You don’t know where you are or how you got here, only that there’s a mangled body at your feet and a trophy the size of a bowling pin in your fist. You’re not sure which one tips you off that this is your handiwork: the splash of crimson stark against the gold of the trophy, or the fact that your gag reflex responds by adding more bodily fluids to the crime scene. Evidently, you’re fond of chili dogs. Like your composure, the trophy slides out of your grasp. THUMP. Going fetal sounds like a pretty good idea, but glass shards litter the floor like stars in the sky and the swivel chair by the mahogany desk looks too comfy to resist. You drag yourself over, melt into it, and just… breathe. A clock lurking somewhere in the dim room marches to the pace of your heartbeat; two rhythms merging into an ominous countdown. You’re not sure how much time passes—three minutes? Thirty?—before you muster the nerve to drink in your battered surroundings and come to terms with your literal red-handedness. A glass table, shattered. Books spilling out of a shelf, pages splayed. The blinds drawn, slits only big enough for slivers of light to peek in. Was all this… you? A Colgate-white smile flashes at you from a framed portrait on the desk; you can’t quite compare it to the bloody pulp that passes for the corpse’s face, but the suit is a clear match. You’re also dressed smartly, at least under the rips and tears and blood—do you work here too? The name of a corporation is engraved in the frame, but there is silence instead of bells ringing. Why can’t you remember?

You rub your face, as if that will soothe the weariness in your bones—only to transfer the blood to your cheeks like warpaint. You’re too stunned to find that disgusting. Maybe if you just… focus. Deep breaths. In, out, in, out. Yeah, that’s a bit better. Try to think about something other than the stench of blood and puke. It’ll come to you, just— The door creaks open. Not actually , but in your head, a crisp memory floating to the surface and bursting into clarity. Her voice is as meek as her tiny frame: “Mister Blumenfeld, here’s your Latte macchia—” Her eyes inflate like a pair of pufferfish when she notices the body. Then her skinny figure folds in an impressive imitation of a lawn chair; she hits the floor right after her coffee cup does. But… where’s the girl now? How long ago did that happen? Did she wake up and call the police already? Your stomach sinks. You spring over to the blinds and peek outside; you expect a horde of police vehicles three floors down, maybe a man brandishing a megaphone, but you only find a fire escape and a city strolling leisurely through a lazy afternoon. A butterfly with sapphire-blue wings saunters past. It’s funny that you still know how the world works, and yet you know nothing about you. A sound snaps your gaze to the door. A small, soft-faced girl enters, paper cup in hand. “Mister Blumenfeld, here’s your Latte macchia—” She joins the man on the floor, the same way the coffee joins the other fluids, mingling in a repugnant mosaic. You stare in slack-jawed amazement as the dots connect themselves. Okay, palms on the desk. Deep breaths. In, out, in, out. That’s… somewhat better. You’re not sure what to call the opposite of a memory. A… vision? Premonition? Prophecy? You want this to be a dream, but even nightmares have limits. Instinctively, you latch onto the only thing left that tethers you to reality: the bodies, one dead and one probably alive, sprawled across the floor. You’d better do something about them before Number Three waltzes in and spills their coffee. Or worse. You find a key in Mister Blumenfeld’s pocket—which takes care of the door. Progress. As you scour the room for a hiding spot, your mind hungrily anticipates another glimpse of incoming events. Nothing. No future, no past. Only the hellhole that is the present. Footsteps. Shit. You grab the trophy; only now do you reconcile with the words CEO of the Year etched into it, and the sinking feeling in your stomach intensifies. Three knocks. “Adam?” Another woman, voice muffled. The handle turns, then reverts back. Thank god for the key. “Is now a good time?” Fucking hell, why didn’t you get a glimpse of the future this time around? “Adam, look, I promise this isn’t about… about us. It’s just, Stacy went to deliver your Latte macchiato and never came back. D’you know where she went?” There’s something disarming about her voice; your shoulders relax, and the trophy flops to your side. You feel like you know the person behind that door—which is impossible because you have no recollection of the past, and yet— Again. Another memory—no, another Glimpse— bubbling furiously to the surface. You frown. Something’s… different. In one scenario, the woman threatens to call the cops when the door never opens; she finally leaves when you convince her that Adam isn’t dead and his murderer isn’t in the room with him. In another, you decide to unlock the door. Pristine eyes gaze up at you, and they are beautiful even as they fill with fear. She collapses at your feet. You figure dead bodies and blood have that effect on women. But it’s the third scenario that you’re drawn to like a moth to a flame. You unlock the door, but instead of conveniently swooning, the woman opens her mouth to scream. Somehow you anticipate this and clamp a bloody hand over her. She bites down, hard , so you return the affection with the CEO trophy, but then she starts shrieking and making an even bigger fuss so you hold her down by the windpipe and watch the life drain from those beautiful, beautiful eyes... “ NO ,” you bellow when the Glimpse passes. “Please, no.” “Adam, sweetie, you’re worrying me. Should I call the cops?” Oh no no no no. Anything but that. You clear your throat and pray the door will muffle you. “Everything’s fine; just taking a call. I think Stacy went down to the… uh... HR department.” A beat. “Oh. Okay, that makes sense; she did want to file a complaint about noise in the office. Thanks, Adam.” Footsteps fading. Phew. Your fingers choke the trophy; hearing her mention Adam’s name makes your blood boil, and you have no idea why. Three Glimpses, simultaneously, and you chose one like cheese from a platter. The very same moment in time, with different outcomes based on... what? Random chance? Conscious decision-making? Divine intervention? This is going to take some getting used to. The other two scenarios sit snugly in the back of your mind—two timelines forever out of reach, and knowing that makes the R-rated one somewhat less upsetting.

Anyway, you catch something in the Glimpses where you let the pretty woman in—the door of a garbage chute, embedded in the hallway. You hope to god no one else is coming to see Adam as you drag him outside and stuff him headfirst into the rank depths. It’s probably where he belongs anyway. Now for Stacy. You go back and lock the door again, just in case, but before you can turn around another Glimpse has you in its clutches: An unseen force knocks you to the floor and turns your vision crimson. You crane your woozy head up to find a skinny figure looming over you, brandishing the trophy you left on the desk. The Glimpse passes in a flash. You don’t hesitate; the trophy slams into the door the moment you duck, adrenaline blasting through your veins. You lunge for Stacy, one hand wrenching the weapon away and the other shoving her backwards... ...onto a puddle of blood and puke and coffee, which has about the same effect as an ice rink. Crack goes her neck as it meets the mahogany desk. She twitches on the floor like a dying insect before all goes still. Only now, crouching before her, do you realize how young she is, and how young she always will be.

Fuck. Fuck Fuck Fuck FUCK FUCK . You console yourself with the realization that you can change the future like a fucking time traveler. You tell yourself that you only acted in self-defense, that it was either you or her. That you could never have foreseen this. It doesn’t stop the tears from falling. More footsteps. You jolt yourself lucid and hoist Stacy over a shoulder; she’s a child compared to Adam, so bringing her to the window and climbing out onto the fire escape is, well, child’s play. Sunlight spears your eyes as you hurry down the steps, going as fast as humanly possible while carrying literal dead weight. You’re not sure where you’re going, or whether it matters; the secluded alleyway beneath your feet will have to do. You hope those dumpsters aren’t full. A darkened window stops you dead. Staring back is a blood-streaked face, haggard and warped, eyes dancing with sparks of mania. And suddenly the pretty woman’s reaction is somewhat understandable. Who are you? you wonder as you step out into the alley behind the building. Why do I feel things for you when we’ve never met outside of a Glimpse? There’s no one here, thank god. Or so you think. Her line of sight is perpendicular to yours, so there are only so many heartbeats before she registers the unorthodox spectacle on the fringes of her vision. She tilts her face up, allowing a finger of smoke to curl forth from her lips; even that gesture is elegant. Your knees threaten to buckle under the weight of the next Glimpse. It’s not a window into a single isolated moment like past episodes, but a lifetime’s worth flooding your brain like a tsunami: Two limp bodies drowning in garbage. The same bodies adorning front pages everywhere —accompanied by more questions than answers. Her, obliterating box after tissue box as tears gouge ravines into her face. You, wrapping her up in consoling arms, which she snuggles into like an abandoned puppy. Her, shedding a different kind of tear as she discovers that a smile can still reach her eyes. You, kneeling in front of her because you want to wake up to that smile every single day. Her, holding up a smaller version of you to blow out a crown of candles. You, counting the wrinkles on her face and deciding that none of them did any harm to her beauty. And it’s only when destiny rightfully embeds itself in your soul that you realize the things you’d do to be with this woman. The tears you’d shed. The years you’d lose. The competition you’d eliminate. The next step is easy: head back before she sees you, and dispose of the body when she’s gone. But you don’t. A part of you wants her to turn around and catch you in the act. A part of you wants her to smile and give you a hand with the corpse. A part of you wants her to accept you for who you are. And maybe she will. No Glimpse is set in stone, after all. You’ll carve your own path, earn her love the only way you know how. You might be missing your memories but all you need are the ones you’ll be making with her. Fuelled with newfound hope, you search the Glimpse for a name.

When her eyes meet yours, you remember to smile. You wait for her to fall into your arms, to admit that she preferred you over Adam all along. Because that’s what all this is about, isn’t it? But it’s not you she’s staring at. You frown. What’s so alluring about Stacy? She’s not exactly alive and kicking. Or available. The cigarette tumbles to the pavement. “ Jerry? ” That’s… not how you expected it to come out. The fantasy melts with buttery efficiency as you watch about a hundred long-overdue realizations dawn on her like a blood-red sun. It might as well be Adam slung over your shoulder. She bolts for a door. Another Glimpse pounces on you, as if it had been lying in wait for this moment: Two women in uniform, pulling a suit-clad body out of a trash heap. Your face plastered on front pages everywhere, and the look in your eyes is… lost . The horror of this new future causes you to drop the body and make a beeline for the door. You pull her hair, wrap fingers around her beautiful neck, and you weep through it all like the last maudlin soul at a bar. Anything to shut her up. Anything to make the police sirens blaring in your head stop. Anything to make the bite of cold metal around your wrists go away. It’s not until you’re getting herded down the alleyway into a waiting police car that you realize this isn’t part of the Glimpse. Was it someone from across the street that caught you scurrying down the fire escape, a dead girl flopping against your back? The last thing you see before being spirited away is two bodies in an alleyway, equally inert. 🦋 “Get moving, Dreamer,” barks the guard shoving you back home. You don’t bother with names—they’re nothing but tasers and bad breath. After the bars ring shut and silence returns like an old pal, you lie across the bunk and rest your eyes. A smile creeps across your face as you relive your favorite lifetime for the third time today. The first few weeks were hell; having women on your record is like being dipped in blood and thrown into a shark tank. Or having a sign that says “Insert here!” held over your butthole every waking hour—though your Glimpses helped you wriggle out of most encounters. Who knew convicts stuck to a moral code? Like a hermit crab with its shell, you learnt to retreat into your headspace, where there would always be sunshine and decent food and laughter echoing through a house. And soon life imprisonment became… life. There are a million beautiful scenes you can step into, all just as dreamlike in their perfection as they are in their incorporeality. And yet you muse over them with fondness, as if they happened to you and not a version of you that has been erased from this plane of existence. You can always gaze into her eyes, twinkling like gemstones behind a white veil. You can always enter her for the first time again, the spice of her breath lingering on the tip of your tongue. You can always fall into her arms when you can’t take it anymore. You decide to visit your favorite moment, where there is dew-kissed grass instead of a rock-solid mattress whittling away at your spine. A butterfly with sapphire wings hovers curiously overhead. Pine and lemongrass adorn the breeze, just like her hand adorns yours. You watch two small figures romp around in the distance, their giggles filling you with golden pride. To this day you’re not sure whether the Glimpses are a curse or a blessing. Are they taunting you with missed potential, or are they letting you have a nice, long swig of it? Maybe both. Not that you‘re complaining. After all, you get to spend the rest of your life with her.


Paula was furiously vacuuming the living room and shouting at her daughter, Mary, to hurry up and finish the dusting already. Just then, little Tommy rushed in wielding his toy sword. Tommy’s cries mixed with the noise of the vacuum cleaner. Paula sighed. Her parents were arriving in less than an hour and she still had to finish making the dinner.            A deafening “crash” came from the kitchen. Paula rushed over to see Mary surrounded by broken plates she was carrying to the dining room. Tommy was standing agape while Paco whined.            “Ugh, not now!” grunted Paula and turning to Mary, said aloud: “Please get the Undoer and clean this up”.            Mary ran to the closet and pulled out a small tablet. She entered the password, then set the time to five minutes ago. Pointing the tablet toward the mess on the floor, she clicked the “Undo” command. Instantly, the shards of the broken dishes started twirling around and coming back together, exactly how they were five minutes ago: whole and unbroken.            “Thank goodness for the Undoer!” said Paula as she walked toward the stove. “Mary, please help your brother pick up his toys in the living room.”            “Why can’t he do it himself?”, muttered Mary and to Tommy, she said: “C’mon, shorty!” They left the kitchen, bickering.            Paula put on an apron, got a cutting board, and started chopping carrots. “Ouch!” she cried as fresh blood started oozing out from the cut on her finger. She pressed on the cut to stop the blood flow. However, as soon as she let it go, the blood started dripping on the carrots again. Paula reached for the Undoer and set the time to three minutes ago. She pointed it at her finger and clicked on “Undo”. The blood and the scar vanished.            “Nice little gadget”, thought Paula, as she wondered how people lived without it in the past.            At seven o’clock sharp, the doorbell rang, and a disembodied voice announced the arrival of Paula’s parents. Paula pulled off her apron, patted her hair, and rushed to open the door.            “Mom, Dad, how wonderful to see you!” Paula said as her parents walked in. Her mother, Patricia, was a short, slender woman. She looked around the room critically and Paula was pleased the house was clean. Paula’s father, Jim, came in limping and carrying a cane. He was a bit taller than his wife, with a round face and a balding head. Tommy and Mary rushed in to greet them.            The dinner was a pleasant affair where Tommy and Mary told the grandparents all about their school and various sports competitions. After the desert, Mary and Tommy were excused to go to their rooms.            Patricia turned toward Paula: “How are things with Bill?”            Paula dreaded this conversation every time her parents came over. Bill and she divorced over a year ago. Theirs was a turbulent marriage, twelve years full of violent quarrels, usually caused by Bill coming home drunk. The police were called a few times, so the neighbors also knew about their problems. Every time she returned home from work, Paula would rush from her car into the house so no neighbor would get a chance to talk to her. She was ashamed of Bill, and of herself.            “It’s OK now, since we moved”, Paula said. “He hasn’t found us yet”.            The divorce hadn’t stopped Bill from coming to the house, banging at the door in the middle of the night, asking to see the children, and shouting “this is my house, too, dang it!” Two months earlier, Paula’s parents encouraged her to move across town.            After her parents left, Paula went to Tommy’s room. The boy was already asleep. Soft moonlight fell on his face.            “He’s my little angel”, Paula thought as she kissed him and turned off the lamp.            Mary wasn’t asleep yet. “Hi mom” she said. “Are grandma and grandpa gone?”            “Yes, honey”, Paula said sitting at Mary’s bed. “It was good seeing them again.”            Mary was quiet, then she turned to Paula: “Mom, I’m really happy here. I’m glad we moved.” Although left unspoken, Paula knew Mary was relieved that her father wasn’t bothering them anymore. Paula hugged her daughter and kissed her on both cheeks. Mary slid down her pillows and said, “Good night, mom”.            As she was falling asleep that night, Paula thought that she loved her kids so much she couldn’t imagine her life without them.            Paula was dreaming that she and her kids were at a Zoo, watching a gorilla rattling his cage. It was amusing at first. However, as the rattling became louder and more violent, Paula tried to shout, “Stop it!”, but no sound came from her throat. The banging intensified. Paula jerked upright, looking around confused. Then she realized the banging came from the front door. She grabbed her robe and rushed toward the window. The moonlight was bright, and she could see her front door. “Bill!” she gasped “How did he find us?”. Bill was standing at the door, banging his fists on it, and shouting something incoherently. Then he walked toward Paula’s car and lifted up an object that looked like a bat. He then swung it down and the side window shattered.            Her hands trembling, Paula dialed the police department. After providing all the information to the dispatcher, Paula rushed to the kids’ bedrooms. She found both children mercifully asleep. She then went down the stairs and crept toward the front door. She didn’t want to confirm to Bill that she indeed lived there, just in case Bill wasn’t sure. A few minutes later, a police car pulled in and two officers came out. They approached Bill who started shouting at them. “My wife … my kids…I’ll be back, Paula!” Paula could hear him shouting. The officers handcuffed him and locked him in the car. Then, one of the officers came to the door and Paula opened it immediately. She gave the statement to the policeman, saying that she had a restraining order against Bill.            “Well, that doesn’t always stop them, does it?” said the policeman sagely. “We’ll take him in and let him sober up overnight. You can press charges against him.” The policeman turned to leave, then stopped and said:” Ma’am, you may want to get a gun.” Paula stared after him.            The next day was Monday, so Paula dragged herself out of bed. She woke up the kids, made their lunches, and sent them off to school. She then drove her car to town to get an estimate for the car window. After making an appointment for that morning, she left the car and walked to the cafe across the street. In the restroom, she looked at the mirror and gasped. The previous night’s ordeal made her look very tired, with large bags under her eyes. She splashed her face with some water and combed her hair. “Not much better”, she murmured.            In the café, she ordered black coffee. As she sipped it, she looked around. It was pretty early and there were few customers.            “Paula is that you?” said a deep voice behind her. She span around to see a tall, tanned man smiling at her. “James!” she gasped. “Oh, my, fancy seeing you here!” Paula smiled widely.            “I’ve been visiting my parents over the weekend. I was on my way back to Boston, actually. Well, I’m glad I ran into you! May I join you?” “Sure, said Paula and motioned toward the chair opposite.            It turned out that James was a medical doctor. He was happily married to Paula’s childhood friend, and they had three kids. They parted ways about an hour later when Paula got a call from the car shop.            While driving home, Paula thought about James. The two dated for a year before James got accepted to medical school. He asked Paula to come with him. However, she couldn’t leave her parents. Her father was just diagnosed with bone cancer and her mother was devastated. Fortunately, her father recovered, but was left with a limp. Paula always regretted not leaving with James. He was very handsome, but also gentle and considerate. Within a few months, though, Paula met Bill and within a year they were married. She wished she could change her past. Then she thought of something and sped up.            At home, Paula rushed to her computer and started searching the online stores. She had recently read about a new kind of Undoer that was based on a breakthrough technology. Like everyone else, Paula, of course, had an Undoer. However, hers was an older model.            When she reached the page selling the new-age Undoer. She looked at the price. “Well, it’s expensive, but it’s not going to bankrupt me.” She ordered it, and was told it would arrive the next day.            The following morning, Paula paced anxiously checking through the window for a delivery vehicle. Her package came just when the kids came back from school. Paula patiently fed the children, read Tommy a story, and tucked both of them in beds. Then she went downstairs.            She hastily opened the package and pulled out a shiny new tablet. It was wider and longer than her old one, by just as slim. She turned it on. The Welcome Screen asked her to sign the Disclosures, which she hastily did. Then a new screen asked for her permission to sync the new device with the old one. She clicked “yes”. The next screen asked if she’d like to see a tutorial. She again clicked “yes”. For the next twenty minutes, she read in amazement about various features of the device. When the syncing was done, she took a deep breath and clicked on the Calendar file. She remembered vividly she met Bill at a party on Valentine’s Day, thirteen years ago. She found and clicked on that date. The Undoer then asked her to select the Place and Person. She did.            The Undoer blinked several times and said: “Proceed?” She answered “yes”. There was a high pitched whooshing sound that stopped as suddenly as it started. Paula looked around. She was in a different house with fancy furniture. She looked out her front window and saw a different car in the driveway. She called her parents. Her mother answered.            Paula said: “Mom, Bill was here last night”, and held her breath.            There was a silence, and then her mother said: “I’m sorry, dear, but Bill who?”            “Oh, never mind”, answered Paula with a smile. “I’d like to have you and Dad here this weekend. I have some great news.”            “But dear, we can’t just get up and go to Boston in a few days!” her mother answered.            Paula’s heart started beating fast and she said, mom, I need to go.” As she hung up, she heard footsteps.            “Paula, dear, do you know where I left my briefcase?” James deep voice came from his study.            Paula rushed to the study and saw James sitting at his desk. She ran to him and kissed him. He returned her kiss. They slowly walked upstairs to their bedroom.            When Paula woke up, James was in a deep sleep. Paula smiled, then gasped. She got out of bed and rushed toward the bedrooms on the other side of the staircase. She opened all the doors, but there were no children asleep. Paula rushed toward the Undoer and franticly searched for the Redo function. There was none. At the bottom of the opened page, she read: “Warning, Undo actions cannot be reversed.”


(Set your story in a small town where everyone is suspicious of newcomers.) (This story is edited and additional content has been added) Ah yes, Monday! Monday’s are universally thought of with negative feelings as the weekend is over and a workweek begins. But here in Syndrig, everyday is a workday, if in fact you would define what we do as work. Here in my village I’m known as Pipsey, that is short for Pip Squeek which is what me old father, rest his soul, used to call me. I am short in stature, but many of my countrymen are, so I’m not clear how I got singled out for the name.

But getting back to the story, yes today is Monday. I pulled me calendar down from the shelf as I ate my porridge to remind meself what my duties are for this day. So for this Monday, the wooden chair on the roadside next to the petrol station. That is the place I would spend my day. Me job? Me job was to point down the road to the north saying….”yes, really great fishing just down the road, fifteen minutes or so to the north, you will love it!” Or I might have to say…”A hotel? Yes a lovely clean place with rooms overlooking the ocean, fifteen minutes or so to the north, you will love it!” That’s it really, me job, just direct passing visitors out of town, to the north no matter what they are looking for, it is north out of town...not here, NEVER HERE!

Everyone of us, the villagers, has a job and our job is keeping strangers away. We want no one coming in and poking about for fishing or hiking or exploring. We are closed to the public except for those stationed along the highway that cuts through a tiny edge of our town and their job is to push the stoppers on to the north, or to the south but away from us. Our village has been here as long as memory and legend allows. What we know of our village is not just simple stories, we have the iron work to prove it all. For millennia, ironworking has been the only activity in our village except for food production to feed us and working at the other necessities of life. The ironworking, the making of the objects that keep them out and us safe inside. Tall metal frameworks of every sort that line the highway prevent anyone without keys to panels and gates to access the waterfront or the town proper. The panels have only one thing in common, they must be strong and tall. Some resemble trellises with profusely growing roses, while others are like fences or gates, some have arches with curved or rounded tops, some are extremely ornate while others are very plain but they are all meant to keep folks from going where we don’t want them to go. Once installed they are dedicated with a small ceremony by an elder that leaves a residual slight hum. Along the highway, a few shops, petrol and sundries, and ALWAYS a few of our folks to point down the road to the next town or village. Stopping for their needs is acceptable, on the one road, but then keep moving, away from here. From a high point at the edge of town one can look back and get a bird’s eye view of the village of Syndrig….(look that up, it is the essence of this story). The village is pie shaped, the widest part being the road along the coast and then from both north and south edges of the village it continually tapers inward to a vertex at the base of the mountains. Is it peculiar or just an amazing and impressive sight to see the steel and iron work enclose the village in its entirety? Along all sides the lifelong labors of generations of us working to build or repair or reinforce the steel that keeps out strangers. And so that is me job for today, another villager will be sitting somewhere down the line on the other side of the road keeping those going south, going south. We have strategically placed houses built into the steel wall panels on all sides of our village and the job of those folks is to monitor their section of wall for intruders. It is what we do! Nothing more, we repel the unwanted! If you had been born here, you would have grown up with the stories, our oral history from the outset, so you would understand our deep need for privacy and seclusion. At each stage of a man’s development he is shown more and more of the mystery of our beginnings and by old age he is finally aware of the magnitude of our secret. I would love to tell you what I know but as we have all seen on the telly, “If I told you I’d have to kill you!” And of course we don’t hold with killings here. We haven’t had to resort to that..yet, but as the general population of the area gets more bold, the future could be very different. My actual home, my house, that I share with me best half, Rosie, is very near the vertex. I spend many hours in that area and am very aware of the humming of the earth, the glow at night, the shafts we have dug downward, the stuff we have extracted from the pit. Our understanding is minimal. Somewhere in our oral history, instructions have been given, what we can do AND what we must never do. Only a few here really know but each generation is instructed by the elders so we know only that we must keep this place safe and if you are worthy, you may know more but that almost never comes until old age. I’m not ready to “know” yet and I breathe a sigh of relief to understand I have years of pleasure before the weight of knowing. If it sounds to you that I am telling a folkloric story that is generally wildly exaggerated for the amusement of the listener, then you are wholly and totally incorrect. This place exists and what comes out of “the pit” benefits mankind.

If Pipsey and the folks of Syndrig can keep the work pure and isolated from outside forces, mankind will benefit. This small place has been given special access, knowledge and understanding….from where you might ask? From the Gods, the old and the new! Or from Aliens? Or from? I am sure you have all heard of ogres and the tiny folk, gnomes and the English faerie, meaning "realm of the fays ". Those things too may be real or they could never have withstood the telling over time but this is different. This is somehow very important, bordering on crucial. And being Monday, I must be getting along to the chair by the road. So I will say Ta Ta for now! ~~~~~ Pipsey was in his chair next to the petrol station on his job to move strangers north when the woman approached him, a woman stranger, a female outsider. Her car has misbehaved at the petrol station and they are making a repair. She is stranded for the day.

After she tells of her bad luck, of needing a repair, Pipsey seeks the guidance of an elder. Should someone drive her to the next town while the repair is accomplished? Or will they assign a local Syndrigian to keep her out of trouble for the day and what would that involve?

It was decided that since Pipsey was already conversing with her, he should find ways of keeping her busy along the road that goes through the town. Pipsey finds her devilishly attractive and interesting so it is with some nervousness that he offers her a stroll to a shop down the highway for a bit of lunch, while she waits. Pipsey has a wife, it’s true, but it is tantalizing to imagine real time with any stranger and this female stranger seems to have a hypnotic effect on him. During his day with the outsider, she awakened his curiosity about the outside world. They share questions he had never considered before. She asks him why they never venture out and what the community is really about, and then she makes him feel foolish for not really knowing anything, really, just that life is about faith, have faith and all will be revealed to you. And she thought it outrageous he would be willing to wait until old age to find out the things that only the old ones know and understand.

She is so very different from any of the community. The community is at peace with life and the parts they are all asked to play each day. But this outsider, this female stranger seems agitated or the unrest that surrounds her is almost visible, like a cloud. Her name is Angelique, but friends call her Angel. He is about to tell her his name is Pipsey but at the last second, he knows he wants her to know his given name not the familiar used by family and community folk. My name is David, he says, slightly embarrassed. He has never said his real name out loud. He has seen it written but to hear it out loud and from his own mouth, it is very strange, but she has a strange effect on him, he knows this, he feels it. They sit in the shade of a grove of trees near the edge of town. Angelique is so curious about every detail she can glean from Pipsey. Sometimes he feels she presses too hard or asks too much. He feels uncomfortable almost to the point of wondering if the elders would really approve. It is getting late in the day, they will be walking back soon to retrieve her car and she will be on her way. The afternoon sun makes everything look warm and gives life a golden look. Pipsey closely watches Angelique almost as if trying to burn her into his memory, into his mind, a way to keep part of her after she has gone. He knows he has somehow lost a modicum of his peaceful existence. How can an afternoon with a stranger have such an effect on his whole being. He wonders if she were here for a longer time if he might be tempted to take her into the community, to show her where he lives, to let her see the happy peaceful community.

Pipsey feels deep sadness. It is an emotion he has never felt before. It is something he can never share with his wife or the community. Why would he? He would never want any of them to feel this sadness. Arriving back to the petrol station, Angelique touches Pipsey’s arm and says, “David I am so grateful for this day we have spent together.”

A deep shiver passes through Pipsey to hear his given name spoken so softly, and yet aloud by this stranger. So much of him, his real thoughts or feelings have never been explored. This overwhelming feeling of peace. Is it a blessing? Is it a controlling factor why the community so tightly conforms and holds to the old ways? In his own mind he will be David now, maybe he is moving to a new level of understanding, maybe this new questioning is part of the transition to becoming an elder but David is certain that it is more likely the Angelique influence.

As he walks away from the petrol station, the image of Angelique is strong in his mind, he will not soon forget her but also in his mind, new thoughts, new questions, a new thirst to know more. He wonders if he will miss the peaceful feelings that keeps the community humming along in harmony. He knows he is different now. He is David and David is full of questions and speculation. Maybe the secret is that only the old ones know that what is in the pit and how to retrieve it is not the real secret.

Maybe the true secret is the small time of exposure to the pit, the time necessary to retrieve the element for mankind kills you!

So old Syndrigians are going to die anyway and they only need small amounts of the element to benefit mankind, so the elders are expendable and more importantly , they are willing participants.

The powers who revealed the pit are surprised and amazed, they have always been surprised and amazed, that this community had the control and discipline to go for the ages selflessly keeping the world safe. David sits in the last light of this fateful day, he wonders if the powers know he has changed! Will he be punished? He knows he must not influence the community! In the midst of all of this soul searching he clearly sees Angelique in his mind.

Peace returns but somehow it is different.


-WE NEED TO TALK!- Adley read the text as she walked through her cousin, Bronwyn’s front door. “How could you?” Bronwyn’s voice bellowed through the hallway. “I only got your text a minute ago. What’s going on?” Adley placed her handbag on the console table. “Oh don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.” “But I don’t know what you are talking about.” Her confusion seeped through her tone. “How long have you been sleeping with Theo?” Bronwyn spat out. “What?” “God, you are not that great of an actress, Adley.” “You are accusing me of sleeping with your fiancé and I’m not supposed to be shocked?” She crossed her arms defensively. “Not if you’re innocent, which clearly you are not. Unless you are shocked because I found out, which only confirms I am right.” “You are not making any sense. Bronwyn are you okay?” “Don’t pretend to care about me or my feelings. You should have thought about that before you slept with my fiancé.” “Where are you getting this from? Did Theo tell you this?” “No, Theo didn’t tell me. Why would he, when he can keep you his dirty little secret?” “Bronwyn, you are not being fair right now and you’re hurting my feelings.” “Oh, I’M hurting YOUR feelings. That’s classic.” “Do you honestly think that I would do that to you? That I would deliberately hurt you that way? You are my family, my only family. I love you and I would never hurt you like that. Where did you get this idea in your head from?” “Jesse.” Bronwyn mumbled after a few seconds. “Jesse?” Adley raised her eyebrows in disbelieve. “You listened to backstabbing, skirt-chasing, compulsive liar, egocentric Jesse Thompson?” “What? He is one of my best friends . . .” She shuffled from one foot to the other. “And he is as reliable and trustworthy as a jackal. I can’t believe YOU.” Adley threw her hands in the air, pacing back and forth as a habit to calm herself. “You believe that good for nothing finks over me, your flesh and blood?” “Blood isn’t always thicker than water.” “That’s your comeback?” Adley retorted in disbelief. “You know, if I didn’t know you for the bright and intelligent woman you are, I would have said you are making some dumb remarks.” From Bronwyn’s silence, Adley grabbed the opportunity to clear up any more confusion. “We have been through so much together. I was there when you lost your first tooth. You were there for me when I broke my leg and needed help to get up from the couch and when I had to take a shower. When our parents died in that plane crash, we only had each other to lean on. I was there when you cried yourself to sleep every night and when you woke up screaming from bad nightmares. It has been you and me for the longest time. We don’t have anyone else but the two of us, so why would you want to risk our relationship making these very hurtful and absurd assumptions?” “I don’t know. I’m sorry, okay. I don’t know what came over me. I know you would never hurt me that way. I guess Jesse got into my head and when he showed me those pictures, I lost it.” “What pictures?” “It’s nothing. Let’s forget about it. I’m sorry I accused you . . .” “What pictures, Bronwyn?” Adley insisted. “It’s truly nothing. He was at a club the other night and saw you and Theo dancing together. And I didn’t believe him at first when he told me, but then with the picture and all . . .” “Where are the pictures?” “On my phone.” “Can I see it?” Bronwyn turned around, made her way to the living room where she reached over the armchair to pick up her phone laying on the sofa. She scrolled through her library until she found what she was looking for and gave the phone to Adley. A frown appeared between Adley’s face as she zoomed in and out of the picture. “Bronwyn, how closely did you look at this photo?” “Uhm, I don’t know. Close enough to see you with your arms around my fiancé.” She replied with a little bite. “That’s not Theo.” Adley flipped the phone around for Bronwyn to look at the picture again. “What do you mean, ‘that’s not Theo’?” “Exactly what I’m saying.” “But that is you.” “Yes, and that is Dario.” She pointed to the guy in the picture. “Oh.” Bronwyn breathed. “Which brings me to my next point; why the hell would I cheat on my husband with your fiancé?” “This makes so much more sense.” Bronwyn mumbled to herself, barely acknowledging Adley’s statement. “Bronwyn!” “What?” She jumped at the mention of her name. “It’s not bad enough that you think I am having an affair with Theo, but you think I’m cheating on Dario.” “No, that’s not what I meant at all.” Bronwyn realized her mistake. “I’m sorry, Ads. I don’t know what came over me. I’ve been so stressed at work and planning the wedding has been so overwhelming.” She slumped onto the sofa with her head falling into her hands. “Why didn’t you tell me?” “You have enough on your plate as it is. I didn’t want to bother you with my stuff.” “I don’t mind helping you out. You know I would do anything for you.” “I know, and that’s what makes it so hard for me. You have always been there when I needed you; always put my needs before yours and it’s not fair to you. I don’t want to be a burden anymore.” “You are not a burden. I want to help you and I like it to be needed. And I’m sorry if I ever made you feel like you were a burden.” “No, you haven’t. It’s me. I’m the terrible person.” “You are not terrible and I forgive you for believing your ‘friend’ over me.” “Adley, I need to tell you something and I don’t think you will ever forgive me for it.” Bronwyn’s face sunk as she stared into Adley’s face. “It can’t be as bad as what just happened.” When Bronwyn said nothing, Adley went to sit next to her, placing her hand over hers. “Bee, you’re scaring me. What is it?” “Ads, I don’t know how to tell you. It was never meant to go this far. I . . .” The front door opening interrupted her confession. “Hey, babe.” The male voice filled the room. “Shit.” Bronwyn’s eyes widened as she scrambled to her feet. “Adley won’t be home till late so I got us some dinner and wine and thought we could take a bubble bath . . .” Dario stepped into the living room and stopped in his tracks when he saw Adley standing next to Bronwyn. “Adley . . . What are . . . I thought you were out with friends.” Shock, anxiousness and guilt swept across his face. “Bronwyn texted me so I came here first.” Adley slowly articulated looking from one to the other in confusion. “But it seems I am . . .” Her eyes moved between the two of them as realization sunk in. “It seems,” she started again, “I am interrupting something.” “Adley, this is not what it looks like.” Bronwyn stepped toward her, but she recoiled in betrayal. “No. Don’t you dare! You have been bad mouthing me and accusing ME of sleeping with Theo when YOU are the one who has been sleeping with MY husband. You have been feeling so guilty for what you have been doing to me behind my back, that you thought, why not make me the bad person so you don’t have to feel so terrible about what you are doing yourself.” “Adley.” Dario voiced. “Don’t you even.” She pointed an accusing finger his way before turning back to Bronwyn. “You don’t care about me or my feelings. You are the dirty little secret and obviously, blood means nothing to you.” “I’m sorry.” Bronwyn apologized through sobs. “Don’t even bother. I can forgive many things, but this, this . . .” she shook her head in disbelief and disappointment. “I hope you are happy together because you just lost the only family member you have left. “Adley, please don’t walk away. I’m sorry. I am so sorry. It just happened.” Bronwyn wailed after her as she brushed past Dario to the front door. “I’m sorry, Ads,” Bronwyn whispered collapsing into Dario’s arms as she heard the front door closed. “I’m sorry . . .”


Trigger Warning:  This story references female mutilation. Olivette sat and listened to her mother tell the stories.      The

bondo  devils would come and they would celebrate, Folami would say. They would come, with their long robes adorned with strips of many colored-fabrics, and the black-wood masks atop their heads, increasing their height by at least a foot. They would dance in the dirt roads, the

bondo  devils, shrieking and wailing their song, as the villagers pranced behind them, joyous and exuberant.      Her mother would tell her the stories and she would smile, but it was a bleak slash that crossed her face and rendered it dark. As Folami spoke, she gestured and pointed with her hands. “When the devils come, there will be revelry in the streets. The men will want you, and your sisters will be jealous. We will eat for many days, and our bellies will be full.” Sometimes her mother would weave her tales in front of the big black pot while she cooked the stew, the steam floating in front of her face. It drifted before her like a smoky screen, obscuring her mother’s eyes and making them impossible to read. Olivette imagined that her mother’s eyes were filled with the same trepidation that the stories aroused in her.      Her mother shared the stories with a tone that was alternatively grim yet hopeful, but Olivette feared her tales. As her mother recounted the traditions, Olivette’s stomach clenched in fear. She would nod as appropriate when Folami spoke, but inside, her heart pounded dread in her chest, much like the old drums that would beat in time of war. Late at night, in the quiet of the hut, when everyone was asleep, Olivette would lie awake, watching the final embers of the dying fire cast shadows on the walls.

     Her mother had said the

bondo  devils would dance in the streets, but Olivette saw their spirits lurking in the shadows, their long, ominous forms beckoning to her.

“Olivette…”  They would chant in the crackle and hiss of the fire, and no matter what her mother had said about joy and elation, she knew that these spirits of the

bondo  were evil.      Her days were spent in preparation. Her mother and her aunts went to the woods to prepare the ceremonial hut. They gathered the necessary herbs and prepared them accordingly. They taught Olivette the differences between the herbs, and the purpose of each.      And they sang. They sang the songs that would call the devils, and they were merry.      But Olivette did not share their happiness; rather, she held a solemn fear. She remembered Aminata, her older sister, who had bled when the devils came for her.      Aminata had screamed and screamed. For days she had been covered in a sheath of her own sweat and tears, but despite the heat, she shivered with cold. In those few moments when she did not scream, she muttered her words and shook both with pain and fear.

     One day, she extended a weak and shaky hand to Olivette. “ The devils...will come…for you, too, Olivette. Then you…will know ,” Aminata told her sister in a hoarse whisper. The light in her eyes was diminishing, and her skin held no color other than the pallid green of sickness.      Her mother, her aunts, and her grandmother had said the prayers, and the

bondo  devils had come. “This will pass, and we will rejoice.”      But it did not pass. The bleeding did not stop, and eventually Aminata spoke no more.      Folami cried, but Olivette’s aunts comforted their sister. Sometimes the devils took their daughters, they told her mother. Sometimes the sin was too great. When the

bondo  came again, they took Aminata’s body; because her spirit was unsettled, her body could not stay in the compound. They buried her in the brush, far beyond the walls of the compound enclosure.      At night, in the quiet of the hut, Olivette was sure she saw her dead sister. She lurked in the shadows with the devils, and she called to Olivette.

“Olivette, it is time…”      In her bed of straw and brush, Olivette trembled under her goat skin covering. Her sister knew of Olivette’s sin, and wanted Olivette to join her. But the dark world her sister inhabited with the devils frightened her. “ Join us, Olivette… ”

     Olivette clapped her hands over her ears, shut her eyes, and wished the spirits to leave.

     Folami went to the market and with great care, gathered the ingredients for the feast. There would be dried fish, goat, ground nut, and kola nut. Her mother and her aunts began the cook, and for two days the air carried the aroma of ground nut stew and palm oil. Folami and her sisters argued over how best to prepare the fish; the fish would be offered to the devils.      Olivette stole a kola, split it open and pulled the nuts from the shell. She would leave the nuts for the

bondo  so that perhaps they would stay away. But when night fell, the plate of nuts that she laid by the fire remained untouched. In the long shadows cast upon the walls, the haphazard shape of Aminata flittered about, the dark silhouette of her head thrown back in laughter. The devils danced with her, their darkened shapes bobbing up and down. “ Olivette, it is not the nuts he wants …” Olivette trembled in fear.      Her mother and sisters and grandmother argued over what instrument to use. One of her mother’s sisters had a piece of onyx with a shiny black tip, the same that was used on Aminata. But Folami was superstitious and refused. To use the same instrument on one daughter that was used on the other, the first, would bring anger to the devils. Instead, Folami found an old, rusted blade. She went to the river and washed the blade; near her, two men urinated into the water.      Olivette no longer slept at night. Her mother had said the devils would come during the day, to bring jubilation, but instead, Olivette was plagued by their suggestion. Their spirits hid in the shadows, Aminata among them, and they whispered to her incessantly about the nature of her sin. At night, the silhouettes reached for Olivette, and she would scream, but her mother would tell her to quiet her sleep.      When at last the day came and the preparations were done, the handmaidens of the devils appeared first. They wore white dresses, and their dark skin was made light with white chalk. Like ghosts, they escorted the devils. They came for Olivette.      She screamed and struggled and fought. But her mother and her aunts and her grandmother betrayed her; they helped the handmaidens take her to the hut. Inside, they laid her on the jute rug, and handmaidens sat on the floor on either side of her. They grabbed her legs and pulled them apart. Olivette jerked and twisted, but her mother and her aunts held her down by her midriff.      On an old rock was the blade and near that, a small fire burned. Her grandmother placed the blade in the fire, and then positioned herself between her granddaughter’s legs, where her vagina was exposed and spread to reveal the sin of her womanhood.      As her grandmother prepared to make the first cut, Olivette heard the song of the

bondo  devils outside the hut. They cried and wailed their song, and Olivette knew she heard her sister’s voice among them.

“He’s coming for you, Olivette…you’ll be with him soon …”      “Please!” Olivette screeched. “Please! I am sorry for my sin! I am sorry for it! I will be chaste!

I will be good! ”      But her pleas were drowned out by the chants, the songs, and the catcalls of the devils outside.      And after her grandmother was done, after she had cut and cut and cut and the sin of her organ was removed, she sewed the wound closed. Then the women celebrated.      Olivette was unconscious, passed out from the pain. She did not hear when her mother, her aunts and her grandmother declared her a woman. Now that she was pure, as was the tradition, they asked the devils to spare her.      But hours later, when Olivette came to in the darkened hut, she shuddered and shivered from fever, from shock, from loss of blood. In the weak glow of the fire, she saw the shadows waiting, felt the cold hand of death caress her cheek, and she knew the devils had come for her.


Per usual, I am listening to Linkin Park. I am listening to their 2003 hit song “Breaking the Habit,” which I initially assumed was about some catharctic break-through yet is apparently about suicide. The theme makes sense in hindsight, considering that lead singer and lyricist Chester Bennington killed himself in 2017. Just like any artist, he wrote about himself, predicted his own grim future in some sort of twisted self-fulfilling prophecy.

The wind from the May clouds spews itself into my ears. My left-side earphone falls out. I quickly put it back in- the auditory imbalance always unsettles me- but not before changing the song to something more bland, more happy. I always worry that if I listen to a certain type of music too often, I will subconsciously begin to embody it.

I lean against the park lamppost and watch the sun slowly crawl down into the horizon: aware of its own surrender, but shamefully so. I close my eyes; I have never been one for sunsets. The closing of the light seems too philosophical, so that I cannot stop thinking.

Suddenly I think I hear my phone alarm go off. I listen closer, trying to discern the authenticity of the sound: my alarm ringtone is the sound of a duck quacking, carefully selected as a joke when I was twelve years old. The quacks remain small, elusive enough to seem both tangible and imagined.

If you are just imagining that your alarm is going off, that would be very unfortunate. After a moment’s hesitation, I turn on my home screen; there is no alarm going off. I smile lightly to myself. That is very unfortunate.

“Hey!” The noise jars me. I look up from my phone to see my boyfriend, Cole, who I have been waiting for. “Hey.” I smile at him and scrunch my nose against the sunlight, a habit which I know he likes.

“Long time no see.” Of course, we saw each other yesterday. Cole likes to think that such statements are charming; I can tell by the self-satisfied glint in his eyes, a small crease in the bottom left corner of his cheek that only emerges when he feels surreptitiously cocky. His joke lacks humor, but I let out a small laugh for his benefit. The crease grows wider. “So, what did you do today?” My question seems like idle small talk to any outsider; but after a good three or four months of being with Cole, I had long ago learned that that was the dynamic of our relationship.

“I worked until six-ish, picked up Ellie, ran along the reservoir, you know. The usual.” “You worked until six?” “Yeah. My legs are killing me.” Cole teaches rich elementary school students to play soccer at a family club downtown, which means that his outward patience for spoiled children translates into a good $20 an hour.

“That’s really late. But, you know, if you’re exhausted, we can just meet tomorrow.” I start walking towards my house, which is in the opposite direction from his.

“No, I still have some energy. For you, at least.” I don’t have to look at Cole to notice the wideness of his crease; likely the size of a small crater, enlarging as he awards himself credit for what he considers romantic. Cole matches my pace evenly and puts an arm around my shoulder, his dark blue sweater grazing the tips of my hair. The weight of his arm is sizable, but not unpleasantly. “So what do you want to eat?” I pause, as if genuinely thinking. Cole always asks me what I want to eat in the context of him being some sort of dignified gentleman, giving up his manly culinary tastes for his picky woman. Either that or he has no distinguishable taste buds, which would make sense given the general basis of his chameleon-like personality. I can’t decide which alternative is worse. “How about just pizza?”

“Sounds good.” He strokes my hair gently, smoothing the edges and brushing through the knots. Of course it sounds good. Everything sounds good to you. You have no opinions. Ignoring myself, I think of the appropriate way to reciprocate his intimacy. I mat his hair playfully, letting myself enjoy the softness of his dirty blonde locks. It is moments like these in which I remember why we started going out in the first place. I inhale deeply.

“So what about you?” “Uh… What?” The moment now broken, we pause at the sidewalk in unison as we wait for the light to turn green. I wonder what we look like to passersby, if we seem to be one of those couples that move as one.

“I mean, how was your day, Spacey?” His notorious crease returns; “spacey” is his nickname for me whenever I daydream, which is admittedly often.

“Oh.” I momentarily think of how much information I should disclose to him. “Well, I was on the subway to my painting internship and listening to my music was good. But everyone was so peppy on the first day, and it was way too early for all that smiling small talk. Anyone who actually wants to socialize at 7:00AM is clinically insane.”

I wait for a response, but Cole simply walks ahead as the light turns green. My chest slightly constricts, only loosening when I choose to believe that his silence urges me to continue. It is either my fatigue or the three shots of coffee I drank previously, but my openness both terrifies and invigorates me. “Then I went home, and my mom asked me about you and our relationship, I guess because we have nothing else to talk about. Obviously I avoided all of her characteristically invasive questions. I think she noticed, so she left my room kind of abruptly. So I went for a run, and it was great with the trees and my music and everything. But Melanie has been a bit cold to me recently, and I don’t know if it’s all in my head or maybe she’s sick of m- I don’t know.” I stop talking to take a breath. I open my mouth again, having a lot more to say, yet gently close it.

The silence looms again, stretching itself wider like some sort of invasive grass. “It’s probably just all in your head.” Cole responds lamely, his words dripping into themselves.

“Yeah.” Subconsciously, I find my body inching away from his, the cold of the air seeping into my shoulders in his absence. I hate how my body always resorts to depending on him for heat, as if too indolent to deal with itself. I resist the urge to shiver.

“What?” His murky blue eyes slowly turn to face mine, as if reluctant.

“Nothing. It’s just, you could give me more of a response. I was pretty… you know, open, just now.” I look down, feeling my cheeks betray my inner self as they tint red. “That’s rare for me.” I ignore the biting edge to my tone, try to dilute it with a gentle fold to my eyes.

“Yeah, you were pretty open.” He pauses, pursing perfectly-crafted lips into the quintessential pose of discomfort. “You just have to understand- I’m kind of realizing recently how you’re really moody. Like, you only listen to sad bands with angsty lyrics that you pretend to relate to, or like weird artists who complain about life. And you get annoyed at people easily, but then the next moment you love them. Or you’ll be all mad at the world, but then you’ll do something else and feel all fresh and lively.” “I’m not moody. That’s just… how I’ve always been. I’ve always been defined by my emotions.” I hear my voice as an outsider: soft, as if unwillingly squeezed out from my core like some unwarranted slug. I try to make my last sentence have more conviction, but it only manages to come out more high-pitched.

“No, you are moody. You’re all cheery one second, and then the next you’re like going through something.”

“I don’t know, life can be tiring.” I smile lightly. I imagine myself drawing furiously in charcoal, as if each jagged black strand is a desperate attempt to infuse humor.

“Just be normal. You don’t have to pretend to care about weird things or to feel so intensely all the time.” Cole gently pulls me into his chest, lets his chin rest on the top of my head. He releases me and holds my hand as we turn the block, his grip loose as a stray ribbon. I am grateful that we are not facing each other: my heart beats faster as I try to restrain the tears gathering themselves into a small arsenal inside me, ready to attack Cole with what a part of me knows is well-deserved guilt. But another part of me- the larger, more prominent one- claims that this guilt is unnecessary. For better or for worse, Cole is one of the few to have truly gotten to know me well, and must be given some sort of objective credibility.

“Yeah, you’re right,” I whisper. I imagine a thin gray wall separating myself from my emotions, and the wounded sizzling in my chest begins to subside. My mother’s words echo in my head: You want a boy like Cole, someone who is stable, that is what’s good for you . I lightly brush my fingers over Cole’s as we head into our usual spot, which is a pizza restaurant owned by Italian immigrants.

“I’m gonna go to the bathroom, order for me?”

“Sure.” Cole smiles at me; it culminates in his eyes in a playful twinkle, so that I cannot resist smiling back. “One spinach, one mushroom, right?” “You know me well.” Turning my head before I can see his reaction, I briskly walk to the bathroom. The click of the lock immediately calms me, a physical iteration of having temporarily separated myself from external reality. I stare at myself in the mirror. I adjust my hot-pink bra to show a bit more cleavage, and pull up my denim pants to cover more of my lower stomach. I take my pointer finger and brush it under my eyelashes to have the pseudo effect of mascara, and do the same for my eyebrows. After fixing a few frizzes on the top of my head, muttering about the hairy halo I was apparently sentenced to, I apply a tad of dark pink lip gloss.

Finally I observe the one part of myself that I have been avoiding: my eyes. Of course, my glassy gray eyes are irritatingly expressive, reflecting my every emotion like the most disloyal of rivers. As if observing a different self, I have seen my eyes at various lights and colors. Presently they are vacant, rows of willow trees reflecting a dead sort of nothing.

I look down at the sink and slowly close the faucet. The paper towel ingraining itself into my hands feels like a grainy push from reality, and I practice a frozen half-smile in the mirror. My eyes now look poised, crafted to the very cusp of perfection. They irrefutably belong to someone who is simple to understand, who is as grounded as the most gentle kind of breeze. This girl is who you are, I tell myself. Her, and only her.

I walk out of the bathroom and check the time: 7:36PM, which means that I have time to eat with Cole and then study for my chemistry test tomorrow. I turn my phone off and put it into my back pocket. My chest feels lighter, stronger, as if I painted it in some sort of golden lining.

“Hey, I’m here!” I see Cole in the far-right corner of the restaurant, his three plain margherita slices already in front of him. My order is more detailed, so it always takes longer to come. That other girl within me notices the indicative symbolism behind our orders, and demands I leave the restaurant.

I smile and hug Cole from behind, my arms gently wrapping around his neck and chest. I take my phone out of my jeans pocket. “The picture will just be for me,” I tell him shyly. “But I have longer arms.” Cole takes my phone and lifts it high upwards, an angle which he knows I prefer. After he takes the photo, I sit down and move my chair closer to his.

Cole shows me the picture. Per usual, his smile is wide and natural, accompanied by creased eyes that have an easy mirth within them. I look like a robot next to him, haunted by a characteristic frozen half-smile that makes me appear unsettled by the camera.

I stare at Cole across the table and feel a slight jab in my chest. His mind is effortlessly arcadian, without question, without thought: an open plain, mostly grassy with a few dandelions wedged here and there. In my head, I see him as a surfer, gliding endlessly into the sunset as if the very meaning of life is some joyride.

“What?” Thankfully, Cole is at least occasionally able to pick up my social clues.

“Nothing. Just hungry.” I tousle his hair and take a bite of my pizza. I chew slowly, as if the rate of my chewing will hopefully transcend into the rate of my thoughts.

In response, Cole places a lock of my hair behind my ear. I force myself to smile at him. In such a public sphere, we easily look like we are in love; the whole restaurant takes notice of us, desperately eager to observe and inhale our youthful vigor for themselves. Their attenuated yearning reeks in the air like tobacco. I recognize it like an aged friend, because I recognize it in myself.


“Mom! Mom!” Dominic yelled, as he walked up the stairs into the corridor, the marble columns stood perfectly on the plinths with paintings hanging on each of them. The summer sunlight beamed into the room making the staircase look like a fashion walkway. Just before Dominic could yell again at the top of his voice, a plucky looking middle-aged lady walked in from an open door, she was wearing a ravishing gown with a carnation on her buttonhole and a pair of red stilettos, her hair was styled into a chignon, probably on her way to an occasion. A lanky but thick looking bald man was abreast her. “Good morning to you, Dominic!” She said firmly. “What's good about the morning?” Dominic barked. “I haven't come here for your greetings, why did you forget to send my allowance into my account? I was embarrassed at the club last night because there was no money in my account!” “And who said I forgot?” She grimaced. “Wait! You mean to say you did that on purpose?” He shrieked. “Yes! Dominic Ivan Thompson! I've had a bellyful of your animus behavior. I am your mother and you will treat me with the respect I deserve!” “Really!” He sneered. “Yes! I will cease to send money into your account until you forsake this abrasive attitude of yours!” The man behind her nodded his head in agreement. “Hey you! Why are you nodding your head? You think I don't know you're the conspirator of this,” Dominic gestured as he walked towards him. “Newsflash! You will never be my father!” “He had nothing to do with this!” She pulled him back. “ It was all my idea.” “Oh! It was all your idea, Bravo! Mom of the year,” He clapped. “Was it also your idea to bring this man into my Father's house and have him fuck you on my Father's be...” Before he could finish his statement, a slap landed on his mild face, he held his cheek and clenched his lips together in anger. After few seconds of quietude, he plodded towards his room, as he held his door knob, he turned back and said, “In case you forgot, today's daddy's birthday,” He tilted his head towards the ceiling, “Happy birthday Dad.” His mother's lips quivered right before she bust into tears. The bald man wrapped his arms around her in an attempt to comfort her but all to no avail.   Dominic walked into his room and was welcomed by a vile smell, probably from lack of ventilation or the heap of dirty laundry laying on the floor. He plonked his Phone on his cluttered desk, took a sip from the glass of Absinthe that seems to have been sitting there for days and tossed himself on his bed, looking all zonked. “I don't need her. Am a graduate, I'll look for a job and move out of this damn house.” He soliloquized as his rubbed his sore eyes.

As Dominic sauntered into the elevator, he hands reached for an elevator button. “Wait!” A voice said briskly. Dominic removed his lanky finger from the elevator button at the sound of the voice. It was a lady, she snappily walked into the elevator with a coca cola bottle in her hand which seems to have been shaken to well as the bubbles went all the way up to the cap. “Which floor are you headed? I am going to 13th floor,” She noticed he was indifferent about what she said so, she pushed the 13 button herself and the elevator door closed. As the elevator started moving, she tried to open her drink, the cap flew off with a hissing sound and some drink spilled on Dominic jacket. “Shit! Look what you've done to my jacket!” He yelled as he used his flicked his jacket. Feeling remorseful, the lady tried to wipe it with her handkerchief, “Am so sorry. Here, let me help you.” “Don't touch me man!” He nimbly moved, “Am on my way to an interview and you've ruined my outfit!” “Am so sorry, it's just a drink, why are you acting like I poured acid on you?” Dominic squinted his eyes in anger, “With all due respect ma'am, is everything ok with you? You ruin my outfit and you still have the temerity to talk!” “But I said was sorry!” She yelled, “I can see you are a rude boy, didn't your mother teach you how to talk to people?” As she spoke, Dominic noticed how disheveled and chubby she was looking but after few seconds of examination, he noticed she wasn't chubby, she was pregnant. “Oh! I see the problem now, you're pregnant. Pregnant women and their crazy hormones,” He flipped in disgust. “You're the crazy one!” She shrieked. “Children of nowadays, y'all don't know how to talk to people!” As, she spoke the elevator door opened. “Ma'am please go, you've reached your destination, crazy woman!” She walked out of the elevator and continued raining insults on him. “What a crazy lady!” He took of his jacket and dusted it roughly.   Dominic stood up and shook hands with the interviewer. “We will give you a call Mister Thompson” “Thank you sir!” Dominic grinned. He walked down the hall to the elevator. As he entered, he saw the same woman he had a fight with earlier strolling towards the elevator, he quickly pushed the button to close the elevator door but the button seemed non-functional, he pouted his lips in anger at the button. The woman arrived at the elevator flinching, she snickered at the sight of him and trudged into the elevator in silence. Occasionally, Dominic glanced at her and noticed she was uncomfortable, She placed one hand on her waist as she bit her lip in pain and closed her eyes. Just then, the lights went out and the elevator stopped working. Distracted from her pain by the disruption of power, the lady panicked. “Mister, What's going on, what happened to the lights?” She asked tremulously. “Why have the elevator stopped?” “Ma'am please calm down, am sure it's a power outage, buildings like this always have back up generators and am sure it's gonna come on anytime soon.” He tried using the telephone but it wasn't working. “It's dark in here! We're stuck!” She banged the door of the elevator. “Somebody please help us, there are people in here!” “Ma'am can you calm down! I told you buildings like this always have back up generators and am sure it will come on soon.” “If we do not shout, how are they gonna hear us? In fact, Mister mind your business while I mind my business,” She moaned in pain. “Somebody help me!” “Oh my God! Ma'am can you please just shut up! Your shouting is giving me a migraine, you think I wanna be stuck here with your body odor?” Immediately, she was quiet, feeling hurt by what he said. Suddenly, the lights came back on again. “See! I told you buildings like this always have back up generators,” He beamed. “See what!” She replied still hurt by what he said. She stealthily sniffed herself to confirm if what he said was true. Unexpectedly, the lights went out again and this time the cables of the elevator snapped, the elevator dropped a few feet, the force was so powerful that they both fell to the elevator floor as they screamed in fear.   It was stable, Dominic stood up in the darkness, he heard the woman moan but this time it was louder and more severe. “Ma'am, are you ok?” He turned on the flashlight on his phone and saw her on the elevator floor with her legs wide open, he crouched and saw a liquid substance on her underpants and immediately, he knew what was happening. Her water had broken. “Somebody please help us!” He banged the doors of the elevator as hard as he could. “Help us! There's a pregnant woman in here and I think she about to have her baby!” He banged and stomped his feet harder and harder but no one showed up. The wailing was becoming louder and unbearable. Dominic was perplexed, he eventually gave up banging the elevator and tried to soothe her. A pot-bellied man walked into the reception. “Bessie! Haven't the generator been fixed yet?” “No, sir.” “Tell the technicians to hurry up!” He sashayed into his office.   Dominic was at the verge of losing his mind, the pregnant woman had become more intense. “Ah! Somebody help me!” She lamented in pain. “Sorry Ma'am! So sorry!” She shook her head in discomfort as she managed to raise her upper body. “Don't call me Ma'am, Stop calling me Ma'am! My name is Abigail—My name is Abigail!!!!!” She sang with a high-pitched voice. Dominic began to wonder if she was going crazy because of the way she said her name. “Ok! Abigail, where's your phone?” He asked in a sweet voice. She fossicked through her bag and handed her phone over to him. “Ok, what's your husband's number? Just give me anybody's number we can call to help us.” “The father is not around,” She muttered. “What do you mean he's not around? Ok just give me anybody's number, your doctor, your sister! Anybody at all!” “Mister! Give me my phone!—Give me my phone!— Give me my phone!” He swiftly handed the phone to her, yet she continued shouting. “Give me my phone! Give me my phone!” Dominic didn't want to call his mother, but he had no choice. “Hello, Mom! I need your help!” He entreated. “What's wrong Dominic? You sound worried.” “Mom! Am stuck in an elevator with a pregnant woman and I think she's about to have her baby, please help me!” “Is that her I hear in the background?” “Yes! Mom, please help me!” “Ok, what building are you in? I'm gonna call for help” “I'll text you the address.” “Ok!” She hung up. He felt a bit relieved, now that help was on the way. “Abigail! Don't worry, help is on the way.” “I am dying!” She yelled as she hauled the collars of his shirt.   Few minutes later, Dominic phone rang, it was his stepfather. He scoffed at the sight of the call. “What do you want?” He barked. “Dominic, your mother told me what happened...” “ Of course! She told you,” He interrupted. “I don't have time for your fore talk, I have an issue at hand!” He hung up. The phone rang again, “Hello! What is it! I don't have to talk to you old man!” “Listen! Dominic,” He commanded. “I know you don't like me but whether you like it or not, you need my help to save that woman. Have you forgotten I am a doctor?” “Whatever!” He replied acknowledging the fact that he was right. “Now, put me on speaker phone.” “You're on speaker phone now,” He laid the phone on the floor close to Abigail. “Hello, Ma'am. Can you hear me?” “Yes, I can sir,” She groaned “My name is Dr. Aaron, what's your name?” “My name is Abigail—My name is Abigail,” She recited. “Ok, Abigail, I am on my way with an ambulance to help you, ok?” “Ok Sir. Please hurry up!” “Not to worry, you are in safe hands. Dominic, can you hear me?” “Yes, I can.” “How far apart are the contractions?” Dominic tried to recall his thoughts, “Well, umm... 2 minutes apart I guess.” “Ok! I need you to feel her belly and tell me the position of the baby's head” “Ok!” He gently placed his hands on her belly, “I think it's facing downwards.” “Ok! Dominic, we may not have enough time before the baby comes. I need you to check if she's dilating.” “How am I supposed to do that!” He said in confusion. “Do you know where the cervix is?” “Yes!” “Ok! I need you to check how many fingers you can fit into her...” “No! No! No!” He waved his hand in disagreement. “I can't put my hand into this woman Virgi...” Before he could finish rebuffing the order, Abigail took of her underpants hastily and pulled his arms into her. “Check! Please check!” She screamed. “But make sure your hands are clean!” The doctor continued. “Ok! I think she has wipes.” “Yes, I have!” She pulled out a packet for wipes from her bag and gave it to him. Dominic wiped his hands before he put his fingers into her. “How wide is it?” The doctor asked. Pouting his mouth in disguise, “It's... It's pretty wide, I can fit my whole hand.” “That means she's dilating! Dominic, we don't have anymore time. The baby is coming!” “What! I can't deliver a baby!” “You have no choice, Dominic! That lady is going to have that baby and you are her only hope. Find a piece of cloth and put it beneath her legs” He quickly huddled his jacket beneath her legs. “Have done that!” “Dominic! Now tell her to push!” “Ok. Abigail! You need to push, ok. The baby is almost here.” She clenched his arms and pushed as hard as she could.   After series of pushing, the baby wasn't forthcoming. “Doctor! The baby's not coming.” “She needs to push some more!” “Abigail! Abigail! Doctor, I think she passed out.” “Dominic, you have to wake her up, she can't pass out now!” He shook her vigorously before she gained consciousness again. “I can't do it anymore,” She gibbered. “Abigail! Look at me. We are almost there, come on, let's bring this baby to life. I know you have it in you, just push please,” He tried to cajole her. She tried to gather enough strength before she pushed. “Ahh!!!!!!!!” She yelled. “Doctor! I can see the baby's head,” Dominic screamed in excitement. “Tell her to stop pushing now!” “Abigail, stop pushing!” “Dominic! Now, you need to guide the baby's head out and the rest of the body will follow.” “How do I guide the head?” “Gently curve your hands underneath the head and guide it out.” “Ok. Wait! There something around the baby's neck!” “That must be the umbilical cord. You have to cut it of.” “Ah! Cut it off with what? My teeth?” “Preferably, a clean blade.” “Where am I find a blade in here?” “I have! I have!” Abigail muttered. He trolled through her bag and found the blade. “Doctor, I found a blade!” “Now cut the cord. But, leave enough space between the cord and the baby's head, we don't want the baby to bleed to death.” “What! I don't think I can't do this.” “No, Dominic. You must do it now! Cut the cord.” He gently placed the blade on the cord with his fingers underneath and cut it. “The cord is cut Doctor!” “Now, tell her to push. Am almost at the hospital.” “Abigail! Look at me, we're almost there, just push one more time, as hard as you can!” She gripped his collars and pushed with all the strength in her. “Ahh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” With Dominic's hands came the baby. “Abigail! You did it. It's a boy!” He smiled and handed the baby to her. “My baby!” Abigail grinned as she held him in her arm. Silence filled the air for some seconds. “He's not crying!” She panicked. “Dominic, what is going on?” The doctor asked. “Doctor, the baby is not crying! He's not breathing, why?” “Oxygen! The baby needs oxygen! place three fingers on the baby's chest and perform ten compression then you blow air into the baby's mouth.” “Ok!” He began with the doctor's instructions, just then the call ended. “Hello! Doctor! Doctor...” He continued with the compression while Abigail sobbed for the fear of losing her child. The hatch of the elevator was opened and light radiated into the elevator. The doctor and some medics jumped in.   Dominic sat in the summer bench, the smell of barbecue for nearby grills filled the air. The atmosphere was peaceful. He heard footsteps, it was his Mother, she sat beside him with a broad smile on her face. “How're you doing son?” “Am ok.” She couldn't believe how calm he was, it was a miracle. “Mom! Am sorry.” “What are you sorry for dear?” She asked in surprise. She couldn't remember the last time he said that to her. “For everything!” He looked her in the eyes. “The way I treated you and everyone else. After Dad died, I felt all was lost and you remarried which made me angrier. Being in that elevator with Abigail was eye-opening. Mom, I saw what she passed through just to bring her baby to life, the pain, the struggle and when I held that baby in my hands, I felt happiness within, I could only imagine the happiness the mother felt. It made me realize you passed through the same just for me.” “Dominic,” she held his hand. “You are my son, I can never be mad at you forever. I am glad you've come to realize life as it is. It's not easy for a life to emerge. Life is precious, and we must learn to appreciate it.” “Mom, you know I wondered why I got stuck with that pregnant woman in that elevator. I mean, it could have been someone else. Maybe the universe thought of teaching me a lesson,” He laughed. “I guess so,” she joined him in laughter. “By the way, how's Abigail and the baby?” “Well, Dad said the baby is in 100% perfect health and Abigail is just fine, she named the baby Dominic.” “Dad! You say!” “Yes mom, he's a good guy, he helped me save Abigail and her baby.” “Wow! Am so proud of you son,” She hugged him passionately. “You guys are having a family reunion without me?” A voice triggered. They both looked to see who it was. “Good afternoon Dad!” Dominic smiled. “My elevator Doctor!” The trio laughed and hugged in the scorching summer Sun.


We don’t call it a rain, not at first. In the purpled night, stowed away behind weatherboard walls, we imagine it's anything else. An incessant pattering against the asphalt: children throwing stones. A shatter that pulls us headfirst from our sleep: a drunk losing grip on his bottle. The scrape of objects sliding over dew-glossed footpaths: roller skates, scabbed knees, feral cats’ claws. Speculations which make sense. In the mornings, we pull lost things from the gutter like hair from a shower drain. Ring Pops which have already begun to blister in the liquid gold sun. A silver teddy bear charm from a bracelet, clasp snapped in two. A half drunk bottle of peach schnapps, faded label peeling. Australia’s finest , the 1970s lettering claims. Australia’s finest . My mother lifts a pair of white panties from the branch of a banksia and spits onto the brittle, summer-bitten lawn.

“Ain’t no respect,” she kneads the skimpy cotton into a ball and throws it at her feet, “Thinkin’ it's their goddamn town. Ain’t no respect.” When she turns her back, I tuck the lost panties into my bra.

When I ask Bennie what she thinks happens to Killibee girls, she laughs. A mouth lined with crooked pearls, half gums, all bite.

“I think the town swallows them on its fat fucking tongue. Don’t you ever feel like that, like this place is sucking you dry?” In the gape of a street light, she seems older than she is. An artificial sun shatters and constellates over her cheek, her birthmark as flat and red as spilt nectar. Torn jacket cuffs, eyeliner like two thumbprints of ash. The town is soft and quiet under the hazy curtain of sundown, sky like a two-day-old bruise. Between her fingers, a cigarette glows a hot, amber dart. “Yeah,” I say, and take it from her, curl the smoke behind my lips, “Yeah, I do.” When the cigarette collapses into a pile of ash, we stand, dust ourselves off, place three mints on each other’s halved-strawberry tongues. We pass the posters tacked to utility poles, corner store windows, each citizen detective’s front veranda. We pass the posters and pretend we never knew the girls smiling up from them, it’s easier that way. The night spits up a prayer card, a damp stick of incense, two glittering sixteenth birthday candles and the crescent tip of a pink-chipped thumbnail. In the morning I swallow three caps of vodka and pull the panties on in front of my mirror. They make me look pretty. They make me look like someone else. There’s the shadow of a stain on their seat, a memory, an idea. I imagine what left it came from me, that I’m the sort of girl brave enough to wear white. I imagine sweaty bush parties, dollar store perfume, someone’s hands on my hips, cigarette smoke. The pastel print of Marie Antoinette tucked into my brass mirror frame looks down on me and I imagine her whispering fabulous . It takes a while to notice the name sharpied on the inner seam, letters bloated. When I do, I throw up three times into the porcelain bowl of my toilet. I’m sick, but not sick enough to take them off. Over dinner my mother talks about lost girls, avoiding their names like tiny blasphemies. “Lucille Miller’s girl was the latest, you know?” she says, more to my father than me, “Hear she was a right little shit too, rumour is she was knocked up.” My mother is a woman of dimpled flesh and acetone. If you peeled her skin back, I’d half expect there to be nothing underneath. Her shapeless floral dress suckers itself to rolls of fat, hangs limp at her knees. She spears a small cut of meat with her fork and dangles it before her open lips. “Ask me,” she says, biting down, “This ain’t nothing more than the trash being taken out. I’d bet you anything these are the kids leaving their shit over our neighbourhood. If I found out whoever was takin’ them, I’d give him a hug.”  “Bad girls, huh?” My father says. He is quiet and unassuming, a face half composed of glasses, limbs of twisted twine. “That’s right. Bad girls.” The table clears, the tulip shaped lights dim. I return to my room and splinter my fingers on my windowsill slipping out onto the roof. I pull the wooden needles from my fingertips as I wait for the rain. It trickles in slowly. A tin of clementine-tinged blush, shattered, muddying. A pair of wire headphones. A slip from the inside of a fortune cookie. Three pink-cased tampons. A squat bottle of cerulean nail polish. I let them fall between my blood-pricked fingers, smash into my palmy flesh, trip past my lifeline. The nail polish bottle splits open on the corrugated iron roof, blue varnish as thick as corn syrup catching in the dips. Bad, bad, bad, I think, bad, bad, bad. Bennie walks like a 1920s hooker, hips rocking like a hardwood horse, arms slicing the air. The watery morning light catches onto our bent necks, pearls at the back of my thighs. The streets are as full of lost things as I have ever seen them, and we are looking. “Look,” she says, lifting a cut of hair, fine as a dead citrus peel, from a pothole, “What the fuck.” Her mouth has always been too big for her face, her ears too small for her head. She’s like the long-past idea of a girl, not quite clear, a little too roughly drawn. A pendant shaped like a human heart beats between her breasts, everything she needs, she carries on the outside. In her cupped hands, the hair rests like an injured bird; curled in on itself, empty. Departed. And I think, not for the first time, that I could love her. If I tried. If I wanted to. “It’s probably nothing.” I say. She frowns. “Don’t be like them , man. Don’t give me that shit.” I look down at the piece of hair, blonde as cornsilk. Hair from a photo, hair from a distant P.E class memory.

It’s probably nothing. We probe the gutters, the bug-embroidered undersides of mailboxes, the gaps between dead grass where anything might fall and hide. A piece of grape bubblegum, chewed, teeth marks included. A jump rope which looks like it hasn’t been used in years. Lace brasseries marked with lovers’ names. A half-swallowed tray of birth control pills. Bennie slips a tattoo choker around my neck. “Look at you, punk rock.” She says, and then, “Marla Benett used to wear those, I remember.” I rip the plastic choker off so urgently that it snaps. I rip it off before I can think of the words HAVE YOU SEEN THIS PERSON? White cotton burns beneath my skirt. When Julia Miller disappears, my mother locks our tall french doors and folds me into my room. She was a good girl , she says, a good girl . Julia Miller, preacher’s daughter. Child of ruffled dresses and hand-knit sweaters. Child of seashell-tinted rosary beads. Julia Miller, good girl until the end. She’s the tenth, I figure out. I trace the numbers onto my paint-chipped walls, the names. She’s the tenth.

Her father goes on TV, our local news shows, eyes flat and glazed. He’s an old man, older than I expect a father to be, varicose veined and with the jowls of a bloodhound. He pours out prayers, pleadings. He brings a priest with him once or twice, lets him loiter in the background of the dreary scene. The priest’s black robe bellies in the afternoon breeze, his clerical collar the brightest garment this side of mourning. She’s the first to get this treatment. The point here, I think, is that no one mourns the wicked. I watch everything on my bedroom floor, nose nearly pressed to my computer screen. Video after video, forum after forum. I drink lemonade straight from the jug, and chew at the plastic cap when it empties. I syphon boxed wine from the top shelf of the kitchen pantry and store it in Powerade bottles beneath my bed. I call Bennie, stomach flattened to my mauve-shag carpet. She calls me. “How’s it feel, Belle?” She asks through the phone screen, “Being all locked up in that castle?” “Well,” I say as lemonade misses the gap between my lips and veins down my throat, “My mother is certainly a beast.” When a string of heart shaped rosary beads smacks down onto my windowsill, I drape them around my neck like a line of pearls. The madonna sits between my collarbones. Good, I think, good, good, good. One lilac ballet flat. A pair of white-gold hoop earrings. A camisole which reads ‘hysteric angel’. A tube of menstrual-red lipstick, sharpened to a point by the feather of a makeup brush. A loose french tip press-on which perfectly fits my ring finger. I pull these things on in front of my mirror, it is patchwork, it is quilting. With each night, I Frankenstein myself. What is left in the mirror is another girl entirely, I lean forward and kiss her glassy lips. When I find the ear, triple pierced and lying in the gutter of my roof, I keep it. Severed by the lobe, skin like ripped rubber sheeting. I hold it to my chest. I let it decay in my pocket until it becomes me. This is Bennie, I’m not at the phone right now, call back later. Or just text like everyone else, man. I call her three times, then seven, then eighteen. Monday sinks into Tuesday, sinks into Wednesday, sinks into Sunday. I want her to see me like this, different, bolder. A clusterfuck of all the best parts of other girls. I watch the preacher’s news segments on replay, rebuild his words in my mouth until I can recite them like a prayer. With the glass beads pinched between my thumb and forefinger, I am so very sorry for him. Hey, just…uh, pick up your phone? Okay? I miss you.

A slice of skin, tattooed with a stick-and-poke heart. The colour of a girl’s hair. A university acceptance letter which will never be opened. Three sets of wisdom teeth. A finger, purity ring intact. I press other girls’ skin to the underside of my jaw, I slip colours over myself like holy water. My closet grows and bulges. I am lost, I am found. I am both as empty and full as I’ve ever been. The mailbox of Bennie Rivera is full and cannot accept any messages at this time. When the pendant catches on my windowsill, I know. The size of a peach stone, it glints up at me from weather-chafed wood. I centre it in my palm, cheap faux-gold in the shape of a human heart. The greening chain is knotted and I unpick it with the stick of an earring, hunched over against my bed head. It unfurls and relaxes in my hand like a docile python and I clasp it tight at the nape of my neck. There are streets beyond these four walls that haven’t hidden just because I have. They branch beyond the square of my window, out into mould-tracked corner stores and fields of dying cane. Dimpled asphalt, the cicada like chatter of middle aged rumours. Sunday mass, playground drug deals and houses in the shapes of homes. It buzzes, the steady bloodbeat of a place alive. I imagine the roads splitting open across its ley lines. It breathes and then opens, a diesel-slick tongue unfurling from the earth beneath. And upon it, it swallows her. It swallows all of them. In the mirror that night, my mouth looks a little larger than usual.