The window creaked open. A small figure squeezed through the gap onto a narrow ledge. Its wing caught on a rusty nail hidden in the wooden frame, tearing the fragile structure. Blood trickled down its side. A gush of icy wind knocked it back. It took a moment to steady itself, then inched slowly to the edge and peered down. A lamp cast a dim glow on the deserted street. An ambulance siren wailed in the distance. Coming to save someone's broken body... useless for a broken heart. A voice drifted in through the window. "Babe.. stay." It was a male voice, desperate and exhausted.  The creature turned around. Maybe there was hope? Maybe it got it wrong? But it couldn't be…  "It's late. I don't want you going out there so late. Stay, please. For one more night." "It's broken. We broke it." Another voice, female, teary and barely audible. "I know." "I'm so sorry we broke it." "Me, too." The male voice broke; he gave up.  A sharp pain shot through its stomach, and it knew it was over. It watched the two of them through the window, its tiny hands pressed against the frosty glass. It watched as he opened his arms for her, and she stepped into them. It watched as he held her tight and buried his face in her hair. It watched much later, their bodies entwined under the covers, breathing as one, for one last time. Then it sat down wearily, pulled its knees under its chin, its back resting against the cold wall. The ache in its stomach was becoming stronger.  And now, the wait… It was odd, really. It remembered when they met, and it didn’t even seem like the beginning of a love story at all. And then it unfolded, slowly at first, the first kisses, the first nights, the first I love you’s, and a thousand ordinary moments turned into a thousand memories that now cracked and shattered and spilt with its every breath.  It wondered when it would hit fully. It wondered about the anger, the longing, the sadness, the emptiness. It wondered who would be the first one to let go.  “You're very beautiful.” The silver cat appeared quietly, seemingly out of nowhere. Still as a statue in the window, his piercing yellow eyes bored into the stranger with a mix of suspicion and curiosity.  The creature lifted its head to meet his unblinking stare. Its injured wing swayed slightly. It was a simple statement, and yet it somehow required an explanation.  The cat tilted his head slightly. “Who are you?” “I am.. Well, it’s difficult to say at this moment.” It looked sadly at the sleeping couple. The cat followed its gaze, then turned back to inspect its broken body. "Oh." His eyes fell. He observed his paws, lost in thought. “I don’t understand humans. They complicate things. They fight and hurt each other. It’s messy.” “Love is like that sometimes.” The Cat mulled this over for a moment. “So.. Can’t you fix it?” “No. I am but a reflection.” “Of their love?” It nodded. “But you’re in much pain.” The yellow eyes were rounded with confusion. It nodded again, slowly. "And yet you are so very beautiful." A statement, again. The cat seemed to be in a struggle. "So, what happens now?” There was a hint of worry in his voice. The creature did not answer but waited instead for him to understand. “I see. I will give you some privacy, then... Goodnight.” The cat held its gaze for a while and tried to communicate something that he somehow could not put into words. Then he bowed slightly, turned around and disappeared in one swift motion.  “Goodnight.” the creature whispered to no one in particular.  It watched as the first snowflakes began to fall, swirling in the glow of the lamp. It thought again of the two. It hoped they would not be too lonely without each other.  It hoped, and wondered, and felt so much and so little at the same time.  It finally fell asleep hours later, a deep and dreamless sleep, with its wings curled around its tiny body for shelter.  It was then that a soft paw picked it up, gently, and carried it inside, away from the freezing cold.


A Nazi and a Buddhist each write a symphony. The Nazi forces out the full potential of the orchestra, utilizing all of its colors and dynamics in a long, grandiloquent development of themes and textures that culminate in a glorious climax of sound and emotion. The Buddhist creates a short, spare piece that utilizes a reduced orchestra and foregoes concepts such as development and variation in order to facilitate an eternal moment of pure experience. Each composer is inspired by his philosophy: it is almost as if Nazism created the Nazi’s piece and Buddhism created the Buddhist’s. Years later, a young composer discovers the symphonies of the Nazi and the Buddhist. She does not know of the composers’ convictions; she merely ran into these pieces by scrolling through YouTube. She is entranced by both of these pieces for separate reasons. She particularly enjoys how each composer masterfully utilizes the orchestra: the Nazi’s kaleidoscopic stretching and twisting of the ensemble’s dynamic, range, and color; the Buddhist’s ethereal and subtle contemplation of sonic concepts. These two pieces begin to mix within the young composer, and soon she begins work on her own symphony, directly inspired by her contact with the Nazi’s and the Buddhist’s products. What eventually results in an intriguing combination of the two pieces, a sort of medium-length work that, despite its virtuosity, seems to simmer on the subject of the orchestra itself, that expands and contracts and swirls, yet never seems to leave a certain space. Decades pass, and some well-established music historians and theoreticians take it upon themselves to trace the development of the young composer’s piece, as it formed itself in her psyche. Their work culminates in a shocking thesis: due to its direct influences, the young composer’s symphony represents the first Nazi-Buddhist music in existence. This unleashes a flood of political strife within music academia. Should the work—and the composer herself—continued to be used as an example of refined orchestration, now that its ideological bases have been revealed to be some sort of grotesque chimera between two opposing philosophies (including Nazism)? Some professors stop mentioning the composer in their courses; others go farther and blatantly denounce her work, caricaturing the flaws of the symphony and attributing these flaws to the composer’s miscegenous philosophy. Musicology courses take an opposite tack by highlighting her as a point of interest within the history of Western composition, glancing at her as though at a curious artifact, but no longer do they dwell on her musical contributions. Despite this, the new generation of composers, particularly those sufficiently distanced from academia, continue to listen and study the composer and her symphony. They know neither her history, her ideologies, nor her influences, and those who do know—forget. They only know the music. A collective of some of the more philosophically-minded among this generation posit their own thesis on her symphony: because she did not know of the philosophy and ideology behind her influences, the young composer had not allowed these philosophies to write the piece for her, but rather the orchestra itself had written this piece through her. These composers hope that the spirit of the orchestra will also influence them in such a way.


There once was a tortoise village. The village citizens lived a calm and predictable life and thrived on lettuce, carrots and love. One night, a wolf came to the village and ate two of them. The tortoises were in despair. Those two tortoises that were eaten were among the most popular and kind of the tortoises that lived in the village and their absent was agonizing. In their sorrow, the tortoises decided to gather up the eldest and wisest of the tortoises and leave it to them to decide what should be done. The eldest and wisest gathered therefore and sat down to decide what to do. The first tortoise, who actually wasn’t that old, and definitely not that wise, said that the best thing to do was to commit a collective suicide by jumping into the lake. At the bottom of the lake, he said, no wolf will find the tortoise. The other tortoises rejected this idea and said that it was probably the stupidest idea they have ever heard in their long lives. The second tortoise, who obviously neither was that old (or for that matter, wise), said that the tortoise’s best choice was to migrate to America. In New York, said the second tortoise, no wolfs walk the streets – not even during nighttime. This idea, said the other tortoises, was – even if it wasn’t as stupid as the first one – among the most ridiculous they have ever heard in a long time. Migrate to America? Asked the tortoises – had the not-too-old-or-wise forgotten they were tortoises? It would take them half an eternity to get there. Before they would reach halfway the wolves would have eaten the whole lot of them. The third, and considerably older and wiser tortoise in the gang, had an idea. The tortoises could build a tower, he said, and every night they could place a guard on top of it. Should the guard see a wolf approaching, he would start screaming: “Wolf! Wolf!”. The other tortoises, who were then sound asleep, would thereof wake up, and seek a hiding place. The wolf would have to go and search for consolation among the chicken in the neighboring village. The tortoises liked this idea and decided unanimously to accept it. They raised a tower in the middle of the village and took turns guarding during the night. Exactly like old and wise said, if the guard on duty saw a wolf approaching during the night he warn the others, who were sleeping, so they could go and hide, and the wolf went hungry away to try to find consolation by means of the chickens in the neighboring village. Order had returned and life in the tortoise village was once again calm and predictable. But one night, it was Bertil’s turn for night guard duty. Now, it wasn’t so that Bertil was a loner or in any other way a troublesome tortoise – on the contrary, he was a popular and sociable citizen and everybody who knew him (which everybody did), loved him. The only thing that distinguished Bertil from the others was that he suffered from stuttering. When night came, Bertil climbed dutifully up the tower and peered all night for the wolf. When he suddenly saw it approaching, he began to scream, but the words got stuck in his mouth and all he could say was “Wo! Wo! Wo!”. The other tortoises, who lay asleep, woke up, gazed up the tower, and decided that Bertil might have drank too much carrot juice, and then went back to sleep. That night, the wolf ate three more tortoises. In the morning, when the disaster revealed itself, despair was back in town. But before the tortoise mob could lynch Bertil to death, the tortoises decided once again to gather the elder and wise in order to decide what should be done. And so, they did. The first tortoise, who, as mentioned before, wasn’t particularly old nor wise, said that the tortoises should stone Bertil to death, as a punishment for his behavior. That idea, thought the rest of the tortoises, was, although tempting, very stupid. The tortoises were a peaceful folk and punishment was not a part of their agenda. The second tortoise, who neither was particularly old nor wise, said that the tortoises better exile Bertil, and why not to America. That idea, thought the rest of the tortoises, was only a hair less idiotic than the first one, and of the same reason. The third tortoise, which, as discussed before, was the oldest and wisest of his folk, had an idea. Let life run it’s course as usual, he said, and as the evening comes whence Bertil’s turn it is to guard at night, let us warn the village citizens, and remind them that should the guard start screaming “Wo! Wo! Wo!” in the midst of night, it is not because of over consumption of carrot juice, but instead because he suffers from a quite common disorder and tries to warn us of the coming wolf. Go and hide, citizens, and let the wolf go hungry away and once again try to find consolation in the company of the chickens in the neighboring village. The tortoises decided that the shrewd senile once again was right and did as he had said. The evening before Bertil’s guarding duty they reminded each other of the circumstances of the stuttering guard, and went to sleep, albeit slightly concerned. In the middle of the night the tortoises woke up, hearing the guard’s screams. They saw poor Bertil up in the tower screaming “Wo! Wo! Wo!”, and even if they first thought it was just another case of carrot juice intoxication, they could readily remember the warning they got the evening before and want and hid themselves. The wolf, who had an utter craving for a tortoise supper, had to indulge himself once again with a couple of chickens from the neighboring village. When the tortoises woke up the next morning, they were out of their minds with happiness, and decided to organize a celebration. They wore their best shields, served the most delicious meals a tortoise could ask for, and danced in the streets. In the midst of the festival, the tortoises heaved Bertil up on their shoulders in order to praise him. Bertil yelled: “Hip! Hip!” and the tortoises answered “Hooray!”. Bertil screamed again: “Hip! Hip!” and the tortoises answered: “Hooray!”. And then came a hippo and ate them all.


Growing up, I was always appreciated. Never once was I told I wasn't good enough, or that I wouldn't amount to anything. My parents weren't like that, my father was a pastor and my mother stayed at home raising us kids. They always looked after us, did what was best for us. And back when we didn't have much family was all we had, sounds a little cliche but it's true. And you would do anything for your family. August 2013 "Antony, come hear," those few words changed my life forever. My father was the type of man who liked to keep his cards close to his chest, never telling anyone anything if he didn't have to. My mother was the only exception to that rule, but the rest of us knew what was really going on. Me and my brother pretended like we didn't, but we did. When he called me over I didn't know if I was getting disowned or rewarded, and that was how he liked to have it. "Antony, me and your mother have been talking and..." the way my father spoke is how I always imagined someone like Caesar talking, a voice of confidence and control that just made you not just want to listen to him, but like you had no choice but to listen to him. "We both think it's time you start helping me down at the church." Now to a normal sixteen-year-old boy, spending their after school time in an old church may not sound like all that much fun. But to me, it was a dream come true, I would get paid to hang out with my dad and I would finally be let into the family business. Little did I know what a rude awakening I was in for down the line. After all, not everyone's father was the head of a major New York crime family. February 2014 By this time the screams and muffled gunshots coming from the back of the church had become less than a mild bother, most of the time I didn't even realize they were there. In a world like this one with violence and death on a daily basis, you had to grow a spine real quick. My father had me keeping the books, making sure that the real one and the one the cops would get if they ever ask were consistent enough to not seem suspicious. I was always good at math, a skill that the rest of my family didn't share. So while my brother Romulus was being groomed to take over the business someday; all intimidation and muscle, I was becoming a cheap teenaged accountant. And as hard as it may be to believe I was actually fine with where I was, unlike most people in the crime family, I didn't have ambitions. I didn't want to be in charge, I didn't need to be. I got to stay in my small room in the back of the church with a desk and a lamp, all that I needed. March 2019 Flash forward five years. Five years of me doing the exact same thing, crunching numbers and putting them in the books. The family was stable, it wasn't what it was but we were doing alright. But that all changed when it came time for my father to name his successor, he didn't give the seat to my brother, who he had been raising into the kind of leader he was… no, he said my name. All and all I was surprised, honoured, but surprised. And when I asked him why he chose me over my brother, he told me, "I don't want another tough brute running this family Antony, we've had enough of that and now they way we make our living is going extinct." He wanted someone smart to help run the family back into its prime, and he chose me to do it. I couldn't just say no, I wanted to but men like my father didn't accept no. So if I couldn't get out of it I would just have to do what he wanted, and I would have to do it the best I possibly could. I respected my father too much to half-ass a job he entrusted me with, even if it was one I didn't want. My brother wasn't too pleased with my father's choice. And I couldn't really blame him, imagine that your entire life, you believed that you had something as a sure thing and then when the moment finally comes it's given to someone else. He felt betrayed, and when our father wasn't around he made sure I knew it, "you scrawny mother fucker, I don't know how you did this but I'm going-." But as soon as dad was back in the room, he went back to being the voiceless thug he actually was, "You're doing the family proud, Antony." He didn't have to like Dads decision, but there was absolutely no way he could question it, not if he wanted to stay in the family. And once he was out of the family he lost all protections, and you don't do the kind of business he's done without making a few enemies. It sounds cliche but it's true. It only took a few months after the announcement that I would be the new Boss for my father to decide that it was time for him to retire. One hand I agreed with him, he was getting older and he didn't need the kind of stress that came with the job. On the other hand, him retiring meant I would have to take over sooner than I was expecting. I thought I would have enough time to prepare myself, I wasn't ready to run the family yet. I always thought my dad would die before giving up his seat, that's just the kind of man he was, he would give everything he had. But he decided to give it up while he was still breathing, and I wasn't quite sure what to do with that, but I didn't have to think about it long. They got me when I was walking home from the church. I should have been safe. But no, one minute you're walking down the street, the next you're chloroformed and thrown in the back of a van. The next thing I remember is waking up in the cliche mob torture warehouse tied to a chair. I mean this place had it all, broken windows, in the middle of nowhere, lots of floor space, the works. At first, I was alone, it's a technique that lets the victim realize the gravity of the situation, let their fear build up. But it didn't really bother me, when my kidnappers finally decided to show themselves, I was entirely disappointed. The pair, a man and a woman, were wearing these weird anime masks with blank smiling expressions. If they were wearing masks that meant I was going home alive and that they would be hunted down like dogs. "Hello, Mr Blackwell," the woman, talked first, calm, clearly a professional. Fortunately for myself, being the son of a crime boss made being kidnapped a real possibility growing up, and learning not to be afraid of stuff like this was just a part of it. My father would have me kidnapped a couple of times a year, just for a situation like this one. "You are going to give up your seat as the head of the Blackwell family and pass it down to your brother." You have no idea how much I wanted to give it up, just to get out of this damp warehouse if nothing else. But my father was the God of his own little world, and if you disappointed him it didn't matter how much he loved you, he would smite you. "And why would I do that." "Because if you don't, we'll carve your face up so good your own mother won't be able to recognise you," I had heard of this lady before, The Plastic Surgeon. She could make anyone's reflection a grotesque stranger if they didn't do what her client wanted, only ever touching the face, she wouldn't lay a finger on anything else. And now it seemed like it was my turn under her knife. "So… whats is going to be kid?" "I'm afraid I'm going to have to say no." And that's when I got the first of many punches. I'm pretty sure she broke my nose, not that it matters in the grand scheme of things. "Alright, that was your one and only chance. I don't care if in five minutes you cry out for me to stop, there are no second chances with me." And that's when the beatings began, up until she said the words that really made me nervous, "go get the belt sander." Over the next six months, she would take various sharp objects, from screws to sandpaper and shove them in my face, stabbing, slicing, and grinding away at my identity. She was actually quite inventive, something I could respect. Eventually, I couldn't even feel it anymore, it just became the only constant thing I had to look forward to. "Hahahaha!," it was a little scary, "hahaha! C'mon, is that the best you got? You didn't even scrape bone this time." The pain became my life, and why not try to enjoy it more than the masochist torturing me? Near the end, I'm pretty sure I had felt all the pain The Plastic Surgeon could deal out. But eventually, every party must end. “I'll admit you're tough for someone who looks so fragile,” at this point, I couldn't even talk, the skin of my face was more like a mask in itself, hanging on by a few threads. "But I'm afraid it's now time for our parting gift,” and that’s when she wheeled out the acid. You would think that your flesh burning, melting back in place would be my wake up call, but I was just happy to feel again. They dropped me off in the bad part of town, in nothing but a blanket and one of their masks to cover myself and keep my face in place. Some people at this point would have given up, no clothes, no face, a family who thinks your most likely dead. I had basically nothing… Except for a plan. “And now, we find ourselves at the end result of that plan,” in the empty, dimly lit restaurant the Blackwell crime family's dinner of twelve was interrupted by an unexpected thirteenth guest. Wearing the most audacious suit he could find: a bright red jacket and neon green pants, and the same mask his kidnappers left him with. His voice was flamboyant and excited The masks solid expression surveyed the room, looking at his captive audience. Every member at the table was bound and gagged, completely at the mercy of the prodigal son returned. “I mean it wasn't a hard leap for me to figure out that it was my own brother who hired The Plastic Surgeon. Who else would have wanted me out of the picture?” he stopped in front of a young man, sitting at the table, with fear in his eyes. “Just admit it,” he said pulling the tape off his brother's mouth. He was breathing heavily, sweat starting to form on his brow, "Alright Antony, I'm sorry-" “Oh wait, It doesn't really matter if you confess or not,” with that he cut the young man's throat, blood falling from his neck and into the young man's dinner as he struggled to breathe, drowning in his own blood. "But the plan doesn't stop there… after those long months in the warehouse, I thought I had gone insane. But then I realized, insanity is just a different form of clarity. And believe me, I am just starting to see things much more clearly. As soon as I figured out it was Romulus I knew I was going to kill him, I just had to figure out where and when. Lucky for me the annual family meeting was coming up, and even though I never attended one, I did all the books, so your "secret" meeting place," he said making air quotes with his hands, still holding the bloody knife, "was always just that old Italian restaurant dad used to take me to." As he talked he walked around the table, "next I needed to hire some muscle, fortunately, the family has no shortage of people they've pissed off." With a snap of his fingers, four men with gas tanks emerged from the shadows. "Now," he said addressing his father at the head of the table, "in a mobster movie, this would be the time that I say that this is just business, nothing personal… but," he lifts his mask to reveal the grotesque, scared, sliced, burned, and melted collection of flesh he had for a face. "This is extremely personal," on his command the men started pouring the gasoline on the members of the family. He pulled a matchbook from his pocket, tossing it from one hand to another, "now dad, I really don't want to do this, like I said… you were always nice to me. The best father I could have asked for," he takes a match from the matchbook. Lighting it, the match reflected off of the plastic, his plastic mask glowing in the firelight, “but this isn’t about me,” he drops the match and the entire table is set ablaze, the muffled screams of the other men echo throughout the room, his father just stared at him, his expression unreadable as he burned, “I’m sorry dad, but something happened in that warehouse. I didn't want this job at first, but the more they tortured me, told me to give it up the more I wanted to hold onto it. So that's what I'm going to do, make your dream come true, bring this family into the future better than it ever was… bu In order to do that I need a fresh start, the old way, your ways nearly destroyed our way of life, so I'm taking all the old pieces of the board. And we both know that the best way to clear the board is the best way to deal with anything… burn it down.


It was when Steve saw the studio cameras pointed in his direction, when the roar of the audience’s excitement washed over him, and when he caught the eyes of the young girl holding those golden scissors that he knew he’d made a terrible mistake. \- - - There was nothing special about Steve and Christine Gallagher. Sure, they owned two pugs that caught a lot of attention in shopping malls and dog parks, but that was about as far as their shine went. Christine taught at the local school. Steve sold cars. That’s about it, really. Well, Steve was sort of famous in a vague sense of the word: almost everybody in town drove one of Steve’s cars. To be fair on the townspeople, he was the only dealer. On weekends, they would often see Steve and Christine out somewhere. Shops. Parks. Always with the pugs. People would stop and say hello to them - first to the pugs, then to Steve and Christine. The townspeople knew where their priorities lay. But when the town - or, rather, the entire world - found out about Steve’s secret, the Gallaghers suddenly became an overnight global sensation. Even more popular than their two adorable pups! Their sudden explosion in popularity came off the back of an event long ago... As 1970 was coming to an end, high school senior Steve Gallagher and his girlfriend at the time, Kelly Ryan, had spent Christmas Eve wandering the snow-covered footpaths. Together, hand in hand, they braved the cold night for the carollers’ tunes and Christmas light street show. He still couldn’t believe it had been three years since they had survived their first date in the park, when it had rained so hard their car got flooded. Lady luck hadn’t exactly been kind; look what the years had brought them. Steve often said Kelly was what got him through his mother’s passing. That kind, simple smile she used to temper his anxiety, the way she’d tilt her head just slightly and listen. Like she did then on that snowy night, walking beside him, keeping him warm. It seemed like the perfect opportunity - he planned to give her a beautiful necklace with the letters ‘K’ and ’S’ attached to it and to ask her to be his beautiful wife. But as the two edged closer towards the last house on the block, Steve’s mix of excitement and nerves was cut short. Kelly slowed to a stop, turned towards Steve and, with eyes glassy and lost, ended their relationship. Before Steve could even comprehend it, Kelly passed him a small package wrapped in beautiful gold paper and sealed with a string bow. And then she walked off into the snowy night. Gone for good. Overwhelmed by shock, Steve staggered home, threw the gift under the Christmas tree and swore to his family he would never open that present. He never did. But the present never left him. Forty-seven years later, Steve still brought out that old, crinkled, faded gold package and placed it beneath his Christmas tree. This was done, of course, despite his wife’s attempts to get rid of it and the passion their pugs held for the early opening of presents when no one was at home. What started as a hope that one day Steve and Kelly would reunite and could open it together eventually grew into a habit, a sort of charm - that he received pleasure out of knowing he’d kept it for so long without spoiling what’s inside. Over the years he’d taken many guesses as to what could be hidden under the now fading wrapping. Could it be a book, a photo of the two or even a now-crusty box of his favourite childhood chocolates? Although, when he thought on it, the feeling of seeing the timeless gold under his tree every year was a gift in and of itself. That was until his secret got out… After uploading a photo of their Christmas tree and decorations to Facebook, a simple throwaway comment from Auntie June typed up during one of her notorious “Christmas benders” pointing out the forty-seven-year-old present attracted the attention of the whole town. One tag turned into two, two into five, and very quickly the photo of the Gallagher’s Christmas tree had three hundred comments and over one thousand likes. Everyone wanted to know more about the ‘secret present’ and, most importantly, what was inside. By the time dinner was ready, the post had received close to five thousand comments from people all over the country who were now sharing the story and taking guesses at what could be inside. Hoping the buzz would die down the next day, Christine deleted the photo and the two retreated to their bedroom and fell asleep. Though, like wildfire spreading, the interest only doubled overnight. The next morning, Steve was awoken by Christine, who had a phone pressed against her ear. RPM News was calling, saying they wanted to interview him about the ‘secret present’. The deleted photo was circulating on news websites and blogs who were all asking the same question - what is inside? BuzzFeed had even created a list of "25 Things That Would Fit in the Secret Present". Annoyed and unsure how to navigate the unsolicited attention, Steve grabbed the phone and hung up. As he walked towards the kitchen to start the day, he noticed a small gathering of people standing on his front lawn waiting around with their phones in their hands. Puzzled, but assuming they must be a morning walking group, he ate his breakfast and ducked past the windows and into the garage. As the garage door opened and he backed down the driveway, he was met with cheers and waves from the crowd of strangers. Smiling and offering a confused wave, Steve headed for work. He was determined to go about his day as if nothing had happened but when he arrived, he was greeted by his coworkers as though he was a celebrity. Balloons and a cake with an unflattering photo of him and the words “Town Legend” decorated on it was sitting on his desk. Becoming frustrated, he began working the floor, hoping it would distract him. He approached a young man who said he was looking to buy his first car. Though strangely, the man seemed more interested in taking selfies with Steve than of the cars he was looking at. Realising the customer was only looking for one thing - that wasn’t a new car - Steve walked back into the office where he remained until he clocked off. The cake wasn’t bad. Steve and Christine both returned home from work and crawled to the sofa. Their pugs followed. Together, the dogs sighed and dreamed. But Steve and Christine could only sigh, long and deep. The buzz hadn’t died down, in fact it was only growing. Steve turned to Christine and Christine turned to Steve. Right. That’s it. Things need to change. RPM News was more than happy to help with that; so happy, in fact, that they sent around a reporter the following day. As he sat on the opposite side of their kitchen table, Christine noticed that his hair matched the colour of their lemon tablecloth. Steve didn’t like the way he smirked instead of smiled, that little curl to the lip. Shark-like. It felt very odd telling all the gory details of his life to a man he’d only just met. But it wasn't only his life he had to talk about. Her’s too. Speaking about a ghost makes it real - this mystery giver of the gift. Soon enough, the reporter had what he needed: a tragic backstory, a car crash, and a last gift of love. Golden Kelly, the reporter dubbed her. Whatever he called her, Steve was just happy to get that sleazeball out of his home. At least now, their lives could return to normal. Or so they thought. After RPM published the article, the story touched the hearts of people all over the country and, not all that long after, most of the world. In countries as far away as Slovenia, avid Golden Kelly fans recorded songs, edited Youtube videos and campaigned for Steve to open the present in memory of Kelly - who they learned tragically died in a car accident only three years back. The story had gone viral, and for the first time in almost forty-seven years, Steve missed Kelly and almost felt guilty for their breakup all this time later. As Steve’s story of his forty-seven-year-old unopened Christmas present went global, he found Christine becoming more and more distant from him. At first, she stopped engaging in conversations about the ordeal, then she demanded Steve throw the present away - she even threatened to take the pugs and stay with her mother for a while! Then came the break-ins. At first, the Gallaghers were woken by the sounds of voices and steps outside their house. Later on a window was smashed. People all over the world were claiming they wanted to steal the present to reveal what was inside and more and more people started visiting the house. The once humble and meaningful golden gift Steve had treasured for so many years was now ruining his life. The fear of a burglary, the constant abuse he received from people he had never even met, his inability to sell any cars without a small crowd taking selfies around him and the toll he could see it was taking on Christine was all too much. Steve contacted RPM News who offered a solution. ‘***Enter now to unwrap history!***’. It was plastered on every newspaper, magazine and website. One lucky winner would be given the opportunity to unwrap the ‘secret present’ live on television and finally answer the question that had captivated the world. The competition lasted only three days but received hundreds of thousands of entries that came from all corners of the globe. After a lifetime of being under wraps, Steve’s faded gold gift now had an opener - twelve year old Eliza Wood. On the day of the unveiling, #secretpresent was trending on every social network, and fans lined the windows of the RPM News studio hoping to catch a glimpse of the almost five-decade-old present. Christine joined Steve in the studio and held his hand in support - probably glad it was almost over. Steve, on the other hand, was agitated and would spend long periods with his eyes shut in deep thought. He didn’t realise how much the present truly meant to him until now - when the magic of it was about to be lost in front of the eyes of millions. It was when Steve saw the studio cameras pointed in his direction, when the roar of the audience’s excitement washed over him, and when he caught the eyes of the young girl holding those golden scissors that he knew he’d made a terrible mistake. Though knowing it was too late to change anything, he waited as the television presenters, the young competition winner and the crowds of fans counted down from ten. As each number was called out, Steve closed his eyes and could so easily picture the cold Christmas Eve he’d received it. He could hear the carollers and feel the frost of the snow. He felt the necklace in his pocket and saw the watery eyes of Kelly once more. Three seconds remained. The crowd scrambled at the windows, Christine took a deep breath. The scissors were raised, and the countdown finished. The young girl took a step forward, moved the scissors towards the faded gold wrapping and stopped. Everyone froze, and Steve opened his eyes. As the world looked on in stunned silence, the young competition winner placed the scissors down on the table and picked the present up and walked towards Steve. As everyone watched on in awe, the young girl handed the crinkled package to him and said, “I think you should open it”. Tears began to stream from his eyes as he held out his hand and took the present from the girl. Taking a final look down the lens of the studio camera and then towards Christine, who, with tears in her eyes as well, gave a nod of approval, Steve peeled back the loose sticky tape and unveiled his present - forty-seven years later. Inside the brittle golden paper was an empty white picture frame with a note attached that read, “Fill this with your life’s greatest memory. Merry Christmas, love Kelly”. \- - - It’s been two years since the magic of Steve’s ‘secret present’ touched the lives of millions around the globe. While he still does occasionally get recognised in the streets and at work, he and Christine did eventually get their wish of an ordinary life again with their two pugs. As for Steve’s forty-seven-year-old present, it can be seen standing next to his Christmas tree every year with his life’s greatest memory inside - a cut of the gold wrapping paper.


The darkness wasn’t always there. There was once light; beautiful light filling the room. The memories of the light drive me mad. All I can do, all I want to do, is capture another moment in it. Yet, darkness is almost all I see. I am paralyzed. Fear is the only thing I feel as I stare at the door before me. The only small taste of light I have had in a long time is coming through the crack of this door. But it is locked. I have a key in my hand but the same question circles like a vulture in my mind, “What if the key doesn’t fit?” There were other doors, lost in the darkness of the room as their lights had burnt out before. I have tried this key in those doors. Each time it hasn’t worked. There was one door in which I thought I heard it start to unlock, but then it failed. So, I sit here paralyzed, holding this key. I dream of the other room, the one with the light. I imagine the comfort, warmth, and clarity that will come with it. Yet courage evades me; and I sit here paralyzed, holding this key. I hear the laughter, faint but strong, coming from the other room. This is a sound I haven’t made in recent memory. A sudden rush of emotion comes over me. I feel the urge, the need to unlock the door. I grasp the key and move towards the door. I can start to feel the warmth. As I get closer the light gets stronger. I reach my hand out, shaking from nervousness. I insert the key and turn it. It unlocks! For the first time in forever excitement sweeps over me. As I open the door, light starts to fill the room. A smile creeps across my face and then…. It disappears. The light was no more. I understood. It was all an illusion. A cruel trick played by my mind… but no, it wasn’t. The light was there. I know I heard the door unlock. How could I be so close to the light, just for the light to burn out? So, I go back to waiting for the next sliver of light to come through a door. Hopeful. I sit, and I wait. Hope the only thing that is keeping me patient. My memory of what once was in this room has slipped away. It left a long time ago. The only thing I know are these doors. These doors that refuse to let me in. More and more time goes by and I am stuck. Hope dwindles and a new sense of anxiety comes over me. I have waited so long and the only thing I am hanging on to, the idea of light filling the room, seems impossible. There is no rest here. I cannot sleep. I just keep looking, searching for a sliver of light. Then it appeared. A new door. A new light. This time it was brighter than ever before. So bright it seemed as if it should bust through the door. I knew. I knew that this was the door to which I had the key. I don’t know how I knew, but I did. The laughter coming from the new room was louder than ever before; it was calling out to me. As I approached the door, I wasn’t nervous. I wasn’t anxious. I wasn’t scared. I simply entered the key, unlocked the door, and went inside.


Throughout the annals of history, many facts are long forgotten, or were never recorded at all. This can be very accurate when regarding the time us humans were only lurking in caves. Though it is quite unfortunate to think so, there are many tales of hardships in every corner of the world never going to be told. Cultures, traditions, sunk by the rising tide. Deities and beliefs comprise a major portion of these old bygones. One deity, an old deity, the first deity, was forgotten almost sixty thousand years ago in the lands of Eastern Europe. Yes, the first god. No name was given for him; people of this time had no use of names yet. Our first ever belief of a higher power, conjured up in some tiny village. It was near the beginning of winter. His village of worshippers had yet to supply enough for the season. They couldn’t hunt animals; it wasn’t the way he taught them. They were farmers, not slaughterers. So, his people, despite the dire consequences that’ll develop, will only eat the supplies of vegetation they could gather in time before winter. Many kept their hopes up, believing their god will help them in their inevitable struggle in the snow, but some in their community had their doubts. Winter came, and the harsh storms targeted their village. They snuggled inside their huts. The outside was now a trap of white blindness and frost they couldn’t enter. The people stayed in their beds, resting and eating whatever food that was supplied to them. That was their regular routine during all this season: waking, eating, then sleeping. One girl from the village woke up early. She yawned and grabbed inside the nearest basket of rations she’s had for store, and felt nothing. It was empty. She looked inside other baskets, but like that one, they had nothing inside. She had to think of a plan, so she wore the cloths of her bed around her, and headed out in the blizzard. She approached the home of her neighbors, asking for any bit of leftovers they might have. But they had nothing, just like her. For the sake of the neighbors’ child, they joined her into asking people from other homes. Once again, the next huts had no food. The entire village had nothing, they would all find out. Two months and the villagers consumed the remaining batches of provisions. Yet, the people remained vigilant, for their beloved god. But their vigilance in this belief would only further their desperation. Days and days went by. Their methods growing increasingly hopeless. Without a healthy source of food, people from the village usually had to go outside and pick anything edible from bushes and trees. Sometimes, they went outside and picked out the grass from the snow and swallow it. Other times, they’d actually swallow the snow itself. Ingesting this snow would be their main cause of sickness. They were hungry before, now they were starving. One man from the village reserved most of his meals for his younger brothers and sisters during the initial winter. He was now a pale, hungering sight of a man by the end of it. He lied motionless on his bed, he seemed almost dead. His eyes were shutting. He was using up any might he had left in his system to fight off the darkness encumbering him, but without anything to bite, sooner or later, he will pass. His siblings sob by the bedside, and meanwhile, a snow rabbit appears on their doorstep. An idea lighted up in their heads. They grab the rabbit by the neck, and look around for a pointy stick. They stabbed the rabbit in its forehead, and offered it to their dying brother. He was horrified by what he saw. At first, he refused to do such a blasphemous thing in front of what they cared so much for, a divinity whose enlightening practices made them such a wonderful and civilized people in his eyes. But the man feels the burning, excruciating pain of desire and hunger. Whether he liked it or not, or whether his god liked it or not, he had to consume the rabbit, for his own survival. He held the rabbit gently, as respect for the innocent little life his siblings took, then he munches on the rabbit like a savage with his bare teeth. From this one moment hinging on his life, he broke the codes his god applied. From a spark of miracle, perhaps from their own deity, the blizzard storm slowly but gradually waned down. It was still not a suitable terrain for farming, but it was suitable for hunting. They had to act quickly. They were no time for debating. This was the only chance they’ll get to make it through the winter. There’s no telling when the blizzard will strike again. The men, women, children, and even the elderly grabbed spears, rocks, and anything remotely resembling a weapon and moved out. They butchered every living creature stumbling in their way: rabbits, racoons, foxes, fishes, birds, and stags. Their old limited way of livelihood was futile and fruitless, they now believed. Ever since that one winter, they stroke out to never fool themselves ever again. The people despised their god for the many families they lost on that winter. In time, the memory of this deity faded, blending in with the dust. The first symbol of a higher power created and the first one forgotten. The first of many.


You're sitting at home on a late summer's night, when you hear the rain begin to patter on your roof. Turning on the weather channel you see that there is a Severe Thunderstorm Watch in your county. 'No big deal,' you think to yourself, 'a watch means nothing besides some rain and maybe two lightning strikes.' Bored, you turn off the TV, and head out to walk towards the bookstore around the corner, but turn around because it's raining a bit harder than anticipated and an umbrella might not be a bad idea. You look around you as you make your way down the sidewalk, 'not many people out tonight.' This was your idea of a perfect night, warm, but not too hot, rainy, with the sun having set not too long ago because it is still August. The crickets chirp loudly and remind you of home. A nice deep breath of cool rainy air brings back pleasant memories. You look at the ground while walking, watching the puddles dance as you walk through them and seeing the rain drops bead up on your shoes. Luckily this bookstore is open pretty late, it's already close to 9. Standing under the awning, you close your umbrella, and shake it out so you don't drip all over the store. Reaching for the handle you push on it with some force, old doors like these are much heavier than the flimsy things built today. A small bell jingles as it creaks open, and the friendly store owner turns his head to you, lowering his book, he says "Good evening Sasha," as he gives you a warm smile. "Hello Mr. Clauson," you answer. You've been coming here for years, and though you don't know him too well, you've had several lovely little talks with that man. A quiet older man, who retired from his day job years ago to take over his grandfather's bookstore. Now his own grandchildren stop in to sit with him and drink their coffee together. You've always loved to see that, it reminds you of when you were young. Walking alongside a tall bookcase, the wooden floorboards creak like the door, you step slowly. Mr Clauson has a very wide variety of books to choose from... romance, cookbooks, mysteries, humorous novels and more. Some of your favorites include the horror and mystery novels, poetry books and the classics. Oh, and the two rooms filled top to bottom with antique books, filling the room with the scent of hundred year old ink and yellowed pages. You decide to head to the mystery section first. Looking down a long row of books you pick out one that catches your eye, a royal blue hardcover, with gold letters spelling out its title, "Buried Under Cherry Trees." You flip it over to see what it's about. 'The story of a family who has picked up everything to move halfway across the country for their father's new job opportunity. Surprisingly everyone has taken the move well. A few weeks after settling in, a disturbing story pops up on the news. "Young teen murdered in coffee shop yesterday morning." Everyone is rattled but seems to move on, until another dies. And then another. Determined to find out what is happening in her new town, Susie, the oldest daughter conducts her own investigation since the police have been proven slightly corrupt. Pondering the cases under the cherry tree one afternoon, she slowly starts to grasp what is really happening, and why they moved here in the first place.' You hold the book a little tighter, intrigued by its description, and decide you'll purchase it, but not until you've looked around a little more. Wandering out of the mystery section, you walk towards the heavy maple bookshelves, holding hundreds of antique books. You run your fingers along the spines of one shelf and land on one. A dull red leather bound book, tough and cracking, showing its years quite beautifully. "The Little Irish Girl," it's titled. You flip through it noticing the tiny print and pages so brittle they snap instead of fold. You think that some books age like people, and some people age like books. You slide it back onto the shelf, talking yourself out of it since it looks a little too complex to get into right now, and you already need to add another bookcase to your living room since you've successfully filled two already. Still unsatisfied with only buying one book today, you pay a visit to the 'poetry and classics' section of the store. Immediately you get excited as you see two books that are absolutely calling to you. The first is "The Great Gatsby," by F. Scott Fitzgerald. One of your favorites, beautifully written, showing the dark side of love and money in an otherwise booming decade. You recall the first time you read it and how you fell in love with it after only a chapter or two. The second book was, "A Collection of Poems and Stories from Edgar Allen Poe." Edgar Allen Poe is one of your favorite poets, and authors for that matter. His strange and dark life pulling you into his deep and odd writings, The Raven of course being your personal favorite. You grab both and head to a corner and sit down in the rocking chair so you can get a little reading in before heading home for the night. After getting lost in Gatsby for nearly half an hour, you stand and yawn, gather your umbrella and walk back to the front of the store. "Find everything alright?" Mr. Clauson smiles, he loves when young people like you come in and pick out a few good books. "Of course I did," you say confidently. A soft rumble of thunder rolls over the roofs of neighboring buildings, exciting you. "Hmm, guess they might've been right about the storms tonight, do you smell the rain? Always puts me to sleep on nights like these," Mr. Clauson says. "Oh me too, I love it" "And that'll be $21.48 tonight dear." He slips a red bookmark into the mystery novel and tucks the books into a brown paper bag with your receipt printed off the outdated yet fitting register. Handing him $25.00, he hands you your change and say goodnight to each other as you walk outside, that little bell jingling behind you again. Once you're down the street a ways, you turn back to see him immersed in another book and chuckle. You don't hurry back, the rain is still pretty light and pleasant to walk in. Back home, you lock the door and head back to your room and sit on the big velvety arm chair in the corner by the window with the lacy curtains. You crack the window to listen to the wind and rain some more. The storm is finally picking up, a perfect time to read. So you light a candle and turn on your lamp, creating the perfect amount of warm light to start reading your Edgar Allen Poe book of collected poems. After an hour of reading you get up to make some tea, a relaxing blend to help you sleep. You begin to feel drowsy while waiting for the kettle to whistle. You've picked out a chamomile and hibiscus blend, and after it's steeped, you carefully carry it back to your room and set it in the porcelain coaster next to the lamp on the nightstand. The moon is bright, almost full, you think as you look at the clock in the other wall and realize it's been another hour of reading and it's almost midnight now. The rain continues but you leave the window open some because it's not enough to get anything wet. You grab a blanket off the back of your chair and slip into bed, and drift off to the sound of raindrops and the soft moonlight.


It was a cold November morning and the birds had already begun their morning song. The sun slowly pierced through the clouds and frost glistened across the fields. The sky was a mixture of deep, dark red and blue with only a few wisps of cloud, two men were standing at the rear of a black car, one was smoking a cigarette and the other had his arms folded and looked up at the sky, “Looks like it’s gonna be a nice day,” he declared. His accomplice flicked his cigarette onto the ground, exhaled and looked up, “Yeah.” He turned around, putting his lighter back into his coat pocket, “The farmers’ll be happy anyway.” “What?” “What do they say? Something about red sky?” “Red sky at night, shepherd’s delight?” “Yeah that’s the one.” “But it’s morning.” “What?” “It’s morning.” “So?” “The saying is ‘Red sky at night, shepherds delight. Red sky in the morning, shepherds warning’.” “So?” “So, you just implied that the farmers will be happy with the red sky this morning, but the saying states that if there’s a red sky in the morning then the shepherds should take it as a warning. So, they won’t be ‘happy’ will they?” “Who?” “The fuckin farmers!!!” “Oh. Well, they’d still be happy to see a red sky, wouldn’t they? Who doesn’t like seeing a red sky? Looks nice.” The younger man of the two looked on into the distance and the older looked at him perplexed. He’d been doing this for over twenty years now and had the look of a man who had been doing his job for too long, he looked back at the boot of the car and placed his hand on the button to open it. “First time?” “What?” The older man sighed, “Is this your first time?” The younger man turned to face him, looking genuinely unaware of what he was being asked. He looked at the boot, “Oh! Er… yeah, yeah it is.” He looked down at the floor, embarrassed. The older man chuckled, “Don’t worry about it, I lost count in the nineties. It’s really not as bad as you think.” “I’m not fuckin’ worried!” The young man snapped as his face quickly turned red, “I’ve done plenty and I’ve paid my fuckin’ dues! Let’s just get it fuckin’ over with fucks sake!” The older man averted his eyes and understood instantly, “OK fair enough.” He opened the boot and inside was a man wrapped in duct tape from his ankles to his shoulders, in his mouth was a red ball gag that was covered in vomit and blood. As soon as the boot opened, he started thrashing, he’d clearly soiled himself and the smell that hit them as they opened the boot forced them back a few steps. The younger man was bent over and retching, the older man, being used to the particular stenches that people such as the current occupant of the boot produced, recovered quickly and burst out into a deep wheezy laugh, “Never eat before these kinds of things kid, at least at the beginning.” He carried on laughing as the young man vomited what looked like the remnants of a large breakfast. The young man spat and coughed, he looked up through a stream of tears, “Fuck off! Could’ve fuckin warned me!” The old man’s laugh had eased into a chuckle, “Same thing happened to me, l’d eaten porridge though so I wasn’t as bad. Fuck me! You can chew your food you know! Jesus.” The man in the boot was still thrashing, trying to scream. Due to the ball gag some vomit was still in his mouth and as he tried to scream it was spraying out of the sides of the gag, “You’re almost as bad as him!” The older man started laughing hard again with his hands on his knees. “Fuck off!” The young man had recovered and spat one last time before inhaling deeply. He looked at the man in the boot, “Look at the fuckin state of him, who is he?” “Dunno, don’t care.” The old man studied him, although he was practically mummified with duct tape, it was apparent that he was wearing what was once a very nice grey suit, he was probably in his early fifties with a head full of thick silver hair, it was matted with blood and vomit now but on the left hand side it was still combed neatly. His eyes were wild as he continued to thrash and scream, “Shut the fuck up!” The old man punched him so hard he broke his nose and rocked his head back with such force that he immediately went limp, “Cunt.” The young man watched as the old man wiped his hand on the unconscious body, the old man sat on the edge of the boot and glared at the young man, “Mastication.” The young man almost flinched, he looked confused, “What?” “Mastication, essential for healthy digestion during a meal.” “I thought it was supposed to be after a meal and usually with someone.” “What?” “I’ve always heard it’s best after a good meal and ideally with someone, but you haven’t got a missus have you? So yeah that makes sense I suppose.” The old man looked at him dumbfoundedly. He almost started to correct him but instantly realised the futility. He sighed, “How’d you wanna do it?” “I dunno, how’d you usually do it?” “Depends.” “On what?” “A myriad of a factors.” “A what?” “Usually I do them in the boot and take them to wherever, but it’s your car and I didn’t know if you were concerned about the mess.” “Don’t care, whatever’s easier.” “Ok, well?” “Well what?” “Well I’ve got plans later so you wanna?” He gestured towards the unconscious man in the boot, “He’s out cold now so it’s ideal, no thrashing, no screaming.” The young man cleared his throat and started reaching into his pocket, “Why’s it gotta be a fuckin knife?” He pulled out a smooth, black handle from his right inside pocket, he pushed a button and a long, thin blade flicked out, the steel reflected the morning sunlight on to the old man’s face briefly. The old man smiled, “Cost efficiency, you know how expensive clean guns are? Not to mention bullets! Fuck me, before you’ve even got to the job you’ve spent the best part of a grand. You could buy cheaper obviously but then you might not be getting what you pay for, shitty refurb jobs or ones that have been passed around thousands of times. Fuck that.” The young man stood over the unconscious man in the boot, his breathing was labored, his chest slowly going up and down, “How should I do it?” “Up to you, if you’re a sick little cunt you might wanna slit his throat, if it were me I’d just go once in the heart, nice and quick.” The young man breathed in and exhaled sharply, “Ok… fuck it.” He plunged the knife hard and deep into the man’s chest, the man jerked instantly and started thrashing again. His screams turned into a sickening gargling sound, “THE FUCK YOU DOIN’?!” Screamed the old man instantly, “WHAT?” The young man pulled the blade out of the man’s chest, the man in the boot thrashing more violently than before and gargling blood, “I SAID THE FUCKIN HEART! THE FUCKIN HEART! YOU DAFT TWAT!” “THAT IS THE HEART!” The young man screamed back, “NO! IT’S NOT! THAT’S HIS FUCKIN LUNG!! THE HEART’S ON THE LEFT SIDE YOU FUCKIN’ MORON!” “THAT IS THE LEFT SIDE!” “HIS FUCKIN LEFT!!” The old man’s face was dark red, he put his hands on the back of his head, unable to comprehend what he just witnessed, he tried to compose himself, “HOW THE FUCK AM I SUPPOSED TO KNOW? I AINT A FUCKIN DOCTOR!” The young man’s hand started shaking and his face was bright red again. “Did you ever go to fuckin school? How’d you not know where the fuckin heart is?” “I left school at fourteen!” The young man stated almost proudly, the old man slapped his hands to his sides, “While that explains a lot, it doesn’t explain why the fuck a grown man doesn’t know where the fuckin heart is! Did you eat too much fuckin glue as a kid or something?” The young man searched for an answer, but nothing came. He looked down at the floor, “Sorry.” “Fuck that just finish it.” The young man looked up, the man in the boot had stopped thrashing and was lying there, moaning. He placed the tip of the blade on the unconscious man’s left-hand side of the suit jacket, he looked up, “Here?” The old man sighed and nodded. The young man pushed the blade down hard, the body jerked, a small whimper creeping out of his throat. And silence. The young man slowly pulled the knife out and the blade was a dark crimson, he wiped it on an exposed part of the jacket and threw it in the boot. The old man slowly closed the car boot and studied the young man. He looked even younger now for some reason, late teens maybe early twenties, “How old are you?” “Twenty four.” “Christ.” He walked around the side of the car and sat in the passenger seat, he adjusted the rear-view mirror so he could catch a glimpse of the young man. He was breathing slow and deep and looking into the sky. The old man knew exactly how he was feeling and decided not to say anything else unless he was spoken to. The young man took one more deep breath and turned towards the car, after he climbed in and fastened his seat belt, he put his keys in and started the ignition, “Sorry… I…” “Don’t worry about it, you did good.” The old man reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. As he lit one, he felt the car jerk forward gently as they pulled off, he blew a plume of smoke out of the window and looked out into the distance, “Nice day,” he looked over at the young man’s face, his were eyes fixed on the road. After a few moments he sighed, “Yeah.


We see people for the last time all the time. On some occasions it’s a momentous moment, others we are not even aware of the finality of what we have witnessed. While each instance is unique in some way, there are only really four ways to see someone for the last time. There is the inconsequential, the unknowing, the final chapter, and the future cut short. The inconsequential way is unremarkable except for the fact of how often that it occurs. It’s when you walk down the street passing people who are, and will only remain, strangers. It’s driving through traffic with the crowd of characters that only mean as much to you as the make and model of their car. Inconsequentially seeing someone for the last time is, in practice, the same as never seeing someone at all. No more than a quick word or glance was exchanged and that is all that will be given. You forget about them once they are out of sight and they might not even have noticed you. You don’t think much of it and you shouldn’t. Next comes the slightly more tragic: the unknowing. This way matters after the fact but seems simply ordinary when it occurs. It’s the reason you should say “I love you” before you hang up the phone. It’s when what was mostly a normal Tuesday become a memory played on repeat. Unknowingly seeing someone for the last time has no pomp and circumstance to it, no ceremony, no tears, nor triumph. The last couple of words shared were likely something like “could you grab a gallon of milk on your way home?” Neither of you knew what was happening, although there is a chance that they did and had their reasons not to tell you. Perhaps at this very moment you have unknowingly seen someone for the last time and will only find out shortly. But sometimes you do see it coming. Sometimes you know that this “goodbye” is the resolution—the final chapter in the book. It’s sitting bedside holding a cold hand. It’s seeing the back of a coat disappear through terminal gates. The final chapter doesn’t come as a surprise as you could feel the thin stack of pages ahead of you. Maybe you prepared a bit of a speech on what the person meant to you and there’s a chance you even said it. Always falling somewhere between celebration and sorrow, this is a last time that you both prepared to remember. All stories need to end at some point. Yet some stories never really get started. The last type of last time is the future cut short. It’s realizing that in looking for the right moment you’ve waited too long. It’s seeing a thousand scenarios that have played out in your mind go up in smoke. All that could have been, all that you imagined to be possible, comes crashing down in just a single moment. There’s probably a sendoff you would like to give, and after a few drinks you might let it slip, but you know that it’s not the right thing to do. You spent quite a lot of time thinking about them and will never really know what they thought of you. It’s this final encounter where you learn the hardest thing about saying goodbye isn’t putting the past to rest, but giving up on the future.


The years were blazing fast for Leo. Riding down the highway on a cool 40mph, he sat there only half paying attention to the road. The night was young and looking for trouble, and who was he to not take the moon to the bar with him. After what he would consider a hard days work he would usually relax and unwind at the local bar, usually with a terrible headache afterwards. The resented tax for the night of waste scolded him in the morning; he knew it was bad for him, but where was he ever going to go with his life? He was content with his twin lovers. He knew he would eventually get what had asked for with his life of envy and sloth; and if that resulted with and eternity in hell so be it. From his point of view he was doomed since birth. God something or other. Chewed up and spit out onto the lonely streets, he made his way. No one could tell you how to live your life and this is how Leo lived his. Using his funds to fuel his background character lifestyle. Never for the benefit of anybody. But i'm not saying he never cared or felt raw emotion. He usually spent the sober hours with the moon on wet cotton. Often in his own self pity, it never lasted long. He had a heart, even if it was drowned out in salty liquor. Leo was in a sort of mopey attitude that day; going through the usual movements he slid his way into the bar. Where he sat alone at a booth, wondering what the bottom of the glass looked like. Of course it was just glass as he stared thinking his drunken thoughts alone. The bar was usually dull on weekdays but this was something different. The empty atmosphere was uninviting to anyone looking into the bar from outside, and especially to the people looking out into the street. Leo sat there in deep thought. For some reason his drunken state seemed to dissipate and he became very aware of his own mortality. Looking down on his body he felt a deep, raw sorrow and started to fill up his own cup with his tears. He stopped very abruptly and looked down to the table. He shouldn't be crying. His body became heavy and he had no intent to get up. He got up anyway and stumbled his way through the door. The moon welcomed him and shone bright in his appearance. The empty street was lonely and accepted the company to dull the pain of being driven on. Leo kept his head down and was warm even though he only had a t-shirt on. He kept walking to no destination something that was new to him. Looking up he realized how bright the night was. He could see even without the street lights. That made it easy to spot the kid in the alleyway. The familiar sound of spray paint hissed through the silent air. Leo called out and the kid went off running; dropping his backpack and leaving everything where it was. Leo just wanted to say hello, but he stood there watching the kid run away. The kid turned the corner and was out of sight. He stood still staring into the dark alley. The night slowly went quiet again and forgot all about the events prior. The black alleyway beckoned him, sang to him better than a siren. He looked left and right like a little child that just stole some candy. He walked quickly and energetically toward the bag and spotted a couple of spray cans sticking out of the little kid’s pack. This nothing out of the ordinary sight reminded him of a better time. Without the stress of an adult. Saturday morning cartoons and sugary cereal. He always knew that he took everything for granted but never showed his gratitude. He figured that it was too late to thank his parents, but he was used to being too late. He had a knack of procrastination and what seemed like bad luck. He knew everything that was wrong about him, and he didn't know himself as much as he thought he did. He couldn't care what was wrong with him. He sat; a lazy sack of excuses and regret. A perfect victim for the steal claws of the bar. He knew he was trapped and sat there, wasting his life away. To him he couldn't believe that he could do anything. To late, pretending life is meaningless to satisfy his conclusion. A fatal conclusion but name a conclusion that isn't. A decision isn't going to give someone immortality. So why bother making one if you can't escape the inevitable? At this moment Leo despised himself. Taking a good long look at himself, he got a sudden sickness in his stomach. He didn't want to be this husk anymore, but he was afraid of change. He knew he needed to or he would die an early death (something he always seems to gloss over). Going all the way back to his childhood he could remember all the after school specials and lessons to prepare him for adult life. Did he look like a guy that paid attention? The only class he had ever had an A in was art. Suddenly, something came over Leo. A wave of his own despair? The urge to become someone different? He never gave an answer. But I do know that Leo went down to pick up one of the Spray cans. Leo took a long look at the wall which had a large red line going straight down the center of the empty space that the kid had made. Something about this line sent Leo a message. He wanted to change. A calm and collected mind found him in a sea of clarity. He scolded himself for wasting his good years. No, his good years were in front of him. Still, why was he so oblivious to his ability of change? He was told to follow his dreams, he was told to make himself happy. He still could. This marked the moment when he decided to have his revolution. The hiss of spray paint flew through the quiet night once again. Even though its been years since his last art project , Leo still painted like he was a professional. Naturally of course, he had no time to practice his craft. He realized now that he did have time. It was again stolen from him. All of his time he wasted with the devil daughters did nothing for him in the end. Just gave him a headache and a death wish. He couldn't stop lingering on how much of a weak baby he really was. If he had any ounce of manhood he would stop and make something of himself. Somehow the paint painted with more determination. The moon stopped dead in its tracks and laid down its bright blanket so her friend could see. Leo didn't realize it at the time but the moon really was there for him. Minutes or hours passed, he couldn't tell what he was thinking about. The hissing drowned out any and all of his senses (or he just wasn't paying attention). That made it exceptionally shocking when the police officer tapped him on the shoulder. Leo jumped up and dropped his can in surprise. He turned to see the officer confused and intrigued at the paint. The officer started talking but I couldn't catch what was said over the siren. He pulled out a breathalyzer and had Leo breathe into it revealing to him that Leo was drinking earlier. Of course he was drinking earlier. He had Leo get into the back of his police car and drove off. Then the night was still. The wall accepted the new work of art that was hung up on it. The street winced when the car drove over it. The moon continued over the horizon letting the sun peak at whatever Leo got himself into during the night. Letting the crowd of daywalkers swallow the remains of whatever peace the night held. Including Leo who was getting fined and charged to two weeks of community service. (Found this from a while ago, my first ever story. Go little me!) .