“Ouch!” Sarah exclaimed, as she hit her head trying to sit up in a small, dark room. She looked around and tried to make out objects or shapes but couldn't see anything. She reached her hand in front of herself, and was surprised that she couldn’t even see it. Even more surprising was when she realized the room she was in was nothing more than a 4 by 4 foot box with a small door. She rolled onto her stomach and crawled to the door, which was surprisingly unlocked.

As she crawled through, she was able to see portraits on the hallway walls, which had peeling, beige floral print wallpaper. Everyone in the pictures held some kind of farming tool, whether it be a pitchfork, shovel, scythe or hoe. The ceiling was extremely tall and held an electric chandelier which was pulsating dim yellow light, casting the hall in unnatural and menacing shadows. To her right, there was an opened door through which she could see dusty and worn out kitchen appliances. To her left another door with a worn leather couch and a matching recliner. She decided to go into the kitchen, it seemed to be less dark.

As she walked through the doorway she noted the same monotonous wallpaper that had been used in the hallway and living room. She also saw a boarded up window, through which she could see only a sliver of the sky, which was a pukish yellow-red colour. In the centre of the room, there was a circular table with five chairs around it. As Sarah walked further into the kitchen, she noticed a small folded up piece of paper that looked like it was put there recently, as it didn't have a layer of dust on it like the rest of the room. She picked it up and carefully unfolded it. The note read: “Congratulations!

You have been chosen to compete in the decennial Man-Hunt!

There are four other contestants, all of whom have been put in a different room.

The rules are simple, kill or be killed.

Before the day runs out. If more than one person is alive once the sun goes down, everyone dies. If only one person remains they will be released and rewarded handsomely. Anything goes so long as you stay inside the farm house.

The second you step outside you will be terminated immediately.

Happy Hunting!

You will find weapons and shields inside the refrigerator behind you.” “This must be a joke” Sarah whispered to herself with dread as she finished reading the note. “Even so, it sounds legit. And I don't plan on dying today”

As she turned around to open the fridge she heard steps coming from the hall. She opened the door to the rusting fridge as fast as she could and her eyes bulged as she saw rifles, handguns, katanas, bulletproof vests, shields, and cases upon cases of ammunition. As the steps got closer she grabbed one of the handguns.

The person making the noises slowly came around the corner, Sarah aimed the gun and fired. She hit her target. Not really a surprise, as her dad owned multiple guns and brought her along when he went to shooting ranges. Blood poured from the downed person’s corpse, they seemed small of stature, leading Sarah to believe them female. They had lots of armour on, including a helmet obscuring their face. Sarah knelt over to remove the helmet. As she did so, she got a clear view of their face and stumbled back in shock. Staring unseeingly back at her was her best friend, Claire. What was going on here?

Quickly, she loaded three of the handguns, put on the safety and shoved them into the army backpack on top of the refrigerator. She also put in multiple cases of ammo. Grabbing a bulletproof vest, she walked past her friend and with a sorrowful glance backwards, she proceeded into the living room down the hallway.

In the room there was a trunk and a small coffee table with a note exactly like the one in the kitchen. Inside the trunk were the same weapons that were in the fridge, minus the ones that Claire had on herself. There were two other doors, each on opposite sides of the room. She started towards the one to her left, but heard a noise coming from the right door. She put on the bulletproof vest and pulled out one of the hand guns and a flashlight from her bag as she slowly walked towards the other side of the room. She turned the doorknob and cautiously opened the door. Turning on the flashlight she aimed it into the small closet-like room. It created odd shadows on the walls and ceiling. She took a step into the room but tripped on something soft. She aimed the flashlight down at her feet and couldn't contain her gasp at what she saw laying there. Another body. She knew this one too. Darien, Chloe’s ex-boyfriend. He must've made the noise she had heard as he died. She checked for his pulse but, unsurprisingly, didn't find one. She turned back around and went back to the door she had originally planned to go through.

Slowly, she pushed open the door and noted that the door led to another hallway. It was longer than the other and had three doors along each side and one at the end. Opening each door as she went along, she found that they were all nothing but empty closets. When she made it to the end of the hall, she opened up the last door. Through the door frame wasn’t a closet like all the others, but a large room with dark red walls. The red was the colour of fresh spilt blood. She took a step into the room and immediately regretted not scanning it more or having her gun up, as a searing pain tore through her lower leg. She brought her gun up and aimed it in the direction the bullet had come from. She fired as soon as she saw the slightest movement and heard a grunt of pain as the bullet hit its target. She looked down at her leg and breathed a sigh of relief once she saw the bullet had only grazed her calf and that she would be able to walk. She started to walk over to the person who had shot her when she heard a maniacal, harsh laugh reverberate throughout the room. It sounded, almost… familiar? “Sarah” said the same disembodied voice that had laughed. Now you KNEW you had heard him before. But from where? “I should've known you’d be the one to make it through. You're tougher than the rest of the lot I had brought here” “Who are you?” Sarah asked, not expecting an answer “You dont recognize my voice, Sarah? I’m disappointed. After all those late night calls I would have expected you to remember. I remembered your voice after all. Even though i haven't heard it for six long months.” Suddenly the dots connected in her head. “Sam” she said, her voice hoarse.

“Bingo,” he said, stepping away from the shadows “Got it eventually there” “B-But, why? Why did you do this?” “Come on Sarah, you know why” “Wait. You're still upset that I broke up with you? Even though we had never even met? Our ‘relationship’ was a handful of phone calls and texts” “Keep telling yourself that. We both know the truth though. I loved you, Sarah. And you told me you felt the same. Until you met Liam at least” he spat liams name with venom. But had such a hurt look on his face that Sarah felt a little bad for him. He started towards her and pulled something out of his pocket. A scrap of cloth. He pulled a small, clear bottle out of his other pocket and poured a bit of the liquid in it onto the cloth. “Now you know what it feels like to have the only thing you love taken from you”

He covered her mouth and nose with the cloth, which she realised was chloroform too late, she wasn't even able to try to fight him off. The only thing she could do was drift slowly into unconsciousness. When she opened her eyes she was in the kitchen, tied up to a chair. As she looked closer, she tried to scream but realised she had a gag in her mouth. Sitting in three of four chairs were corpses. Chloe, Dairen, and Sarah’s boyfriend, Liam, who she realized with a shock, must’ve been the one she had shot in the red room. Deranged laughter came from the hallway and Sarah heard the click of a loaded gun. She looked to the door and saw Sam stride through the door. He looked directly at her with a sad smile. Aimed his gun and said

“Goodbye”

Then fired the gun directly into her head.


"I'm sorry. I know, I should've turned back miles ago. I just have this almost pathological compulsion to keep going forward. I simply despise having to retrace my steps. I'd rather take the long way around than go backward even a little. You remember when I forgot my bag on that work trip, and rather than drive the 20 minutes home, I opted to buy all new stuff, even a new bag?" He looked at himself briefly in the rearview mirror and nodded. "Thanks for understanding, Norman! You're welcome, Norman," he nodded to himself again and smirked. It was one of the peculiar habits he'd picked up on his many, many solo work trips. When the silence was too stifling or the road too long and empty, he'd sometimes have a little chat with himself to diffuse the tension. Rarely did it work. "This time, maybe I should have gone back," he added with a waiver.

He looked out on the long stretch of open road where his car had stopped. Flat and perfectly straight. It faded off into a stifling darkness even his high beams couldn’t reach. Then he glanced in the mirror at the road behind him. It was much darker but just as straight and flat. He thought he could see the faintest speck off in the distance. The little sign catching a bit of moonlight, perhaps? It had gleamed brightly in the headlights from his car. A crisp sheet of white paper tacked to a rotted, wooden post with an arrow and the word help scrawled beneath it. There were others too, many more, posted here and there along these desolate roads he'd been driving. Each scratched out as if written by a child. He shuddered. It had reminded him of a news story he'd read. Arrows painted on the road that all lead to a dead body. A woman was found killed beside her car but there was no sign of anyone else, just a pile of ash beside the body. Police has searched the woods, but found nothing. Rumors spread of cults and cannibals, or creatures in amongst the trees. The thought made his heart race more than he would admit.

That was far away, he reasoned, up North in a mountainous area of Vermont. And the arrows were painted on the road, not scrawled on pieces of paper. These signs were not that. But still, it was hard to ignore the similarity.

He checked his phone for the hundredth time, wondering if, against all odds, it had found a signal. Of course not. The last time it had registered anything, he'd been following directions off the highway to a gas station marked "temporarily closed," which in his experience meant "forever closed," but he decided to check anyway.

Indeed, the place was long gone, even boarded up. It was several miles from the highway so by the time he confirmed his suspicions, he was well and truly off course. He continued forward though, reasoning that there must be a town somewhere in this direction—anything but relenting and turning back.

Each mile he drove brought him closer to the point of no return, where if he had finally decided to go back, he would have run out of gas before getting there. He’d given himself no other option, the only way out was through. So he forged on, watching the gas needle slip lower and lower.

Over the years, he had driven many rental cars on his trips and found them all to be similar but different. They were all generic, domestic-made sedans in some innocuous color like slate gray or navy blue. The controls were all in relatively the same place. They were equally uncomfortable. But each had some little quirk, like a punchy accelerator or very touchy brakes. This one seemed to guzzle up the end of a tank of gas.

Or was it just this place that guzzled up time?

This area was broadly called the interior of a state that resided in what was also called the interior of the country, and he thought those descriptions seemed apt. It was landlocked and made up of endless flat planes of farmland stretching for miles in all directions. A patchwork of thousand-acre fields lined up perfectly like massive green tiles on a kitchen floor. There was something uncanny and disorienting about the repetition. The few roads that bisected the fields were miles apart and flanked by sky-high rows of feed corn. It made the drive eerie and suffocating, like traveling down a long, empty hallway. It was an unsettling sensation, being in the open air but so closed in at the same time.

Every few miles, he'd reach an intersection and strain his eyes looking for any sign of life, but nothing. Turn after turn and mile after mile, he had gone deeper and deeper into the green abyss as his rental sedan greedily drank up the precious fuel and his phone searched for a connection in vain. Eventually, with little fanfare or ceremony, the car shuddered, lurched, and died. A little light with a gas pump blinked on the dash. The silence closed in around the car to join the dark. "Lucky it's a warm night, huh, Norman? Yes indeed, Norman," he said, looking all around again for any sign of an approaching car. He couldn't decide if he was genuinely hoping to see one or not. He flicked on the hazard lights. They flashed red and yellow, lighting up the rows of corn and making the stalks twist into looming, emaciated figures encircling the car. His mind flashed back to the story about Vermont, and again, his heart began to race.

He looked away and tried to calm himself, noticing his hands were also shaking.

"It's okay, I'm sure someone will come along. And if not, it will be morning soon enough." He checked his phone again and relented that morning was still a long way off.

Norman leaned back in the chair and breathed deeply shutting his eyes. He thought to himself that the chair was more comfortable than he remembered and that his eyes were more tired than he had noticed. Driving on unfamiliar roads was surprisingly exhausting. He never realized it until he was done. It was both painfully monotonous and surprisingly tense. You were always on watch for something, anything. Before he could recognize it was happening, Norman was asleep.

He woke abruptly to the sound of screeching metal. The car was brightly lit, and for a moment, Norman thought it was daytime, but he quickly realized it was headlights behind him. They were old square lights spattered with mud. One of them was more dimly lit than the other. They were wide apart and relatively high, probably a truck or a van, he thought. He heard the vehicle door slam shut, and a figure stepped out of the darkness, silhouetted by the light beams. Norman twisted in his seat to look over his shoulder rather than through the mirror. The man was big and walked like he was tired. His shoulders were crooked, and his arms and huge hands hung down like they were heavy and made of stone. Norman stumbled out of the car and spun to face the approaching figure. "Uh, h- hello?" His voice quivered.

"Broke down?" A slow, gravelly voice came from the massive silhouette. "Want me to take a look?" "Oh… uh… okay. Thank you." He replied, backing away ever so slightly.

The man stepped forward, his face finally being lit enough to see. His skin was lined and weathered, like old cowhide. His hair was short and disheveled. Norman could smell sweat and soil. "I'm, uh, Norman." "Hank." "Hi, Han-" "So, how'd you end up out here?" The large man grumbled. "I - I got off the highway for gas back at exit 4B." "That's the Ryann's place, been closed for years now. Too bad, it was the only spot for gas that side of the valley." "Yeah, I realized that a bit too late." "A bit, indeed. That's something like twenty miles from here." "I kept hoping I'd find a town or something, but…" "Nothing 'round these parts. Just land." He stepped around to the engine. "You gonna pop the hood?" "Oh," Norman flustered, "I just ran out of gas." "Ah, I see. I can help ya with that," the man said as he began lumbering back to his truck. "Well, come on," he added gruffly upon seeing Norman staying back.

"Oh, uh, okay," he reluctantly agreed and followed.

Hank pulled back a heavy canvas sheet caked in dirt lying across the truck bed. Beneath it was a tangle of metal, wood, and rusted tools. He began rummaging through the heap, huffing and grunting as he did, the tools scratching against the old metal truck.

He stopped his search with is back to Norman and asked, "You seen those signs? Out on the roads, with the arrows?" Norman froze. His eyes widened, and his body tensed. "Yes," he barely managed to say. "Strange, huh?" "Yes… strange." They both went silent. Norman's frantic breathing was the only sound.

"You know who put them there?" The older man asked darkly.

"I believe I do," Norman said in almost a whisper. Hank turned slowly to face the other man, who was standing closer than he had realized.

"I did," said Norman as a thin smile crossed his face.

The knife glinted once in the light before sinking into Hank's abdomen. Then again, frighteningly fast into his lung and several other places across his torso. Hank swung out at Norman but missed as he collapsed, his breathing ragged and the world going dark around him.

He saw Norman's smiling face briefly once more before slipping away into shock.

"Job well done, Norman! Why thank you, Norman." He said with an excited waiver in his voice. He took some deep breaths and looked out over the expanse of dark emptiness. So alone in it again. He would give himself a moment to relish this. These trips didn't always prove so fruitful. The right conditions - somewhere remote, dark, and desolate with no phone service - often meant no one stumbled into his traps.

His heart was still racing, and his hands still shaking, but he knew he should move quickly now. His signs were still out there directing prey to this spot, and there was always the slightest chance someone else would come before he could leave.

That had happened once in Appalachia, but he'd been in a little parking lot off the road then. If the drivers had seen anything, they didn't stop to investigate. That area had been almost too easy. The murder didn't even make it beyond the local paper.

He opened the trunk and took out a gas canister, then removed his shirt, splattered with Hank's blood, and tossed it on the road. He gathered some alcohol wipes from his bag, the one he'd bought as a replacement when he'd forgotten his, and wiped his hands and the knife, then his face and hair, dropping the used wipes on his bloody shirt. He returned the knife to the bag and fished out a lighter instead. He quickly refilled the gas tank from the canister, saving the last bit for the pile of bloodied things in the road, which he liberally doused in fuel. He learned early on that the alcohol wipes are quite flammable, so only a good splash was necessary. No need to create a roaring beacon.

Norman then ran through his checklist as he donned a fresh shirt. He'll return to the town where he swapped license plates. A bonus to being in a rental is that the make and model are usually surprisingly easy to find a substitute plate someplace inconspicuous. He'd added this as a new precaution with the rise in popularity of ring cams and the like. If he's caught on tape, the plate will match the car but not the driver.

Drop the rental off with the night drop box and collect his car from around the block where he parked it, all getting him home by midday.

He thought about the signs he posted again. Now that it was complete and they had delivered him Hank, he had to decide whether to leave them or not. He didn't need to worry about fingerprints or DNA; they were too hard to gather from paper, plus his weren't on file. It will undoubtedly change the game if they connect them back to his work in Vermont or any of the other places, but that could be fun. He knew this was how they get caught, the others, but there was still something thrilling about that possibility. His heart raced again like it did whenever he thought about Vermont. His first national story. Regardless, he'll need to follow the signs back to the highway. He can decide as he goes. He had a thought then, leaving them might mean more press coverage. That would be nice.

Ok, they would stay. He was giddy at the thought.

He wished he could wait a bit longer and savor the moment, but he must start working on his next trip. He lit his clothes and the wipes on fire before returning the lighter to the bag and zipping it shut again. He closed the trunk and turned to look back at Hank once more.

"Thanks, Hank." Back in the car, he pulled away from the side of the road and back into the dark as he made an unfamiliar maneuver for him, a U-turn.

"It doesn't count as turning back when the job is done. Right, Norman? Absolutely right, Norman."

His drive to the highway was uneventful. He passed only one car along the way, several miles and several turns from Hank. He had kept his high beams on, a tactic he liked to use to blind the driver so they would be forced to look away as they passed. He had a fleeting thought: Maybe he should go back? The moment the thought entered his head, though, he knew he would not. If that driver found the body, and that was a big if, he would be long gone. No turning back. ---------- The other driver cursed as she struggled to keep her car on the road during the onslaught of blinding light. She was tired and in a bad mood. She hated night shifts at the hospital and just wanted to be home.

The spots in her eyes had just cleared when she reached her next turn. She squinted. Across the intersection was a piece of paper pointing in the other direction. It read help. She looked down the road where it signaled and saw nothing. She turned for home. She had done enough today.

Then she braked and cursed again but at herself this time. And she turned back.

She followed the sign. It lead her to another and then another and finally to a horror. There was so much blood. She froze for a minute. Not because of the blood but because of what might have done it. Was it still there? She suddenly recognized the truck and then the man. She leaped from the car and rushed out. "Hank!?! Hank!" She looked for the source of all the blood, but it was too dark. What happened to you?" He was so cold—too cold. She didn't expect a response.

She scrambled back to her feet, needing to get her trauma kit from the car, when she screamed. Something had grabbed her leg. It was Hank, he wasn't dead.


“Scanning techniques: Identify target vein. Reevaluate to confirm anatomy and pathology. Draw a line of the vein on the skin. Some physicians want 5-10 cm intervals indicated to assist with anesthesia introduction. Keep the room warm to prevent vasospasm.” The professor mumbled. I am trying my hardest to stay present. I am trying my hardest to focus on the material and not the monotonicity, boring, slow, unenergetic, and just old-fashioned delivery of the instructor. There has to be a better way for us to learn this stuff.  “Image guidance during procedure: Access. Placement of instrumentation. Perivenous anesthesia. Thermal treatment. Post treatment,” he tamely drummed on. Reading word for word from the PowerPoint. This is so painful. This is important information. Midterms are in two weeks and my goal is to do well, obviously, enough to have a comfortable cushion for the second half of the semester. But listening to him present the information is harder than memorizing it. I think it would be easier if the sound of his voice was anything else but sheep jumping over fences to my ears. The dullness is briefly interrupted by the clicking-on of the A/C system. Which is terrible news. It is 58 degrees outside. Hoodie weather. And we are not even allowed to wear hoodies inside due to the school dress codes. Here come the goosebumps. I feel them start at the lumbar. They quickly travel up my spine to my shoulders, causing me to do the shimmy. I swear they, the people in charge, want us to freeze to death. My attempt to focus on the information that is currently being excruciatingly provided to us is now replaced with focusing all my blood to move towards the important parts of my body, so I don’t die of hypothermia. Ugh. There go my fingers. C’mon blood. Do your thing. Luckily, I sit next to this giant window. An escape of sorts. A whole row of windows line the entire length of the exterior wall in the classroom. It is easy for me to get lost in the scenery of day-to-day life outside. A team of landscapers mow, edge, blow, and sweep their way through the courtyard. Something they do every Monday. Judging by the efficiency of their work, they know what they are doing. I hope they get paid enough. The parking lot is a little less full today than any normal Monday. I bet some students partied a little too hard this weekend. Lucky for them. Maybe some are sick. Unlucky for them. Either way, they are not here. The family of squirrels in the large cypress tree in the front garden seem to be quite active today. Looking around, I just realized that the front garden is filled with native trees. There are a couple of Mexican Buckeye and two Honey Mesquite. How did I not notice these pretty trees? “The needle is advanced from below the transducer into the field of view where access to the vein can be imaged.” He continued. Oh good, the A/C just shut off. I survived. I suppose it does not need to be on long to ensure an average indoor temperature of what I guarantee is set to freezing. Just across the street there is a large interstate highway. It is elevated by large concrete pillars and built-up grassy knolls. I can hear the traffic from here. A lot of people are in a hurry. I am curious to know where they are going. I am assuming most are headed to work. Maybe school. Some could be coming back from vacation. What I would give to be heading towards a warm beach right now. “Duplications: most are segmental; complete duplications are rare. To be duplicated, both saphenous veins must follow the same path and remain parallel within the fascia. Duplication demonstrates a beginning and end along the same path,” said Charlie Brown’s teacher. I think. My nostrils flare, picking up scent coming in from down the hall. The cafeteria is not that far from our door, but being able to smell food from that area is still an uncommon thing. It smells like another student just pulled lunch out of one of the microwaves. What is that? Is that.. Is that fish? Holy crap. It is fish. Who? Why? What have we done to deserve such blatant disrespect? That is a very violent smelling microwaved fishy aroma. My nostrils and olfactory sensory neurons are in a battle for their lives. I think they are losing. My eyes are watering. The fishy smelling air particles are now in my eyes. In a weird way, it makes me hungry. I have a snack-sized bag of Cheez-it calling my name from my lunch carrier. And just thinking about sinking my teeth into the BLT wrap that I have prepared is making my mouth water. I don’t do BLT’s the traditional way. I chop the bacon, the hickory smoked goodness of bacon, lettuce, and tomatoes. I throw them into a bowl. I combine mayonnaise, ranch, and sriracha in another bowl. I then mix the two bowls. After spreading on and rolling up tortillas, boom! Delicioso. I need a haircut. One of the girls in the class just got new hair put in. I am still not even sure what that means. But what happened to the poor horse? Is there a hairless horse walking around somewhere? Looks good, though. Even after her pointing it out, I still cannot tell what belongs to a different animal species and what is natural. I just grow my hair out the traditional way. Then cut it. Then I grow my hair out. Repeat. I just need to taper it back. Maybe, a low skin fade is in order. I have gotten away with growing my hair out for far too long. The tips are passed the collar of my shirt. I really should have taken the clothes out of the dryer last night. Now, when I get home, I am going to have to run them for at least 15 minutes to get the wrinkles out. 20 minutes makes them too hot. But it is just whites. Do I need to get the wrinkles out of the whites? It is just work out shirts and socks. Maybe I am good. I hate folding wrinkled shirts, though. I will play it by ear. “...trendelenburg position. Post treatment. Okay, take a break. Be back in 10 minutes.” Damn it! What did I miss?


"Tellus, my dear, you are such a hero with the Director. You were so gracious in your audition, offering to step aside for your two proteges. It was a hard choice for the Director, you know. And casting younger actors in the lead really designed for you is such a risk for her, but she has a strong creative vision for what this picture can be. She just wanted me to let you know that she appreciates your understanding about the part and hopes you have no hard feelings,” Mitzi parroted the agreed-upon language in talking with Tellus Bart, trying not to gag. "Hard feelings? Mitzi, you know me better than that," responded Tellus Bart. Tall, handsome, with a little balding in front but otherwise full, thick, esthetically perfect colored highlighted black hair. "No, I support her direction and am happy to do some press to support her. Maybe with Entertainment Tonight or some late-night shows." "Press? What do you mean, Tellus?" "Well, you know, Christopher wrote both the book and the screenplay with me in mind. For an up-and-coming female director to choose a younger lead completely wrong for the part might lead to a good bit of criticism. But, I could go on some shows and say something about "how I withdrew, realizing that her creative vision was fresh and vigorous and that a younger actor was more appropriate…" or something like that. Don't you think that would give the picture some buzz!" "Tellus, you are either a genius or deliciously vain. But, either way, you're a hero in my eyes,” Mitzi again told an untruth. "Thank you, Mitzi. I aim to please," Tellus said politely. The call ended, and he took a sip of his mimosa, grinning. The seed was planted, he thought. Later, at the Bart home. "How can they give that part to some idiot pretty boy or that Shakespeare whispering imbecile! What kind of agent lets this happen! I need this picture. It's a big payday if I get it. It's high art, an award-winning dog that makes no bank if they go with either of those two. How are you going to fix this, you moron!" Tellus screamed as the two-time academy award-winning actor threw one of his gold statuettes through a French door window. The glass shattered. The statuette landed outside on travertine tile leading to his zero-entry pool in his postmodern, forty-million-dollar mansion overlooking the Los Angeles basin. Jerry Morgan, Bart's agent, had heard it all before. The insults, the threats, the intimidation. Brilliant but volatile, hard-working but histrionic. Even though Tellus Bart desperately needed a win for his bank account, his ego never wavered in the twenty years since his last big hit. "Fix it? Do you think I can fix it? How?" "Your problem. Just get me on that movie," Tellus yelled again. "I'll try." Jerry walked out of the Bart mansion in a huff. Tellus walked outside onto the pool deck with his mid-morning blueberry mimosa and his ever-dinging iPhone. He plopped down in one of the assorted loungers by the pool and dialed a phone number from his contacts that did not have a name, only another number. 4411.

"Yes." "I have a couple of jobs for you. Urgent and quiet,” Tellus whispered. “And both will pay very well. The high end of the scale." "Details," the monotone, masculinely feminine voice responded. "In an envelope at the usual pickup spot." "When do you need the results?" 4411 asked. "End of the week at the latest" "Okay. I will get on it." 4411 pressed the Off button on their handheld. The usual place was a locker at Santa Monica pier. Locker 4411. 4411 learned martial skills as a veteran of U.S. Special Forces, seeing action in Afghanistan, Iraq, Somalia, and Mali. And those were just the places 4411 went where CNN reported on U.S. activities. Then there were the missions in areas that CNN didn't report. Those were where they learned the skills needed to work as a special assistant to Mr. Bart. With luxurious brown curly hair and oversized mirror sunglasses, 4411 drove their black Lincoln Navigator toward the usual drop point. Generally, when Bart called, the package was already in the locker. 4411 eased the Navigator into the parking garage, choosing a spot close to the locker area. After parking, they got out and headed straight to the lockers. Inside, 4411 found a leather briefcase and then headed back to the car. They sat in the Navigator in the parking garage for a few minutes and looked through the briefcase. The folder had two bios. 4411 closed the briefcase and pulled away from the parking garage, knowing that Bart was a coward at heart. So, elimination didn't include death or serious injury. Just get them out of his way for the part. --- "I just got off the phone with Tellus. He is okay with your decision and even offered to do some complimentary media for you and the movie. So, where are you with making the final decision?" Mitzi asked the Director. "Michael is pretty good, looks good, and will be able to handle the action. But Daniel is the better actor. And you told me that Tellus mentored both of them? Is that right?" "Yep. Tellus worked with Michael on a spy movie, and Daniel and Tellus were in a romantic comedy together. Both movies did well financially, and Tellus behaved himself from what I hear." "Well, I think it's better to go with Daniel. So, let's contact his agent and get him back in to finish things up. Today's Tuesday, so let's get him in on Thursday. I want to decide by the end of the week." "Got it. His agent is Jerry Morgan, who also reps Tellus. Jerry has been pestering me about casting Tellus, I assume, because Tellus has been riding him so hard to get the part. It’s good glad we have Tellus on board now. I will let you know what I hear from Jerry. And are you okay if I tell Jerry we want Tellus to do some media interviews supporting the film?" "Okay. Thanks. Yes, getting Tellus to say good things will help us, even if it kills me to say that. You might even tell Jerry that we could give Tellus a well-compensated cameo if he behaves," the Director added. "Oh, yes, good idea. Will do that." --- Daniel Herzog, known in the industry as Dany Rock, loved skateboards. Yes, he was an actor with a television series and a few art-house movies behind him, along with several runs of Shakespeare at the Globe in London. But at 32, he was still young and flexible enough to ride his board in his favorite skatepark in Los Angeles—Santa Clarita. Tuesday evening skates were usually loud and energetic, even when cool and overcast. Going vert up the transition out of the deepest bowl in the park, Dany was trying a new move when a rocketing B.B. hit his back. The tiny metal ball fired surreptitiously from the barrel of the Crosman Vigilante CO2-powered B.B. pistol invoked a sudden searing, distracting pain to Dany's back. The first B.B. was followed in rapid succession by a couple of more, resulting in a writhing Dany Rock falling like a—rock. Onto the hardened cement surface of the bowl. A thud, with a roll, with resulting soft tissue injuries, crunching bones, a concussion, and blood. Disfiguring abrasions on a finely chiseled face. Dany Rock would be looking a little less suitable for quite a while. As the other skateboarders crowded around Dany, a celebrity at the park, no one noticed the person dressed in black workwear, with oversized mirror sunglasses and luxurious brown curly hair, walking away from the park. Nor did bystanders notice the person’s B.B. pistol that they slid into the generous pocket on the pants leg. --- "This is Mitzi. Sorry to bother you late, but I got a call from Dany Rock's agent. He had an accident at a skate park. Broken bones, skinned up. Disfigured. He is out for months, most likely." "You have got to be kidding me! Why was he skating? We need to start filming by Monday. Can we use makeup?" the Director answered. "No. He is going to need facial reconstruction." "Damn. Let's get Michael in, then. Tomorrow. We are under time pressure, you know." "I know. I will call his agent now." --- Michael Narone couldn't believe his good luck. On a night when he thought he would be eating alone, to be suddenly joined by an admiring fan for a sushi dinner. A beautiful, vivacious redhead with curves. His favorite. He wasn't sure about her name, but that was typical for Michael. She had been at the bar when he came in, and he couldn't resist her gaze, heading over for some small talk. Then the invitation to her for a cozy booth in the far dark corner where the owner, Joe Nimura, usually put Mikey, as he called him, on one of his impromptu dates. The corner was away from the crowd and close to the back exit if the couple wanted to escape being noticed when the meal was over. She giggled as Michael pulled off his shoes and walked his toes up her calf. Just as Michael's toes were making their way up the inner part of her knees, his iPhone started beeping. He grabbed the phone and walked away from the booth out the back door to the alley. "Hello," Michael said, never one to miss a call. "Un-huh. Yep. Wow! Fantastic. Yep. Be there in the morning. Right. Won't be late. Thanks, Babe. Yep, know you hate that. But thanks, Babe." Michael punched off his phone and returned to the booth with glee. While Michael was gone wandering outside talking to his agent, Michael's impromptu redhead date retrieved a small glass vial with a colorless, odorless liquid and deposited the contents into Michael's vodka martini. Then she slid an envelope with cash and an opaque plastic bag with pills into his Canali silk sportscoat's inner pocket, which he had carelessly thrown off and left in the booth before he left. When Michael returned to the booth, she was enthusiastic about his return. "Darling," she said with a big, beautiful, voluptuous smile. "I missed you! What was the urgent distraction all about!" "Time to celebrate, Babe. I just got a huge part in a huge movie that will make me a huge star! And now it's time to celebrate HUGELY!" Michael yelled out as he grabbed his martini and downed it in one long gulp. The redhead didn't hesitate, raising her flute of champagne and clinking it to Michael's now empty martini glass. "Oh yes, that's terrific! If we are going to celebrate properly," she purred with her most seductive glance," then I need to run to the little girl's room." "Don't be long, sweetheart!" Michael said as he slid back into the booth. "Oh, you’re going to get a nice surprise, honey," the redhead said as she exited the booth. She brushed her perfumed hand across his face as she walked away. A few steps into her quick exit out the front entrance, she glanced over at the tall, darkly dressed person with luxurious brown curly hair and oversized mirror sunglasses sitting at the end of the bar. A quick nod from the redhead as she exited the restaurant alerted the dark figure to move forward with the plan. "Yes, special agent Curtis, I am calling to tell you that the opioid dealer I warned you about just passed out in booth two at Nimura's,” the dark figure said softly into their iPhone. “I believe he may have overdosed, but my source tells me that he has a pretty large stash with him. You better hurry, though. I think they will be calling EMS eminently." As Michael waited, he became sleepy. So sleepy that he plopped his head down on the table. When Joe Nimura came over to check, Michael was barely breathing. Joe panicked and called for the maître d, Alonso Tomalli, to come over. Unfortunately, Alonso was engaged with the DEA agents and L.A. police rushing in toward Michael's booth. A few chaotic moments ensued as the agents tried to rouse the snoring Michael while also searching his sports jacket. They found felony charge-level drugs. The wailing EMS sirens approaching the restaurant and subsequent intubation and cardiac resuscitation of Michael added to the event for all the restaurant patrons to see and record on their iPhones. And share worldwide on Instagram and TikTok. ---- A 7 AM call was usually not a good thing for the Director. "Sorry to bother you, but you won't believe what's happened. It's all over the web and breaking news reports on T.V. Michael is in the hospital with a near-fatal drug overdose, and when he wakes up, if he does, he is going straight to jail for felony drug distribution! Talk about bad luck!" Mitzi breathlessly told the Director, still groggy and trying to awaken entirely from her nightmare about a movie that can't get any actors. "Oh," the Director murmured, pausing to collect herself. "His bad luck or ours?" she asked. "Both. I know we are under pressure to start filming. Michael is out, too, now. So, what about Tellus?" The Director hesitated. Her whole approach was to make an unexpected creative masterpiece, different than what the critics and public expected. Putting Tellus in as the lead would keep with commercial expectations, but it wouldn't be fresh; it wouldn't be high art. Tellus was too old, tired, well-known, and commercial. He was, at this point, more celebrity than an actor. But her financial supporters would flee to another project if she had to delay, even a week, after all, that had gone on leading up to the start of filming. And Tellus was at least bankable, she thought. "Okay. Call Tellus. Knowing him, the vain mother is probably sitting by the phone waiting for us to call if he has seen the news. And the thing that gets me is that he will probably be a hero all around town for coming to our rescue by tomorrow. I hate that mother," the Director said, finally unleashed. "I know, I know, I know. Wait. Oh no. Flip on T.V. to KLTV Channel 5. Now!" Mitzi yelled. Standing in her kitchen, the anxious Director fumbled with the remote to flip to channel 5. "Hi, I am Liz Thomas, Channel 5, and we're talking to esteemed award-winning actor Tellus Bart. Mr. Bart, thank you for joining us. We understand that you will be taking the lead in the new movie by Director Anne Royale, replacing Dany Rock and Michael Narone, who were also considered. Is that true?" "Well, Liz, thank you for having me, and, unfortunately, two up-and-coming actors like Dany and Michael have been sidelined from acting for a while. Ironic that both had problems like they did. I think that they might have been considered for some supporting roles. But, no, they weren't really in the running for the lead. Anne and I have been committed to the artistic direction of this picture for some time. I knew Anne was under tremendous pressure to get filming started, so I recently agreed to come on board to help her get this picture over some challenges. And yes, I did reluctantly agree to play the lead character. I have many projects I am working on now, but helping a friend is always at the top of my list of priorities. I think we can make this a good movie, and maybe even a great one." Tellus finished his answer and then looked away from the reporter, directly into the camera, smiling. "Some have suggested that your last-minute heroics in assisting Ms. Royale and joining the picture might be rewarded with some serious awards considerations and possible a third academy award? What can you say about that?" "Well, the material is certainly award-worthy, and with good direction and production, we should be competitive. But, I am not comfortable calling myself a hero," Tellus added with faux modesty. "At least, not yet," he said confidently, turning back to the camera with his bright, toothy smile. Rising Director, Anne Royale, stared at the T.V. in disbelief as the kitchen of her modest kitchen swirled around her. "Hero?" she said to Mitzi on the phone. “Hero. This villainous piece of….” “Anne, don’t go ballistic. Just remember, he is your ex now. So, try to think kind thoughts.”


***IMPORTANT: Characters are inspired by the airship Norge event. The date is set in 1903 at the North Pole. Some facts might be wrong: for example, Serbin Husky was not made known until 1908, and the North Pole’s sky isn’t very likely to be gray. Comment if there are any other problems. Please enjoy!***     The sky was washed by a nebulous gray -- one could not even recognize day or night -- and it had always been like this. At the end of the vision, there was only a boundless mass of white, not even a single spot of green. However, if one was to examine the snow closely, they could see faint traces of two parallel lines originating from a sled dog cart -- not for racing, but for transporting. Going deeper for one thousand miles, the two lines gradually became more visible and went deeper into the snow until they were replaced by human footsteps. Creatures with sensitive senses could sniff out the scent of death lingering in the air.     A snowflake that rhythmically drifted left and right curiously followed the footprints with the help of the northern wind. It had unique branches stretching out from each of its five dendrites, and there was no trace of melting on its crystalline and reflective surface. There! The snowflake seemed to shout and the wind was finally convinced to let it land. It fell on roughly-made fabrics and quickly liquidized itself to seek its way through the tiny gaps between the material. Only then, did the snowflake finally drop freely as water into a warm source and evaporated into the surroundings with a fizz.

  Under the illumination of the gradually undermined flame, sat a group of four figures. The three of the four were all adult males with heavy layers of clothes and bags equipped. The person sitting on the right had most of his body covered with winter coats and his aged face that had been through sixty years of storm told many stories of the past. The one in the middle had his clothes soaked by melting snow and his short black hair had a sharp contrast with his unnaturally pale skin. The silhouette on the left was noticeably plumper and although he was squatting near the fire, his cheek was still flushing rose-red from the coldness. The last figure belonged to a Siberian husky but her fur was dyed by blood and she made a weak noise from time to time.     Suddenly, the person in the middle reached into his pocket and picked out a short knife. The knife released a chilling light and its blade reflected the feeble Siberian husky’s dying eyes. His upper lips bitterly curved up and then he raised the knife.     “Hey!” the stout man exclaimed in disgust as he clutched onto the black-haired person’s hand to stop his movement. “Stop that right now. We are not eating little Icicle! Morality over life.”    The person on the right directly took the knife from both of them and indifferently glanced at the stout person, “Joseph, we can’t let your Icicle suffer anymore. Killing her is indeed the best solution.”

    “Abel, right?” Joseph didn’t give in either and he added, “we are not going to survive anyways! It’s not like a rescue team will come to the North Pole to save us. Killing a life will only make us sinners before the gate of death.”     “Human beings have already sinned since the beginning.”     The person in the middle shook his head and snatched the knife back from Abel. He searched through his bags and finally reached out a few pieces of turkey meat, blackened bread slices, and some frozen carrots. Then, he started chopping the carrots with the knife.     The atmosphere immediately went silent.

    Abel averted his gaze to the snow afar while Joseph scratched his head and awkwardly apologized, “Sorry, I misunderstood you. You were trying to chop the carrots this whole time, right?”     “I am called Lin Yu (in Chinese).”     Joseph was taken aback because he didn't understand Chinese and he asked, “Lin Yu means yes?”     “Lin Yu,” he reiterated his name because he thought Joseph was rechecking the pronunciation. Meanwhile, Abel, who understood a little Chinese couldn’t help but click his tongue when he heard both of them talking nonsense. Under the noise of the blade conflicting with the ice sheets, Abel withdrew a pen and a crumpled paper. As Abel opened the pen’s cap, he started to notice that most of the skins of his hands began to peel off by themselves. Ignoring the extreme conditions, Abel began to write, just like how he saw his father write in his childhood memories.     With a few elegant strokes, Abel signed his name on the last page of his diary, and he knew that at the same time, he also signed his name on the death list. Abel showed his glittering white teeth and smiled as he spoke, “Brothers, although we didn’t know each other at all, since we could have the last meal together. It could be considered fate. Let’s celebrate our life at this very moment.”     Joseph shouldered Abel on the chest and laughed, “how did you suddenly become so open? Let’s eat!”     “I said my name is Lin Yu (in Chinese),” the black-haired man patiently repeated his name as he got his share of sandwiches. After that, he threw a slice of meat to Icicle.     The sandwich they ate was leftover, but everyone ate it as they had never eaten anything before. They felt in every favor of each bite and let the sandwich melt in their mouth. A faint fragrance filled the air around them, and they reclined on the snow. The god of joy brought them back to their youth when they were with their family, laughing and playing on the ad Infinitum grassland. The sandwiches were finished, and the flame faded. Yet, just like the flame, their vitality faded away, and their consciousness melted in the snow.     Icicle released her last howl, and she collapsed on the ground. She was not alone, one by one, Joseph, Lin Yu, and finally Abel found their final resting place. The only difference between them was that Abel was still seemly looking at the paper that he wrote.     A few days later, they froze into ice statues, and inside, no one would ever disrupt them again.

    The snowflake paid its last tribute to them and it escaped from the makeshift tent. It raised its head high like a proud soldier returning from his battle. Soon, it soared high into the sky… Waiting for its rebirth. Abel’s Secret Diary, last page:  10/7/1903     When I was young, I yearned for freedom. I stretched out my wings and went to see the world. There, I started my journey across continents and oceans. In the end, I forgot my last name, lost all that I ever got. I asked, what was the purpose of this journey? Perhaps it was just a wild imagination or it was destiny that brought me here. I didn’t know even until now but I did learn that the lives of all creatures were no more or no less than that of a snowflake. When snowflakes formed, it was birth. When snowflakes returned, it was death. The period between was life. Snowflakes cherished their short ‘life’ but we could only realize that when the end was coming.

    That end could also be a new beginning.

Abel

◥▬▬▬▬.◙.▬▬▬▬◤ FIN


It had been five years since Nana’s death, and many more years since she was the woman all her family remember. Sometimes it felt as if it was only yesterday that she was whirling around the kitchen, her shrieking and laughter filling the room whenever one of the numerous pans scattered across the hob began to boil over. Whenever she cooked, clouds of flour hung in the air until the room resembled a snowy winter scene. My nana’s name was Lynne, and she was famed for her cooking, her signature dish was a Christmas pudding. However, Lynne’s Christmas pudding was no ordinary Christmas pudding; Lynne loved to make recipes her own, to add ingredients that do not belong and give them a place within her masterpieces, to empty the contents of those old wooden cupboards and create something uniquely her own. This particular Christmas pudding had been perfected over many years of joyous experimentation and it was now time for me to recreate it for our annual Christmas party. Unfortunately, Lynne did not believe in recipes per say, she believed that a good baker knows their own recipes by heart and because of this there was no trace of Lynne’s famous Christmas pudding. “Right,” I spoke aloud to myself, “I think I can remember some of what was in this cake”. I gathered up flour, brandy, sugar, eggs and cherries, every moment replaying a different memory of that stylish woman I used to know. I thought of her; hair tied up in a sleek grey bun, a colourful apron thrown on, dancing through the flour-filled air to the duck-egg blue retro radio that remained on the same station for its whole existence. “Right, I need to concentrate”, I thought. So, I shook those lingering memories from my mind and laboriously began adding ingredient after ingredient, stirring almost mechanically. No music filled the room in my small cottage, I dipped my finger silently into the mixture and watched it droop and fall back into the bowl. This certainly wasn’t how it used to look, “maybe it would be best if I try and find a similar recipe and follow that,” I thought. So, I again set about my work, following every word of the old recipe book but to no avail. I slumped into my tattered armchair that evening feeling defeated and more distant from my nana than ever before. I decided to give my sister Frankie a call and see if she could give my spirits a boost. I explained that I had been trying to make our nana’s famous Christmas pudding but that I was getting nowhere. “Hm,” replied my sister thoughtfully, “why don’t I come round tomorrow and help you? It might be more fun to do it together, I’ll bring the kids too if that’s okay?” she asked. “Yeah, that will be nice,” I smiled, “I’ll see you tomorrow then”. We said our goodbyes and hung up. I then settled down into my armchair, my favourite book in one hand and a glass of red wine in the other before clambering along the cold marble floor into my bed for the night. The next morning brought a crisp, bright winter day. The sun glistening off the frosty grass that surrounded my little stone cottage. Before I knew it, my sister was at the front door with her two little red-cheeked companions. Her children, Amelia and Bertie, both whirlwinds of energy and sunshines of joy, they certainly inherited their nana’s free-spirit and enthusiasm for life and everything within it. The little ones bustled into my small cottage, appearing to fill it to the brim with noise and joy, like a log fire filling the room with its smoky, comforting warmth. My small cottage was suddenly alive again. “Now, what went wrong yesterday? Talk me through what you did,” Frankie said with command. “Well, I started off by mixing the fruits and brandy into a bowl overnight to soak and then just followed this recipe.” “You followed a recipe?!” replied Frankie with a look of amusement and surprise. “Well, yes,” I replied, a bit confused, “how else am I supposed to know how to make it?” “That’s the whole point!” Frankie laughed, and seeing the confusion on my face, added, “Nana never used a recipe book! She cooked with freedom and joy; we must do the same!” “Hmm, I suppose you could be right but how on earth do we recreate what she made?” “Let’s just give it a go and enjoy ourselves. You need to loosen up!” So, Frankie called in her two little tots, turned up the radio that often sits dormant in my kitchen. The radio crackled out the words ‘toys in every store, but the prettiest sight to see is the holly that will be…’. Bertie and Amelia immediately starting dancing and singing, we all laughed. “Much more like it!” Frankie giggled, “Now kids, we’re going to be baking just like Nana Lynne used to. Are you ready to help?” “Yes!” was the emphatic response given by the pair of excited young children. We got to work straight away; the wooden cupboards were scoured for ingredients before all being thrown into a bowl with a lot less precision than I had previously employed but with a lot more love. The ingredients were mixed, the eggs beaten, the fruit added before being placed in the oven. After what seemed like hours of mayhem, the Christmas pudding was pulled out from the oven as its aroma filled the kitchen. “It’s perfect!” everyone cried in unison. I smiled at Frankie and her children and said “I feel as if Nana is here in some way,” she smiled back and said, “She is, she is alive in our mind and in our laughter.” “Yes, I think you are right.” And so, the sisters hugged and the children laughed, “Now, to decorate!” cried Frankie. If you were to stand outside of that little cottage, you would see that the sky had turned grey around the merry little scene as snowflakes began to drop gently from above. Now, if you peep your head through that cottage’s window you would see a flurry of activity. You would see Amelia’s golden pigtails whizzing around the kitchen with her little brother in tow, you would see the two sisters laughing together amongst all the commotion. And, if you were to rest your ear upon that small cottage window surrounded by old stone you would hear screams of joy and excitement, you would hear the old radio blaring out Christmas song after Christmas song to joyous shouts of recognition from the children, and, if you looked really, really closely through the small old window of that small old cottage. If you hold your hands around your eyes and really look , you would see the figure of a slender woman with a sleek grey bun wearing a flour-covered apron. You keep on looking and see that she is dancing. She is dancing and she is smiling among this little family, because, in the memories of our loved ones, we never truly die. And so, our beloved Lynne lives on in our hearts, in our memories, and more importantly, in that delicious Christmas pudding.


One afternoon in September, I was fixing lunch for my children. I call them in for lunch,I have two children a 9 year old daughter, and a 7 year old son. As they were eating lunch,my daughter talked about playing with her dolls. She loves her doll's,I said that is wonderful baby girl,in which sometimes I call my daughter this. My son look to be talking to someone next to him,in a empty chair at kitchen table. I ask Chase,who was he talking to, "I am talking to my friend. His friend whom died two years ago. My son lost one of his best Playmate's when he was five years old. His little friend got killed in a boat ride, while on a camping and fishing vacation with his parents one summer. Chase, tells me sometimes that Payton which is friend that passed. Come and play with him while in his room, I listen to him to make him feel good,although he was very young at the time of his friend death. I guess Payton want Chase to remembered him also, cause he visit all the time. Payton was very nice handsome little guy,he had a beautiful smile that all the other children liked him. Payton loved to play with Chase,which he called his best friend. Chase loved Payton as his best buddie. The two loved to go everywhere together,the park,lunch play date's, and just playing with each other in the backyard at each others house. So when this happened to Payton, Chase was devastated,he cried for weeks, he didn't want to eat, play or go outside. People really doesn't know how bad death effect children until it happen to one of their closest friend. And Payton's ghost help Chase cope with the lost, by seeing him, in which they play and talk,and Payton pretend to eat lunch with Chase sometimes. In time I will explain too Chase, that what he see's is Payton ghost. I will always make sure Chase never forget his friend Payton. Sometimes,Payton parents comes to visit Chase, give him love, hugs and kisses. They bring some of Payton favorite toys over for Chase. They said Payton would have loved for Chase to have them and so do they. I know you're wondering how is Payton parents a live if Payton died from a boat ride. That's because Payton fell from the boat and no one was able too save Payton. His body washed up couple of day's later. The parents was so devastated they could not except their loss of their son. It's 2 years later and it still hard for them. Payton parents feels this would make Payton happy too see them taking interest in his bestfriend Chase. Sometimes his sister step in and play's with him to make him happy, when he's feeling sad over the loss of his best buddie Chase called Payton. Oh how I wish Payton was here when Chase is sad and feeling bad so they could just have fun talking about school,the teacher's and the little girls. I know Chase love talking about girls,because I hear him and his sister talking about the girls he likes. It one little girl in his class that he really likes, Sometime when he get home,he has the biggest smile on his face, Chase runs to his room,and close his door and he telling his friend Payton all about his day at school and the pretty little girl he like. I know because I'm listing at Chase door. I don't let Chase know that I listen sometimes,he would not like that at all if I spy on him especially when talking about a little girl he likes. Sometimes his sis make fun of him,of the little girl he likes, and that makes Chase very anger and he runs to his room crying and in anger. Then I hear him laughing and having fun, I go to his room to check on him too see if he okay. I response by saying I am just checking to see if you're ok, cause I heard you crying early. He told me his sister was making fun of him because he like a little girl at school. But when he got back to his room, Payton was there to cheer him up. Payton made him laugh, and told him to make fun of his sister,if she like a boy at school. Chase really though that was funny. That Payton said to make fun of sister if she liked a boy at school. One day when Chase is a teenager,I will tell him about his Best buddie Payton when they were 5 years old. What happened too Payton,that why he is know longer with us. How kindhearted, sweet, loving and how all the children love Payton at school. And how you and Payton loved being together and going on play dates to the park and how you guys loved the zoo and eating out. Don't forget the ice cream. Chase liked chocolate and Payton like cookies and cream. I remembered all the time I took Chase and Payton to see soccer games,football and basketball games. Then we would go get hot dogs, chips,and soda or juice and go too the park too have lunch. This was such a devastated loss too all who Payton. Its always a sad loss when some you loved is lost. Payton was part of our family as Chase was part of their family. Sometimes it might help a person if they encountered a ghost,who might looks like a love one you lost. I really doesn't know how in the future Chase will handle what happened to Payton. He will probably take it sadly but understand what happened. I know Chase will have lot's of friends but nothing like your first bestfriend. Lots of girlfriend his sister might tease him about at first,but then become his best supporter. It might turn out that Chase and his sister become best of friend. Maybe nothing wrong with having a ghost friend whom you can talk to,tell them about your ups and downs, about your day if there no one else you have too talk to. But not too go crazy,just to talk too sometimes.


I trace her smile, and then her blonde curls. I spray her scarf with her favorite perfume and sniff her as I place it around my neck. "Jillian! What are you doing?" I hear in the living room. "I am getting ready to leave. Aren't you coming?" The TV is blaring, and it sounds like a busy train station in there. "Leave me for a few hours. It's that time of year again," I yell back, a bit irritated that I have been interrupted. "I need the space please. Take a long time, and have fun!" I say in the most cheery, heart- felt voice I can muster. I retrace that intoxicating smile and her messy blonde curls, which instantly places me right back with her. Her scent surrounds me. He feel her breath, her calm voice in my ear. Now, I smile at the memory of those few Taco Bell splurges- when it was just the two of us." "Okay, I am leaving!" comes the intruding interruption again. With a furrow in my forehead, I yell back, "Okay, I love you!" To myself, "damn it. You know what day it is. Why are you assailing me?" I feel the furrow setting in, and it triggers her fingers rubbing out the number 11 in between my brows. I smile and try to change my expression to erase the already setting in lines, then I lovingly fall back to our Taco Bell memories of the two of us. She had such little money, but I was small and could only eat one taco. She had an Enchirito or a Beefy Tostada and we shared a small drink. (I still take a huge whiff of the taco before I take it out of the wrapper to remember those treasured moments.) I remember the chairs connected to the tables in the small restaurant, and the echo when adults spoke. I remember, her smiling down on me as she watched me eating my taco with my little mouse bites. I remember making her laugh so hard she would beg me to stop for fear that she'd pee her pants. I remember her silliness. We would laugh so hard, it would irritate my dad. I remember her rebellious stubbornness. I remember her struggles when her car broke down in the middle of the highway and my dad couldn't get us because he worked out of town. I remember she'd buy me a soup, 7-Up, and a toy after Dr's visits when I was sick. I knew she couldn't afford it even when I was that little. I remember her sandwiches. It took me years when I married for the second time to understand the ingredients of her sandwiches. I could never get them right even when I used the same ingredients. It was when my husband made me one that I put two and two together- I realized the ingredients were Love. I begin to go through her pictures, smiling as I do. Her skinny, young pictures, her pregnancy pictures, her get-that-camera-out-of-my-face pictures, her holding back tears pictures, her silly-faced pictures, and the countless holiday and vacation pictures. I sob when I think back to the first signs of her illness. Why didn't I do more? Why did I fight with her? Why did I move out at 17? Why didn’t I go to Walmart with her when she asked to keep her company? Why…, but I shake myself out of that bad state of mind. This is not what today is about, and I refocus on her goodness, charity, and self-sacrifice, love, generosity, her smile. I retrace it. I listen to the voice-mail messages she left me, crying again as I hear, “Hello Kitten, give me a call.” Time to watch the few videos of her, and it makes me smile again. Her goofy smile, her exaggerated smiles, her talking eyes, our inside jokes. It's now time for the long-winded but now very-much-appreciated words that she wrote in my birthday and Christmas cards. I take a deep breath and begin to read her sage advice, her feelings, her hopes, her dreams for me. I pull out the book she gave me. I smile and my tears flow readily as I reread the dedication that I have read easily thousands of times. She writes: “Jillian, This beautiful story is something that our family has also helped to fulfill. I hope you realize in honesty and heart-felt sincerity that I decided at a young age to do my share in bringing races together in true unity. I have recently realized that as far as the world has come, there is much progress to be made. I hope, though, my precious princess, that the part you played in helping to refine the world was not a difficult one. If it was, my love, I am sorry, but I hope you realize the importance of changing prejudices among the races. You, my love, are a great young woman. Excel and represent yourself and what I have taught you well, because you represent those teachings but also me as your parent. You are already a Great One among mankind, continue to be. Much Love”. Wiping my tears, I rifle back through the pictures after I read every single card, reset my goals to live up to her mission, and I smell her scent on her scarf as I bring it to my nose one last time. I look in the mirror to find traces of her in me, but my younger sister gobbled up most of her genes- the blonde hair, green eyes, skinny (but fitting for her frame) legs, her patience, and her kindness. I place my arms in the sunlight so I can see my mutant half blonde, half black arm hairs, and I know she's in there. I have inherited her stubbornness, attention to detail when putting projects together, her insatiable attitude for staying up into the next day to finish one of those projects she started way too late, and her self-righteousness. I gather her pictures, the cards, the book, her scarf, and her perfume, and place them into a sunflower box until next year. "I love you, Mama. You are the ideal Beauty because you were the first face I saw when you looked at me from your Love. I hope you are finding the happiness you lost those last twenty-five years of life. Please send us guidance as we try to mend our hearts. Happy fifth anniversary of your death, Mama. I will see you next year." I gather the strength I will need to continue living up to her ideal beauty as the lid closes on her scent, her smiling, hopeful face, her curls.


I ran through the park, laughing with my friends. The summer would last forever, our innocence retained. How stupid we were. Darkness came. Street lights glowed. Villains rose. Parents came. They found my friend's bodies. They never found me. Morning bell rings and I force myself out of bed. My empty dreams fade away in the light of the rising sun. I start my morning routine: get dressed, knife throwing, breakfast, work-out, brush teeth, polishing gear. The second bell rings and hundreds of "recruits" like me file out of rooms identical to mine. We walk down the hall in straight lines. Eyes kept to the ground. Screams come from training rooms. I flinch, remembering the harsh words and pain. Alice works her way up next to me, breaking the lines. We quickly form them behind her. 'Kai,' she says, poking my forehead, 'Sir wants you to report to briefing before morning training today. Better hurry, I was supposed to give you this message an hour ago.' I widen my eyes at her, and peel away from my line at the next hallway. Now that I'm out of routine I can think clearly. Marsha, Henry, Tallie. Marsha, Henry, Tallie. I need to remember their names. October 14, 2008. We were ten. Now I'm 25. 'Hurry up!' Alice comes running down the hallway, 'I really don't want you to die! You're funny!' She pushed her face in front of mine and stared at me with her startling blue eyes. I nod at her, and try to hide a smile. If a higher up saw me now, I would surely be punished. Alice smiled at me more and I cracked. I laughed and hugged her tight. 'Alright, lets go before someone sees us!' Alice giggled, then grabbed my hand and led me down the hall. If anyone had looked at us, they might have mistaken us for a happy couple. No couples, rule no. 178. No smiling, rule no. 5. No running in the halls, rule no. 68. For a second nothing else mattered. Footsteps sounded in the hall and I fell into a steady face, shoving my emotions into a box. Alice kept trying to pull me along but gave up when trainer Tami turned the corner. I nod, and Alice smiles and waves. Tami nods back and continues walking. We turn the corner and stop in front of a door like the thousands of doors in hundreds of hallways. Alice opens it and leads me inside, 'Dad! He's here! Can I get shopping privilege now?' I smile on the inside, as I've taught myself to do. If Sir ever found out about us, he would kill me and take away Alice's privileges. She really loves shopping. She took me once, when she needed someone to help her hold packages. 'Bring him in. I'll give you a shopping trip when he comes back successful from his mission.' Alice pulls me past the hard waiting chairs and into Sir's office. He is sitting in his high backed velvet chair fit for a villain. 'I can never tell whet you find interesting about this one, he's hardly the strongest.' 'I've told you, Dad, he's funny!' Alice lets go of my hand and steps back, giving me a little smile. I stare at Sir and he looks to me for an answer. I simply shrug my shoulders, showing no more emotion than that. 'Alice, sweetie, you know you're not allowed in my room when there's a briefing.' 'I know... Just this once? I won't tell anyone? Please?' Alice gives her best angel eyes that I fell in love with. Sir sighs, but his mouth twitches. 'I don't see why not. You're old enough to go on missions yourself. Maybe you can accompany Forest on his mission today?' Alice squeals, 'This is way better than shopping!' Sir laughs, and I almost smile. 'Forest, your target today is Emily Holter. She owes us money, lots of it. She's being very difficult, and I've decided to send you to take care of it for me. You have until sundown.' He pauses to look pointedly at Alice. 'If anything happens to my daughter, her fault or not, you will be punished severely.' I nod, and Alice stays silent. We were going on a mission together. Alone. We would have the day to ourselves. I wait for three seconds, then turn to leave. Alice waves goodbye, then follows me. She chatters all the way to my room, talking about places she'd like to see, things she'd like to do. I just hope she doesn't become scared of me when the target is neutralised. I gather my gear, and hand Alice a Browning Hi-Power. 'For safety,' I say, and she stares at it, 'You do know how to use it right?' She shakes her head. I stare at her, she really is a spoilt girl, sheltered from most of the goings on in the facility. 'It's simple, just turn off safety and squeeze the trigger. It's already loaded. You probably won't need it, just in case.' Alice smiles cheekily, 'You'll protect me right?' I smile back, 'Of course, that's my job.' Outside it's still morning and orange leaves litter the ground. Alice and I are posing as a dreamy couple on an early morning date. People smile at us as we walk along the path, her hand in mine. Alice leans her head against my shoulder, and squeezes my hand. 'This is nice,' she sighs, 'Why can't we do this every day?' I squeeze her hand back. 'Because you're the daughter of a big time mafia boss, and I'm a lowly recruit.' She laughs, 'That sounds like the plot of a romance story.' I lean my head against hers, 'One where they get away and find true love... Or one where they both end up dead...' 'Don't be such a downer, we might have our happy ending. Just... stay positive, and we'll work something out. Why don't we fake our deaths and run away?' I look down at Alice, she gazes back at me. Maybe that's not such a bad idea. Maybe we could get away... In an instant I've decided. 'Alice.' 'Yeah?' 'That's a great idea.' 'Wait, really?' 'Yes!' I stop walking and pull her over to a bench. 'It's simple, we'll pretend like an enemy organisation found me and you got caught up in it too. It'll be easy.' Alice shakes her head, 'But how will we convince them we're dead?' I smile, 'Baggs.'


AUTHOR’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction, but I have used information about migrating birds from the Audubon Society and Cornell Lab of Ornithology, which I believe is the most up-to-date scientific data. Interviewer: Please tell us what happens during your winter migration. Maude:         Yes, I will tell you the story of what happened last year. Small rustling sounds among the leaves woke me from a sweet dream of warm sunshine and a full stomach. I was hungry and would need to go foraging for food soon. The light was returning to our roost as the sun came up, and the occasional “cheep” soon became a symphony of calls, “cheerily, cheer up, cheerily, cheer up.” Our song grew louder and faster, settling into a steady rhythm as we joined with other birds in the glorious dawn chorus. At dawn our song is faster than at any other time – it is meant to awaken and to rouse us for the hard work of the day. Our song is also a joyous anthem of thanksgiving that we survived the night and have another beautiful day to enjoy. Our roost was getting quite noisy in the mornings, as our flock has been joined by several other flocks. Soon we’ll all be making the long winter migration flight, from the Upper Peninsula of Michigan down to southern Texas and the Gulf of Mexico. We have spent the past few weeks gathering together, and eating as much food as we can find to prepare for that long journey. As soon as we smell that first warm, spicy, and slightly decaying scent of autumn, we spend most of our time foraging and eating whatever we can find – worms, insects, fruit, or berries.            I would be busy today. At nine years of age I am one of the oldest Robins in our flock, and I had the honor and privilege of teaching this year’s crop of new, young fledglings. I am an American Robin, and my name is Maude. I don’t like this name, but my dear mother gave it to me and I keep it to honor her. She died just last winter when she lost her bearings and flew too far out over the ocean. She was a teacher for three years - quite a record. I’ve heard tell that the longest teaching career was that of a Robin from Canada who taught for seven years before she died, but that may be just a legend. Today’s lesson was to be on formation flying, so Il needed to find a bit of extra food to make up for the extra exercise I’d get as I showed the fledgling kids how it’s done. I hoped that they were good kids with good manners, but I didn’t have a lot of confidence in this new batch of youngsters. If yesterday was anything to go by, they are a bunch of hooligans and tearaways, who have no respect for their teachers. I was blessed this year with two successful broods of chicks, and I must give half the kudos for this to my mate Thomas. This was the third year in a row when we have found each other and raised healthy chicks. The first year he caught my eye, and I was taken by his strong voice, bright eyes, and bright red breast, so I followed him, and will follow him again. At my age I have had several mates, but Thomas is the best. He found, claimed, and fought for the best location for a nest, on a sturdy, horizontal branch of a leafy tree, where the nest remained hidden. Unlike many males, Thomas was always there to help with nest building, sitting on eggs, and bringing food to his hungry children and to me. He makes me feel safe, and I hope and pray he survives the winter and I can find him again next year in our breeding ground. I know he will look for me, and that he admires me, which makes me feel good. Thomas is also the most handsome Robin I have ever seen, and I’ve seen females go out of their way to attract him. So far though I’ve been lucky and he still picked me. I think perhaps I am in love! Our first brood this year was a bumper crop of five light blue eggs; I believe humans have named the color “Robin’s egg blue.” Four hatched and in spite of owls, hawks, and other predators, they thrived. A Robin chick has only a fifty percent chance of surviving its first year. So much can go wrong. Our second brood had three eggs and all of them hatched and have survived. I’ve seen all of them flying around, and today I will have them in my class. I must try not to make favorites of them, that wouldn’t be right. But I can’t promise, after all they are my children. Now I must go to eat, then I’ll be giving a lesson, so I will be back later to finish our talk about winter migration. The lesson began after breakfast with an alarm call from me, the sharp “yeep” alerting everyone that youngsters and guards should make their way to the nearby beach. We lived in the woods west of Lake Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. On the beach we would be able to see the approach of a predator and learn how to fly over water. I perched on a high sand dune and explained to the young ones, who stood more or less at attention on the beach below me, that before setting out each day they must eat as much as possible. Then we practiced stretching our wings and bending them to the right or to the left to turn while flying. Next we practiced being aware of our neighbors, feeling their presence, and when one moved slightly, copying that move exactly. This exercise always makes me laugh – a bunch of unruly kids arrayed on the beach, swaying and bobbing all at the same time. There are bound to be mistakes, bumps, even collisions. But we keep trying, and eventually everyone moved together, smoothly and amazingly. I smiled at them and said, “Team, you aced it! You are ready!”  And then we took off, up, up, up, and began to fly, to wheel, to zigzag, to rise, to fall, to fly inland over the trees, and out over the great Lake. We all felt exhilarated, proud, and happy as we flew in almost perfect formation. Then I led us all back to our roost, and thanked our guards, sharing a moment together to be thankful that no predators intruded on the lesson. The young ones were welcomed back into the flock with much excitement and joyous “chirr, chirrs” and fluttering of wings. The next day we must leave. Since a few days ago there have been no worms to eat. The cooling weather has made them begin their winter hibernation. There are but a few insects around, and our large flocks are rapidly eating all the berries, seeds, and fruit that remain. We must fly south to find food. In the Spring we will fly back here to our summer breeding ground, and we will fly as fast as we can and make few stops, in a hurry to claim the best nesting spots and begin building our nests. But in the Autumn we can take our time and fly more slowly, stopping often to eat along the way. And the farther south we fly the warmer it gets, so most of us prefer the winter migration. Already I felt hungry for the fruit treats humans will put out for us on bird feeders. We set off early the next morning, quietly leaving our roosts a few at a time so we didn’t attract predators. Then our great, swirling mass of birds erupted from the woods and flew south along the coastline of Lake Michigan. Many people travel a long way to watch the fall migration of different species of birds; sometimes we see the sunlight reflected in a pair of binoculars being used by a human. Our flocks are lucky; we do not have to fly far before we come to areas where a lot of humans live, and as usual we found lots of food at bird feeders in human gardens. We were not yet far enough south to catch the last of the wild berries and fruit, or earthworms and insects, but in a day or two we would be. For the first night we flew inland a little to roost in the woods, where there are still enough leaves left on the trees to make this safe for us. In the morning we found we all made it through the first day and night, and we took off again. On days when there is not much wind and no rain we can fly up to two hundred miles in one day, and we keep a steady pace for as long as we can of about thirty miles per hour. On some days we run into problems. We flew over open fields for a long time, then came to a river and a string of small towns built next to the river, where we saw berries and fruit growing along hedgerows and around clumps of trees. We landed in the field and began foraging and eating. Perhaps we were the first flocks to fly over this particular part of the country, because there was fruit in abundance. Then I noticed a plant I dreaded seeing. It is a beautiful plant and has the most tempting smell – I believe you call it “honeysuckle.” In the autumn it has berries so delicious you can’t stop eating them, and that’s when the trouble starts for Robins. We get drunk on these berries. At first they make you feel just feel happy and relaxed, then giggly and a little dizzy, then everything you look at is waving about in front of you. I know all this from experience, but I was very young. I always tell my children about these berries, but that seems to make them actively look for them on our journeys and I know they enjoy the experience of being intoxicated. At least until the next day when the headaches arrive. We had to postpone our migration for a whole day because of those naughty youngsters who ate a few too many honeysuckle berries. To be honest, I envied them and wished I was not an elder who had to set an example as a leader. The worst part of this delay was our being exposed in the open field for such a long time. All the adults, and especially the male guards, were on full alert for predators, and we were ready to fight them off. Robins can fight fiercely for their young and their flock. I have seen the male of a breeding pair viciously attack a cat making its way up the trunk of the tree that housed a nest with his chicks inside. He won: the cat screamed, fell down and ran off. I have also seen a female swooping down and pecking at the head of a human male who was trying to get up to her nest to steal eggs. She won: the man gave up and left, rubbing his bleeding head. Sad to say, two days later we lost two of our older Robins who just didn’t have the strength to keep flying and plummeted to the ground. We also lost two young fledglings, who looked weak and sickly from the time they hatched, and had been watched over by their parents and other members of the flock until the end. A few more fledglings died because they wandered off by themselves, perhaps to explore, I don’t know. I stopped keeping a count of the ones we lose each trip because it breaks my heart so. When we finally reached our destination in Texas we were all exhausted. My flock tried to find our usual little wooded area, but it had buildings and roads on it, and all the trees had been cut down. Sad and weary, we found another wood, further inland from the ocean, but still with an abundance of insects and worms for us to eat. And we settled down to eat a feast, roost, and rest. We would forage and eat as much as we could during the winter to regain the weight lost during migration and to get ourselves in good shape for next year’s breeding season. We would stay here until the air warmed in the spring, then make our way to our winter breeding grounds. It was what we did each year – for us it was part of the circle of life. Well, now I’ve told you all about our winter migration, and a lot more besides, can I ask you something? In the middle of winter each year you have a big celebration and give to your families and friends little cards with pictures of Robins. I would like to know why you do this?


It has been years since I am a teenager now. I am here alive and breathing but she’s not. I still remember that sweet peach smell she gave off. I tried looking for every product with the peach smell but none of them were like the enchanting smell she gave off. But who am I kidding with? I am standing here alone at the bus station; the exact location where she had her accident.

I wouldn’t have blurted out my feelings for her if I had known what was about to happen that day. Only if I knew that my life was going to be tangled right here on this road. My one-sided crush died here. The weird thing is that today I still have a crush on her who is dead for seven years now. Every day I wake up I think about her, thinking what if I had kept my mouth shut at that time. Today is my mother’s birthday so I had to return to my hometown. I would have never set my foot in this town; if it hadn’t been for my mother.

As I was deep into my thought; the bus driver honked at me. "Are you getting on or not?". Thank god, the bus driver honked at me, or else I would have missed my last bus to my town. I hopped on the bus and took a seat. Suddenly I got a call. "Hey. I found a perfect date for you. Forget about that girl, I have a really nice dude to set you up on a blind date and forget that crush of your’s." "Well, you can never forget your first love I guess. But thank you for the blind date. Text me his number."; I spoke and immediately hung up.

Visiting this town was giving me anxiety with all those flashbacks. I was depressed and just wanted to fall asleep. After a good nap thankfully I woke up at the right stop. I hurriedly ran to the exit door which was already crowded. "Jesus, bring some patience to these people.";I thought to myself.

As I walked through that door I smelled something quite unusual. I was taken aback because I got the smell of the same kind of peaches my crush, Emma had. I told myself I was going crazy after visiting my hometown but I still had hope that this was Emma.

All those flashbacks came in my head as I looked back again and again thinking if I met Emma here actually. I know I am going crazy but god I still love her and I have to go look for her. But I was a coward from the beginning so I couldn’t go look for her and just walked as all those flashbacks continued.

It was after the summer break, my senior year of high school. As I walked through the door with all the papers my homeroom teacher assigned me to distribute to all my classmates, I saw a girl walk by. My heart was going crazy as if I had seen a cute little puppy. At that moment I didn’t know I was into both guys and girls so I just thought I was jealous of her beauty.

I wish it was the first and the last time I met her. But fate had something else written for me. We met again and again. We had almost all of our classes together except for chemistry and photography. She had studied literature and economics which I learned later after approaching her. Since we had so many classes together and us running to each other constantly at the school compound, our slight smile with a nod came to "hi" and then to a great bond of friendship. My stomach still had all these butterflies but I ignored it thinking something was wrong with me.

She had a boyfriend and I don’t know why I kind of hated him for no reason. One day Emma called me. "Hey, Emma. What’s up. You normally just text me. Anything’s wrong?"; I asked but I was not really that concerned.

"Let’s have a girls’ night. Let’s go shopping and chill at my place for the night. No further questions I will be at your home in 10 minutes. Love you bye."; Emma hung up on me. Gosh, I was so messy, I still remember putting my makeup on even though I was so bad at it. Emma was all about the horrible makeup during the night. Never thought any of her laughs would have been the last one. I forgot how much of a rich spoiled kid she is until she came back to her shopping obsession. This situation only meant that she went through something that made her uncomfortable or sad or both. But I waited until I spent overnight at her house to ask her. Finally, we both were on our PJs so I asked Emma what was wrong. Her somber sound broke out as she said the words any girl in 90% of the relationship would say. "We broke up." I don’t know why but I was really happy. I just hugged her comforting her. I don’t remember if it was the drink we had in those plastic cups that were stolen or the drunk heart lost in lust. We ended up kissing and stripping. The rest of the night is a blur in my memory but the next morning we were next to each other with no clothes on. I was confused about what I was doing, I was embarrassed by this fact so I just put on my clothes and ran home. I ended my weekend thinking about what it was. I had no clue why I did that. All I could say to myself was, "I am supposed to like boys and have this lust for boys. What is wrong? Why am I not regretting what happened with Emma ." Emma and I didn’t contact each other the entire weekend. On Monday I went to school, I still had to discuss it with Emma. But when I called her in the hallway she just ignored me. I thought she didn’t hear me. I passed a note to her during class asking her if we were still cool. But she threw it away without even taking a glance at it. I was hurt. I was angry at myself thinking why I was hurt of she just ditched our friendship. It was common for me anyway. After an entire week of me trying to approach her I gave up. I lost hope for our friendship. I walked home alone with a disappointed face and it suddenly poured. I ran and took shelter until the rain stopped. I don’t know if it was fate or mere coincidence, but a homeless man was sitting beside me. He had a radio in his hand. He was listening to some kind of love broadcasting.

"Love is not something magical. You have to follow the butterflies in your stomach and instinct of your heart. You may not love her or you may not be the best fit. But if you are lonely and depressed without that one person, go for it. It’s worth a try." I don’t know why he was listening to such kind of nonsense. I would have thought such a thing but I realized what I was looking for. I thanked the homeless guy and gave him so many changes I was carrying and ran in the pouring rain to Emma’s house. I didn’t have to rehearse or anything. At that moment I knew what I was going to say. I called Emma running as I called her.

"We need to talk"; we both said as soon as she picked up the call.

"Meet me at the bus station. Let’s talk"; she said and hung up.

I ran there and saw her standing there. She looked brighter than others. And she was looking alluring and bewitching as always. I ran to her and spoke wheezily. "Look I don’t know what you feel. I like your peachy smell and I don’t know how but you smell different. This is new for me but I don’t know I was into girls too. I just realized what I feel and I wanna tell you. I freaking love you, Emma Churchill. And not even you can change my decision to like you. I may not be the best fit for you but I will not give up on you." Emma was speechless. I don’t know what her expression meant. Was she regretting, was she happy or shocked? Emma told me, "look I don’t know what you mean by that. That night was a mistake. I like only boys. We were drunk and fulled around a little bit. please stop acting as if something happened between us in school. It’s embarrassing." She ran away as I stood there watching her go. My heart ached and I wanted to go grab her hand and ask her again that she didn’t feel the same. But I was having cold feet so I stood as she ran away crossing the road. I didn’t realize it but she was running through a crowd of vehicles. And just after a blink, she was on the ground covered in blood. Her umbrella in front of me. I ran crying and screaming her name towards the dead body of my first ever love.

I never smelled anyone like her again. And I guess I wanted closure. That smell on the bus stop became the closure and this flashback hopefully becomes a nightmare. It was nice not knowing who that person with a smell like Emma. Or else I might have never had closure.

With this flashback, I already reached my apartment. I took a shower and went straight to bed and slept soundly finally, after the death of Emma. The morning came and I got ready for my date at 1 pm after a heavenly sleep until 10.

I waited for the bus as I called my blind date.

"HELLO?"; I initiated the call. "Lift your hand if your name is Ashley."; My blind date giggled as he spoke.

I awkwardly lifted my hand up in the sky and someone poked me from behind. I turned around with a confused yet angry look.

"Hey, I am your blind date. Nice to meet you. Thank god your friend gave me your photo."; A handsome man was standing in front of me. Beside him, there was Emma smiling and suddenly the man started smelling like the peaches like Emma did. I smiled to myself as Emma telepathically said, "just think of me and I will be somewhere near you."