The tree house. Her tree house. There, she could go anywhere, say anything, be anyone. It was her sanctuary against the world outside. She thought of it more as a tree palace when she grasped the weathered wooden ladder to ascend into her private world. The floor gently bent under her weight and the rusted tin roof rattled with the breeze while the oak limbs rustled a polite discussion of the late summer season, accenting its message with the occasional acorn drop. The smell was delicious, like a mildly mildewed forest mixed with the warmth of sunshine and fresh grass. When her father mowed, it just meant extra grass seasoning. There was also a peppery metallic odor from the roof and nails, but only if you concentrated extra hard and didn’t let the birds distract you with their disgruntled chatter. She reviewed her collection of miscellaneous items found around the neighborhood proudly displayed on an unevenly installed, water-logged shelf. She had her chipped, beaded necklace discovered behind the Cottingham’s shed and an old, Zippo lighter decorated with a bald eagle clutching the American flag. She had found that near the shore of Lake Moody but had given up on trying to light it. Her prized possession was a frayed pink cat collar complete with a bell which made the most pleasant sound, like a polite chime announcing that an adorable kitty was coming to play. That one was more personal. More painful. She laid on her old Benji sleeping bag that was handed down to her from Grandma. Grandma was long gone, and she had never even seen “Benji,” but the dog on the bag smiled in a way that only dogs can do. The sunlight shown through the one window, perpetually open, and down into a large, clear, green jug that was filling up with coins, snail shells, and insect exoskeletons. She glanced annoyingly at the newspaper article shoved over a nail. The girl looked like her. Too much like her. She had blacked out the name because it was too similar to her own. She closed her eyes so she could leave and be anywhere else but here, but she did not leave. She was still in the tree house. She shut her eyes again and pictured that imaginary tree palace climbing up into the heavens. She had never been able to see all the rooms inside because they were infinite, always changing. The massive limbs held a bounty of leaves that merged into the clouds. Birds circled and called to her as an army of cats rubbed on her legs lovingly, encouraging her to explore. She reached up to touch the lowest rung of the golden ladder and found herself catapulted back into reality. She was engulfed in nothingness. Empty. A moment of panic gripped her chest before the walls were back in focus. Her jug, her shelf, the newspaper, her lighter. She squirmed into the sleeping bag and zipped it up until just her face was poking out. Her father’s voice was near, calling her name. She was not ready to leave. She shut her eyes tighter until the lids were pressing so hard they began to ache from the strain, but she was finally fully transported. The palace doors were thrown open and she was greeted by her best friend in this world, Penelope. Penelope was strong enough to push those heavy doors. Penelope was smart, and fast, and tall, and beautiful. Everything she would never be. “We’ll ride horses today,” said Penelope. “Which color do you want?” She briefly imagined that scene in “The Wizard of Oz” when the horse changes color and thought to herself, “All of them.” Teams of horses rose out of the floor and Penelope giggled. “Here you go. Have your pick. Today is your day.” Penelope looked up into the sun, but there was no sun here. The light was shining from everywhere and nowhere. She walked through the throngs of manes and tails with each muzzle innocently nuzzling her, inquiring if they would be the one, her choice, but it was the appaloosa standing alone and aloof that grabbed her attention; its spotted coat randomly dappled as if a rogue paint brush splattered its skin like a careless afterthought. She apprehensively approached the mare and the horse appeared disinterested and mildly irritated to be enduring the intense scrutiny of a human child. She knew that horses often have this attitude when they are not being overly affectionate, much like cats behave. It made her love them more. After allowing the mare to assess her, she ran her hand up its forehead and down its crest, delicately entwining her fingers through its mane and onto its withers. The mare shook her head impatiently and snorted as if to say, “Make up your mind, kid. Are we going to ride or not?” Penelope brought a step stool over and set it on the floor so she could safely mount. “You picked Freckles. She’s my favorite.” She threw her leg over the mare’s back and grabbed a handful of mane to steady herself as she pulled to the center. She felt Freckles shift on her feet, every muscle flexing, anxious to move. She squeezed with her knees and the mare ignited like a flame. The power she felt was beyond any tangible emotion she had ever encountered. She was free. Unburdened. Alive. Then her mother screamed. It was not a normal type of scream, the kind that calls you to the table for dinner. This one sounded urgent. Full of emotion. Despair. She was back in reality, but not the one she wanted. She knew where she was. She could smell the antiseptic afterthoughts of the room she refused to view. “PENELOPE!” That was her friend’s name, not hers. That was the name in the newspaper article on the nail in her sanctuary. “LOCAL KID….” Lucky for her, she wasn’t local. She was far away. In her tree palace. She had no name. No place. No time. Her eyes were still closed, but she couldn’t return. The appaloosa mare was gone. The palace was gone. She just wanted to keep riding the horse. Her horse. Her Freckles. In the background, the limbs were busy discussing the summer. They were loud. The tin roof was rattling with the intensity of the wind, and it was more insistent with each breath she took, but it was slowing. Less forceful. Less meaningful. Her mind clouded. She couldn’t think of anything except that girl in the photo on the cover of that paper. Penelope. Everyone felt sorry for Penelope. She had it bad, that girl. Never see her teen years, Penelope. Never graduate. Never get married. Never have kids. Never, never, never, never. At least she had her tree house. And her lighter. And her jug of littered memories. Her mother again. “Is she…..”


Once upon a time, a monkey named Rory lived in a jungle. Rory’s jungle was particularly dark and especially terrible—full of flesh eating fish, savage spiders, and cunning crocodiles. Rory resided with a troop of gargantuan silver back gorillas. The troop adopted Rory after a bask of crocodiles ate his tribe. (By the way, a “bask” is a group of land crocodiles, while a “float” is a group of water crocodiles.) Carl, the alpha gorilla, protected Rory from the evils of the wicked jungle, but not without remuneration. In exchage for Carl’s protection, Rory entertained the troop with stand-up comedy every evening after dinner. After a long day of gathering bananas and, well, just being gorillas, Carl—and the rest of the troop—revelled in hearing Rory’s outlandish jokes.

One night, Rory told jokes from his joke stump, which was the remains of a tree that skirted the inner circle of the gorilla camp.

“Three flesh eating fish walk into a bar and the bartender says, ‘Hey, we don’t serve flesh eating fish here,’ and the flesh eating fish say, ‘Really? Hmm. Must be a new rule because we had a Tom Collins and a grasshopper here yesterday?’”

Carl and the troop burst into boisterous laughter. “Haha, do the one about the spider! The spider!” Carl shouted.

Rory grabbed his tail and played air guitar with it. “The itsy bitsy spider crawled up the ‘rilla’s snout. Out flew some snot and slimed the spider out. The spider creeped into his mouth, down his gut, and out in his butt. And the itsy bitsy spider was all shit out of luck.” Carl and the troop loved that one. They slapped their knees and howled. Then, Rory launched into his final joke for the evening. “Why did the crocodile fall asleep by the side of the road? Because he ate the chicken.” “Bawhaha,” Carl gaffawed. The troop followed Carl’s laughter.

As the laughter died down, a slow clap rang from just outside the troop’s circle.

“That was a good one, Rory,” Morrissey the crocodile said from the shadows.

Carl jumped up from his seat, grabbed Morrissey by the collar with his left hand, and cocked his right fist back behind his head. “Crocodiles don’t belong here, Morrissey. What gives?” “Temper, temper, Carl. I have a deal for you, brother.” Carl eased his grip on Morrissey’s throat.

Rory shook. He hid behind the joke stump. Morrissey was bad news. Morrissey led the bask who ate Rory’s tribe. And now, he was planning some kind of ruse. “Speak,” Carl said.

“It’d like to make a trade.” “Whatcha got?” “In exchange for your stock of bananas, I offer you—and the rest of your troop, of course—this magical elixir.” “Elixir?” “No! Don’t do it, Carl! It’s a trick! It’s poison! Morrissey’s bask killed my tribe! And, now he’ll kill us too!” Rory said.

“Rory, please, the adults are talking.” Morrissey pulled out a jug from his cloak. “This here elixir is enchanted. It will magically take away all of your worries.” “We don’t have any worries,” Carl said. “Really, Carl? What did you do today? Y’all broke your backs gathering bananas, swatting down spider webs, and passing over pirahna. And for what? Only to sit around and be mildly amused by this junior amateur?” “Carl, he’s lying. Don’t trust him,” Rory said. Carl paused. He said nothng for a time and then exhaled sharply out his large nostrils. He turned to Rory in ire, “What do you know, Rory? You’re just a comedian—a joker, a liar.” “Imagine, Carl. No conundrums, no pain,” Morrisey said. “And, what’s the worst that can happen? You lose your stock of bananas. You can gather those back in no time.” Carl ran his knuckles across his forehead, in thought.

“Deal,” Carl said.

“Take it away, boys!” Morrissey said to his bask. His grin showed off his crocodile teeth. Then, ten or so crocodiles slithered into the camp circle and each removed a sizable bunch of bananas. Morrissey bowed and winked at Rory as he left with his bask.

Carl yanked the cork off of the bottle, smelled its contents, and took a swig. Carl felt a sense of ease and comfort wash over him. He passed the bottle around to the rest of his troop. They too felt a sense of tranquility as they drank. The troop fell silent. Carl fell asleep in the circle and the others followed, letting the fire die out and covering themselves with their sturdy gorilla blankets.

Rory panicked. He ran from the troop’s circle, deep into the jungle. But after a minute or so, he stopped and turned around. To his left was a river of flesh eating fish, fiesty to feast on fresh monkey flesh. To his right were the savage spiders, salivatng to suck simian blood. Beyond the camp to the South was Morrissey’s bask of crocodiles, lying in wait for their next chance to plunder. Rory climbed a tree and curled himself around the top end of the trunk. He waited there until dawn.

The next day, Rory returned to the camp. There, the troop awoke complaining of dry mouths and headaches. Carl barfed in the empty banana pit.

“Carl, please, I need to talk to you,” Rory said.

“What now? Can’t you see my stomach is not constant?” “Yes, I know, but Morrissey . . . he’ll be back tonight. Don’t drink the elixir again. Please.”

“Rory, I think we can handle ourselves. And besides, I’m the alpha. It is I who will makes the decisions for the troop, not you. You are the omega.” After breakfast, the troop left the camp to gather bananas and supplies for the day. They crawled slowly and lethargically. The troop only collected 5 bunches of bananas, half of what they usually harvested on a given day.

At his appointed joke time that evening, the troop ignored Rory.

“Did you hear the one about the disappearing Gorilla? His name was King Gone.” Rory heard crickets in the distance.

“Give it a rest, Rory,” Carl said. The troop waited in silence, each gorilla twitching a little as he awaited Morrissey’s arrival.

A half hour later, when Morrissey did eventually slip into the camp, the troop fell alert and expectant.

“Did you bring it?” Carl asked. “Why, yes,” Morrissey said. Carl leaped to his feet and ran straight for the jug.

“Not so fast, Carl. You can’t get something for nothing, now. Your bananas, please.” “But, Morrissey, we only collected 5 bunches today. We don’t have enough to trade.” “How about your existing stock of bananas. . . and your blankets?” “How will we keep warm?” “Come now, Carl. The elixir will keep you warm.” Carl exhaled from his large nostrils. “Take it all then,” he said.

Morrissey and his bask took the five bundles of bananas and the gorilla blankets. Carl took two big swigs from the new bottle of elixir and passed the bottle around. Soon after, they welcomed oblivion. As they slept, Rory looked around in digust. The troop shivered as it slept. Rory thought of a plan. He grabbed the empty bottle and ran to the river. The flesh eating fish smelled him as he dipped the tip of the jug in the water, filling it.

The next morning, the troop awoke well after sunrise, later than ever. Carl threw up in the empty banana pit, as did every other member of the troop. They attempted to gather bananas later that day, but together, and with all their might, they could only collect one bunch of bananas. That night, Rory didn’t even bother taking his place on the stump. Carl and the troop were sullen, their hollow eyes awaited for Morrissey’s return.

“Anybody thirsty?” Morrissey asked. Carl ran headlong to Morrissey and said, “Give it to me!” Morrissey placed the new jug on the ground and stood on the stump to speak. “Now, now, everyone. Hear me. You want a new jug of elixir and I want . . . your stuff. Wait, let me guess, you only collected two bunches of bananas today.” “More like one,” Carl said. “One? That’s it?” Morrissey said. “No matter, I want your last bunch, your firewood, and . . . the deed to your camp.” “You want our camp? But where will we live?” “You’ll find a new place, I’m sure.”

Carl paused and looked down at the ground.

“OK, then. We need the elixir. We can’t live without it,” Carl said. Morrissey reached down behind the stump and gave Carl the last bottle of elixir.

Carl grabbed it, blushing. “Take it all, boys,” Morrissey said. His bask slithered in to the vomit filled banana pit to retrieve the last bunch of bananas. They also took the troop’s firewood. “I’ll be back tomorrow for the deed, Carl,” Morrisey said.

As they slithered toward the camp exit, their crocodile arms loaded with gorilla loot, Carl took his first swig of the elixir. He immediately took a second. Then, he took a third. Then, he threw the bottle to the ground with all his might.

“What the fuck, Morrissey!” Morrissey turned and gasped. “Carl. What’s the problem, Carl? That’s good elixir Carl! Wait, Carl! No, Carl!” “It’s fucking water.” “N-n-n-no, it’s elixir. Opium concentrate. From my private stash.” “If it’s elixir, then what the fuck is this?” Carl pulled a pirhana from his teeth. “This is river water you croc-o-shit!” Carl and the troop growled, howled, and brayed with anger. Carl blew a fuse. He took Morrissey by the neck and threw him to the ground, punching him over and over and over again in the snout as hard as he could. Carl was very strong. When he finished thwacking him, Morrissey looked as if a ton of bricks had landed on his face.

While Carl was punching Morrissey into dead, green goo, the other gorillas similarly pounced on the remaining crocodiles, taking no prisoners, giving no quarter.

The troop did very little gathering over the next week as it recovered from the its figurative and literal monkey. While the shaking and hallucinations sucked, the troop enjoyed copious amounts of crocodile meat grilled over open flame, which, much to Carl’s chagrin, tasted a lot like chicken.

“Rory, I am sorry I didn’t listen to you. You were right.” “Carl, I forgive you.”

Carl patted his monstrous hand on Rory’s back. “But, Carl, can I ask you something?” Rory continued. “Why did you call me a liar?”

“Well, before all of this, I used to think that entertainment was a facade, a constructed untruth. A lie, if you will. A fantasy world that, at best, could only poke fun at the real world.” “What do you think now?” “That I should not be so quick to judge a joker. Sometimes, they speak the truth. You aren’t an outsider, Rory. Not anymore.” "I switched the jugs, Carl. I poured the elixir in the river." "I know." "How?" "All the fish are dead."


After a month of moving and unpacking, I was finally able to relax in this quiet little neighborhood. I do not regret leaving my pack, from the people that have raised me but being future pack leader is not my cup of tea. The idea of it makes me feel...tense and I do not do well with tense. I do not like making decisions for others or hear complaints. I rather live a quiet, lone wolf life away from my father’s pack. My mother was disappointed but in an angry disappointed way. Alright! She did not like my idea and nearly tried to kick my ass into next year. For crying out loud, I am only 29! Anyway! My name is Sasha Garcia, I am six feet tall, shoulder length shaggy white hair, soft brown skin, sky blue eyes and Hispanic. The pack I come from is called Los Lobos Avellana , strong in numbers but I do not want to think about that right now. I have a whole new life ahead of me to think about. I look around the neighborhood and smiled, taking a seat to people watch as I took in the cool crisp air of fall. I watched kids play on the road: basket ball, skate boarding, chalk drawing and such which seems to be the norm here. I could already catch the scent of a grill being started: charcoal and fire starter fluid. I turned my attention back toward the kids, the parents and the rest. I do not usually people watch because I was already surrounded by people I knew and well...I always preferred to go to the mall and relax there, people watch, lunch or read. Having this much quiet would take some getting used to but I know it will be worth it in the long run. I had already met some of the neighbors when I started living here for a week, many of them were nice while others...well, they were quite nosy, Very...nosy. I actually had to close my front door after the last nosy neighbor, she kept trying to look past me and into my home. I did meet a couple with two boys, one is Christopher and the other Jason. They even brought me a plate of chocolate chip cookies, which was nice though..those cookies did not last the night. My stomach started hurting but zero regrets, okay maybe a little but mmmm! Those cookies were delicioso! Maybe next time I should have a few instead of scarfing it down like an animal. With a contented sigh, I got up and turned to make my way inside. “Christopher!” I heard the parents shout. I turn back around, taking only a split second to see what is going on. The road is currently vacant of kids for the oncoming vehicle that is coming down at nearly 60mph and no way of stopping. I spot little three year old Christopher running after the ball that rolled onto the road and I only have a few seconds to save that boy if I use every energy in my body. Without a thought of hesitation, I bolted for the boy before he could become a pancake on that diver’s windshield. At this point, everything felt like it was moving in slow motion: Spring boarding myself in front of a speeding car, my arms wrapping around the boy and curling my body around his to soften the impact as we hit the unforgiving concrete. “Ooooowww….” The wind got knocked out of me, at least I know how Loki felt for that moment when he got slammed around by Thor. “I am going to feel that for the next few minutes...” I muttered as I slowly started to sit up, Christopher crying and disoriented but he is safe. His mother knelt down beside me as I tried to regain my bearings while I held the boy in my arms but slowly, my grip loosened as his mother gently took him from me after she hugged me tight. Too tight! “Thank you so much! Thank you!” “No problem...” I groaned as I was helped up to my feet by one of the neighbors. Demetri, I think. “That care did not even stop to check for injuries or anything. Why not?” I asked. He shrugged, “not sure but it is not the first time that has happened. I see that car all the time, we would even catch it on the news but for some reason the cops can’t seem to catch the driver.” He says as we watched the car make an immediate sharp turn around the corner. I thought for a moment on this, “how often does this happen?” “Not often, just enough to warrant those Children at Play signs but that doesn’t work anymore. I’m not sure how to keep the kids safe with that kind of lunatic behind the wheel.” He sighed as he rubbed his big hand down his face. He looked tired and concerned, as he should be. “Did you ever think of having someone at each corner of the street with a whistle? They could blow a whistle to warn the parents that are outside to watch for kids before the traffic comes down the road.” I suggested. He looked at me and a grin spread across his face. “That is great idea! Thanks, Ms. Garcia!” “Friends just call me Sasha.” I smiled back, pat his shoulder and turned away to make my way back home to relax with a movie and dinner. I might have to go job hunting soon, just...not yet. I want to relax. Before I could take a few more steps, I felt a little body collide against mine and arms wrapping around my waist. I looked down to see Jason with a tear streaked face, “you saved my little brother! Thank you!” The look on his face pulled at my heartstrings as I knelt down and hugged him tightly, “hey now, carinio. No need to cry. He’s safe now. You should be hugging him right now.” I say softly which registered in his head. He gave me a tight hug, I returned it and let him go so he could quickly make his way over to his family. I stood up, a warmth spread in my heart as I watched them for a moment before turning away to head home for my much needed relax time. Though...that driver is going to be a problem for this quiet little neighborhood if it comes around again. Maybe some investigation should be in order but...not yet. Rest and relaxation time for me! Fin Los Lobos Avellana =The Hazel Wolves Delicioso =Delicious Carinio =Honey, dear, sweetie.


It’s the week before Christmas, and people rush to do their last-minute shopping. The plaza’s décor is bright with festive colors.  The parking lot lamps are decorated to look like giant jingle bells and candy canes.  Christmas carols blare from the speakers mingling with the constant chatter of the shoppers.  Eight-year-old Cody misses Massachusetts at Christmas.  There it would be snowing, and you would have to wear a heavy winter coat and snow boots.  The temperature would be slightly above freezing, causing your nose to run and your eyes to water.  He can’t get used to the seventy-degree weather of Tucson and people Christmas shopping wearing shorts.  Tucson certainly isn’t Massachusetts by any means.  His father moved here for work.  He is in the construction business, building houses, and in nineteen sixty-six, it is booming.  His father told Cody he’d get used to it, to give it some time.  Cody supposes he’s right, but he still misses snow.  Tucson sometimes gets snow, but it’s way up on the mountains.  It can look pretty.  One other nice thing about Tucson is the night sky.  You can see so many stars!  Why just the other night, Cody saw at least twenty or thirty shooting stars falling toward earth over the desert. It was amazing. Today Cody’s dad has brought him to Woolworths on Congress Street to meet Santa.  In the Sunday paper, he showed Cody the announcement,” Bring your camera and take your child’s picture with Santa!” Sure enough, Dad had his Polaroid Swinger all loaded and ready to go.  Cody thinks his dad is acting more excited than he is to meet Santa.  So is Dad going to sit on Santa’s lap too?  Cody chuckles when he pictures his big strong father sitting on poor old Santa’s lap. “What’s so funny!” his dad asked, amused. “Nuttin’,” Cody replied. Venturing further, Dad asks, “So, what are you going to ask Santa for?  Can you tell me?  I’d like to know.  Is it a new bike?  The streets in our subdivision are nice and flat.  They’ll be perfect for learning how to ride a bike.  Or, seeing that we are out West, perhaps you would like a cowboy outfit.  You can have a six-shooter cap, gun, and sheriff’s badge.  What ya say?” To tell the truth, Cody doesn’t know what he wants.  He’s feeling a little blue about going back home.  But maybe he’ll tell Santa that his Christmas wish is to go home to Massachusetts to be with Grammy and Grampy on Christmas Eve.  Cody misses them so much and misses their little dog, Buster, the beagle. Cody mumbled, “Maybe.” On their way to Woolworths, Cody notices a lot of “Santas” around, out in front of stores telling people to come inside.  Or standing on street corners ringing bells by red buckets saying, “Merry Christmas!” On top of that, they all look the same for the most part.  So when Cody asks why there are so many Santas, his father gives him the pat answer that all dads do.  “Well, ya see, Cody, they aren’t all Santa but Santa’s helpers.  They’re pretending to be him because not all children write letters telling Santa what they want for Christmas.  You didn’t write one, that’s why we’re going to see him.  This way, they’ll find out what the kids want and tell the “real” Santa in time for Christmas Eve.  See?“ Cody isn’t sure his father’s explanation makes a lot of sense, but he keeps his mouth shut. At long last, they enter the store. It’s jammed pack with shoppers pushing loaded carts down crowded aisles.  People are jostling one another or reaching over carriages to get to an item on the shelf before someone else can.  The people and the noise are almost overwhelming as Cody’s father drags him by the hand through the chaos.  He catches bits of arguments and conversations along the way, like, “I saw it first!  But I got my hand on it first!” Or the conversation between a husband and his wife.  Her: “Oh, Ralph, this is just what Bambi wanted, but the box is crushed! Him: It’s just a little dent.  Maybe she won’t notice. Her: Ralph!  It’s a Christmas present, for crying out loud!  I don’t want her to think we’ve shopped at the Salvation Army store!  Him: Say, that’s not such a bad…Her: RALPH!!” And so on throughout the store. The “Meet Santa” location is all the way in the back of the store in the toy department.  There is a long line of kids waiting to see Santa; most are with their dads while the moms continue shopping.  Santa sits in an oversized velvet chair with enormous cardboard candy canes on each side.  There is also a Christmas tree with presents and an elf to help handle the kids.  Everyone is so excited that they jump up and down and bump into one another while shouting and squealing in loud voices. On top of that, they’re right next to the pet center, where all the parakeets are squawking.  Then, some kid opened one of the cages, and now two birds were flying around everybody’s heads.  Cody thinks it is probably the same kid who does it every year. It has progressed to the point that they are now third in line.  Cody can see how the procedure works.  The elf calls you over to sit on Santa’s lap.  If you’re bigger like Cody, you get to lean against his leg and tell him what you want for Christmas.  The elf then shows the parent where to stand to take the picture.  The whole thing seems to take about five minutes.  Cody still doesn’t know what he wants, so he figures he’ll go with the bike. Before he knows it, Dad is nudging his shoulder and exclaiming excitedly, “It’s your turn, Cody!  Go ahead, son!” Cody reluctantly steps forward.  As he leans against Santa’s leg, he barely hears the familiar “HO- HO- HO” over all the noise.  Then, as he stares at the floor, Santa says,” Tell me, Cody, what is it you actually want for Christmas? Tell me the one wish from your heart to make you extremely happy.” Cody stops breathing as his eyes grow large and his jaw drops open. “That’s right.  I know who you are,” says Santa.  “You’re Cody Leverett from One Hummingbird Lane.  Am I correct?” Cody slowly nods his head. “I also know your wish is not for a bike but something bigger. So much bigger, fantastic, that you think it’s impossible for me to grant it.  So go ahead, give it a try, Cody,” Santa says with a wink. Cody has become acutely aware of how quiet it has become.  He looks out into the store and sees everyone standing entirely still.  It’s like they’re all frozen in place!  He sees his dad standing before him, about to raise his polaroid, smiling silly with a parakeet over his head.  There is bird poop stopped in mid-air, about to hit him on his head!  Cody thinks, “What the heck?” Then, as if reading his mind, Santa informs him that this is a little “Santa magic.” “I can manipulate time.  To everyone else, you are sitting here talking with me like normal.  But I’ve slowed time down to a near stop so you and I can have this conversation.  So, I’ll ask you again, what is it you most desire this Christmas?” Cody’s chin puckers and his bottom lip starts to quiver.  He whispers at first but then shouts, “I want to go home!  I want to be with Grammy and Grampy in Massachusetts!  I don’t like it here!” Wiping a tear away with a gloved finger, Santa asks, “Do you miss your grandparents, Cody?  What things do they do on Christmas Eve that make it so unique? Cody starts, “Well, for one thing, we’d bake cookies all afternoon and put them in little tins as gifts for friends and neighbors.  Then, I’d make two special big cookies for you!” “OH, yes,” replies Santa.  “I recall the taste of your little hands and fingers kneading all that love into each one.  Delicious.  Please continue.” Cody does, “We also decorate the tree and hang our stocking on the mantel of the fireplace.  Even Buster, the beagle, has a stocking!  In the morning, it will be full of dog toys and Milkbones. The next day is extra special as it’s Christmas.  On the end tables and coffee table, all around the living rooms, are bowls with ribbon candy, nuts with a nutcracker, and homemade chocolates.  And for dinner, we have what Grampy calls the “Christmas Feast.” There’s a roast goose with whipped potatoes and butter, homemade honey rolls, and all kinds of vegetables and stuff.  For dessert, we have pumpkin and blueberry pies, plum pudding with hard sauce, but best of all, my favorite, minced meat pie!” “WOW!” exclaims Santa.  “No wonder you want to go back home!  I’ll tell you what I can do, but you must keep it a secret between you and me.  After your parents sleep, I was hoping you could come out to the front yard, and I’ll take you back to Massachusetts in my sleigh.  How would you like that, Cody?” “That will be great!” exclaims Cody, “But what if my parents wake up and hear me?  How will I get back home again?” “Don’t you worry about that,” Santa says reassuringly.  “I’ll use some more of my Santa magic, and they’ll never even know you were gone. It looks like your father is about to take our picture, so until tonight, say Cheese!” Cody turns to see his father’s camera is almost to his eye, and the bird poop will miss him. Cody smiles the biggest smile he has ever smiled as the flash goes off. …  Cody’s parents watch him climb into bed, instructing him to go to sleep or else Santa won’t come.  “OK!” Cody chirps and smiles because he already knows that Santa is coming.  He has a set of new clothes folded on the chair in the corner, and as soon as his parents kiss him good night and close the door, he jumps out of bed and rushes to put them on.  Cody opens the door a crack so he can listen to them downstairs.  He can hear them hurrying around and paper crinkling, the screech of scotch tape as it is being pulled and torn off.  This goes on for a while when Cody thinks he hears his dad say something like, “Why does it have to be milk?  I hate milk!  Why can’t it be a beer instead?” Cody’s mom scolds, “George!  Just drink it, and let’s go to bed.” When he hears the third step creak, he rushes back to bed and pulls up the covers.  He listens as water is turned on and teeth are brushed—the bed squeaks as they climb in and kiss each other good night. Cody soon hears his father start to snore loudly and his mother a little more softly and knows it’s safe.  He hops out of bed, rushes to the bedroom window, and kneels to wait.  Cody looks at the street below and can make out the Christmas decorations, the desert plants, palm trees, and cacti with Santa hats on them.  Cody thinks this is the strangest Christmas he has ever seen.  Cody grows tired and eventually dozes off.

He is awakened by flashing lights and a soft, whirring sound.  As Cody straightens up, rubbing his eyes, he sees that the flashing lights are the neighbor’s Christmas lights, and the sound is the sound of sleighbells ringing.  Cody thinks, “Wait a minute!  Sleighbells mean Santa’s here!” He hurriedly slips out the bedroom door and scoots down the stairs, making sure to step over the third step from the bottom.  At the front door, Cody gingerly turns the deadbolt, trying not to make any noise.  When he steps outside, he can see a red sleigh with tiny reindeer hitched to it.  Santa’s sitting in the center, holding the reins in one hand and waving with the other for Cody to come quickly and get in.  After Cody has jumps in, Santa snaps his reins, and the reindeer take off!  As they climb higher and higher, Santa turns to Cody and asks, “Well, what do you think?  Cody?  Isn’t this great fun!” Cody only stares straight ahead, his face locked in sheer excitement. Santa informs Cody that it gets chilly this high up and that he should lean back and cover himself with an empty velvet toy sack.  When he does, Santa smiles and begins to talk to Cody. “You know Cody, when you told me about your grandmother’s Christmas feast, I forgot that the elves and I have one too.  As you know, we travel worldwide, and after delivering the last present, we like to take back our favorite dish from that country!  I like American cuisine, but some like French, Chinese, and even Mexican.  We bring it home to a big hall where we have a gigantic buffet, and everyone shares what they’ve brought back. We eat until we’re so full it feels like we might burst! It is so good!” Santa laughs, “HO-HO-HO!” Looking at Cody, Santa declares that Cody should try and get some sleep.  He doesn’t want to be too tired to enjoy his Christmas wish.  Cody must admit that he is kind of sleepy and closes his eyes. … Cody slowly begins to come to. He has difficulty opening his eyes, and his head feels groggy.  He can’t tell where he is when he does get them open. The room is entirely white, and Cody can’t see the difference between the ceiling and the walls. The light seems to emanate from the walls themselves, as there aren’t any fixtures to be seen.  Cody is lying flat on his back with a white sheet covering him.  Hearing a sound to his right, he turns to see Santa with his back to him, working on something.  Cody‘s throat is dry, and it hurts when he tries to speak.  “Santa! Where are we!” ”Oh, Cody, you’re awake!  So delightful.  But I’m afraid I have to apologize to you. You see, I lied.  We’re not in Massachusetts at all.  Remember how I told you we also have a feast?  Well, guess what?  You‘re IT!  Ever since I first tasted your flavor mixed into those cookies you made, I just knew I‘d have to have you.” As Santa turns and starts to approach, Cody gives a high pitch shriek of terror!  The white beard is gone, and so is the jolly old Santa face!  Instead, a hideous alien, insect type is in his place, with its mandibles sawing back and forth!  Cody tries to run and get free, but as he struggles, the sheet falls away, and he can see he is being held in place with metal restraints.  The alien Santa senses that Cody is having trouble comprehending what is happening, so it explains.  It isn’t speaking audibly but transmitting its thought directly into Cody’s brain. “Yes, Cody, you’re going to be my part of the Christmas Feast. I’ll use this little laser device to cut off or out the pieces I wish to eat first.  Then, the laser will cauterize the wound, thus keeping you alive and fresh until the next time!  So tonight, I’ll have a nice rump roast thanks to you, Cody.” Cody’s eyes roll back into his head, and all goes black. As the twenty to thirty spacecraft hurl through the vast expanse of space, heading for a far-off distant galaxy, their version of “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” echoes through the cosmos.  “You better watch out-You, you better not cry-You better not pout- I’m telling you why Santa Claus is coming to town.  He’s making a list, checking it twice, and wanting to find out who’s yummy with spice!- Santa Claus is coming to town.  He sees you when you’re basting- Inside the roasting pan- He wants to see you smothered- In onions if he can!-Juicy thick steaks-And sausages too- That’s what he will make out of you-When Santa Claus is coming-Yes Santa Claus is coming- Old Santa Claus is coming to Town!  HO-HO-HO!”

The End


CW: Swear words. I didn’t even want to come on this stupid work trip. Yet, here I am, staring down at a one-hundred and fifty foot drop towards the ground - with what appears to be a wooden pallet shoddily attached to this tree trunk as the only thing between me and a sure death. I knew this godforsaken trip to Puerto Rico with a bunch of coworkers that I don’t even like was a terrible idea, but Karen insisted . “You should go! This will be a great chance to bond with all of your teammates!” Doesn’t she understand the main reason I work remotely is so I don’t have to bond with these godforsaken people? I can hear Betsy from accounting now, she’s shouting something - like always - so I am not quite sure if it is directed up at me or if she’s just speaking to the people around her. Either way, from a hundred and fifty feet up she’s coming through pretty crystal clear. Betsy. With her buggy eyes and tight blonde ponytail. Is she twenty-five or is she sixty-five? I really have no idea. Her perfume reminds me of my grandma but her incessant jabbering about TikTok throws it all off. I had always assumed that faced with imminent death, Karen and the kids would be enough for me to muster up some dormant courage and see myself out of any predicament. However, now my main motivation for not dying is that I just don’t want to give Betsy the satisfaction of seeing me fall to my death. She would just love to tell the story of how she just had a feeling that something was going to happen. That when I hit the ground, and exploded all over her and the rest of the team, that she just knew her life would never be the same. I would be fodder for her at dinner parties for the rest of her life.

Not today, Betsy. Alex works for the zip-line company. He’s a white guy - but when we arrived he insisted on greeting us with “Holá Amigos!” - Betsy just loved that, she said it over and over again, laughing just as hard every single time, during the entire hour-long hike up here. He’s also wearing a name tag that says Alejandro - I am not calling him that. He’s clipping me into a harness and telling me something about a camera towards the bottom that will take my picture, so to “make a silly face or wave.”

I will be doing no such thing. All I can think about is the carabiner failing and me falling out of the sky to a horrific but merciful death.

I have been working for Transformative for a few years at this point. We have a small team, and up until this week, most of my interactions with them have been via conference calls and emails - more than enough to get a real sense of who they were. Sure, there have been meetings at our main office in Charlotte, but those had been so formal - filled with small talk and business conversations - nothing ever like this. Randall, my boss, had come up with this amazing idea to go on a team building trip with the entire team. I had immediately told him I couldn’t make it, and yet, somehow - here I am! My job is to sell our product - which I do fantastically by the way. I don’t get paid enough, however, to have to suffer through Betsy showing me photos of her cats for three days straight. Maybe falling to my death here would be the best option after all.

Betsy cannot stop laughing, “You look so terrified!” she sputters as she holds the photo out for everybody to see. She’s getting spit all over everybody. “Look at how scared he looks!” I snatch the photo back from her.

“Yeah, I’m afraid of heights.” I say, trying my hardest to hide my annoyance. This, it turns out, is very hard, especially because Betsy is very annoying.  We’re back at the hotel now, the type of place that looks like it is trying way too hard to be what White people think the Caribbean should be like - taxidermy sea turtles, a mural of dolphins and a mermaid, fake coconuts all over the place- that sort of thing.

“Lo siento, amigo!” Betsy cannot stop calling people “Amigo” now, and every single time she says it, she laughs at herself even harder. Being around her is like having a migraine, and you just keep waiting and waiting for the medicine you took to kick in, but it just never, ever does. I’m thankful that Randall has started talking, addressing the entire group of us at the bar. He’s going on about what a great time today was and his hopes for us to become a stronger team. Gag. I’m working on my fourth Mai Thai of the afternoon and hoping to be completely numb by dinnertime. Slowly, the group starts to disappear off to their rooms ahead of the team meal back here in the hotel restaurant. I am tempted to grab another drink, but now it’s just Betsy and me, so I decide to get up and head back to my room as well.

“Need a walking buddy?” Betsy asks, followed by an extremely loud belch.

“No thanks, Betsy. I can manage on my own.” I say turning to leave before she can interject again, but next thing I know, she’s in stride with me towards the elevator.

“We’re neighbors, dummy! It only makes sense to head back together. Safety in numbers Amigo!” She winks as she says this and I feel my insides start to burn. The elevator smells like bleach and sweat and I try to control my breathing as the doors slide shut. This is going to be a long fifteen flights up. Betsy, to her credit, is surprisingly quiet as we get moving. The elevator creaks and shudders and I resist looking at when it was last inspected. Without any muzak to fill the empty space, that awkward elevator feeling seems to overtake us both. I’m anxiously watching the red numbers on the digital panel above the door click up, 7, 8, 9… it’s just stopped at 9. Why is it just stopped at 9?! The elevator lurches to a sudden stop, and before I can even turn to Betsy, she is on me. My brain can’t process what is happening this quickly - especially after that fourth Mai Thai, but a severe pain is shooting through my face and my eyes are watering, oh and I am on the ground now. My right cheek is being squished into the dirty elevator carpet and all I can feel is a shoe, and the entire weight of a person, a Betsy, on my face.

“Betsthy, wha’ the fuck ah you…”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!”

I knew Betsy was loud, but wow, I have never heard her like this before, just a very impressive yell on her. For some reason I am thinking about that fourth Mai Thai and am feeling so very grateful that the alcohol is probably numbing a lot of the pain I should be in at this moment. The pool of blood that is developing around my face is a clear indication I should be feeling this more than I am. I still don’t understand why Betsy hit me, or why she is now zip-tying my arms behind my back. To be honest, this entire situation feels very surreal, and I am also a little bit drunk. I try to push myself up using my legs, but man Betsy is strong! She throws me to the ground and of course I hit my head on the way down. I’m still conscious, or wait, nope. I’m out.

“...if it weren’t…the next one in line…he won’t know.” Randall’s voice is coming in and out… what the hell, Randall! I’m seated in a chair - not a very comfortable one. I’m blindfolded and my head is throbbing worse than it was when Betsy was telling me about her and her cat’s nightly routine. I got my ass kicked, and kidnapped, by a woman who brushes her cats’ teeth every night.

“What the hell, Randall!” I’m finally able to shout what I am thinking and it really hurts to yell. My entire face region is just hurting pretty badly. “Where the hell are we?” It feels like the appropriate question to ask at the current moment, but probably not the most important question that I had in my brain. We were definitely inside, and it definitely smells like fried fish in here. Not the best of clues to go on, but I am surprisingly hungry, considering the circumstances.

“Tony, you’re awake.” Randall sounds more like a supervillain than the nerdy CEO of my company. He also knows I hate being called Tony. “Sorry that Betsy had to rough you up a bit back there, we knew you wouldn’t comply otherwise. You see, I’ve been thinking that we need to do some downsizing; some liquidating, if you will. We know about your Aunt Penny’s trust, Tony.” Aunt Penny’s trust?! Yes, my Aunt Penny left me a sizable amount of money when she passed away, but I have no idea how Randall and Betsy know about this. As if reading my mind, Randall says “Karen and Betsy are in the same book club. They talk.” Dammit Karen!

“All you have to do is transfer those funds and we let you walk.” Betsy’s booming voice tells me she is a lot closer than Randall. And now I am fairly certain the fried fish smell is coming from her.

“You guys don’t have to do this.” I say. “What’s the plan? That I give you the money and never tell anyone about it? Did you guys not think this through?” A silence. “Wait, did you guys actually not think this through.” Oh my god I have been kidnapped by idiots.

“We…we have thought it through, as a matter of fact,” says Randall. “After you transfer the funds…we’ll make sure to take care of you.” “Are you saying you’re going to kill me Randy? You, the guy who cried at the end of Finding Dory . We took the kids to see that together man!”

“No, I am.” Betsy’s right next to me now. I can feel her hot breath on my neck - and can now confirm, with certainty, that she is the source of the fried fish smell. I still have an appetite, surprisingly.

“But if you kill me, how will you get the money? You guys are really blowing this.” I know I should be a little more scared, but it is really hard to take these two people seriously. Again, Betsy brushes her cats’ teeth - Every. Single. Night. And yes, the end of Finding Dory is a tear jerker, but still. This is Randall. This guy collects staplers for Christs’ sake. My two would be murderers are now talking a bit further away from me. I can’t make out what they are saying but it is clear they need to figure out a new plan. I’m doing my best to wiggle the muscles in my face around to get this blindfold off - unsurprisingly, these two jokers did not tie this thing very tightly. Finally it slips off my face and I can see now that we are in some sort of parking garage. Classic. Randall and Betsy are to my left next to a van - good luck getting the bloodstains out of a rental. To my right is a brick wall with a few bricks missing every few feet or so, allowing sunlight to stream into this otherwise dark and dusty place. I stare out through one of the holes in the brick and try to get a better sense of where I am. “We’ve decided we are going to kill you anyways, it sounds cleaner then letting you go.” I snap my head back to see Betsy coming towards me holding a pistol. She seems very confident with it and I am starting to believe she may actually kill me. “Any last words, Anthony?” She has the gun against my forehead and the floodgates just open up. I am balling, absolutely balling like a baby. “Please, Betsy. You don’t have to do this.” I can’t believe I am begging Betsy for my life. She is just standing there, looking at me with cold, dead eyes. I can’t hold back the tears, I think of Karen and the kids, I think of all I still have to give the world. I think I am pissing myself but I don’t care, I just want to live.

Just then, a loud CRACK whips its way through the parking garage.

“Not today, Amigo!” It’s Alex, fucking Alejandro, from the zip-line tour and he’s on a zip-line and he is barreling straight towards Betsy. Before I can blink she’s on the ground and he’s got her in an absolutely awesome headlock. The kind of shit you’d see on WWE Raw. Randall meanwhile, is coming straight at me, like a zombie just raised from the dead, he is ignoring the commotion with his partner completely.

“Tony. Tonnnnny. Tonnnnnny” He just keeps saying it over and over again. He’s almost to me now and his hands are out like he is going to strangle me or something. “Tonnnny.” His weak, little fingers work their way around my neck. “Tonnnny.” He’s actually doing it, this guy is going to strangle me. All I can hope is that Alex, whose arrival is still entirely inexplicable to me, is able to stop him before he kills me. As I feel my body start to weaken more and more I glance over to see Betsy and Alex struggling. My entire world goes black to one last, “Tonnnnnny.” “Tony. Tony, can you hear me?” It’s Randall. I open my eyes, I’m outside now, trees shooting up spear tips all around me. Randall’s little hands are on my shoulder. “His eyes are open!” he exclaims. I hear a collective gasp to my right and footsteps and murmurs quickly approach. “That was quite the fall, mi amigo.” Alex’s face appears above me. “Good thing you were wearing your helmet, and good thing you hit a few branches on your way down.” I squint my eyes hard. What the fuck just happened?

“Where…what, what happened?” I manage to say. The metallic taste of blood is unmistakable in my mouth. I try to move but Randall pushes down just enough on my shoulders to stop me. I can still feel his little fingers around my throat, but he’s being so gentle now.

‘Oh no you don’t mister. You’re not moving until the paramedics arrive. You could have broken your neck!”

Alex seems pretty bummed about what has happened, he can probably smell a lawsuit coming. I am beginning to realize that I must have been stuck in some sort of coma-like fever dream. “Oh boy! That was scary!” Betsy’s voice punches into my ears like an airhorn. “You should have seen yourself, Tony! I just had a feeling something like this was going to happen. I had a premonition last night you know. Oh man, I just feel like having seen that none of us are ever going to be the same.”

I close my eyes again hoping to be transported back to the parking garage where I at least had a chance of mercy.

“Lo siento Amigo!” Betsy shouts, followed by a fit of uncontrollable and relieved laughter.

I close my eyes tightly. I’m never coming on a fucking work trip ever again.


The musty smell pulled Jethro out of his nap. A thin sheen of condensation coated his skin, residue of the muggy air that dampened his clothes and made his skin sticky. Sounds of dripping water echoed off of cavernous walls, turning small plips into cacophonous clangs. His old joints complained about the rigid, weathered wooden bench he was seated on, and he adjusted himself out of discomfort. He tried moving, only to feel himself rock with the motion in a way he hadn’t expected. He heard the swish of a paddle pushing through water, and he realized he was on a boat, floating down a river. In his eighty-six years of being alive, Jethro had plenty of strange experiences, but taking a nap and waking up on a wooden boat inside a cave was not one of them. Now that he thought about it, he didn’t really remember falling asleep, and waking up hadn’t really felt the same way waking up normally did. It felt more like coming out of a trance, like his consciousness was materializing after disappearing for a while. Across from him, he heard shuffling and murmuring from two people. After a few seconds of adjustment, one of them spoke up. “Where the hell are we?” He said. His voice was high pitched for a man, but he seemed to compensate for this by speaking more aggressively, over-enunciating every word. He directed that obnoxious voice ahead of them, demanding, “Who are you? What’s going on here?” There was another gentle swishing noise, this time on Jethro’s side of the boat, as whoever was guiding it pushed their paddle through the water. In an ethereal voice, somehow sounding like it emanated from the walls of the cavern as much as the man himself, he said, “Do you not remember your last moments?” “My…” the little man spluttered. “My what?” The ethereal voice became clearer as the ferryman turned to face them. “Your last moments on earth,” he replied, a condescending timbre to his words. “Before you died.” The woman screamed. The man tumbled off the bench and scrambled backwards. “What the fuck?” he spluttered. He turned to Jethro. “Are you seeing this shit?” he asked, in apparent disbelief. Jethro turned his head towards the ferryman, then back to the man. “I’m not sure what you’re referring to.” “The fucking skeleton in a cloak standing three feet away from you?” Jethro tilted his head in thought. “Oh yes, quite spooky,” he said, “Although I suppose that’s to be expected after you die.” He turned back towards the ferryman. “Excuse me, Mr Skeleton. You wouldn’t happen to be the ferryman of the river Styx, would you?” “Indeed I am,” Charon replied, turning back and pushing the paddle through the water again. “I thank you for being polite.” “Yes, well,” said Jethro, chuckling lightly, “I imagine in your line of work people aren’t always very happy to see you.” “One of the hazards of shepherding the dead, I’m afraid.” The woman spoke for the first time since they woke, with a thick, nasally midwestern accent. “This can’t be the end,” she whimpered. “My kids, they won’t have a mother anymore.” “Very optimistic of you to assume they survived that car crash,” Charon replied, sounding bored with the exchange already. “Wouldn’t you know whether they died?” the woman said, her earlier whimpering tone transmuting into a more entitled whine. “You’re the Grim Reaper, aren’t you?” “I’m not,” he replied. “And if I did know, I certainly wouldn’t tell you.” In a voice that sounded like she was about to demand to speak to the manager, the woman said, “Why not?” “It would cause more trouble than it’s worth.” She huffed, apparently at a loss for words. Instead, the man spoke up again. “I have unfinished business too, you know,” he said, matching her irritated tone. “I’m twenty-nine. I had a future to live for, I wasn’t ready to die yet.” He turned briefly to Jethro, then back to Charon. “Not like this guy, anyway.” Jethro frowned. Who was this kid to decide when another person should die, anyway? “With foul manners like that,” Jethro replied, intentionally condescending him, “the world is probably better off without you.” “Shut up, old timer,” the little man barked. “There has to be a way out, right?” he said to Charon. “A way I can go back?” “The chances of surviving that kind of overdose are one in a million,” Charon replied. “That’s not a no.” Charon sighed, with undertones of annoyance faintly audible beneath it. He pushed and pulled the paddle more vigorously, until the boat landed on the river bank, sand crunching beneath its wooden hull. “Over there is a tunnel that leads back out to the world,” Charon said, his voice directed towards the cavern’s smooth walls. “If you can make it through there without touching the walls or the floor, you’ll be returned to life.” “How am I supposed to walk without touching the ground?” the man said, bordering on outrage. “You know what I meant,” Charon replied, still nonplussed. “Can’t put your hands on anything.” “It’s pitch black in there,” the man complained. “How am I supposed to guide myself out without using my hands?” “Have faith,” Charon replied, sounding like he was only half joking. The man snorted. “Easy,” he said. “I’m a Catholic priest. I eat faith for breakfast.” “And you believe God is the right person to put your faith into?” Charon asked, with a hint of a chuckle in his voice. A short silence passed, the contempt between the two as palpable as the humidity in the cave. “I don’t believe it, I know it,” the priest replied. Charon chuckled again. “Good luck.” The priest marched out of the boat so ferociously that it nearly rocked itself away from the bank. Jethro listened as his steps squelched through wet sand, then scraped through gravel, until eventually simmering into light taps treading on stone. The echoes of his footsteps changed their shape and tone as the priest ascended into the tunnel, then grew quieter as he traveled further down. Hardly a minute later, the sound of sliding and scraping echoed back out into the cavern, followed by a muffled curse, then the much louder sound of rocks collapsing and causing the ground to rumble. The priest began to shout, but it was cut off by the crunch of his own bones as the rockslide crushed him. Charon sighed. “Every time.” “I’m going to try,” the woman blurted. The boat rocked as she stood from her seat. Charon paused in the middle of picking up his paddle, then turned to face her. “You think you’ll succeed where he failed?” “I have to,” the woman huffed. “My children need me.” “You still think they’re alive?” Charon replied, sounding amused. “If they died in that accident too, they would be here with me,” the woman said. “You’re assuming they died at the same time you did,” Charon replied, a smile tinting his voice. “You’re assuming quite a lot, in fact.” “Or perhaps it’s faith,” the woman retorted. “Maybe I just have faith that my children are waiting for me.” “Putting your faith in other people rarely ends well,” Charon said. “But if you want to risk it, I won’t stop you.” The woman stomped out of the boat, almost as if she was trying to crack the ground beneath her. To her credit, it sounded like she made it a little further than the priest did. But—in almost the exact same fashion—she slipped, she fell, and she got halfway through screaming before the rockslide flattened her lungs. Jethro sighed, adjusted his suspenders, and grabbed his cane. “Well,” he said, “let’s give this a shot. Looks like a fun challenge.” “Why?” Charon said, something approaching bewilderment rising in his voice. “You’re old. Even if you succeed, you’ll die again soon after.” “Then I have nothing to lose,” Jethro replied. “Hm.” Charon tapped the end of his paddle on the base of the boat. “I suppose I can’t argue with that.” Jethro smiled, then pushed himself to his feet, ready to exit the boat. As he stepped up to the edge, he was stopped by a bony hand grabbing his shoulder. "Not so fast," Charon said. "Let me have that cane." A chill traveled up the back of Jethro's neck at the ferryman's spidery touch. He turned, letting Charon's hand slide off his shoulder and gripping his cane. "Why?" "Your cane is an extension of your arm, making the end of it essentially your hand," Charon explained. "If you use it to guide you, you'll fail the challenge." Jethro gave Charon a wry smile. "You would take an old man’s walking stick away from him?" Charon chuckled. "We both know you don’t use it to walk." It wasn’t that Jethro couldn’t see without his cane—he had other tricks up his sleeve. It was the principle of the thing. Charon was right. His cane was an extension of himself, it had been for eighty years of his life. Whether Charon was trying to help him or handicap him, Jethro couldn’t say. But if it was the latter, Jethro was more than happy to prove him wrong. “Very well,” he said. “I’ll have faith in myself.” He handed Charon the cane, then stepped out of the boat and began his march towards the tunnel. As it had with the previous two folks, his first footsteps here accompanied by the crunching of sand beneath his feet, the friction between grains loosened by the water soaking into it. The gravel—which was really just a louder and more unpleasant version of sand—was next, but it didn’t last long. When he reached stone, he instantly had a better idea of where he was. He faced the tunnel ahead of him, and clicked his tongue. The soundwaves went out, bouncing off of the limestone walls, then radiated back to Jethro. One was all it took, and the cavern told him everything he needed to know. The opening of the tunnel was small and winding, with jagged walls and plenty of stalagmites to trip over. Treacherous, certainly, but not impossible. As he ascended through the tunnel, clicking his tongue occasionally to regain his bearings, his mind began to wander. He wondered where the other two had met their end, and he clicked his tongue once more to see if he could find them. A yard or two ahead of him, he detected a softer texture, absorbing more sound than the limestone. Skin, he reckoned. He walked towards it, kicked it with his foot. The ball of his foot hit the pastor squarely in the nose—he reckoned it was the pastor anyway, unless the woman from earlier had a thick mustache. Of the six or seven stalactites that fell on him, the echoes indicated two of them standing up crookedly. It occurred to Jethro that they probably impaled the guy, and he decided to keep walking, having no desire to accidentally step in blood. The cave became smaller as he continued on, and he found himself having to click his tongue more often to make it out. As his stops became more frequent, he started to wonder if impatience was what caused most people to fail. It had certainly been the cause of the mother’s end—Jethro learned that pretty quickly after accidentally treading on her hair. The further he went, the more debris got in his way—everything from crumbled limestone to dry bones, snapping and crumbling beneath his feet. But unlike everyone else who had failed before him, Jethro had eighty years of experience taking his time while navigating. He knew what to do, and he did it well, all the way up to the end of the tunnel. As he stepped out onto the grass, breathing in the fresh air, he felt himself lifted up into the air. The sensation of being taken off of the ground was unpleasant, like a plant being pulled out of its roots. But it didn’t last long, and soon his eyelids fluttered open. He felt bedsheets around him—the scratchy felt ones that they always gave you in hospitals. He realized his daughter would be visiting later, and it cheered him up to know he’d been able to hang on long enough to hear her voice again. There was one more thing he had to check, and he reached to the side of his bed, feeling past the segments on the railing. When he found it, he breathed a sigh of relief. His cane lay where it always was, leaning up against the right side of his bed.


"You can't run forever." My sweet girl. No matter where you go, I will always find you. Hiding from me only makes things worse. My sweet Sadie, I'm coming for you. I've been running for so long I don't know what day of the month it is or even the year. Is it Monday or Friday? I just don't know. I don't even know where I am. It's been so long since I stayed in one place. I'm scared. I witness something horrible. Something that has haunted my memory for the last two years. Do you want to know the worst part? I knew them. Oh God! I knew them. I can't even talk about them. Tears are coming down my face. They were my friends, like my family since I had no family. They took me in, accepted me as one of their own. I loved them. In an instant they were gone and I was left all alone and on the run for my life. I can't even say their names. More tears are coming down. The tears won't stop. I can't make them stop. My life is shattered. Everyone is looking for me including him. The one responsible, the reason why I'm running. Two years ago, I witness the people I love the most get butchered by their own son. More tears are coming down my face as I say their name. The Henderson family was the most loving and caring family in Newport. They were a selfless people, always doing good, always caring about the community. They loved life. Amy Henderson was the most selfless person, an undeniable beauty who put a smile on everyone's face. Her parents Hank and Marie were the kinds of people who would give you the clothes off their backs. They were loved by everyone. No one hated them. Their son Caleb was different, so very different from his family. He is dark and uncaring. He is vicious and cruel even to his own family. I was always scared of Caleb. Hank, Marie and Amy tried to get Caleb help but it never worked. One night, two years ago Caleb snapped and butchered his parents and sister. I saw everything. I heard there screams. I felt their pain. I wish I done something to help them. I was too scared. After he murder Hank, Marie and Amy, Caleb sat in the dinning room chair drinking beer. I quietly got out of my hiding place and quietly packed my bags. I open the door and left. The mistake I made is going out the back door. Caleb saw me. I began to run. I ran as fast as my legs took me. For two years me and Caleb have been playing a game of hide and seek. I hide and he finds me. I change my appearance. He always finds me. I change my name. He finds me. Caleb leaves me presents taunting me. I leave under the cover of darkness with a new name, different look and to a new place somewhere far away  where no one knows me and Caleb always finds me. I never let my guard down. I never let anyone in yet Caleb always finds me. I left all my precious belongings at the Henderson home like my butterfly pendant. I have nothing left. I left no breadcrumbs. How does Caleb find me? The police can't even find me but Caleb does. Is he as smart as the police or just better? I can't think right now. I need to find another safe place. Caleb found me again. I thought I was in a place I could be safe. I was so very wrong. Caleb found me again. I don't know where I'm going but I hope Caleb won't find me this time. Only in my dreams. I miss Hank, Marie and Amy so much. I think about them all the time. I miss Amy's smile. I miss Marie's hugs and cooking. I miss Hank's dad jokes. He always thought he was funny. To me he will always be the funniest guy in the room. I hope they are together in heaven. I close my eyes and dream of the good old days. My sweet Sadie, you're running again. Don't you know, I will find then I will make you pay for running from me. My sweet Sadie don't cover yourself. Don't hide your true self from me. I love the way you look. I love your brown curls. I love your hazel eyes. I love the way you laugh. Your laugh melts my heart. Don't you know Sadie how much you mean to me. The first time I saw you, you were mine. My family were getting in our way. They told me to stay away from you. I had to get rid of them. I did all this for you. What do you do? You run from me, from my love. I had to get rid of my family so we can be together. Where ever you go my sweet Sadie, I will find you and you will pay. I open my eyes. The sunlight is hitting me. How long have I been asleep? I look at my watch. It's noon the next day. I get off the bus and walk to someplace new and different. What town is this? It's a beautiful town. Now I'm hungry. That was the best burger I ate in a long time. I pay and leave. I don't know what to do. I'm tired of running. Two years is a long time to be on the run. I'm tired of not looking at the real me. I'm tired of changing my name. I don't want to be afraid anymore. I look up at the sky praying for a sign. Hank, Marie, Amy, my angels in heaven, please give me a sign. I need you so much now. I close my eyes breathing in the beautiful warm weather. Then I open my eyes. Three beautiful butterflies fly in front of me. Thank you, my three angels. I know what I need to do. First, I need to change out of these clothes and be me. I walk to the nearest hotel and check-in. I go to my room. I open the door and walk-in. I put my bag on the bed and open it. I begin taking off my wig, fake eye lashes, contacts and change into my real clothes. I look at myself in the mirror. Wow, Sadie you look beautiful again just like you use too. Now time to get justice. I leave the hotel and walk to Fall River (that's the town I'm in) police station. I walk up the stairs, open the door and walk-in. I walk to the front desk. I tell the officer who I am and that I witness a murder. The officer leads me to another officer. He introduces me to a Detective Ryder. I sit down. I introduce myself and begin telling my story.


There is a tall oak tree in our local park which is situated near the area where for at least a 100 years the local county cricket team has played. The oak is at least 125 years old. I have seen photos of the area with the tree still standing where there was no car park nearby or dentist surgery. Generations of families have taken picnics near this tree. Dogs have used it as a urinal. This park is host to the local town fete once a year. There is a fun fair with familiar rides such as helter skelter and waltzers. People have stalls too selling locally made products. I always like this aspect of local community as it seems less manufactured and real as in the way buying from amazon does not. The tree has colourful bunting put on its branches during the fete. All of these traditions and kids growing to adults who bring their own children to the park and also sit under the sturdy oak for shelter from the rain or sun. Trees are than mere objects or things to be cut down. Trees are there through our lives. One of the most moving stories i have heard is of two kids who carved their names into a tree near their homes in pre-war 2,poland. One boy who was Jewish was taken to a concentration camp with his family and didnt come back all were gassed to death in Nazi occupied poland. I still even as an adult cannot comprehend the degenerate evil of the holocaust. Its not something can be defined even over countless books written on the subject. The other boy emigrated to the United States. Fifty years later he went back to Poland and found this tree still there with the crude carved initials still in the trunk. Trees tell a story of lives and deserve our respect. I know nature the wilderness will outlive us and maybe thats a good thing. Its been a long time since I lived in my home city. I remember the trees in our garden. We were lucky to have bought a house where the previous owner had planted a wonderful variety of Fruit trees. I recall a pear tree and a plum tree which gave delicious Victoria plums in summer. I used to climb this tree as a boy, grabbing the ripe plums and washing them. My mum made a mean plum jam from them. I miss that garden now as an adult. The area now is priced too high for most people. I moved to another country on the edges of Europe. I managed to buy a house with a garden for a fraction of the cost in England. I know im lucky to have my own trees and plants growing in the garden now. How many people live in cramped apartments for frankly daft rental prices. Now i have children of my own. They play in the garden where we have several trees. Trees are to me an anchor in an unsettled turbulent world. They go through the cylcle of seasons. Some end up being felled by man or disease. However on the scale of things, trees are doing a good job holding up in spite of what we as humans are doing to destroy their and our own habitats. I know people link their own lives to plants and animals. It in some ways goes deeper in our psyche than what school or job you hold or held. In a world that is driven by greed and status, the act of breathing in deeply and enjoying the natural world is something that we as a civilisation should not lose. Now in the current world of pandemia and cultural and economic mega hardships people try to make sense of themselves and the increasingly fragmented world around us. Trees and the natural world once again offer us a safe haven from confusion and help us to heal our tired minds. Its no coincidence of mental health problems have skyrocked in numbers as people stay in sometimes cramped living spaced. I feel for kids the most as being able to play outside was an important part of my childhood. I used to have a bike which i cycled everywhere with. I still remember the pain and sadness 35 years later after it was stolen outside a local shop where i had gone to buy something. Looking back i think the area where i lived actually had pockets of social decay and poverty which as a child you dont take in or understand. I really think the growth of urban sprawl and the disconnect from the natural world has made people more anti social and selfish. I am guilty of using my phone or laptop too much. I try and make time for my kids 2 girls who i know are growing in a world of sexism and racial bias. I do my best and dont expect the world to change but i do my best anyhow. I would happily live off grid and try to be self sufficient in food growing. I grow some vegetables already and herbs. Its not much but its rewarding to have them on the dinner plate. I have met and spoken to people who take enormous pride in their gardens and some even do garden designing as a career. Amazingly technology can help us in this respect as we can design garden spaces on digital apps. Tree houses for the wealthy can be made now but come with a distinctly ridiculous price tag. One of the things i liked about living in England was the local parks that offer a space for people to use and give a source of nature. I really hope governments in their short sightedness do not cut funding for these places as this can only negatively impact the poorest people in society. Nature should be equal to all of us regardless of our social or financial status. Ive seen kids from different social backgrounds play together in local parks and sports. This is what makes us all more equal and less isloated from each other. Now lets put that bloody phone away and climb some trees!


      It was a bitter winter that year, 1954. The coldest that century, they said, and fifteen-year-old Ernie Remsen was freezing; the layers of sweaters underneath his blue cotton mechanic’s jacket, a “Texaco” patch on the breast, couldn’t keep out the chill. Sal was the name embroidered over the left pocket. Ernie didn’t know Sal but was grateful he’d donated it to the church rummage sale. It was almost better than nothing.            Still, Ernie had stolen a kid’s coat, a real winter coat, hanging from a hook outside the gym’s locker room. Ernie was either stupid enough or cold enough to wear it around school. The coat didn’t even fit.  Had its rightful owner, a boy named Sokol, gone up to him and said it was his, Ernie would have given it back then and there. He wasn’t a bully; he just wanted a warm coat and there it was. Sokol wasn’t about to confront Ernie, though. Ernie Remsen wasn’t a kid you confronted. Avoided was more like it. You don’t mess with kids who never smile. You don’t mess with kids who mumble to themselves. You don’t mess with a kid who once came to school with a black eye.            It was Principal O’Brien’s call to make; suspension or community service. Ernie was half hoping for suspension because time out of school was as good as time in school. But his mother would have a fit and if his father came back this time, Ernie would end up with another black eye and that was only because he’d grown too big for a belt.            He choked up when he offered an apology, saying he didn’t mean any harm and just needed a warm coat. He hated himself for that and choked up some more.            The principal told Ernie to stay seated and not touch anything. He scrounged in a closet that housed the lost-and-found until he found a coat too large for most kids, a dark plaid thing that had been turned in after a football game.            “Here,” said O’Brien. “No one’s claimed it. Anyway, it’s yours so you don’t need to borrow one from a kid half your size.”            Ernie looked up through reddened eyes and mumbled, “Thanks.”            “Now, Mr. Remsen, what to do with you?”            Ernie chewed on the ragged end of a well-chewed thumbnail while staring at his feet. He hesitated before saying, “I don’t know,” his stock response to questions in school even when he knew the answer. The principal was looking at papers on his desk, not at Ernie. The question, Ernie now knew, was rhetorical.            “Ernie, do you know what ‘intimidating’ means?”            Ernie nodded.            “Has anyone ever told you that you look a bit scary?”            Ernie was about to answer no but stopped. He hadn’t been told he was scary; no one would dare. No one ever said much to him, unless there was a problem.            “When something goes wrong, everyone kind of thinks I did it. Like when a window gets broken or when the woods caught fire that time. It was like, ‘Ernie, did you do it?’ I guess I look that way.”            The principal looked at Ernie for a long while. Ernie looked out the window. What else, it would be suspension. That wouldn’t be so bad. Ernie had that term paper on his mind: “A Brush with History.” The idea was to write about something in his life that brought him close to the past. So far he’d come up empty except to blame his father’s behavior on three years as a POW, though his mother had said he’d been a jerk long before that. Maybe he’d go hang out at the town’s library, figure something out, if he could ignore the scowl from the librarian who would ask him why he wasn’t in school. Or if she didn’t kick him out.            “It’s not fair, is it?”            Ernie nodded in agreement. “You know what they say.”            “What’s that Ernie?”            “Don’t judge a book by its cover. I guess I have a bad cover. I needed a coat. I was going to give it back at some point. I think.”            The principal smiled for the first time that morning.            “Well you don’t need a coat now. Nor do you need a suspension. I’ve got community service in mind unless you insist on suspension. Which will it be?”            Ernie didn’t expect a choice. He said, “Community service.”            The principal smiled again. “Good choice.”            Thaddeus Seymour, age 96, lived alone in a house he built in 1897. He’d lost his wife in the Spanish Flu Epidemic. Their daughter, too. The son, an engineer, was killed exploring a mine in Colorado. Their spouses had remarried and moved on with the grandchildren to parts unknown. His friends had gone, too. The best was a dog who died when Seymour was 90. Fifteen-years old that dog. Seymour couldn’t go through that again. Hell, he could barely take care of himself these days.            Seymour didn’t drive, not anymore, even if he wanted to. His license with a rare three-digit number had expired years before. And it was doubtful his Ford Model A would start assuming he had the strength to work the crank. So, he’d would walk to town to shop, get his haircut, get out of the house, get moving. If he had more than one bag of groceries, he’d make multiple trips that would take up his entire day. He’d amble down the road, waving off people offering a ride and eventually make it to wherever he was going. Mike Abernathy, the local police sergeant, once asked him if he wouldn’t rather get there sooner. Seymour groused that then he’d have nothing to do but go for a walk anyway.            “You ever hear the story about the tortoise and the hare?” Seymour said. “Speed only gets you nowhere sooner.” He didn’t wait for a response. He looked at the time on his pocket watch, adjusted his tie, swung his cane, and continued on his way. It would have been a treacherous walk for anyone that day. Powdery snow hid ice under which roots had lifted the cracked sidewalk into a series of little random ridges, valleys, and glaciers. But it was Wednesday, and every other Wednesday he went for a haircut. It had been a routine etched into his life for 50 years always at the same barbershop, though the original owner was long gone. His grandson, Joe, no spring chicken, ran it now. Joe offered to come to Seymour’s home, especially in rough weather. Seymour would have none of it. “And would you bring the rest of your ugly customers with you? How about those girly magazines? No? Then I’ll come to you.”            Before and after his haircut, Seymour would sit in the shop—outside if the weather was fine—and talk to anyone who bothered to listen or listen to anyone who bothered to talk. If no one was talking, he’d read magazines like the Police Gazette, Esquire, or Argosy. And if it wasn’t one of those every-other-Wednesdays, it didn’t matter; it was a place to spend time haircut or not.            The snow had dulled the sheen on his cracked leather brogues. Maybe he’d get a shine if the boy was in the shop. Next time he’d wear the brown shoes and get these resoled again; they needed it. He could use new laces, too. He was thinking about that when the tip of his cane found a narrow crack in the sidewalk that wouldn’t let go. Seymour held onto the cane a moment too long. The cane held fast. Seymour tripped over a root that had grown through a crack, his arms splayed out in surprise. His face met the snowy pavement shattering his wire-rimmed glasses. He was lucky he hit the snow. The only damage was a badly twisted ankle. He recovered the cane and managed to get on his feet. It took him an hour to dodder home.            The doctor making house calls told Seymour to ice his leg and keep off of it. Seymour smirked. He rose and limped to the kitchen returning with a glass of bourbon on the rocks. “See Doc? It’s got ice. I’ll deliver it internally.”            Members of the Ladies Auxiliary from the Methodist church brought over meals and did some cleaning. It was always the same, chicken pot pie. “Easy to chew, easy to stomach and, damn good,” was what he’d say.            Seymour was sitting back in his armchair, bouncing one foot on the floor and alternatively tapping the armrests with his hands. He was staring at the four walls, complaining to infrequent visitors that he’d be climbing them if not for his “damn leg.” The church women thought they were doing him a favor by leaving copies of the Saturday Evening Post and worn editions of Reader’s Digest. Seymour could have cared less for any of those even if he could read them, which he couldn’t without his old glasses. The new ones wouldn’t arrive for a couple of weeks.            “He needs a helper, someone to read to him. He likes history,” said Joan Wright, Chair of the Women’s Auxiliary, to Principal O’Brien. “And, let me be frank, he could use some help with, I don’t mean to be rude, the toilet. You understand? It should be a young man. I thought you might have a student, perhaps a scout working on a merit badge. Someone who could use a little money. We’re offering $5 a week.”            O’Brien was delighted.            “I have just the fellow.” Ernie made his way up the walk to the porch and knocked on the door. A voice called out, “It’s open. Wipe your feet”            He did as instructed and closed the door behind him.            “Umm, hi. I’m, uhm, Ernie Remsen and—”            “I know who you are and don’t mumble. Come over so I can get a look at you.”            Ernie wiped his feet again and stood before Thaddeus Seymour. “My eyesight, you know. They’re working on new glasses. Take a seat. Now tell me, do you know what day it is?”            Ernie shrugged, “Wednesday.” It came out more as a question than an answer.            “Wednesday, right. That’s why I look handsome. Got a haircut. And a shave. Joe came over from the shop. Did me the honors. I don’t want to look like some ragamuffin for those church ladies, do I? “            Seymour pointed to a stack of magazines. “He left those.”            “Magazines,” said Ernie.            “You might as well start your job. Choose one. I don’t care which.”            For the next two hours Ernie read to Thaddeus Seymour with two breaks to help the old man onto the toilet, discretely standing outside the room until called, and another break for a trip to the kitchen where a plate of cookies had been left by the ladies of the Methodist Auxiliary.            “Take one for yourself. Hell, take two. I can’t eat ‘em all,” said Seymour.            Ernie had hoped Mr. Seymour would fall asleep so he could get to that term paper; he was struggling with his particular brush with history. Seymour wouldn’t cooperate. As Ernie read, Seymour would interrupt constantly. On an article about Teddy Roosevelt’s Sagamore Hill being turned over to the family trust as a museum, Seymour said, “Voted for the man. Twice. But that Rough Rider stuff? Waste of time. That Hearst fellow just wanted a war to sell his papers.”

           Ernie read a Life Magazine piece on the Supreme Court’s ruling on school segregation. Seymour piped in. “’Bout time, too. Colored kids just the same as you, only darker.” He giggled at that. “Get it?”

           Then Seymour started to nod his head.            “I saw a lynching once.”            He closed his eyes, still nodding, and stopped speaking.            “Really?” said Ernie. “Was it awful?”            “I didn’t see the murder, just the boy hanging from a tree the next morning. Fifteen he was. His mother – I guess it was his mother – was trying to get his body down. A crowd stood around doing nothing. Happened right here in Maryland if you can believe it.”            Seymour picked up another magazine. “What’s this one?”            The cover had been torn off. Ernie opened to an article and read the title, “The Flight of John Wilkes Booth.”            Seymour nodded, “Go on.”            The article described Booth sneaking into Lincoln’s box, stabbing the Major who was with the President, breaking his leg when he leaped onto the stage yelling “Sic semper tyrannis,” and then limping off to make his escape. Ernie stopped reading periodically when he got caught up in the drama.            “Good story if you speak up,” said Seymour. “Truth is better than fiction if you ask me.” The story went on how Booth was killed in a tobacco barn after a 12-day manhunt. Seymour kept asking Ernie to reread parts, offering comments like, “Yup”, “Nope,” and the occasional, “Ha.”            When he’d finished, Ernie looked up to see Seymour, eyes closed, sitting back in his chair. He got up to shovel snow off the porch; part of his job was to find things to do. “I’ll just go clear outside. Need anything?” He whispered, thinking Seymour might had fallen asleep. He hadn’t.            “They always get that part wrong,” Seymour said.            “What’s that Mr. Seymour?”            His eyes remained closed. “That ‘sic semper’ nonsense. They always get that wrong. It means ‘Thus always to tyrants.’ Virginia’s state motto. Bet you didn’t know that. Booth didn’t say it. Bet you didn’t know that either.”            Ernie sat back down. “No, I didn’t.”            Seymour’s eyes opened and looked at Ernie. Maybe his eyesight was poor without his glasses, but his focus suggested he could see perfectly well.            “Well, he didn’t. I can tell you that much.”            “No?”            “No! First, he screamed. He wasn’t as loud as Mrs. Lincoln, who was screaming too, but plenty loud. What came out was ‘The south is avenged.’ Then he dragged himself away. He still had that big knife waving everywhere. They said he was trying to scare off the actors, but I think he was just trying to keep his balance. Then everyone started screaming when they figured he wasn’t part of the play.”            Ernie shook his head thinking Seymour was telling a story he once heard. When Seymour returned with slow and deep nods, Ernie had to ask, “How do you know all that?”            “It was my birthday,” he said. “April 14. Still is by the way.” He laughed to himself. “Still is.”            “Paps wanted to go,” Seymour continued. “We lived in Maryland. You could spit into Washington we were that close. I was seven, sitting in front with my parents. I didn’t pay much attention to that play, but they laughed so it must have been funny.            “Me? I was looking at the uniforms. That’s what a little boy cares about. Paps was a doctor in one of those Army hospitals. A Union man, make no mistake. He kept elbowing me, pointing to the stage, but I didn’t care. I was looking at the box, you know, where the President was. He was laughing, too. Having a grand old time.            “And I’m telling you, he caught sight of me, he did. I waved a little. Know what he did? He waved back. Gave me a smile. And winked. Imagine that. President Lincoln winking at me. Then all hell broke loose. I wasn’t 15 feet from Booth when he dropped. I saw him spit when he yelled. That’s how close I was. The things you remember. And that is the truth and I’ll swear it on a stack of bibles.”            Seymour leaned forward, his eyes never leaving Ernie, and said, “I must be the last person alive who was there. When I go, they’ll be no one to fix that sic semper nonsense. A shame, too.” Ernie hungered for details—Was he scared? What did his parents say? Where did he go after that? Did they ride in a wagon? Ernie wanted it all. Seymour’s eyes were wide open when he recalled holding his father’s belt when they carried Lincoln out. “I remember looking at the cobblestones. There was blood on them. Lincoln’s.”            He directed Ernie to a roll-top desk. In a slot meant for letters was a small folder. “Take a look,” said Seymour. Inside was a yellowed paper rectangle, the ink faded brown with age. “Ford’s Theater” was printed at the top and below, in handwritten script, the words “Washington D.C. April 14, 1865. Maj. T. C. Seymour has secured seats 29, 30 and 31 in Orchestra.”            Then Seymour started to snore. Ernie went to shovel off the porch. He only left when a stout lady wearing a thick wool coat arrived with a dinner of chicken pot pie. “If I knew you’d be here I would’ve brought two,” she said. “What about tomorrow?”            Ernie loved chicken pot pie. He came back every day for weeks, even after the county decided a live-in nurse was needed. He’d read to Seymour who didn’t mention he’d received his new glasses. If Seymour tired of Ernie’s questions, he never mentioned that, either. When the county nurse took charge, she cleared up the magazines, and shooed Ernie away. “You exhaust the old man,” she said.            Not long after that, Seymour was sitting in his chair, staring outside. He brushed his fingers through his hair and frowned. It was a Wednesday. He got himself up, cane in hand, and walked out the front door. He probably didn’t see the sheet of ice that had formed on his porch. His obituary said nothing about the night of April 14, 1865.            Ernie got a C on his paper, “The Last Witness.” His teacher thought he made most of it up. He resubmitted it as a short story to Argosy Magazine, which published it and paid him $100. The story became the basis for a Twilight Zone episode some years later.            Ernie Remsen wrote the screenplay.


He gazed absently at the black kettle, his reflection looking back at him like a stranger. Nice cup of tea. That’s what we need. A faint humming of a song and the sound of light footsteps on the floorboards above him made him smile. He noticed the whistle of the kettle, as it screeched louder and louder, vapours fading away in the sunlight. Realisation struck; she must have put the kettle on. Of course, she did. Of course, she did. How kind. How thoughtful.

The dawn broke in a pool on the window, seeping in through the cracks and resting on his skin. What a fine morning.

The phone rang, or was that the ringing in his ears? “Hello. Yes, hello love.”

“Your mother’s just popped the kettle on. Yes, yes… okay. See you in a bit love.” He loved his little girl. He remembered when she was no taller than his footstool, how he would lift her up like a plane and carry her to the ends of the earth. She loved that too.

She was much too big for that now of course. And life had tired him out. The sound of silence greeted him after the kettle came to a boil. He’ll let his wife get that.

The old man shuffled to the drawing room, opening the curtains. A layer of dust danced through the air, through the empty furniture and on to the armchair where his wife’s imprint was. The oak bookshelf stood behind it, cassettes from the golden days waiting patiently for the day they would be played again. They looked at him, as they always did, and he turned away.

His eyes caught the photographs on the mantelpiece, coated with a film of grime. The faces in them now mere memories fading away. They were but shadows in his mind. He recalled his life partner, Nora, making him his first tea in her special way. ‘Do you know why my tea tastes so good, my dear? It’s because I have a secret ingredient.’ she would say with a mischievous smirk. ‘And you will never know what it is.’ She was right though. She must have had a special ingredient, because it always tasted of magic. Nobody could ever make tea like hers. The doorbell trilled, and before he could bring himself to move his worn body, it opened with a bang and his daughter stumbled in, dishevelled, already removing her coat and shoes.

‘Hello Dad, how are you?’ she asked, pecking him on the cheek. The scent of her perfume on her sweaty skin reminded him of something his mind could not fathom. ‘Yes yes, fine love. How are you? How i..is what’s-his-face?’ he stuttered. She frowned. ‘You know his name Dad; you can’t keep acting like you don’t remember.’ The one advantage to forgetting things was pretending to forget the existence of people he wasn’t particularly fond of, including his daughter’s fiancé. They talked for a while, reminiscing on old times and her childhood. She had always been a good girl. Such a good girl. She had never caused him grief. Even when she was sent home from school for getting into a scuffle, he had suppressed his thoughts. Many parents would have scolded their child, violence is never the answer . Debatable. When he had first arrived in England, he couldn’t speak, nor understand, the language he suddenly had to adopt. Everyone looked and sounded different. Unfamiliar. He remembered being told to go back home by people he had never met before. Recollections of black eyes and sore knuckles sprang to mind. He gave just as much as he got. He remembered feeling a pang of homesickness, longing for the scorching sun of his homeland. He missed the food, the loud conversations with street-sellers. Most of all, he missed the tea; laced with cinnamon, cardamom, and the spices his country were famous for. Thank God for Nora who had always provided him with a piece of home. ‘Dad?’ He was jolted out of his flashbacks. She was looking at him questioningly. ‘You okay, Dad?’ He nodded and they sat in silence for, what felt like, an eternity. He tried to find the words to ask her how life was treating her, but he just wanted to close his eyes and bask in the comfort of her presence.

He didn’t know where his wife had disappeared to, leaving him waiting for his morning tea. He turned to his daughter, “Could you make us a cup of tea love?” *** He looked at the tea she put in front of him. Weak. Pale. Half-empty. Stupid girl. Stupid girl. “What is this ?” His arm flayed, hitting the cup, its contents splattering across the blackened carpet. Loathing filled his insides. He hated her. Her attempts at trying to help him when he needed none. As if a child could know better than their own father. He didn’t need her; he didn’t need anyone.

She never did anything right anyway. Her face was a mixture of fear and sadness. “I..I tried to make it the way you like. I should have let the teabag soa—" “—it’s wrong, it’s all wrong!” “I can make it again, Dad, it’s fine. Look.” She gathered up the fragments of the cup, desperately trying to find a way to put back together, back to the way it was. His head hurt. It was like something was pulling the words from his throat, speaking for him. “You can’t help yourself can you? Always doing it wrong! Why can’t you be more like your mother?” She looked at him in a way he knew would not leave him until his last breath. He should say something. He should. What could he say to the person who meant the world to him? Before the guilt flooded his body completely, she’d gone, leaving only a trail of the scent he had always loved behind. Once she’d left, the house darkened once more. The old man waited. Waited. And waited. There wasn’t a sound, except the familiar sound of light footsteps from above. He walked to the kitchen, dragging his body towards the black kettle, now silent. Nice cup of tea. That’s what we need.