It was December 2066. It was so terribly cold. Snow was falling, and it was almost dark. I was 14 years old and my mother was driving me to my father’s house in rural Wisconsin, outside of Madison. There was no way I was going to spend the obligatory Gift Exchange and New Year’s holidays with him again.

Last year instead of getting me presents, he smashed my guitar against the fireplace then put the mangled remains of it as well as the notebook where I kept my musical scribblings into the burning hearth. “That’s about as good a use as you’re going to get of those things, Abbey Zhang,” he had said. “No offspring of mine is going to waste his life composing songs about high school angst and pubescent hormonal fixations. You’re better off becoming a raiser of cage-free chickens, like your old man. There’s dignity in that profession. ‘Early to rise, to pluck from the dawn hens their golden-yolk prize,’ was your grandfather’s favorite refrain. It should become yours.”

I couldn’t bear the thought of spending another two weeks on my dad's pasture chicken ranch, waking up before the light of day, feeding hens and harvesting their eggs, while the man who wanted to kill my adolescent musical dreams loomed over my shoulder. So, as I was sitting in the passenger seat of my mother’s car and as she drove at approximately fifty miles an hour on a two-lane highway in the waning hours of that cold, snowy day, I forcibly took hold of the steering wheel and turned it with all my might to her left. The hydrogen-fuel two-seater crossed the lane into opposing traffic and we crashed head-on into an older model electric vehicle, the kind that were still common when China had not yet occupied the country for peace-keeping purposes. My relationship to mother wasn’t ideal either. Although she never complained about my music, she did complain about my friends and my conduct at school. She was a drinker, and sometimes the guys she’d bring over from her nights in the town’s bars would get rough with her. Some nights she’d become hysterical and ask what she had done to deserve such an ungrateful, troublesome son and such a miserable life, more generally.

Although the Chinese were real law and order types, even they couldn’t control the kind of trouble that found a lonely woman who was also a single mother and given to drink. On more than one occasion, after a night at the drinking holes, she’d told me how I, Abbey James Zhang, wasn’t really her son, that I had been born of her loins, but that I wasn’t her flesh and blood. Even though I didn’t bear much of a resemblance to either of my parents, I didn’t know what she meant. I would only find out when my face finally began to take on the adult contours of Morris James, the grind music star clone whose genome I possessed.

It was a freezing December, but I still got out of the car and started tossing money out onto the road. Money was only really used by people involved in the underground economies: low lives and recently arrived immigrants. The low lives used cash because they didn’t want to leave trails of digital currency linking them to suspect citizens known to sell drugs and outlawed weapons. Recently arrived immigrants who hadn’t received the government’s newly nationalized banking app also made use of the aging low-density polyethylene bills that had stopped being produced two decades ago, after the Chinese occupation. I had money because I used to help my high school buddy, Hank, peddle black market synthetic drugs like LSD, MDMA and ketamine. The Chinese had really cracked down on sales and use of illegal drugs, and I risked getting thrown into juvenile reeducation camp until my 18 th birthday for helping Hank, but I used the money to buy stuff at garage sales in the Latino barrios where some residents still didn’t possess means for electronic transfers. One of the things I had bought was the guitar my dad had smashed and burned.

While I tossed plasticized bill after plasticized bill of the multi-hued hundred-dollar denomination currency, printed with the face of Barack Obama, onto the highway, I loudly shouted the lyrics of “Heathens” a song by one of my favorite millennial bands, 21 Pilots that had been covered by All, a band from the 2050s. It was one of the songs that hadn’t been banned by the Chinese who had imposed decency laws regulating cultural production.  All music that made explicit mention of sex, violence or drugs had gotten the governmental axe.  A concerned passerby driving a Great Wall hydrogen fuel coupe slowed to a crawl, rolled down his window, asked me what I was doing, and when I just kept on singing, he stopped and started picking up the old currency. Another passerby must’ve called the police, because not five minutes after I had caused the accident, a Madison Community Surveillance hydrogen hovercraft landed at the accident site.

The Community Surveillance monitors found my mother unconscious in the driver's seat. Our airbags hadn't deployed and she had passed out upon impact with the steering wheel. I told the monitors that she was abused by a boyfriend and that if they looked for evidence of abuse on her body, they would find it. While the bystanders who had stopped to help looked on and reported what they had seen, I contemplated my options: either being taken to my father’s where I would be subjected to his sermonizing and paternal cruelties, or doing something rash to avoid transport to his torturous poultry-raising dominion. I made a lunge for one of the monitors. They quickly subdued me and after my mother had come to, she tearfully told the monitors that I wasn’t her son, that all they need to do was run a DNA scan to discover that the little demon didn’t belong to her. The monitors took me to a behavioral crisis unit for adolescents. After I had been processed by the Madison Youth Behavioral Health Authority and given a DNA scan, I was shown to my room. There I met Dwindle, a lanky seventeen-year-old who told me he had been brought to the crisis unit after his parents had called the Community Surveillance Agency and told them that their son, who neither regularly took his meds for depression nor attended state-mandated therapy for anti-social personality disorder, had absconded. Dwindle was picked up by the monitors after being caught shoplifting in a gritty part of town.

As we exchanged small talk typical of newly acquainted behaviorally-troubled teens, he told me that he’d been in and out of behavioral crisis wards since the age of twelve. Shortly after we had given each other a glimpse of our dysfunctional lives, Dwindle tossed a small bundle of pills, tightly wrapped in cellophane onto my bed. “What’s this?” I asked. “Smell it,” he said. The nugget-sized package smelled of feces. “Smells like shit,” I said. “Yeah, that’s because I keistered it when I was changing out of my street clothes and into the crisis unit uniform.” By “keistered,” which was pronounced like “key” and “stirred,” he meant he had surreptitiously hidden it in his anal cavity so that crisis unit staff wouldn’t confiscate the contraband. “It might smell like shit, but that right there is the shit that’s going to let me and you to get our kicks while we’re locked up in this hell-hole.” The purple gelatinous pills didn’t look like any of the kind I had helped my high school black marketeer friend, Hank, peddle at high school and on street corners. “It doesn’t look like Molly,” I said. “Molly’s for idiots looking to experience love artificially,” said Dwindle. “We live in times when the likes of me and you are an endangered race.” He was referring to the fact that combined nuclear war in Europe and the epidemic spread of rapaxia, a virulent and extremely deadly disease that affected people of Northern European descent, had decimated light complected populations on the planet. No one was sure if rapaxia had evolved on its own or developed in a biological weapons lab. I was only partially white: my maternal grandfather was German and my paternal grandmother was Irish. Both my parents were half-Chinese, I wasn’t subject to rapaxia’s ravages, only people with red or blonde hair and blue or green eyes were, but I nevertheless harbored a fear that I could fall victim to its ethnocidal contagiousness. “Love is for losers," declared Dwindle. "That substance you hold in your mortal hand is Moxy, and Moxy’s gonna change your life. It’s gonna make you want to kill something. It’s gonna make you see things, make you hear voices that’ll reveal the true meaning of your life. It’ll help you understand who the tormented soul that aches for meaning underneath your skin really is.” Sure enough, seconds after we took the Moxy, I felt a surge of adrenalin that made me feel like I either wanted to fight or break something. Dwindle started howling and encouraged me to do the same. The loud racket we made seemed to quell the violent urgings the drug elicited, but Youth Behavioral Health staff intervened. Both Dwindle and I attacked the intervening psychiatric technicians. They found the remaining Moxy, put Dwindle on another unit and me in restraints in a side room.

While fastened with rubberized straps to the side room’s metal-frame bed, the drug-induced adrenalin rush died out and the hallucinogenic effects kicked in. The buzzing of the fluorescent lights overhead began to grow louder until they sounded like the deafening hum of a nuclear power station. The subdued hiss of the climate control vent on the ceiling began to sound like a titanic respiratory system inhaling then exhaling. On the mattress next to my head, a lone ant, on some programmed mission to benefit its colony, unsteadily climbed onto my arm. I found its genetically-coded determination comforting, and when I focused on it, the distorted cacophony of the lights and vent died down. As I followed the ant with my Moxy-influenced eyes, it began morphing: first into a larger thumb-sized ant, then a rhinoceros beetle, a tweeting canary, a belching blue-bellied lizard, a roaring golden mouse, and on up evolutionary changes in the taxonomic chain of being until it became a chattering capuchin monkey, then a Jiu wӗihύ, a nine-tailed, white spirit fox that my maternal grandmother, Jing, had told me about when I was younger.  My grandmother’s name in Chinese meant “quiet,” which was quite ironic, since she was given to excessive chatting about topics that usually never captured my attention for more than a moment or two. Grandma Jing’s talks of the nine-tailed fox provided a distracting alternative to the monologues she would often give about her Han, or pure-blood, genealogy, about the days of the Chinese peace-keeping force’s occupation, and the need for Chinese to conduct themselves like exemplary global citizens, reflective of our nation’s recently established manifest destiny. She was fond of telling me, “Abbey, you must stop frowning all the time. Bad moods are contagious,” words that now this nine-tailed fox repeated to me as it sat on my chest and gently rose and fell to my breath. “Grandma?” I asked the fox. “No, I’m not Jing, Mr. Abbey Dour—walker on the Abbey Road, seeker of the Abbey door—but, Jiu Wӗihύ, here to show you the true way-hu,” said the fox with a sharp-toothed smile, it’s nine tails flickering.

“A Jiu wӗihύ, here to show me the true way-what?” I queried, feeling both confused and entertained by the hallucination that seemed straight out of Alice in Wonderland, a book my mother had read to me when I was in third grade. “Way-hu, as in ‘path’ and ‘hu,’ meaning ‘to call,’ ‘to cry,’ ‘to shout,‘ and ‘to breathe out,’ in two of your grandparents’ native Mandarin, Mr. Abbey Zhang, Sir Abbey Tao. I’m here to say nĭ hăo and reveal your true name. I am the cry of your past, that is also the echo of your future.” I knew nĭ hăo meant “hello” and that the Mandarin, “hu” translated into the English “to yell.” But the word had additional significance for me. My freshman year, after Hank had turned me onto the rock music his Wisconsin-born grandfather had listened to, I had turned him onto the Hu, a turn of the millennium Mongolian folk-metal band that still had a large following amongst Asians of many nationalities. Grandma Jing couldn’t stand when I would listen to the Hu. She called them, “bard-barian descendants of Genghis Khan,” and when she did I would reply with an “Amen,” and a “mother may, I?” before turning the volume of the Bluetooth speaker up even louder.

I could hear the Hu’s version of Metallica’s twentieth century “Sad but True” blare from the intercom speaker in the isolation room, which I’m sure the nurse’s station wasn’t playing for the patients, but then the growly vocals started coming from the nine-tailed fox’s mouth. “I’m here to tell you to sing,” the fox said in Mongolian, which even though I couldn’t understand, I nevertheless understood due to the effects of the Moxy. “No matter what your father, the guitar smasher and burner, the dream killer, tells you, you’re no bringer of evil. You’re a derelict bringer of hope, you’re a singer.” “How can I ever be singer? Most of the time I wish I didn’t even exist,” I said to the fox. It put its snout against my nose, winked one eye, then the other, then opened both eyes wide. “Eight of my tails represent a time you will cheat death,” said the fox, and after saying this, it ate one of its fluffy tails. “You’ve already cheated death once, last summer when your mother took you to California and you dared the turbulent commotion of the Pacific Ocean despite the red flag warnings. You barely had the strength to swim back to shore. I will keep you safe until my tails run out. Until then, we must remain perfect strangers.” I managed to ask the fox what my real name was. He answered, “My time here is up for now, but you’ll find out soon enough.” As I tried to get the fox to answer additional questions, it started to chew at my restraints. With a brilliant lightning flash that momentarily blinded me and a rumble of thunder that faded onto my sobering eardrums, the effects of the Moxy wore off, and my now-sober eyes could see that a tall psychiatric technician with a cleanly shaven head, full, graying beard, and blue eyes was unfastening the tethers that tied me to the bed. Behind him an attractive Asian woman with a white physician’s coat, a clip board, and a brass name tag that read “Dr. Bennet,” said “Abbey Zhang, there is someone important on a holophone who wants to meet you.” Holophones, that used hologram technology formerly confined to a few 20 th century science fiction films, had been introduced three decades ago and had made traditional teleconferencing obsolete. I had an unexpected, lumpy-throated hope the person projected by the holophone was going to be my father. Dr. Bennet, who must’ve been married to a white man to have a name like that, walked me to her office, where the hologram of a dark-eyed, honey-skinned man with a pencil mustache sat with his legs crossed and the fingers of his hands clasped over his uppermost knee. “Hello youngster, my name is Charles,” said the man as he reached out an open hand for me to shake. I obliged and shook it, feeling the still unrefined plasma-hologram technology’s capacity for limited tactility.

“Where are my parents?” I asked the Singh-o-gram. “Your mother is recovering from the accident. The Community Surveillance monitors have deemed she is no longer fit to care for you. Your father demands I deliver you to his pasture chicken ranch. But those facts are neither here nor there. To be more exact about my name, it is Charles Ravi Singh,” said the hologram, “I’m an agent for a powerful media corporation, and I am also now your legal custodian.” The hologram took a corporate identification and electronic fund transfer card from his suit’s breast pocket and held it for me to see. I read his name on it as well as the name of 21 st Century American Entertainments, a firm that possessed the rights to many of the more popular films, music and books of the 20 th century. They also owned the copyrights to most celebrity clones.

“You were given the name Abbey Zhang at birth, but that is not your true name. While your mother Alice birthed you, neither she nor your father, Lee, are genetically related to you. You are a genomic replica of the grind music star Morris James, and whether you like it or not, your genome, and therefore, your life and death, belong to the 21st Century American Entertainments corporation.” The last James clone had committed suicide 49 days before my birthday. I was now fourteen, and although I know I didn’t bear much a resemblance to either of my parents, I didn’t think I bore much of a resemblance to James until the moment Singh mentioned I was the replicant of the grind star. As Charles Ravi Singh turned to speak to Dr. Bennet about my impending release, memories of my barely adolescent life flashed before my eyes, of my parents’ dysfunctional ways, of my only high school friend, Hank, and his pills, of my grandmother complaining about the Hu, of my foolhardy swim in Malibu Beach, of the white, nine-tailed Jiu wӗihύ, whose words had made me stop wishing for death. Before I once again started listening to the conversation between Dr. Bennet and my new legal guardian, I wondered about what my other seven brushes with death would look and feel like.


Sheila had barely tiptoed outside the borders of the United States, having only ventured on a couple of short jaunts into Mexico and Canada. So, when she saw an opportunity for exciting travel, she made a bold move – she volunteered to represent her team at an industry conference in Brazil. Little did she know at the time what she’d be getting herself into. “It sounds exciting,” she thought to herself with a smile, “I can do this. No big deal.” First, she needed to sort out getting a visa. Luckily her company used an agency to help with international travel and securing visas. “Piece of cake,” she thought to herself when her visa arrived in her mailbox just a week later. Then she realized there was a possibility she might require vaccinations. She did some quick research, determined what she needed, and scheduled an appointment with her doctor’s travel clinic. “Also, a piece of cake,” she said to herself after leaving the clinic with a bandage on her arm. Next, she headed to her bank to get Brazilian currency so she could make a few purchases in Brazil and pay for cab rides if they didn’t accept credit cards. “Always travel prepared,” was her mantra. “This international travel thing isn’t going to be so hard,” she said out loud while driving back to work, “I don’t know why everyone complains about it so much.” When the day of her flight arrived, Sheila’s bags were loaded up with all the right adapters she’d need to keep her phone and laptop charged up, along with an extra external battery if things got dire when she wasn’t in her hotel room. She had her full itinerary, her boarding passes, her hotel information, and the conference details all printed out and ready to go. She jumped into a cab with her neck pillow secured around her neck and a lightweight blanket packed into her carryon bag so she could sleep comfortably on the long flight. “I’m READY!” she declared to herself, and to the cab driver, who clearly wasn’t interested in anything she had to say. She shrugged and broke into a self-satisfied smile. All was fine when Sheila took off from San Francisco for her connecting flight in Dallas. She popped her headphones in and listened to the new playlist she’d created the night before full of all of her favorite, most energizing songs. Unfortunately, what Sheila discovered in short order was that all of her very detailed preparation did not remotely prepare her for what she was about to encounter. Not even a little bit. Sheila disembarked from the plane in Dallas and found her gate at the international terminal. She was in the middle of the pack waiting to board the plane and suddenly realized that everyone around her was speaking what she’d learned through her research was the native language of Brazil – Portuguese. “Well that can’t be right,” she mumbled.  She looked up and down the line of people and realized she was the only Caucasian waiting to board the plane. But a lot of people boarded ahead of her, so there had to be a few Americans also headed to Brazil, right? She was in DALLAS for crying out loud. But as Sheila walked down the aisle toward her seat, all she heard was Portuguese – not a word of English. “Well, surely, they also speak English,” she thought and plopped down, grabbing her blanket and an extra sweater out of her carry-on bag so she’d be cozy when she tried to sleep on the overnight flight. Then the stewardess started making all manner of announcements…in Portuguese. “Fascinating. I thought everyone spoke English on airplanes IN AMERICA,” she muttered with an audible sigh. Just before the plane left the gate, a stewardess made a special trip down the aisle to tell Sheila, what she needed to know…in English, broken English, but English just the same…while also sharing that she was, in fact, the only English-speaking passenger on board. “Dear God. I hope we don’t have any type of crisis on the plane or it’s going to be the Brazilians leading the oblivious…the oblivious being ME,” she also muttered to herself. Oh well, once I get to Brazil, I’ll be fine, she thought. Surely people at airports and hotels all speak English. Sheila started watching movies on her tiny seatback screen until she couldn’t keep her eyes open any longer and finally passed out over the Atlantic Ocean, hoping the flight wouldn’t go down into the ocean. It was a pragmatic thought for a very OCD and anxious person such as herself. But still, her eyes managed to close for several hours until the morning sun started streaming into the plane. Suddenly the stewardesses were handing out trays of food with Portuguese words all over the various packages. It was the most delicious airplane food Sheila had ever tasted. Now that could have been attributable to the fact that it was “foreign” and therefore “exotic” in her mind. But Sheila was immediately convinced that Brazilians simply live their best lives when they travel from Dallas to Brazil, consuming many delicious fruity beverages and snacks. After landing, Sheila made her way off the plane and through customs in short order. Yup, her visa was all in line and proper. Then she headed to the taxi stand and tried to converse with the attendant, who clearly spoke not a word of English. She tried saying “taxi” and “hotel” and the name of the hotel, but the attendant just kept staring at her and shrugging. “Good grief, it’s going to be a VERY long week if it’s going to be like this at the AIRPORT,” she thought. She finally pulled her well-prepared stack of papers out of her briefcase and pointed to the name of the hotel. “Ahhhh,” the attendant said, and signaled a taxi to take her to her hotel, speaking a lot of unrecognizable words. What followed was a very long and quiet hour-long ride in a cab with a driver who clearly also spoke no English. And Sheila noted the extensive graffiti and favelas along the hillsides on the way to her hotel. “I’m such an idiot,” Sheila said out loud, wishing she’d invested in a book of Portuguese phrases to bring on her trip with her and that she’d done a little more research on the location of both the airport and her hotel. It was with more than a little trepidation that she wondered if she was going to be taken out to the countryside and murdered, never to be heard from again. Her heart started racing at warp speed until eventually, she arrived at her hotel in the very upscale and beautiful Sao Paulo business district. She quickly discovered that the hotel reception staff, mercifully, spoke exceptional English. She headed to her room to dispose of her luggage, then headed back down to speak to the concierge and learn what was within walking distance of the hotel so she could spend her Sunday afternoon exploring. “Well,” he stated, “There’s a little indoor shopping mall right down the street, then if you take a right and walk about 3-4 blocks, there are lots of other shops and restaurants to explore.” “Excellent. Are they both safe areas for me to walk alone in?” Sheila asked, with more than a little concern for her safety. She had read about crime in Sao Paulo and didn’t want her first big foray into international travel to land her in the middle of some horrific crime to her person. “Oh yes, ma’am, both areas are very safe,” the concierge reported with a smile. Sheila checked out the little shopping mall first. She wandered from one end to another only to discover it was mostly furniture and carpet stores, which was disappointing, but no matter. She felt very self-satisfied for simply getting out and exploring in a country where most people didn’t even speak her language. But eventually, Sheila realized she was very thirsty and headed to the mall’s food court, to purchase a bottle of water. She pointed to the water bottles behind the counter and said, “A bottle of water, please?” The cashier just stared at her. Sheila leaned in and pointed harder at the water bottles. Still nothing. Finally, the cashier started pointing at each item in her glass case until she got an affirmation from Sheila after she had pointed to the water. The cashier rang it up and Sheila handed her 100 reals, having no idea how Brazilian currency actually worked. “Ugh, another thing I forgot to prepare myself for,” she thought as she shoved the change she was given back into her wallet, hoping she wasn’t paying $10 or more for that bottle of water. She left the shopping mall and headed toward the shopping district; but after walking just a couple of blocks, she started to feel extremely uneasy. She was the only woman walking down a very deserted street with just a couple of men wandering aimlessly amongst boarded up and graffitied buildings. “Oh, no. No, no, no, no,” she thought and promptly turned around to head back to the hotel. "That concierge does NOT know what he's talking about!" Once safely ensconced back in her hotel room, she turned on the TV to discover that all the shows were in Portuguese. “I can do this,” she said, figuring out how to turn on English subtitles. In no time, she was picking up Portuguese words while watching “Big Bang Theory” in Portuguese, which amused her to no end. Now that she was finally relaxed, she realized she was starving and ran down to the lobby coffee bar to pick up something to eat. And that was when she discovered that bacon pizza is a thing in Brazil. And not just little shredded up bacon bits…full slices of bacon laid all across the pizza, its entirety which she consumed in less than 20 minutes because…bacon…pizza. Monday morning rolled around and Sheila headed to the conference, only to have the keynote speaker, followed by all the other speakers presenting all the content in Portuguese, without English subtitles. “Phew boy, I really need to learn to ask the right questions before I EVER leave the country again,” she muttered after returning to her hotel room. The next day, she ran into a couple of colleagues she’d met a couple of times before, one of whom actually spoke Portuguese at home with his Brazilian wife, and they made a plan to go to dinner at…obviously…an authentic Brazilian steak house. At the restaurant, her colleague carried on detailed conversations with the waiters about exactly what meats they wanted and what they wanted to be served with them. Uncharacteristic of her normal very buttoned-up personality, Sheila just laughed, exclaiming, “Hey, I’m along for the ride. Feel free to impress me!” They headed to the gigantic salad bar, and the three of them sauntered around it to determine what choices they’d make. Kevin looked at her and whispered, “There’s nothing I love more than a salad bar made ENTIRELY of MEAT!” They both laughed a little too loudly and the other patrons began to stare. Sheila came to the realization that she didn’t have a care in the world about what people she’ll never see again in a foreign country thought of her and continued laughing as she piled meat and seafood high onto her plate. The next day, when Sheila had some free time before heading to the airport for her flight, she went and sat down in the hotel coffee bar and drank what was clearly the best espresso she’d ever had in her entire life. She pulled out her laptop and started writing the article that was due to her boss by the end of the day when the barista came over and started chatting with her in broken English. Before long Sheila and the barista were teaching each other words from their respective languages, sharing a laugh when they each improperly pronounced the other’s words. When Sheila finished drafting her article, she got up, packed up her bag, waved to the barista, smiled, and said, “Obrigado!” As she walked back to her room, she ran across the housekeepers busily stocking their carts in the hallway. “Bom dia,” she said with a smile as she shuffled past. She jumped in a cab back to the airport, using up her Brazilian reals on souvenirs for her son at the airport, then boarded the plane and sat down, letting out a deep sigh. “Well that wasn’t so bad,” she thought to herself, as she silently plotted in her head what country, with very few English speakers, she wanted to travel to next.


It was a warm August afternoon, a gentle sun blessed the immaculate fairways of the Long Island Country Club, an oasis of tranquility and temporary shelter from the violent storm raging on Wall Street. Lehman Brothers was in trouble. Four elderly men, dressed in polos, colorful slacks, were ambling toward the club house, heads down, pensive. “My God, Bernie, your chip shot on 17 was a doozy”, said Danny Solomon the suave Gold Coast realtor.  It had been an unusually subdued round of golf, opportunities for small talk few and far between. Bernie Madoff was visibly anxious and spent much of the morning off by himself on his cellphone, missing the action on a couple of holes. His three companions gave him space, they knew he had a lot on his mind, but Danny needed guidance, the man’s wisdom. Things were getting serious. Should he sell his stocks and take a loss? “Thank you, Danny. The more I work at my stroke, the luckier I get,” said Bernie, smiling wryly, enigmatic as ever. His three companions – friends of Bernie - were in thrall of the great investor, and chortled at the remark; a combination of brilliance and self-effacement that they’d grown used to over the years.

Bernie stopped at the threshold to the club house, on the patio, where they might not be overheard by the staff or other members. His three companions, alert to his every word, attentive to his every gesture, stopped and gathered in a polite huddle. “Gentlemen, I know you are worried about the market,” said Bernie, slight frown, hands clasped, the look of a sympathetic priest. Larry Folsom, a jumpy guy, owner of a local metal fabrication firm, allowed his agitation to show, “Oh, Bernie, please tell us that we are not in trouble.”  The exclamation was a lapse, a social misstep, born of anxiety; Larry’s business was struggling owing to cheap knock-off products from China, so he relied heavily on his Madoff portfolio to sustain his North Shore lifestyle.  “Larry, for goodness’ sake, calm down,” said Bernie. It was a gentle admonishment that shifted Larry’s status ever so slightly to the periphery of the inner circle. “The reason I wanted to speak to you – in private – is to tell you that my traders are hedged against this volatility and are riding a handsome profit from the market crash”. “Options?” said Jimmy DiNapoli, who liked to think he knew a thing or two about investing, “Out of the money puts? I heard on the radio that they’re the only game in town right now”.

“Yes, options, put-options, and some naked shorts,” said Bernie momentarily surprised at Jimmy the Pizza Parlor operator – from the mouths of idiots - “two, three standard deviations, we’ve got it covered”. Jimmy was honored by the answer - so receptive to his input, so clever - and huffed with approval. Indeed, all three clients nodded knowingly, though not one of them understood a thing about trading and investing. All they really cared about was the Madoff & Co portfolio statements, up-and-to-the-right, every month, regular as clockwork. They were fat and happy, and obviously super smart. It’s all about choosing the right horse for the race, having the right friends. “Genius” said Danny Solomon, a big handsome man with swept-back silver hair and a winning smile.  Danny’s portfolio was over $10 million, and he was months into his third marriage, each bride younger and more beautiful than the prior – all thanks to Bernie.

Bernie dismissed the praise as unnecessary, but it felt good to be in the company of his close friends, his rich friends, his grateful friends. He’d built Madoff’s investment firm from nothing, and now it was worth billions, and he’d taken his friends along for the ride. They’d all started with nothing – scrappy boys from Queens – and now they were rich men, living the dream. “We have an opportunity to double our money in the next six months. The Fed is throwing money at Lehmans, and I know for absolute certain that the liquidity crisis will be resolved by next Tuesday,” he tapped his nose. The other men understood that he was close with top men in the business – moguls, bankers and politicians - and something very big, very hush-hush, was obviously in the works. “Big guns?” said Jimmy, the Pizza guy. “Massive market intervention,” confirmed Bernie. “Opportunity?” said Danny the realtor, nudging Larry Folsom playfully.

“Yes, massive opportunity,” said Bernie. “Are you interested?” “How much?” said Larry, a bit skeptically. He really was on a tight budget, and Bernie would not let him dip into his portfolio. He was grateful of course - the value kept going up - but his wife needed a new car, his daughter’s college fees were due, dental implants cost a fortune. “As much as you can afford,” said Bernie. “Count me in!” said Jimmy, “I’m good for a million or two, Ginny too”. “Me too!” said Danny, who had Madoff money squirreled away in some offshore accounts. “Why don’t you guys go in and get lunch? I just need to take care of business. I’ll join you in a moment,” said Bernie. A couple of million was small potatoes. His friends wandered into the clubhouse, relieved that their nest-eggs were in such good hands. CNBC was playing on the TV monitor. The news was very bad, things were getting worse, but not for them. +++ “What the fuck” shouted Bernie into the cellphone, “you’re supposed to handle this shit”. Bernie was reaming Brian, the Madoff head trader, a second asshole. “I’m trying to dump the Lehman position, but Goldman and Morgan are both selling stock faster than green grass through a goose. We’re stuck holding the bag”. “Aren’t we protected?” Bernie paused – what was it that fucking Jimmy-the-idiot said? Options! “What about put options?” said Bernie. It was the first time Bernie had ever mentioned options.  Brian was shocked. “You’re fucking kidding me, right? When did we ever hedge our positions?”. Bernie conceded the point with a grunt. Things were bad. He hung up on Brian, and called Janice, his back-office manager. “When do the statements go out?” asked Bernie. “Tomorrow” said Janice. “Do me a favor, send out the Friends and Family statements asap, but wait up on the rest of the clients. See if we can buy some time. Make sure everything is priced appropriately”. “Appropriately?” said Janice in response to the code word.

“Use your discretion,” replied Bernie. He trusted her to massage the numbers. “Lots of inbound calls today, Bernie,” said Janice. He detected a note of terror in her voice. She was the ballast in his ship, and had worked with him for over 30 years. They’d been through tough times before, they’d get through this one too, somehow. “Anything I should know?” said Bernie, pulling at his soaking polo shirt, he was sweating profusely. “JPMorgan is making margin calls,” she said. This was bad.  JP could make or break Madoff & Co with a single phone call to the Fed or the SEC. “Take cash out of the F&F accounts and wire the funds to JPMorgan so that they’re off our back for a while”.

The Friends and Family accounts were like a big slush fund. The trick was to never ever let it run dry. “Will do”. “Don’t tell Brian, don’t tell anybody”. “How are we going to get out if this situation, Bernie?” “The same way we always do. Just keep a record of the transactions in your book, the special book. Call me if things get worse”. Bernie walked into the club house. His friends were seated near the TV monitor, each ignoring a tall glass of iced tea sitting in front of them. They were transfixed by the screen. “Gentlemen” said Bernie, taking his seat at the table. He glanced up at the screen. The Dow was down 17% and Lehman stock was trading down more than 80%, trading under $5.00 a share. “We’re not in Lehman stock, right, Bernie?” said Danny, worried. “Right, we sold out of the bank positions weeks ago”. Danny and Jimmy looked relieved; Larry was still troubled, twitchy. “Bernie, they say that there’s margin calls, some of the smaller hedge funds are struggling. That guy up in Boston thinks Madoff is in trouble”. Bernie laughed and took a sip of the iced tea, laced with Captain Morgan rum.

“Hey Larry, relax,” it was Danny speaking. He placed a reassuring hand on Larry’s tense shoulder, “Bernie’s got this covered”. Larry was not easily reassured. “The Boston guy says he’s simulated your portfolio, and the returns are statistically impossible”. Larry was beginning to irritate Bernie. “Gah! Such nonsense” said Bernie, “An outsider cannot understand our risk-management methods”. He took a deep draft of the Iced Tea. His phone was ringing. He glanced at the screen - Janice - and denied the call. “How’s my God Daughter doing at Rutgers?” said Bernie, looking at Larry. Larry’s face lit up, “she’s doing great Bernie”. “Tell her I’ve got a job for her at the firm, next summer”. Bernie’s phone was ringing again. Janice again. He turned off the ringer. It was buzzing in his pocket. “Do you have to get going?” said Danny. “Yeah, I should probably check in with the team. Remember to wire Janice the funds if you want to buy at the bottom. Fortune favors the bold”. “You got it Bernie!” said Jimmy the pizza guy, two thumbs up.

+++ A couple of million from his friends wouldn’t cut it. Bernie gave the valet a $50 bill – word of his generosity would get around the club - and slipped into the driver’s seat of the sleek black BMW. He idled the car on the forecourt, a lazy breeze brushed the dogwood trees. Bernie’s hands were shaking. The situation was dire, but it could change in an instant and get better. The phone was buzzing again. It was Janice again. Things could get worse. Bernie threw the phone onto the passenger seat, shifted the transmission and the automobile screeched off the hot forecourt.. Best to stay out of the office and away from the sharks in Manhattan. He headed for the Expressway, east bound, toward Montauk; he’d lie low for a while at the beach house, with his wife, Ruth. +++ The maid opened the door and looked worried. Bernie could hear the TV playing somewhere in the living room. He handed the car keys to the maid, and joined Ruth in the living room. She was twisted up like a pretzel on the white sofa, watching the financial news. “Oh Bernie!” she said, tears streaking mascara down her face, her neat, trimmed hair was mussed up. She was the most put-together woman he knew, his rock, so the tears were upsetting.  His rock was crumbling. “I’ve got to sit down,” he stumbled, fell wearily into his reading chair. “Lehman’s going under”, she said, “and it’s going to take us down with it”. Angry, she hit her thighs with her hands, “you should never have listened to Jan”. Jan was the CFO at Lehman, a family friend. He’d reassured them, not once, but twice, late night phone calls. They’d bought more stock. “We’re ruined, aren’t we?” said Ruth.

Bernie reached across to grab her trembling hand, to reassure her, but she spurned his advance. “No, we’re not ruined,” said Bernie, “our money is ring-fenced. If the firm goes under, we’ll be fine. The boys too.” It was a small relief. He was still the smartest man in the room… that funny looking kid from Queens with the big ambition. “But won’t we be liable for our clients’ funds?” she said.

It was a good question; Madoff the firm would be liable criminally, but Madoff the man, maybe not. He needed to make sure that the paper-trail stopped with Brian and Janice, stopped with the Special Book. It was a good plan. They signed the books. They dealt with the regulators. They would take the fall. “Don’t worry, they’ll have a hell of a job pinning the blame on us”. “We’ll never be able to show our faces in public again,” said Ruth. Her calendar was jammed solid with galas and charity events, the opera and trips to Europe. And the neighbors, the cousins and in-laws, their closest friends – the Friends and Family - they were all clients of the firm. How could she ever face them?

The maid came into the room, “Mr. Madoff, Sir, there are men at the door, with cameras. It looks like a TV crew”. “Tell them to go away”. +++ Bernie was hunched over the bathroom sink, wearing his striped pajamas. He could end it now with razor cuts across the wrists, or a bullet in the head; he had firearms in the safe downstairs.   He knew it was the easy way out, maybe the right thing to do because it would make things easier on the boys, on Ruth. He could take the whole damn mess with him to the grave, but who was he kidding? He didn’t have that kind of courage. He’d always imagined a graceful decline, the best managed care money could buy, he’d die in his sleep surrounded by paid help, eased into the night with medications.

He pulled an amber vial of sleeping pills from the bathroom cabinet and examined the label.

Fifty years and counting since he’d taken the big leap, the one act of courage, using money saved from summer jobs and a loan from his father-in-law. It started off well enough – the big scheme - he was the boy genius, king of the heap, but a setback here, a bad bet there, an unlucky one-in-a-million streak, and suddenly Madoff was in a hole, and the hole just kept getting deeper and deeper. Sleight of hand, cooked books, spinning dreams, he kept everybody happy. When Peter demanded payment, he borrowed from Paul. When Paul needed money, he borrowed it from Mary. Just for a little bit, for a little while… temporary measures… until the market came back, till he’d dug his way out of the hole. But the market never came back, and he kept digging, digging, digging that hole.

He took three sleeping tablets. +++ “It’s a fucking miracle, Bernie”. It was Brian the trader on the phone, first thing in the morning. Bernie was staring at the TV screen in disbelief. “Lehman Brothers Bailed Out, Market Rebounds” said the banner headline beneath the talking head. LEH stock was up four-fold. The Saudis took a stake in the company, Buffett too; it was a fucking miracle. “I told you not to worry”, said Bernie, trying the words out for size. He was quick to understand the new reality. It needed a narrative that cast him in the best possible light.

“Bernie, you are the fucking man!” Brian was gushing, but then went quiet, conspiratorial.  “Last night I was so scared that I nearly did something very stupid,” he almost choked on his words, and seemed about to start crying. . Bernie let the confession pass. It wasn’t his job to provide comfort to this man. This man that nearly blew up his company.  If Brian wanted to dwell upon his own failings… that was his narrative, not Bernie’s. “Well thank goodness you didn’t!” said Bernie, jovially, no hint of sympathy. The news was coming at them thick and fast. The S&P500 marked up more than 20% in the pre-market, animal spirits were at work. Lehman was saved, Madoff’s was saved. Yesterday’s blood bath seemed like a bad dream.

“We might even make a profit on the Lehman trade,” said Brian.  “Tell Janice that I’ll take client calls after the open”. Bernie ended the call. Ruth looked tired but relieved. “Do you think we’re going to be OK?” she asked. “Of course we’ll be OK” said Bernie, snapping his gold cufflinks into place. It was safe to go back to the office. He might even charter a copter to take him to Manhattan from the Hamptons. +++ Danny Solomon was grinning like an idiot; he just could not contain his happiness nor his gratitude. “A toast to our good friend, Bernie Madoff!”, he said, raising a glass, clinking it merrily. Bernie’s golf buddies were in ebullient mood. They were the center of attention in the club house. “I nearly shat my pants, Bernie”, said Danny, “but the Lehman trade worked out, just like you said it would”. Bernie acknowledge his friend. “It was a smart move, Danny. You have to keep your head, when others are losing theirs”. “So true, so true,” said Jimmy the pizza owner, “when do you think Janice will send the statements through? I can’t wait to see this month’s numbers. Up-and-to-the- right, I’ll betcha!” “Soon enough” said Bernie, enigmatic again, wry, smiling. It was Larry Folsom’s turn; he was happy enough, but not as cheerful as Danny or Jimmy, “Yeah Bernie, you’ve still got that magic touch”. A touch of jealousy. Bernie had scanned the F&F accounts, like Santa, tallying the naughties on his list. “I’m sorry that you couldn’t get in at the bottom, Larry. These opportunities don’t come around so often,” said Bernie. It wasn’t just gratitude that Bernie needed, he required compliance too, a key element of the big scheme.

“I’m sorry Bernie but I was scared shitless,” admitted Larry, twitch-twitch. Bernie the forgiving, the magnificent, the beneficent, “That’s OK Larry, there’s more important things than money… like family and friends”. There was nothing more important than the slush fund. “I’ll drink to that!” said Danny, “up-and-to-the-right” “Up-and-to-the-right, regular as clockwork”


Squat, beige and Soviet, the Marie Antoinette Apartments stood against the stale gray Minneapolis sky. Irony of the worst kind, he thought, blandly ugly and unconscious. He would take exquisitely self-aware irony any day over this three-story architectural monstrosity, “classed up” with tacked on ionic Greek columns, harsh blue LED Christmas lights wrapped inexpertly around them, canned Christmas classics pumping through the air. God, this place was only better than minimum security prison by a hair. But it was all he could afford now, so he’d just have to lower his eyes—and his standards—every time he approached. He tried to avoid the other people in the building, but a few of the near indigent souls, especially the family across the hall, insisted on pestering him with their lowbrow holiday cheer—the cheap gift of homemade cookies, the invitation of a seat at their dinner table on Christmas night on the flip side of a child’s crude drawing of a Christmas tree slipped under his door. All this might have been more bearable if anyone he knew now understood why the Marie Antoinette Apartments pained his soul, filled him with righteous rage. He’d certainly never get that from his obtuse, court-appointed therapist, a small, garish woman whose office and clothing reeked of TJ Maxx. So, he amused himself by using up their fifty minutes complaining about how much he hated living there. His fingers itched to blow the place up, her told her. To set it alight. She told him there were healthier ways to channel and examine his negative emotions so he could eventually let them go. He needed to think about what the Marie Antoinette represented to him, she told him, to look deeper, and to perhaps think about its positive attributes instead.

This made him laugh hysterically. How much deeper can I go than living inside the damned building? Should I dive into the meaning of my laminate, faux wood floors and Formica kitchen counters, the rancid smell of old cooking that oozes from the graying, cracked walls studded with nail holes and abandoned, archeological remnants of tape from all the miserable souls who inhabited the purgatory before me? How about the rust-stained, leaking toilet and body-oil-marked tub? Should I look for Rorshachs in its grimy patterns? That’s not what I meant, she said quietly, and you know it. Well, I cherish my negative emotions, he said, suddenly tired. They’re the only things keeping me going these days. ~ Near morning a couple of weeks before Christmas, after one too many sleeping pills, he had a vivid dream.

It started out of focus as he dragged himself toward the Marie Antoinette, bearing his usual cloak of heavy, gray resignation and pushed hard against the main door, as he always had to. Only this time, the door sprang open and instead of jarring, cold Christmas music, warm strains of exquisite chamber music vibrated through him. All came into focus. The entryway had grown to twice its size, the gray, non-descript industrial carpet replaced with a glowing, mahogany parquet floor. Instead of aluminum mailboxes and a frameless wall mirror on either side of the narrow space, giant gilt mirrors reflecting golden candlelight and gold and cream fleur-de-lis silk wallpaper covered the walls. The walls heaved outward until the room became what it wanted to be--a grand palace ballroom, complete with gently tinkling, candle-lit chandeliers. A ballroom for him alone. The effect was ostentatious but stunning, the way his ex-wife had decorated their homes in the city, on the island, at the lake, near the slopes—their homes for every preposition—all gone now. He dream-prayed he had died and gone to heaven.

But he awoke to the same ordinary life, the drab apartment, a shift at the same greasy job, and another boring session after it with his therapist, the only person he ever said more to than can-I-take-your-order-would-you-like-fries-with-that. A woman he would have sneered at, if not ignored, in his old life and would again someday when his luck turned. Would he tell her about his dream? He decided he would. It seemed safe enough, wasn’t about the past, the present, or even the future. It was just a dream. But was it? As his workday dragged on, the customers who filed into the restaurant looked at him, smiling, with something more, it seemed to him, than mere pre-Christmas cheer. He began to wonder if the dream wasn’t a message. Maybe his luck was about to turn. He’d paid his dues after all. That old feeling began to tingle again.

By the time his four o’clock appointment with TJ (as he’d taken to calling her, even to her face) arrived, he’d decided he must keep the dream to himself until he knew more. He had to get through the session, get home, eat a little something and take his sleeping pills. You seem distracted today, TJ said late in the hour. Something happen this week? Same old, same old. Same crappy job, same crappy apartment. He shifted his gaze to the pressed board

Believe!  plaque near the window before she could read him, but she was astute, this small, tacky woman. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her cock her head. You’re not complaining like you usually do. Did something change? Like I said, nope. Maybe I’ve adjusted to living in a shithole, I dunno. He attempted to give her an

aw shucks grin, but felt his face contorting in weird ways, so he scrambled to throw her a bone. Have I told you about my neighbors across the way? He leaned back and sneered, coming up with an awful lie. I’d swear to god she’s killing him sometimes, and, man, I wish she’d succeed so I can get some rest. What do you think it means, doc, that I don’t care if he dies? TJ sighed and drummed her red fingernails on her thigh. It’s clsoe four-fifty, she said. Let’s just pick this up next week.

~ The dream started the same as before. Heavy quotidian dread as he approached the stunted building, growing excitement and wonder as it opened to a Versailles-like hall of mirrors. But this time, the hall was filled with people, giant people, people twice his height, in silken, 18 th  century finery, swirling and spinning around the room, wind-up dolls in white wigs with faces he recognized. His old clients, wealthy people he’d cheated and stolen from for years, people he’d fooled into being his friends. People from the life he wanted back desperately.

He tried to speak, to get their attention, but nothing came, not even air. As he watched, the dancers grew larger. Wait, no—he grew smaller. He was shrinking, becoming more and more insignificant. An insect. A speck. Dirt. He would always be dirt. ~ He stumbled through the rest of the week, his nights vast and dreamless. TJ seemed surprised to see him in the waiting room early but said nothing. He sat on her couch, cleared his throat. I had this dream, he said. That my building became a palace, but one I will never have access to again. His voice shook.

She handed him the tissue box. Yes.

He gave her a brief description of the dream. What do you think it means? she asked.

Isn’t that your job? No, she said simply, and crossed her arms, waiting. I guess…I don’t think I’ll ever again have the life I had before. I don’t think, he said, swallowed, I deserve it. No, she said again, not clarifying what she meant, which oddly, made him feel more respect for her.

So, what now? That’s up to you.

Well, a hint might be nice, he whispered, wanting to scream. He swallowed

you are my damn therapist after all. Okay. What do you miss most about your old life? Not from in here. She tapped her head. Not ego. From here. She tapped her chest. Heart. What do you really miss? He shook his head. I dunno. Without those things on the table, nothing. I mean, I don’t have kids, my ex-wife was a money-grubbing bitch, and my friends…shit, I didn’t really have those. Maybe luck? But that’s not what you mean either. I know what you’re getting at, but you’re barking up the wrong tree. She smiled, the first full smile he’d seen from her since they’d met, before she’d gotten to know him. I don’t think so. I think you’re getting somewhere. Maybe your dream was telling you more than you think. Like I’ve said before, dig deeper, go further. The answers are there, inside that building and inside you. He choked back a snarky

whatever Obi Wan,  and nodded at her. Glancing at the clock above the door, he stood, smoothing his sweaty palms against his jeans. Hold on. She held up a finger and smiled again. I have something for you. He stared, not comprehending. She turned to fish something out of a paper bag then turned back, holding out a flat package wrapped in green tissue paper and red curly ribbon. Of course. Christmas was only four days away. He stammered, cheeks reddening, I didn’t get you anything. He didn’t know why he was embarrassed, which only made him blush harder. She laughed. I was

not  expecting you to. Don’t worry about it, it’s no big deal. Merry Christmas. Merry, yeah, he said, looking down at his name, Jeb, in black marker on the paper, an inexpertly drawn holly leaf and berries below it. A feeling spread, not altogether unpleasant, replacing ungenerous thoughts about the cheesy gift she’d likely procured at TJ Maxx.

Thank you, Geraldine, he mumbled and bumbled out the door. ~ He worked Christmas Eve day, took the bus and trudged home as the sun set again too early, the day again too short, carrying his fast-food dinner and a bottle of California pinot noir he’d splurged on. It was only four, but it felt like midnight, and his near unfurnished apartment felt more featureless and tired and depressing than prison ever had been. Because it was his choice to leave it so, he realized. He had nowhere else to go, so he busied himself with eating and drinking, the food cold and congealed, and the wine’s mediocrity disappointing. Folding up the empty, redolent burger paper and fries’ box, he glanced at the present Geraldine had given him, still unopened on the kitchen counter. He wasn’t sure whether he’d saved it because it was his only gift, or because he didn’t really care about it. Either way, he might as well open it now. He washed his greasy hands in the kitchen sink and poured another glass of wine. He picked up the gift and carefully untied the red ribbon, did his best not to tear the green paper as he picked at the tape, then slid the paper away.

Not a tacky nothing after all, but a green, leatherbound book, like the ones his ex-wife had bought by the shelf load from antiquaries to decorate their homes, curated for color and size rather than content. But this wasn’t inert decoration. It was chosen for him to read.

He snorted.

Crime and Punishment.  He knew the gist of the story, though he suspected he’d have to read it to get the nuances she intended. Funny, he found himself looking forward to it.

His doorbell rang. Book in hand, still smiling with surprised respect for Geraldine, he answered the door to find the frazzled woman from across the hall.

Hi. Jeb, right? Her grin was crooked, a little shy. Infectious. He nodded, and she said, Marissa. You never responded to our invite to dinner for tomorrow evening. Can you make it? We’d be glad to have you. We’re making turkey with all the fixings. A couple other neighbors are coming. He considered this only a moment, tasting the oily coating of his pitiful dinner as he licked his lips. You know what, yes, Marissa. I’d be honored. Can I bring anything? Just yourself. She grinned again. Six o’clock sharp, if that’s okay, because of the munchkins’ early bedtime. Sure, he said, finding himself grinning in response. Six. Great. She glanced at his book, then inside the doorway at his near bare apartment. Looks like a bookshelf is in order, hunh? Maybe even a sofa? She laughed. He couldn’t help but laugh with her. Yes, he said. It’s time. Again, that soft, warm lightness pushing out something hard and heavy he hadn’t even known was there. What was it?

Only later, while lying on his secondhand mattress on the floor, after he’d read the long first part of the leatherbound book about young, impoverished Raskolnikov scheming and rationalizing his decision to murder a pawnbroker for her money, did it come to him. Like Raskolnikov, he'd lost something along the way. Something essential and tender that had shriveled to a hard stone inside him once he began to drip Ponzi-scheme money. Something poor-little-rich girl Marie Antoinette likely never knew her entire tragic, gold-plated life. That night he dreamt again, a simple dream. The Marie Antoinette Apartments remained an ugly, pedestrian building, but he entered with lightness, that warmth down to his bones. He greeted neighbors in the lobby by name, delivered groceries to the housebound old lady down the hall, went into his simply but warmly furnished apartment to make himself a nourishing meal.

Christmas morning, he leapt out of bed. If he was lucky, he might find gifts for the children across the hall before noon.


Council of the Zodiac Ambassadors

            Week of 4/8/2024             Agenda: Horoscope Town Hall with Ambassadors Aria (Ram District), Tori (Bull District), Gev (Twin District), Candace (Crab District), Leon (Lion District), Virginia (Maiden District), Libby (Scales District), Scott (Scorpion District), Satoshi (Archer District), Catherine (Sea-Goat District), Atticus (Water Bearer District), Pierce (Fish District)             “Order, everybody! I call Day 4 of the Convention of the Zodiac Ambassadors to order!” Aria announces, pounding the gavel to commence the meeting. A hush falls over the audience in the gallery – as leader of the Zodiac, Aria’s voice is quite commanding, and her flame red gown makes her impossible to ignore as she crosses the stage briskly to her seat at the head of the table. The eleven other ambassadors settle into their seats as well: Tori daintily crosses her ankles, Leon runs a proud hand through his honey blonde mane, and Candace smooths out her flowing, turquoise skirt.

            “Thank you for coming to the Town Hall with the Ambassadors,” Aria continues. “Each of the representatives will first give an update of the happenings in each of the Districts, and then give you the opportunity to ask questions and voice any concerns. At the end of the hour, we will discuss the upcoming solar eclipse. For now, we will begin going down the table. Tori?” she passes the microphone to her left.             Tori stands up with the charm and grace of a Southern belle, her pearly pink dress like a petal around her. “Residents of the Bull District should be cautious to watch their spending during the next month until the Sun moves into our District,” her twangy voice rings sweetly through the hall. “We have recently prospered and received a large influx of wealth, but what may seem like good investments now could come back to haunt us on a rainy day. We are in a solid economic place now, but we should beware of easy come, easy go.” She starts to sit down, then adds, “Oh, but our restaurant industry has really taken off since the start of the spring.” Constituents from the Bull District give a little cheer.             “Thank you, Tori,” Aria says. “Gev? News from the Twin District?”             Gev takes the microphone and straightens out his jewel-toned tie. His stylishly messy hair swoops as he stands up and a couple of girls in the audience swoon. “The Twin District has faced some problems getting projects completed. Management has promised one thing but done another, so I want to reassure you that it is my top priority to get those projects underway on schedule.” – the British pronunciation –  “I have already spoken with Representatives Castor and Pollux, and they’ve agreed to form committees to oversee each of the tasks. These include breaking ground on the new computer science wing at the main university campus, awarding the research grants from the record-breaking number of applicants we received this year,” a pause for applause, “and updating the exhibits in the museum. We have many good ideas in progress, but we are lacking in completion. Take this time to focus on priorities and make these ideas come into fruition. We will be very proud of the results once we put in the hard work.”

            “When will the grant recipients be announced?” someone in the audience asks.             “I anticipate by the end of Saturn in our District.”             “Will there be much disruption in traffic with the construction near campus?” someone else asks.             “Some road closures around the IT departments are planned, but it should not cause much more congestion than that.”             Candace is up next, tucking her thick red hair out of her heart-shaped face before she begins in a soft voice. “The Crab District has been functioning well as a community, but we’ve found ourselves closed off from our neighbors. Since we are an island, that is to be expected, but we need to be more open. I know we are often afraid of being taken advantage of or we can be overprotective, but some more trust will do us a world of good and allow us to make stronger connections with people who care about us.” She adjusts her seashell necklace as she sits down and passes the microphone over to Leon, who grabs it eagerly.             Leon does not need a microphone. He uses it anyway. “No matter which District the Sun is in, we are getting the best path of the Sun anyway,” he grins, confidence radiating around him. “The Lion District is prepared for being the hub on the Path of Totality for the upcoming eclipse, and we are ready for tourists to flock into our fine District for the sight. We are shining bright, and big success is in our future!” Big cheers from the Lion District audience.

            Virginia rises with a more subdued, down-to-earth attitude. “While we may not be as flashy as some of our neighbors,” she shoots Leon a cool look, “our District’s vegetation is in full bloom, which means that we will soon be able to export our harvests. Some of our main contracts are with the Ram District in exchange for coal,” she glances over to Aria who nods in agreement, “with the Bull District in exchange for timber,” Tori also confirms, “and with the Water Bearer District in exchange for clay and cement,” she shares a nod with Atticus. “We are refreshed and rejuvenated and ready to go with a renewed sense of purpose and energy.”

            “Would we be able to trade for shellfish from the Crab District as well?” a resident asks.

            Virginia glances over at Candace, who agrees.             “Yes, Candace, let’s work on a contract for that after this meeting.” She folds the creases of her green gown around her and passes off to Libby, who stands up poised and diplomatic. Her black hair is pinned up in perfection, and lace white gloves fit snugly to her delicate wrists. “As the center of legal doctrine,” she begins with masterful eloquence, “our District’s judges and scholars are preparing this year’s case studies for publication. We are still undecided on how to resolve a handful of technicalities, but we anticipate the volume to be available for all Districts by the start of Jupiter in the Bull District. At that time, our busy season will come to an end and we will be able to take a rest from our obligations. Until then, we are hard at work.” “Are there any new regulations the other Districts should be aware of at this point?” an audience member asks.             “We are finalizing some zoning and property permits, but nothing that should affect existing property laws. These will be more relevant for new construction projects.”             “Like the computer science wing?” a Twin District resident wonders, and Gev glances over curiously.             “Ah, yes, that is a very good point,” Libby answers. “We will be sure to publish any guidelines before breaking ground on the wing. Gev, you and I can speak on this matter later.” Scott addresses the audience next. “The Scorpion District has perfected new technology that makes the mining of ore and minerals much easier and faster. We have a large supply or quartz and silver –” a sliver watches flashes on his wrist under the sleeve of his black cashmere sweater – “that we are going to be putting on the market soon. Part of this week’s convention is to draw up contracts with the other Districts so they can get first purchase at favorable prices.” This creates a collective mutter of approval from the Ambassadors. “Overall, our District is aimed for success and forecasted to receive much financial gain.” “I would like to address the Archer District's spring health goals,” Satoshi says, brushing the jet-black bangs out of his eyes. “With the start of warmer weather, the District parks will be open for recreation again.” A soft wave of applause from its residents. “Air quality has been improving, and we also have some new greenspaces open. I would like to encourage our residents to get outside and be active this season. Take the opportunity to care for your mind and body, and spend some time in nature.” “I would like to echo Satoshi’s encouragement,” Catherine takes over. “The Sea-Goat District faced an exceptionally harsh winter this year that has made many people lonely and discouraged, but as some Neptune moves into the Scales District, this promises an improvement in both the weather and our moods. We should find ourselves motivated and energetic again in the coming weeks.” Atticus stands up, adjusting his glasses so that the sleeve of his denim blazer slips a little to reveal his

I know  wrist tattoo. “Our residents have been incredibly creative while Uranus was in the Scales District, and we have produced some wonderful artwork as a result. Therefore, the Water Bearer District would like to invite you all to our art exhibition in honor of the eclipse entitled,

From Dark Into Light: An exhibition of black and white photography . Entry fee is $10; all proceeds go towards scholarships for our art students and any remaining funds go towards local charities. The exhibit runs from the eclipse to the end the Sun in the Ram District.” The Ambassadors and audience give a round of applause.

Pierce closes out the line of Ambassadors. “The Fish District has been investing heavily into our education system, especially early education programs, and in healthcare for the elderly. These programs include art classes, social dances, poetry readings, gardening days. We want to make sure the most vulnerable in our communities are cared for and don’t feel forgotten. Our District’s residents are caring and compassionate, and we are dreamers because we believe we can turn those dreams into reality – and these programs are serving as proof that we can.” He takes a small, shy bow as he receives some applause, his green eyes crinkling happily. The microphone makes its way back to the start of the table to Aria. “Alright, thank you to all the Ambassadors for their updates. To close out the table, the Ram District has been very active in research the past couple of months. We are brimming with ideas, inspired by Jupiter in the Water Bearer District, and we are making substantial progress getting our results out there. I know that we are impatient to get things done, but I caution us to take our time – I know it’s hard for us – but really take a moment to step back to make sure we check all our boxes, cross all our t’s, dot all our i’s, so we don’t have to go back and redo silly mistakes. But overall, we are in a good place.” There’s a brief shift in the room as the Ambassadors wrap up their respective updates and field any remaining questions before focus changes to the upcoming solar eclipse.

            “Well, as we all know,” Aria continues to lead, “the solar eclipse is coming up. Atticus mentioned the art exhibit in its honor, and Leon invited everyone to the Lion District to best witness totality. Are there any questions about what to expect for this special event?”             “Is it a good day to work and be productive?” someone else asks.             “Well, I was thinking to take the day off from work to actually see it,” another audience member replies instead.             “I agree with that,” Aria laughs. “To answer your question though, yes. All signs point to any endeavors taken up on the day of the eclipse are more likely to succeed, especially before peak, so if there is anything you want to accomplish, I suggest doing it then – just don’t miss the actual eclipse!”             “Will it be a good day for love?” someone asks and people immediately chatter in interest – always a popular question for the Ambassadors.             “Should I go for the ‘total eclipse of the heart’ joke?” Scott teases.

            Libby rolls her eyes and answers seriously, “For that, I would recommend asking your local Constellation Consultant to look at your personal star chart.”             “Any other question?” Candace glances around.             The audience members, satisfied with the answers and guidance they’ve been given, start to mill towards the exit.             “Wait!” a child excitedly remembers. “Are there still eclipse glasses available?”

            “Yes, definitely,” Atticus says. “In fact, you can find them at the main entrance of the hall, so pick up a pair as you leave!”             “Have a lovely Sun in Ram District season and a wonderful solar eclipse, everybody!” Aria adjourns the meeting.


TW: sexual violence, physical violence, gore       I sit at my kitchen table trying to pull myself together as my coffee sits in front me getting cold. My skin feels too tight, suffocating and restraining me. The blackness at the edge of my vision is returning. It’s happening again. That all too familiar pull into the darkness.

Not now. Not today.            My chair screeches on the tile as I push away from the table. I turn to the kitchen sink and stick my head under the faucet, trying to wash away the images that are beginning to form. The curve of a calf. The arching of a neck… I feel the twitch of my cock and my breath hitches as I let the unbidden images come. Unconsciously, I unhook my belt. I need the release. Right here, right now. It doesn’t matter that I made love to Kelly less than an hour ago. I freeze. Kelly.            How could I have forgotten?            Today is Kelly’s last day with me before she leaves. She deserves to have today be special. To have a proper send-off.            I take a deep breath. I can resist the temptation. Just one more day. For Kelly.            I grab my briefcase and peek my head into the living room. The television is on, and I see Kelly’s head resting on her shoulder. I can’t help myself. As quietly as I can, so as not to disturb her, I gently place a kiss on her cheek, taking in her sweet scent.            I smile to myself, resolve setting in to do right by her. *            That resolve immediately begins to dissipate once I’m out of the house, however.            I walk past my young assistant on the way to my office. Her long blonde hair is piled on top of her head, her neck exposed as she’s hunched over taking notes while on a call.            “Yes ma’am, this is the Springfield District Attorney’s office…mmhmm…yes, ma’am, we can certainly help you fill out that protection from stalking form.”            I enter my office, shutting the door firmly behind me. I knew it was a bad idea hiring Lauren, that she’d be too distracting for me, but my lust won out that day. I know she’s off limits, but a man can still look.

Kelly. Kelly is at home waiting for you.            Even though I’ve just arrived, I check the clock anyway and groan inwardly. Perhaps if I stay busy and focused enough, I can tamp down the demons inside.            “Gary?”            I jump, startled by the intrusion. “You’re supposed to knock, Lauren.”            “Sorry, sir, but don’t you have to get to court for that hearing?”

Shit.            “I have your file materials ready.”            I snatch the files out of her hands, managing to graze her breast as I do so. But it’s not enough to satiate the desire burning within me. I try to repress the images of her nubile body as I speed walk to the courthouse.            I arrive just in time to get my file materials situated and rise as the judge enters the courtroom. He goes through the standard rigmarole before the sentencing hearing can begin.            A heavyset woman in an ill-fitting pantsuit and short, thinning hair approaches the podium to present her victim statement to the court. I know I must have met with her, but she doesn’t have the kind of face or figure a man like me remembers. Then she opens her mouth. God, with the crying already.            As she reads her letter, I look over to the defendant. He’s clean cut, with shortly cropped blonde hair, a square jawline, and broad shoulders. Younger than the woman at the podium and immensely more attractive. Even though it was my job—and I was damn good at it—I still felt bad about asking for the harshest sentence for a violent sexual assault against a woman like that . I look back to the podium at the blubbering mess sitting before us. Pathetic. She should consider herself lucky that a guy like him fucked her.            But I have to keep up appearances. I wipe all expression from my face and listen stoically to the rest of the victim statements before rising to present my argument. *            “Gary, brother! I can’t believe you got 30 to life on that guy!” The investigator slaps me on the back as he joins me at the crosswalk. God, I hated this guy.            “Rothman,” I say trying to sound chipper, “you know my track record. I always get my man. I haven’t lost a case yet.”            “Speaking of that track record of yours,” he stops and pulls out a file. “We got a new investigation going, and this lady needs your help filling out the restraining forms against her kid’s boyfriend. Think you can help her out?”            I feel the excitement bubbling underneath the surface. “Sure, that shouldn’t be a problem at all, Rothman, my man.” *            To kill time before my final meeting, I open up the new file the investigator gave me and am delighted. Inside are the details of an attack by an 18-year-old of his 16-year-old girlfriend.            I scour the reports, taking in the delicious details. Please let there be pictures. I turn the page and there she is. Each picture taken at the hospital is a closeup of each scratch, each bruise, each injury inflicted upon her during the incident. The split lip…a large purple bruise covering the underside of her breast… I feel the excitement growing inside of me. The need to overpower and snuff out the light behind her eyes…            My intercom buzzes, startling me out of my reverie.            “Gary?”            “Yes, Lauren?”            “Your 4 o’clock has just arrived.”            I sigh. “Okay, send her in.”            I pinch the bridge of my nose. That feeling of being trapped in my skin has returned, like an itch you can’t scratch. One more meeting. I’ve nearly made it.            My heart skips a beat when she enters.            “P—please have a seat, Ms.—?” I fumble with the stack of filing on my desk, but I can’t think clearly enough to even know what I’m looking for.            “Just call me Tammy,” she exhales as she collapses in the seat.            “Please, tell me what brings you in.” But I already know. She wouldn’t be here if she didn’t need help.            As she starts her spiel, I lean back and take her in. Her long brown hair is unkempt and brushed to one side in a feeble attempt to hide the left side of her face. But even through the strands of hair, I can see that her eye is swollen shut and there’s a cut across her cheek.            “—and then, he grabbed me by the throat. See?”            I snap back to attention as she unbuttons the top two buttons of her blouse to show me the purple bruises blooming across her neck. She leans forward, giving me a better view. I can nearly see the thumbprint on one.            I shift in my seat. The darkness that has been at the edge of my vision crowds in further. I imagine myself on top of Tammy, straddling her, my hands around her pretty little neck. Because that pretty little neck is mine to squeeze the life out of. Her eyes bulging, the blood vessels popping, as I keep squeezing the breath out of her…            “So, do you think there’s anything you can do to help?” she looks at me expectantly.            “Yes, yes, of course,” but my breath sounds ragged, even to my ears. “In fact, here’s my business card, with my personal number on it. Please feel free to call me should you feel you’re in danger.”            She clutches my card to her breast like a lifeline.            “Oh, thank you Mr.—”            “Gary, please call me Gary.”            “Thank you, Gary. You don’t know what this means.”            I escort her out of my office and breathe a sigh of relief. I can finally go home. *            The anticipation of seeing Kelly is almost too much. I rush to the living room, frantically peeling my clothes off as I go. She’s still on the couch, waiting for me, her perfume filling the air, and I take her in my arms.            I first met Kelly a few months ago relating to stalking and assault charges against her ex-boyfriend. It was lust at first sight, at least on my part. But I knew I had to take things slow, bide my time, earn her trust. My patience paid off though. A few days ago, she called me over after her ex had broken the restraining order. I saw my opportunity and rushed over. She was in tears when she opened the door and threw herself into my arms.            Needless to say, one thing led to another. Before I knew it, we were on the couch, my hands wrapped around her delicate neck, her skin turning blue. Once she stopped moving, I was able to satisfy my own needs. Then I brought her home where we’ve been enjoying each other’s company since.            But the time has come for our love affair to end.            We make love one last time, and I gently wrap her in the blanket her ex threw out in his garbage yesterday. There’s already an investigation into her disappearance, but the discovery of her body and his blanket will guarantee his conviction.            Because I always get my man.


“ Now boarding Flight 101 to Tahiti ,” the lady on the intercom announced and nearly stopped my heart. Are we really doing this? “That’s us!” Kevin excitedly grabbed his bag and my suitcase. His brown eyes glittered, and his smile had never been wider. It was nice to see him like this. I felt the same way last night when we concocted this plan, but now… “Are you ready?” “Yeah,” I nodded and faked a smile the best I could. Nervously, I moved my blonde hair behind my ear and pulled my purse strap over my shoulder. “Oh, Brea, this is going to be amazing! Imagine the views, the ocean breeze, the beach!” “It’ll be amazing!” I parroted as I forced my legs to follow him toward the door. Should we really be doing this? “You aren’t kidding! Most people only dream about things like this, but here we are making it happen.” I nodded along. How could I detest when this was the happiest I’d ever seen him. The lady checked our tickets, and in no time, we were in our seats on the plane. “Do you mind if I have an aisle seat?” I asked him, feeling a bit constricted near the window. “Sure,” he said with a shrug. “I just thought you’d like to see the ocean.” “O, I’ll have plenty of time to see it when we land,” I assured with a smile. Awkwardly, I crossed my arms as I tried to keep him from noticing that my heart was pounding out of my chest. “This is going to be amazing,” he repeated. “Yeah, you said that.” I smiled but couldn’t help the frustration in my voice. Why was he trying so hard to convince me? “Some people only ever dream of going to Tahiti to get married, but here we are running off without anybody knowing or expecting it.” "Yep," I nodded. My nausea rose as the knot in my stomach grew. All I could think about was how mad my mother would be when she found out that she wasn't invited to my wedding. How would my sister feel after planning an elaborate ceremony for us for over a year? I also couldn't help being disappointed that only Kevin and our preacher would see me in my wedding dress. It took my seamstress a year to construct from scratch. I wanted to share this day with my family and party at my reception… Last night, we were both so tired of trying to get everything just right. We were frustrated as we worked around the wedding party’s different schedules to get together for rehearsals. Kevin and I looked at our honeymoon tickets and saw the number to call on the brochure if we wanted to move up our travel dates. He got the idea to just run off and get married so it would be over. Then, we could move on with our married lives. At the time, it sounded great, but now… I want my wedding back. The problem is: how do I tell him that when he looks so… happy? How do I tell him this is a mistake? “Absolutely amazing,” he repeated. Wait… Is he trying to convince me… or himself? “Kevin.” “Yeah?” he turned to me, and it was the first time I noticed him using his fake smile on me. “Do you really think it will be amazing?” “Why wouldn’t it be?” “Well… I know how close you are to your brothers. They would love to be there. Not to mention Addison is making our cake. She sent me pictures yesterday that she was starting the process.” “She can use them for someone else’s wedding or birthday cake.” “But they won’t be her brother. She’s working hard on it.” “What are you trying to say, Brea? That we shouldn’t do this because of what the family will think.” "Not just think but feel. I can't help but feel that it will break their hearts, and eventually ours too, one day. In our wedding pictures, crazy Uncle Bill won't be singing karaoke on stage. Aunt Milly won't be squeezing your cheeks. Your mother won't be crying because she has to let you go." “You’ll miss that?” "No, we will. Yes, it's a hassle to get it all together. But when we do, that day will be beautiful and perfect, surrounded by our loved ones who are celebrating the happiest day of our life with us." I began to feel better as I finally voiced my concern and watched relief flood his features. He didn’t speak at first. However, within seconds his smile was genuine as a deflating sigh left him. “Thank God you said something. I was seriously going to go through with this because I thought you wanted to. I didn’t want you to think that I didn’t want to marry you because I do. I really do, Brea.” “I know,” I said with a giggle and feeling much better than I had. “I just didn’t know how to say it, and I didn’t want to upset you, especially not two days before our wedding.” “You’re so sweet.” “I’d do anything for you.” “You, too.” We shared a light kiss before the lady on the intercom interrupted with another warning. “ Final call for all passengers on Flight 101 to Tahiti !” “We should go,” I suggested. “To Tahiti?” “Well, yeah, but on our honeymoon in a couple days. Let’s go finalize some other things. I need to pick up my dress this afternoon.” “Yeah… my bachelor party is tonight.” “See? You don’t want to miss that.” “I love you.” “I love you, too.” “We’d better go before they lock the doors.” "Good idea." We stood and walked off the plane arm in arm. Kevin and I were happier, lighter, and busier than when we entered. Now, I had to figure out how we were going to make last-minute alterations to my sister's bridesmaid's dress... I needed a different flower to dawn my centerpieces because the florist mistakenly forgot to order wisteria... And I have to figure out how I'm getting Grandma into the reception hall since the building isn't wheelchair accessible… One breath at a time, Brea. One breath at a time. Even if I did make mistakes with any of that, it wouldn't be as bad as the one we almost made.


Fan Fiction “Can you believe this shit?!?”, Stan says to his friend Ryan who's standing awkwardly behind him, looking for any place to sit that isn't covered with dirty laundry, books or potato chip wrappers. “I mean, what idiot wrote this crap! Did they even read the books?” “Why are you bothering to read it, then, Stan? If it's so stupid, why are you even getting worked up over it?” Ryan taps on the glass of the terrarium, trying to no avail to get the corn snake to move. “Have you decided what you're going to do with Marceau?” The snake, originally named Fang, was purchased by Stan in the hope that he was a parseltongue. Much to his disappointment, though, the snake never said anything Stan could understand. Actually, as far as he could tell, he never really said anything at all – hence the name change. “I figure I'll give him to Johnny but I haven't told him yet. He's been such a dick lately.” Ryan cracks open a shade to let some light into the room, squinting from the flash of sunlight splashing across the room. “Hey, shut that. I can't read the screen.” Stan shifts his heavy torso around to position himself between the window and the computer. “Until Rowling gets off her ass, FF is all there is. Some of it isn't half bad, but then there's this butthead trying to make a 'ship out of Harry and Myrtle.” “Moaning Myrtle? The ghost?” Ryan edges past the foot of the bed to get a better view of the screen. “Exactly. I mean, a poltergeist could at least push a pillow against his junk or something, but ghosts can't interact with the physical world at all. Everyone knows that. Except obviously for this butthole.” 'Myrtle hovers over Harry's bed, slowly untying her bodice. Though there's not a breath of wind in the room, her shirt billows open as she loosens the laces...' “Give me a fucking break. THEY CAN'T TAKE OFF THE CLOTHES THEY DIED IN! ” Stan turns toward Ryan and waves his hands at the screen. “This is the shit I have to deal with.” “Do they actually have sex? Move over.” Ryan squeezes his lean frame onto the edge of the chair and reaches for the mouse, his hand brushing Stan's out of the way as he tries to find his place in the story. 'Her blouse slowly dissolves as it wafts to the floor, exposing her tight bosom. Harry's breath catches as the bed sheet he's clutching to his throat peels back against his will. His lean, alabaster frame is glistening in sweat as Myrtle starts to moan.' “I swear to God I'm going to flag this as a TOS violation” Stan's mumbles as he watches Ryan's eyes softly shifting back and forth across the text. He's holding still, lest he break the spell and Ryan realizes their legs are pressed against each other. “Oh shit. Is that clock right?” Ryan jumps out of the chair and rummages around the room looking for his jacket. “Amy's going to kill me.” “Dude, you are so whipped!” “At least I'm getting some. You should try it, nerd...with an actual muggle.” He pats Stan's shoulder once and checks his reflection in the computer screen, running his hand through his dark hair. “Gotta run. See you later.” Stan gets up and walks to the window, watching until he sees Ryan leaving the house and jogging down the street. He starts to pull the shade down but stops. The light has softened, bathing the room in a warm, shadowy glow. He and looks around, wondering how much of this he can take with him when he goes off to college next fall. He walks over and opens the small drawer of his bedside table. Inside is one of his most cherished possessions – an 'authentic' Harry Potter wand made of exotic hard wood and reputed to have an actual feather inside, though he'd never cut it open to check. He doesn't think he'll take that with him, though. He was so excited when he got it for his 15 th birthday, but then was instantly ashamed when he saw on the packaging that it said for ages 7 and up. He knows it's a child's toy, but he still takes it out when no one's around and points at things, willing them to move. Past the bed is his book case, the one tidy space in the whole room. On the top shelves are his well-worn paperbacks arranged by author with each series in chronological order – Harry Potter, Lord of the Rings, the Chronicles of Narnia. On the lower shelves are mostly hard-backed versions of the same books, with a few random titles thrown in. On the very bottom, pressed into the corner are four books wrapped in heavily doodled brown paper. He and Ryan were embarrassed at first to be reading the Twilight series so they papered over the covers and added drawings of robots and race cars and swords as they traded them back and forth. Stan's not so embarrassed about having read them anymore, especially after the movies came out, but he likes the covers too much to take off. He bends down and picks one up, turning it over. He's looking for the drawing Ryan made of a pick up truck, with eyeballs for headlights and fangs hanging from the bumper. MONSTER TRUCK is written underneath in Ryan's familiar block lettering. He runs his thumb over it gently, then puts it back on the shelf. He doesn't think he'll have room to take those either. He goes back to his computer, plops down and Alt Escs through his apps until he gets to Word. He starts to type: 'Crabbe is clearly nervous having Harry in his room. If any of the other Slytherin walked in he'd be dead meat but he can't back down now. Not after dreaming about this moment since their first year. The painting propped on Crabbe's desk is of two shirtless wizards grappling in a glade. Crabbe points his wand at the picture and the characters start to move, their laughter carrying dimly off the canvas. Harry says “Move over” as he squeezes into the chair next to him. He reaches for Crabbe's wand and their hands touch.'


The day had started before the sun was up, being out of bed, showering, then grabbing a granola bar on top of the kitchen counter for breakfast and arriving for her 7 am-7 pm shift.

This was the beginning of a typical 12 hour shift for Elizabeth, starting off her morning at the V.A. hospital.

At the first of her nursing career she had dreaded her first 12 hour shift, but got used to it after having a few years under her belt, just turning 30 that day.

Elizabeth did her work, having a smile on her face all day because she knew she had a three day weekend coming up.

Her fellow nurses congratulated off and on during the week.

This made her feel all warm and fuzzy inside, seeing how much they all cared about her.

She ended her work week feeling exhausted while entering the locker room, following her routine of removing the scrubs, showering off and into her normal clothes which consisted of the jeans and the floral sweater that she received from her boyfriend, Brian earlier that week.

As she left the hospital, she got a call on her cellphone and noticed it was from her older sister, Sarah.

So, naturally she took the call saying “Hey Sis,what's up?” “Well, you’re coming to my house Saturday evening?” asked Sarah. “Oh yeah, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” replied Elizabeth. “Okay, that’s great, but won't ruin the surprise.

Well, I’ll let you get home.

See ya later, love you, bye.”  She got into her cherry red Mini-Cooper, then started driving away.

Now finally reaching the apartment building, opens the door, walking into the kitchen and getting out the green tea from the cabinet above the stove.

Waiting for the water to heat up, Elizabeth thought about the call from Sarah.

Wondering if she was going to have a surprise party or something different.

Sipping her tea was relaxing her, then she started to doze off in her chair, so she peels herself out and goes to get ready for bed.

Later that night, Elizabeth begins dreaming.

It has Brian standing in a room next to a nice, warm fireplace with bright flames coming from it.

He locked eyes with her, while raising his hand which held something in it that she couldn’t see clearly.

He spoke with a slow, calming voice saying “I've been thinking...” Elizabeth didn’t want to wake from the dream, but the alarm clock told her otherwise.

It went off with the loud, annoying “Beep! Beep! Beep!”

She finally rolled over and hit the snooze button.

Sitting in silence for a while, remembering her dream and it made her smile, also realizing that she could do whatever she wanted on her extended weekend, so she decided to turn off the alarm clock and go back to bed. Brian wanted everything to be perfect for this weekend.

He had been planning a week earlier, so he made a call to Sarah on Monday, asking her if he could come over to discuss something with her and her husband, Mark.

He arrived that evening, having a sense of anticipation about what would come next.

He came inside after Sarah answered the door and he heard Mark saying “Come on in! Can I get you something to drink?”

“I’m fine, thanks.” replied Brian as he sat down in the chair by the fireplace. After they had sat down on the couch facing him, he began to explain why he was there.

“I am here tonight asking your approval of me marrying Elizabeth?

I know that you’re all the family she has got, so I wanted to know your opinion of me and anything I can do to make her happy.” “I think you would be a fantastic couple. I appreciate you asking us. We can see that your relationship has blossomed with the time you’ve spent together.” said Sarah. “Well, I agree and you’ve got a steady job with your online business, so you can provide for her.” replied Mark. “Oh, I did have another thing I wanted to discuss with you.” Brian told them. “I was wondering if you guys could let me surprise her by you inviting her over to your house on Saturday, making her think it was going to be just for her birthday, but I would have a special dinner for me and her set up?” “I’m sure we can work something out.” Mark said as Sarah nodded her head.

“All you want from us is to get Elizabeth to come over on Saturday night and to use our house for your romantic dinner?” “That’s right. Your house has much more style than my boring apartment and I think that it would be a much more memorable moment for her with me surprising her.

I’ll pick up the food on the way over and give you my AMC gift card, so you guys can see a movie while I set everything up for Elizabeth.” “It sounds great, I guess we’ll see you on Saturday at 6:30 pm and I will tell Elizabeth to come at 7:00 pm.” said Sarah.

Saturday evening came for both Brian and Elizabeth.

Brian started at 5:45 pm by calling Elizabeth’s favorite Italian restaurant ‘Gabriella’s Italian Bistro’ and ordered two of their chicken alfredo meals.

He picked up his order and headed over to Sarah and Mark’s.

Brian arrived on time, the sacks in-hand along with a bottle of red wine that he bought for the occasion.

As he walked through the door, he found Mark had lit the fireplace for the evening and also handed Brian two red candles and a lighter.

Elizabeth started by thinking about what she wanted to wear for the evening.

She thought about her options for a few minutes and then decided to go with her green & white striped turtleneck with white pants and her brown shoes.

Everything was set up perfectly, just awaiting Elizabeth’s arrival.

Then he heard the doorbell ring and the door being pushed open.

She entered the house, finding it to be dark inside and she walked a little further, seeing the glow from the fireplace with the dim light of the candles.

Not knowing what else to do, she said “Hello?” Brian walked into the light saying “Your table is ready, madam.” She asked him “What is all this for?” when she sat down. “Well, let’s just say for now that I’ve been doing some thinking.” Brian told her. The dinner went on as planned and when they finished the meal, Brian said “Now it’s time for your surprise.”

Elizabeth could tell why she was really here, but didn’t want to ruin the moment for Brian.

Brian left the table, getting the dessert plates out and when he sat the plate down in front of Elizabeth, there was a ring on it and then knelt beside her saying “Will you marry me?” She replied instantly “Yes, I will.” Then they went into the den and sat on the couch.

Brian was looking at a picture on the mantle above the fireplace.

Elizabeth had seen it many times throughout her life and said to him “That was my parent’s wedding picture.”