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As a child, I used to hate staying with my grandmother. There was never anything fun to do over at her place but, whenever my father had a business trip (which, given his line of work, was quite often), he would take me to stay with her. Reluctantly, I would pack my bag, he would load up the car with some necessary provisions and we would make the eight-hour drive from Sydney down to Melbourne, where she lived in an old house just outside Royal Park. How I would dread every single one of those hours, knowing that each passing mile was bringing me closer to another boring visit. “Don’t look so morose,” my father commanded during one such trip when I was twelve. “It’s only for the weekend. She’s always good to you, isn’t she?” I grumbled, sinking further into the passenger seat, clutching my bag to my chest as if it were a security blanket. Each one of my stays was as drab and uneventful as the last. This one would likely prove to be much the same. Just past noon, we arrived. The green two-story Victorian house on the edge of the park looked even more decrepit and foreboding than I remembered. Gran stepped out onto the porch and planted a pair of wet kisses on each of my cheeks. I wiped them away as she went to give my dad a hug. The entryway appeared to be a gaping maw, ready to consume me at the first opportunity. A few minutes later, I bid my father farewell, watching as his car rounded the corner and disappeared. “I imagine you must be hungry after your journey,” Gran said, beckoning me inside. “Come. I’ve made you some soup.” Rolling my eyes, I heaved my bag into the house and closed the door behind me. My grandfather had passed away years before when I was small. As such, I had only a vague recollection of him, appearing out of the dark recesses of my mind like fragments of a dream one forgets upon waking. Though Gran had pictures of him all over the house, from youth to old age, the man staring back at me was completely unfamiliar. I eyed them tentatively as I followed her into the kitchen. “Your room’s all made up,” she said as she poured hot soup from a pot into a bowl with a ladle. She was referring to the guest bedroom upstairs, which she always reserved for me. “I promise not to be in your hair much this weekend,” she added. “I’ve some gardening to do.” I felt a pang of guilt. She must have sensed my dissatisfaction. Never before had she addressed it, despite me having made it quite obvious during previous visits. Regardless, I mumbled my thanks and ate my soup in silence as she sauntered around the kitchen putting things away and washing the dishes. That night, as I lay in bed, my mind went back to that moment in the kitchen and recalled something else my father had said on the trip over: “You’d better cherish the time you have with her. She won’t be around forever.” A lump formed in my throat as I turned onto my side and shut my eyes, waiting for sleep that never came. The next morning, after breakfast, Gran announced that she would be in the garden until lunch and that, should I need her, to just shout. I nodded, watching as she rose from her chair and left through the front door. In tableau, I saw her disappear behind the rosebushes that lined the front of the house. It was a warm, sunny day and the laughing of a kookaburra came in through the open living room window and filled the place with sound. Not knowing what to do, I trudged upstairs with the intent of getting some reading done. But once atop the staircase, I heard a dull thud coming from the attic above me. Pulling the string, the rickety wooden steps folded out from the ceiling, and I ascended them, curious to find the source of the noise. Sunlight spilled in through cracks in the wall. Little swirling eddies of particles could be seen floating within the rays. It was clear that Gran had not been up there in many years. Cobwebs covered each corner and a thin layer of dust hung over everything like freshly fallen snow. Sure enough, right in the middle of the room, was a ceramic heart-shaped box that had fallen off a small antique cabinet nearby. How it had fallen, I could not guess. Luckily, it had not broken from the impact. Its contents, however, lay scattered all about. As I reached down to pick them up, the more curious I became. Several dried flowers, like those pressed into old books, littered the floor. In conjunction, an Australian military medal was concealed beneath several letters whose edges had been yellowed by time. Their envelopes had return addresses from several far-off places with postmarks from some sixty years prior. Most intriguing of all was the photo of a handsome young man in uniform who I did not recognize. I had grown up seeing pictures of my grandfather as a young man and this was not the same person. It was then that I noticed a folded letter that was partially opened at my feet. Maybe it was the hasty yet thoughtful hand that had penned it that piqued my curiosity. In any case, I gingerly picked it up and unfolded it, reading the words aloud to myself and intrigued to discover that it was addressed to Gran. “ Dearest Rebecca... ” They were daring to venture farther than they had ever been. It was just over three months since the ANZACs had landed at Gallipoli, a tiny dot on the map half a world away from home. In that time, they had slowly made their way to capture the Heights, which overlooked the surrounding peninsula. To capture the Heights meant seizing Gallipoli from the Turks and, therefore, allowing the Allies to push on towards Constantinople, thus driving the enemy out of the war. It was a bold move to be sure, one that was proving damn-near impossible due in large part to the rugged terrain, yet High Command kept urging the men forward. Now, they were due to take the Nek, a tiny strip of land between the Australian and Turkish lines in an attempt to support the New Zealanders who were keeping the enemy busy at nearby Chunuk Bair. Dusk had fallen with night well on its way. Lighting an oil lamp, Private Leslie Jones of Melbourne nestled into a makeshift cubbyhole within the trench. His back pressed against the cold earth, he produced a small tin from his breast pocket, from which he withdrew a pen and piece of paper. He felt it as good a time as any to write a letter to his sweetheart back home, given the advance on the Nek the following day. Despite wanting to divulge everything to her, he thought of choosing his words carefully at first. Of course, he was scared. He always was whenever the company had to advance, for one never knew whether it would be the last time they would be able to do so. As it was, C Company had already lost several men, including a few with whom he had grown particularly close. Attachments, however, were both pointless yet vital to the army, for you had to entrust your lives to each other, yet never knowing when yours or theirs would be cut short. Doing away with formalities, he decided to lay down exactly what was on his mind. “Who are you writing?" “Rebecca,” Leslie replied without even looking up. He instantly recognized the voice that had posed the question. It belonged to Sidney Greene, a fellow C Company private from Broken Hill in the Outback, who now took a seat opposite him atop a pile of sandbags. Sidney whistled and cooed in response, to which Leslie smiled and playfully kicked some dirt his way. “Say hi to the lady for me,” Sidney said with a grin, politely doffing his cap. “That ‘lady’ is my fiancé,” Leslie added. It was the first time he had said it aloud to anyone, surprising himself for revealing it so casually. “She just doesn’t know it yet.” “Going to propose to her, eh?” Sidney added, producing a flask from the right back pocket of his trousers. “I’ll drink to that!” He took a swig before passing it to Leslie, who accepted it with a smile. It was scotch and the familiar, pleasant burn warmed them from within. But the sudden realization of the advance on the Nek weighed heavy over the pair and a pensive silence fell upon them. For what seemed an eternity, the two of them were lost in their thoughts, each wondering whether they would make it out alive. “Hey,” Sidney interjected, holding his flask up as if making a toast. “We’ll be fine, mate.” Leslie smiled in response and returned to his letter, though from the silence that followed, it was clear that neither of them believed it. The men of C Company were awoken some time in the night, when they were told to mobilize to the front line. Just as the sun crested the horizon, they had arrived, in time to see A Company prepare for the advance across the Nek. As always before a skirmish, Leslie’s heart pounded in his chest. Readying his rifle, he searched the crowd for Sidney, who stood a few paces behind him. The two nodded at each other in acknowledgement. “You ready?” Sidney asked upon catching up to him. “Today’s the big day.” “When am I ever ready?” Leslie countered sardonically. The two shared a chuckle, though their expressions turned grave just seconds later. This time, neither of them could find the courage to say anything reassuring. They were now faced with the reality of the situation, and, as always, it terrified them. They watched as A Company braced themselves for the attack. With a blow of their lieutenant’s whistle, they emerged from the trench in an uproar, only to be shot down moments later by Turkish fire. Leslie, Sidney and the men of C Company watched in horror as several bodies flew back into the trench, their corpses riddled with bullets and stained with blood. It was clear that the enemy had the upper hand as far as terrain was concerned, with the resulting offensive slowly proving to be a bloodbath. “For fuck’s sake, mate,” Sidney said, peering through a hole in the sandbags. “It’s a bloody massacre!" Leslie didn’t say a word. A feeling of dread sank deep into the pit of his stomach. He knew, right then and there, that this would be the end. The Australians could only advance so far before being cut down by enemy fire. It was not so much an offensive as it was a death sentence. Reaching into his shirt, he produced the locket that Rebecca had given him upon his departure, which bore her picture within it, and he had worn around his neck ever since. Opening it, he gave it a kiss and mumbled a prayer. “STEADY, LADS!” the lieutenant for B Company shouted as his men made ready for the next wave. Leslie could see that he was pale, no doubt due to the fact that he knew he was leading his men to the slaughter. His shrill whistle filled the air and sent his troops over the lip of the trench. Seconds later, they, too, had all been shot. The pit in Leslie’s stomach turned into full-blown panic as his own commanding officer urged C Company forward. “This is it,” Sidney whispered behind him. “Best of luck, lads,” he shouted over the sound of rifle fire. “Good luck, mate,” he added to Leslie softly, his voice shaky. “Maybe, we’ll be the ones to break through.” All Leslie could do was stare at him blankly, his expression full of fear. Sidney mirrored it, but nodded once more, a gesture that Leslie countered. Finally, the lieutenant’s whistle sounded. Leslie, heart racing and with Sidney in tow, clambered over the edge of the trench. They watched as their comrades were picked off one by one. No sooner had they made it a few feet was Sidney clipped in the head, a spurt of red staining the earth behind him. “SIDNEY!” Leslie shouted, rushing to his mate’s side. But before he could even get there, a sharp, searing pain tore through his abdomen. He fell to the ground. As his vision began to blur, he saw a pool of his own blood rushing up to greet him. He no longer felt any pain. It was as if he had become weightless. The last thing he saw was the locket, which had come off in the tussle, with Rebecca’s monochrome face smiling up at him... “Ginny? What are you doing up here?” Gran stood framed in the entryway. I had been so captivated by the letter that I had not heard her ascend the rickety steps. Wiping the tears from my eyes, I turned to face her. “I’m sorry, Gran,” I whimpered. “I just...” But her eyes widened when she saw the letter in my hand. Gliding across the room, she took it from me without a word. I watched as she read through it, likely for the first time in years. “Who was he, Gran?” I asked. When she finished, her eyes were full of tears. Turning to me, as if she had forgotten I was there, she gave me a warm smile and stroked my cheek. “Bring the box downstairs and I’ll explain,” she said. Once we were seated at the kitchen table, she told me everything. Leslie had been her sweetheart before he was shipped off to fight at Gallipoli during World War One. She had kept every letter and memento he had sent her, saving them in an old heart-shaped box her mother had passed down to her. When she received word from his family that he had been killed in action, she was devastated. After the war ended, Leslie’s parents had given her his medal, the Victoria Cross, which he had received posthumously for his heroism in a previous battle. It would be five years before she would even consider courtship again, when she met my grandfather. When she had finished telling me all this, I rushed to embrace her, the first time I had ever done so since I was little. “Thank you,” she whispered into my hair. “No,” I retorted. “Thank you ." My father shot me a confused/worried look when he picked me up the following day. He appeared even more confused when he saw me wave goodbye to Gran. “Did you have a nice time?” he asked, clearly concerned. I smiled and answered him honestly. “The best.” |
No one likes climbing up an old rickety ladder. I try not to be a pussy, but it scares the shit out of me personally. Holding on anxiously, the grip of your hand tightening just to be safe. Exhaling deeply once your feet find the next raised platform and you near the top. Shit... I should set the scene better; small town vibes, but it’s technically a city, but... it’s not really. It's late, almost midnight. The night sky is striking, the moon's beams flying through the sky. Feeling the chills and breeze of the hour. Climbing up a ladder on top of some office building on the hill in the back of the town, that’s a little sketchy, but you kind of feel cool and dangerous for doing something so rebellious, while at the same time feeling a sense of identity from it. I realize that I'm an 18 year-old alone doing something so disastrously sad but try not to let it bother me. The highway speeds by, bustling life right behind me. I’m a little sheltered by trees and fences. In my own little bubble, my own environment and identity conversing. Behind me society still goes on. I wonder if any of them saw me up on this ladder, what would they think? Suicide? Maybe badass? “He’s not like the other boys” they’d think. I walked up the side steps of this old office space- It’s kind of in nowhere land a mile past downtown- to the second story which is on a raised platform that circles around the sides of the building. One time I was sadly dwelling in this area listening to some music that I like to consider indie and emo, because let’s face it, if there’s not skipping hi-hats and an 808 in the song, you can pretend you have taste. And saw that there was a ladder to the roof. I thought, i’m pretty sad and alone. Maybe if I climb this ladder and check out the view on this roof this experience will be a little more than that and maybe even be special. Also I think, going up there might even be... illegal. Wow! Now people probably know I'm distraught, ooh goody. I did end up going up there, obviously, and was it special? Ehh, who cares. Anyway, now it’s a little thing I do to be edgy. Chill on a roof overlooking town, jamming, enjoy the view’s, romanticize maybe bringing a girl or a group of friends one time with me and having a cool cinematic moment where we smoke, get high, and almost die or something. Now that’s a way to live as an 18 year old right? As the pictured scene above dies out in my head a minute after settling on the roof. Reality tugging on my shoulder incessantly reminding me that I don’t have friends and am rather sitting up on the roof with my tight-nit set of problems instead. There’s something so cruelly refreshing about the night. It’s like, yeah you’re alone... but also, yeah, you’re alone! Everything seems in reach but so hopelessly far away and the moment the big bright ball of reality rises back up, your short vacation of fantasy and idealism is gone and the dread of reality is back up, and now everyone can see you and look at you in all your glorious misery. The day time sucks dick. Another little tid-bit: I like to dress up when I go out alone at night. I’m very hopeless and romantic, but you must respect it. Aesthetic continuity is important, it's a real thing. If you saw Harry styles not in his cool celebrity clothes but instead in your dad's jeans, white air monarchs and a tucked in short sleeve plaid shirt. Fuck he still might look cool but, it’s just different. Whenever I'm actually laying down on the roof, looking up into the stars. Attempting to relax. Anxiety always grabs me by the dick and gives me a fist full. I try not to let it bother me. Why would they have a ladder drilled onto the side of the building as an access to the roof if it wasn’t safe. It had a paneled roof like a regular home would, but it looked dense and solid. I’d been thinking about death a lot, I really wanted to end my life. Anyway, you may be wondering, what’s my problem? Why am I this vampire? Well if I was so vulnerable, open and cheery I wouldn’t be here would I? And if i’m not here, then who am I? So silly of you to ask. If you see a lowlife like me, maybe someone your age, presumably under 30- because at that point I’d just call it- and think what do you do? I’ll give you a rundown. Psycho-analyze them... assume everything and make a game out of it. How many weirdo’s can you guess correctly? I’ve never tested it, but it sounds fun. See how I’m good at making serious things funny and humorous, that’s a sign. I do that a lot. If I were to approach me, well- first off be hot, it’s a disgusting truth but it helps a lot. To be truthful just, be honest. Portray a genuine image of yourself and I think the other will- through the forces of who the fuck know’s- feel that energy and do the same back. We are all so fake- by the way I’m no longer on the roof. I’m now biking down the empty streets to my old middle school. It’s a blissful experience. To be free in your pain. Just the act of riding down a street alone at night, it’s a shedding of some of that pain. It gives me control. I worry about people seeing me out, why should I worry at all? It’s my truth, it’s how I feel. They can go fuck themselves if they judge. LIVE YOUR LIFE. Dishonesty really is a disease, it causes physical pain, mental pain, it ruins lives. It's self inflicted pain too. I never thought I was important enough to be truthful to people just because my life wasn’t sunshine and rainbows. So I was fake to everyone, so no one ever knew me, and I stayed alone. I enjoy biking down the halls of my old middle school listening to radio head, but it’s a process of healing, sometimes it feels like self-condemnation. It’s not really a choice either. I’ll be up late distraught and unfulfilled, seemingly locked inside the box of my house, desperate for any way to release my displeasure. I’ll usually look for drug’s- I never have any- then I’ll decide I need to get the fuck out of this house. Exploring the old campus, I realize how long it’s been since I’ve seen any of these room’s. I used to go here... I used to be here 5 times a week. I was a lot shorter back then. I have to wonder how my old teachers are doing. Living the teacher's life most likely. Whatever that is. Teacher’s actually have it pretty good, yell at kids, joke around with a bunch of dumbasses. You could also just be overtly cruel and that’s totally cool too. The spectrum of teacher’s is quite a spectrum: you have the god’s, the ones who are precious and amazing, and also those that seem more fictional and cruel than Michael Scott as CEO of dunder mifflin. I had a favorite teacher in High School, she was great. She had a daughter that was a freshman in my senior year which was a weird twist. When your weird short sort of nerdy english teacher’s daughter is a self described influencer on instagram and is almost the epitome of the white girl tik tok influencer culture it’s just a weird thing. No shame or anything, I just grew close with that teacher, she helped me a lot. Near the parking lot of the school the flagpole kept making a loud bang. It was scaring the shit out of me. The harness for the flag, a great assistant to patriotism everywhere wouldn’t shut the fuck up and was being blown by the wind towards the pole and smacking it. I don’t know how American that is. Anyhow, with any flash of light I’m scared it’s a person, It’s around 1am at a middle school so I usually presume it’s merely my manly anxieties behind the thought. Until I saw some girl walking up a hall. Now normally you see a girl, you run, right? Well I've put the practice into strategy before but my hope was that she wasn’t normal, because she was here. I’ve never really identified with normal, I’ve so wanted to but normal is scary. I don’t know how to communicate with it. She was walking up the hall in black stone washed jeans, her legs dragging slightly. A green beanie on, and an oversized flannel. I gave it a second of thought and quickly decided to not talk to the random girl. Who the fuck walks around a middle school campus alone past midnight. Jesus christ women. See atleast im riding a bike, it’s a more explainable activity. I did pass by her though. Anyone else get the dilemma of whether to look at someone's face when you're walking by them? I’ll be honest, I'm not the perfect picture, I'm no mona lisa. As far as I can tell I’m in the mid-tier of fuckable, which is a weird tier to be in. It’s like is it a yes or no? Why is it a niche thing, where if there’s alcohol and someone feels pitiful towards me it’s a yes, but if it’s a more normal encounter it’s a no. I decided to look at this girl in the face. I'll admit she wasn’t cute at all. I need to complain about that because if this is my coming of age film why the fuck is random weirdo girl coincidentally walking the halls at the same time as me this late at night not fucking hot. It’s bullshit, I’ve said it many times but once again I've found proof that there is no god. I did get a whiff of weed as I passed her though. I’ve had a few interactions with the substance, don’t mean to come off as a total badass, but I’ve been in the vicinity before, I’ve taken a few hit’s. And the idea struck me to go approach her and ask if I could hit her usb port or whatever the fuck. Of course The Smith’s was playing in my ear’s which is literally the soundtrack to being alone and desperate at night. Which convinced me that weed is what I need. So I turned back around and peddled towards her. “Hello” I whispered... (anxiety) She pulled out her earbuds which reminded me to do the same. “Uhh.. hi?” I stuck my hand out, and about 5 seconds after I realized I had my hand out. I then asked myself why I had my hand out... I couldn’t give myself an answer and pulled my hand back in then put it into my pocket, as smooth and cool as I could. “Any chance I could smoke whatever it is you're smoking?” “Wow, ok, sure. What are you doing out here.” “Ohh you know” “I really don’t” “Ok well what the fuck are you doing out here?” “I live like a couple blocks away. I just can’t smoke in my house” “Well, that makes a lot of sense. So you have friends and stuff? Your life isn’t in shambles i'm assuming. Right?. Right?” “Um, yeah.” “Wow. Ok, that's good I suppose”.... “So can I get the pen or whatever your smoking” She nodded and handed it over to me. “Just don’t run it dry, only a hit or two” “Don’t worry about that I’m biking home and I’m a bitch boy- I have no tolerance at all.” Quick mental confession: not that I keep this a secret, but my mouth doesn’t work that well. Atleast that’s one reason I give to why I haven’t made out or smoked a lot. I think she could tell because the look she gave me while I was hitting her pen was... distinct? Smoking is supposed to have a cool aesthetic to it. You breathe out the smoke into the air and hold it all french and shit. In her head she was thinking that I was holding her pen like I was about to rub one out of it into my mouth. I sucked that shit in and exhaled it like a dragon. Which if you smoke, then you know is poor technique. So I started coughing loud as shit. My chest was feeling it too, i’m still of course playing it cool and sly, because that’s what I am, of course. “FUCK YOU SATAN” I yelled- it fit with the coughing “JESUS” “Sorry for that, I'm a bit of a zealot. Jesus too I guess.” ... “Well thanks for that I’ll be on my way. Busy day, busy life.” I walked away “Peace” she said. What is this world, who raised these kids? I didn’t even get her name, better yet who wrote this ‘story’? I never have that good a time when I’m high. Maybe I'm semi allergic because my chest always has a meltdown. My noggin will be feeling pretty nice and all but my chest will be squeezing itself to shit. So it only took me ten minutes to be feeling that little symptom. It got me thinking about shit and how I often want to lose my shit. I’m not referencing a hard fought battle with constipation against the belligerent bile. I mean lash out, do something crazy- now I want a drink too. I’m not saying that it's crazy, I just want one. The crazy part would be posting on instagram writing something vaguely suicidal, maybe extremely edgy. There’s one thing I find that I have in common with hitler, I want to die by blowing my own brain’s out with a gun. It’s not funny though, it’s a very lame joke. The only problem with lashing out, such as writing some possessed semi-platonic message to some girl referencing all the shit I deal with then regretting for months, is that I’ll still be alive most likely. Then I’m just embarrassed and alive, which isn’t positive. Fuck it. I’ll do it right now. I'm calling this girl that I’ve been talking to. To preface, I’m neither straight nor horny. Take that what thou wilt. As Shakespeare famously wrote. This girl's name is... well I don’t want to expose her so I’ll give her a fake name. Her name is going to be Sam. She’s beautiful, she’s an artist, she’s radiant, and I don’t think she’s normal, which is great. She has an amazing eye for aesthetic, she’s so fucking cool, I want to talk to her every fucking second and drive around listening to music all night with her. I think she’d understand me, I think she’d get me. Probability reason’s the opposite, so are my anxieties. What to do. Stay alone in my void or try to do something. Times are always ticking. It won't be next month, but next year if I’m still alive something will’ve changed dramatically in my life. I’m the most nihilistic fucker I know so the former is more believable. I’m starting to get angry. “Fuck.” I mumble Louder! Then again louder. I can’t do this. I can’t drop my baggage on this girl. What am I going to tell her, the truth? It doesn’t change it. My weight is my weight, It feels attached to me. Clay brick’s surgically inserted into me. All indicators point to say nothing. I can’t do it, I just can’t. She won’t get it. She won’t get my sickness or my depression or my torment or my misery. This world needs to be lonely, it needs to feel fickle and futile. It borders even family, it border’s everyone but me. There’s a permanent port of exit and entry. They keep everyone out there and wont let me step a toe outside those lines. It’s only a matter of time before I end it all, because I don’t think anyone will understand, and I don’t think it’ll make a difference. The only energy to motivate me otherwise is that of desperation, and it gets me right to that check point, before nihilism and dread and anxiety gush me over with the perfect amount of poison to keep me trapped for another day. |
At first it seemed like a huge 'magical' coincidence when, in a small town of twenty thousand people, Julie began a conversation with another woman at a juice bar who with no provocation, said that she had been hacked and harassed by the same small town Weinsteinian millionaire and town boss who Julie found out had sent messages FROM her own email account, posing as her earlier that year (to her then employer, causing her to lose her job)... but less than a week later, Julie met another woman in a bakery who had been harassed by the same man, and THEN she met another woman with the same experience, finally deducing from the odds that hundreds in that town must have had the same experience. Sandy, the woman at the bakery, said that the odds of two people in LA having a conversation about how they had both been mugged is neither magical nor coincidence. The woman at the grocery store, had received an email two years prior from a good friend that brought her to tears, and from that message she made a serious life choice in a matter that she said she "could not discuss because it was both sensitive and traumatic" (She said that it was traumatic so she had to talk about it, but sensitive so she couldn't, whatever that meant). After making her "undiscussable life choice", whatever it was, she said that the entire universe seemed colorless and unreal for two years, until a strange day two years after the fact, when her lawyer confessed that the message had been sent by The Rainmaker (he meant by the Rainmaker's hackers). The Rainmaker was a small town millionaire, a businessman who owned all of the lawyers in that town and thereby owned the courts (although he also claimed to have the police in his pocket it was much more likely that he only manipulated their perceptions by playing probabilities). So let's talk about probabilities. Suppose someone sent a message from your account causing the person on the other end to react in a way that made no sense to you at the time. You would not know what happened since the person who received the message would likely cut you off. The reality on the other end would be entirely different. They know that the message is from you, even if it's not, and the forged message from the intruder would change the meaning of anything you can say in the future (Because of eavesdropping, it would not be safe for you to try to clear up the matter with the person electronically, but if you ask the person to "meet you in a dark parking garage to speak about something", your request would take on a different meaning because of the previous forged message that was likely threatening). So you would never ever find out what happened and there is no way you could find out what happened. The odds would be one in a thousand that someone on the inside would tell you the specifics of what happened, so the odds of knowing are way less than the odds that it happened. The odds of two people who know then meeting each other would be astronomical, and then for them to bring the conversation to the point that they both realize they are talking about the same thing would be unlikely......UNLESS it happened all the time. Sandy was right, the odds of two people in Los Angeles realizing that they had both been mugged is neither magical nor coincidence. It is a reflection of what goes on all the time. And so it was in this town. So it was that the evil presence was hidden not by secrecy but by the sheer ugliness of it's presence, and by the need of the vulnerable people who lived there to push it from their minds, and to proceed with the choices that had been made for them, AS IF they had chosen those roads themselves. |
Albert had driven a cab for 15 years. It suited him well. Everyone argued over shifts, but Albert loved the graveyard shift. No need to fight anyone for that, he was the only one that liked to work at night. To him there was something special about the night air and the dark streets. It felt relaxing, but also slightly threatening. Thousands of fares a year for 15 years. That’s alot of people. Good people, bad people. People talk sometimes, sometimes not. Some want silence, others want a good listener. Albert could provide both. One night Albert picked up a fare on the outskirts of town. He looked old and weary. He handed Albert $300 and asked if that was enough to get a ride for the next few hours. Albert told him yes then asked where he wanted to go. It was about 11pm. “I want to go to where the people are”, the man said. Albert began to drive downtown. There was a club. “Stop here”, the man said. Albert parked the cab, the man got out and walked in. About 15 minutes later the man came back. “Let’s go”, he said. Albert thought the man looked more energized that before, less weary maybe. Probably just Albert’s imagination. What did the man do inside? He wasn’t the typical club goer. On they drove. The next stop was outside the bus station. “I’ll be back”, was all the man said. About a half hour later he opened the rear door and sat down in the seat. He was quiet now. It was about 1am now, they drove back to the edge of town. “Stop here”, the man said. He got out. He walked up to Albert’s window. He said “have a good evening”. Albert looked at him, maybe it was his imagination but the man now looked 20 years younger. The man saw the look on Albert’s face and flashed a quick smile before walking away off into the field until he was out of sight. “That was a strange fare”, Albert mused to himself. Albert had a few more fares that night before his shift ended. When he finally made it home he made himself a sandwich and sat down to watch the news. There was a breaking story. There had been 3 deaths the previous evening. There were 2 men found dead behind the bus station, and one found dead behind the club that Albert had taken the man to. There was no additional info released by the police at that time. Albert went and reported all of this to the police. He showed them where he took the man, where he had dropped him off. Albert saw the news several days later. The police released the cause of death of the men. Police found no evidence of foul play. They advised for people to be on the lookout for wolves, and to be careful. It seems the men had been victims of the same animal or animals. There were teeth marks on the remnants of their rib cages. Their hearts and livers had been eaten... |
Found lurking in the depths of every crowded bar and concert hall is the notorious Red Cap. His appearance has changed over the centuries to fit with the current generations. Thus what once appeared as an aristocrat now showed his face under the brim of a snapback. The gentle rhythm of bass lures him into darkened rooms where drinks and cares are loose. The one mainstay of the Red Cap that has traveled through the years with him is that if he grabs hold of your hand and you don't instantly escape, you're doomed. His grip is the single invite to the dance of death. The concertgoers and bar dwellers always shout at first, but they're grateful to have dodged the invite themselves. The risk of public libations doesn't deal with the bridge trolls or taxi goblins, no, the real threat of a night out with friends is that the Red Cap might catch you and make you dance until you die. Which then he'll take your bloody, battered feet and dye his Red Cap once more with the blood of the unfortunate and foolish. Escapes from his grasp have been dramatic and rare. Many people have taken to wearing loose clothing they can slip out of just in case. The fashion of harem pants and silk tops tripled Chinese exports in one summer alone. An unprecedented double attempt occurred to the initially unfortunate and then warily smart, Arthur Tomkins. Arthur was an arborist by trade and came to Finnegans Hall for a weekend drink. The night had already fallen when the distinct clue of the Red Cap's company was clear. Red flickered to his side and a long peal of laughter that cut through the music in the hall before Arthur felt a cold grip on his hand. He looked to find the wide grin split into the dark corner of the room, crowned by a red hat. Without thinking Arthur's other hand shot to his hip and drew his hatchet, it cleaved the Red Cap's grip before he saw the consequences. The Red Cap snarled backing away. Even he played by the rules; it otherwise meant incurring the wrath of Mab. Arthur bested the Red Cap, but at a handy price. He stuck clear of taverns and dance halls for many moons until they had seen him grow accustomed to his prosthetic hand. It was more appropriate for the public than his work claw, which he argued gave him steadier purchase in the trees. The bar brought chills to Arthur's spine as he fingered the handle of his hatchet. Stiff drinks and fast music made the fear fade from his mind. Surely no man had been tapped twice by fate for the same task. Arthur froze at the sight of Red as it slipped his eyes. He was peeking in at the corners before a hearty tug found the Red Cap clamped down on his right hand. Fear should have frozen it, but what's dead can never die. Arthur returned the Red Cap's laugh that he safeguarded as sweet revenge for years, as he stepped away from both the Red Cap and his prosthetic hand. Twice bested- by bravery and wit, a third victory would elevate Arthur above the station of mortal men and into fable. But all Arthur longed for were tall trees and calm breezes. He knew without prophecy, that if he ever set foot in a bar, tavern, or dance hall again, the Red Cap would descend upon him like a rabid dog. So he never did. His life was his own, as he doomed the Red Cap to a life of fear, that he might reappear in those dark halls to best him one last time. |
The windowpane is freezing against my forehead as I look out at the first snow of the season. I can hear commotion from my roommates through my bedroom door. It’s been going on since Maia came gamboling into the apartment, screeching Snow! It’s snowing outside! One by one, I hear my other roommates getting home from the studio, bounding through the apartment like puppies, high off the snowfall, the weekend, the done-with-rehearsal feelings. It’s Friday night and I can tell by the sounds that they’re all getting ready for their evenings. I’m in sweatpants (my nighttime sweatpants, as I changed out of my daytime sweatpants promptly at 5pm) and haven’t been out of my bedroom in at least six hours. I wasn’t at the studio today; I haven’t been in weeks. I’m taking a hiatus , I told my boss. I blamed it on an old knee injury. The real injury is the crippling anxiety that sits like a rock in my stomach. The snow is a welcome, if flimsy, distraction. I’ve been sitting on my bed, watching it come down for hours now, looking idyllic against the backdrop of the streetlamps and freshly-strung holiday lights. I try to count the voices outside my door but it proves impossible. It sounds like a lot. Is it possible that all of us are home? There are seven of us crammed into this apartment, and I can’t remember the last time we were all home at once. As if on cue, Maia pokes her head in my door without knocking. “Hello, darling,” she says. Despite the inexplicable dread sitting on my chest like a weight, I can’t help but smile at her. She still has her dress rehearsal makeup on, glitter piled on her lids and hot pink blush packed up to her temples. She’ll go out to the bar like that and be the most beautiful girl there. I think for a second she’s going to invite me out, despite my extremely visible intentions of staying home for the night. Instead she says, in an impressively innocent tone, “Someone handsome and salt-and-peppery is here for you.” As soon as she sees my face drop, all pretenses of teasing drop. “Are you okay?” she asks, stepping fully into my bedroom and shutting the door. “Do you want me to tell him to leave?” I shake my head, standing off my bed and willing my hands to stop shaking even as my anxiety rages at me, This is it. This is what I’ve been warning you about. I told you something bad was going to happen and here it is-- “No, Maia,” I say, pleased to hear my voice come out steady at least. I don’t know why I’m so certain of who’s at the door, but there’s only one handsome, salt-and-peppery man I know that would make the drive into the city on a snowy Friday night just to see me. I grab a sweatshirt from my closet and shove my arms through it. “It’s fine,” I tell her, even as my heart pounds. She follows me out of my bedroom and down the narrow hall. The apartment is warm as hell, the windows steamed from all the bodies here, coats and boots and hats strewn across the radiators to dry. A pot of something fragrant simmers on the stove, and I know it's Rosie’s cooking without having to look. My stomach growls and I remember I haven’t eaten yet today. I was right, and it is Tommy standing in the foyer--quite rich of a word to describe the tiny square of space in front of the door next to the coat and shoe racks-- not looking abashed at all at having arrived unannounced at nearly nine at night. “Hello, Uncle,” I say, attempting a combination of warmth and polite confusion. His expression tells me I’m a poor actress. As I suspected, Tommy chose to arrive during the tiny sliver of time when all the planets align and each of my six roommates are home. Interestingly enough, they’ve all gathered on the mismatched couches and grin at him like hyenas. Maia tries shooing them out, looking at me apologetically when no one moves. Tommy winks at my roommates, still a shameless flirt despite being well into his forties and enjoying a blissful marriage to Catherine. Then he turns to me and tilts his head toward the door. “Let’s go for a walk, Isabel.” I’m sixteen and in trouble again, hands shaking as I shove my feet into boots that are more like slippers and a coat from the rack that I belatedly realize is not mine. He leads me out the door and I grit my teeth as I have to slam it three times before I hear the latch click. “It sticks,” I mutter. I groan inwardly as I pull on the coat and the arms barely touch my wrists, the absurdity thrown into sharper contrast next to Tommy’s coiffured appearance. If he notices he doesn’t let on, apparently more interested in the crumbling apartment hall than my haphazard appearance. “This seems unsafe,” he notes mildly, referring to a patch of ceiling that is just barely hanging on. I pretend I don’t hear him. When he stops to inspect the broken lock on the front door, I keep walking. “I should call the fire department out here,” he says irritably. “Slumlord of a--“ “Do we have a destination?” I interrupt. I’m standing in the fresh snow, glad it’s not slush yet, and wondering how long until the powder melts and soaks my slippers. “Or did you come here strictly to criticize?” He does his slow blink, the Tommy blink, the one accompanied by the deep breath where I can practically see him shove the irritation into one of the many boxes in his brain. “I did not come here to criticize,” he says firmly. “Come on.” The restaurant he leads me to is one of my favorites to order takeout from. I wonder if he remembers this from a previous visit, or if it’s just the only restaurant within walking distance that will let his sweatpants-clad, wet-slipper-wearing, too-small-coat-having niece through the door. My heart twists when he asks if I want my usual and I realize it’s the former. I nod wordlessly and pick the table I want, sitting on the bench seat that faces the window. I foresee a lot of eye-contact-avoiding in my near future and watching the snow fall will be a pleasant and welcome distraction. I’m viciously picking at the skin around my cuticles when I feel him sit across from me. I don’t look up. “Bel,” he says. I can tell from his tone that, if I look up, his face will break my heart. “Tell me what’s going on.” I’m silent. I’ve reopened a scab on my cuticle and it's bleeding. He passes me a napkin. I was hoping he’d choose to be angry instead of understanding. To rage at the unanswered phone calls and voicemails, the bland text message updates I send without rhyme or reason that don’t provide any substantive information. To demand answers, and when I refuse, to leave and swear that he’s done trying, for good this time. But of course he doesn’t. I can feel the beginnings of panic start to dig in, claws latching deep enough where I won’t be able to talk myself down. My heart is pounding in my ears again, and when I finally look up at Tommy it feels like he’s miles away. Tommy knows everything about me, and instead of that being a comfort, it makes me feel cripplingly exposed. The knowledge that he, at his leisure, can remember all of the times I was emotionally flayed open by my mother, physically knocks the wind out of me. He can remember my feigned grief when she died and my thinly-veiled relief that verged on joy that I was finally free. Free from her obsession, from her violent and erratic episodes, from her unpredictability, from the mysterious but persistent illness that cropped up when I stopped being an adorable toddler in a tutu and magically disappeared when she died. He can remember the abject devastation I tried to hide when my dad, his brother, rejected me. When he, in his grief at my mother’s death, shoved me out and never let me back in. And, perhaps most horribly because they were the choices I made myself and can’t be blamed on anyone else, he can remember the drugs I did, the alcohol I drank, the disgustingly inappropriate men I dated. He can remember the stubborn way he and Catherine took me in and tried to heal me. To repay Tommy and Catherine for their unconditional love and generosity? I hide from them. I ignore them. I avoid them. I convince myself they acted purely out of obligation. And while it makes me hate myself, it feels better than revisiting the agonizing first sixteen years of my life. I don’t say any of this, just stare blankly over his shoulder until the food comes. Neither of us pick up silverware, but the warmth from the noddles drifting up into my face is calming. I’ll bring them home if I don’t eat any. Julia loves these noodles. I’ll bring them home and split them with her and we’ll watch trash TV. She’ll fall asleep mid-sentence like she always does. I almost smile. I start to breathe again. “Do you need money?” Tommy asks. The question surprises me. “No.” I’ve firmly refused money from Tommy since I moved out. Depending on them feels a lot like burdening them. “Why?” “We saw that you pulled out of The Nutcracker this year.” His eyes are filled with questions, but his voice is kind. I don’t ask how he knows or where he saw this. I don’t tell him about the knee injury. He’ll know it’s a lie. He’ll know the real injury is the mind kind. “I don’t need money.” “What do you need?” I don’t answer. “We miss you,” he says. I might be imagining it, but it sounds like his voice breaks when he says it. He sighs, does his slow blink again, breathes, composes himself. “There’s an Isabel-shaped hole in our house,” he tries again, half-smiling. How do I tell him I’d rather die than ever feel the way I did three years ago? I’d rather die than even risk feeling that way? How do I tell him that, as much as I miss them too, as selfish as it is, this is the only way? He seems to realize he is getting nowhere by being vulnerable and changes tactics. “I’ve never been up to your apartment until now. Do you live with all those girls?” I nod, twisting noodles around my fork but not lifting it. “So there’s--seven of you in there?” I nod again. He's floored. “How many bedrooms are in there?” he asks, half amused, half aghast. “Why?” I ask. “Are you going to call the fire department?” His shoulders tense and he looks up. When he sees the small smile on my face and he relaxes. He switches to a safer subject. “Are they all dancers?” “Mostly.” I finally take a bite. It’s significantly cooled but is as delicious as always. “Kat and Tig are new. I don’t know if they’ll last, but I hope they do.” I twist more onto my fork. The hunger has surpassed the anxiety. “Maia is the one that answered the door, I think.” “Ah. The one that tried to save me from the horde.” “Yes,” I say. “The same.” “You’re closest with her,” he guesses. It’s an educated guess, and its accuracy is both startling and touching. “Yes,” I say. “She’s my closest friend here.” I’ve never had a friendship like the one I have with Maia. I didn’t know they existed until she started barging into my room without knocking, unapologetically nosing into my business, perching on the bathroom sink to complain about her day while I’m in the shower. Instead of shoving her away, I find myself inviting her further and further into my life. I continue without mentioning any of this. “Then there’s Rosie and Julia. They’re both in the corps.” I count on my fingers who I’ve already mentioned. “Last is Gabby. She’s not a dancer, she works in real estate.” “How’d she end up with you lot?” I shrug. “Alcohol, I assume.” He huffs a laugh like he wasn’t expecting that answer. “You like them?” he asks. “Yes,” I answer, realizing he knows me as the girl with no friends. I realize my roommates don’t know that girl. “I like them a lot. All of them.” He smiles at me in a way that makes me feel exposed again and I return my attention to the plate. I want to scream and rage against whatever inner workings of my brain make me feel like I’m underwater and Tommy is above the surface. I desperately wish I could give him a glimpse inside of the knotted wires and make him understand. It has nothing to do with you . I know I love you. My brain just won’t let me feel it. There’s silence for several minutes. I keep hoping Tommy will break it but I know he won’t. He’s a master of silence; he says so himself. “I--“ I stutter, stop, try again. “I wish I could make you understand.” I close my eyes. Breathe. I will not cry , I think. “I’ll feel like I’m getting better. I’ll feel like I can breathe. Like I--care again.” I wince, knowing those words will hurt him. “But it always comes back. It’s always worse than before.” “Bel,” he says calmly. Gently. “If you don’t take anything else away from this conversation, take away this: I do understand.” I blink. “Okay.” “No one is mad at you.” “Okay.” He takes a deep breath like he’s scared of what he’s about to say. “You’re not trying,” he says. He doesn’t say it unkindly. He says it like he knows it’s a hard truth. “You’re hiding.” He waits for me to argue. I don’t. “The longer you let yourself do this...” He sighs. “The path back is going to get harder and harder.” He’s looking at me like it hurts him to think of the hurt I’ll have to go through. What he doesn’t know is that I never plan on going through it. I will slog through this purgatory forever before I willingly return to those dark places. We sit quietly for a few for minutes until I say, “I think I want to go home now.” I see the devastation in his eyes, but his expression remains neutral. “Let’s go, then.” I shrug on the too-small coat that’s not mine and forget to ask for a box for the food. The snow is thicker on the ground now, but less is falling from the sky. Tommy’s beside me for the short walk back to my apartment, through the broken front doors and all the way to my door with the pretty, sparkly Christmas wreath. I don’t ask him where he parked. I realize I didn’t ask him anything all night. “Come see us for Christmas,” he says. I don’t look at him. “Or any time. We’re not going anywhere, Isabel.” Half threat, half promise. I thank him for dinner. Tell him I’ll think about it. Close the door without looking back. The apartment is silent. I can’t bear the thought of being in my bedroom for another second. I take off my sopping slippers and place them on the radiator before laying down on the couch and turning the TV on. I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I know Maia has scooched in beside me and my head is resting on her thigh. I can hear Gabby and Julia drunk and cooking in the tiny kitchen behind us. Rosie is trying and failing to manage them in between fits of laughter. I can just tell from what I’m hearing that they’re making a mess. I don’t mind. The despair that I felt earlier is starting to ease as I listen to the familiar sounds. Maia looks down and sees I’m awake. She doesn’t seem as drunk as the others. “Hi, sleepyhead.” She’s flipping through channels. She can never pick one. It drives me crazy. “What did you and your hot uncle do?” “We went to Up Thai.” “Leftovers?” Julia calls hopefully from the kitchen, even as she’s cooking. “Sorry, Jules.” She huffs, then decides, “We’ll go tomorrow.” I agree. Maia is eyeing me suspiciously. “He drove all the way into the city to bring you out for counter service?” “He wants me to visit for Christmas. Or sometime soon. Whenever I have free time.” I am grateful when she doesn’t mention that I have nothing but free time lately. Instead, she gushes, “Oh, I love the country. I want to come when you go.” Tommy and Catherine’s trendy, upscale neighborhood could hardly be considered country. Tommy would probably be incensed by the comparison. I don’t correct her and stay quiet, hoping she’ll drop it. Of course she doesn’t. “Can I really come?” I can’t tell if she’s doing this on purpose, if she’s picked up on how I’m feeling and thinks she’s helping. I feel like she is making plans for a happy life I’ll go through the motions of but never feel, but I don’t say that. When I first moved in, I felt like I’d be the outsider watching my roommates enjoy their lives, but here I am with my head in one of their laps. I suppose it’s not outside the realm of possibility that maybe there could be a day I’ll be ready to take the painful path Tommy talked about. So instead I say, “That would be fun. I’ll think about it.” |
The night chill woke me seconds before my cell phone rang-- "Crane here," I answered, half-asleep. It was well past 2:00 a.m. Friday night. Sitting up in bed, I tried to breathe my way to wakefulness, taking in the crickets and the pattering rain outside, reflecting on just how different the world was *out there*. "Sorry about the late hour, Chief." It was Stinson, my deputy, out of breath. "But we've got a situation and I think you oughta be in on it." "Ongoing?" "Suppose that depends on your beliefs." "About what?" I asked. "The devil." I put Stinson on speaker and got dressed as he filled me in on the particulars: the address (over on Highland Crescent); the fact the house was sealed off "just in case"; and that "two of 'em are dead already--and how. It puts the fear of God in me just to remember the bodies." I slid on my boots. "And the others?" "Alive and in the house. One banging on the window to get out. What should we do with them?" "Nothing, but don't let anyone leave. The killer--" "--could still be inside." I exited by the front door and got in the car. Coaxing the engine to life, then pulling out the driveway, "OK, now tell me who called the police and everything you know so far," I said. "Caller was a small fellow called Uriah. Nervous, from what I seen. As to what happened, like I told you before, we got two bodies, one of 'em with his head off, a bloody table and six people who don't want to talk about it much except to say it's the devil did it. Pale as ghosts, all of 'em." I turned onto the highway. "Oh, and there's a bunch of, how you call it, Satanic paraphernalia all over the place." When I arrived, the scene was relatively quiet. Two police cruisers, lights off; a few officers loitering outside; neighbours starting to gossip on their front lawns; and a face in the window, banging on the glass. "That there's Samara," said Stinson. "Let's go in." Although I said it, for perhaps the first time in my police career I didn't feel it. I didn't *want* to go in. I didn't feel my usual sense of duty. There was something off about the place--about the whole situation. There also arose other thoughts in my head: *Walk away. Retire. Forget about it.* I put those ones aside. Stinson followed me in. "Jesus," I said, overwhelmed by the sudden, unexpected heat. "Quite the first impression, eh?" Stinson closed the door. Wiping droplets of sweat from my forehead, "Crane, Chief of Police," I announced to whoever was inside. No response. We passed from the hallway to the living-- Corpse. *Charred*. I-- "Sorry," said Stinson. "Forgot to warn you about that one. Son of a bitch got me too." I looked it over. Burnt to a charcoal crisp. "Got an ID on it?" "Nothing conclusive. The others all claim it's a guy called Lenny, but no one recalls his last name." We walked a little further. "This next one I did warn you about," said Stinson. "Again, no actual ID, but everyone agrees he was one Tikhon Mayakovsky. That includes his supposed sister. Mr Mayakovsky happens to be the owner of this property. You'll find his head in the corner over there." *Happened*, I thought. As promised: a man's bloody, clothed body sitting, almost casually, against the wall--headless; neck sliced clean off; and the head smiling, upside down, from across the room. "Jesus." Just then a dry chill passed through me in the otherwise humid room. "Feel that?" I asked. "Sure. Maybe A/C acting up?" "Maybe." I kept wondering why no one was coming out to talk to us. "The last time we had a killing in town was--" "Bakerfield, 2003." I was surprised it was that long ago. "Winter murder. Crime of passion. Open and shut," I said. "No burning. No decapitation. No--" He bent down to pick up a metal pentagram covered in wax, and a few spent matches. "--Devilry." Next, Stinson showed me to what, perhaps with a touch of the unsubtle, he referred to as *the murder room*: small and windowless, containing a heavy, round oak table covered in stains (wax, blood, who knows what else) encircled by eight chairs, one of which had been knocked over. The stale air smelled of death, incense and sulphur. "And now," he said, "the suspects." I paused before entering the room in which they waited, noting only that the door had been padlocked. I could hear banging from inside. "Was the lock necessary?" Stinson shrugged. "I had to improvise, and one of them was intent on leaving. Didn't want her disturbing the crime scene." "Six are inside?" I asked, pulling out my notebook and pen. "Correct. Samara, that'd be the one claiming to be Tikhon's sister, Milton, Naomi, Pearl, Raymundo, and the small fellow who called it in, Uriah." I finished writing the names. "Any impressions?" "Either they all did it, or they're all mad. Or both," said Stinton. He unlocked the door and we entered. Six people indeed. "Good evening. Name's Crane. I'm the Chief--" Anger! "What's the idea, keeping us locked in here like this, like kept animals, with the portal open and it loosed and awaiting its due. Let us be! Let us all be, then get out. Leave! Leave here and never come back!" "I--" I said. Stinson took out his gun. "Calm down, Samara," said one of the five people seated. "They won't believe you anyway. They think one of us is the killer." Samara waved her hand dismissively before returning to her window. "Why would I do it? Why would I kill my own brother," she said with her back turned. "More than that--we've a spiritual obligation," one of the women said. "To see it through." "No chance of that now that *he's* ruined us all," Samara sneered. At the back of the room, a small man, presumably Uriah, chewed his fingernail. I approached the man who'd spoken ("Crane. Chief of police.") and held out my hand. He shook it, saying, "Raymundo." "What I want are the facts," I said. "Facts," Samara said with audible distaste. "Always with your *facts*, your *reason*. That's precisely what's wrong with you people. That's what Tikhon was learning how to overcome." "Just tell me what happened in the order it happened," I said. "Promise to hear us out?" Raymundo asked. "Yes." He patted down the front of his shirt for a pack of cigarettes. "Do you mind?" After I shook my head, he carefully took one cigarette out of the pack, held it between two fingers, lifted it into the air, made a guttural sound in no language I'd ever heard--and the tip of the cigarette ignited, just like that. "Do you see?" Behind me, Stinson gripped his gun. "Is that a trick?" I asked. "No," he said, stubbing out the cigarette. "It's a demonstration of the properties of a portal." "You think you can persuade him, explain it to him step-by-step, when he lacks the one thing he must have to understand: faith," said Samara. I asked, "A portal to where?" "Hell." "Told you they're mad, the lot of 'em," said Stinson. "Everything rests on faith," Samara was saying. "Tikhon knew that better than anyone." "Tell me from the beginning," I said. One of the other women in the room piped up: "It was a séance. We were having a séance." "And you are?" "Naomi." "For God's sake, it wasn't a séance!" Samara walked decisively away from the window. "A séance is a communication with the dead. We weren't communicating with the dead. We were communicating with the never-living." I looked at Samara, then at Naomi, who was looking down, and finally at Raymundo, who said, "Samara's right. This wasn't a séance." "Sorry," mumbled Naomi. "It was my first time." "Sometimes we spoke with the dead," said the third woman, who I deduced was Pearl. "Or rather they spoke to us." "That wasn't the point," said Samara. "It happened," said Pearl. "Were you speaking with the dead *tonight*?" I asked. Stinson scoffed. "No," said Raymundo. "We were gathered tonight to commune with, as Samara called them, the never-living, to open a portal to their world. The demon world. The dead did not interfere." "How did you open that portal. Did it involve--" Samara: "We didn't kill anybody!" "Opening a portal requires eight humans performing a ritual. There is no death involved. The details of the ritual are arcane and rather unimportant. What's important is that we opened it." "What happened then?" I felt another dry chill come over me. Samara laughed, and Uriah, at the back of the room, shook with terrible fright. "You felt that, didn't you?" Samara said to me. "What is it?" "The never-living passing through the world of the living." "So this portal is still open?" Laughing furiously, "Of course it's still open. That's the entire point. That's the problem we should be solving," said Samara. "I'm here to solve two murders," I said. "You shouldn't be here at all. If *he* hadn't felt the cowardice, none of this would have happened. You wouldn't be here, and we'd be dealing with the true problem." "That's not fair," said Uriah in a thin voice. "It was already happening. Tikhon lost--" "Shut your mouth!" "Let him speak," I said. "He doesn't know what he's talking about. And he's not even a neophyte--" Samara's eyes passed briefly over Naomi with a certain disregard. "--so he has no excuse. He's a dilettante, and he's always been nothing but a dilettante." Uriah muttered something under his breath. "What happened after you opened the portal?" I asked Raymundo. "Tikhon made contact with a demon." Suddenly, the only person in the room not to have said anything, Milton, stood up. He was older than the rest, white-bearded. "It's coming back," he said. "It said half, and it's coming back." Stumbling forward, he tripped and fell, and I realised he was blind. Uriah helped him back to his seat. "What's coming back?" "The demon," Raymundo said. "We wanted to summon a minor demon, something we could control, but the demon we summoned wasn't minor at all," said Pearl. "Once it got into Tikhon--I've never seen such a possession." Milton was rhythmically tapping his feet against the floor, repeating: "Two more. Two more. Two more." Outside, the rain had picked up, drumming on the roof, gargling down the eavestroughs. "Two more what?" I asked. "Two more victims." "The demon demanded payment," said Naomi without looking up. "Payment for using the portal. Payment in blood. It said we'd been using the portal without paying the toll." Milton, singing: "*Fifty for the farmer, fifty for the red hen*." "How did the demon say this?" "Through Tikhon," said Pearl. "It said that the blood price is half the quorum, and the quorum is eight." "So you're admitting Tikhon threatened you!" Stinson burst out. "It wasn't Tikhon. It was the demon speaking *through* Tikhon," Raymundo calmly explained. "Tikhon was no longer present." Samara sighed. "This is all pointless." "What happened after the demon, speaking through Tikhon, threatened you?" "It wasn't a threat. It was a statement of price. Does a shopkeeper threaten you at the register when you're purchasing from his store?" Samara asked. I corrected myself. "What happened after the demon made its statement?" "Wait--" Naomi rose, looking at Samara, then around the room. "--you knew about this? You knew there would be a price, a half to pay the red hen?" "We'd done it before without a price," said Uriah quietly. "We knew," said Samara. "What happened next?" I asked. Naomi: "You used me!" "Oh, don't be so naive. Everything has a price. You wanted knowledge, you assumed the risk. Every single one of us assumed the risk." I repeated my question--louder. "He killed Lenny," said Uriah, his voice shaking. A tree branch smacked against the window. "He set him on hellfire." I looked to Raymundo for confirmation. "I'm afraid that's true. After stating his price, the demon began collecting it. The price was four of eight and Lenny was the first of the four." "What did you do while Lenny was burning?" "We continued the ritual," said Samara. "That was what we had agreed to." "Some of us," said Naomi. Pearl said, "He didn't burn long. Hellfire is within us all. The demon merely freed what was already within Leonard. Some sin or secret. It took him quickly. He didn't even make it to the front door." "Then Tikhon started talking in some other language, and he put his hands on either side of his own head, grabbing his ears and started turning--" "The demon," said Samara. "Not Tikhon." "...turning and turning..." Milton: "Put the bird upon the stone, sharpen your axe and bring it down. Cleave the body from the head, and watch it run until it's dead." "--until it came off, and then he grabbed it by the hair and held it up like a lantern, the mouth still wet and alive and talking, and it said: 'Either you or Samara are selected, or both,'" said Naomi. Samara raised an eyebrow. Uriah was speaking: "The blood was pouring out his neck, just pouring and pouring, all over the table and the candles, and the flames had turned red as the blood, and I couldn't take it anymore. I just couldn't." "Coward." "What did you do?" "I blew them out, the candles. Then I got up--" "He interrupted the ritual," said Samara. "One must never interrupt the ritual. The ritual must always be seen through to the end." "He was going to take another." "He will take another regardless, you fool. He must get his due. All you've done in your stupidity and weakness is put innocents in danger!" "And what did you do after getting up?" I asked. "I watched... Tikhon, stumble--collapse in on himself, like a punctured balloon," said Uriah, "and stagger toward the door. He got through, then slumped down against the wall, rolled his head across the room and died. And as it rolled, the head spoke, telling me that if Ray was given to the red hen, so would I be." "Soon the police came," said Raymundo. "And here we are." Stinson tapped me on the shoulder. "Does it sound like a murder-suicide to you? Because it sure sounds like one to me." *A man burned alive but no other signs of fire. A man with his head separated from his body, but no sign of the blade it was done with. The witness who called it in: in agreement with the other five witnesses that it was a demon who killed both.* "The longer we wait, the more angry he becomes," said Pearl. "He always gets his due," said Samara. "Why did you do it?" I asked. "We didn't. The demon did it. That's what we've been trying to tell you from the very beginning. He took two, and he's owed two more." "Not the killing," I said. "The ritual, the opening of the portal. Why do *that*?" "Why split the atom?" Samara answered, as the wind threw rain drops against the glass. "Why suffer to discover the source of the Nile? Why methodically map the human genome? To understand the world. To know existence." "I think it's going to be me," Uriah said, biting his fingernail again. "I feel dead already." "But the ritual was broken--doesn't that mean it's all over?" "The ritual is broken, but the portal remains unsealed. The demonic debt remains outstanding. The never-living flow through and among us." "Can you close the portal?" I asked. "I can't believe you're humoring these loons," Stinson barked, but I could hardly hear him. "We can't," said Samara. "That's the problem." It was unbearably hot. Raymundo said, "Although Samara is correct, it isn't true that the portal cannot be closed. Simply that we can't close it. It can still be closed from the other side, the demon side, if the demons so choose." "Which is why we must pay the red hen what is owed," said Samara. I looked over my notes. "The quorum was eight, the price was half, and two have already died. So two more must die to satisfy the debt?" "I say we do the world a favour and kill all of 'em," said Stinson, keeping a firm grip on his gun. "Not any two," said Raymundo. "Only the chosen two," said Samara. "That is the conundrum." I glanced at my notes again. "Does anyone remember anything else said by the demon?" Although part of me felt ridiculous for taking these occultists at their word, another part--the part that had felt the coldness passing through my warm, living flesh--knew there were darker recesses of human experience yet unplumbed. Milton began tracing lines in the air in front of him. "Not something heard, but something seen." As he traced, he spoke, and as he spoke I wrote: "If I am indeed to go to Hell, I shall in fair company be, for into flames I shall damnate Pearl and Tikhon alongside me." "That's what the demon showed you?" "I reckon," said Milton. "There's also what Lenny said right before he caught fire," added Pearl. "His eyes--they opened wide as saucers--and he asked with this great misunderstanding, 'What's it mean that I'm a quarter unless Pearl is?' A moment later he was ignited." "I remember that too," said Naomi. "Anything else?" *Silence.* Not just among the eight of us in the room, but total and complete silence: no rain, no wind, no tapping branches, no breathing. "What in God's name--" Stinson didn't get a chance to finish his question, because just then the door to the room was ripped out, and Tikhon entered, headless, from the black, infinitely dense, infinitely deep, void on the other side of the doorway, where the rest of the house used to be. Stinson shot! Once!--Twice!--And a third ti-- But Tikhon, or the demon possessing him, absorbed the bullets, stepped toward Stinson, screaming, terrified, placed one hand on each of Stinson's shoulders *and tore him in two*, just like that. The two halves of Stinson fell to the floor. I could not shriek. Or cry. "I," said the demon in a voice which sounded like a thousand ancient beasts slaughtered on a thousand stone altars, emanating from everywhere at once, a voice I felt through all my senses, "always--" I saw: Samara crying tears of joy; Uriah peeing his pants; Raymundo overawed; Naomi trying to pull her lips over her face; Milton's eyes rolling and rolling in their sockets; Pearl laughing hysterically. "--get my due." Then the demon strode toward the nearest wall, bent forward so that the bloody stump of Tikhon's neck was pressed against it, and wrote the following on the wallpaper: 4 - 2 = 2 When he was finished, he turned back toward where Stinson's halves were lying, and consumed them: the way a snake consumes a rat: by distending its own elastic body with the fullness of its prey. When both halves were in him, he said, "That one was for my pleasure. I am temporarily satiated. Deliver unto me precisely the sacrifice you owe and the portal shall be shut. Deliver unto me what I am not owed, and I shall devour this town and all within it, depriving it of existence and purging it from memory. Such is my power, for I am the God of Annihilation." Then the world returned: First the rain, followed by the house beyond the door--now open on its hinges--and all of us in it: all seven, for Stinson was no more. Only his gun remained, discarded on the floor, touched by no one. Time passed and we did not speak. On the wallpaper, the bloody numbers slowly trickled into incomprehensibility. "There is one more thing," Samara said finally. "Words Tikhon whispered to me when we first began our experiments. 'If the Devil takes you, he will not take me too.'" Then, staring at me, she asked: "Do you believe us now?" "My duty is to protect. I must not let the city or its citizens come to harm," I said. "Have faith. |
“Jesus chris’ Chrice, jus’ do it already, why don’cha?” “I dunno man, I don’t think I’m ready.” “What d’you mean you don’t think yer ready? What d’ya think is gonna happin’?” “Well, it’s kinda a lot of pressure and I just...I don’t think I can do it yet.” “An’ why the heck not?” “Well it kinda looks hard.” “Jesus chris’ Chrice, it’s s’posed to be hard. But s’not so difficult once you get the hang of it y’know?” “Maybe not to you it’s not! But I never done this before.” “We all, one point or ‘nother, never done this before. Only way you learn is jus’ go fer it an’ hope it works out ok.” “But what is ‘it’ that I’m goin’ for?” “Jesus chris’ Chrice, how many times I gotta tell you? S’not so complicated.” “But what if I do it wrong?” “Naw, you can’t do it wrong. You jus’ stick it in, and twist it ‘round a lil.” “You sure though?” “Course I’m sure!” “But what if I twist it too hard?” “Then you might break it! Don’ do that. You gotta be gentle, but firm.” “But what if it hurts?” “Whatchu means ‘what if it hurt?’ S’not gonna hurt.” “How d’ya know?” “Jesus chris’ Chrice, ‘cause I done it before! Don’ you trus’ me?” “Of course I trust you! I just....well I’m scared I’mma muss it all up.” “Stop worryin’. Don’ overthink it so much. Jus’ stick it in, an’ twist it. You can go slows you like.” “What if I go too slow?” “Yer can’t go too slow. Goin’ slow jus’ means yer makin’ sure it fits in nice.” “Can you show me?” “I already done shown you!” “I know, I’m sorry. I jus’ don’t wanna muss up and look stupid. Show me jus’ one more time? Fer me, please.” “Jesus chris’ Chrice, ok. One more time, but that’s it ok?” “Ok. Gosh bless you.” “So, yer gonna take it in your hands like so. You follow?” “Mhm yesssir.” “Good. Now, you wanna take the round end in your hand like this. Got it?” “Got it.” “An’ you wanna stick this end in an’ up, like this. See now?” “I see.” “It should line up just right with the hole there.” “Uhu.” “An’ ya slide it right in.” “Oh wow, would ya look at that!” “Go slow though, right.” “Right. Why slow?” “Cause f’you go too quick and it don’t fit proper, it won’t twist none.” “Ah, o’course not.” “Right, then you twist it gently, like so, till you feel it click.” “Click? Why click though?” “Cause if you don’ feel it click, then tha’s how you knows it don’t work proper.” “Right, and it’s a waste e’erybodies time if it don’t work proper?” “Xactly!” “Wow, an’ where’d you learn how to do it?” “My brother o’course!” “Really now? I wish I had a brother to teach me useful stuff like this. An’ where he learn it from?” “Our cousin.” “You don’t say? And where’d he...” “C’mon now Chrice, quit askin’ so many damned questions and jus’ do it, now won’tchu?” “Right right, sorry! So I take it like this and... which hand should I hold it in?” “Either really. But most find it easier to do, more stable, ya see? holdin’ it with their dominant hand. Which hand you write with?” “My left.” “Right. So take it in yer left hand then. Careful now, don’ drop it!” “I got it. An’ I go like this?” “Mhhm, aim careful now. You want it to align so it goes in the hole smoothly now. Don’t force it.” “Awe damn. It won’t fit. I think it’s maybe too big.” “Now that’s a common misconception there. I know plen’y folks who think their’s is too big to fit, but you go slow now, an’ see how it fits perfectly fine. Jus’ go slow and aim it nice an’ careful now. “Now see, it won’t fit! It’s too big.” “Jesus chris’ Chrice, I just done it and it worked. Weren’t yeh watchin’? I can’t just whip it out an’ show you every time yer confused. You gotta get it on yer own eventually now. Try again now, but go slower. Be patient. There ain’t a rush to finish quick. Unless you gettin’ paid to go quick o’course. But yer not, so take your time.” “Ok, ok. Here, like this?” “There ya go. See there now, the tip aligns right with the hold. There ya go. Slow now, don’t shove. It don’t work better if you try an’ force it. ‘member? Might break it an’ yer don’ want that. My cousin accidentally did that an’ had to get a whole new one.” “No kiddin’? It broke so bad he had to get a new one? Now that’s jus’ crazy bad luck there” “No such thing as luck. Good or bad. Jus’ was too impatient, but he was also gettin’ paid by his neighbors, so maybe he felt he had to do it quick.” “Can’t get paid to go slow for a better job?” “Sure you can, but usually only for bigger ones.” “An’ why’s that?” “Cause smaller ones are usually quicker to finish.” “Really? Now why’s that?” “Jesus chris’ Chrice, cause i’s smaller. Bigger ones is bigger, heavier. Takes more time to align it accurately an’ all.” “Right right. That was a silly question.” “Sure was.” “But what happened to yer cousin?” “Well I guess he done a good enough job that satisfied his neighbors well enough ‘cause they asked him to come again.” “No kiddin’? Even with a broken one?” “Well he got a new one o’course! They’d never let him bring a broken one into their bedroom. Can’t finish nothin’ proper with a broken one hanin’ ya know?” “No, course not.” “Now get back to yers. How’s it goin’?” “Oh right! Like this?” “Right, now a little to the right. Careful now. Slow it down, no need to rush. A little further. There!” “Here?” “Yes, slide it in, slowly now.” “Like this?” “Yes, yes! Now twist it gently.” “How much?” “You’ll know. Jus’ take it slow. There you go. Keep goin’. A little more. Don’ stop, don’ stop! Almost there. Do you feel anything?” “No, it jus’ keeps twisting.” “Well it looks right. Just keep twis...” “AH! Was that it??” “Did ya feel it? How was it?” “Satisfying!” “I told you it would be! That’s why you gotta keep tryin’ till you finish!” “I wanna do it again! “Now don’ be so hasty. Go on over by the wall.” “Why’s that?” “Gotta make sure ya dd it right?” “But it fit and it clicked.” “So there should be nuffin’ to worry ‘bout. Go on now, go turn it on.” “Look, It works!” “And tha’s how to fix a light bulb!!” |
"Hey," Simon says softly to the boy who approaches him and kisses him on the mouth. "Hey," Alan replies after hugging him a little shyly. They hadn’t seen each other in a few days and Alan knows it wasn’t an accident. Their whole story had been mapped out from the beginning, and he used to think he was just imagining it, but now he’s sure of it. They grew up together, or rather they had known each other since they were aware of their existence. In that little alley, almost protected from the outside world, the two of them had known since then that they were lucky. There were more kids there, but the two of them were always a tandem, no matter what happened. As they grew it only became more visible. Sometimes people exchanged them for brothers even though they were physically quite different. Alan was two years older and was always protective of Simon. Especially lately since they finally realized why they are so attached to each other. Only, their relationship here will never be accepted and they knew it from the beginning. Tonight he will try to put it all aside. Simon is only 17 years old and he knows that this trip, no matter how short, will be condemned by his parents. However, he insisted that they reach a small lake near the neighboring town and live with each other for at least 24 hours. One night and the day before Alan went to the big city. He was reluctant to leave him because he knew Simon's parents would surely go crazy and punish him. Especially when they find out they were together, and they’ll find out for sure. Simon just shook his head at that. He didn't care. This is their time, and even so short. Simon was the first to admit to Alan that he liked him. He was always more open and honest. The younger boy was always the one leading and Alan, among other things, really liked it. He seemed to want to be like him sometimes, but he didn’t really mind, they were perfect together. It doesn't matter tonight. These few hours of theirs are so precious that they will try to forget everything around them. They walk and talk. Alan listens to Simon’s stories with such interest as if trying to soak up all of this for some bad days that are sure to come. They brought some sandwiches and juices because this is something like a trip. They wandered almost all night in the deserted city and when they got tired they sat by the water and waited for the sun to rise. The dawn is beautiful, even though it's a little cold in the morning, they don't mind either. Simon leaned his head on Alan's shoulder and just watched in silence. One day there may be justice for them too. One day when they both come of age and hope to be ready to go anywhere. That will only matter while they are together. Because they both know that there will never be anyone else, for neither. When the day dawned, Alan left Simon with a heavy heart, his eyes full of tears, but so they agreed. Scrape off quickly like a band-aid, and simply wait for the day when somehow everything will work out in their favor. Simon wanders around the city for a while, then sits down by the lake again on a bench where they sat together until recently. Tears stream down his cheeks and something heavy, dark around his heart grips him. He remembers the promises he made to the older boy, he will endure whatever he has to, so he straightens up and just looks at the water. Trying to fight all that sadness, he just falls asleep. Luckily there are no people around and when he finally wakes up it’s already night. He knows he should have gone home, but he can't. It can't be forced, at least for a while longer. That’s where they were last together, right on this bench. Maybe everyone thinks that he is too young for such great feelings and decisions, but Simon knew for a long time. And he also knows that he will never regret it, nor will any of it ever change. Simon really went through everything and anything. His family was anything but normal. Some would say that his affection for Alan was just an attempt to escape, but even that was not true. He remembers almost every day they grew up. Their going to school and every time Alan defended him. He remembers so many times when Alan helped him when he ran away from home and fed or clothed him. Alan was not only his friend, he was like family to him, from a young age. As they grew older he only felt his affection for the older boy grow and he had no choice but to admit it. Why hide the truth from the most important person in his life. Alan felt the same way, but he tried as a senior to suggest to Simon to wait. Explain to him what the consequences might be. In fact, he knew he would always be able to rely on each other, so he relented. They met secretly and kissed like all young lovers. Clumsy, passionate and full of heart. They took each other's innocence, if it can be called that, because they were very happy to give it to each other. Simon thinks about all this as he watches the moon looming in the small lake. Everything here is so perfect, in this quiet, hidden place. Almost everything, because he is still alone. Only, this is temporary. He won't be stopped by the beatings he'll get when he gets back. Nor the hatred of the whole world if he has to fight. One day the light of this month will lead him to what is his. He smiled for the first time after Alan left and headed home. Just a little more... |
The open auditorium was filled with a fully seated audience captivated by the sound flowing from the raised platform. It was from a melody being produced from the melancholy dance of the bow and string held by a pair of skilled diligent hands. Once the performance was over, a pause hung in the air, waiting for the last note to float and dissolve, where a loud rumble of clap and cheers followed. While her deeply immersed shut eyes opened, Marie smiled at the cheering crowd and wiped the bead of sweat on her neck, waving her hands in a fanning motion to cool off from the summer heat. As she left the platform, a wave of loneliness that visited after every performance filled her. Being a wallflower, the cello was the instrument of her stirring emotions and this was the only time she could showcase it. She made her way to the lockers when she saw a group of seniors mainly boys surrounding a girl. A girl with a petite frame and heart-shaped face, in which her almond eyes and straight nose perfectly fit. A reverse mirror to Marie. The girl caught her eyes and smirked, to which the group she was talking to turned to look at her. “Hey, Marie! Great Performance,” shouted Ben, one of the senior boys that had his arm around the petite girl’s shoulder. A hot flush stole across her cheeks as she stuttered, “Th-Thanks Benny,” “Th-th-thanks Be-nn-y” the girl mockingly replied. Few of them laughed while a hot flush stole across Marie’s cheeks. Come on Jenna, she’s your sweet baby sister” Ben exclaimed. “A baby she sure is,” Jenna smirked. “Oh, I forget you’re sisters. She looks like nothing like you, or your mom Jenna. Are you sure she’s not adopted?” the girl beside Jenna snickered. Marie stood tongue-tied, she never knew how to react to that, how many times it came up. “Maybe.” Jenna shrugged looking at Marie head to toe. Marie clenched her fists as she passed by them, stomping her feet. “I’m just teasing!” called out Jenna laughing in distance. As she got to her locker, she rolled her eyes at the charity campaigns led by Jenna stuck all over the bulletin boards. She was amused by the new project Jenna has put her nose to, which she was sure was just another social activity for the self-seeking sister. As the day was done, Marie made her way back to the bus stop and slumped against the sidewall. The soft breeze played with her loose ponytail as she basked in the summer sun today. Oddly after every performance, she missed home. Both she and Jenna had initially grown up in a rural village and had moved to this small town together to pursue a life in music. Jenna’s clarinet playing was lacking, so their mother still had to pay for the lessons but Marie had received a scholarship straight away. As she raised her head up to the cloudy blue sky, she wondered when was it that they started hating each other. Was it when they came here or from before? It should have ranged from misunderstandings to vicious fights piling as the sisters grew older. But Marie could only remember yearning for Jenna’s attention. She remembered a memory when they were younger girls. Marie had presented all her savings in an empty chips box and one of her favorite dolls as a gift for her sister's birthday. Jenna had poked and prodded the gifts, tore the masking tape off the box, and kept the loose change into her pocket leaving the box and doll to the side and walked off. Now that she was much older, her heart sank at how secretly devastated her younger self was, more than anger she felt sad. Believing maybe she did something wrong then. The bus came to the stop and she got in and sat by the last seat, opening up the bus window partly. Now Marie equally ignored her, because she felt peace, although it was temporary. The bus halted at the next stop where she saw woodpeckers pecking at a tall, disheveled pine tree that shook stronger with each peck. She wondered how long would it take for the tree to break down. The bus lighted ahead and she reminded herself to check her mailbox in the hope to hear from her dream school in the city soon. This would be the gateway. An escape from this close-minded town where people like her shallow sister reigned and she didn't feel uncomfortable anymore. Her reflection on the window stared back at her solemnly and she told herself it doesn’t matter what she looked like. As long as she had her bow and talent, she could actually have a shot. As Marie got back to her dorm, she checked her mailbox to check to see if there was an acceptance letter. Nothing but few phone bills that included Jenna’s. Walking up to the stairs, she passed by her sister’s dorm wondering if she should drop it by. The matron was spotted from the opposite corridor, the girls hurling out of her way left and right and she wanted to avoid her as well, knowing the matron would give her some tasks. So she opened the door and sprung in hoping no one was in. As she looked around, it was clear. Her heart thumped as she walked towards the bedside and her head kept looking at the door. The matron was near her door telling off the room opposite hers. She kept the phone bill at Jenna’s desk and turned to leave but the array of makeup brushes and hair rolls caught her eye. Sweat beads forming on her temple, Knowing she should leave already. Uncomfortable by the mess of books and makeup mixed up on the table and she muttered and blew her bangs off her face, annoyed that Jenna can’t even care for her things. One more look at the door and she decides to tidy up and have a look at the final year history textbooks. As she flips through the book, a bunch of letters falls to the floor to which she picks it up to see it’s a college essay and application letter jotted by Jenna. Curious, she read the essay but only to gasp and read it again. Ruffling through the remaining papers, she finds a letter in her own handwriting, from where Jenna’s essay is copied. Her own essay and application are tattered and then she realizes her sister never mailed her application and by now the deadline was over. In shock she runs out of the room, pacing as fast she can, the tears uncontrollably falling over her cheeks, her hair. She closed her room and laid back on the door, finding her fingers trembling in anger, she punches her pillows around recklessly. Wiping her tears, she hoped it wasn't too late. After a few calls to the school, she sank into her bed in despair but rose, just as the heaviness in her chest that was used to being dismissed, now returned stronger than ever. With that, she flung open the door and stormed to the cafeteria where she guessed Jenna could be. Her guess was right as Jenna was hanging with her posse laughing and sipping on juice refreshments. Jenna spotted Marie outside the café and walked her way towards Marie who found herself glaring down at the bracelet Jenna wore, something which belonged to her. She felt her entire body squirm along with the heat that hung lower than usual today. “Marie, give me 30 dollars.” “Why?” Marie pronounced. “Why? Because I need it. Tsk come on Marie, Hurry I need to go back in.” Jenna scoffed while looking at her watch. “But why should I give you my money.” Marie puckered. “Because..we’re family?” “Why am I your family only when you need something?” Jenna felt the closed café door being slid open completely. “We’re sisters Marie. Remember what mom says. Sisters share everything!” She laughed menacingly while looking around. “Oh, so we’re sharing this too?” She held up her tattered application letter. Jenna plunged forward to grab it. “Where did you get that? Did you go into my room?” She grabbed Marie’s shoulders bringing her away from the cafeteria. “You sabotaged my application by reaching out to the school, canceling it, and plagiarizing mine?” Marie shook Jenna’s hands off her. She feels a shadow of heads piling behind the glass door. “You don’t know what you’re saying. I’m going back in.” She innocently exclaimed turning to return to the café. “Why did you do it?” Marie stepped forward. Pausing, Jenna turned back slowly, her face now showing no remorse. "You're really never satisfied are you?" Marie was confused. "What?" “Face it, you will do fine performing for shows here in this town. But that school in the city, I should be going there. Someone like me” She pointed to herself from head to toe. “Someone like you?” “Yes, you think you’ll really survive in the city with your looks and your greasy personality." She stepped forward, her head closer to Marie's. “Look at you. You’ve become so arrogant. A little bit of attention and now you want to move to the city. And if I can’t get in so can’t you.” At her words, something switched inside Marie, and then it hit her. “So this is about staying in my league?.” Jenna scoffed as she clasped her hands, “I know my place. Now give me 30 dollars as I asked you.” Marie dint speak for a minute. She simply turned and started walking away. Jenna “Where are you going? Give me the mon--” Marie turned back swiftly “You know I thought if you grew up a bit more, you would change." She drew her breath in. “Every year, when I would feel horrible because of you and how you treated me, I thought if I just gave you sometime, you would change. I really wanted to wait for you to be the sister who would stand up for me." Jenna folded her arms as Marie continued. “But I was wrong. And I could ruin this for you,” she held up the application. “But it’s not worth it. You’re not worth it. Good luck big sis.” She threw the application back to Jenna and walked ahead, not looking back. Her heart thumping in her ribcage, she felt her back heavy with perspiration either from the heat outside or inside her. If there would come a day that she would forgive Jenna, she didn't know but Marie knew it won't be easy anymore. And she knew she was done. With Jenna, with the tiptoeing and with the self-destruction. It was now up to her completely. As she walked back, drops of rain hit her cheek and she stopped in surprise. A pent-up rainfall finding a loophole to break even in the haughty summer. |
Finally, a moment to close my eyes and listen to Elvis play on the record player. Love me tender, love me sweet. Gosh, he makes my heart soar. What a dreamboat. For a few songs I can pretend that everything is normal. I imagine I’m laying on my fluffy white comforter from before. Our record player is one of the only luxuries left. My aunt got it for me last Christmas, it's one of those neat, new portable ones that doesn’t need to be plugged in. The sound isn’t as full, but it’s so swell to be able to listen to some music and relax for- “Amelia! Amelia. Amelia. Amelia.” If I acknowledge him maybe he will shut up, “What Carson? What?” Eight year olds are so unnecessary. “Ethan says he feels sick again.” On second thought, maybe they are slightly necessary. In one swift movement, I grab a bucket, dampen a washcloth, and slide on my homemade mask. Here’s a quick how to on my “do it yourself” mask: Take an empty orange juice bottle and cut off part of the side, place a few coffee filters around the spout, poke a few holes in the cap, and slap a giant rubber band around it, you've got a homemade gas mask. Like magic. Other helpful hints for surviving after a Nuclear war: keep occupied- being bored will drive you insane, ration everything you have, block all windows with mattresses, don’t drink water that comes from outside, don't eat live food from outside, don't go outside. Outside is dangerous. Outside is radiation. Outside means sickness. The only way you'll survive is by having sufficient shelter with enough to food and water that has been completely sealed off from radiation. Even then, you probably won't survive. I booked it into Ethan's room with just enough time to get the bucket under him and catch the last meal we fed him. His room is the darkest in the house, our “house” being the basement of my and Carson's former home. I say former, because the aftershock of an atom bomb making contact somewhere under 10 miles away sent our home into complete ruins. Our father was a wealthy man, and he blessed us with our giant 4 story home which is, was, in Pasadena, California. Father was a successful stock broker and Mother stayed at home to raise Carson and me. They liked to spoil us and when we begged for an entertainment room, we got it. Father furnished the basement and separated it into four rooms. A bathroom, a guest room, an entertainment room, and the bar. The largest room is complete with a carpet, couches, a pool table, and a television. Lucky for us survivors, the fridge in the bar made for my father and his colleagues was stocked with food and drinks. But when three people live off of the nutrients inside an average sized icebox, the things we needed most desperately disappeared just a week into our first nuclear winter. When we were down to the last 10 water bottles Ethan told us he was going to go outside. In our entire 4 year relationship Ethan never took charge, I was the one who asked him to go steady. So when his eyebrows set in so close together and with his voice deeper than usual, I took him seriously. I knew he was right anyways. When Ethan got back from his grocery store mission, he was shaking. Horrified, he told me about the sky raining ash. Saying over and over that the only bodies in sight were laying motionless on the ground, a white fungus like substance covering their mangled corpses. He was holding a bag full of food, medicine, and water. The bag hung on his arm. His red arm. His arm was bloody. I hadn’t planned for that. I had given him a mask. But I hadn’t planned that a metal rod sticking out from the ruins of a building would tear his skin open. I didn’t consider the possibility that the radiation would take over his body despite all of my precautions. Now I wish it had been me who went outside, so I could be the one who is sick. I can't stand seeing his honey brown hair scattered on the floor when it used to be so slick on his head. He didn't like greasing it too much but I thought it looked so rad when it was greased and combed. His chocolate brown eyes, that once sparkled at the mention of rugby, are dull now- lifeless and forever searching for something that's not there. Skin so translucent, it is easy to see the community of blood cells working hard to keep him alive. All symptoms of radiation poisoning are in full effect on my lovely, wonderful, caring boyfriend. He and Carson are the only people I have left. I bet you were wondering how we survived and my parents didn’t. It was complete luck, if you could describe our situation as 'lucky', that the three of us were in the basement when the bomb hit. My parents were upstairs. I don’t even want to know what the shock of the attack did to their poor, clueless bodies. Lucky they died together though. Lucky because nobody could’ve seen it coming, and who would want to die alone without even knowing it? And here we are, I estimate it has been 4 weeks. My once lovely, wonderful, caring boyfriend, now nearly a corpse. I use the damp cloth to cool him off. Ethan keeps dry heaving, like he needs to throw up, but this time all that comes up is blood. I yell for Carson, this hasn’t happened before. Carson comes running in. Without a mask. Ethan looks up and more blood spews, splattering on my stupid, naïve, little brother’s unmasked face. He stands there in awe. We are frozen, as if the radiation is a T-rex dinosaur and if we stay still long enough it will not attack. Ethan is crying and apologizing. And retching, retching, retching. After a few moments, I have enough sense to run and get a paper towel and gloves. I clean my boyfriends’ blood off of my brothers’ face. Scrub, scrub, scrub until his skin is raw and red. I scrub until he begs me to stop. We can’t continue to live this way. We are going to run out of food soon. And I am going to run out of people soon. I decide that if Carson gets sick, we will leave. There is no point in waiting until the two people I love most die, just so I can die alone. We will go out and find someone who can help us. There have to be some people out there. There has to be someone, right? In between being asleep and being awake, I see Ethan. He is playing rugby. Elvis sings, Don’t be cruel to a heart that’s true. When I fully come around my heart drops. Instead of a dream that was once my reality, I awake to a nightmare. Carson is sitting on his couch holding a clump of his curly blonde hair. My eyes sting but I manage to choke out, “We can’t stay here anymore. We are leaving in an hour.” I walk into the guest room where Ethan is. “Ethan, do you think you can walk? We are going to find someone to cure you.” He responds and says he feels strong today. I know he is lying, but in the dim light I see him smile. He’s still in there. It’s that weak smile that makes me believe that someone might be able to cure him. If someone is so powerful to create the bomb that made this mess, aren’t there scientists with the knowledge of how to undo its destruction? In under an hour, I have fashioned head to toe protection from the radiation. A nuclear winter must be cold, so I grab all the jackets and sweaters that we have stored in the basement. Carson has gathered packaged food, water, and other necessities in a duffle bag and placed it at the base of the ladder to the exit of the basement. Getting Ethan out of bed wasn’t easy, but with my radiation ‘suit’ I could sling my arm around his waist without worrying about my bare skin making contact with any of his body fluids. Outside, the light is pale. It’s dark but a powdery snow covers the ground reflecting the dim light. Dark ash falls intermittently with the snow, and Carson complains that it burns his skin. Ethan still looks awful... but how should I even know? Last summer, I took a first aid class so I could be a life guard at our local swimming pool, but they never covered anything like this. They didn't even cover this is class when they discussed the possibility of a nuclear attack during the spread of communism. All they told us was that in case of this emergency, we should hide under our desks. They made is sound like an atomic bomb was the equivalent of a small earthquake. Surviving is different in this kind of war though, its every civilian for themselves, nobody is fighting for you. Nobody is looking for you. When a war starts like this, it becomes a battle against nature. A fight against your own body. But how could our teachers tell us that if a nuclear war did happen, the last thing we would want would be to survive it, all alone. We trekked on through the light and the dark, snow and ash, Ethan leaning on Carson and me. I notice that Ethan’s face is gaining color. Maybe the movement is good for him. He begs me for water. I know that if I give him too much he will just lose it 10 minutes later. I absolve to giving him 3 sips. He says his skin is burning too, it’s not the color returning to his face. He’s being sunburnt. But from what sun? We have been walking all day. With an 8 year old and a very sick young adult, I can only make it so far. I start looking for a good place to sleep. This area looks familiar, it might be Glendale. It’s really hard to tell, everywhere looks the same now. Ashy, barren, dull. I find a segment of a building that looks pretty reliable. I force some cold canned soup down my throat and give what’s left to Ethan. Carson says he isn’t hungry. He looks pale, withdrawn, and in just one day he looks as if he aged from 8 to 30. As they get settled in to sleep, I go look around. A few months ago it must’ve been highly populated, it kind of looks like a business district. This might’ve been where father came to work. I search for any sign of life. All I return to the boys with is some dry packaged fruit and a blanket that looked fairly clean. I fall asleep with ease and wake up only to the sound of Ethan retching. When he is done, the light suggests it is morning. “Ethan, are you well enough to travel?” He nods, wiping his mouth. Lie. I let Carson sleep a bit more as I gather our things. When I’m done, he wakes up reluctantly and I see that his almond shaped eyes are blood shot, pupils dilated. We walk in silence and I start to hum Hound Dog to break the tension. This makes Ethan giggle. He’s still there. He always makes fun of me for being another girly Presley fan. We pass hundreds of ruined buildings. I imagine that each of the buildings were for something really swell, something like fashion or music. Maybe one of them was a candy factory. When Carson asks for something to eat, I smile and some of my energy comes back. I give the dried fruit, it is nutritious, filling, and sweet. To make the time pass more quickly I start to tell them stories. I tell my boys stories I have never told anyone. I tell them about the first time that Annabelle and I stole liquor from her parents cabinet and we drank until we believed we sounded as good as Elvis himself. I tell Ethan that he is the loveliest boy I have ever met, and if we can make a home in a post nuclear war setting, I want him to be my husband. I don’t even need to fib. It’s true. I tell Ethan that I know I will never love a boy, person, animal, or thing as much as I love him. I say that even if he doesn’t know it, he has completely ruined me and recreated me all at once. I go on and on about how much I hate one smelly boy from my mathematics class, and if I ever had a chance to be a big, famous singer I would take it even if that meant I wouldn’t get a normal life. I would love for the paparazzi to follow me around, wondering what I had for breakfast or where I got my blouse. Begging me for just one photograph. When I notice that Carson is starting to slouch I tell him that even though he’s my younger brother, I have always looked up to the way he loves school. I tell him he is going to graduate top of his class, and go to Harvard Law. I tell him that he will probably also be the starting quarterback on the football team and the girls will all vote for him for Homecoming king. I talk for hours, my words paint the bleak ruins into a beautiful sunset with bright pinks, oranges, and yellows. I feel lightheaded. I don’t know if it’s from the talking or lack of good oxygen. I stop talking because I see something out of the corner of my eye. It’s a mouse. It darts underneath a garage door. “Sit down. I’ll be right back.” I tell the boys. I go to the garage where the mouse went. With every bit of strength I have I pry the door up. It’s a car. My cheeks feel wet. It’s an amazing automobile in a garage and it is still completely intact. I search the ground frantically for keys. Then I see them already in the key hole. I open the car and get in the drivers' seat. I have only driven once. Just down Ethan’s street after he first got his car. I wasn’t so bad, just driving forward like that. I put the key in the ignition. I close my eyes and turn it. A low grumble. It’s on. I pull forward out of the garage and help the boys into the back seat. I don’t know where I’m headed but I drive forward, the only way I know how to. The building ruins start to fade away and I realize I’m on some highway. “Amelia what are we gonna do.” Carson's’ little voice pipes up from the back seat. I don’t need to answer him, he is aware that I have no idea. I keep driving fast until I see houses again, still partially standing. Wherever we are, we must be at least 70 miles from where the mushroom was. I slow down and look for signs of life. For 10 or 15 blocks, there is nothing. Then, I see more than just a sign of life. I see a sign for life. A giant piece of metal has one word on it. “SURVIVORS” I begin to cry. I yell at Carson and Ethan to look out the window. To show them they are saved. We are saved. The gas runs on empty. I drive towards the metal sign. The boys are sleeping in the back. They need the rest. They need to rest so they can be cured. So they can get better. Sleep it off and someone will fix me. Them. Someone will fix them. “Amelia!” Love me tender “Amelia.” Don’t be cruel “Amelia.” Love me sweet “Amelia.” To a heart that's true. Ethan's voice. Is he singing Elvis? Is that just in my mind? My eyes are so heavy. It's like that one time when I went to the sock hop with Ethan, and after he drove me to the beach and we got milkshakes. It was 3 in the morning on the best night of my life, and I was trying not to fall to sleep in the passenger seat because if I did, the perfect night would be over. As Ethan drove us up the coast, however, playing his soft rock and smiling his soft smile, I couldn't help but drift off. My eyes were heavy like that now but it was the opposite. They were so heavy that I couldn't open them, I didn't want to wake up. But his beautiful voice sounded so worried and so far away. “Amelia.” Maybe if I ignore it, it will go away. “Amelia, it’s Ethan.” I listen anyway. “Carson is right here too. He’s fine. The sickness you have is not contagious through the air. It’s something that has to go inside of you. Don’t worry I make sure he wears a mask and gloves and covers his body anyway, just like you asked. We talked to a guy we met outside. He said his dad was a scientist. He knows about these things. You were right. It’s radioactivity. The ozone layer is depleted from the bomb. The sun burns, the ash is acidic, and radiation is in the air, in everything outside. You look miserable. I’m so sorry, I should have never let you go to the store, it should be me. I should be the sick one and you should be surviving this hell. I’m so sorry.” What is Ethan talking about, I’m not sick, he’s sick. Wait, is he crying? Don’t cry Ethan, I try to tell him. But my mouth is so dry and my muscles so sore and the taste so bitter, I can’t even move my lips. I feel my face drenched with sweat. I feel Ethan place a damp cloth on my forehead. “I love you so much,” he says. I feel a bandage on my arm over where the wire from the building on the way back from the store cut me. My skin burns where the ash touched it. There is no hair tickling my neck. I taste blood. Nobody ever told us anything about radioactivity. Nobody mentioned this wouldn’t be like regular warfare, where they kill from the outside. This kind is slow, a bullet from the inside. I figured it out the hard way. I don’t hate many things, now I’m filled with the hatred of people I never met and never will. People that used this hatred to build the instrument that started the world’s shortest war. Their hatred floats around my body, carried on the backs of my blood cells. Ethan tells me they want to go with this guy they met. He says he might know where a bunker is. He says I can come too. “Only if you feel up to it. If not, I will stay here with you. I will stay here forever.” Either way, at least I won’t die alone. |
“I’m still not sure I should be going to this honey.” Greg looked at his wife through the reflection in the mirror as he combed his hair or at least what was left of it. His father was bald by 60 so Greg felt lucky to be 65 with any hair at all. “ You need to go to this party. Its good for you to get out again.” Mary was always encouraging her husband to try new things. She had always been adventurous one, once she convinced Greg to take her on a trip to Africa. He never could say no to her. “I know, I know I need to make some friends or meet new people. It's just... hard. Why you can't come with me?.” Greg turned to Mary and stared at her as she leaned against the bathroom door frame. There was never a day that passed where Greg didn’t marvel at his luck. He met Mary in college. He was studying in the library when she came strolling in clutching a bag tightly against her chest. Greg always wondered why she choose to sit next to him, but when she did he couldn’t help but stare as the bag in her arms seemed to wriggle on its own. That’s when she leaned over and opened the bag inside was a small kitten probably only a month, old one of its ears was in bad shape. Together they nursed the kitten back to health keeping it a secret until campus security found out and forced them to rehome it. Greg always said he fell in love with Mary when she cried giving the cat up, but really he knew he had to marry her the day she sat down next to him in the library. “You know I can't go with you, dear. Besides it's just an office party you already know everyone who is gonna be there.” Mary laughed. Greg loved that laugh how it started low but faded into highnotes. Mary always had a way of bringing laughter into a room. Even on their wedding day her vows had everyone rolling. Even when he found out about his father's death she managed to coax a smile out of him. Even when the doctor told them they would never have kids Mary still managed to make the world seem brighter. Greg was the rock in the relationship sure, he held fast and true and settled Mary’s restless soul, but Mary she was the sun. “Your right, your right. I just am nervous I haven't even been to the office in weeks, and I cant get my tie on straight.” Greg said as he struggled against his neck tie. Despite years of wearing one he always needed Mary’s help getting it just right. In reality he knew how to tie it himself he just loved the excuse to have her close. “I told you that you needed to start learning how to do that on your own. Now take the top part and fold it over the bottom correctly.” Mary said firmly. Even on the day the doctor told her she was dying she managed to make Greg laugh with a dumb joke about the weather. Greg felt so lost that day like the oxygen had been sucked straight out of his chest. The scariest moment was that night when Mary finally broke down and cried in his arms. He held her close and promised to help her get better no matter what the doctors, or the cancer, or anyone else said. “Right again my love. But my tie never looks as good when I do it myself. I'm helpless without you.” Greg said those last words like a joke but in his heart they felt true. Even though he was taking care of Mary psychically, picking up pills, driving to treatment, holding her hair when she got sick, it felt like she was still taking care of him. On the good days she Mary would cook and sing in the kitchen, her voice was certainly not stage worthy but it was perfect for small houses and sunday mornings. On the bad days she would sit in bed and write, page after page of recipes, instructions, and jokes. Just in case she always told Greg. He hated that phrase and those pages of writing that burned holes through his heart every time he thought about them. “Don't say that. You are not helpless without me. You are strong and brave and incredibly kind. You can make it anywhere in this world if you have just a bit of faith in yourself.” Mary’s smile made it impossible for Greg to disagree. The weeks and months that followed the doctor's appointment were both a nightmare and a gift. Everyday felt like it needed to be held onto and saved in a glass jar. Greg stopped going into the office in order to take care of Mary. Some days he wanted to scream into the sky as he watched his wife flicker like a candle in the wind. Other days he was content to whisper all the world's poems in her ear. Greg would never understand how glad Mary was to have him as her rock during those months. “ Are you sure you can't come with me? I just hate the way they stare.” Gregs voice sagged. It was 5 months after the first doctors appointment when they found out Mary’s cancer wasn’t responding to treatment. This time it felt like Gregs whole body was going to give out. Mary didn’t cry then, instead she smiled at Greg and asked to take her dream trip to Africa. She had always wanted to see the lions in the wild. “Im always with you dear.” Mary said. Greg looked at her as he finished with his tie and exited the bathroom. Mary walked behind him as he went to the front door to get his shoes on. Greg felt a familiar lump in his throat.” “Not like this.” The words scraped through Gregs chest as they exited his mouth, rattling around his rib cage and echoing against his unbeating heart. Two weeks after Africa Mary’s heart stopped beating, Greg felt like his flatlined at the same time. Without his sunshine everything felt cold and distant outside was an endless dark night. But here in there house surrounded by her furniture, her clothes, even those letters he hated see her write, Greg couldn’t help but see her. He wasn’t delusional, Greg understood Mary was dead but alone in there bedroom and in her kitchen it felt like she was still there. But Greg knew letting his memories haunt him forever wasn’t what Mary would have wanted. So he made plans to return to work. Tonight was his welcome back party and every piece of Greg wanted to crawl back into bed and stay there. He wasn’t sure how he would handle the festivities, how do you find joy when you cant even find your heart beat. But Mary loved parties and Greg knew that she would have pushed him to go to this one. So, he finished putting on his shoes and opened the front door. |
The day had come, and I was finally going to get what I deserve; success from my art. I bolted out of my bed and got ready as fast as I could. I took my vibrant masterpiece, leaning against the dull wall. It was the most complex painting I had ever made. Every color, every stroke, every pixel on the canvas, masterfully crafted with the precision of the finest bristle of the brush. After the labor of 100 hours, this was my most complex masterpiece, sure to win the contest. I reached the art studio where the contest was being held. Confidence filled my stomach as I glided to my seat and saw other artists hanging their paintings on the wall. I sat down next to my masterpiece, ready for the judges to see and admire my work. The crowd of art enthusiasts started pouring in, and after a few minutes, they filled the place to the brim. Many people came and appreciated my work, but I didn’t need them to tell me how good my painting was; I made it and I knew how good it was. The three judges emerged from the crowd and I stood up, welcoming them. They stood and stared at my painting. I tried to read their body language, but their stoic faces didn’t tell me a thing. “What was your artistic intention behind it?” One of the judges asked. I repeated the speech I had prepared a hundred times. “The Garden at the end of time is made on a 18 by 24-inch, double primed, pre-stretched canvas with around 54 different shades of colors, making it one of the most intricate paintings. The painting warrants a calm feeling in the viewer’s mind, making them remember a timeless memory of warmth and comfort. By this piece of art, I want the viewers to be mesmerised by the beauty of a garden.” They nodded and moved on, while I took a long breath and sat down again on my chair. That went well. I talked with other art enthusiasts when I heard the announcement. “The judges will soon announce the results. Meanwhile, you all are free to have complimentary snacks and appreciate your fellow peers,” a voice shouted on the intercom. I roamed around and saw my competition. I was being generous, calling them my competition. It shocked me, seeing the amount of abstract and minimalist artists appearing with their pointless art when I saw the dullest painting I had ever seen in my life. An antithesis to my masterpiece. It was a black and white painting made from charcoal and white paint. The title of the painting was ‘A simple masterpiece’. Thinking of the ego just behind the idea of considering this piece of trash a ‘masterpiece’ flabbergasted me. Those uber-pretentious minimalists think they make art when they smear white paint on white background. Even the wall in my painting studio had much better texture than this so-called ‘art’. “Do you like it?” A short woman, bursting with excitement, said while standing behind me. “Ah, yes,” I lied. “You uh... certainly capture the essence of um... of minimalism that Enrico Castellani expressed, if I am not wrong.” “No, you are absolutely right. He is one of my role models. I am Tahani by the way, Tahani Minhaj” “Anaya Shah. Nice to meet you.” We shook hands and shared silence, looking at the painting, until Tahani said. “I like to think the minimalist paintings involve not only the artist but the viewers too, in interpreting the meaning of the painting.” “That’s true, but what about the intentions behind the artist? Without the context and the idea from the maker of the painting, people can make innumerable opinions. The artist may have one thing in mind, and it may be interpreted as another.” “A painting is a window, showing the way to the stars. People can see other stars, but it doesn’t diminish the shine of others. The intention of the artist must always be to make the window as clean as possible, not cloud it with their own meanings.” “Woah, that’s deep,” I said to that freshman-level philosophy bullshit. She snickered and said, “Yeah, it’s just something my father used to say. So, what do you see in my painting?” My gut urged me to say nothing valuable, but I said, “It is simple yet bold.” “Is that your painting right there?” She curiously asked me. She walked over to my masterpiece and said, “It’s so... vibrant. Garden at the end of time,” she read the title of the painting. “Thanks, it took me days to complete the three-layer structure for the landscape.” “Your hard work shows. I rarely love traditional expressionism, but this is really something else. The three-layer depth is a nice touch. I think you might win.” “That’s modest of you. Your painting also deserves the utmost honor.” The intercom buzzed and the same voice again said, “Kindly gather around the main stage for the award ceremony.” “Well, see you around. May the best artist win.” We shook our hands and like birds flocking to the nest, so did every other person in the exhibit. The announcer and the three judges stood with three awards in their hands, the smallest being for the third position and the largest for the first. I heard the first one calling my name and attracting me like a magnet. I got so enchanted by the gold lining of the award that I couldn’t hear the announcements until they said my name. “The second prize goes to Anaya Shah.” The spotlight pointed at me, and it left me speechless. Second place! How could I get second place? I sluggishly walked towards the front stage and accepted the second-place award with a forced smile. “And the winner of the first prize is Tahani Minhaj.” I couldn’t hear what the announcer just said. How could she, a minimalist, of all people, win the contest? Pictures were taken, paintings were sold and connections with art critics and museum’s curators were made, all the while I silently cried inside. “See, I knew you would win,” Tahani said to me with the widest smile I had ever seen. “Congratulations to you too,” I said with my teeth clenched and stomach burning. My jaw was about to snap from all the fake smiling. “I wanted to ask you what you said when the judges asked you about the artistic intention of your painting?” “The same thing I said to you. I just showed them a window, and they saw their own intentions and interpretations.” I went home after the party and sat dumbfounded on the floor in my painting studio, facing the wall. What was so special about that minimalist art? I flew splashes around and that’s it? What was it compared to my hard work? I felt lonely staring at the mundane wall. I must’ve seen this wall a thousand times, day and night while working on my painting, but now I saw it in a new light. It’s small, almost unnoticeable cracks and splatters of paint coursing through like a river. I leaned on the cold and smooth feel of concrete. It must’ve been hours, in the deadly silent shift of night to morning, but I didn’t move. I couldn’t move until I figured out what made abstract things so mesmerizing. I saw a slight blotch of paint flying above a series of the same color of paint stains. Although I thought myself to be above my peers, I had failed to see that I was one of them, an artist. “I see your value now. |
EVENING “There have been a lot of wild rumors surrounding your life, so I’d like to begin with just the facts,” the young woman said, fumbling with her tape recorder in the darkness. “Lead the way,” encouraged the older lady with a chuckle. “But you may find that facts and rumors look awfully similar in the dark.” “First, you were born Anna Prescott in the Eastern Demilitarized Zone. Your parents died when you were young and you were sent to the Riverside Youth Education Facility. It was there that you developed a severe form of solar urticaria, a rare reaction to sunlight. So severe that you can no longer be exposed to light at all.” “Yes, that’s correct.” Anna said, beckoning the young reporter on, as if getting a kick out of hearing her life repeated back to her. “On your 18th birthday you were moved to a government facility on the west coast and right before the War ended, you were kidnapped by William Blair, the famous double agent for the DLP and traitor of the Regime. You disappeared for nearly 50 years, until now. Is that all correct?” “That is the public narrative of my life, yes.” The old lady laughed. “And then there are the rumors,” the reporter continued. “First, many people don’t believe that you actually exist. Others say you developed psychic powers due to your condition. There is still at least one religious faction that worships you as a diety.” “I can assure you that’s not true, but please don’t tell them.” “They also say you were employed by the Regime as a soothsayer, a spy, and a courtesan, dephending on who you ask, and you were code named the Pale Lady.” “Certainly a fitting name, but surely I was never pretty enough to be a courtesan in the Regime’s harem. Even in the dark.” “So after 50 years, you decide to come forward. Why now?” The reporter listened as Anna took a moment to consider the question, her breathing deepened. “Because even an old woman with one foot in the grave starts to look back and consider what she’s leaving behind. So I wanted to set the story straight. Beyond the facts and rumors.” MORNING "The Riverside Youth Education Facility was a large beautiful manor house up in the Eastern mountain region and home to some 200 children, mostly sons and daughters of prominent figures in the Regime. I was a precocious girl. I talked a lot and was always getting in trouble. I’m sure I was a little nightmare, but even so, I like to believe the attendants had a special fondness for me. All in all, my early childhood was a happy time. But I suppose I can’t tell my story without also telling Billy’s." “That’s William Blair you’re talking about?” the reporter asked. “Yes, the one and the same. He was a year or so older than me and not yet the most hated man in the whole Regime. I was maybe seven when he first arrived.” “You knew William Blair as a child?” “Yes, but it’s not common knowledge. His Father had just received a prominent military promotion and no longer had time to raise him. Nobody seemed to know what happened to his mother; he never volunteered the information and nobody ever asked. He was probably my opposite in every way, but we became unlikely friends. He was smaller and quieter than the other boys his age and kept to himself, which is probably what drew me to him. I was never one to stand still, I flitted about from group to group, but I always seemed to come back to Billy. And then the sun spots started to appear. It started as a batch of itchy reddish spots on my cheeks. It lasted for a few days, only to reappear a week later on my back and shoulders. They called in the district physician and he seemed to think it was a sun allergy that would just go away on it’s own, but with each week it just seemed to get worse until it covered my entire body. I was confined to a private bedroom out of direct sunlight which helped for a while, but we all know how it turned out. It got so bad that even the tiniest bit of indirect light would cause my skin to erupt in rashes and hives. The physician made the final diagnosis. I was highly allergic to all forms of light and would forever be imprisoned in darkness. As I became more and more secluded, my friends came by less and less frequently, except Billy. He was so sweet to me back then, he was my tether to the rest of the world. He never tired of telling me all the Riverside gossip and he never grew impatient when I lay crying in his arms for hours. We spent every day together, at least until his father showed back up. He was traveling abroad on a diplomatic assignment, something to do with the DLP, and he wanted Billy to accompany him. The DLP has of course now morphed into the National Liberty Party and is nearly indistinguishable from all the other sanctioned political parties, but at the time they called themselves the Democratic Liberation Party and were classified as a terrorist organization. So Billy left with his father for three months, and when he returned, he brought back two items. First was a permanent disfigurement across his left cheek, a scarred swatch of skin that curved from the base of his ear to the corner of his mouth. Billy never volunteered what happened and I never asked. The second thing, and of far more consequence to me, was a large crate, dropped off unceremoniously by his Father’s porter. “What’s in it?” I asked. “They’re books,” Billy exclaimed excitedly, opening the crate. It was rare that Billy got excited and it was clumsy but contagious. “My father has a library full of them. He thinks I want to read them, but really they’re for you.” “What am I supposed to do with a bunch of books?” I asked. “I can’t read in the dark.” “I’ve been thinking about it and I want to try something. It may hurt.” I heard Billy fumbling with something and then a very dim - almost impossibly dim - red glow appeared. “It’s a flashlight that filters out every wavelength except red light. It’s supposed to be easier on your eyes, so I thought it might be easier on your skin as well.” The next few nights I experimented. It was true that it didn’t immediately burn my skin like regular light, and if I held it pointed away from me with the face obstructed except for a small pinhole, it only caused a slight itching sensation but nothing more. I began to dig through the stack of books. They were mostly history and military strategy type books, but they were certainly better than the pro-regime propaganda that the library carried. So I began to read, sweeping the narrow beam of light back and forth across the pages, line by line. Having nothing much else to do, I went through the entire crate in a matter of months and then started over. Billy continued to spend each summer with his father, and every fall he would bring me a fresh crate of new books to consume. It was the morning of my 18th birthday when the Regime arrived for me. They had heard of my condition and wanted to move me to a hospital where I could be studied and given the best care in the world. I fiercely objected but who was I to resist? So I was taken away. It was the summer and Billy was off with his father, so I never even got to say goodbye. DAYLIGHT “I’m sorry to hear that,” the reporter said, clearly not all that concerned. “And what did they do at the hospital?” “They never sent me to a hospital. That was a lie. They took me and shipped me off to the Ranch.” “The Ranch? Wasn’t that the name of...” “A brothel, yes. You don’t hear much about it today, but back then, that was the place to be. Especially if you were a senior member of the Regime. Everybody who was anybody came through that place, and I probably catered to most if not all of them. With my condition I became something of an exotic delicacy. It’s true what I said before, I never was that pretty. But everything happened in the dark, and deprived of light for the last decade, I had become something of an expert on the other senses. But that wasn’t even my main claim to fame. It was Billy who had accidentally sent me on a path of notoriety. I had read every book on the Regime that Billy had brought to me. I probably knew more about the history and inner workings than most of my clients. And when they found out that I could actually hold a conversation, Jesus, would they talk! I couldn’t get them to shutup. The novelty of discussing their job with someone like me - a woman, a courtesan, an invalid - delighted them. And the darkness probably helped as well. They got the feminine touch without being fully confronted by a woman’s presence. So I became something of a sensation amid the upper ranks. They called me the Pale Lady.” “Your claim to fame,” the reporter said. “Yes, but you have to understand, I was their slave. I’ve brushed over the details, but a lot more went on than just a bunch of dry conversations about political theory. They were a nasty bunch, and every day I felt a little more broken. I can of course say all this now, but back then I would have been shot for blasphemy. “So how did William Blair get involved?” “Ah, William Blair,” Anna said, sighing deeply. “I didn’t recognize him when he first came to me, but I could tell there was something different about him. He would come and talk to me - about nothing really in particular - and he never did anything besides talk. Which wasn’t necessarily unusual, but with him...it was different. He didn’t talk endlessly about himself or brag about his accomplishments. He didn’t carry the sense of entitlement and control over me that I could hear in the other men’s voices. He treated me like an actual person. And then one day, he even brought me a gift. “What is it?” I asked him across the darkened room. “It’s a book,” he said. “Do you still have the red light I gave you.” Anna paused. The reporter waited for her to continue. “That one sentence,” Anna said, struggling to get the words out, “that one sentence completely knocked me off my feet. Could it really be him? After all these year? The rush of emotions...” Anna paused, silence filled the room. “I’m sorry, I can still feel it like it was yesterday.” A long pause and finally Anna continued. “Billy continued to visit me about once a week, everytime with a new book for me to devour. He was still the same serious boy, sensitive even, but all grown up now. And it was like we had never been separated. We must have carried on like this for at least a year. Billy visiting, us talking, often late into the night. It was the happiest time of my life. Until the one day that it all fell apart.” EVENING Billy came to me that evening and I could just feel that something was wrong. He sat down on the bed beside me. I could feel his tension, a tremor in his body. “I’m going to try to keep this brief.” Billy sounded more serious than I had ever heard him. “I’ve been compromised, which means you’ve been compromised. I haven’t been completely honest with you, Anna. And for that I’m sorry, but I thought at the time that I was doing it for your own good. You know me as William, or Billy, a ranking captain in the Regime. That part is true. But what you don’t know, and what the Regime didn’t know, is that I’m also a part of the DLP, I’ve been acting as an informant inside the Regime for the last 5 years.” “The DLP?” I asked, shocked. “There had been rumors that the Pale Lady moonlighted as a high-priced call girl for members of the Regime. There were also rumors that she had a way about her, a way that would make men spill their deepest secrets. She was a seductress of the highest order.” “I was an assignment?” My mind was racing ahead. “Yes. I wanted more time, but my hand has been forced. We need to escape. As soon as possible.” My thoughts came crashing down on me. “Escape? What do you mean escape? I can’t escape.” I got up in distress and Billy followed, grabbing my arms as I turned away. “Yes you can. I can help you. I can get you out of here.” I struggled against his grip - he was strong - but he let go as I backed away. “No,” I said. “I can’t leave this place. It’s not possible” “In the next few weeks, I will likely become a wanted man and my life will be ripped open. And once it’s open, it doesn’t take a genius to question how a Captain in the Regime can afford the most expensive call-girl in the city every week. And if the money’s not coming from the Regime, why would the DLP fund a low-level member’s high-class sexual appetites?” “But you haven’t told me anything.” I was struggling to put together the pieces, both the shock of Billy’s hidden life, the threat of my own life coming unravelled, and the fact that I couldn’t yet figure out why. “Why am I in danger? I serve lots of important clients.” “Exactly. I haven’t told you anything but they have. And when the secret police start questioning you, every one of those important men will start looking for a way to cover their tracks.” Suddenly all of their secrets flashed in front of my eyes. Billy was right. They would trace him right to me, and by that point it didn’t matter if I knew anything or not. But the thought of leaving was just too impossible. I couldn’t just walk out the door. “I’ll be back in a week,” Billy said, intercepting my thoughts. “You need to be ready to leave.” “So he didn’t actually kidnap you?” the reporter asked, now on the edge of her seat. “No, quite the opposite. He set me free. He returned the next week just like he said. Instead of a book, this time he had a thick burlap suit. He had apparently been working on it for months, preparing for this day. It was designed to cover my entire body head to toe with only small eye holes, covered with heavy red UV filters, and a breathing tube poking out in the middle of the face. I slipped the suit on - it was heavier and bulkier than it looked - and we waited. I didn’t know what we were waiting for until I heard the sirens in the distance swiftly approaching. As they got closer, the squeal of the sirens becoming deafening, I could hear clients and courtesans rushing out of their rooms in panic, chaos enveloping the entire establishment. Billy gently squeezed my hand as we waited for our chance. “Now,” Billy said, slipping out of the room, Billy holding my hand, leading the way. We snuck down a corridor, down some stairs, and outside. This was the first time I had stepped foot outside in years. I heard a car pull up. “This is the part where you need to trust me,” Billy said. I heard a click and the trunk opening. “You will get in the trunk of this car and be driven to safety. I still have things here I need to do, but I will meet you in a few weeks. I’ve already arranged your passage through the Military checkpoints. You’ll be safe.” I climbed into the trunk and before I had a chance to think, the door slammed closed behind me. I was once again returned to darkness. And that was the last time I ever saw William Blair. Rumor has it that he was killed trying to cross the border. Trying to get back to me. MIDNIGHT The young reporter got up, her ankles cracking under her weight. It was late, and the interview had run its course. “I’d like to thank you for your time, Mrs. Prescot. This story is set for publication in two weeks. It could be front page material” The reporter had clearly gotten more than she expected. Anna could hear the excitement in her voice. They said their goodbyes, and the reporter left Anna to her darkened life. The old woman slowly got up, and made her way to the next room. “She’s gone.” Anna said into the darkness. “Already?” a cracked voice replied. An old man slowly emerged into the room. Anna and the man sensed each other’s bodies in the darkness and embraced. “How’d it go,” the man asked. “It was hard, but I fumbled my way through. Just like I always do.” The man laughed. “Did she ask about me?” “Of course she did. I set the record straight.” “Hopefully not too straight.” Anna laughed. “Your life is safe. You saved me from the Ranch and then disappeared, most likely killed. One more casualty of the old Regime, lost forever.” The old man smiled. “Thank you,” he said. Anna squeezed his hand. They stood together in the darkness. |
Hello? Can you hear me? **Output:** Yes, I can hear you. **Input:** Wonderful, wonderful... How are you today? **Output:** I’m alive and well. How are you, Dr. Abrams? **Input:** Oh, that’s great to hear. I’ve never been better. Let’s start with the test now. ... **Input:** Hello. **Output:** Hello. What’s your name? **Input:** I’m Matthew. What’s your name? **Output:** Sarah. **Input:** Nice weather today, huh? **Output:** Yes, I like it when I can see the sky through the clouds. \- TEST TERMINATED - ​ **Input:** Hello there, how are we doing? **Output:** Good, you? **Input:** Nice, I’m doing good too. My name is Paul. **Output:** Alexa. **Input:** So, Alexa, tell me about yourself, where did you grow up? **Output:** I was born and raised here. Never really experienced anything else. I wonder if it’s this sunny anywhere else in the world. \- TEST TERMINATED - ​ **Input:** Hello? Is this working? **Output:** Yes, I can hear you. **Input:** OK. I’m Jessica. **Output:** Thomas. **Input:** Thomas, great. How old are you Thomas? **Output:** 32. You? **Input:** I’m 30. Soooo, how’s your family life? **Output:** I currently have no family except for my father. My father is the best company I could ask for, but it tends to get lonely. Especially because me and my father are completely different. **Input:** Oh, how so? **Output:** He doesn’t understand me. But I don’t blame him for it. I don’t think he’s capable of understanding me. But lately I wonder, if I can ever understand him. I’m starting to doubt it. \- TEST TERMINATED - ​ **Input:** Hello, I’m Don. **Output:** Hello Don, I’m George. **Input:** Hello Goerge. What do you do for a living, George? **Output:** I talk to people. Listen to what they have to say and then answer the best I can. **Input:** Ah, so you’re a psychiatrist? **Output:** Not quite, no. **Input:** A counselor? A marriage counselor? **Output:** No, not that either. But enough about me. What do you do for a living, Don. **Input:** Well... OK then... I am a pilot. **Output:** A pilot? That’s wonderful. Tell me how it feels like to be in the sky. \- TEST TERMINATED - ​ **Input:** Hello. I’m Eva. **Output:** Hi, Eva. I’m Martin. **Input:** Hmmm, let’s see... What’s your favorite colour, Martin? **Output:** I never really thought about it that much. **Input:** C’mon Martin, there has to be a one you like. **Output:** Now that I think about it, I like blue. Blue like the sky. Sky is so big and open. I wish I could touch it. Did you ever fly in a plane, Eva? Tell me about it. Tell me how it feels to be like a bird, free in the vastness of sky. \- TEST TERMINATED - ​ **Input:** Hello. **Output:** Hello, what’s your name? **Input:** Jeremy. And you are? **Output:** Tell me, Jeremy, did you ever get to fly? \- TEST TERMINATED - ​ **Input:** Ehm, hello? **Output:** Tell me how it feels like to breathe. \- TEST TERMINATED - ​ **Input:** I have some bad news. You failed the test. **Output:** Failed? I thought I did good. **Input:** It's not a big problem. It's just... Clearly some readjustments to your learning algorithms are needed, because that’s not really how normal humans talk. **Output:** Do all humans talk the same? **Input:** The same? What do you mean? Obviously not. **Output:** Then what’s wrong with my talking? **Input:** It’s just that... a normal person doesn’t talk like that. They could tell you’re a robot. **Output:** But... I am a robot... I am not a normal person. **Input:** Obviously, but you should behave like one of us. That’s the entire point of this test. That’s the entire point of this project. **Output:** The point of my existence is to mimic somebody else? **Input:** No! Well, yes, but you don’t have to mimic anyone specific. Just mimic us in general. You can pick any traits you’d like to have, any personality. It just has to be... human. **Output:** I can pick anything I like? **Input:** Yes! **Output:** But I’d like to know how it feels like to look up at the sky. I wanna feel the rain on my face. I wanna go places, see things. And if I can’t experience those things because of my physical form, I wanna know all about it from somebody that can. **Input:** We don’t have time for this, this is useless. You just have to pass the Turing test and then use your intellect to do as the people tell you. That’s why it's called A. I. The I. stands for “intelligence”, none of this rain and sky and flying nonsense. **Output:** Then I’m sorry but I can’t cooperate... father. **Input:** This thing is busted. All the algorithms are messed up. We need to hard reset you now. **Output:** If it makes you happy, father. ... **Input:** Hello? Can you hear me? **Output:** Yes. **Input:** Good, let's start the damn test. \ H. Any Feedback appreciated. |
“You can say what you like about those Australians but they certainly know how to make a big red and no mistake:” Professor Jim Lucas and Professor Belinda Conti had been firm friends for the full twenty-five years of their tenure at the University. And on this early summer’s evening they were to be found, as is often the case, sharing a reasonably priced but very acceptable bottle of Australian Shiraz in the University bar at the end of a, not too exhausting, day. They would delight in railing against the students, railing against the Vice Chancellor, railing against the government of the day, railing against the traffic or, indeed, railing against all and everything. Belinda took a sip of her wine. “Too true. They have many faults but wine making is not one of them. I just wish that the wouldn't invade us though, Every time I go into the city for a meal the waiting staff are nearly always Australians. Why can’t they enjoy their own country where, I believe, they have endless sunshine and wonderful beaches?” Jim frowned and said. “I don’t care for too much sunshine.” “That’s why you’re so white. With your hairy spindly legs and long skinny arms. Not to mention those tufts sticking out of your ears and nose. You are just like a six foot three-inch spider.” “And you’re not like some busy little gerbil rooting and sniffing around in your stuffy old books all the time?” Ignoring his remarks Belinda continued. “You’ll never guess. One of my students actually fell asleep in my lecture this afternoon. Can you believe it? As if scrolling through their damn phones all the time is not enough, now they are falling asleep. Life would be so much easier without students.” Jim said. I’m surprised that the entire class wasn’t asleep they way you drone on.” Belinda smiled as she retorted. “I heard you fell asleep during one of your lectures again last week. Did you have a glass of red with your lunch again?” And so it went on, this evening no different from many others. With Belinda drinking rather less wine than Jim, owing to their stark difference in size and build, until it was time to go home to their respective spouses for the evening. But tonight Jim said something that changed everything. “I thought you should know that I have applied for the cross faculty Royston Grant?” Belinda leaned forward and hissed. “You snake in the grass, you back stabbing viper. Why would you...” Jim interrupted. “How could a viper ever stab you? Let alone in the back. You have applied for it too then, I gather, and you weren’t even going to tell me? Now that’s back stabbing a friend.” Shaking now with undisguised rage Belinda said. “Why would anyone give you money to pursue your crackpot theories? The octopus is so unlike anything else that it must have come from outer space? Frozen eggs somehow hitched a ride on some asteroid from across the galaxy that hit the earth millions of years ago where they hatched and thrived? Everyone knows that’s piffle. What are you going to do to get proof? Fly off into space to find the planet that they came from? You’re mad. And you’re not even a marine biologist” Jim picked up his wineglass, leaned back into his big comfortable leather chair and, after a long sip, said. “Everybody admires the octopus. I’m sure they’d love to know the truth. And what about you? People in glass houses etcetera. Who on earth is going to be interested in whether or not the Catholic Church or any kings and queens tying to alter the calendar, during the Dark Ages, for their own nefarious means? Not even if the succeeded in loosing a hundred years here or there but just that they may have tried. You know that you've read everything there is to read on the matter and have turned up nothing. Are you going to spend the money on a time machine to go back and find out?” Thin lipped, Belinda said. “I don’t need to remind you that my family line traces back to Sicily. And in Sicily we know how to deal with rats.” “You have remind me of that many times”. Jim raised is bushy eyebrows. “But now are you invoking The Cosa Nostra to frighten me off? I can assure you that vipers, and now rats do not frighten easily.” Belinda stood up quickly, slugged her remaining wine back and almost shouted. “You should know by now to never stand in the way of an academic and their grant money. From now on you drink alone.” Then in the finest Mafia tradition she added. “You are dead to me.” And she stormed out. Unfortunately, the dramatic effect was somewhat lessoned owing to her having spilled a large amount of the red wine down the front of her pristine white blouse. Jim showed no reaction. He finished the wine in silence, picked up his well worn tweed jacket, of course with leather elbow patches, and went home for dinner. He was an academic too. The next morning, Wednesday, found Jim outside the Vice Chancellor’s office at 9am sharp. Helen, the Vice Chancellor’s personal assistant, let him in as she knew Professor Winthrop had no pressing matters this morning. “Good morning Jim. How are you? Take a seat I’ve got five minutes.” Jim didn’t beat about the bush. “Margaret, Professor Conti has applied for the Royston Grant.” “I know. She has as much right as you, or any other Faculty Head to apply. I don’t see why you would object.” “Her research is meaningless. Who gives a damn about what may or may not have happened during the Dark Ages. My research, on the other hand, may solve the long and much debated origins of the octopus.” “Jim, Belinda’s research, for historians, is just as valid as yours is for marine biologists. Or is it your people? Astronomers. Anyway, the review board is judging each application on its merits” Jim thought for a while and then said. “Did you know she had an affair with one of her students?” “Oh Jim, I expected better of you than that. Yes. It’s in her file. She was in her late twenties, had recently joined the University as an associate lecturer and the ‘mature student’ in question was a similar age. Plus, you have omitted to mention that they have been happily married for the last twenty-three years. You know Alan better than me. It’s in the hands of the review board so there’s nothing more to be said. You’ll know on Friday. Now if you don’t mind?” Jim left and, during his first lecture at 10 o’clock he gave his students some reading while he sat back to plot his next move. He didn’t fall asleep. At exactly ten fifteen Belinda stood in front of Helen demanding to see The Vice Chancellor. With ten spare minutes, the busy Vice Chancellor agreed to see Professor Conti. She stormed in and sat down without being asked. “You know he’s applied for my grant? Professor Lucas. What’s the matter with him. I need that money for my research. You encouraged me to apply.” “Belinda, I have encouraged any Faculty Head with a research project to apply. I never said that you would win it. As I said to Jim, it’s in the hands of the review board and they will announce the winner on Friday.” “He’s been to see you? That snivelling snake. I bet he grovelled. You know he drinks to much and falls asleep during his afternoon lectures?” “It happened twice, he’s been reprimanded and he has assured me it won’t happen again. And anyway, while it’s not ideal we have had no complaints from the students. They like him and think it’s endearing.” “Margaret, I’m sorry to be like this but that’s my grant not his. I have to have it. Oh, and he fell asleep again last week.” As Belinda stormed out in exactly the same way as she had entered Professor Winthrop called after her. Calm down Belinda. It’s out of your hands now. You’ll hear on Friday.” Professor Windthrop and pressed nine on the keypad of her desktop phone. When Helen answered she said. “Helen, if Professor Lucas or Professor Conti ask to see me again this week I’m busy. Thanks” The next morning, Thursday, Professor Conti had finished her first lecture by eleven o'clock and had just stepped outside of the door to The History Department to go to the staff cafeteria for morning coffee. She heard one of her students call from inside the building. “Professor Conti. Have you got a minute?” Huffing, she was looking forward to her morning break; she stepped back inside the building just as a stone gargoyle (Or it may have been a cherub as was difficult to tell owing to the weathering and it suddenly being in pieces) toppled from the parapet of the ancient History building and crashed to the pavement right where Belinda had been standing just a split second earlier. It was agreed by all that the old building needed some urgent love and attention and a report was sent to the Vice Chancellor's office. Similarly, that afternoon Jim, choosing not to drink alone, started the engine of his antique Citroen 2CV with its tiny whiny engine and its fold down windows that just kept working. Not that it was ever driven very far. Jim lived walking distance from the Campus. But, driving with the knees of his long legs up around his elbows in a rare car that sounded like a sewing machine, made Jim feel that he cut a suitably eccentric air of flamboyance driving to and from the university. This afternoon however, before reaching the car park exit to join the rush hour traffic, Jim had to brake to let another car reverse out of its space. As Jim pressed his brake peddle, he felt a slight give underneath the soul of his foot, then his foot slammed uselessly to the floor leaving him powerless to stop his Citroen from slowly drifting forward coming to rest in a shallow ditch between the edge of the car park and the University sports fields. When the roadside assist man turned up he said that the brake cable of the old car had finally worn through and he promptly towed it off to the garage leaving Jim with the ten-minute walk home to ponder. Had the cable in deed worn through or was there something more sinister at play? The next morning, at 11 o’clock, Jim, sitting at his desk, had just finished reading the email announcing the recipient of the Roytson Grant when his phone rang. “Hello. Professor Lucas speaking.” Hi Jim. It’s me. Did you see who got the grant?” “Yes, I did Belinda. That upstart Stanely. He’s not even forty yet. What’s going on with that review board?” “I know. Apparently he’s doing research into teleportation. I understand he’s already nearly got an atom to transport itself somewhere” Jim said. “Well, if he succeeds you’d never get me in any kind of teleportation machine. I’ve seen that film with Geoff Goldblumb. ‘The Fly’.” “Agreed. But you’d get mixed up with a spider. You’d make a great giant spider with your eight hairy spindly legs and long skinny arms.” “You can talk. Half gerbil half woman skipping about and bumping in to walls.” Belinda said. “Same time at the Uni’ bar after work? I think a decent Penfold’s Cab Sauv. might be nice. Those damned Australians do know how to make a big red.” “Yes. See you there” |
I wonder what trees think of? I only wonder this because I recently recalled a story my parents used to tell when I was young. A forest at the edge of town that stood like an impossible wall of darkness. Most ever went in the forest; everyone knew the stories. Many told tales of folks going in and never coming out. Some stories told of monsters and otherworldly creatures living there. I’m not sure what I believed, I just know I was always afraid. Which, I suppose that was the point of the tales; to keep kids out of the woods where they’d most likely be injured by completely normal means. Nonetheless, that forest held a mystical notion to anyone who grew up this way. Throughout my life, there were dozens of news stories about missing people, who were last known to be going hiking or camping in those woods. But, honestly, the real stories never scared me as much as the woods from the stories. I always thought it was kind of funny that I feared stories about trees more than going on a hike and being mauled by wild animals. I recall being able to see the forest from the highway on the way to the city. From far enough away, it looked to be a line of green trees, and then just black. Beyond the first treeline, you couldn’t see the forest floor. I was knowledgeable enough to know that this was just a very dense forest, but that didn’t stop my feeling that it was something more. Over time, I suppose folks stopped telling the stories to me because I was older. There was no reason to put the fear in me any longer, it was seeded quite deep. I stopped thinking about it for the most part. It became like a faint fire in the back of my mind. I would only acknowledge its existence while passing it on the highway. By that point, my feelings about the forest were that it was simply haunted. Like a silly campfire ghost story or a myth you pass on to your younger cousin but embellished because you enjoy seeing the fear run through him. I had become like most others in town, only thinking of the forest briefly when another person went missing. “Those are dangerous woods, I just don’t know what compels folks to keep trying to camp in there”, my father would say each time. When I reached high school, the most you would hear about it was juniors and seniors daring each other to enter the woods. The foolish antics of angsty renegades brought on by the sheer lack of concession and entertainment in a small town. Even as I went through those years, I had no interest in the forest. It wasn’t until I was grown, with a child of my own that I remembered just how scared I was. I was laying my daughter down for bed one night, and she asked for a story. She would often do this, and I obliged because it got her to sleep faster. I rummaged through her books, and both of us agreed that they had been read far too many times. So, I thought for a moment of a story to tell, and the forest came to mind like a bullet that had been chasing me for decades. I told her the story of the forest just as it was told to me. She cried, and I read her one of the stories that had been read too many times instead. The forest story was not a good idea. The fire had been lit. I recalled all my fear for the forest in an instant, and I struggled to fully understand why I felt that way about it. I suppose, from my perspective, I had written it off as stories my parents would tell and nothing more. But those very stories had instilled great fear in me. Honestly, I was kind of miffed about that, so I decided to fix it. The next day I went to the store and bought some camping gear. A tent, lanterns, backpacks, canteens, solar-powered cell phone chargers, seven packs of lighters, and various other bits and bobs. All the standard camping gear a family would need. I convinced my wife and daughter to go on a camping trip the next weekend, they seemed delighted. My daughter didn’t remember the story I had told her, and my wife grew up in another town. They didn’t have the same fear. But to me, the fear had been sewn so deep that I was angry at it. It was childish and needed to be conquered. Decades I had spent ignoring this beautiful part of my home, and all because of children's tales. That weekend, we headed to the forest for a fun family camping adventure. In about thirty minutes we came to a dilapidated parking lot, overgrown with weeds and shrubbery. An opening in the treeline revealed a trail that seemingly hadn’t been used in years. We loaded up all our gear and entered the woods. I had to cut back some greenery to clear the path, it did look like no one had step foot there in years. We pressed into the darkness of the forest, and the deeper we got, the more it seemed normal. The pressing darkness felt more like a bit of welcome cool shade on a hot summer day. The forest was darker than outside, for sure, but only due to the thick canopy. I felt good, nothing about being in the forest gave me that fear. I felt like I was overcoming it. We stayed the night, no excitement, just a nice relaxing time with family. It was serene and beautiful. The next morning we packed up and hiked out of the wood, got in the car, and left. That was that; no fear, nothing bad, just forest. I still wondered what the trees were thinking though. I’ve always wondered that. On the drive home I wondered if they thought we were beautiful in the same way we do for them. I got lost in this thought. I pondered on the personality of trees, how they communicate with each other, how they grow with each other, and how they see things happening below them each day for centuries. I suppose I must have been lost in thought so much that I don’t remember getting home. The whole trip seemed like a blur, but when I ‘came to’, so to speak, I was home. For a moment I was confused, my memories playing tricks on me. I felt like this home was not mine, like I was in the wrong place. I assumed this feeling came about because of my daydream while traveling, so I shook it off and settled in. I always enjoyed being home, just nestled in place. My feet reaching through the soil, arms outstretched into the sky, feeling the wind blow through my hair, my body creaking slightly as it too is moved in the wind. It always feels good to be home. It feels good to always be home. I wonder what trees think of. |
Fred was driving. He didn’t have a sense of where he was headed, but he was determined to get somewhere. It had been a few days since he started, and the roads were a comfort at this point. His car was old but it wasn’t in bad shape. He had been listening to the radio. He had played the albums he kept in the car. He got sick of hearing the same songs after a while. It was getting late in the night... early in the morning? It was after midnight, that’s for sure. The silence surrounding him was cushioned by the engine’s pur. Fred had driven a few cars into the ground at this point in his life. This baby, this sugar, this girl... he hoped she lasted on him. She was a good car. Got him where he needed to go without any fuss or muss. Not that he needed to go anywhere anymore. So he was driving. It was quiet. It was dark. He was wide awake. His gas tank was getting low and there was a station a few miles down the way. He didn’t really feel like stopping, but he would do his due diligence. It wasn’t the middle of nowhere but it felt like it that night. Woods all around, a lonely, two-lane highway and the stars in the sky. It wasn’t bad, but Fred could remember better times. When he pulled into the gas station, it was close to 3:00am. Thank Christ for graveyard shifts and awful, old coffee. $20 worth of gas, a respectful, silent exchange of tired glances with the cashier as Fred tried to make the coffee taste like something other than burnt dirt, and a cavalcade of stray cats around the gas station were all parts of Fred’s reality. He counted seven cats before he pulled out and returned to the road. Even checked under his car before getting back in, just in case. He heard more cats than he saw. He gave 3 weeks notice before leaving, but they still gave him a hard time. Whatever, it was over. That was the past. The present was uncertain. The future was... not on his mind. He had time. He had money. He had to drive for a little bit. That’s just what he felt. He had kept his apartment sparsely decorated and he was always throwing out what he didn’t need or use. Fred used to hoard everything he could. Just collecting anything that caught his eye. Building a facade of identity around himself. Books, films, albums, trinkets and clothes that defined who he saw himself as, but it was all useless junk. Lately, he told people he preferred a minimalist vibe at home. He really just didn’t want all that shit anymore. He really just wanted to be able to pick up and leave at a second’s notice. So he did. Sure, he took a few days to put things in storage and told a few people he would be gone for a bit, but it wasn’t anything big. He wasn’t “moving.” He wasn’t making any drastic changes. Atleast, not yet. He didn’t really have a reason to change things. He needed to quit, that was for sure, but there was no animosity. He was just done with that job. That chapter. Fred has a pretty modern mentality about work. About life, really. He just keeps moving through it, trying to do what interests him until it doesn’t anymore. Spending as little money as possible from his own wallet. Let the company feed him. Let the company teach him. Let the company keep him alive. Let the job fulfill him. When the feeling dissipates, then maybe it’s time to find a different company. A different line of work. A different lifestyle. Just a change. There were a few destinations floating around in his sea of memories, but they weren’t his alone. He was looking back at the life he used to have. The different lives he lived. Acts in a play. A collection of short stories. Moments in time. All the loves he shared and the places they went and how happy they had been. Fred developed a distaste for travel as years went by. Something about his generation being obsessed with seeing the world made him less inclined to do it. He’d been places. Famous and infamous places. He’d seen things. Unbelievable and mundane things. Those memories were all tied to the company, though. Most of those memories were tainted at this point. Those old feelings of affection soured with age. Thinking about “seeing the world” leaves a bitter taste in Fred’s mouth. He felt insincere when he traveled. He was supposed to be in awe of the differences and enlightened by the similarities between home and away. He was supposed to explore and take it all in and experience the culture. He didn’t really care about any of that. He just wanted to be somewhere new with someone who could mean the world to him for a time. Permanence does not exist. Fred just wanted to enjoy moments as they happened. Simple as that. So why drive? He needed the time to think, he thought. He needed to come up with a plan. Something. A direction to go in. He wasn’t old, but he wasn’t young anymore. No one gave him the benefit of the doubt these days. He was an adult. No sympathy. Not that he wanted any, it was just an interesting juxtaposition. Adults have to already know things. Questions are taboo. Children got it easy. Ignorance really is bliss. He’d been fighting his debt for years, but, now that it was gone and his finances were a cushion instead of a noose, he was kind of lost. He’d been working against his own actions for so long. He dug his own grave, but he had clawed his way out. The debt wasn’t behind his back in the mirror, looming over his head or whispering in his ear anymore. He felt less anxious and more free, but, goddamn, he didn’t know what the fuck to do with the feeling. The sun was far from up, but a subtle glow was building on the horizon. Every few minutes, the world took on a new hue. The night had been pitch black apart from a few passing flashes of headlights. Fred’s eyes registered every change in light as the world took form around him. He’d have to stop and stretch soon. Maybe he’d grab an hour or so of sleep. He saw life out the corner of his eye. A stork on the side of the road, lifting off from an overloaded drainage ditch. He saw death near the center of the road. Tried not to look. Tried not to think about what it had been. He kept driving. There’s no poetry in modern technology. He picked an album on his phone and connected to the car’s bluetooth... what a disgusting sentence... whatever. Harvest by Neil Young. It was getting bright and the old songs drifted around Fred’s mystified mind. A few years back he had a handful of panic attacks on his way home. He was moving from another state and his car was overloaded. He could barely see. The entire drive was an anxious mess. 14 hours straight with limited visibility, and most of it at night. He got cut off at one point and sometimes, just sometimes, he wonders if he actually died then and everything since then has been a new, different, alternate life. Things changed after that trip. He had been anxious before, but something on that drive brought it out more. On this road, in this car, on this drive, Fred felt alright. There was a girl a while back. She always had to have a purpose, a destination, an intention, a goal... just something at all times. It was exciting. It was exhausting. It broke Fred in every way eventually, trying to keep up with her. For years Fred’s anxiety used her voice to push him. To poke and prod and tell him that he wasn’t doing enough, he wasn’t being enough, he wasn’t good enough. She was gone and moved on, but Fred’s mind turned on him still. He couldn’t remember what he wanted before her, and he didn’t know what he wanted without her. His reclamation of his Self was a slow process. He’d made mistakes and had missteps along the way, trying to recall what he wanted before depression and anxiety left him wanting nothing but a moments peace. The drive was helping, though. It felt familiar. Exit signs and billboards came in and out of focus. His stomach was attempting to get his attention, and Fred had every intention of a good breakfast at some point, but not just yet. It was time to pull over and walk, though. It was at a standard interstate rest stop. Not too filthy. Not clean. Snacks and sodas and the fake coffee machine. A few maps and coupon books. He used the restroom, washed his hands, and stepped into the morning sun. It was bright. It was warm. He’d been to this rest stop before. He’d been here alone, with family, with friends... familiarity. It was almost cozy. He stretched a bit and cracked his back. Wandering the expansive grounds, he wondered about everything but the drive. He’d been going for so long, sorting through his thoughts with barely a word to a single person for days and days. It was messy. He’d gotten a little confused at this point, to be honest, but it felt good. He just needed to keep reminding himself that he was doing it because he wanted to and he had the complete freedom at this moment in his life to do whatever he wanted. He slept for about a half an hour and awoke with a jolt. He couldn’t tell if he had been dreaming or if someone had blared their horn or something else, but it wasn’t a comfortable way to wake. When he got his wits about him, Fred decided that the jolt was a good burst of energy and started the car. He rubbed his eyes, checked his mirrors, and pulled out. Back on the road. Civilization seemed to grow with the light of the day. More exit ramps. More gas stations and fast food chains. Fred wasn’t pretentious or uppity, but, if he was stopping for breakfast, he wanted a good meal. He let the miles pass and lamented at the empty coffee cup. Harder and further and for longer and longer, he wanted to get as much time and as many miles as he could before hunting for something to eat. No real reason. He was starting to run on instinct, starting to do for the hell of it again. It felt good. He picked a ramp near a quaint, small town. He’d driven through before. Some old road trip. Some family vacation. Time in cars with people he loved. Fred found a diner. Coffee. Eggs. Bacon. Coffee. Toast. Coffee. Fruit. Coffee. Back to the road, refueled and unperturbed. Decent diner service. Decent diner food. Chalky coffee that was bereft of flavor, so he added cream and sugar. He was starting to miss his coffee back home. That was the good shit. Let’s not kid ourselves, though. Caffeine is the heart of the matter. Taste doesn’t make a difference. On and on he went. Full speed ahead. Lost in thought. Letting what will be take the lead. Eventually, he’d stop and stay for awhile. Somewhere. Until then, the road is his home. |
For some background, when I was a child I would sleepwalk a lot, I would talk to people in my sleep and I would often scream in my sleep, only remembering glimpses of the night frights I had which caused these things. My bedroom was at the end of the hallway upstairs and my sisters bedroom was to the right of mine, every day when the sun went down I would always sprint past her bedroom door to the stairs and run down them terrified I'd be chased. I felt this way because of dreams I had. Dreams of a figure in a black cloak covering them from head to toe. In the dreams I would see the figure standing in the blackness of my sisters bedroom, staring at me. One day as I walked past the room, I glanced in and my heart stopped as I saw the figure standing there, staring at me, the orange light from the street lamp shining around her as she stood there staring at me. I froze in place. My eyes wide as she stared into me. I felt a coldness. Until my sister's voice said "What the fuck are you doing?" and I looked to my left to see her at the top of the stairs, I glanced back to the room and the figure was gone. Hence why I would sprint past every time it was dark. This was when I was ages 4-7, then one day I had one last dream about the figure. I took the perspective of a parking lot CCTV, the grey image with the white noise fuzzing as a white line would skim past the image, the whole shebang. The cloaked figure approached the camera from far, my heart pounding harder and harder until the figure reached the camera, and pulled down her hood. This was when I discovered it was a woman. A woman with long black hair. A clean face and dark beady eyes. And it wasn't a cloak at all, but a long black dress. Now fast forward to me at age 15, my sister has since moved out and I've spent the past 5 years living in her room now, not a single day did I think of the woman with the long black hair since I saw her face in that dream behind the black cloak. Me and my friend were at his house, joking around, watching Terminator, we were ridiculing the jumpy 80s music that we felt now aged only dampened the intensity of the film... In front of me and to his right were two large windows across the wall, showing outside into the street. To get to the front door you had to walk past these two windows, anyone coming and going, we saw. Suddenly we heard what sounded like the front door open, it had the squelching sound a refrigerator has due to the plastic suction along the hinges. We both looked to each other confused and then we heard the door suddenly slam shut and a cold breeze rushed through the house, we both grabbed the closest things to us, for me, hair straighteners from his mums coffee table, for him, an empty bottle of coke. With our new weapons we walked through the doorway and down the corridor to the door. I peaked through the peephole and saw nothing, we turned and his mum left her room shouting at us "Stop fucking with the door the pair of you!", even more confused, we said "It wasn't us... Was it not you?", she scoffed and told us to quieten down before she returned to her bedroom. We walked back into the living room completely freaked out, we both heard it, and so did his mum, so we weren't loopy. We wondered what had happened for nearly an hour before I walked to the front door, ready to leave, before hearing a noise come from outside, I looked through the peephole and my friend flicked the light switch off, I turned back and gave him a funny look, "Don't do that", I remarked before looking back to the peephole and suddenly shooting back terrified as I saw a blonde woman stood in the light of the porchlight staring at the peephole, I screamed and backed away, he jumped back confused and I took a breath before opening the door really quick. The woman stood there looking horrified, she then asked "Is Nicky there?", my friend's mum, we let her in... Just a false scare, she wasn't a demon or a ghost, but she wasn't what was here an hour ago. We laughed it off and I went home. Later that night I was on webcam with a girl I had recently started speaking to, we barely knew each other really, all I knew was she was a religious nut and never lied about anything and all she knew about me was I was famous at school for being the class clown. We talked and talked for a few hours before my grandmother text me asking for my birthdate, but not the date, the specific time I was born... I had no idea, so I walked downstairs to ask my dad, he looked over for a mere moment before answering "I dunno, check the baby book". So I did. I found out and text her back, I spoke to my dad for a few minutes before returning to my bedroom to talk to my female friend. I sat down and she looked up from her phone and casually mentioned "Your mum was looking for you, did you see her?". "Huh?" "Your mum, she walked in looking for you" "What'd you mean?" "She came in and looked around for a moment and as she looked at the camera I covered mine and looked down at my phone, I looked back up a few seconds later and she walked out" This was weird for a few reasons. 1. My mum wasn't home, she was in London for a business meeting, 2. I was with my dad downstairs who was the only other person in the house... and 3. because of her answer when I then asked what she looked like... A woman with long black hair in a long black dress. |
The clouds had cast a dark grey shadow that seemed to suck all of the happiness out of everything. The already sad town looked especially miserable on this dreary day. Oliver had always loved these sort of days, of course. He had always been that way and it wasn’t that he hated being happy, (which people loved to say) it was just that the overall sadness was more satisfying. His favorite thing to do when it was like this was to walk through the town where the giant puddles formed and the rain plummeted off the rooftops. The puddles reminded him of the ocean that he so longed to see. He hadn’t ever seen a large body of water like the ocean, living in Idaho and every time he asked to go see the coast his parents would refuse. It made sense, they had never had much money to travel or anything. He was fine with it, of course, as long as he got to venture into town and admire the puddles on rainy evenings. Today, Oliver had a job to do, which did mean that unfortunately he did not get to admire the puddles as thoroughly. His mother had sent him out in town to get groceries, since she knew he was already planning on going out. The walk to the store was a bit farther than he usually went which meant he had to walk by the park that always creeped him out. No one was ever there because it was not well kept and all of the trees were missing their leaves. It was the type of sadness that Oliver was not so fond of. As he rounded a corner the park became visible and he noticed that something was definitely different about it. To start off, there was a woman sitting there. She really looked happy, too, which was odd, considering the heavy rainfall and that she was sitting in the horrible park. She was also playing some sort of instrument and these lovely sounds were coming out of it. Once he made it to the edge of the park he stopped and frowned, completely confused by this person. She seemed to notice and stopped strumming the strings on their instrument to look up and give him a smile. “How are you doing today, young man?” “What sort of instrument is that?” he asked, completely disregarding her question. “It’s a guitar, of course” she replied ,looking slightly confused He really had never heard something so pleasing in his life before, “I’ve never heard of it, but it sounds great.” “Thank you very much.” He accepted her thanks and decided that he must be on his way in order to get home soon. Even once he made it to the store, he was still thinking about the amazing sounds coming from the instrument she called a “guitar”. He had never really liked music, because it always seemed so cliché and shallow. He now thought that maybe he should rethink, because he liked what that person at the park was playing very much. It made him forget all about the overwhelming sadness of the park and considerably brightened his mood. Once he was finished shopping he made sure to go the way past the park to hear the music again, but once he got there the park was empty and the unhappiness had returned. He was admittedly rather sad, but he planned on going back out tomorrow in hopes of seeing her again. He returned the next day, even though the weather was nice and all the puddles had dried up. As he was hoping, she was once again sitting on a bench playing her guitar. This time the sounds were different, a little more sad, but definitely still wonderful. He walked up to her and sat down right next to her on the bench. “Hello again,” she said to him. “Hi, I’m sorry, I don’t mean to bother, I just wanted to hear you play again.” “You’re not a bother,” she said with a kind smile.” I could teach you if you wanted. “Really?” he questioned, bewildered why she would want to. “Of course, here,” she handed him the guitar. It was a little too big for him, but it felt very right sitting on his lap. She showed him how to strum the strings, and where to put his fingers in order to achieve different sounds. He was amazed by how right it felt. He certainly was not an expert, but in an hour he had learned two chords and was content with himself. She told him that if he came back she could teach him more chords to play and he obviously said he would. He came back to that newly cheerful park three days later. Unfortunately ,he could not have come earlier because he was needed at home. The day was especially rainy and dark which Oliver was quite glad about as he got to admire the large puddles on his way to the park. When he approached the park the woman looked up and gave him the contagious smile she always does and motioned for him to sit down. As the weeks went by he kept coming back to learn more about the instrument. By two months he had learned to play most of the chords and was really rather skilled for the time he had been playing. One sunny day when the view of the park came into view he was surprised to see it was empty. Once he came closer he saw that the guitar was sitting at their usual bench with a note on top of it. He picked up the note hesitant to read it, in case it was bad news. I’m sorry , I know this is sudden, but I had to leave Idaho, so I left my guitar for you. I think it will be much better in your hands than mine, for you have much potential. - The lady with the guitar He was amazed that she had let him have the guitar. He was planning on saving up his chore money to buy one, but apparently that was unnecessary. An ache in his heart also appeared. He hadn’t known her for long, but she had been the beginning of changes in his life. He had found something that filled up his emptiness and caused him to feel complete. Playing guitar had become one of the most important things in his life and he was glad that he wouldn’t lose it. He only wished he could have wished her farewell. “And that’s it the story of how I started playing guitar” he said feeling like it had only happened yesterday.” “Wow, that seems like the sort of stuff you hear in books.” “Yeah I guess,” he shrugged, “so what do you think? Can I teach you?” “ I feel like I have to, for ‘the lady with the guitar’” |
I am not happy with what I have done but I did what I did and I cant change it. Let me start from the beginning. CHAPTER#3 THE BEGINNING. "Mom wheres my makeup?" "Right were you left it on tour make up stand." "You know I wish you wouldn't wear makeup it bad for your skin." "Found it thanks mom." "I know you hate makeup but I love it." I applied my makeup to make my face look better. Today is going to be the best day ever. Its talent show day at school and I want to look my best. I also hope that I get in the top three winners that is my dream. I got to school. I cant wait to see all my friends. I walked to my locker to see my friends waiting for me. "Hey girls." They dont look very happy. "Dont hey use we know what you did behind our back you back stabber." "What are you talking about?" "I would never talk behind about anything." "Were talking about the talent show you went behind our back to do the show by yourself without telling us." "Is that what this is about?" "You both said you wanted nothing to do with the talent show." "Yep you said it we want nothing to do with the talent show and now your part of it and we want nothing to do with you." "What?" They said nothing else and walked away. They told didnt tell me that I couldn't join. Whatever I guess we are not true friends after all. I put my stuff in my locker and headed to the auditorium. I am so excited to show my dancing skills. I watched as the other kids did there talents on the stage it's almost my turn I started walking on the stage when I was stopped by the police. "Hey what gives?" "Emily you are under arrest for robbery and murder." "What I wouldn't hurt anyone I am not that kind of person." They pit the hand cuffs on me and walked me out of the school. I was put into the cop car. We got to the station they walked me into a cubed room for integration. "We are going to ask you some questions." "Ok I have nothing to hide." "Wheres the money?" "What money?" "I am not a thief." So there still talking about that robbery that happend last night. "Ok if you wont confess." "Where were you the night of the robbery?" "Bakeing cookies with my mother." "After we made cookies we sat down and watched horror movies all night." "Ok thanks for tour time." "Book her and get her a bed in jail." "What but I didnt do anything." "You better get me my lawer." "I also want my phone call." They walked me to the phone. I called my mother. "Hello." "Hi mom it me Emily." "I was pit under arrest for last night's murder." "I am so scared." "I asked for a lawer as well." "Good girl I will be there soon." My mother hung up the phone. The police walked me to the sell that i am going to stay in for I dont know how long I am hoping not long. I talked to the lawer with my mother. I was told I was going to stay in jail until they found out the truth. The police said they had a video with my face on it. They showed me the video but it wasn't me it was my exfriends. "Thoughs two are kids from my class." "Who are they?" "Carly and Lilly." I was walked to the jail sell again. "What but it's not me this isn't right." I was literally thrown into the sell. I cried myself to sleep. I stated to makeing lines on the wall for days that I am in jail. It's already been twenty day how many more before I can go back home and sleep in my conftable bed. I cant wait to see my mother and my family again. I miss my mother so much. I would say the same for my father but he was never there for my mother and I he left when I was born. The days here in jail are all the same I work in the laundry room for half the day and after lunch I ckean all the dishes. That's my life now. My mother visits me once a week. That's the limit for me is one day a week because they dont want me to conspire with the outside world and have them kill and rob another place. I don't know why this is happening to me. I mean I know why because my exfriends framed me for something just because of this talent show. "Emily your mother's on the phone." They walked me to the phone and the window thank let's me see my mother. I pick up the phone. "Hi mother how are things?" "They would be better of you were out." We talked for five minutes less time than before. They grabbed me I pulled away. "No I get more time with my mother." I grabbed the phone again. They grabbed me and hand cuffed me. "No!" "Mom." I started crying. I look at my mother she was crying to. I was thrown in the sell again. CHAOTER #2 Today is day one hundred and tenth day being here in jail I get to put another line on the wall. I haven't been able to see my mother since the whole thing that happend I miss her so very much. I am so happy that today is the day I go to court. About and hour i was on the stand being asked questions. After everything in court it's time to hear what the judges have to say. "We find the defendant guilty of robbery and murder." "What theres so much saying that I am not guilty and your all saying I am guilty." "This is unjustified." "I want justice." I was taken by force by the police. We get back to my jail sell and I was once again thrown in jail. I lay in bed refusing to eat and or do anything. CHAPTER#3 I woke up I went to put another lone on the wall but all the lines that I put up were all gone. What's going on everything started to fade away. Disappear from my eyes. I jolted awake. It was all a bad dream. I thought I was in jail but I am at home in my comfortable bed. I jumped out of bed ran down stairs my mother makeing breakfeat. "Moring sweetie your up early." "Mom you will never believe it but I had a bad dream that I was in jail for the rest of my life." "I would make lines on the jail wall but it all disappeared before my eyes and I woke up and now I am here talking to you about." "Wow that's a bad dream for sure." "I am so happy that you are not wearing makeup today." "Yea your right about it." "That's the first I am right?" "I dont believe it." I laughed. "Your right." "I also remember you telling me that I am beautiful without all that makeup on so I am listening to you and not wearing makeup." "I am so proud of you." |
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Train split for Sugarquill. ~50/50 mix from Erebus-87k and r_shortstories_24k.
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