and waved and walked towards me: “English?”, the hunter asked. “American” “*Ahh*. Welcome! What brings you to Gargas?” I looked towards Pierre. “Helping my friend with the harvest” “Very well. I’ve known Pierre thirty years. I live nearby”, he pointed towards the town with the clock tower. “Any luck?” “Nothing yet. Hunting boar but no luck yet” “Hunt anything besides boar?” “Just boar”, the hunter said. “They love boar, these dogs”, he said patting one of his dogs. “Beautiful dogs”, I said. “Well, best of luck!” “Same to you, sir”, he said and tipped his hat. We said goodbye and the hunter continued west with his dogs. He walked between the olive trees then through the brush in the forest and out of sight. “Let’s take lunch”, Pierre said. “I’m hungry” “Crêpes and salad?” “Sounds delicious” Pierre finished his crate and carried it up the hill towards the farmhouse. I picked a few more handfuls and followed him. I caught up to him under the oak tree and we walked together. We placed our harvest on the stone wall and Pierre wiped leaves off the white cast-iron table. He left his boots by the door on the stone and walked inside.   2. The white cast-iron table and chairs were on the gravel terrace under the shade of the mulberry tree. I sat at the table and looked south. It was windier than the sheltered olive groves but warm in the sun. Across the valley was the *Massif du Luberon*. A deep green and flat-topped silhouette against the blue sky like a smooth rolling wave. At the base was Ménerbes but I couldn’t see the town during the day. On the other side of the mountain was Marseilles and the Mediterranean and Algeria across the water. Pierre opened the kitchen window: “Egg on your crêpe?” “Yes, please” “Wine?” “Why not?" “Americans love their *booze!”* “We sure do” He kept the right half of the tall white window open and fed *Puce* sitting on the windowsill. “*Papa est ici mon petit chat*”. He scooped food into his dish. Pierre loved his cats and talked to them often. I could hear the eggs cooking in olive oil on the stove through the open window and my stomach jumped. The wind blew and a leaf fell on the table. I wiped it off and watched *Puce* eat his lunch. I looked up and *Lola* stirred in a branch above my head. She must have heard Pierre flirting with *Puce* and got jealous. I watched the cat move about the branch looking to get down. She jumped on the table and the table clanked loudly but *Puce* wasn’t startled because he was deaf. The sizzling stopped and clanking of silverware on plates signaled lunch was on its way. *Lola* ran across the gravel terrace and up on the windowsill and through the kitchen window looking for food: “*Papa est ici mon petit chat”*. I couldn’t see Pierre feed *Lola* but I knew he was feeding her because he never said no to his cats. The short wooden front door was open and Pierre walked out carrying a tray with two plates and a bowl of salad. “Anything else I can bring out?” “The wine and the glasses near the radio in the kitchen” “*Ah* yes. The *booze*!” “Americans and their *booze”,* he muttered. The door was a few steps away. I took off my boots and slipped on my loafers and the warmth felt nice inside. I found the wine and the glasses by the radio in the kitchen and brought them outside to the table. Pierre was tossing the salad in the bowl: “Salad with olive oil and olives”, he said. He held a serving of salad between two spoons over my plate and eyed me for my consent. I nodded and thanked him as he lowered the salad onto my plate. No coincidence an olive farmer made an olive salad tossed in olive oil, I thought. “From the farm?”, I asked nodding my head towards the olive trees. “Of course. The last bottle of last year’s oil and olives from last month”, he said pointing his fork at the bowl. “Excellent quality”, he continued, “Fetches a very good price at *le moulin”* “I’m sure it does. It’s delicious” *“Oui”* We sat in silence and finished our olive salad and I thought of Anna and I missed her very much. We visited the farmhouse years ago and I pictured her sitting across the table with her back to the mulberry tree and she looked beautiful in the sun. She always looked beautiful but that day she looked exceptionally beautiful sitting in the sun. During our visit we sat at the same white cast-iron table and chairs on the gravel terrace. The table sat near the edge of the stone wall in the sun. It was a hot and sunny day I remembered. *Puce* was much younger and was up in a tree watching us. Anna was across the table and Pierre to my right and Griff to my left with her back to the farmhouse. We were sweaty and hot from our hike up *Mt. Perreal*. Pierre led the way on narrow pine needle covered trails around and up the mountain, stopping to take in views when the trees cleared. Ruins of a red stone and flat roofed church sat on top of the mountain. The surrounding valley stretched off and far below the farmhouse glowed in the sun. We were tired and rested awhile at the top. It was a splendid hike up the mountain. Griff now lived in California and Pierre would love to talk to her about the golden state. He loved few things more than California. He used to lead bike tours all around the world and Yosemite was his favorite place. His bike hung in the garage and I knew he missed riding very much. I daydreamed about that day with Anna and Griff and *Puce* in the tree and the hike to the ruins and the farmhouse in the sun. I blinked away the thoughts and Pierre slid a crêpe onto my place. I thanked him and looked down at an egg on a crêpe with salt and wild rosemary from the farm. The outer edges of the egg were crisped brown and porous. “I almost forgot”, Pierre said as he reached across the table for the wine. “*Baron Philippe de Rothschild.* Only the best for my American guest”, he said reading the label on the bottle. “Only the best” “I’ve never tried it”, he said. “But I’ve heard it’s excellent” “Yes”, I said after my first sip. “Excellent *booze”* “We had a lovely time with your friends a few years ago”, Pierre said. “Remember our hike up *Mt. Perreal?”* “Yes. How could I forget?”, I said. “Such a hot and beautiful day” “Most beautiful and hot” “And the champagne and cheese and fruit afterwards?” “Such a reward that was” “Yes. Great reward after the hard hike”, Pierre said. We were quiet a moment reflecting on that day on the mountain. Pierre was much older now and his face was grey and tired. He knew those days had passed. The days climbing the mountain to the ruins. “How are they doing?”, he asked. “Great” “Where do they live now?” “Anna lives near I and Griff lives in California” “How wonderful. Whereabouts in California?” “Los Angeles”, I said. “She really loves it there” I looked down at *Lola* who joined us under the table. She laid at my feet in the sun. “*Ahh.* California is so beautiful. I would love to bike Yosemite again” He poured another glass of wine and I drank it and it warmed me up. There was some bread on the table and we cleaned our plates of yolk and olive oil. I looked at Pierre, but he looked down between his clasped hands and his elbows on the table. His wrinkled forehead touched his thumbs. I watched him for a moment and saw tears in his eyes. He closed his eyes tightly and released them and a tear fell through the table to the gravel. I knew he was thinking of Jaqueline riding beside him down smooth pavement in Yosemite with a cool breeze in their faces and a California sun on their backs. I turned and looked towards the olive trees and we sat in silence under the mulberry tree.   3. The rain came from the east from the mountains and the sky darkened quickly. I stood at my opened bedroom window and looked south and saw the lights of Ménerbes in the rain and mist across the valley. The lights of the town spread up the *Massif du Luberon* but I couldn’t see the mountain through the opaque wet sky. Faint automobile lights zigzagged down the mountain towards Ménerbes. I watched the automobile lights awhile and it was soothing looking out across the valley through the window. I pictured families returning from Marseilles after a day at the beach, speeding to get home off wet roads into warm houses. The children slept quietly in the backseats while the parents drove. They’d get home and bake wild oysters and boil leeks from the *Vieux Port* market and the parents would drink wine while the children laughed. They’d all go to bed full and happy and sunburnt. The rain was steady but there was no lightning. The air held a sweet zing and the smell reminded me of storms back home. I left the window open and walked over the warm grainy floor to the curved staircase lined with artwork. The kitchen was at the base of the stairs where Pierre was boiling water for tea. The radio spoke fast but I sat down and listened and knew it was about the California wildfires. The fires had started a few days ago and spread quickly near Chico in the mountains. The disaster troubled Pierre. He looked up from his milky grey tea with watery eyes: “Fifty-seven dead and over five hundred missing”, his voice choked back tears. “*Incroyable*”. He lifted his white octagonal porcelain cup with both hands and tilted it back and took a sip. He looked down at the table shaking his head in disbelief. “The entire town burned to the ground. Many more will die. *Incroyable”*, Pierre said. “Every year the fires are worse. It’s a shame” “Yes” I looked out the window into the rain. If only the rain came to the mountains near Chico, I thought. “Have you ever been to the area of the fires?”, I asked. I reached for a cup and filled it with black tea from the white porcelain teapot. I added honey and milk and stirred until the dark clear liquid turned milky grey. “Yes”, Pierre replied. “Many years ago” “On a cycling tour?” “Yes”, he said sipping his tea. “I led a group of Austrians south along the foothills of the Sacramento Valley, then east and up into the Cascade Range. We rode through the town they speak of on the radio” I cut a few slices of day-old baguette on a thin wooden board and spread peach jam. I pushed the wooden board towards Pierre and he grabbed a slice. He dipped the bread in his cup and took a bite. “We rode up the mountains to Paradise. It was early May and cool in the mountains”, he said. “We rode hard that day. It was a very memorable trip” “How many of you?” “About twenty”, he replied. “The Austrians were strong cyclists and we rode *fast* that day”. Pierre closed his eyes imagining the ride. “Were you the strongest of the group?” “Of course. I could’ve been a champion cyclist, *you know!*” “I know” “That town is gone. It’s a pile of ashes”. He took another sip and bite of bread. “It’s completely gone. *Incroyable*” “The fire came so quickly. It’s awful to think about” “Such a tragedy” “*Oui”* I cut two more slices of bread. Pierre ate one and I ate the other with peach jam. “I can’t handle any more bad news. Every day it’s worse”. He turned off the radio. “Time for a nap”, he said placing his empty cup in the sink. “Leeks and mussels and roasted chestnuts for dinner. But first I need a nap” I cleared the table and climbed the stairs to my bedroom. The window was open and I could hear the rain against the roof.   4. I thought I was dreaming when I woke in the cold and dark room. A thick wool blanket secured me against the bed and I laid motionless listening to the rain on the roof. A terrace lamp casted long shadows across the room and I tried to focus on the shadows hugging the mahogany wardrobe at the foot of the bed but my eyes were too heavy and tired. I couldn’t move my arms and I laid stuck to the warm bed under the wool blanket. I must be dreaming. I fell back asleep. The sound of an accordion woke me up. It billowed through the high ceilings and hallways of the farmhouse and skipped across the bricks and tiles and filled each room with music. I switched on the bedside lamp and checked my watch and stood and moved to the window. I had slept for an hour but it felt much longer. The lights of Ménerbes twinkled in the distance but no automobile lights came down the mountain. I suppose all the families are home now in their dry houses eating a hot meal, sunburnt from a day at the beach in Marseille. “*Bravo*!”, I shouted down the hall and clapped my hands when the music stopped. “*Bravo*!” “*Merci, monsieur!* I walked down the hall towards the music and pushed open the half open door to Pierre’s room. He sat on a wooden chair at a wooden desk while a white cloth lamp illuminated a pile of sheet music. His black and white accordion rested gently on his lap. “I had no idea you played an instrument” “It’s been a very long time”, he said patting the instrument lightly, his left hand under the strap. “Look how dusty she is” “I see that”, I said. “It sure is a beautiful instrument” He moved some sheet music around. “How long have you played?” “Over thirty years. I bought it at a Paris flea market before I moved to Les Chauvets” “It sounds lovely” I watched him shuffle more sheet music until he found what he was looking for. I took a step back leaning on the doorframe and watched him perform his next piece. He pulled his left hand away from the body and the instrument breathed to life. The music sailed through the farmhouse. His right hand danced on the treble keyboard while his left hand controlled the expansion and contraction and managed the brass buttons and switches. It was a beautiful marriage of music and coordination. *Lola* jumped on the wooden desk. She’s waited many years to hear him play again. He played the last measure squeezing the remaining air out of the instrument then it was silent again except for the rain. “Well done!” “*Ohh* it’s been so long since I’ve last played. My fingers needed the exercise” “You are quite talented” “It has been collecting dust under Jaqueline’s bed”, he said removing the instrument from his lap. “I shall keep it out and play more often” “Great idea” He set the accordion against the wall next to the wooden desk. “Did you sleep well?”, Pierre asked. “It was an odd sleep”, I replied. Pierre stroked *Lola* on the desk. “I dreamt I was a cat”   5. We ate our last dinner of leeks and mussels and roasted chestnuts in the white-washed dining room with thick wooden beams supporting the high ceiling. It was still raining. “What time’s your train tomorrow?”, Pierre asked. “Four in the afternoon leaving Cavaillon” “We shall leave here at two thirty then” “I shall pack my bags tonight” There was plenty of food and he ladled mussels onto my plate until there were no mussels left in the steel pot. We slurped them and filled an empty bowl with shells and slurped more and filled a second. We ate boiled leeks and the mild greens complimented the saltiness of the mussels. He filled our glasses with *Baron Philippe de Rothschild* and he held his glass up and I clanked his with mine: “*Santé*” “*Santé*” “To good friendships and olives” “To good friendships and olives” “I will miss having you around”, Pierre said. “Will you come back for next year’s harvest?” “I hope I can” “Maybe Anna and Griff will join you?” “They would love to” “Les Chauvets is lonely sometimes” “I bet” “Even with my olives and my cats”, he said. “It truly is a very lonely place sometimes” “I bet” I watched Pierre mop his plate of mussel and leek juice with bread then I did the same. He cleared the bowls of empty shells and returned with a pan of roasted chestnuts and an empty bowl for chestnut shells. “More food?” “The last supper with my hungry American guest” “I’ve never had chestnuts” “They are delicious. *Here*”, he said handing me a plateful. “How do you eat them?” “Like this”, he said opening one with his knife. We sat around the table awhile pealing and eating sweet spongy and earthy chestnuts and drinking good wine. *Lola* was curled on the other end watching Pierre with her chin on her tail. “*Lola mon chat. Veux-tu une châtaigne?”* He rolled a chestnut across the table towards the cat but the cat watched it roll off the table and crack on the floor. “*Je suppose que non”*   6. The rain stopped in the morning. Pierre was in the kitchen feeding the cats and boiling water for tea. The radio was on but quiet. “*Bonjour*” “*Bonjour*” “Tea?” “Please” He poured dark grey tea from the white porcelain teapot and I added milk and honey. “The rain stopped”, he said. “Would you like to walk the property?” “I would love to”, I replied. “Great. After breakfast we will walk the property”, he said. “How is your tea?” “Great” “Bread with jam?” “Please”, I said. “Anything on the radio?”, I asked. “Nothing”, he replied. We finished our tea with stale baguette and peach jam and dressed to walk the property. We stepped out onto the gravel terrace and around the stone wall. The sun was rising and drying the dew and low clouds moved west across the valley. “Beautiful sky this morning. Like a painting” “Very much so” “Don’t the clouds look fat with colors?” “Yes” We walked gently downhill along the edge of the farm to a row of bare almond trees\*.\* We followed a trail to the top of a dried river bed at the base of the mountain and stood at the edge in the grass in the sun. The river banks were packed layers of red and orange clay. A single fir tree grew from the clay on the other side and a large grey bird with red feet looked at us from a limb. Down below were fresh boar tracks in the wet clay. “*Le Colorado”*, Pierre said. “Funny” “The Mighty Mississippi”, he joked. “I like *Le Colorado* better” “So do I” \*“\*It’s beautiful, *Le Colorado”* We continued along the base of the mountain through the pine trees. White mushrooms covered in dirt had broken through the brush and dotted the ground. Pierre examined the mushrooms but none were edible. The forest was quiet except for the breeze. We walked awhile uphill through the forest then downhill through knee-high brush and into an abandoned almond farm. “This is my neighbor’s property”, Pierre said. “It’s a shame they don’t take care of the almond trees anymore” “Why did they stop?” “They planted grapes and left these to rot” “That’s rotten” “Yes” “How long have they been like this?” “Many years” “What a waste” The brush between the rows of almond trees was unnavigable. We walked the perimeter along the edge of the forest. Around a bend we saw more abandoned almond trees and the vineyard in the distance. The grey stone house sat at the end of a gravel driveway lined with olive trees. Grape vines stretched into the valley and the vines were bare and grew from short mounds of gravel. We continued along the edge of the forest and passed the vineyard and reached the road. “I want to show you something”, Pierre said. He pointed down the road: “There’s an abandoned farmhouse I want to show you” “Why is it abandoned?”, I asked “It’s a very tragic story”, he replied. We started down the road. “The mother was in the kitchen one morning many years ago”. He paused to pick packed mud off the bottom of his boot with a stick. “She saw her daughter standing on the railing of the stairs with a rope around her neck. The girl jumped. Her neck snapped right in front of her *own* mother” “That’s horrific” “The family left and never returned” “It’s been empty since the day she died?” “*Oui”* We were close enough to see the abandoned farmhouse over the tops of trees. “Look at the decay”, Pierre said pointing to the roof. “The roof has caved it” “I see” Overgrown sycamore trees lined the driveway. We walked in the shade up the winding dirt path. Ahead was an opened garage and to our right the abandoned farmhouse and a grassy field in the distance. Pierre froze: “*Arrête!”* He pointed across a ditch towards the barn in the field. White sheep dogs looked at us. They barked and paced along the edge of the ditch keeping the flock behind them. Their snouts pointed towards the sky when they barked. The sheep rested in the field by the barn behind the dogs. “They’ll kill us if we move any closer” “Why?” “They’re trained to kill anything they think threatens the flock” “Better we leave, then” “Yes” We retreated slowly keeping our eyes fixed on the dogs then we were out of sight and back to the road. “They would have killed us if we didn’t stop” “How do you know?” “In September they killed a cyclist that rode too close to the flock” “*My God*” “They are beautiful animals but very dangerous if you threaten their sheep” Pierre checked his watch. “We better get going” The sun had disappeared and the wind was blowing heavy clouds from the mountains.   7. We drove past Roussillon and Gordes then continued southwest towards Cavaillon. Clouds moved low and fast from the east from the mountains and it started raining. Pierre was quiet and I looked out the window at the passing stone houses with flat red roofs in the grey countryside. We rode through Robion on a narrow street lined with cypress trees and to the west jutted steep white cliffs dark with trees. We slowed around roundabouts and passed closed cafes with chairs and tables moved inside for the winter. “Cavaillon is two towns away”, Pierre said driving under a metal bridge. “That’s a lovely name for a town” “It’s world famous for their melons” “What types of melons?” “Cantaloupes” “If I have time I will buy a cantaloupe” “They’re world famous” We arrived at the train station and I checked my watch. The train left in fifteen minutes. “No time to buy a melon”, I said. “Next time” “Yes” We parked and walked to the front of the train station. The square in front of the train station was empty except for a man with his dog on a wooden bench under a sycamore tree. The building was off-white with dark green shutters and a red terracotta roof. A flag flew below the station’s clock and chairs were stacked on tables outside closed cafes along *Avenue Pierre Semard* across the square. “I guess this is it” “So long my friend” “Thank you for everything” “My pleasure” I extended my hand and he shook it and we hugged in the empty square and the train whistled. “You’re a good man”, I said with my hand on his shoulder. “Best of luck with the remaining harvest” “Please visit again soon” “I will” “*À bientôt*” “*À bientôt*” Pierre walked away and I stood there and watched him with his arms crossed behind his back and his head tilted down. He stopped and turned and waved and I waved and headed for the train.


Evanora had been born in to the Druid coven of witches, being the second daughter of the high priestess. For the first couple of centuries of her life she had lived in adherence with the coven’s rituals and rules and only practiced certain types of magic and certain spells in accordance to the current seasons. She had been obedient, living in harmony with the natural world and had reverence for every living thing, but she had soon come to realize that the creature known as man was vile, evil, and respected no other form of life but it’s own. Her coven of witches had come to be persecuted and their village was burned to the ground. She had seen her mother and sisters burned at the stake for no other reason than that they were practitioners of witchcraft and chose to live their lives in accordance with nature and not the bizarre religion of he townsfolk which treated its women unfairly and was lenient to its menfolk despite the fact that it is women folk who are the ancient healers and nurturers of life. The Druid way of life honored and worshipped women, while every other way of life abhorred them and thought lowly of them. When she saw her mother burn before her very eyes, it was then that something within her had died and something new had emerged. It was the inception of a deep hate for mankind, especially the townsfolk from the surrounding areas. Their womenfolk were no better, they liked being treated as fodder, and depreciating commodities for their menfolk. Evanora had decided from then on to align herself with the dark lord, the only other entity that hated mankind as much as she did. She started to make blood sacrifices to him at the beginning of each season, and she noticed that it increased her in strength and vitality. Her magic became more powerful than it had ever been. Before when she was with her coven they would only use criminals and murderers for blood sacrifice, but Evanora had started using any man that she could get her hands on, luring him with her mesmerizing beauty. They came willingly and eager to please, being swayed by her long red hair, milky white skin and her emerald green eyes. One such fool was William Smith who had come to her clearing in the forest to kill her. He actually thought that he’d be a match for her magic and her mesmerizing beauty, but she had cast a powerful spell on him, turning him into her slave and showpiece before sacrificing him at the start of autumn. She knew his brother was on the hunt for her, but no matter, she had destroyed many men before him and knew exactly how to handle him if and when he did dare to face her. Killing William had given Evanora immense satisfaction, his sacrifice was the one that had given her the most pleasure out of all the men she had killed thus far. It was Williams father, Reverend Samuel Smith who had led the witch hunt and brought the townsfolk to destroy her coven, so Evanora took great joy in sacrificing him to the dark Lord, and now his brother was on the quest to exact vengeance. The fool would surely meet his imminent death when he came to her clearing. Killing two Smith boys in two consecutive seasons would bring her great contentment. She could smell something in the air this evening aside from the mushrooms, shrubs, and woodland critters. She could smell the faint smell of a man headed her way. He was young and virile, and his scent carried the essence of bravery and valor. Evanora smiled to herself, she wouldn't have to lure anyone this season, her prey was coming to her. ~~~~~~~~~~ William was blinded by his thirst for vengeance which could only be quelled by the blood of Evanora. The townsfolk had found William’s body on the shrubs near the outskirts of the village and he had strange markings on his flesh, a pentagon, upside down cross, and a singular eye which his late father had told him was the mark of the beast. William's body wasn't the first body the villager's had found with these occult markings, they had found many of their young men's bodies in a similar state towards the beginning of each season. So they came to understand that such bodies were sacrificed to the Dark Lord by the Witch of the Woods. When William’s father had led the crusade against the coven in the deep woods the villager's had been successful in annihilating the coven and Reverend Samuel had been hailed a hero and the Town Leader, his two sons William and Nicholas had been set to take his rank when the good Reverend passed but he tragically had to bury his son William when he was found dead and shredded. Reverend Samuel had warned William not to pursue the witch alone, she had aligned herself with the Dark Lord and was more powerful than her mother and the witches of her coven that they had killed, but William was determined to kill her and put an end to the seasonal sacrifices, and though he met an untimely demise, he was still admired by the townsfolk for his bravery. His younger brother, Nicholas, Reverend Smith's only surviving son had not taken the death of his older brother lightly. He vowed to kill the Witch of the Woods even if he died trying. He knew however that she was more powerful than any witch that the town’s people and his father had ever encountered, she had sacrificed many men to the Dark Lord and all those offerings had increased her in power and might making her wicked beyond belief. He realized that not only would it take physical strength, but it would also take mental agility and he’d also need magical help. He’d heard of the White Priests who lived in the foot hills up North in the town of Exeter, they were men who were in communion with The Light, worshipping the Good Lord. The magic they practiced was not black and they mostly used incantations and prayers, never hexes or spells, nor did they sacrifice living creatures. He’d make his way by horse tonight. The journey wasn’t arduous nor were the foothills of Exeter too far from his villiage of Lunaris, in fact this journey was familiar to him, he remembered traveling there with his father, brother, and the clergy whenever his father needed advice or needed a certain dream to be interpreted. The Priests of Exeter were kind and intuitive, helpful in any way they could be, providing recipes for salves, elixirs for weakness and malaise, and remedies for ailments. Tonight however, Nicholas sought something far greater from them, he needed advice on how to kill a powerful witch, namely The Witch of the Lunaris Woods. Nicholas arrived at the piedmont of Mount Exeter he urged his trusty horse forward, slowly climbing the gentle slope. He could make out the outline of the small priory up ahead about a few yards away. He had come here to meet with the Prior of Priests of Light. Prior Lancaster had been good friends with Reverend Smith, giving him advice and council on many matters, surely he’d know how to kill the witch. Once he reached the small monastery he tied Gabilan to a nearby tree. “Well Gab, here we are” he said, caressing the chestnut colored English horse, “I want you to stay put while I go meet with Prior Lancaster. Understood?” The horse chuffed and nodded it’s head before Nicholas gently kissed its forehead affectionately and headed to the priory. He knocked on the dark oak door and to his surprise, it was opened very quickly. A slender man wearing a long white cassock smiled at Nicholas, “Nicholas Smith! Come in, we’ve been waiting for you! I’m father Stephen”, said the man as he beckoned Nicholas inside, “Prior Lancaster is in his dormitory and awaits your company!” The slender man seemed almost excited, his tone was soft and his speech was fast, he lead Nicholas to another wooden door and knocked. “Come in” said a familiar voice from inside, and father Stephen opened the door before he and Nicholas stepped inside. Nicholas smiled when his eyes saw the kind and familiar face of Prior Lancaster, he had a very pleasant and unassuming face, it was a face that one could trust before any words were even exchanged. Nicholas walked over to him with outstretched arms and Prior lancaster returned the embrace which they held for a few moments, the Prior looked in to Nicholas’ eyes for a few seconds, as if searching for something. Nicholas’ expression grew solemn, “William is dead” he said with pain in his voice, Prior Lancaster nodded his head and squeezed Nicholas’ arms, “I know. I had a vision” the old man responded, “he should never have gone after Evanora alone.” Nicholas furrowed his brows, “Evanora?” The Prior nodded, “Evanora is the one who killed your brother, I know of her, I knew her mother. They weren’t evil beings but your townsfolk killed their people in ignorance. This was before I met your father...” his voice trailed off. He looked at Nicholas up and down, as if sizing him up. “You are no match for her Nicholas, believe me my son, you are the last survivor of Reverend Smith and I’d like for you to stay safe. Stay away from Evanora, do not wander in to the deep woods of Lunaris. Listen to me, please” the old man implored. Nicholas slowly shook his head, “She killed my brother....he was all I had after my father. I cannot rest until I exact my revenge, please don’t ask of me that which I cannot do. Please help me....if you cared at all for William Prior Lancaster, then help me!” Nicholas pleaded, his eyes moist. The Prior went silent for a few moments and then sighed. “Very well” he said in defeat before turning and beckoning Nicholas to a chair, “Take a seat”. Once the two men were seated, the Prior began “We are a priory of Light, we are in communion with the One True God and we do good works so that we may please him, we do not work through magic or spells, rather we work through prayers, hope, and incantations. We please him by helping his creation, our fellow man. Nothing is more powerful than God and his light Nicholas, you’ve set out to destroy darkness but you must never let vengeance consume you, else the darkness will consume you.” Nicholas shifted in his seat, the Prior’s words were making him apprehensive and uneasy, he was getting increasingly impatient. “Tell me how I can destroy her evil magic and kill her!” he blurted impulsively. The Prior’s face donned a serious and solemn expression, “There is an ancient amulet I’ve come across from my travels throughout the kingdom, it originates from Babylon and has the power to render anyone’s magic useless. You see, it saps the magic of the one who it is used against....but it is not without repercussions.” “I care of no repercussions!” Nicholas quickly answered, “Tell me how it works!” The Prior nodded his head, his expression stern, “This amulet will leach her powers and make her subservient to you once you recite the incantation at sunset, but you must get close enough and hold her hand. This won’t be easy and she will fight you with her magic, but the closer you get the weaker she will get, and once you utter the words, she will be powerless.” Nicholas smiled slightly and his eyes lit up before he furrowed his brows, “And what are the repercussions?” **** I am glad to have found this sub, I will continue my story of Evanora here. any feedback is welcome.


She was a study in restrained elegance. Hers was an uneasy smile, the kind that surfaces only when it has to. A twitch of indiscernible tumult betrayed the placid calm of her demeanour. She was, for lack of a better phrase, quietly stunning. Black, wavy hair, ruffled only slightly by the gusts of activity and the general hubbub of her manic surroundings. A gentleness of movement, married to the unmistakable, if barely perceptible, shifts of uncertainty and doubt. There was economy in her motion, though excess in its inertia – a sense that each neuron fired was one she would rather have not wasted. As though every gesture had meaning, though what that meaning was, was an exercise in futility. *Just who are you?* The diner was loud, almost uncomfortably so. Patrons yelled, babies screamed. It was no different from any other diner at any other time in any other point in history. People came and left. Customers alighted and then returned. Workers buzzed about, busy bees in this colony of cheap eats and cheaper smiles. The diner itself was constant in its inconsistency. A continuous ebb and flow of human beings, each with their own story to tell, their own dreams to share. Their own nightmares to endure. *What was your nightmare? What lit up your dreams?* And then there was her. Almost unmoving, a stoic oasis at the centre of a storm. The food, a term loosely used for what was present before her, was consumed absent-mindedly, as her eyes drifted from it to the phone lying on the table in front of her. The delights of deep-fried poultry were lost upon this most inconceivably spell-binding of creatures, her attention focused upon what was, clearly, a war happening in her own mind. Her gaze darted, fitfully, from chicken breast to her mind’s eye, from leftover coleslaw to the detritus of her heart. Each passing moment lent her air a slowly-building, and depressingly alarming, hue of desperation. *Let me fight this with you.* She shifted uneasily in her seat, more a product of the apparent disaster that was unfolding within her than the chair’s poor design. Her lips trembled slightly as she exhaled in frustration. Or was it despair? Her face changed. Just for a second. A flash of…anger? Bemusement? Grief? It was hard to tell. The noise didn’t make it any easier to figure out what was really going on. But the signs were not good. The trembling was even more obvious now. Her colour had started to rise. For a brief moment, the world stood still as the noise died away. There was nothing in it but her. *Oh no.* Something had snapped. A tear rolled down her cheek, freed from the bonds of captivity, aided in their escape by gravity. Tellingly, her sculpted expression remained as unforgiving as granite. She cast a steely glare down at the screen of her phone, a potent cocktail of rage and melancholy. All at once, I knew who she was. Tired, broken by the world and those that had loved her. Strong, but not that strong. Weakened but not weak. A fighter who wanted to put down her sword. An artist that couldn’t help but paint one more masterpiece, even if it killed her. This, was her magnum opus – the subtle lie that she told the whole world. The lie that nothing would ever break her. *Don’t give up.* It all happened so quickly. The wiping of the tear’s trail, the cleared throat, the lightning fast regaining of her shaken composure. All was well, was it not? No one had seen anything. And so it hadn’t happened. Except it had. She decided to not bother with the rest of her food. The leftovers were packed into a plastic bag, and she quickly disposed of them. She got up and left, exiting my life as quickly as she had arrived. I knew that I had come to love her. I could only hope that someone out there would some day, love her as much as I do.


Most things that are lost are never found. This was true of my cat Lucy. By all accounts, Lucy was a freak of nature, who should have never been born. She was the runt of a litter and suffered from a genetic defect, which had given her a permanent limp and blindness. The poor thing was rejected by her mother and the other kittens had put her at the very bottom of the pecking order. While the other kittens found their forever-homes within weeks, Lucy remained unwanted and unloved until one day when my father found her. She had been abandoned at a roadside in a stereotypical cardboard box, damp from the heavy August rain. In those days, we lived in a small cul-de-sac in a quiet neighborhood. We weren’t exactly poor but we weren’t incredibly wealthy either. Mom had two jobs and dad worked around the clock at a factory. Even though she was blind, Lucy was fierce and her impaired vision didn’t stop her. She had mangled ears and scars before she turned two years old. Her approach to life was to try and be the queen of the castle or die trying. Her whole life from kitten-hood, she stalked the surrounding neighbourhood, muscular, almost skinny. Not once did I ever see that feline flinch, no matter what noise was going on. The only time she relaxed was when he found my sister Grace sitting in the garden, and would curl onto her lap - but only her. I can’t tell you how special that made her feel, how happy. She would tell everyone that she was her cat, with a pride the eye can’t hide. One winter, when the weather had been particularly bitter and Pacific Northwest had suffered the worst blizzards seen in decades, my sister Grace got sick. She’d always been a playful child with wild, strawberry blonde hair and a mischievous glint in her eyes, always plotting the next adventure. There were two years between us, I was the eldest and had just turned thirteen. Grace was eleven and even though we often fought as sisters do, we were extremely close. Our parents worked long hours and were often away, so for most of our childhood, all Grace and I had were each other but we never suffered from it. Lucy had been a welcome addition to the family. On a cold January morning, when small snowflakes crystallized on the kitchen window, creating intricate shapes and danced in the sunlight, I remember waking up to Lucy sitting at the edge of my bed and for the first time ever - she curled up next to me. That’s when I knew something was wrong. Grace had died from pneumonia in the early hours that morning. She had been ill for a few weeks and despite the best efforts of the doctors, they couldn’t save her. After Grace’s death, Lucy changed. She stayed in the house a lot and practically gave up her crown as queen of the hill. It was almost as if she grieved with us, in a way I’ve never seen before. She’d always been a quiet cat who never made much noise but sometimes, I woke up at night to the sound of Lucy crying. It wasn’t just the normal sound of an upset animal, but a heart wrenching wail. It broke not only my heart but also my parents. We never could have guessed that a cat would grow so attached to one human. Despite her blindness, Lucy had never had an accident. Her other senses must have been heightened because she never ventured to the road and so we were never worried for her safety. Three weeks after Grace’s death, Lucy had almost entirely stopped eating and even when we’d taken her to the vet, nothing changed. She became withdrawn and merely the shadow of the cat she once was. One Tuesday afternoon when I came home from school, both my parents waited for me on the porch. “It’s Lucy.” mom said and that’s all she ever needed to say. A delivery driver had knocked on the door a few hours earlier, holding the body of a cat in his arms. It was weird, he said, because he swore the cat had seen him and there was plenty of time for him to hit breaks on the vehicle but the cat had still made a run for it and by the time the driver hit the breaks it was already too late. My parents hadn’t had the heart to tell him about Lucy’s blindness but instead of burying her in the garden, we buried her in the graveyard, next to my sister.


Without taking his order, the bartender set a margarita on the rocks in front of Walter. “So, what brings you to beautiful Mexico, amigo?” asked the bartender, whose nametag read Eduardo. Walter Raymundo looked up at the bartender and considered his answer. A 45-year-old widower, Walter had arrived at *Playa de Sueños* resort yesterday. He looked at his phone – 5 PM. Yesterday’s highlight was a group catamaran sailing lesson followed by a sedate dinner for one at the resort restaurant. Tonight, he was trying his luck at the pool bar; hopefully he’d make it past 9 PM. “Oh, what you’d expect. I’m part of a Z Survivor group. Package deal – pay a little extra and the organizers promise a 2-1 ratio of women to men,” Walter admitted with a rakish smile. Eduardo chuckled. “So, my friend, you’re like the rest of us - looking for love.” Walter gave a grunt that might have been agreement but said nothing. He was looking for love, sure, but he couldn’t ignore his work, either. It had taken him 5 years to talk himself into traveling from his home in Tucson, AZ, to the nearest “safe” resort in the West. *Playa de Sueños*, located in Puerto Peñasco, Mexico, was purpose-built to resist zombie attacks. Walter lost his wife, Evie, in the great West Coast Zombie Uprising of 2022 and he was uneasy. Not because of the zombies – by all accounts the Mexican government was far more ruthless in exterminating the living dead than the United States. No, the Mexican government didn’t care that the long-rumored zombie cure was, by all accounts, just around the corner, or that with the help of a powerful drug cocktail a small number of “remediated” zombies were currently being trained to complete menial jobs in some parts of the United States. The Mexican *Guerreros contra los Muertos* were known to shoot first and not ask questions. On top of that, the resort was on a manmade island with strict security protocols including lots of men with automatic rifles. Walter was uneasy because he hadn’t been on a date since his wife died – hadn’t been intimate with another human being since Evie had been ripped from his arms by an angry horde 5 years ago. Now here he was, sipping a margarita by the pool, sizing up the female population. There were some beautiful women for sure, but as he feared he was 20 years older than most of the female guests. Middle aged women were in particularly short supply all over the Americas. For some still unknown reason, zombies attacked women more than men, and women over 40 most of all. Once attacked, older women were more likely to convert or die than any other demographic besides the very young and the very old. Solid numbers were hard to come by but something like 5% of the human population in America had been wiped out since the first flare-up in 2011. Some 15 million plus gone, and women over 40 made up 2/3 of that number. The rarest commodity of all were survivors, those who’d been attacked but made it out the other side. It was believed that less than 1% of all humans attacked by zombies survived. Most confirmed survivors were secured at government sites being tested and studied. Most, but not all. The west coast of America had taken the brunt of the zombie uprisings. Southern California alone lost 3 million to zombie attacks and another 2 million to outmigration. Zombies liked it hot but not too hot, dry but not too dry. They also appear to have a sense of humor as the government was now paying families to move into the few inhabitable neighborhoods in LA and San Diego. Houses that would have sold for millions were now being given away. Other than a few mild flareups in New York, Houston, and a handful of other cities, the middle of the country and the east coast were largely untouched. The average suburbanite in New Hampshire or Ohio watched the holocaust unfold across their TV screens, safe in their living rooms, while Los Angeles and San Diego nearly burned to the ground. Walter came out of his reverie. “Thanks for the drink, Eduardo. Very good. But I didn’t order it – how’d you know I’d like it?” “I took a chance – you seem like the tequila type,” said a woman’s voice. Walter looked to his left just as a woman started walking toward him. Walter took her in. Not your typical beauty but interesting none the less. She was perhaps 5 feet 5 inches tall, brown skin the color of melted caramel. Eyes as black as anthracite, yet a bit jaundiced in the sclera. Athletic, bordering on muscular build, small perky breasts. And not a day over 25. “Hi, um, thanks,” said Walter. “I’m America. You looked thirsty and lonely,” she said, in faintly-accented English. Her face was radiant. Walter was intrigued. “I’m Walter. Thanks again for the drink. Do you want to get a booth?” As they walked toward the booth, America lost her balance, giving Walter an opportunity to be a gentleman. She laughed, blamed it on an irregular paving stone. Once in the booth, they talked, awkwardly at first, more comfortably as time wore on. America learned that Walter lived in Tucson but had moved there from San Marcos, a town in northern San Diego County. Walter left Southern California during the Uprising only reluctantly and only after losing his wife. He took the same package most SoCal refugees took five years ago, a $50,000 relocation credit plus a military escort for those willing to relocate to Arizona, New Mexico or a handful of places further east. Tucson was a popular choice, a major metro area relatively close to the Mexican border that was too hot and dry for zombies most of the year. Walter had been a tenured professor at UC-San Diego until the Uprising. Now the campus was a charred ruin and he taught at a community college. As Eduardo delivered a second round of margaritas, the conversation turned to America. She was born in Mexico but immigrated when she was seven. She grew up not far from Walter’s hometown of San Marcos in Oceanside, a quaint, if somewhat gritty, beach town immediately south of the massive Marine base, Fort Pendleton. She graduated Oceanside High summa cum laude and did two years at Stanford. Then the Uprising. Her family called her and begged her to stay in the relative safety of Northern California. She refused and returned home to a warzone. Her mother, father, and younger brother dead, house and neighborhood burned to the ground by the Marines sent to help. Zombies, it turns out, really hate fire. Too bad humans do, too. Controlling zombies by fire had been euphemistically dubbed chemotherapy for the human population. It killed more zombies than people, but just barely. She was so distraught she didn’t wait for the government subsidy. She just started driving east and ended up, like so many others, at a refugee camp outside of Las Vegas. Eventually she got her head on straight, applied for the subsidy, and headed toward Mexico as soon as the check arrived. She had family in the state of Sonora. With no jobs on offer she couch-surfed with family and lived off the subsidy until she settled in Puerto Peñasco 2 years ago. Now she dealt blackjack at the casino part time. She knew the bartender, Eduardo, from the casino and he sometimes let her slip into the resort without paying the locals fee for a day pass. When their conversation hit an ebb, Walter signaled for two more drinks and suggested that they take them to the beach. Sunset was only 20 minutes away and what better way to end a perfect . . . what, first date? America took his hand in hers and his stomach flipped. He felt like he was 16 again. As they walked, America took another chance to appreciate Walter. Though he was probably in his early to mid-40s, he hadn’t developed the typical pot-bellied middle-aged ‘dad-bod’. For a professor, he had a weight-lifter’s build, muscular and stout. Not tall, 5’ 6”, he had blond-brown hair fading to white at the temples. Barrel chested, well-tanned, beard cropped close, no earrings or visible tattoos. Beautiful baby blue eyes and a kind, rounded face that bore no malice. He wore a loud Hawaiian shirt and vintage board shorts without a trace of irony, the way only a Californian can. No jewelry except for a simple gold ring hanging from a chain around his neck. The sunset came and went. An hour later, the couple continued to talk – about families, about politics, about loss, and about love. The bass drum of the Pacific Ocean beat out an ameliorative melody. Slowly, they got lost in one another and conversation turned to flirting. Their first kiss was soft, tentative, exploratory. The walk back to Walter’s room was full of giggles and high-pitched stream-of-consciousness jabbering. Walter offered her his arm to steady her. Walter, too, was a bit unstable, high on tequila and America’s attention. Once they got to his room, though, Walter was filled with trepidation. America didn’t follow him back to his room to play chess. For some reason, the prospect of having sex with this beautiful young woman terrified him. Physically, he was sure it would be fine, perhaps even great. He felt a familiar swelling in his boxer briefs and knew he *could* do it . . . but *should* he? Was this a one-night fling, or was she the real deal? Why was he thinking of Evie instead of America? America put her arms around his shoulders and kissed him. When she looked into his eyes, she saw fear rather than desire. “Hey, no pressure. I like you and I’m down for whatever. We can talk, we can fool around, we can go get dinner, whatever,” said America. Walter smiled and offered a compromise. “How about the hot tub? This is a suite, the hot tub on the balcony overlooks the ocean – great view.” America’s face curled into wicked, mischievous smile. “You appreciate a great view, huh? Well get ready because I didn’t bring my bathing suit.” Without another word, she shimmied out of her shorts and top. She giggled and did a little pirouette, giving Walter a full 360-degree view. After shucking out of her clothes she was wearing only a pair of lacy white thong underwear. Her pert breasts, uncovered, shone in the moonlight like teak pearls. He’d seen all he needed to see. Suddenly, all other thoughts left his mind. He went to her and kissed her as if his life depended on it. She led him to the bed. Seconds later he was deep inside of her. They both found relief, if not love, in the gentle rocking of bodies. They did eventually make it to the hot tub, two hours later. \ The next morning, America woke to an empty bed. She spotted Walter on the patio sipping coffee and contemplating the mighty Pacific. She called out, “Coffee smells good – got more on?” “Yep. Pyrex on the counter. I splurged, its real Kona coffee.” She sat next to Walter and took a sip. “Wow – that’s good!” said America, a warm smile on her lips. “What’s the occasion?” Walter offered a blank stare and said nothing for a minute. “Just being alive. And missing Evie. She loved good coffee.” America said nothing. She could sense Walter had something to get off his chest. “We met in grad school. Boston. She was studying art history – Baroque paintings, Rembrandt, Rubens that type of stuff. Taught herself German, Dutch, and French. Mind you, she was from an insular New Hampshire WASP family, had never travelled further than New York City before college. Art wasn’t really my thing. I was a few years further along, on track to get a combined MD-PhD in public health and microbiology. My passion was, still is, epidemiology.” Walter offered a sad smile. “Lot of good that’s done me.” He gestured aimlessly toward the sea. “Her parents didn’t approve. They never said anything, but they didn’t have to. I share my Guatemalan grandfather’s surname and I tan easy in the summer, even in New England. In their eyes I was 25% too Hispanic for their Episcopalian angel. We got out of there as fast as we could. We got married in Las Vegas where I had a one-year postdoc at UNLV. Soon after I landed the job at UC San Diego. She struggled for a while, volunteered at several museums before an entry level position opened at the Museum of Contemporary Art San Diego. Not her area but she was smart, persistent, a sponge. She learned everything she cold about Franz Kline, Modigliani, Picasso, Pollock, you name it. She spent ever free minute either in the University library or learning the contemporary art scene in galleries all around Southern California. She dragged me to so many shows we started a modest art collection to decorate our equally modest home. Eventually transferred some credits from back east and with even more work she earned a PhD in Arts Management. Worked her way up to a junior curator position, then a senior position. Taught at the U part-time. We had a good life.” Walter drained his coffee, put the cup in the sink, and then returned to the patio. “Six months before the Uprising, the director of the museum was killed in a zombie attack in Los Angeles. Evie was named acting director. Two weeks before the Uprising, she got notice that the promotion was to be permanent. Los Angeles was burning by then and the Board of Directors thought continuity would be best. Frankly, it was hard to find anyone from east of the Rockies to apply for a position in Southern California. Outmigration had started, looting was on the rise. A few minor flares in San Diego County had killed off most tourism. It was bleak. We talked about leaving but with her new promotion we never seriously considered it. I made a few half-hearted inquires with colleagues back east about academic openings but nothing came of it. We upgraded our security system, 4-inch hardened steel shutters activated by phone app, an ugly but lethal fence system, and a bomb shelter with 2 years of canned food and batteries. We both learned how to use and maintain guns for the first time in our lives. Thursday night yoga was replaced by Thursday nights at the gun range.” Walter paused and put a thumb and forefinger to his closed eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Silent tears gently rolled down his face. When he returned to his story, his voice was think with emotion. “One day, Evie was called into the museum to respond to an emergency alarm. I drove her, stayed in the car. Evie went in with her Glock locked and loaded, escorted by an armed security guard. At the time, it seemed like overkill considering a similar alarm went off a week earlier when a homeless guy got stuck in a secure loading dock looking for shelter. This time it was a dozen zombies. No one saw it coming. Neither Evie nor the security guard came back out of the museum. I saw a few bloodied Zs emerge from the building. A security detail arrived too late for Evie but just in time for the first battle of the Uprising. All the noise drew even more Zs. This was ground zero, moment zero. I should have come with her into the museum. I didn’t. I got out. Sometimes wish I hadn’t.” Walter was quiet. America didn’t know how to respond. What the fuck do you say to that? When America found her voice, she spoke in a soft *sotto voce*, trying to convey sympathy. “Sounds like you two loved the hell out of each other. She was lucky – you both were lucky – to find that kind of love.” “Yes, we were,” Walter agreed. “Do you want me to leave?” asked America. “Leave, why?” confusion and hurt colored Walter’s voice. “I was sharing – I just thought I owed you the truth.” America offered Walter a pained look. “That’s just it – the truth. I haven’t been honest with you. I like you, but I need you, too. Six weeks after I got to Mexico, Ivanka was elected President. Soon after, the Trump Memorial Wall started going up fast. When they just thought Mexicans were taking their jobs, no funding. But Ivanka’s smarter than her dad, better deal-maker, too, and she embraced all that fringe conspiracy stuff – that the Mexican government engineered the Zombie outbreak and infected the US on purpose as revenge for her dad’s anti-immigrant policies. Last month they started work on the last segment of the Wall. Going rate for a coyote is a $100,000 and rising. I’m a Dreamer, so I was never fully legal in California. I must get back. You can bring me back.” She pleaded silently with her eyes. Walter looked at America in the harsh light of the Pacific morning. He smiled. “You didn’t let me finish my story.” “But . . .” protested America. “Look, I get it. The bartender probably feeds you names of gringos here for the Survivor trips. You’ve been looking for a soft touch who will make a trade – sex and companionship in exchange for a ticket back to the States. Deal or no deal? If I’m not the first, so be it. I’m not one to judge. I had a great time last night no matter how or why it came to be. Be that as it may, I haven’t been fully honest with you, either. You need the whole truth more than I do. We’re both hunting. This is a work trip.” America looked at Walter quizzically. “Work . . . for what, one of your community college classes?” “No. The teaching keeps me sane but pays shit. I run a privately-funded lab in Tucson. A very well-funded lab. We’re researching a cure.” “A cure?” said America, incredulous. “For Zombies?” “Yes. And we’re oh-so-close.” “What are you hunting for,” she demanded, but before Walter could say a word she said it. “A survivor.” “A survivor. I picked up on a few markers immediately – slight jaundice of the sclera, increased musculature, especially of the upper body, rigid posture, poor balance when walking. But I needed to be sure. There are so few survivors out there not already working for a lab.” “So, you fucked me not because I was so charming or hot but because you had to be sure . . . and you saw the bite marks on my back . . .” her voice faded away. “Yes, I saw them. But no, I didn’t go to bed with you last night just to find out. I had to see if there was the possibility of love for me without Evie. Like everyone I secretly hope that the cure will work retroactively and that I can find Evie and cure her and have it all back like it was. But I know that’s bullshit. I’m not even sure if she was killed or converted. If the later, she’s been a zombie for 5 years. No one comes back from that. The cocktail they’re using now only works on those newly converted, and it’s only partial. My cure would be a universal inoculation, a vaccine, plus it would work retroactively on newer converts. Either way, Evie’s gone. Last night helped me see that there might be life, and maybe even love, after.” “But you need a survivor to get over the line.” “And you need me to get through the wall.” America smiled. “Is it painful? Risky?” “Risky, no. Some pain. Not much. Bloodwork mostly. Some cognitive stuff. Bone marrow would be the most painful procedure but nothing you can’t handle.” She considered the offer. “What about the border crossing? The US is requiring a marriage certificate to enter as of last week in the case of a non-blood relative.” “I know. Not a deal breaker. I need a partner in life as well as in the lab. If the romantic part works out, great. If not we’ll figure that out, too,” said Walter. “Hmm. One last question.” It was Walter’s turn to smile. “Shoot.” America walked over to Walter. She was wearing only the white lace panties and a thin cotton t shirt. She straddled him and soon felt herself pushing onto a familiar, growing hardness. “Can you keep up with a younger woman? I’ll need at least one more round this morning for you to convince me.” “Hmm. Only one more? Let’s try for two, shall we?” “You got yourself a deal.” Walter carried America over the threshold to the suite. Two hours and two love making sessions later, the odd couple left the resort. An hour after that, they emerged from the Sweet Memories Wedding chapel, husband and wife. Walter drove his aging Tesla directly toward the brilliant Mexican light bouncing off the gold-plated Trump Memorial Wall. For the first time in a long time, Walter felt a glimmer of hope. In the passenger seat America was hopeful but nervous, too. She was glad to be leaving Mexico, eager to be back in her namesake country. But she felt sure Walter wasn’t giving her the full truth yet. Like her, he had poor balance and a muscular torso. And those baby blues eyes . . . too good to be true? High-end contacts to hide jaundice? What about the unusual scars she’d seen on his body? If Walter was a survivor, too, he didn’t really need America as a test subject. Instead, she suspected he was in Mexico searching for a partner to help make the rarest commodity of all in their zombie-filled world – a child born of two survivors. She kept up with the news and knew the entire scientific community was searching for just such a survivor child, to no avail. America hadn’t taken a birth control pill in three days and neither she nor Walter had even mentioned condoms. America imagined that perhaps, right now, a child was growing in her belly that would end the zombie apocalypse once and for all. If not now, soon. She put her hands over her abdomen protectively and offered Walter a radiant smile as the GPS welcomed them to the United States of America.


She was on a footbridge, sitting precariously on the railing with one leg tucked under her while the other dangled over the edge. Her lavender skirt rustled gently around her upper calf as the breeze tickled her bare toes. The golden light of the late afternoon danced down from the leaves above and wove itself into her auburn braid. Oddly, she also had what appeared to be watercress tucked in her braid, as if it were a rose. She had a slight wrinkle between her eyebrows and the tip of her tongue peeked out from her rose-bud mouth as she studied the family of ducks splashing about in the stream below her, deftly holding a pencil and nearly-filled sketchbook in her lap. She didn’t hear the man approach. In fact, she had not noticed any of the other people as they passed by her on the wooden bridge. Joggers, walkers, dogs, bikes, they all passed by, giving the artist a brief glance before continuing on with their lives, relishing the warmth of the sun on their faces as winter finally removed it’s final grasps from the earth and spring took hold with full-force. It had been a long winter, and the forest had come alive the first chance it got, not only with it’s regular inhabitants, but with the various visitors as well. The man was no exception to those that were itching to taste the sun. Late night, snow-covered ice, and a driver that had had a few too many glasses of wine had resulted in the man ending up with several spinal surgeries and an extensive stay in the hospital. Only a few days ago was he able to walk on his own and leave the hospital. The golden rays seemed to have their own method of healing him. The breeze rippled in his hair and he seemed to gain strength in his muscles, each step more comfortable and sure than the last. He moved slowly, hoping to hold on to the sweet taste in his mouth of the fresh, crisp air. He used to walk this path at least once a week the previous summer. It picked up near his apartment, and a couple of miles down there was a small ice cream shop that he loved to frequent. He used the walk as an excuse to satisfy his ever-persistent sweet-tooth. One of his favorite places to stop and take a few moments to observe any critters that happened to be scurrying by was the old wooden footbridge that crossed over a small babbling brook. If you looked at the railing, you could see carvings of initials, some faded, some yet to be filled in with algae and moss. Ghosts desperate to keep the bridge from forgetting their footprints. Sometimes he would make up stories to go along with the initials, other times he would absentmindedly trace the divets of the letters in the wood as he watched the water dance and ripple over smooth stones of the stream. As he came up on the footbridge, he saw the artist perched on the right side railing. He didn’t want to disturb her, so he paused and leaned against the left side railing. He began to think that he had been too ambitious in his decision to take a walk, fiery fingers walking themselves up and down his back, squeezing themselves around his spine. He supposed this was not what the nurses meant when they told him to do some “light walking” every day. He shifted himself to the end of the bridge, where the post was large enough to rest the full width of his back against. Grimacing, he gingerly lowered himself to the ground, groaning as he got into a comfortable position. He closed his eyes for a brief moment as a wave of nausea washed over him from the pain. When it passed, he opened his eyes again and gazed at the artist, who had still taken no notice of him. She was too focused on re-creating the image of the ducks below her. He wondered what it was about the ducks that compelled her to pick them to draw. There was a robin that was nesting in the tree right beside the bridge, as well as a squirrel stretched out napping on a branch that hung over the brook on his side of the bridge. She could have just as easily picked either of them to draw. He contemplated asking her, but something told him that he shouldn’t break her concentration. There was a beauty in her focus, how she gracefully balanced on the railing, looking at the world with learned eyes that caught details that he would never see. He wondered if she saw colors differently. If she could see the brushstrokes in the earth. He did not open his mouth to ask these questions, but she turned to look at him as if she somehow heard him. “Are you okay?” she asked. Her voice sounded scratchy, as if she hadn’t used it all day, and he was startled by how her eyes seemed to match perfectly with the color of the late afternoon sun shining through the freshly-budded leaves. “Yes, yes, I’m okay,” said the man, suppressing a groan. “I’m sorry to interrupt you.” He gestured to the sketchbook in the woman’s lap. The woman glanced down, as if noticing it for the first time. She then turned back towards the creek. “Oh, you aren’t interrupting…” the woman trailed off, her gaze focusing on the small group of ducks now swimming under the bridge and away from her. She puffed out her cheeks slightly and exhaled roughly, blowing a stray lock of hair out of her face. She looked back down at her work in progress, twiddling her pencil between her index finger and thumb, uncertain. “I suppose it will have to be done, then,” she mumbled to herself. “I’m sorry,” the man apologized again, biting his lower lip nervously. “No, no, it’s really not your fault. Things move on whether you are ready for them to or not,” the woman shrugged. She deftly slid off the railing and stood, facing the man. Out of the corner of the man’s eye he thought he saw the current of the stream below shift strangely with the woman’s movement, but he figured there was just a fish or something that was swimming close to the surface. Her brow furrowed. “Are you sure you are okay?” “Oh, I mean, I’ll be okay. I just need to rest a bit.” He looked at the ground sheepishly. “Are you hurt?” The woman took a tentative step closer, as if looking for a way to help somehow. Another strange flutter in the water. “On the mend, actually. But I may have overdone it, today,” the man said with a slight chuckle. He ran a hand through his hair and glanced away from the woman. “Bad car accident. Several back surgeries later and I may have been too ambitious with having the freedom from the confines of a hospital room after a couple of months.” The artist watched him for a moment, seemingly lost in thought. There was a slight breeze that carried the scent of rain off of the woman, and the man vaguely wondered where she found a perfume like that. Her eyes then softened, and the man could see pity bloom across her face. For a moment, it even looked as though she were about to cry. She swiftly closed the gap between the two of them and knelt in front of him, and now the man was sure that the water was dancing with her every movement as he saw it spring from the otherwise calm current, lapping up onto the bridge. It was as if her body was the moon and she was pulling the water towards herself. The man’s heart rate sped up and a cold, nauseous feeling began to pool in the bottom of his stomach. He suddenly realized how quiet the forest had become since he had interrupted the artist. How he hadn’t seen anyone else pass by on the bridge. “What are y-” started the man, but he was abruptly cut off as the woman grabbed a fistful of hair on both sides of his head and pressed her mouth against his. Her lips were strangely cold and slippery. He tried to push her away, but he was shocked at the strength she had as she held her mouth firmly against his. She then began to force his mouth open with her own, and the man began wildly kicking and pounding on the woman as cold water burst forth from her mouth into his. He focused on breathing through his nose as he dug his fingers into the woman’s arms, leaving blossoming streaks of bright blood as he clawed at her. Suddenly he felt the back of his head crack against the boards of the bridge and his back seized in agony as she twisted his body so that he was laying on the dock, her legs pinning him down. She let go of his hair with one hand, keeping a firm grasp with the other, and pinched his nose between her thumb and middle finger. Water still was cascading from her into his mouth as pure panic flooded his body. As the man’s lungs filled with water, searing pain ripped through his chest and spine as he continued to try and fight off the woman with his quickly diminishing strength. His vision began clouding, and a strange sensation overcame him. He was losing the ability to move his limbs, and his body began to feel cool and fluid. It was as if he were spreading himself out, thinner and thinner, like butter being spread across toast. The pain was no longer there, just a gentle swaying sensation, as if being rocked to sleep. At some point the woman had pulled away to get a last glimpse before the man was gone. When everything was over, tears were gently dripping from her cheeks and into the pool of water that now replaced the man that had been sitting there. “I hope that you find peace,” she whispered softly, as water from the stream surged up onto the small footbridge, sweeping the woman and what had once been the man into a cool embrace.


It wasn’t that Alto Morelli didn’t believe the best revenge was served cold, but at times he was sick and tired of waiting for his chance. How long had it been since the bastard killed his brother Joey? Two, three years? It seemed like forever. But you can’t just knock off a Mafia capo and expect to live…unless you wait until just the right moment and no one can trace it to you. Rule one for successful revenges; live to tell the tale. Alto was an independent contractor. He hired out his gun, but never his loyalty to many of the denizens of the underworld in 1932. The press referred to his kind as a “Hit Man.” But very few people in New York, New Jersey, or Chicago knew that he was one. Mostly Mafia crime bosses and leaders of other gangs like the Irish Mob. The other thing about Alto was no one knew what his last name was. Only his brother Joey knew it, and he was dead now. His killer, Johnny Dancer, was a capo for the Bonnano crime family in New York. He was also a paranoid schizophrenic who surrounded himself with bodyguards at all times. Johnny knew there were plenty of people out there who wanted to see him dead…for a whole host of reasons. Still, it was hard to wait. Alto was a man of action. At times he felt like a coward, taking so long to extract his pound of flesh because he wasn’t ready to die doing it. It felt like he was desecrating Joey’s memory at times. He shook those thoughts off and forged ahead looking for the perfect opening. The bible said there was, “… a time for everything, a season for every activity under the heavens.” That encouraged him because he was a Catholic, even if he didn’t go to confession. Faith in that quote kept him going. He knew there would be a season to kill, and his family burden would be forever lifted. The season to kill finally arrived when Alto’s paid snitch in the Bonnano family told him Johnny and two of his rich friends were going upstate to the Catskills for a weekend of fishing and hunting. He gave Alto the directions, who thanked him and then shot him point blank! No witnesses. Number Two rule of survival. Hunting season in the Catskills. How appropriate. When Alto arrived at the hunting lodge he took his time sizing up how many occupants were there. He quickly spotted Johnny and what he took to be his two rich friends. Not far away were two alert-looking bodyguards watching the three men eat a meal outdoors on the open porch. It took a few more hours before he discovered the other two bodyguards who were patrolling the perimeter of the lodge. Six people who he had to kill, but it was worth it to get Johnny. He was already envisioning where he would dispose of the bodies afterward. No one would ever know what happened. His inner survivor briefly questioned if this was the right season, after all the odds were against him. Then he focused upon the task. He waited until late at night, past midnight, and snuck up on the first guard outside the front door, slitting his throat neatly and professionally. The second guard was nodding in a chair in the living room. He looked up in time to see Alto for a moment, then a hand went over his mouth while his throat was slashed open. Then Alto cautiously went into the first bedroom. Saw someone in a bed. Went right over, checked his face briefly in the light of the full moon streaming through the window. Another guard. Slit his throat. He went to the second bedroom. This time the sleeper was one of Johnny’s pals. Slit his throat. The next room had the other pal. Slit his throat. That left Johnny and one guard. Was that guard in Johnny’s bedroom? He opened the last bedroom door slowly. Inch-by-inch. His keen ears attuned to any sound. Then he heard a click! Without thinking he dropped down to the floor as the shotgun blast tore into the door! Alto pulled his .45 Colt Automatic out and fired from the prone position in the direction of the blast! A man screamed and collapsed directly across from him. Then another shotgun blast hastily fired over his head from the right near the bed! When he rose up Johnny was trying to reload, but was fumbling with the cartridge. Instead of immediately killing him Alto jumped up and rushed him, knocking the old twin-barrel shotgun aside as he grabbed his neck with one hand and hit him alongside the head with the pistol in the other. He stood over the bleeding and semi conscious man and considered how he wanted to kill him. He thought about when he found his brother, just before he died, and how badly he suffered. His tormentors took a drill to both his hands and feet. They pulled out all of his teeth. There were numerous burns and cuts from head to toe. They blinded him with a hot poker and cut his tongue out. In the end, he took Johnny outside for a short walk from the lodge and tied him to a tree. Then he cut him from sternum to groin so his guts leaked out while he was still alive. He stayed long enough to listen to and savor his screams which deteriorated to moans as his lifeblood soaked the base of the tree. Two novice hunters heard the screams. They followed them through the forest. Both were teenagers and eager to find the source. Suddenly something big burst through the undergrowth and they both panicked and fired their rifles! Alto spun around when one of the shots hit him in the chest, falling to the ground heavily. His last thought made him grin at the irony, “There’s also a season for dying.


They told me the name of this planet is Calliope. As soon as my craft lands, I waste no time in exiting the impossibly cramped vessel. I escape onto the dense soil with both feet tentative but strong, and with an overwhelming relief, I summon the first breath of the only truly fresh air I have known in years. I feel I've spent lifetimes in that small metal casket, waiting to be liberated once more. And here I was, out in the open field. All around me is endless forest; an arboreal paradise. Pristine and teeming with unrevealed movement, it looks like every other forest on every other planet I’ve been to- as if all habitable planets were built from the same universal assembly line. An icy wind teases my skin; a dry, intentional touch, and saturated with foreign particles. I look around and see familiar vines, canopies, lush green bushes, rough mahogany tree trunks, and the scope of all hues earthly; each one damp and unforgiving. I begin to breathe with the rhythm of life around me when my elastic concentration is suddenly cut short. Off in the distances, a primal scream cuts the air. A single, shrill scream to pierce the now perturbed atmosphere. A cry similar to what hundreds of years of science says dinosaurs sounded like. I was startled and my instinct immediately thought of it as sinister, but it might have been more of an announcement of some sort. My mind begins to conjure up plans of defense and I opt to stay still. The tension is cut by an ancient hum, the low and steady reverberations of a cicada. A mechanical creature, too small to really use its mind's gears but loud enough to cover miles of an otherwise silent area with its unrelenting monotone. I decide to proceed slowly now and continue on my path. I look up to see twin moons shinning. Walking in this natural Eden, I relax once more, I stretch muscles worn and cramped. Inside my veins, I can feel the reversed engineered bacteria the science team injected, surging through my system. That tingle means it’s working. Theoretically, I am immune to the diseases infesting this planet. I flex luxuriously and grin. I recall for the millionth time what I learned from the mission briefing: a few decades ago, the scientists found the first contaminated humans drifting on a small shuttle, four light years away from its intended destination. When the lost ship was boarded, the rescue team was attacked by something- not quite human but not quite nightmare. The unrecognizable faces and bodies were half gone, replaced by a metallic-looking melted version. Higher cognitive function gone; their eyes glowed brilliantly in an eerily vapid pulse. The rescue team was killed…then the next and the next. The eighth team finally adapted properly and went in with life-proof suits made from a material I can’t pronounce, killed all but one, and bought him/it back for analysis. Re-focusing, I begin to think on which arbitrary direction I should follow when I spot a gliding movement towards the not too distant “North”, I see what looks like a man. Walking, he disappears once more into the thicket. I catch up quickly and watch as a wiry druid stalks through the forest. He is the hermit of this planet and I know he's why I'm here. I follow invisibly and watch as he shadows a path only perceptible to him, his movements are fluid and measured, his leathery skin covered in moss- he is a walking expression of the landscape. I stand silently next to him as he arrives at the shore of a placid pond and I watch as he bends down swiftly to meet the gently lapping waves. At first, he seems to be looking beyond the surface at the tadpoles but then his eyes adjust and focus on something less familiar. He begins to make exaggerated facial expressions, smiling, widening his eyes and launching into a series of winks, he begins to make himself laugh. He splashes the water and and in an elegant, sudden movement, he straightens his posture. Standing now, he removes his cloth and what looks to be some sort of very light and scaly armor from his shoulders. He arches his back in an impossibly long curve and steps gingerly into the water, exhaling swirls of contentment. His eyes closed, I begin to approach him and I recall the bacteria in my veins, confident that this new strain protects its host. I hope it works.


Unit RF-54 Directive : find and locate possible surviving humanoid lifeforms and or possible existing plant matter .  Log Date May 5th 2152: Amount of ground covered in total , Approximately 27 kilometers. The possibility for further exploration was not possible due to a rather large ravine located outside the borders of the town i was exploring . It is getting late , further exploration must be postponed until tomorrow morning as my battery's have been depleted and need to be recharged . My scanners indicate that there will be a breach in the smog at my current location for 2 hours . This should grant me enough time to charge my energy cells until the next breach opens up . \[End Of Mission Log\]  Log Date May 6th 2152: Amount of Ground covered in total : Approximately 43 kilometers .I covered a lot of ground today , there was not much to apprehend me in my journey as i traversed the wasteland . The most i encountered was a pack of Javelinas . At least my data banks animal records suggest they are javelinas . results inconclusive. Further analysis will be have to be conducted at a later date , as they are not my current objective . I walked on by them and they Didn't seem to be bothered by my presence . In fact they started following me , about 2 kilometers behind me they started suspiciously trailing behind me , seemingly curious . There is a rather large breach in the clouds today ; This one will last an approximate of 19 hours . This will be the first time in my registered 82 years of of activation since my first deployment i will receive a full battery charge . \[End Of Mission Log\]  Log Date May 8th 2152: I am unsure if these events are worthy of archiving , but i suppose an excess of knowledge is always beneficial. I came across what appeared to be a "hut" it was an old shed of sorts that had been re purposed for living accommodations. When i investigated the hut i found 2 beds each with a blanket , and crudely constructed pillows from what appeared to be sand thrown into an old pillowcase. It is unknown how long the previous inhabitants stayed in this house ; But judging by the lack of any personal belongings in the shed apart from the beds it is apparent that the occupants have long sense abandoned this place . If there truly is any lifeforms still out here ... then i fear i might be too late to document them . however i will continue on , but not today . There is a rather large sandstorm approaching my way . i will initiate automatic shutdown and reactivate once the storm has subsided . i wonder if those people have been gone long . and if not , then how will they brave this weather ? \[End Of Mission Log\]  Log Date May 9th 2152: Amount of Ground Covered in total : Approximatley 85 kilometers. As previously registered my javelina "Friends" are still pursuing me . They are following at a closer distance now . Estimated at 1 km. Whenever i Turn around to look at them they halt they're pursuit and stare at me . They appear to be "Curious" about me . What is "Curious" ? \[Error 1x52bx56gh \] \[Former Cognitive Thought Disregarded\] \[Beginning Reboot \]  Log Date May 8th 2152: it appears my automatic reboot was enacted , perhaps due to a systems error or unregistered bug in my coding . I wouldn't doubt it , i am an old unit and have been by myself for a long time . There is nothing else of significance to log today . i will continue these mission logs though as a way to archive my experience of the wasteland for further analysis.


“My, you are bouncing off the walls today!” A tired mother watches her young daughter skip in haphazard circles around the kitchen table. “Have you had too much sugar today?” “Just a little bit,” the daughter giggles. “I’m pretending to ride a horsie on a merry-go-round. Mommy look, watch me go!” “I’m watching, honey, I’m watching.” The mother sighs. This crazy behavior has been going on all morning. If she doesn’t wear her daughter out soon, she’ll never finish paying all the bills. “Why don’t I take you to the carnival for a little while today? Then you can ride a real merry-go-round.” “Really? Oh, can I buy a stuffed bear? And cotton candy too?” “Don’t push your luck.” The mother smiles and ruffles her daughter’s wispy hair. “Put on your sunbonnet and sunglasses so we can walk there.”  Mother and daughter stroll hand-in-hand through their neighborhood, admiring each picturesque house on the way. The summer air feels hot and languid, almost suffocatingly so. When they are just three blocks from the carnival, the sound of a trilling calliope softly wafts into their ears. “We’re almost there!” the daughter shrieks. The mother smiles. She can’t remember the last time the two of them did something fun together. At last, they make their way through iron gates into a throng of lively carnival-goers. The daughter jumps up and down. “Where are the horsies? I can’t see them!” “That’s because you’re too short,” laughs the mother, lifting her daughter up high. “See? The merry-go-round’s all the way over there. Let’s go!” They have to stand in a rather long line of fussy people – parents and children alike – but it’s okay because they keep each other entertained with little games the entire time. When they finally reach the front of the line, a grandfatherly-looking carnival employee with shocking silver hair winks at the daughter. “The pink horse is the best one,” he says. “You’d better run and get it while it’s still open!” The daughter giggles and sprints toward the horse, leaving her mother alone with the carnival employee. “You should get on with her,” says the man with a knowing smile. “A youngun’ like that needs constant supervision.” The mother nods. “You don’t have to tell me twice. Oh, and thanks for supervising this ride… that is what you do, right?” “Yup! I’ve got control of that lever right over there,” he says, indicating a large metal contraption near the merry-go-round platform. “I should probably go and pull it now.” “Oh! Of course. I didn’t mean to hold you up. Have a nice rest of your day!” The mother flashes him a quick smile before joining her daughter on the platform. She lifts her daughter up on a hard plastic horse saddle, placing her hands lightly on the girl’s hips for extra security. The lever is pulled, and the ride begins. Gradually, the spinning platform accelerates, and every color outside the merry-go-round melds together in a whirling blur. As the ride goes on, the mother sinks deep into her thoughts, worrying about all the bills she has yet to pay. She thinks about how hard it’s always been for her to make ends meet with such a small salary. At least she’s been adding to a savings account all these years. Her daughter may never be able to have expensive North Face jackets like other girls, but at least she’ll have some money to put toward college. The mother’s brow furrows as more troublesome thoughts infiltrate her head. The trilling calliope somehow finds its way into her ears again and puts her in a near-trancelike state. Suddenly, a high-pitched yelp jolts her awake. In that moment, she realizes that she had unknowingly taken her hands off her daughter’s waist. Her daughter is slipping off the horse, falling, about to catapult off the merry-go-round into the colorful spinning void. Out of pure instinct, the mother grabs hold of her daughter’s outstretched ankle. “Stop the ride!” she hears herself scream. She yanks her daughter as hard as she can back onto the platform, but in the process, her daughter hits her head against a nearby pole. But she is okay. By now, the ride has screeched to a stop. Bystanders have noticed the commotion, but they remain frozen in shock. The mother suddenly feels a hand on her shoulder. She looks up, and gazes into the eyes of the silver-haired carnival operator. He pulls her up and hugs her tightly, whispering in her ear, “It’s okay now. You did it. I’m here.” Relief overcomes the mother, and tears roll down her cheeks. “Can someone call 9-1-1?” she asks, turning away from the man and lifting up her daughter. “My daughter might have a head injury, and she needs an ambulance. Quickly!”  \  Two days later, the mother returns to the carnival. She wants to find that silver-haired carnival employee and thank him for making sure she and her daughter were okay. When she arrives, she sees a few employees scattered sparsely across a nearly-empty plot of land. They must be taking all the rides down for the end of the season. Approaching the nearest employee – a gangly young man with messy blond hair – the mother says, “Hello sir, mind if I bother you for a second?” He offers her a toothy grin. “What can I do for you?” “I’m looking for an older man with silver hair,” she says. “He was operating the merry-go-round yesterday, and I’d like to speak with him.” “Hmm, I’m not sure who you’re talking about.” The man scrunches up his face, deep in thought. “Wait a second. HEY!!” he yells at another young employee far across the grounds. “Weren’t you in charge of operating the merry-go-round all day yesterday?” The employee yells back a faint “yes” from his station. The mother looks up in confusion. Who was it, then, that she saw yesterday? “I think you’re mistaken ma’am,” says the blond-haired man, turning back to face her. “No one by that description works here, at least to my knowledge.” “O–okay,” says the mother, perplexed. “Thanks anyway.” She turns away from him and walks back to her car, an expression of wonder flashing across her face.