“C’mon it’ll be fun!” Aster smiled, his eyes glinting with mischievousness as they always did.

“It’s 6 in the morning and freezing outside. How is that fun at all?” Luna leaned more into her blanket, shivering. “It’s really not fair that you're always so warm, are you a human or a heater?” Aster laughed, throwing his head back and closing his brown eyes. “I believe I may be a heater but I’m not completely sure yet.” He grinned, his one dimple showing. He looked near where the sun started to rise and his large brown eyes widened. “We are going to be late for the surprise hurry up!” “What are you talking about?” Although part of Luna did not want to move, she instinctively did it, walking at a faster pace, still shivering.

“Are you trying to race me?” Aster said, easily catching up with his long legs, and even walking backwards to show how “great” he could be.

“No I just figured if we hurry this up then I can go back to my warm, comfortable, amazing bed.” Luna sighed just thinking about it, joy filling her mind thinking of all that warmth. However, the harsh cold brought her back. “It’s not even that cold! In Antartica its way colder!” “Wow, you're right. Just thinking about how cold it is in the South Pole is making me so much warmer.” Though her voice was laced with sarcasm, Aster played innocent, like he always did. “Oh really? I’m glad to hear that!” Finally, they arrived at Asters destination, and apparently at the time he wanted to. Luna looked up, her eyebrows raising with the beautiful sight of the sunrise.. Aster smirked, looking at her amazed face, then turning to the beautiful sight himself, not wanting to miss out on it. The sky was a bright shade of pink mixing with dark reds and light purples, the clouds on each side of the rising sun. The lake reflected the beautiful view, making little waves as the breeze flew past them, the ducks quacking and swimming around. “I have declared this to be the best spot to look at the sky!” He beamed. After a moment, he was shocked when he didn’t get a sarcastic response and turned to Luna, who was still amazed and just nodding along in agreement. Aster held his finger to his chin. “Oh Aster you genius! You’re so smart and amazing and incredibly hands-” He was stopped mid sentence by Luna smacking him. He snickered at her glare. “I’m trying to enjoy the view-” She protested. “Yeah you are.” His sentence was followed by another smack as Luna stormed away. He instantly attempted to follow her, falling several times in the process. “Agh! Wait wait! I’m sorry please forgive me oh great and amazing Master!” He begged, grabbing the edge of the blanket. Luna rolled her eyes, snatching the blanket back. “Look at the time idiot.” He quickly checked his watch and frowned.

“It’s 6:45?” He questioned, tilting his head as to what her point was. “Yes. And do you know what you did wrong?” Aster backed up, sweating a bit as he laughed, debating what his next words should be. “Ah... I got you up-” “At six in the morning to stare at the sun. The dang sun. Do you know how long the walk is? Fifteen minutes. And when, may I ask, do I get up for school?” Aster backed away some more, understanding that this was a rhetorical question but that she would be more mad if he did not answer.

“Um… seven…” “I get up at seven in the morning to make sure I am ready for school. And guess what? By the time I get back it’ll be seven and I can not go back to sleep because I have to get ready.” “Sorry… Can I buy you food to make for it?” Luna inhaled, and Aster quietly exhaled. Food was her weakness after all. Luna silently turned around and continued walking. Aster grinned, jumping up in the air and running to walk next to her. After all, as her best and only friend, it was his responsibility to make sure he was forgiven so that she would not be lonely again. *** Luna faintly smiled at the moon in the sky, alone this time on the hill. It was still as beautiful as ever though, the grass lit in the light of the moon, the color a dark shade of green. The lake was still reflecting, although this time it was the bright moon and the dark sky. She exhaled as she got ready to talk to the stone in front of her. She had to prepare her thoughts and what she would say. She was always mean because she never knew what to say. Aster understood that and would help her get her real words through.

“It’s hard to believe a year has passed without you.” Fudge.. Her voice cracked and the tears were already coming out. She didn’t want to cry, she always hated how she cried. It’s like everyone learned how to be beautiful when they cried except her. Although the only reference she had was TV, she could barely remember the times Aster cried in front of her. Memory was annoying like that. Not like she could have soothed him anyway, she always hesitated. She pulled out her notebook and started writing, tears threatening to spill as she continued. But it was better than speaking, and easier too. If she ever had to apologize she would hand Aster a piece of paper with her very formal apology. He would always keep them in his drawers saying how they should be considered works of literature. She wrote page upon page, depending on the moons light to help her see. Aster had passed away because of fatal injuries in a car crash. He suffered for three days before dying. During those three days, Luna was speechless. He kept trying to say goodbye but she refused his acceptance of death. He couldn’t die, he was too perfect. Too amazing. Luna sighed, wiping her tears and blowing her nose with the tissues she brought. She exhaled, making sure she’d hold it in, and after a moment decided she was fine. Her thoughts gathered, she decided to put the notebook aside and speak. “Hey Aster. So it’s been a pretty weird year. Don’t worry though because, although I thought I would, I didn’t act like Bella did without Edward and sit around depressed. In fact, it was just a weird sensation not having you to keep me going. But I guess I still managed because, annoyingly enough, that’s how life works. It didn’t rain like it was supposed to, in fact, it was actually really hot, as it usually is here. I know you always wanted a party for your funeral, because you wanted to put the “fun in funeral'' but there weren't a lot of people on your friend list to my suprise. It was really awkward when it’s just me and the funeral people doing their jobs. I still tried though, and I had some chocolate milk, like you would’ve wanted. At least I hope that’s what you wanted, because I want you to get what you wanted. Although what is even worse is how terrible my memory is. I hate how I’m forgetting more and more of you everyday, and I feel that instead of me remembering you as a person, I’ll remember you as more of a picture instead. And honestly, that scares me. I don’t want to ever let your memory go to your waste, the joy that you spread, that weird dimple that you had, I don’t want to forget it. And I’m sorry if I sound selfish but I don't want to be alone. Ever since we were kids in 5th Grade, you just kind of appeared next to me and never left, no matter how petty or rude I was. I got used to you but now… you’re gone. It’s been a year and I’m still as awkward as a teenager going through puberty even though I’m 30.” She stopped herself, pausing and muttering “dang it” under her breath. She chuckled a bit, continuing. “Sorry I didn’t mean to rant again, that’s all I ever do now. It’s crazy how it’s been 15 years since you showed me this place, it’s still as beautiful as it was, and I assumed you would want to be buried here so I did all I could to make sure you could. Yeesh, it was really cold and you were fine, you mean heater.” Her eyes got bright again as she grinned in remembrance of the conversation they had. “I’m sure you spent at least one thousand dollars on food for me. It’s weird because everyone thought we were dating but our relationship was never like that. I never felt that for you and I bet you didn’t feel that way to me. But now that I think about it, you helped me get over myself and all the hate I gave myself, even if I still do it sometimes. It’s so hard to be nice to myself and others when I leave this place and get back to work. I’ll miss you forever but I’m going to live my life, no matter how terrible it gets. How did I close my letters again? Oh yeah, not that sincerely but still slightly sincere, your best friend Luna.” She stopped speaking, glancing up at the big crescent moon. She then looked down into the lake, with the reflection of the moon. She looked closer, seeing a star glowing brightly near the moon. She bit her lip, tearing up a bit, forcing a smile. “Aster, your name, was taken from the Greek word Astéri, which means star. My name, taken from the Spanish word Luna, means moon. Seems like someones sending a sign from heaven and you know what? I think I’ll ignore it.” She grinned, pretty much seeing Aster’s spirit slump over and fake cry to her about how mean she was. Though it was possible she was just thinking way too much, she kept her eyes on the reflections of the star and the moon as they moved slightly in the nice breeze.


A whirling whisk of rotor blades stirs the puffy batter of string-shaped clouds, its lifting force, a dragging weight to the metal rotaries that flap a pair of windswept wings. The skies sense a certain groan, unmistakable, in the wavering flight of unsteady airfoils that seem mistakable for unsuspecting onlookers who shall be left unnamed. Directionless, the angles bend at the swipe of a sudden gale , its drafts thieving the helpless craft amid tussling, tossing drafts of flowing current, brash and shaken, rattled and brazen.   The lonely sea reaches out, demanding that we part with our 3,000 feet of altitude, but we weren't given much of a choice on whether the height we drifted in was ours to cede, for the ruling of the higher spheres have always claimed the reigns up here and while we sway and steer, despair knows, somehow, exactly where to find us.

The hierarchy of control starts and ends at the hands of nature, whether we deem it true or not. There is no escape in the limits of mankind, but ─ we can damn sure try , at least... just not today.

We are stranded, standing beside the haplessly heart-clenching mound of a flying vessel ─ though now, it should be renamed a dying vessel , because the enkindled crate of scrap, and flickering heap of shredded junk, still latching on to its final moments of solidity before its vital signs on the heart-beat monitor flat-line into a dredged-up bed of chips and flakes strewed and dispersed, sunk and submerged by the granular and gritty shore, the field of grain stained forevermore; but the funny thing is, before it was swallowed by flame, and before it had crumbled to ash, the useless carrier seemed almost a sermon before the burial site of the soon-to-be-dead party of victims to Mother Nature , soothing us into a state of acceptance for our entombment. My only hope is that future explorers stumble upon my gravestone and really read its carving: "If I am found intact, make it so I am no longer that, and let me dip and meld and ebb away into the rolling quilt of salty foam so that it may envelop me whole, like the under-watery inhabitants of sea: the quiet offscourings." It'll be quite the lengthy message, so I ponder starting it now, scrawling the writings into stone before I lose my life and no one thinks to save me an urn … but desperate times call for desperate measures and so I'll have to settle for a jar.

Farallon, a member of the luckless team, extended his hand and broke my train of thoughts. See ─ I signed up to an air touring agency to be taken on a scenic flight around the world, and now the pilot is somewhere swathed by swelling waves and spilt cascades. The service allowed for a maximum of five sightseers at a time, to not bombard the weight of the chopper, but suppose it falls anyway? What are we to do now? I haven't even learned the names of the crew of people I'm now stuck with on an island just off the coast of whoknowswhere. But I know who takes charge of the situation. The 'leader' of a pitiful pack, shall we say. Even from having just met the guy, it wasn't hard to tell Farallon always had something to say ~and at times like these, a little speech of encouragement really goes a long way~ in tricking the band of dopey twits into thinking we will actually find a means out of here without the slightest trace of normalcy or state of things not quite so kindly enough to win in our favour; smack-dab, the test of patience wears me out faster than the dread that sprouts its set of roots across the loam and soil and clay that hides the bones that don't decay, while the layered sediments that shelter limbs and flesh and meat all meshed into one, the soil, a hoarding miser, relishing its handy traps and gimmick ploys to put stuck souls like me to bed, to rest, to croak a rushed finale of meaningless words in an attempt at wishing away the world with a proper adieu despite the soundless sigh that will arise and fall back to the floor without another ear to catch its drip and trip and limp and dip into the dust where it belongs.

Oh spare me the cruel net of catacombs clipped like a gentle, swaying pair of arms from Death herself, and so, bear me my load, I ask the crust of earth to brace itself a bassinet, in advance, for I must warn the heaviness of burdened minds, like that of mine, will otherwise surely capsize, thus I implore the sand and stones and dunes and bones to cushion up their cradle propped and build a bank that won't be flopped, a crib of slit that I can't topple over and dismantle, for who knows the damage I could cause? What more can the subsiding shore and tide take from the slumping weight of a sorry state and tempter of fate, and can it really last, provided, that the landmass left behind is blighted, for it isn't I that ends lopsided. Quivered breaths thrum out in prayers, in shaken soughs matched by the woeful, wafting wind, the mutterings of "hail mary's" unlike myself, the spells I cast existing by themselves; the sleepless night that drones us by has us getting ahead of ourselves. I used to scoff and scorn at hopeful speech givers like him ── but after facing what I had faced ──on the subsequent days of treachery and near-death experiences, the spear with which Farallon had used to strike the tirelessly thirsting tiger that fought its way through foliage and forestation to usurp its dominance in this meager isle, abandoned and stripped of delectable, writhing morsels such as I to take easy pickings off of and haul onto the rigidity dinner table of cobbled slabs on gravel mountains that protrude like pedestals, or totems, only beasts are fit to stand upon, for the ravening brutes of the brutal biomes, barbaric, bellicose, too busy brawling to buy into blessings of mercy or weak links to soft things that humans like too much: out here, the frail of hearts will blacken into steel-cold blood, without enough warmth ― the waning buds of fear, and doubt, and gloom, all close-knitted and matted and coiled, bodaciously, fittingly fueled and spoiled by the bleak feedings of an emptying mind, seemed… now … things of the past.

It was then, at the wisp's end of life, the threat of a flimsy thread coming apart in the silent snip of a split -scaring me stiff- in its fluttery flitter, almost slips from the sultry slick sweat of my soggy palms, the fluttering wire, not so thin anymore. A sense of powerlessness is plucked from out of my perpetual pit of pessimism. And I owe it all to Farallon. - - - - ~ poetic rendition ~ {specially composed format) - - A whirling whisk of rotor blades stirs the puffy batter

of string-shaped clouds, its lifting force, a dragging weight

to the metal rotaries that flap

a pair of windswept wings. The skies sense a certain groan, unmistakable, in the wavering flight of unsteady airfoils that seem mistakable for unsuspecting onlookers who shall be left unnamed. Directionless, the angles bend at the swipe of a sudden gale , its drafts thieving

the helpless craft amid tussling, tossing drafts of flowing current, brash and shaken, rattled and brazen. ~ ~ The lonely sea

reaches out, demanding that we part with our 3,000 feet of altitude, but we

weren't given much of a choice on whether the height we drifted in was ours to cede, for the ruling of the higher spheres have always claimed the reigns up here

and while we sway and steer, despair knows, somehow, exactly

where to find us. The hierarchy of control starts and ends at the hands of nature, whether we deem it true or not. There is no escaping the limits of mankind, but ─ we can damn sure try , at least. Just not today. ~ ~ We are stranded, standing beside the

haplessly heart-clinching mound of a flying vessel─ though now, it should be renamed a dying vessel , because

the enkindled crate of scrap, and flickering heap of shredded junk, still latching on to its final moments of solidity before its vital signs on the heart-beat monitor flat-line

into a dredged-up bed of

chips and flakes strewed and dispersed, sunk and submerged by the granular and gritty shore, the field of grain stained forevermore; but the funny thing is, before it was swallowed by flame, and before it had crumbled to ash, the useless carrier

seemed almost a sermon before the burial site of the soon-to-be-dead party of victims to

Mother Nature , soothing us into a state of acceptance

for our entombment. ~ ~ My only hope is that future explorers stumble upon my gravestone and really read its carving: "If I am found intact, make it so I am

no longer that, and let me dip and meld and ebb away into the rolling quilt of salty foam so that it may envelop me whole, like under- watery inhabitants of sea: the quiet offscourings." It'll be quite the

lengthy message, so I ponder starting it now, scrawling the writings into stone before I lose my life and no one thinks to save me an urn. ...but desperate times call for desperate measures and so I'll have to settle for a jar. ~ ~ Farallon,

a member of the luckless team, extended his hand and broke my

train of thoughts. See ─ I signed up to an air touring agency to be taken on

a scenic flight around the world, and now the pilot is somewhere swathed

by swelling waves, and split cascades. The service allowed for a maximum of five sightseers at a time, to not bombard the weight of the chopper, but suppose it

falls anyway? ~ ~ What are we to do now? I haven't even learned the names of the crew of people I'm now stuck with on an island just off the coast of ─ whoknowswhere ─ but I know who takes charge of the situation. The 'leader' of a pitiful pack, shall we say. ~ Even from having just met the guy, it wasn't hard to tell Farallon always had

something to say ~and at times like these, a little speech of encouragement really goes a long way~ in tricking the band of dopey twits into thinking

we will actually find a means out of here without the slightest trace of normalcy or state of things, not quite so kindly enough to be in our favour; smack-dab, the test of patience wears me out faster than the dread that sprouts its set of roots across the loam and soil and clay that hides the bones that don't decay, while the layered sediments sheltering limbs and flesh and meat all meshed into one, the soil, a hoarding miser, relishing its handy traps and gimmick ploys to put stuck souls like me to bed, to rest, to croak a rushed finale of meaningless words in an attempt at wishing away the world in a proper adieu despite the soundless sigh that will arise and fall back to the floor without another ear to catch its drip and trip and limp and dip into the dust where it belongs. ~ ~ Oh spare me the cruel net of catacombs clipped like a gentle, swaying pair of arms from Death herself, and so, bear me my load, I ask the crust of earth to brace itself a bassinet, in advance, for I must warn the heaviness of burdened minds, like that of mine, will otherwise surely capsize, thus I implore the sand and stones and dunes and bones to cushion up their cradle propped and build a bank that won't be flopped, a crib of slit that I can't top- -ple over and dismantle, for who knows the damage I could cause? What more can the subsiding shore and tide take from the slumping weight of a sorry state and tempter of fate, and can it really last, provided, that the landmass left is blighted and it isn't I that ends lopsided. ~ ~ Quivered breaths thrum out in prayers, in shaken soughs matched by the woeful, wafting wind, the mutterings of "hail mary's" unlike myself, the spells I cast existing by themselves; the sleepless night that drones us by has us getting ahead of ourselves. ~ I used to scoff and scorn at hopeful speech-givers like him, but after facing what I had faced, ── on the subsequent days of treachery and

near-death experiences, the spear with which Farallon had used to strike the tirelessly thirsting tiger that fought its way through foliage and forestation

to usurp its dominance in this meager isle, abandoned and stripped of delectable, writhing morsels

such as I to take easy pickings off of and haul onto the rigidity

dinner table of cobbled slabs on gravel mountains that protrude like pedestals, or totems, only beasts are fit to stand upon, for the ravening brutes of the brutal biomes, barbaric, bellicose, too busy brawling to buy into blessings of mercy or weak links to soft things that humans like too much: out here, the frail of hearts will blacken into steel-cold blood, without enough warmth ── the waning buds of fear, and doubt, and gloom, all close-knitted and matted and coiled, bodaciously, fittingly fueled and spoiled by the bleak feedings of an emptying mind, seemed, now, things of the past. ~ ~ It was then, at the wisp's end of life, the threat of a flimsy thread coming apart in the silent snip of a split, -scaring me stiff- in its fluttery flitter, almost slips from the sultry slick sweat of my soggy palms, the fluttering wire, not so thin anymore. A sense of powerlessness is plucked from out of my perpetual pit of pessimism. And I owe it all to Farallon. ─ ─ - ─ ── - ──


"Can you keep a secret?" This question gets me ALL the time. If I had a dollar for every time someone said this to me, I could retire from my bartending job and live on an uncharted island in the Pacific. It wasn't enough that "What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas" but the pressure of being a bartender here too? It's not for the faint of heart. Add to this, I'm not your average woman either; makes life difficult. Most of the women I work with are actually gorgeous. Me? I'm what you call "average". I'm five feet five, brownish hair, curvy and have a bit of a mouth on me. I hold my whiskey better than I hold a conversation. I give better advice in six words than most advice columnists in six paragraphs and I don't know too many people. That last one? It's by choice. I'm not a native Nevadan. I migrated from Wisconsin a year ago. I needed a change of scenery. I will say one thing, J. J., the manager here, is unexpectedly kind. He isn't that way to everyone. "Lola," "Yeah?" "How's the crowd been tonight?" "Slow. It's too hot for anything." He looked me up and down once maybe twice. "Hot's the right word. It's what, 110 out there?" "Yeah." "That uniform, Lola, why are you wearing it? It's for waitresses." "If you didn't notice, Josh, I usually waitress. We're short. Tiffany called out tonight. Her kid's sick. I have a bartender licence. I can work the bar. It's easier to replace me than replace a bartender." Josh never really thought strategically. It was one of his less than admirable qualities. "Lola, not only are you gorgeous; you're smart too." I looked at him, rolling my eyes. He's a good looking man. I freely admit that. I also freely admit that he's kinda cocky too. Jenessa, one of the waitresses, walks up to the bar. "Lola, an unsavory just called me a sweet ass. Then decided to go for gold." "Where was Tito?" "Chatting up one of the patrons." I cracked my neck, then my knuckles. Josh grabbed my shoulder. "I'm the manager, not you. Down, Feisty. I got this. Stay with Jenessa." I looked at him, then at Jenessa. "It's gonna be okay. J.J. is gonna handle this." I didn't hear much, but what I did was enough to make me realize how much Josh appreciated his female staff. "If you touch any of my staff again on my property, I personally guarantee that wherever Hoffa is; That place will be easier to find than where you end up, understand?" I could tell the ice in J.J.'s voice when dealing with Tito. "Get out. Tonight's your last night." "WHAT?! YOU CAN'T DO THAT!" J.J.'s voice went quiet but I still heard him. "If you think chasing a female is more important than doing your job, go chase 'em." "Asshole." Tito said. I saw J.J. walk back into the bar area. "Jen, you okay?" "Did you mean what you said?" "Yes." J.J. replied. Jenessa threw her arms around both of us. "You're the best parents I could want! I wish my real ones were like you." I blushed slightly. J.J. smirked. "Kid, us as parents would be a sign of the apocalypse. Now, scoot. I need to talk to Lola." Jenessa laughed. "Play nice, you two." She walked away, grinning. I looked at J.J. "Parents, us? Hell, you barely look at me cross eyed and lovey dovey. I wonder what goes on in your..." That's when I felt the bristles of his five o'clock shadow on my lips. Shock, ecstasy and raw energy flew between us like an electrical current. "Do you know how long I've been waiting to kiss you into silence, Lola?" I couldn't speak. "The second you walked in the door of the club. That was it. I was done." I pressed my fingers to my mouth. "Say something, I dare you." J.J. said. After what felt like an eternity, I looked into J.J.'s chocolate eyes. "Do that again. This time, don't stop." He flashed me a sinister grin. "This might end up with a pile of clothes behind the bar, Lola. Are you ready?" "Question is, are you?" His lips descended on mine. What felt like eternity ended with a harsh cough. "Joshua James, why are you on the floor?" My body was on fire. His was solid granite... Until his mother came to deliver something. " I thought you were coming over tomorrow, Mom." "I thought you ran a respectable establishment. I guess we're both wrong. Who's this?" "This is my girlfriend, Lola." J.J.'s mother scoffed at me. "What kind of name is Lola?" "My full name is Charlotte Gaines, Ma'am. I just prefer Lola." J.J.'s mom looked at me a bit kinder after I introduced myself. "Charlotte's a much prettier name but in this city, I can see why you chose like you did. Joshua's the same. Your grandma's birthday cake; she promised to give this to you. Stay safe and for God's sake, wear protection. Las Vegas is no place to raise my grandchildren." She turned to leave. J.J. dropped his head to rest on mine. "THAT was embarrassing. I'm so sorry." I kissed J.J. "It could be worse." "How?" "We could have been naked and near completion." I never realized how sexy his laugh was until it was in my ear. "Lola, you push my buttons, Dollface." "So, where are you taking me?" "My office. I'm locking this door. You, Sweetheart, will be screaming my name. I guarantee that." I could appreciate a cocky man. Josh wasn't an exception. He was the reason why exceptions exist. In those black pants, I couldn't resist him. "Come on, Sugar." The black plush sofa felt like nothing I experienced. That feeling came second to Josh's rough lips on my neck. "You're mine. Say it, Lola." "I'm yours, Josh." The next few minutes felt like an eternity. I begged whoever that no one knocked as I felt his hand up my thigh. "Whose are you?" "Yours." "Good." I bit back a yelp as I felt his hand where no man had been since my ex husband. When I finished, he kissed my forehead. "What about you?" "Oh.. I'll get mine after work. When I leave, you're coming home with me. I have plans for you." A few days later, Jenessa looked at me. She noticed I looked different. She hid a smile. That's when J.J. walked in, wrapping an arm around my waist. "Morning, Angel. How'd you sleep?" He winked. I could feel the blush creep over my face. "Oh. My. Gawd! You.. He.. Whaaaaat?!" I looked at Jenessa. "Can you keep a secret?"


Another afternoon filled with rowdy, disrespectful kids. They do not care for books or matters of physical form, it is all about videos and music. I see their attention span decay with each generation. They say children are getting smarter because they know more and can comprehend more at earlier ages, but these same children are ignorant towards precious artifacts of our past. Swear words echo through the bookshelves reaching the ears of even younger more impressionable kids. The sounds of books falling to the carpet and slamming against the shelves reach my ears. I walk to the source and find a group of teenage boys making fun of the cover of a historical book. Asking them to be more mindful of their language and volume only prompts an empty “sorry miss” followed by snickers and mockery of each other. Other younger kids are here with their parents. The parents are using the computer for something while the children wander aimlessly. They are bored and would rather be at home. When the children complain, the parents simply scold them and command quietness while they are concentrating. The children wander off to mess up the bookshelves and race through the library. Another parent has put her baby down on a table while she browses the books. I hope the baby does not wriggle itself off the edge while it's left unattended. It starts to wail as its mother disappears behind the bookshelf, which only prompts hushing from the other side. It bellows and the entire library shudders. The mother rolls her eyes and walks back over the to baby, “Why can’t you just be quiet?” Between my observations, I return books to their rightful places. People appear bothered by my presence and move away when I approach with my book trolley. They must suspect I am judging the genre of book they are browsing, but in truth, I am distracted by the behaviour of the other patrons. Despite all the low-quality people I see, there are still some who inspire hope for future generations. Though, I worry that the bad outweighs the good. One lady is sitting with her two girls, reading them a story with splendid enthusiasm. She even bothers to move her hand like an aeroplane as she describes their favourite character zooming through the clouds. The girl’s eyes are locked onto their mother. They listen eagerly with big grins on their faces. They laugh at the silly sound effects their mother makes. On the other side of the library, a father sits with his son and helps him with his homework. They are doing long division which is proving even difficult for the father. I hear them laugh when the father gets the wrong answer too. They decide to look up the answer and work backwards to see where they went wrong. Two teenage boys are working intensely on a speech, reading each other’s scripts and giving feedback. One of them asks for clarification about a certain statement. The other responds with an explanation that prompts a grand realisation from the first boy. They agree on a better way to word it and begin scribbling down changes. A young family passes through the sliding doors. The mother looks exhausted. Her two little girls bolt towards the children’s fiction section, “No running!” she calls after them. The girls walk at a fastened pace instead. The husband trails in behind them, tucking his phone into his back pocket and placing a gentle hand on his wife’s shoulder before helping her down the stairs. She is heavily pregnant and clings to him with deep gratitude. A large group of teenage girls enter. They are chatting loudly and giggling but lower their voices as they walk down the entry stairs. One of them is profoundly excited about the library and showcases them to their respective subject areas. She knows the library well. “You want a hand putting these back? It’s pretty quiet at the desk,” my co-worker says, picking up a pile off the trolley. “That’d be great, thanks, Anne.” She smiles warmly before trekking off on her own journey around the library. Anne was graduating from high school at the end of the year and I was disgruntled by the thought of losing such a bubbly and kind co-worker, even if she only worked part-time after school. She was blissfully unaware of all the rude patrons and treated them all as close friends. Such ignorance or forgiveness was beyond my capabilities. I would die a bitter old woman. I heard her laugh quietly as she chatted with a patron amongst the shelves. It was wonderful to see how easily she could connect with people and make them feel comfortable. I was certain she would make a positive shift in the world, but there weren’t enough Anne’s to counter all the negativity. It all comes down to the rearing of children, and even if Anne has kids and they are amazing there will be many more who have kids who are not. A child’s behaviour is rarely a result of something other than a lack of good parenting, not impossible, but rare. I have seen it over and over in my time working here. Generations of blasé attitudes and disregard for strict discipline had snowballed into a world of disrespectful people who mock and shame anyone who isn’t simply cool with everything. The argument now is that children are so smart that they can think for themselves, but the truth is, they are under the protection of a legal guardian until adulthood. If no one ever tells a child no , then why would they listen to no as an adult? If parents do not listen to children, then why would those children listen as an adult? If parents do not have interest in their children, then why would that child value themselves as an adult? I am quickly brought back into the present as Anne reapproaches the cart for more books. “Are you alright?” she asks, with a well-meaning look. “Yes, just another afternoon,” I chuckle, glazing over the truth.


...the small town murders that never took place Karaoke Killings The scene opens with a mist over the harbour in the early hours of the morning. A homeless man, hoping to find refuge, lifts his head as he hears the sound of a ‘plop’ in the water, and says, “Man, I hate cops”. There was much commotion earlier, and the police had already been by. There is no jail in this small town, and the cops do their own thing, primarily putting drunk and disorderly, the homeless, or even mental patients in nearby hotels. It makes the innkeepers the jailers, and they are paid by the City for their room as there is no other alternative. That is for the first few offences; the next once are far more macabre option for justice. The homeless man knows that there will be a very distinct, foul odor at the rendering plant. These crimes are covered well, and no one ever wonders what happens to the transient people that are dumped here from neighboring towns. No, he is better off not questioning and remaining hidden in the make-shift camp he has in the bushes by the sea… Henry is an amiable sort. He and his wife Evelyn came to live in the small town, with only childhood memories of its charm. Beautiful Victorian mansions, a thriving art and maritime community and the sea makes it ideal for retirees or transplant people that want a change of scenery. Henry works in one of the local inns as a front desk manager, although his education could afford him much better. He is used to such temporary tenants in his hotel; the young woman Melissa with the Harry Potter scar who steals and screams obscenities as the drums in her head drive her schizophrenic brain; the homeless that have no place to go, the non-locals that commit small crimes...yes, they are booked in, not booked, at one of the fort less expensive hotels. That is a loose term; the whole town is expensive, but these would be budget hotels anywhere else.

It just so happens that Henry had this particular rabble-rouser in his hotel the night before. This having nowhere to go theme runs rampant, and Henry has to accommodate those paying top-dollar, along with the Melissa’s of the world; stealing sandwiches and trinkets from local shops that she hoards in her room. Her number will come up eventually...but right now it is this chap that started a fight locally that was taken to his inn. The guy started yelling in the middle of the night, upsetting the paid customers, so Henry called the cops again. One older cop got out of his vehicle, and for some reason, tripped and fell straight down in the parking lot; you would think by now he would know it as well as his own backyard. Bleeding and in pain, he was screaming as loud as the noise complaint, so that night the cop was not in a mood to negotiate. The young man, who went by Talbot, although we don’t know if that was a first, last or pseudonym, was causing a ruckus. Henry was on night duty, as usual, that his wife begrudgingly was used to by now but hated going to bed alone and leaving the light on. So, on this night, the commotion started again, and Talbot was removed, saying he knew someone in a boat, and would the cops take him to the harbor. They did, it seemed reasonable...although he was to be left there, and never seen again… The town was small, with not that much to do in the off-season. A few bars and restaurants stayed open, but not much to do for entertainment. Evelyn, a Southern belle-type beauty, loved to sing, so she and Henry went to karaoke as often as his schedule would allow. What they didn’t know is the seedy underbelly of the town, how money was made, and why there was that terrific stench at the rendering plant which inevitably got worse on Sundays after the weekends out.

A strange character known only as the Professor liked to hang out there. Skinny and wily, he was always surrounded by a team of mooks; muscle men that appeared to be hangers on but clearly where bodyguards of some type. The professor wasn’t like the other patrons; he didn’t sing, he didn’t like beer or honky-tonk music but considered himself an English gentleman. Ironic, because he looked more like Mr Burns of The Simpsons fame. No, he had a special seat always reserved, his favorite muscleman Rick made sure it was available, so he sipped his whiskey and water and simply took in, with great disdain, the audience. He thought them all too far beneath him. But, there was a more cynical reason he liked to people watch, particularly the young transient people who came to the town to busk...no one would miss them if they were gone, right? A rare exception was Evelyn; he found her charms and talents exceptional. She dressed like a Lady, sang like a bird, and had polished manners for this hick town. No, she was a rare bird indeed. If it weren’t for that husband of hers, he would have her as a bride. Now, if only he could get Henry drunk enough and have Rick ‘accidentally’ trip him down the three flights of stairs it took to find entertainment in this town...oh well, another day. The town itself had a history of booms and busts over the past hundred-odd years. There was no real viable industry, and the rendering plant, which made paper products, was often closed. No, this was a place hippies young and old went to do their art and music and old wealthy baby boomers went to retire. It wasn’t the kind of place you went and found a job! That’s why Henry was happy to find the one for minimum wage at the dive motel. Heck, he got it carrying a mannequin to help his wife set up a fancy shop, so that didn’t deter the owners; they were so glad to get good help. No, the real economy was something else...something illegal.

Neighboring village-like towns didn’t allow transients. They didn’t want buskers, had signs that if you had a backpack to just keep on passing by. They even took busloads of homeless people and dumped them off here, in the beautiful town by the sea. The tourists didn’t mind, they liked the music on street corners, so it seemed a win-win. A lot of these people, mostly kids that had a falling out at home, didn’t have any more ties than the ones on their shoelaces, if they even had those. No, it was urban legend to come here and make enough money for pot and beer, so come they did. What they didn’t know is how truly dangerous this idyllic setting was… The Professor was at the head of it. The police were in on it, neighboring towns got a cut of it for bringing transient people there, and the town commissioners knew all about it. What sinister way to make money was that the Professor, from his perch in the bar, was scouting illegal organ donors. The younger, the more organic food-fed, the more talented, the better. The bar was in on it as well, once given the signal, doctoring the drinks of the homeless musicians after they did their karaoke renditions of House of the Rising Sun. There is no evidence as it is all covered up by these townsfolk who really don’t care how the town gets revenue, as long as they can do their own thing. Just like Talbot, who got drunk and loud, they too would be sent to check in at the inn, but never really check out….A discovery that Henry and Evelyn would find out the hard way as the Professors ardor for her would let his guard down as he tried to make her his Queen of the small town.


Eduardo stood in front of the newsstand, eyes and mouth carefully hidden behind cheap sunglasses and a mask, looking at himself on the smooth laminated magazine cover. The full effect of his brooding but powerful stance, him dressed in an elegant black suit, didn’t really come across as he had imagined, with the sun reflecting on the shiny dark page. It was not as imposing and sexy as he had wished it to be.

When he’d gotten the call from his agent, that he had been named People magazine’s sexiest man alive, he had not been surprised, it had only been a question of time. He rather wondered why it had taken them so long. “Eduardo Sullivan, the modern hero we needed on our screens and in our lives”. Yes, he was a hero, one could even say that his name had become synonymous with the word itself. Who else had played James Bond, Iron Man, and countless other fictional world-saving heartthrobs? He smiled under his mask, time for the big reveal. He didn’t need to buy the magazine, they had sent him a copy of it already, but he’d never miss an opportunity to relish in the awe of his admirers when they met him in person. To bestow that honour upon them had gotten him out of bed more than once already. Unfortunately, for he had not yet made plans for the night, the person selling these magazines wasn’t a woman. Slowly he took off his sunglasses, getting the vendor’s attention, before sliding down his mask under his chin. With his brightest smile he showed the guy owning the newsstand the magazine and said in his lowest, most imposing voice: “Why don’t I give you 20 bucks for this and we’re good?”. Charitable as ever. He could see the confusion, felt it, but Eduardo did not doubt for a second that this guy knew him, had seen at least one of his movies, and would recognize him soon enough. His arrogance driven instinct was correct, as always, for after a first furtive glance the newsstand guy could not get his eyes off Eduardo, trying to decipher whether it was really the world-famous actor that was just casually standing in front of him or just a really convincing lookalike, before concluding that it must actually be the happiest and luckiest day of his entire life.

This last bit was obvious for he grabbed the newsstand to steady himself and unconsciously shook his head, not yet entirely sure what to make of the situation.

Eduardo tried to suppress a victorious smile; he had done it again.

“Of course, Sir, thank you!”, the guy took the money and Eduardo could see that he was contemplating saying something else, he probably wanted to ask for a picture, which, Eduardo knew, he would humbly and gracefully agree to, pretending that he could make some time in his busy schedule because he cared so much for his loyal fans. “You know, Sir,”, he stopped, not sure if he should continue, but Eduardo just gave him an encouraging smile, hoping that he could soon be on his way, “I was there, at the audition for your break-through role, I auditioned myself, and even though you were not famous or anything back then, I still remember you, you helped me calm down because I was so nervous about it, you even made me tea so I could calm down, and”, he nervously fiddled with his hands, “I just wanted to thank you for it”.

This guy was around Eduardo’s age, the latter realized half surprised.

“What’s your name then?”, he tried to act interested, to be a good role model. “Clint, Sir, Clint Baker. Ever after that day, I looked up to you and wished you only the best, it’s an honour to be meeting you again!” “Well, thank you. But what happened to your acting career?”, he knew he could have walked away just then, but he needed to confirm a suspicion he had. He might remember this guy and that specific audition, one of his first, for a minor role that had gotten him the attention of the agent he still employed today.

Flattered that the sexiest man alive would show any interest in him, Clint continued: “Even though you were so kind to me on that day, the nerves had really gotten to me, and I started to feel so sick that I could not go on with the audition. It was so bad that I could not leave my bed for the next 3 days and I just realized that acting wasn’t quite for me, that this kind of nervousness would never allow me to get a role. So, I quit, but I don’t regret it, Sir, I am just as happy with where I am in life right now, acting just wasn’t for me.” He seemed to actually mean what he said, weird. Eduardo had rolled up the magazine and, holding it in one hand, he extended the other one to Clint, just to make his day even better: “It was nice meeting you Clint Baker, maybe fate will let us cross paths a third time, I wish you all the best until then”. And while he turned away, feeling the weight of Clint’s stare on his back he smiled, thinking about the moment Clint would get home to his partner, and maybe kids, and tell them about the surreal experience he had had today.

While he was walking toward Central Park, he put his mask and sunglasses back on. Although he did like to be recognized, it had to be on his terms.

What surprised him was that he did indeed remember Clint, he had been the first person that Eduardo had deemed worthy of getting rid of, all these years ago. It amused him to think that Clint thanked him for that tea that had caused him to give up on all his dreams.

Why would he need to feel bad about it? The acting world was a cruel place and only those that were ready to accept the reality of it and fight for what they wanted should be granted any success. If Clint, or any other person in that audition that day or on any other day, had had his drive and ambition, they could have done the same thing to him. That Clint just gave up because of it showed that he did not have the necessary dedication for the craft, that even if he had gotten the role, he would not have been worthy of it. Eduardo knew that he himself was worthy of all that he had achieved for he had fought for it, just as the heroes he had portrayed had fought for what they wanted in life.

Of course, Clint had not been the only one that had suffered Eduardo’s ambition in the course of his career. He had always incapacitated whoever represented a real threat to him, one way or another, and sometimes, when he was lucky enough and the casting director had shown any interest in him – an interest of a more sensual nature – he had not even needed to go meddle with the other candidates to get the role. He hadn’t interfered in a casting process for a while now though, mainly because he did not have to go to castings anymore. Film directors were usually coming to him, begging him to consider being part of their projects. It didn’t help that it was more difficult to get established actors out of his way than to get little Clint Baker sick.

The last time he was able to resort to his methods, which had become a little good luck ritual for himself, had been for the casting of James Bond. After the news that the then-current 007 would not continue in his role, he had gotten a call from his agent that they were considering him as one of his possible successors, that he did not have the role secured however because there were two other actors that they were interested in. Shortly after, one of the two had some serious child pornography charges to deal with and the other one had not stood a chance against Eduardo either way. He finally reached the cooling shade of the park and went to one of his usual spots, a small path in the shadow with an empty bench waiting for him. It was perfect because not entirely deserted, only a few people ever came across it, assuring that whenever he got recognized, he would only have to deal with 3 or 4 people at a time.

Looking behind him he could see the dark shape of his bodyguard in the distance, always alert but not too worried. He had done this a million times by now and nobody had ever attacked him. Who would ever want to hurt “the modern hero we needed on our screens and in our lives”? Eduardo grinned as he took off his mask and sunglasses.

Looking down at his face on the magazine he wondered what the press would write about him if they knew what he had done, what he had sacrificed to get where he was now. They would probably not hail him as their hero anymore but condemn him as some degenerate monster, too ambitious for its own good. Idiots. The world would judge him for what he had needed to do, while they continued to celebrate their favourite British spy that had harmed and killed countless people to get what he wanted. People were hypocrites, ugly and whiney and dumb. Eduardo pulled out the book his agent had told him to read in public, he did not know what it was about, didn’t even care for its title.

Two people came strolling about, and he could feel the moment one of them recognized him. Excited whispering, slowed down walk, uncertainty whether they should bother him or not. Eduardo looked up and with a humble smile invited them to approach. “Unambitious, stupid hypocrites”, was all he could think, as they stood next to him, smiling into the lens of their overpriced smartphone.


It’s my first day on the job and I am so excited to get there. “ Oh man this job don’t know what I have in stored for them. Today they will be getting a rude awaking”. As I walked into Citi Bank I see a few of my colleagues that were in training with me. Looking at their face I can see so much excitement. One of them happen to be a close friend of mine that I grew up with. I approached my friend Adam and said “ What’s up man, you ready for this wild day?”. Adam responded nervously “ Yeah, I’ve been waiting for this all week”. Dave responded “ Nice, be on the look out for my signal.

As Adam and Dave separated they both started working and ensured that their customers were satisfied. A while later Dave snuck off into the volt where all the cash and gold was located and started loading up some bags to go. A security guard approached Dave and was quit suspicious of what he was doing. “ Hey, what are you doing in here?”, the security guard asked. Dave got frantic and jumped and said “ Woo, you shouldn’t be sneaking up on people like that. I was just making sure that the money was counted correctly and in the right spot”. The security guard said “ Alright just checking. You always have to stay on the look out now days”. The security guard shrugged it off and walked away as if nothing happened.

Dave started acting on edge since the security guard didn’t say much to him after he had left the volt. In the back of Daves mind, he was wondering if he should call the entire operation off, but he needed the money so dearly. Some where down the line he needed to find Adam to let him know what just happened. He didn’t want to look obvious about it so he helped a few customers out, and figured he would slide over to Adam when he was finished. Surprisingly Adam wasn’t busy and he felt it was the perfect time to tell him what happened.

Dave smoothly walked over to Adam and said “ Pss, we need to talk”. Adam jumped and said “Why are you whispering?”. Dave replied “ I was in the volt loading the bags up and the security guard walked in on me mid pack. I don’t know what to think. Maybe he’s not on to me because I work here. At this point I’m kind of skeptical on the whole operation”. Adam said “ Yo, this is not looking too good. I need that money, and I know you do too. So what’s our next plan?”.

Dave and Adam put their heads together and came up with a brilliant plan. “ Alright Adam, I’m going to go back in the volt and finish loading the bags up, and I want you distract the security guard. In the event the security guard is on to you, I want you to pass out until he throws water on you or about to call an ambulance. If I finish before all the jazz, I will pull the fire alarm, and I want you to meet me at the back of the building. We will be on our way from there”. Adam replied “ Okay boss man, I’m ready when you are.

As Dave and Adam proceeded with their plan a complication got in their way. Rebecca, the supervisor walked over to Dave and stated “ I heard you were in the volt earlier. Care to explain what you were doing in there”. Dave froze up and didn’t know what to say. At this point he felt as if he was figured out. Dave replied “ It’s my first day on the job and I was familiarizing myself with my work space. I wasn’t aware that the volt was off limits”. Rebecca stated “ Well….. its’ not off limits, it’s more so for our high in clients. When ever you have a high in client please report to me so that we can handle business correctly. This is protocol. Dave “ Yes, ma’am”. “Thank you for understanding, I don’t want to hear something like this again” Rebecca stated. A few minutes went by and Dave started the plan. In a blink of an eye Adam and Dave are cruising down the street and the next thing they notice, they are getting hijacked by two random people. Dave and Adam start screaming “ Oh no the money is in the trunk”. The two hijackers laughed and speed off in the car with the quickness when they heard that there was money in the trunk. Dave and Adam high five each other because the plan went as it was suppose to go. Did you really think we would drive around town with that much money on us. We needed to get rid of that car so we wouldn’t be tracked. Dave and Adam returned back to the Citi bank building to pick up the money that was around back. The door to the back of the bank slowly opened and someone walked out. It was Rebecca. Dave thought “ Oh snap, we’ve been caught”. Rebecca stated “ You think you’re just going to hit the road without me, I think not”. Dave smiled and told Rebecca to hop in.

The sun starts to set and the weather start to cool. Dave drops Adam off to his girlfriend so they can all hit the road. “ Alright bro, see you on the flip side” Adam said. As Dave started driving he asked Rebecca " How did you know what I was up to?". Rebecca replied " I left something out when I asked you why you were in the volt when I ran into you". " And what might that be?" Dave asked. " I didn't ask you why you were filling those duffle bags up. The security guard told me everything. I was just waiting for someone to execute a plan that I've been dying to do" Rebecca said. Dave laughed and felt at ease now that he knew Rebecca was on the same side as him. From their Dave and Rebecca hit the interstate Texas. Who said you have to be a random pedestrian to rob a bank. Why not just work for the company.


“Listen- if you’re quiet enough, you can hear the earth breathe.” That’s what Dad would say to me at summer camp-outs. He would wait until I was tired enough to stop making any sound, all nestled into my sleeping bag. I would strain my ears over the din of crickets to hear the world inhale. Exhale. Maybe I just fooled myself into hearing it. Maybe I was just tired. But I swore that on those nights in woods so secluded it seemed like we were the only people on the face of the planet, I could feel the earth’s chest rise and fall beneath me as it breathed.               But that was years ago, and I haven’t heard it breathe since. Especially since Dad died. Now, standing over his casket, the only breath I can hear is my own, hot and course against my throat like I’ve been running and running.               In a way, I think I have been. Running, that is.  Running from the reality of it all. The diagnosis only sunk in when I saw the heart monitor go flat. Maybe it was hopeless naivety on my part, thinking that the cancer would leave. Maybe it was Dad’s fault, acting like everything was fine; acting like plenty of time outside would cure everything.               Now look at us.               Next to me, Mama’s eyes are just as dead as Dad’s were as the light left them. She stares at him in the casket like she wishes she could join him. A sheen of sweat has formed on her tan face. Maybe it has to do with the fact that Dad’s about to be put six feet under. Maybe it has to do with the fact that the sun is unthinkably bright today. Funerals are supposed to be sad and rainy, right? Gray skies with an appropriate amount of rain. For how much he loved the Earth and all the good he did for her, I’d have thought that she could show some respect, too. Maybe not rain, but at least some shade.               The funeral finishes eventually. Mama says some words. So do I. I don’t really understand them and don’t think anybody else does, but I don’t care. It’s not their dad that’s dead.               I get home, somehow. I know I had to fight through mountains of mourners and well-wishers to get here, but I make it.               Somebody puts food in front of me. Eventually.               “You need to eat,” Mama says, her voice raw and scratchy like she’s been running, too.               The sandwich looks as appetizing as sewage. Pain gnaws so sharply all over me that I can’t tell what’s grief and what’s hunger. I don’t think it really matters.               I eat, if only to placate Mama. It tastes like sand.               “You need to shower,” Mama says.               I don’t tell her that I can’t shower because it would distract me from tracing the shapes the light from the windows makes on the ceiling with my mind for the millionth time.               I’m eventually coaxed into the shower. I’m still sitting on the floor, the hot water long gone, when Mama comes to check on me.               “You need to go outside,” Mama says.               I look up at her from my seat at the table across from her. She made fettuccini alfredo for dinner. Dad’s favorite.               I’ve humored her requests. I’ve brushed my teeth and combed my hair and let relatives coddle me and tell me it will turn out okay, but this is something I can’t do. The woods are more a grave than the cold slab of rock that marks Dad’s place in the earth. That’s why I can’t go near them.               “What are you talking about?” Mama says. “You think he’d want to see you like this, wasting away inside? Do you think I want to see you like this?”               “You watched him waste away. You can do the same for me.”               It’s like I slapped her. The same look of pain is stretched across her face, pooling in her eyes, as it was when she watched them lower him. She’s probably still wondering if it’s too late to join him.               “Get out,” she says.               “What?”               “Get out,” she repeats. Her voice is harsh and grating, like these last months of lethargy have been her saving enough energy just to curse me. “GET OUT!” She slams her hands down on the table, the slap echoing through the house like a shotgun ringing through the valley.               I do exactly as she tells me. With strength I didn’t know I have, I slam the door behind me.               Outside, there is no escaping his presence. Everywhere I look, there’s something to remind me that dad’s dead. There’s the tree stump we shot arrows at for hours. On the back, I had carved I ♡ Dad with my first pocket knife. There’s the pile of dried sticks and trees that we collected for making the biggest, hottest bonfires there ever were. There’s the little cross that marks the spot Dad helped me bury my first dog after it got sick.               I didn’t bother putting on shoes before I ran out. It doesn’t really matter. The way sticks and burs bear into my skin is the least of my worries as race for the woods.               I don’t know why I do. It’s like I’m possessed. If the memories were strong near the house, they’re unbearable out here. Every tree looks like Dad’s gonna pop out from behind it. Every animal sound is another creature that Dad would watch, very quiet and very still, until he would lunge out, grab it, and hold it close for me to see before releasing it. The smell of sap and dirt tells me that he’s close, just downwind of me. I just have to look around a little more before he’ll come out of a copse and show me the arrowheads he found.               But he won’t. I can search and search until my feet are worn to nubs and the sun goes dim but I won’t find him. He’s gone. Gone, gone, gone.               I think that’s when the realization finally hits. I fall to the earth. Every particle of emotion I delayed makes its debut in waves of pain. There’s not enough of me to hold it all. It comes pouring out of me in hot, caustic tears that turn the ground beneath me to mud. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I clutch at the dust of the ground like I’m God creating Adam, creating life where there was none.               My cries melt to a rhythmic whine, beating against my chest like the engine of an old truck that’s about to give up the ghost. And it eventually does give out. There’s not enough energy left in me to do anything but lie and whimper in the dirt, my ear against the ground.               And then I hear it. For the first time in a very long time, I feel the world take breath and hear her breathe out. A slow, deep sigh, like she’s sleeping and nothing could rouse her.               The sound of it stops me in my tracks. My breathing catches in my throat. Why now, after everything?               I draw myself to my knees, wiping mud off my face. Nothing around me has changed, but it seems quieter, somehow. Like the world has a heart, beating down deep below, that informs the rhythm of everything above it. A body. A tomb.               I don’t know how much longer I spend out there, soaking up as much of Dad as I can. Mama comes looking for me, distraught. She sits down next to me once we’ve both calmed down some.               “He adored you. I hope you know that. He would come back from those camping trips happier than he’d ever been. Every time, without fail.”                “Tell me more stories about Dad,” I say. It’s self-indulgent of me to ask. It will feel nice now, remembering him, and then I’ll turn to ask him about his side of the story and he won’t be there. Rip the bandage off again. Pull off the scab. Go back to the first stage of grief.               But Mama appeases me. She goes on and on, recounting every story she can think of, from the time she met him until his death. My heart burns, knowing that there will be no more stories for him.               But there will be stories for me.               So, fourteen years later, when I have my own kid, we get in the car and drive. Her wide eyes take in everything. To her, every cow passed, every bend in the road, every street sign is a novelty.               I show her how to pitch a tent, start a fire and keep it going, orient herself by the stars, and how to cuddle close for warmth when the sun has gone down and we’ve stamped out the coals of our fire.               And I show her how to hear it. “Listen,” I say. “If you’re quiet enough, you can hear the Earth breathe.”


Like most twenty-four year olds with no steady source of income, Jenny couldn’t remember the last time she stepped foot inside a Walmart. Sure the garish yellow on blue caused her physical pain and the screaming kid in the frozen food aisle made her make a mental note to ask her gyno about birth control, but that wouldn’t stop her. Jenny was a woman on a mission. She’d come to buy an air fryer and she wasn’t leaving without one. Not just any air fryer. An InstantCuisine Turbo XL Air Fryer, in red, if possible. She’d first seen it in a Buzzfeed listicle shortly after she moved: ‘17 Best Housewarming Gifts for a New Homeowner.’ Jenny obviously wasn’t a new homeowner, but she’d been intrigued and bored enough to scroll through it. After clicking past robotic vacuums and a cheese board whose price made her head (and wallet) hurt, she found it. With its large basket and seven unique settings, it made for the perfect housewarming gift to herself. Breakfast was the only meal Jenny nailed every time. (It was pretty hard to mess up a bowl of cereal or a couple fried eggs.) Every other dish just took way too long and had too many pots and pans and ingredients to keep track of. With the InstantCuisine air fryer, she’d be able to make anything from chicken wings to brownies with one tool if her heart so desired. This is such a responsible purchase. Jenny smiled to herself as she pushed her shopping cart through the horde of responsible adults. Responsible adults who seemed to know exactly where they were going without glancing up at the aisle markers at all. Responsible adults with well thought out grocery lists, most likely. Probably wrote it with actual pencils on actual pieces of paper and not in the notes app of their phones while stopped at a red light on the way over here. After picking up a gallon of milk, a couple mangoes, and some purple shampoo, Jenny navigated her way to the kitchen appliances aisle, excited to finally get her hands on her InstantCuisine air fryer. Except it wasn’t there. At all. Not even a price tag on the shelf which would indicate it being temporarily sold out. Didn’t Buzzfeed say you could find this at Walmart ? Jenny thought to herself. Or was it Target? One glance at the screenshot of the listicle on her phone confirmed that it indeed said Target. Oh well. Jenny wasn’t going to let this bother her. She had a full tank of gas and a determined attitude to get her hands on that air fryer, even if she had to drive all the way to Target now. Except it wasn’t at Target either. This time there was a sticker on the shelf for it, so Jenny knew it had been there, maybe was there only moments before she arrived, but was currently out of stock. Staring at the sticker didn’t do her any good. Making a quick lap around the store and returning (now with a cinnamon scented candle in her basket) didn’t make it magically reappear, either. What would Heather do? It was a question Jenny asked herself more often than she’d admit. Heather was the definition of responsible. She owned a two-story house, which she lived in with her soon-to-be husband Michael. Heather claimed to never order takeout, which Jenny always wrote off as an exaggeration until she moved in with her. Heather has probably never asked Google how to do her taxes. Heather would check if the air fryer was on the Target website. Heather would see the ridiculous prices on the website and make the sensible choice to purchase one secondhand off eBay or Facebook. Jenny however wasn’t as economical as her sister, and the thought of buying a pre-owned kitchen appliance from a stranger felt weird to her. Target website it was. Though she had moved in a week earlier, Jenny still felt weird unlocking her apartment door and being met with just the echoes of her own movements. She had lived at home with her parents until she began college, then on campus with roommates until she dropped out, then back with her parents, then briefly with Heather and Michael, before finally moving into a place she could call unequivocally her own (if you forget the landlord, that is). She dropped her bags on the wooden coffee table and moved to her kitchen counter, leaning her weight against it as she fished her phone out of her pocket and searched target.com for the InstantCuisine air fryer. It was there this time, of course. Over three thousand reviews for an average of 4.6 stars, which justified its $160 price tag to Jenny. Finally. Jenny added the air fryer to her cart and moved back towards her bags to grab her credit card from her wallet. She searched Google for Target promo codes as she walked, eyes glued to her phone, which is why she tripped on the untied garbage bag in her living room, spilling garbage on the floor. The only reason Jenny had an untied garbage bag in her living room was because she had yet to buy a garbage bin and was instead using various plastic bags and cardboard boxes to gather her trash. Heather wouldn’t wait a week before buying a garbage bin. Jenny frowned as she sat on the edge of her coffee table and crossed her ankles in front of her. And Heather would save up for a couch so she’d never be forced to sit on her coffee table. Jenny chewed on her thumbnail as she searched the internet. A decent couch would cost at least a couple hundred dollars, right? Maybe less if she bought one secondhand. Jenny groaned as she tipped her head back to stare at the ceiling. After a moment, she turned back to her phone and removed the air fryer from her cart. One day... but not today.


Eira purrs on my lap, soft and light, and I lift her to my face. Her body is loose and trusting as I bury my face into her mottled fur and breathe in the warm scent of home she carries with her. My heart swells as she nuzzles my cheek, her rasping tongue drying the sweat from my morning run. — I think I’m starting to like Ellis, — I tell her as I lean back into the chair and lower her back into my lap. She pads at my thighs in approval. Ellis. My boyfriend of three years. The man I smile at every morning I stay over at his house, the man I learned to act in love for. I think I’m starting to like him. I sigh. I think about his eyes. A training exercise; find three physical things in him to admire. Then three about his personality. — His eyes are brown, — I tell her — and they reflect amber in the morning sun. In the dark, they are a rich dark colour, but the flecks of hazel scattered in his irises, and the dark brown, almost black ring that circles them makes them look like honey when the light hits them. — He has a crooked smile. It’s one of my favourite things about him. It makes him look kind, breaking his face out of its usual serious lines, creasing it into something new and soft. — He has nice hands. They’re calloused and freckled, with strong fingers that love to trace shapes on my back. She blinks at me, slow and unjudgmental. — He’s a romantic. — I offer. She meows, a long burbling sound — You’re right, I used that one last week. I take a moment to think. — He’s good at his job — I say. Three years in, countless hours of building trust between whispered fake secrets and selective truths, he still hasn’t shared an inch of his project with me. Nothing but a knowing smile and a deep distracting kiss after teasing me for poking. Most days I wonder if I’ll ever complete the mission. Maybe I’ll have to marry him before he complies. The thought of giving up this place makes me shudder. The one place where it’s just me. Just me and my beautiful cat and no one calls me Anwir. The name that is both mine, and has never been mine. I scoop Eira up again and press her to my chest where the vibration of her purring echoes off my ribcage. I press her tight against me hoping it’s true that a cat’s love can heal you. That her purring is enough to fill the hollow ache. — He loves his friends fiercely — the loyalty he shows his friends, he shows me, is staggering. He’s there for those he loves in an instant. He remembers all our favourite foods, our favourite shows, our favourite places to go. He takes us there when we’re feeling overwhelmed and tired and just need someone to listen, to not offer anything but pure unjudgmental kindness. It must be exhausting. His favourite spot is the oasis. It’s not really an oasis but he calls it that. I think, if he ever proposed to me, it would be there. It’s hidden behind a wooden fence with a metal warning sign, rusted by the years and the water in the air. You have to jump over the sun-bleached fence to get to the rock fall and climb over the crumbled mountain that paves the way down. Stairs made of rock hide beneath the rubble and become visible the deeper down you go. The first thing you hear is the sound of rushing water. It fills the air, blending with the rustling of leaves and the distant cicada chirps that hush as you get closer. The smell of wildflowers and damp earth envelops you; it’s intoxicating. The path weaves its way, guiding you, and then finally, the magnificent waterfall, a torrent of crystal-clear water thundering into the pool below, where mist rises, carrying tiny droplets that glisten in the sunlight. Sunlight that filters through the canopy above, casting dappled patterns of light and shadow. Moss and ferns cling to every crevice. Towering trees reach toward the sky. Time seems to stand still. He took me there on our third date. I stroke Eira’s fur, absentminded. I really do think I’m starting to like him. Would that be so bad? It might make the job easier if there was a little bit of truth in it. It might make it harder. She jumps off my lap, claws making tiny pinpricks on my trousers as she bears her weight down before the jump. She bumps her forehead against my ankle, an affectionate gesture of impatience, before strolling into the kitchen. I follow. — He’s in love with me, — I say as I open the cupboard. She stares expectantly at my hands as they pull her breakfast out from where she can’t reach it. — and he shows it in the most beautiful ways. He doesn’t say it often, those words that are supposed to mean so much, but he makes me food every single time we're together, without fail, because I mentioned one time, three years ago, that I didn’t like cooking. He never asks, he just does, making sure to stock the things I like, even when I’m not going to be there. Just in case. He waits to watch the shows he’s most excited to see so as to share them. He re-watches old favourites with me in my mother tongue even though it’s not his first language so I enjoy them as much as he does. I’ve never had to ask for that either, he just does. He kisses me three times when we say goodbye because once isn’t enough, and three times again the next time he sees me to bridge the gap between visits. Eira crunches on her cat food, even as I’m pouring it, and no longer paying any attention, turns her back on me. — How like a cat — I say and scratch her soft white head. She burbles, disgruntled, between mouthfuls for me to leave her to her breakfast in peace. The hallway to the bathroom stretches before me, and I peel the t-shirt from my body on my way to it and ball it up in my fist for the hamper. The edge of the bath is hard and cold through my trousers, but I sit on it anyway, feeling it dig into my aching thigh muscle as I reach for the tap. The water thunders into the tub, almost as loud as the waterfall, almost loud enough for me to miss my phone, ringing, forgotten on the sink. The name that flashes on my screen makes my heart drop just a little. Emlyn. The name of the sister I don’t have. I turn the water off and the silence is almost as deafening, pierced only by my breathing and the shrill ring of my phone. I swipe my screen and try to mask the deep breath I’m taking before I answer. — Good morning, Director, how can I help you?


(Tw: suggestive violence, nightmarish imagery, amoral and wanton displays of greed, necromancy) Throughout a brief notoriety during that heightened forest of chiseled moon dust lay on the brickyard stockades: Weimar: burnt-out. 1923.  Small children, holes in their faces, are a cherubim so wan and fragile.

Seven days did me and Seleck sit squat in the shinola of the straightway into a puddle of hellwater. It was after many hours mired among the cabaret moribund whereupon we were promenading, penniless, peering for some reprieve among a pauperized downhill street without making ends meet, milling, marooned in the rotten heaps, grasping at every turn around for worthless mark notes findable during the hours where we could not feign sleep; once piled, we inspected the tender tarnished from having a cent for us to claim as honorable payment, but the marks were sometimes still crisp enough to be shredded into imitation lettuce until we ate enough for our throats to swallow what would only stay cooly as our insides would, listless, bleed ink no longer a currency valuable, paled ourselves until our minds grew faster than our thoughts could catch up for a bit, so as to breathe evenly. So, all of the sudden, sprach so suggestively did Seleck surmise a plot, he almost shouted! --and so smiling brighter than the varnished shimmer seen on the empty dark streets at a limitless sprawl ahead from our own placement amid the spirals and moribund, Protestant church tops crooked into facades endless below what shadowy debris was awaiting our blameless greed, did my better devise an impious proposal: there is no wealth richer than the smiles of unmarked children. Seleck then pointed toward the national treasury silhouette domelike, marbled in blemished dimness with vast stone construction that was emptying our sight, nearly an entire kilometer from where we stood at the beginning of our ingenious looting spree; furthering back to our proximity, he then lifted his wiry profile past where the streetwater ran igneous, it seemed, under where even vagrant street lanterns joined alongside his surveying that left me aghast & flummoxed while at his flank, Seleck went about sizing up the districts, finding room in his eyes for looking deeper across steelwork crosses and finally, with a soft howl of fingers freed from a gentle sigh for a fist meant for me to accede deferentially, went ahead & started to fulsomely motion me to follow him under the enormous canopied shade.  Beneath the strobe of darkening flem did I see his mouth finish his movements so delayed deliberately were his actions and directions for our heist, whereas never betraying that selfsame smile Seleck shone that was so carefully craven and toothsome, the words he sprach were almost penciled into a newsprint caricature:

The teeth of children, a rare form of currency nowadays. Take them away! During the first day of our desperate theft, Seleck would search throughout the abandoned storefronts for any items that could attract our orphaned quarry.

Wooden toys, bright tarnished pennants, a tin red wagon to place the previous within. Night sprawled a city. * When sundown fell across the hinterlands, the initial reconnaissance matured into the hunt once our ornamental shadows went dropsical underneath the moonlit rooftops, then canopied inside-out down an itinerant sewer grate alongside the concrete, growing contrasted, spindly while we break down the doors fastened over the mouths mewling before taken out and left carefree. Our shadows, once dogged pursuers, would remain blameless during our expedition.

Watch them as twofold they flow away from our flesh, becoming sovereign while the body suffers no shade astride its struggle to suffocate the winds that blew no betterment the way of the flesh, the physical. Seleck was not alarmed to see that his prediction proved to be a demonstrably sound success.

The prospect for our enrichment seemed to lay before us in gilded pavement, precipitous, interstices of a crestfallen Germany wherein, luminosity almost alien, our newfound currency was ushered forth between our pockets and the hunt for riches beyond the world's rotten belief: to follow our own intransigence for personal want to supersede our needs.

We grinned brightly with beatific greed etching our contoured ligaments round fat smiles.  Success was ripe for the taking.

With an incontrovertible methodology in place to secure consistency with our new, albeit unconventional, gold mine.  Still, we experimented with the remains, some much-needed frivolity for our fetching moods. The children were not very challenging to take from.

Seleck looked bored from how easy it was during our daily spree. * Seleck was frugality in its economy of spentthrift rags twilled by stitches he combed so finely, the seams were almost fused into the motley skin and bones bent on his sinuous figure, proportions inside his threads rictused thinly whereupon walked a small, lean

and high-shouldered man who was, to my recollection, shown to be less and less so spartan when his lips would swipe wetly until twofold, both rows of petite, prawnlike teeth inching as though the edges had bitten into a landmark seeming before his outsized mouth was chewing at some tantalizing part of the city's arterial periphery; only once the scenery was minced into his rhetorical meat, did my dearest fiend go manifest a voice, ventriloquistic, a terrible & cunning possession that faintly shone within his two opalescent eyes.  Eyes that were so darkly luminous behind his furrowing pair of silver-rimmed spectacles, artificially enclosed his ravenous intelligence beneath a coinage he adorned often as he would breathe, seeming ready for his closed lid entry into the ferry's subterranean admission fee.  Meticulous was his makeup: for any monster who has designs from a gentle swelling of the heart's wayward breeze such as Seleck was noteworthy since his behavior did not appear consistent with the unreflecting subjectivity of a narcissistic twerp.

Psychiatric infirmary: where we were paired together, initially.

 His wicked desires were altogether unique, something the whole pauperized world therein could never diagnostically make ends meet with a comfortable appellate to merit his becalmed viscosity, free from moral vexation or any other poisonous privy: a maverick, worldly. *

The next morning, we were going onward with the second day with expectations for our easy killing in fortune withdrawing our sibling surfeiting, aplomb, took every molar and incisor and sanded filament that our witless quality could grab and pilfer, always cackling during our getaway sprints alongside the concrete pillars without seepage, scurrying stealthily with the sewage when there was no one to take umbrage at what gleaming dentistry did we collect for seven days, our crime against the defenseless: savored with vehement simplicity.

 Each day when we awoke successively, sent ourselves jumping into pure jouissance, as though each end of our tour's exploits was so crude in shambles it shot us shameless, agog gleefully, bouncing from burglary again without ends in this tattered trampoline of our pillage, our evenings never less than what our pockets showered underneath where once again, our two shapes sat in a

storefront vestibule, the glass beside us sieves bloodless when reflecting our sleeping heaps, sheepskin did dreams leave us entirely. Soundly, albeit slowly, did our sentences mobilize beneath the forms from where our acrimony took out without the children to have the slightest inkling to speak against our leave, seeing as we sprang and somersault routinely away, speedily

to form a full blooming wraith, convex and darkly luminous in tenebrae long and impenetrable above the abandoned beer garden.

Avalanches of vermin near starved to death and occasional sounds of crashing objects inside the townhouses poured out amply from habitations either by daytime visits, or shrouded indigo forever underneath the rills of the unconditional nightmare, the celebrants alike and prancing; maecdemic.

Smashed windows refracted the oilskin dimness outside the similarly dismal constellation that shone dripping the entrails of extinguished shouts across the galaxy from their anguished sources that are only bloodless flickers in a cobalt-blue pitch engulfing the horizon with the unreflecting gorge of a celestial autopsy left festering after a defect of intelligent error cannot be stitched back from the depleted masses siphoning matter and hot gas cooly until death is smiling without the glint of death in a supernal lattice masking every living particle in a flash of a torn eye splayed over the awareness of pain that continues even in our falsely dreamt similitudes of catafalque recumbency where no body has a need except for glamorized cremation of the zeitgeist, a monkier for our foibles open-ended like a abdominal wound lacerated identical into dozens of slaughtered children stray among the strata varnished by street lamps bombarded with pamphlets of manifestos, illegitimate by the scandals their revolts will burn alive without a single dime to their heartless insurrection against themself, then occluded across every avenue as the message of paper becomes another rancid, coarse color selected to make the earlier

years of decadence be pauperized until houses too are broken at our calling, then wickedly head over shouldered over quartered parts thrown toward ransacked salons and public monuments belying ancestral line of atomistic ethnic disenfranchisement. Alps shudder when I moved my glance, glaceous and generously soft when the following mornings came without a cinch, since as a scandal, there was no authority around, and all currency paled in this period of history when our own worthiness perennially would make us bachelors fetching enough for our legacy to be kept under matchbook streaks- discretion matching the laudable standard of excellence none other than Seleck delivered without having a single minute of his ploy be exposed to reproach, let alone opposition that would force us to leave earlier than our final stop inbound: the Treasury. So we drank imperturbable to the broad zenith, day after daybreak into benighted fall, our voices screeching sardonically many moons for each successive victory amid robbing the victims blind, all porcelain smashed and sunken beneath Fortune's glancing reprisal. Faintly above our surfeiting sleeves raised over our heads in vainglorious displays of our desperate happiness umpteenth reach below the horizon's crenellated debriefing: beyond us, every dawning brought a gigantic, fuming sky's orangish-pale furloughed counterfeit, a celestial acceptage moist long after the dark had finished what incriminating nightgown remains true enough to explode all this efficaciousness into smithereens, amply. * All went beautifully, with not a care for destiny or opposition for us to flinch a second along the swift means that will permit riches vaster than any nation on the face this sundry Earth. That was true until we encountered Kane.

Kane despoiled what we had done during that desperate time.  The outcry of our once unyielding killings,

the jalouised orphanage of children who cried without comeuppance, who once were loamy as fleece-lined angels promising glory without having guts to spare among the guilty, swore fealty to Kane for revenge beyond where they lay bottommost graveyard proscenium stagework that was riotous six days without cessation in sight: here they returned, raised insurrection against our almost flawless relay toward the Treasury, requisitioned at the swift behest of Kane's interception, until the children were elongate, spidery undead so hideous that the children emerge behind us as the seventh day's monstratum: diaphanous, hollow and wrathful, slithering where we once sat and sifting the night until Kane could catch us right as we could taste wealth beyond any molestation it was belonging to, insipid though it would seem. And so our minds, doubled until both of us were some kind of desperate, panting beast with the power of two lesser shapes making a break against the weather and the pugilist glares of the city destroying all attempts at us getting out of this mess clean and saintly…

Undoubtedly, neither of us felt that the spree could pan out as normal any longer, seeing as the conditions were not right for repeated attempts due to certain forces underway against Seleck's premonition of faultless minted disposal into the Treasury: his smile faded until it went sallow overnight, the cheekbones a suddenlink sorrow that had destroyed his clairvoyance until anger was visible, making him useless and clumsy as we fled, both now fledgling escapees.  The vulcanized children whispering warnings, sweetly these oppressive sounds became the flotsam to our sleepless terror, inexhaustible infantry under the control of Kane's karmic concrete vertigo. Kane sent his newly fashioned toy boys into a sudden death burlesque flotilla across the nightsoil of the city, and for the longest day of the week at the end of the world's worst case was unloaded in their sweet angel heads, bent sideways where temples were coldly kissed by the wet, crushed seraphim bolt-iron rose that gave each unfeeling child their menagerie a litter of bloody eyes and welted butterflies fly away.

It appears today is not the first warning of the nightmare having no end outside.

The outcome was not so cleanly ameliorated, however. The fates, everso engulfed from their original larkspur– under wizened wide and glyphlike cut eyes almost faint to the point of translucency inside time worn veil of portendfinetwilled on profiles all cloak hooded. Always mutable by force, the deeds done versus victories unwon were released until impossibly, raised for future rectification right under our aquiline noses, all of our spoils were smelted in w shower that rained down whereupon we were reduced into penniless, appearances a sheet slick with our late penalties bringing liquid heat, it would seem safe to say for the sake of Seleck & company against Kane's manipulation of the dead. * The next day, we surrendered into hellwater so voluminous that our enrichment was not immediate, but thrown over the end of our infamy, oilskins that the great and late job gave as a little token for our easy sleep.