 
# A Breath of Fiction

Volume I: The First 200 Stories

Gregory M. Fox

17 October 2010-10 August 2014

Copyright 2014 by Gregory M. Fox

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Table of Contents

**Air**

Fiction, Constellations, Lifted, Transcend, Shot, Closed, Breath, Tightrope, Something, Hold, Coaster, Singing, Bubbles, Song, Flash, Horizon, Sky

**Fire**

Flame, Sigh, Blaze, Fusion, Fire, Lights, Sides, Sip, Combustion, Star, Bullet, Box, Wanderer, Numbers, Sparks, Tenderly, Wish

**Water**

Fragile, Puddle, Flotsam, Missing (i), Water, Restaurant, Spike, Shelter, Ice, Rain, Cubes, Spinning, River, Sprinklers, Colors, Serene, Catch, Inundation

**Earth**

Stones, Petrichor, Pear, First, Answers, Visitors, Awakening, Blind, Pudding, Funeral, Scrape, Fatherhood, Riddle, Pendulum, Pine, Beating, Metro

**Animal**

Selection, Housebroken, Lost, Remains, Waiting (i), Spill, Headlights, Thunder, Boss, Laugh, Raccoon, Wings, Constrict, Illumination, Leash, Bernard

**Vegetable**

Gate, Picnic, Iris, Cotton, Green, Stains, Missing (ii), Cascade, Veil, Maple, Ivy, Flowers, Woven, Chainsaw, Leaves

**Mineral**

Sand, Fine, Gold, Porcelain, Directions, Change, Knife, Sensation, Part, Break, Silver, Oasis, Enough, Hands

**Mind**

Want, Last, Page, Milk, Copy, Reflection, Stories, Amber, Spot, Memory, Troubleshooting, Dial, Prolific, Go, Alone

**Body**

Bandage, Knell, Cough, Reunion, Store, Dance, Impact, Mess, Dissolution, Oils, Sawdust, Fingers, Hair, Stab, Expect, Haunted, Body, Road, Left, Kiss, Embrace

**Heart**

Pump, Mail, Breakfast, Ring, Knock, Notes, Choice, Visit, Bitter, Silence, Gift, Sleepover, Meeting, Doors, Warrantee, Waiting (ii)

**Soul**

Help, Worlds, Summer, Neck, Look, Judgment, Aboard, Tone, Thanksgiving, Morning, Remembrance, End, Miracle, Tears, Call, Blood, Peace

**Time**

Shadow, Time, Okay, Cages, Soup, Dust, Tug, Entropy, Script, Ghosts, Travelers, Steeped, Home, Moan, Rings, Lightyears, Waking

**About the Author**

**Read More**

**Acknowledgments**

Air

Section I:

Fiction

"Are we the same or different?" you say.

I answer, "I don't really know."

I know we've all got separate bodies, and we love or hate each other for it. But they say there's just a 0.1% genetic variation between every human on earth. We meet at grocery stores; we meet on streets; we meet in motel rooms and board rooms and bathrooms. We kiss or we fight or we walk right on by, and then we tell the story, pretending it's ours alone.

I entered the second act of your life, and I'll disappear before it's done, but you were my inciting action, and I'll be that for someone else. So, I can't tell whose plot is whose, whose line is whose, who's the star, and who's supporting.

The air in my lungs was in yours five years ago; before that, it was in the mouth of the medic who saved your life, before that, it was somewhere above Alaska; before that . . .

Separate, together, we're living. We're telling a story. We're whispering it in our laughs, our punches, our tears. We're screaming it in our shivers, our slow dances, our silences. Each breath a fiction that tells the truth.

Constellations

She travelled only at night and used the streetlamps to navigate. Her ancestors had followed the stars, but a hazy orange glow had long since washed them from the sky, so she had needed to find a new map—new constellations to guide her. Alone in her vessel she drove between these clusters of light. To get to the grocery store she went east for three streetlamps, north forty-for seven streetlamps, then east for fifteen streetlamps. Work was west for twenty-nine streetlamps, north for fifty streetlamps, then east for ten streetlamps. Her parents' house was over 2,750 streetlamps to the south.

One day, a wind came, and blew for hours so strongly that houses shifted off their foundations, that pigs with a running start could fly short distance, and that power lines snapped like cheap thread. That night the power lines failed to come on. Without the blaze of those fluorescents, she had no bearing—no direction. So she drove. She drove until she reached the end of the world, and then just kept on driving. For the first time in years, she charted a new course, her car sailing among the stars she was seeing for the first time.

Lifted

Agnes wasn't looking at him, but at the hazy blue horizon. Somewhere along that line where heaven and earth met was her future. With hope and determination emanating from her, it almost seemed like she could already see her destination. Paul's shaking voice pulled her back into the present.

"And what am I supposed to do?" he asked.

Like a cool breeze, she wrapped herself around him and whispered, "I wish I could tell you that, but it's for you to decide." Softly, she kissed him. "I'm not asking you to follow me."

"I know," he replied. "But that's the only way . . ." Her hand was already slipping out of his as the gap between them widened. "Now?" he asked. "Does it have to be now?"

Agnes nodded. "Goodbye, Paul. Maybe someday we'll meet again." She turned away and with one flap of her enormous wings launched herself into the sky. Through his tears, Paul watched as she flew ever higher and farther, becoming a distant speck that merged with the horizon. Teeth clenched, he started running toward that line. He ran faster and faster, until wings larger than an eagle's sprang from his back and lifted him into the air.

Transcend

Like a soldier peeping out of a foxhole, the girl's eyes darted up from her book. She scanned the coffee shop furtively, both fearing and hoping that one of the times she looked at someone, their eyes would be looking back.

She was particularly interested in the boy the next table over. _Here again_ , she thought. _Every Saturday, and always with a sketchbook. I wonder what he's drawing. I wonder if he's drawing me_. Her thoughts grew like a vine, grabbing onto any nearby idea, twisting her imagination into a gnarled tangle of daydreams.

The girl felt something mounting inside her. At first she thought it was the abstract longing for connection, the kind one feels in a crowd of strangers. Then she realized it was something much more tangible.

"Ah-CHOO!"

It was not a particularly loud sneeze, but it was violent. For a moment she was nothing but a mass of flailing limbs. Once she'd regained her composure, she heard a voice from the next table over.

"Bless you."

_There it is_ , she thought. _A connection. Before we were two entirely separate people and now we've transcended ourselves_.

The next table over, the boy was thinking, _My coffee's cold_.

Shot

Every moment is composed of smaller moments, and the moment that defined Hank McAvery's youth was made up of three.

The first was the in-bound pass. Freshman Dougie Sheffield threw it in because Red Stevens had fouled out in the third quarter. It was a perfect bounce pass right beneath the six-foot-six wingspan of Westfield's All-American forward Percy Jones and into the hands of Hank McAvery.

The second moment was when Hank turned toward the hoop and left the world of gravity behind. He inhaled deeply the perfume of sweat and leather that clung to him, lifted the ball and launched himself into the air. That twenty-one ounce sphere left his hands like a prayer bound for heaven and sailed through the air like Noah's dove. For that moment within a moment, the world was silent.

The final moment was when gravity reasserted its dominion over the world. The ball began its downward arc—Hanks's feet hit the floor—the buzzer sounded—the ball, which had flown so beautifully, fell nine feet wide of the basket, knocking over a Westfield cheerleader. Hank, too, continued his descent, collapsing on the hardwood floor where he would remain for the next two hours.

Closed

A dozen people told me what they saw—how you stood on the roof, pushed against the sky like a trap door, and disappeared onto the other side. Everyone who saw it was baffled, but not enough to call it a miracle. It was too abrupt. No bright flash; no puff of smoke. Just a click and a thump, and you were gone.

I didn't want to believe it. I still don't. But it's been six months now, and you still haven't come back. So, either you really are gone, or you don't want me anymore. I don't know which world would be worse to live in. I don't know why you left without telling me.

There are always rumors about a second attempt. Disaffected teens throw stones at the sky. But no one follows you. No one thinks it's possible—not even the people who saw it happen.

Whenever there's a new moon, I go to that field behind the old church. I look up at the sky, trying to see what you saw the night you told me that everything had changed. I look up at the million points of light. How could they be anything but stars?

Breath

"They say you have the breath."

"Who says?"

"Answer the question."

"A little," I said.

The lieutenant pursed his lips. "Follow me." He led me through the war-torn streets to a small, dark house. Inside, a group of officers were huddled around a bloody figure stretched out on a table. Apparently it was a grenade. They had removed all the shrapnel but the man was still dying.

"Can you do it?"

"I've done headaches before and a couple fevers, but this . . ." I shook my head. "Don't you already have someone with the breath? Someone with training?"

"Of course. He's lying on this table."

So that was it, the healer needed a healer. I had to try. I stooped over the moaning figure, smelled the blood soaking his hair and clothes, pressed my lips to his and exhaled.

The healer sat up suddenly, eyes wide open. I thought it had worked, but then his body started glowing.

"What is this?" a major demanded. "What did you do?"

I don't know," I said. "This has never happened before."

The healer was glowing brighter, but his face was serene. He inhaled. Slowly he exhaled. And in a burst of light, he was gone.

Tightrope

They met while working for the circus. He was a tightrope walker, and she could do a handstand on the back of a cantering horse. She had always admired his act, but once she fell in love with him, it only made her sick.

The drum roll.

The spotlight.

A wave to the crowd.

She would beg and beg and beg him to stop. "But what else can I do?" he asked. "I am too old to learn the trapeze, the human canon has greater risk, and I don't even know how to juggle."

"If you loved me, you would stop."

"If you loved me, you wouldn't ask that."

So she grimaced each night as he climbed the narrow ladder to the high wire.

A deep breath

The crowd goes quiet.

The first step.

His balance was better than hers. She tripped getting off the train, sprained her ankle and cracked her wrist. Her career was over. She had loved performing, but when she no longer could, it only brought her pain to be around it. She was leaving the circus, and she asked him to come. "But what else can I do?"

The rope begins to sag.

It trembles.

Something

"What're you looking at?" Harold asked.

Dana had stopped eating—a noodle still on her fork. Her gaze was fixed beyond him. "Something's happening," she said.

"What?"

Her brow furrowed. "I don't know. People are stopping in the street. They're looking up at . . . something. The sky maybe? A building?"

He gave a half-glance over his shoulder. "Why?"

"How should I know," she snapped.

"Sorry, I'm sorry. Just wondering." He jabbed absent-mindedly at his chicken. "It's obviously interesting enough to distract you."

"Don't be like that, Harold. I just mean I can't tell," she said. "It looks like it's above us."

His eyes drifted to the ceiling and found only a light fixture. "Above us?"

"Yeah," she said, still mesmerized.

"That's it," he said, dropping his silverware and tossing his napkin onto the table. "I'm going to check it out."

"They're leaving," Dana said.

"What?"

"It must be over."

Harold hurried out of the restaurant. All around, people were shrugging, walking away. Looking up, he saw shimmering pinnacles of glass and steel. He saw birds. He saw the sky.

Dejected, Harold came back in, sat down and resumed poking at his chicken.

"What was it?"

"Nothing," he said. "It was nothing."

Hold

The alley was wide, but few people used it. It may have been because the tall stone buildings on either side kept out the sun most of the day except for around 12 o'clock. That's where they stood, surrounded by murky shadows while strangers passed by on either end of the manmade ravine.

"Are you sure?" he asked. He bowed his head to look at her, but she wouldn't meet his eyes. "Are you sure?"

She nodded slowly.

A breath of wind wound its way down the alley and swept up a few of her golden hairs, coaxing them to flutter before her face and land on her moist lips. His dark, gentle hand brushed those strands aside, tucking them behind her ear and letting his palm rest for just a moment on her warm cheek. She might have been blushing, but the half-light around them made her almost expressionless face appear more serene than he had ever seen it.

He felt her jaw tighten.

"Come on. We should be going."

Her heels clicked on the cement footpath as she walked. But he lingered ever so briefly, saying goodbye to the air where her perfume and his hand still hung.

Coaster

Herb showed up early that day, hoping to be the first aboard The Singularity. He had gotten his first job at Coaster Kingdom when he was a junior in high school, checking whether kids were tall enough to ride the coasters. Most people in town worked for the park at some point, but Herb stayed for thirty-seven years. He'd done just about everything: worked concessions, dressed in animal outfits, even drawn caricatures. But in all that time, he'd never gone on any of the rides. Then the park gave all employees passes to the front of the line for The Singularity on opening day. They said it had completely revolutionized roller coaster technology. Herb decided he ought to see what all the excitement was about.

On the appointed day, Herb showed up early, took a shortcut through the funhouse (he knew the route perfectly), and was first person to board the new coaster. The car was launched out of the station at 115 mph with Herb strapped into the front seat. He shouted with ecstasy over every hill, through every curve and loop. The thrill was like nothing he had ever experienced, right until the train sailed off the tracks.

Singing

"They're singing," he said. We had driven out into the country, just like when we were teenagers, to look up at the night sky. But his eyes were fixed not on the moon or the stars, but on dark spaces between.

"Who's singing?" I asked.

"I don't know the words," he said, "but it's beautiful. And there are images—colors in my head."

I hated when he got like this, though I had only seen it a few times. It seemed like my friend turned into someone else. I sat there for an hour, lonely and loving him, or at least wishing we could be in love—not quite the same thing. But he barely spoke, only a few excited phrases whenever the tune changed. Eventually, I gave up and waited in the car. Another hour later, we drove back to the city in silence.

It was three weeks later before he appeared at my door, looking like he hadn't been sleeping. His eyes were desperate, crazed, and sorrowful all at once. "What's wrong?" I asked, ushering him in.

"I was wrong," he mumbled. "All this time, I've been wrong."

"Wrong about what?"

"They're not singing," he said. "They're crying."

Bubbles

A cheer leapt from the bubble as it popped on Max's nose. The dog sprang to its feet and began barking at the sound of strange voices even though he couldn't find any trespassers to whom they might have belonged.

Liza could hear the ruckus from inside the house. Max was usually good-tempered, so she rose to see what was bothering him. Looking out the window, she saw her dog bristling at a cloud of bubbles drifting over the fence. "Brian, look. Bubbles." She heard a patter of small feet dashing down the hall, and then Brian was beside her, pressing his nose against the glass.

"Bubbles!" he shouted, and a moment later the screen door was slamming behind him.

Liza watched with a smile as her son jumped up and down, flailing at bubbles floating just out of his reach. But when his finger finally broke one, he stopped and stared at the bubbles. Concerned, Liza followed her son outside. A bubble hovering just in front of her, shattered, filling the air with the sound of applause, hollers and whistles. Mystified, she reached toward another and popped it. An echo of joy met her ears, "They're just so beautiful."

Song

Samuel was walking home when his heart jumped. Something hit him like a shot of adrenaline, quickening his heartbeat—making his skin tingle as his hairs reached out into the world. His looked around. Whatever gave the air this life, no one around had noticed. He thought of asking, but decided to avoid the difficulty.

As always, Samuel trusted his eyes. For some reason, they settled on the concert hall: that world which had always been denied him. Its magnificent splendor, together with his pulsing senses, drew him near.

No one was looking. He ascended a ledge of one of the soaring windows and found himself peering through the front of the hall at a careful arrangement of musicians playing instruments he could never fully understand. Facing, was a tall, lanky man: moving like a sapling in the wind, cutting the air with a thin wand which danced in time with Samuel's heart. He tentatively touched the glass, and it struck him like lightning, baptizing his nerves with the movements of crescendos and blending harmonies.

"What is it?" he tried to ask.

A strong hand grabbed him from behind. He saw silent shouts enclose him.

"What is it they're doing?"

Flash

The wind was so strong. It reminded Tom of kite-flying as a boy with a kite as red as Rachel's lips on their wedding day. They had met the summer he broke his arm. He had broken six bones in his life; the worst was his femur. He broke it falling off the roof while replacing shingles one summer.

A fall of all things . . .

Fall was his favorite season. It made him think of apple cider and the smoke of leaf burnings. He had burned his tongue drinking his coffee too quickly this morning. That always happened when he was running late for work. In high school, he prided himself on his speed. He even went to state for the 110 hurdles one year, but he fell and broke his ankle.

Tom Jr had broken his ankle at seven jumping off a swing. Rachel had been terrified. She blamed Tom for not watching closely enough.

His watch—he should have taken it off.

The lights of the building were flying past like the shooting stars he and his first love saw that night in the mountains.

The wind was so strong. In a moment, he would never feel it again.

Horizon

You had grown your wings before I did. Awkward and clumsy though I remained, you didn't leave me. "It's normal," you said. "I'm sure yours will come in any day now."

But they didn't. All our friends took to the sky, while my feet only seemed to grow heavier with each day spent plodding along the ground. Sometimes you would wrap your arms around me and lift me just high enough to touch the clouds, but those flights could never last for long. Your wings weren't meant to carry two.

"I'm an anchor," I said.

"You're a nest," you answered.

I was walking slowly, while you hovered along beside me. "Why do you stay with me?"

"You've got the best legs of anyone I know."

It was genuinely funny, but I only shook my head and said. "We just aren't made for each other."

"Are you saying . . . ?"

"Yes."

Fighting off tears, you fell into the sky.

You still come back to me sometimes—your anchor, your nest—though you spend your days flying far from where I walk. Together, we stare out at the horizon, silently longing for that distant spot where earth and sky meet, blur, and become one

Sky

"Goodbye, Mr. Balloonman," Phillip said waving with his one free hand.

"Goodbye, Phillip," Hank replied (his full name was Hank Balloonman).

Because of the Hank's big, bushy beard, Phillip had always thought him a very hairy man, much like his father, but today, for the first time, he saw the top of Hank's head, and realized the old man was quite bald, almost as bald as his new friend, Blue Balloon.

"Where are we going, Blue?" Phillip asked.

"I don't know," Blue answered. "But if you keep holding my hand, it will all be okay"

So, together Phillip and Blue rose up over the city. Everywhere they went, something exciting was happening. They went to the park and saw squirrels using acorns to play catch. They went downtown and met the window-washers who made faces at people in the buildings. They went to the clouds where the birds were dancing. They caught a fly ball above a major league game, waved at airplane passengers, and saw the rest of the rainbow.

When the stars finally began to come out of their houses, Phillip said, "Blue?"

"Yes, Phillip?"

He yawned, "I'm tired."

"Okay, Blue said. Let's go home."

And they did.

Fire
Section II

Flame

Skkrtch—fwsch!

The tiny flame sprang to life and began leaping into the darkness. The man cupped a hand in front of the match to prevent it from being blown out by any drafts or quick movements. While he looked for a candle, the flame crept down the length of the match, digesting the thin wood slowly, but consuming it with steady determination until it licked the man's fingers. He cursed and flailed wildly to extinguish the match. His erratic movements nearly tore the soul out of the flame, wrenching away its grasp on the match which was tossed to the ground.

Grumbling, the man fiddled again with the box of matches and drew another.

Skkrtch—fwsch!

The night gave birth to another flame, and the man continued his search, finding a candle tucked in a cupboard. He held match to wick, and like mitosis, that young flame stretched apart creating an identical copy to flicker on. Meanwhile, the discarded match still glowed with an ember, almost the ghost of a flame, that by some slight breath of air found hope, took hold of the carpet fibers, and lifted itself from the ground like a great beast ready to devour.

Sigh

He poured his aged and potent dream into a glass bottle. He shouldn't have been handling it in such a small room lest the intoxicating fumes cause him to pass out, but that is the place where dreams live or die—in small dark rooms where people sit alone.

He looked around for a rag. Unable to find one, he fished an old shirt out of his dresser, tore it up, and wadded it into the bottle's narrow neck. Next, and this was the most easily overlooked step, he washed his hands in case any drops of dream still clung to them.

He took up the bottle and stepped into the night.

It was quiet. He couldn't tell whether it was the silence of anticipation or the silence of walking into a room where he was just being discussed. He didn't care. Either way, it was about to be broken. He shook the bottle, lit the rag with a match, and tossed it through the doorway. As the glass shattered, that potent dream ignited, spreading a wave of destruction across the floorboards. The house was already an inferno when he turned and walked down the street, a man with nothing.

Blaze

It was cold, but the fire kept us warm beneath the stars. Michael shuffled around, roasting marshmallows, feeding the fire, poking it with a stick. I was content just to sit and watch the blaze.

A tiny spark frolicked in the breeze right in front of me, and to my surprise, it spoke: "Would you like to join us?"

"Who are you?"

"A fire spirit," it said. "Come along."

Michael didn't seem to hear anything. The next moment, I was falling toward the fire, but the closer I got, the bigger it became, until I was in the center of the hottest part of the fire. My entire body glowed like I was made of fire. The spirits all gathered around me and took my hands, guiding me in frenzied dances over sticks and logs. Then, one by one, we would climb to the top of the fire, and leap into the night sky. Going from the heat of the fire into the cold air was like plunging into deep water. I dove as far as I could, reaching out to touch the distant burning stars.

"I'm bored," Michael groaned. "Let's go inside."

"No," I whispered, "just a little longer."

Fusion

"Finished," she said. "It's finished." Her eyes were both exultant and terrified, the way I always figured Oppenheimer's eyes must have looked when they tested the atomic bomb. It was the first time in days that Tamara had emerged from the lab. People had worried, but I just assumed she was in the zone. Most of us researchers had those creative sprees. But once I saw her—pale, disheveled, a little manic—I began to think I should have been more concerned.

"What is it?" I asked. "What's finished?"

Without answering, she took my hand and dragged me to the lab. The place was a wreck, and the acrid odor of burnt metal hung in the air. Alone on a table at the far end of the room sat a large box hooked up to several wires.

"What is it?" I asked again.

"I call it love," she said. "Want to turn it on?"

"What will happen?"

"Matter will become energy."

"Is it safe?"

Her eyes were wild and gleeful. "No."

"What will happen to us?

"Transformation. Annihilation. Fusion."

Her hand was still wrapped around mine, squeezing tightly.

"Do it."

She flipped a switch. The box started to hum.

Fire

Lynn set the glasses beside the empty wine bottle and lay down on the blanket next to Tommy. With the nail of her middle finger, she delicately traced lines on his chest, spelling something in a secret language. "You're warm," she said.

"So are you." Gently, he took her hand in his and pressed her fingers to his lips. She had never looked as beautiful as she did that night. Starlight danced in her hair and in her eyes and on the skin so lightly flushed by wine. "I wish I could freeze this moment forever," he said. "I never want to leave you."

It started low on the horizon, like a sunrise or like the glow of a nearby city. Then a pillar of fire and smoke leapt into the sky, billowing like an oncoming storm cloud. The sky burned so bright that roosters crowed and sunflowers opened up like terror stricken eyes.

Tommy wrapped both arms around Lynn and held her tightly. She buried her face in his shoulder.

And there was wind.

And there was heat.

There was a rending and a tearing and a shattering of all things.

And there was a fusion of all things.

Lights

There they were again—the lights. Closer tonight. Maybe just brighter. He stepped into the house and grabbed the shotgun.

He had spotted the first almost two months ago. A faint light, flickering deep down in the valley. It could have been a stoplight if there were any roads within thirty square miles. He went inside for a pair of binoculars. When he came back out, it was gone, leaving him wondering if it had been there at all. But two nights later, it was back. And it was brighter. The light shined nearly fifteen minutes, then vanished.

Several nights over the next few weeks, the light came and went. He watched it suspiciously. Then it multiplied—two, three, maybe a dozen now. Even more disconcerting, they were getting brighter. Or getting closer. Did they know he was here? Were they coming for him?

They. Who were they? Or what? He was getting tired of wondering. His finger was on the trigger. What was he hoping to do? Scare them? Warn them? Maybe he just wanted them to know he was here. He fired into the air.

A flash sprang from the valley—he saw everything.

Then he was blind.

Sides

I understand you recently applied for a gun license.

He has a shotgun over there. I know it's not for hunting.

Is that your gun?

What?

Did you threaten him—your neighbor—and then go out and buy that gun?

This is only for show. It is not even loaded.

Did you threaten him?

He threatened me first.

So you did threaten him.

Are you listening to me? It's not even loaded. You can see.

Sir, do not reach for the gun.

What?

If you touch the gun, I will fire.

You see? Guns are all that matter. You have one, so I must obey you. He has one, so I must live in fear.

I think maybe I should bring you down to the station.

No.

That wasn't a suggestion.

I won't go.

Sir, don't make me—

I've done nothing wrong. I've owned this house for thirty-three years. My father lived here before that. He has no right—

Look buddy, I don't care who's lived where or for how long. But you are coming to the station.

I only want some security. Some piece of mind.

Stop.

You are not listening to me.

I said freeze.

It's not even—

Sip

Clink, clink-clink.

"So what do you think?"

The mugs here are always heavier than I remember and almost spill. Steam surrounds my face, like my breath on a cold day. I blow on the coffee but still burn my tongue on the first sip.

"Ah, ouch"

"Too hot?"

"Yeah, burned my tongue." Bitter too. I reach for a couple more sugar packets and pour them into the mug.

Clink, clink.

Another sip. I hiss at how hot it is.

"Milk will cool that down."

"I don't like it with milk. I'll just wait." So I do.

And she's staring at me. "Jim?" She's frowning and looks concerned. Like the time I had yelled at her on our thirteenth. This must be important.

"What?"

"What do you think?"

What do I think? I'm not even sure I understood what she's been talking about. "I'm not sure." That bides me time. Now that my tongue has cooled, I remember that the coffee was still too bitter. Two more packets of sugar.

Clink, clink-clink, clink.

"Well?"

She'll be angry with me, but she knows I'll be better with coffee. "Can you explain it again?"

She sighs.

Less steam now. Another sip. It's perfect.

Combustion

Meryl couldn't sleep, so she made some coffee and took her mug out on the porch to wait for sunrise. So, she was the only one who saw Jim Corbin walking out of town with a gun on his hip and an empty bag slung over his shoulder. When he returned, fourteen hours later, the pack was stuffed to bursting.

A month later, a strange old man wandered into town. He asked everyone he met. "What happened to the years?" Receiving no answers, he gave up these interrogations and went into Carl's diner. He sat at the window, looking out at Main and Washington, the center of town. Meryl was working and poured him six cups of coffee before he got up suddenly, tossed some money on the table, and left. He was following Jim Corbin right out of town.

Leaving the diner a couple hours later, Meryl was almost run over by a fire truck. Then she saw the smoke. There was already quite a commotion about it. They said it was the Corbin place up in flames. They pulled a young boy no one recognized out of the fire, but all they found of Jim was his bones.

Star

"Look up there," she said, "that star is falling."

And it was. Slightly to the Northeast a fiery blue speck was trickling down the sky like a drop of water trickling down a window. "I'll catch it for you," he said.

And he was off, racing across the field, barely setting his feet on the ground. By the time he was underneath it, the star was falling much faster. He planted his feet like football player waiting to return a kickoff and waited for that ball of light to fall into his hands.

And it did. There was fire all around him, but especially his hands—burning, searing, consuming. He tossed it away into the grass where it blazed up briefly, then stifled itself in the evening dew. Smoke curled around him as he stared dumbfounded at what was left of the star. A lump of what looked like coal surrounded by blackened grass. Then he looked at his red and blistered hands. The skin was already peeling off.

She was suddenly beside him. "Let me kiss them," she said.

And he lifted his shaking hands. Delicately she kissed each finger till his skin was new and white as snow.

Bullet

The bullet wanted to achieve great things. It had been loaded into the pistol on Tuesday and had been waiting anxiously. Sherriff Turner would only load one bullet a day to save on ammo, and also to temper his happy trigger finger.

The bullet leapt from the gun screaming like an angry, disgruntled youth who wanted to stick it to the world. Charging through the air, it narrowly missed shattering a dozen or so bottles and shot glasses scattered across the bar. The bullet reached its target and burrowed into the chest of Bulldog O'Donnell: a local ne'er-do-well with unfortunate facial features, who had just stolen the wrong man's whiskey. The bullet tore apart skin and muscle and cleverly slipped between two ribs. Barely slowing in its pace, it nicked one lung and careened through an enormous cavity right where Bulldog's heart should have been, or rather, where his heart had been before he traded it for a Colt .45 and a thoroughbred stallion.

Thus it happened that the bullet lurched out of Bulldog's back, embedding itself into the stucco and brick of saloon's wall, wondering where it had gone so wrong and why all its hopes had been disappointed.

Box

The plain wooden box had sat in the basement since they moved into the house. Before that, Jim had kept it at the bottom of his closet. That's where it had been when he and Nancy first met, and in the sixty-two years since, she had never seen inside, a fact that featured in many of their argument. Nancy would bring up openness, and Jim would grumble about privacy. There was often yelling, and Jim once punched the wall so hard he broke three fingers. Eventually they settled into a tense silence on the subject. Nancy might joke about "secrets under the floorboards," but he would just scowl. Somehow, they kept it from the kids, at least until Jim was on his deathbed. His last lucid words were: "I want you to burn it Nancy. I know I can trust you. I love you."

She had hesitated at the last moment. After years of wondering if she really knew her husband, his secret was in her hands.

It was tempting.

She flung the box into the fireplace. The man she loved had died, and she couldn't bear to lose him again.

Just then, a scream rose out of the flames.

Wanderer

Her birth was tumultuous, but silent. Despite her lack of wailing, she was no less terrified to leave her tiny world of safety and warmth to be thrust out into the darkness and cold of space. Separated from mother and from home, she was forced to mature quickly. Without any guidance, she learned for herself the dangers of a universe that took no notice of her.

It was a lonely life. Often, she would pass by a star surrounded by planets bathed lovingly in light and grow envious, knowing many of her brothers and sisters and cousins must be there in those worlds of warmth and joy. But she would pass by, aimless and homeless as always, knowing only that she must continue.

One day, weary of life and hopeless for rest after light-years of wandering, she saw it: a planet directly in her path. It was small and dark, but looked peaceful, and she knew it would be her resting place. Using the last measure of her strength, the lightbeam descended through the atmosphere and came to rest on the face of a young man.

"Look!" he said to the girl beside him, "the first star of the night."

Numbers

The water hitting my face woke me. I was lying beside a hole that cut right through the concrete floor and down into the ground. Above it, another hole opened through the upper floors and the roof, letting in the storm.

I had just needed somewhere dry for the night. I'd used the empty house most of the last winter, and with storms coming, it would make a perfect shelter. But once I got inside, I heard a voice. It was counting.

Sort of.

". . . 96609226454614304087 . . ."

"Hello?" I called out. More muffled numbers. A dim light under a doorway led me to the basement. I crept down the steps and saw a human shaped bundle curled up beside a candle.

The voice kept going. ". . . 757626837119261335990 . . ."

"Hey, buddy. You staying here?"

The hairy shadow of a man turned around slowly and looked at me, eyes wide with a kind of madness, like he was happy and terrified all at the same time. The numbers kept coming, his gravelly voice getting louder and louder, ". . . 922415118713814691393 . . ."

"What is that? What're you doing?"

". . . 4901567618144852795178 . . ."

"Stop it," I shouted.

His voice dropped suddenly, almost a whisper: ". . . 855431231853 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . . 1"

There was a flash.

Then nothing.

Sparks

The fire was burning low, and we were the last ones. Though neither of us had spoken for several minutes, I got the sense we were waiting for something to happen before we could leave. But then you stood up suddenly.

"Are we going?" I asked.

"Do you want to?" Firelight danced on your face and in your eyes.

I wasn't ready to leave, but for some reason I didn't want to admit it. "I don't know."

Nodding, you drifted off a short distance into the darkness and returned with two small logs. "Not yet," you said, dropping them into the fire. A flurry of sparks sprang into the air where, one by one, they faded into darkness. I couldn't tell if the little points of light were rushing away from the flames, or whether they had leapt up in hopes of finding a place to start their own blaze. Either way, I wanted to reach out and catch them, to shelter their faint warmth and light from the cold darkness.

"When?" I asked feeling strangely anxious.

You had settled back into your seat gazing at the fire, but you looked up at me with a warm smile. "Not yet."

Tenderly

The gunshot was louder than she expected. Shrieking, she dropped the pistol and covered her ears.

" _You won't do it," he had said. And she had believed him._

Without even thinking she found herself rushing out of the house. All she knew was that she wanted to get out of that place.

" _Don't make me do it."_

Her hands shook on the steering wheel. "If I'm not careful, I'll kill someone," she thought. Then a more horrifying idea struck her. Almost running over a mailbox, she pulled over, threw open her door, and vomited.

" _What are you doing?"_

" _Don't come near me ever again."_

" _Give me that."_

" _STAY AWAY FROM ME"_

As soon as the door opened, she collapsed into her friend's arms.

"Judy? What is it?"

"Just hold me, Angie," she said. "Please just hold me."

His gun was in her hands. She had hidden it under a pillow, though she couldn't remember grabbing it.

"Do you still love me, Angie?"

There was a long silence. "I'm with Sara, now."

"Kiss me."

"But . . . you and Mark?"

She shook her head.

He had that look again. "Come here," he said.

"Just once," she said, "I want to be kissed tenderly."

Wish

The sudden flash in the heavy blackness caught her eye like a shooting star.

She made a wish. It was a sort of morbid tradition she had.

Her father had been a smoker and a drinker. She was six when he first burned her with a cigarette. Sometimes she still saw that smoldering prick of fire and ash coming toward her face, and since then, the pain of her burns would return whenever she came anywhere near fire or smoke.

At sixteen, she had been driving at night for the first time. Her father was in the passenger seat yelling about something. She wanted him to stop—stop shouting, stop hurting her, stop making her miserable.

Then—a flash of orange cinders

She had never seen a cigarette thrown from a car window before. It flew at the windshield and in a flash of sparks she smelled tobacco and burning flesh, and felt her scars ache.

she tensed

hands jerked

her father shouted

and she was just wishing he would stop

and they were flying

spinning

Then all was still. And quiet. Just her breathing and . . . nothing else.

Now she wishes on cigarette butts. Because of guilt. And maybe hope.

Water
Section III

Fragile

The water is as calm as a cold morning, and I'm afraid even my breath will disturb it. Still, with my toes at the very edge of the pond, I lean as far as I can over to look at my reflection. And he is there, waiting for me.

I know, of course, that he isn't actually in the water. A gentle breeze or a dropped stone and he would shatter into a million pieces. My parents tell me that when I was very young, I would try like a cockatoo to fight the child I saw in the mirror, and they were always afraid I would break the glass and hurt myself. But when they took me into another room, I would look everywhere for the reflection who seemed to have abandoned me. A little older, I would tell them how sad it was that my reflection could only move when I moved.

I'm not sure when I started walking, but the pond is now far behind me. And I look into the sky, wondering who is looking back at me,—wondering if I only exist on a pane of glass or in the surface of a still puddle.

Puddle

"You splashed me!" she shouted again.

It was like beating my head against a wall. "Look lady, it was an accident. I didn't see the puddle."

"Didn't see it?" Her voice was piercing. "Didn't see it? You rode straight into it. How'd you miss it?"

"I don't know alright. I'm sorry." And I meant it. I only hit the puddle because I was avoiding the old woman in the first place. I even ended up almost as wet as she was. Hearing her shriek, I had stopped, only to be scolded once I got off my bike. "What do you want from me, lady?"

"Stop calling me lady," she yelled, her face turning purple. "Kids these days. Who raised you? Who gave you that bike? You shouldn't be allowed to have it if you can't be mindful of others." With that, she snatched my bike from where it was leaning.

"Hey, you can't just take that," I yelled.

"You don't deserve it."

They came out of nowhere: enormous, heavy drops of water, driving us into a tiny cafe. Looking at each other, both soaked from head to toe, we laughed.

"Come on," she said. "Let me buy you some cocoa."

Flotsam

The beach was strewn with bodies.

"Jim," Martha called out. "You better see this."

"See what?" He lumbered out onto the porch where his wife stood staring out toward the shore. Even in the pale morning light, they could still discern the dark shapes massed along the beach. The sheer numbers were boggling to the mind. In places, the sand was not even visible, so closely were they clustered together. Small and hairy, covered in Kelp, it resembled an invasion from another world. Their small house stood on an isolated point Maine's Atlantic coast. They knew theirs were most likely the only eyes witnessing this sight.

"I'll check it out," Jim said.

"Be careful."

He took a shovel—not a weapon, but the tool he was most likely to use. However, as he got closer to the beach, he began to realize how bizarre the circumstances actually were. Was it a prank? Some sort of disaster out at sea?

He came trudging back to house carrying one of the bodies in his hand. "It's worse than we thought," he said.

He squeezed the wet ball of matted fur and a scratchy voice said, "I wuv you."

"What are they?"

"Furbies."

Missing (i)

It was the third straight day of rain. The sound of the storm rushed in with every customer who took refuge in the coffee shop. Each time she heard it, Mae looked over to see if it was Dorothea. Each time she was disappointed. It had been over a week.

Dorothea had been coming to the shop since before Mae started working there, maybe since it had opened. Every day she ordered the same thing: an Americano that she filled with so much sugar, you'd think she had to chew it. "It's just like me," she'd say. "I should be bitter, but instead I'm so sweet you can hardly take it." Mae always laughed at that.

Would Dorothea tell a barista she was going on vacation? It could be sickness. After all, she was 68. But perhaps it was worse. When Jerry stopped coming the year before, it wasn't until his obituary appeared that Mae realized why. But Dorothea lived in the next town over, and her family was in Minnesota. If something had happened, she might never hear about it.

Distracted, Mae prepared the next order absent-mindedly, poured steaming water over a shot of espresso, and called out, "Americano."

Water

Unable to tread water, Dimitri flailed his arms wildly, barely able to keep his head above the water. In the river's forceful current it was impossible for him to dislodge his ankle from the sunken branch which had snagged it. Risking a sprain or worse, he jerked his ankle violently, and fortunately the branch gave way instead of his leg. He was back at the mercy of the current. Without strength left to reach the shore, Dimitri tumbled through the water. Battered against stones and overtaken by fatigue, his struggling gradually ceased.

A halo of light filtered down through the water.

He felt that he was being pulled. Lifted. Someone's hands laid him down on the grass, caressed his face, wiped the cuts and bruises from his skin. "Who . . ." he tried to say. But a voice nearby shushed him. Gentle lips pressed against his. Cool water filled his mouth, ran in rivulets across his eyelids, down his neck, over his whole body. He felt like he was floating and submerged all at once.

Dimitri woke on the riverbank to the sound of trickling water. Shakily, he stood. The morning sunlight reflected off the water's surface and danced in his eyes.

Restaurant

"Derik . . ."

"What?"

Her mouth opened, but no noise came. She swirled around the last few noodles of her fettuccini, hoping they would provide the answer she needed, just like the tea leaves her grandma used to read before apostatizing.

In another part of the restaurant, a pitchy variation of the birthday song had started up. His head turned in the direction of the music where a cluster of balloons bobbed a little too closely to the ceiling fan.

But she was trying to talk to him.

"Derik, I've been thinking . . ."

A bright red apron materialized abruptly beside them. "Can I get you a refill?" The overly chipper voice was a shock to her system, so entrenched as she was in her solemn contemplation.

"Thank you," Derik chimed in reply.

A clear pitcher of water suddenly hovered between them, filling their glasses. There was the familiar "plop, plop, plop" of ice cubes falling into the cups as well. She hated having too much ice, but she managed a feeble "Thanks"

"And let me get those plates for you." Then apron and plate and fettuccini had vanished.

"What was it you were about to say?"

"It was . . . nothing," she said. "Never mind."

Spike

James had been sneaking liquor into work and spiking coffee for a few weeks now. First it was just his own drinks while he was on break. When he told a couple of friends about it, they started coming in during his shift so he could make them special orders as well. Not long after that, the pranking started. The occasional rude customer would become much friendlier, the couple having serious relationship talks would get emotional and start yelling, the lady who slipped religious tracts into the tip jar felt the encouraging warmth of the spirit. And James just chuckled behind the counter. He was surprised that no one seemed to have noticed, but maybe they didn't mind.

James woke to the sound of a beeping heart monitor. A doctor informed him he had been in ICU for several days. The drunk driver who had struck his car was still unconscious, but was expected to recover. However, the three children who had been in the car with him were dead. The man's wife visited James in the hospital. She shook her head with tears in her eyes, saying over and over, "He never drank. I don't understand. He never drank."

Shelter

The kiss was confusing. It seemed to have happened accidentally, only you didn't pull away. No, you held on tighter and tighter. And having loved you all this time, of course I wouldn't let you go.

When you described him, the perfect man, did you know that I was doing a comparison in my head? I was checking how I measured up. Or fell short. Were you checking too? Or perhaps gauging my reaction? You've always made me want to be a better man, but even love can't make me grow or change the color of my skin.

When you told me you were lonely, did you forget that I was right beside you? Did you hear me whisper "I'm lonely too"? Sometimes it's hard to tell if we are actually having a conversation. So much goes unsaid.

And when you kissed me, did it mean you cared for me? Could I be something other, perhaps even something better because I am real? Or were you taking any shelter in a storm? Is it love or cruelty for you to kiss me because I am here, not because I'm what you want? Is it love for me not to care?

Ice

She had forgotten about the freezing rain. Shivering, Marigold darted back inside and kicked off her shoes. Her glasses fogged almost immediately, making her steps small and cautious. She stubbed her toe only once on a chair, and by the time she reached the garage they were clear.

First she looked in the front seat, but remembering this was the first bad weather of the season, decided to check the back. Still no luck. Sighing, she went back into the house for the car keys. They weren't in the bowl by the door or on the counter. Finally, she realized they were in the pocket of the coat she was wearing and returned to the garage. In the trunk of her car, she found the ice scraper and triumphantly headed back into the cold.

It took around five minutes of chipping and scraping, but she was finally able to pry open the mailbox. Feeling quite pleased she removed a letter from another coat pocket and placed it in the black abyss of that gaping mouth.

Her breath gathered in small clouds, then dispersed into the morning.

Marigold took the letter out of the box and trudged back into the house.

Rain

Don't think I haven't been faithful or even happy. Because I have. All I'm trying to say is that I've never been able to love my wife with my whole heart.

When I was eighteen, I went out into a field during the rain. I danced, splashing in the mud. There was a girl walking through the tall grass and singing a sad, slow song. And she kissed me once before going on her way. When the rain was gone, so was she.

I loved her.

But I never saw her again. A month later I met the woman who would be my wife. She came like a ray of sunshine and illuminated all of the dark recesses of my heart. It was in her that I first knew myself, and her warmth helped me accept all of the wild shadows I had never realized were inside of me. She was comfort and stability.

We were happy. We have always been happy together.

But whenever it rains, I remember that kiss beneath the clouds. I remember the taste and rhythm of untamed passion that fell into my life. And for a moment, my wife does not have all my love.

Cubes

Slurrp.

They hadn't seen their waitress for seven minutes, and the ice cubes in Julian's glass were melting slowly. Nevertheless, every minute he would slurp up even the tiniest bit of water. Holly tried to ignore the sound and read her menu, but each time she flinched a little more. Like the ice, she was losing her cool, and it was being steadily sipped through her boyfriend's straw. Finally, she lashed out.

"Can you please stop that?"

"What?" Julian asked, taking another sip.

Slurrp.

Holly shuddered, "That—stop it."

"This?"

Slurrp.

"Yes!" she shouted. "It sounds like—like a Wookie choking."

Julian looked at her with amusement. "Fine," he said, "I'll stop."

"Thank you."

Crunch.

Holly's whole body tensed.

"What?" Julian said. "I stopped slurping."

"But that's even worse. It's like your teeth are breaking."

Julian sighed, frustration overtaking his amusement. Holly almost regretted her harsh tone until he started gurgling and sputtering and making goofy faces at her. She pursed her lips. "Oh, very funny, Chewbacca."

Julian might have choked to death in the seat beside her except that Holly was so annoyed she backhanded him in the stomach, dislodging the ice cube he had tried to swallow whole.

Spinning

Another rainy morning, and I pour myself into the day with a cup of coffee. I burn my tongue but there is no time to sip. I am on cruise control as I hit the road. More coffee in a travel mug for the road. Waiting for the light to change at Cedar and Washington, my alarm goes off for the fifth time. I hit snooze again. Are my headlights on? Are my wipers? Is the car? Perhaps I only dreamed I turned them on. Or maybe I am dreaming now, and any moment, I will wake to my real alarm, get out of bed, have coffee, and drive to work, only vaguely aware of the repetition, wondering whether I had slept through an entire day of my life. And my phone is going off again. I am pumping the brakes, wishing that this day would stop, that my life would stop, that my car would stop. I don't know if the world is spinning or if I am. My face is in a puddle, and I don't know if it's mud or coffee or blood, or maybe all three. But if I'm late again, I could lose my job.

River

"It's not the end."

Mark stared hard at the water flowing through the moonlight. "It feels like the end."

"I don't know," Peter answered. "I'm not sure that anything really ends. We're always influenced by the past, you know? We're creating the future. Things are always changing, always in flux."

Mark frowned, tossing a small stone up and down. "Are you trying to give me hope for tomorrow or something? Tell me things are gonna get better?"

"No. I'm letting you know that what you do now matters, whether it seems like it or not." He picked up a stone, weighed it carefully, and hurled it at the river.

Plop.

Splash.

The sound gradually disappeared into the murmuring of the river. "It still feels like the end," Mark sighed. "Maybe it should be."

"Do you want it to be?"

"A little." Mark gripped the stone tightly in his fist. "It would be easier."

"Yes. It would."

"So why not give it all up then?"

Peter shrugged and picked up another stone. "You can try. But it's a choice. Like any other."

"What does that mean?"

Peter tossed his stone into the river.

Plop.

Splash.

"Whatever you choose, it's a beginning."

Sprinklers

The sprinklers still ran every day at 4:00 p.m. even though all the grass had died years ago. Every day he sat on the porch watching as big splotches of mud formed in the gritty dust now composing his yard. He was sure it was a metaphor describing his life, but he refused to get close enough to the spray to figure it out.

Today, he had visitors. His youngest son had brought his wife and daughter to visit. They had tried to keep him inside to talk instead of his customary sit on the porch, but he needed his habits. They sustained him.

After fifteen minutes alone on the porch, his six year old granddaughter, Joy, came outside. He usually tried to avoid her, saying he didn't like children. But the truth was, young as she was, the girl already resembled her grandmother. And that was too much for him to take.

Today, however, she sought him out. "Look Grandpa," she said, pointing to the sprinklers, "rainbows! Let's catch them." With energy only children have, she took his gnarled hands and pulled him uneasily out of his chair and into the yard. And the water fell on his face.

Colors

"What's wrong, grandma?"

The light was red again. Diane had growled and struck the steering wheel in anger, frightening her granddaughter Lizzie in the back seat. Diane hated the traffic lights, especially on Main Street. During rush hour, it was ordinary to wait through three or more cycles of red lights. Of course, she could remember when there was only one stop light in the whole town. It was just a couple blocks away on the corner where Frank's Hardware had been before it became a Blockbuster and now a Dunkin Donuts.

The light turned green. Diane let off the brake but only idled as the cars ahead of her slowly began to move. She hardly recognized her hometown anymore. She had grown up using an outhouse for goodness sake. Those were simpler times. Now everything was all noise and movement. Even when traffic was gridlocked, people were still rushing.

The light turned yellow. Diane almost cursed as she pressed the brake. Red. The truck ahead of her accelerated into the intersection. It was clipped by a car turning left and skidded into a fire hydrant. Water gushed into the air.

"Look grandma!" Lizzie cheered. "Look at all the colors!"

Serene

After five minutes, I turned off the engine, wanting to save gas. I waited inside for Erin, while the rain played jazz on the roof.

Erin loved rain, especially the feel of it on her skin. She told me that as a toddler, she'd go into the rain and take off all her clothes until her mother chased her down. I asked her once how old she was when she stopped. All she said was that rain is better than sex.

Erin had been fidgety since I picked her up. I think she knew. As soon as I turned on the wipers, she asked to stop. After fifteen minutes she was still standing there, her arms spread wide. And the sky was getting darker. I got out, hoping to coax her inside, but her face was more serene and more beautiful than anything I'd ever seen. There was nothing I could say. That was when I knew I loved her. And that she would never love me back.

Just then, the hair on my arms started to stand up. There was a flash of heat and light and a sound like the sky tearing in two. And Erin was gone.

Catch

He raised the glass to his lips, but found it empty. He looked down, feigning confusion even though it was the fifth time he'd made the mistake in as many minutes. Hopefully no one had been paying enough attention to catch him. But when he set the glass down and glanced up, he saw only empty chairs. Somehow, without him noticing, everyone else had left the table. They were now scattered around by the food, on the dance floor, or at other tables.

He was alone.

With a sigh, he rose from his seat, picked up his dirty dishes, realized he didn't know where they would go, and set them down again. Shrugging, he pulled on his jacket and slipped away from the ballroom.

At the exit, he stopped for a moment and looked back at the reception, at all the smiling faces warmly illuminated by a thousand pinpricks of light.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" someone said.

"Oh, um . . . yes." There was a pause. "I was just—"

"Dance with me?"

He would have tried to refuse, but a small, soft hand grabbed his and pulled him into a swirl of green silk and chestnut hair.

And they danced and danced.

Inundation

It's not because of you that I am distant. It's because somehow, suddenly, I find myself in the past.

I'm watching my mother pack her bags and leave, watching my father stubborn and silent, watching my step-mother pack her bags and leave.

I see the compassion in your eyes.

I'm listening to my sister in the next room calling her husband a stupid cow while he says "I never should have married you."

I hear your voice calling me like a siren.

I'm sitting beside my best friend who's sobbing, "I screwed up and now she's gone. I screwed everything up."

I feel the warmth of your heart in every tender touch, in your body pressed against mine.

I wouldn't know true love if I saw it. I'm shaking with the fear that I am too warped, too broken, too blind to find it for myself.

But I know the love you pour into me—more than I am able to contain. It rises around me like a sea while I cling to my dry patch of earth. Rise up and sweep me away. Though I struggle, fill my belly, my lungs, my very being until I'm lost in you.

Earth
Section IV

Stones

They must have been made from something softer, like sandstone. It was this whole section way in the back part of the cemetery. I came over the top of the hill, and there they were: blank, dingy brown stones all at crooked angles. Nature didn't just take their bodies. It took away their names too. Without names they're just stones, the least alive things on the planet. It terrified me. I started running as fast as I could down the hill. But gravity got ahead of me. I tripped, started tumbling, hit my head on something hard. Then nothing.

After forty minutes I came to with this awful headache and started remembering what happened. I was covered in mud and leaves, sticks coming out of my hair, and this scratch on my face—not deep—but my face was covered in dried blood. I must have looked like the living dead. I think I was moaning, because when I stood, two women were standing a few yards away, gaping at me. I had been on the other side of a big monument, but as soon as they saw me, they screamed bloody murder, dove into their car, and drove away.

Petrichor

The storm had passed. Wind had blown the buds right off of the trees, while rain had summoned up worms from the earth. They gathered with the cigarette butts on the curb in a great pulpy mass. Gusts of wind still shook large drops of water from the trees. They fell with a soft, irregular patter onto the world below.

Droplets still hung to the glass. Grey half-light trickled through.

"You lied to me."

The clock was ticking thunderously.

"I know." Nervous hands tug on clothing and crack knuckles. "I'm sorry."

The world was breathing softly. People and animals alike cast wary glances toward a still foreboding sky.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I couldn't."

"You . . ."

Hands clenched. So did jaws. Muscles shuddered under the weight of unspoken words. Fingernails are digging into skin—white knuckles, red nails. Shaking fingers unfold into a gesture of supplication.

A bluebird alighted on a slender branch. A shower of drops fell into the grass. It chirped once, twice. It began a simple melody.

Eyes met.

"I love you."

The clouds opened up. It was the first real sunshine in days. The bird departed.

"I love you too."

Deep roots soaked up the rain.

Pear

Dear Isabella,

I hear my buddy Chris decided to pay you a visit. After the laugh we had with him, I'm surprised he was even brave enough to show his face in public. But the really astonishing part is that I heard you're actually going along with his crazy idea. Is this for real? I mean, did he show you that lame bit with the pear? I told everybody you must be playing a practical joke on him or something. He's calling himself the "Great Admiral of the Ocean" for crying out loud. How could anyone take a guy like that seriously? But everyone tells me you're sincere. Do you actually think he'll make it?

If all I've heard is true, then I have to let you know I'm a little concerned. I mean, what are you and Ferdinand smoking over there? First it was the Inquisition, then the Granada War, now this. I think you guys need to rethink some life choices. Everyone knows Chris is a crackpot who wants to kill all the Indians ever. And besides, Africa is where the real action is. Cape of Good Hope, here we come!

Yours,

King John II of Portugal

1492

First

It was the most watched event since the invention of television, bigger than any sporting event or its counterpart in 1969.

"We walk here today carried not just by human legs, but by the dreams of the human race." The words had been written months ago. Not quite Armstrong, but not half bad either. For Estoban Buendías, it was a dream come true. He had beheld grandeur never before seen by human eye, not even by the robots that had roamed the surface. His crew had ascended mountains higher than Everest. Today they would descend a gorge five times deeper the Grand Canyon. As day broke on Mars, these grand thoughts were preeminent in Estoban's mind, when he heard a knocking.

"Paul? Was that you?"

"Not me."

"Heidi?"

"Nope."

"There wasn't supposed to be a meteor shower today, was there?" Then he heard it again, but more distinctly: tap tatta tap tap. Pause. Tap tap. In terror and confusion, Estoban hastily donned a space suit and threw open the airlock. Standing before him was a tiny, old woman in a lace-trimmed spacesuit.

"Welcome to the neighborhood!" she chirped, thrusting a Tupperware container into his hands. "Hope you kids like fruitcake."

Answers

They say don't ask questions you can't handle the answers to.

Norman Jeffries, chief official on the operation, walked briskly through the corridors of the sprawling facility. He left R&D where they were trying to reverse engineer the technology, and headed toward linguistics.

The object had smashed into a Waffle House in Caryville, Tennessee. Lots of pictures made it to the internet before the government was able to seize control of the site, obligating them to reveal the significance of the find. It was, in fact, an unmanned alien spacecraft, still mostly intact. UFO enthusiasts celebrated the finding, though it would still take time before the full nature of the findings were disclosed.

Jeffries entered the linguistics department. Among the items salvaged had been a kind of illustrated encyclopedia, a Rosetta stone for the alien language. The lead analyst was working with images of crop circles and prehistoric geoglyphs. Jeffries looked over her shoulder and gasped. "Does this mean what I think it means?"

Beside the alien symbols, she had written out rough translations.

Xoirq was here

Zayrn Kthilin eats poop

Butts

A long string of alien profanities.

"Yes, sir. It seems earth is the bathroom stall of the galaxy."

Visitors

For almost a decade, "The End of the World as We Know It" was the number one request on WCTZ's all night oldies. That's how long we knew they were coming. Everyone expected the cynicism to die out sooner or later; instead, the closer they got, the more fatalism came into vogue. After the first instrument picked up the anomaly, every satellite and telescope in orbit focused their attention on the same spot. Hubble was the first to get a picture, a faint, blurry speck in the Eagle Nebula. Almost immediately, a coalition of American, Russian, Indian, and Japanese scientists formed in the hopes of advancing technology so we might learn more about these approaching strangers. So we might be prepared, if possible.

Strange lights and strange shadows filled the sky, provoking desperate prayers when the vessel finally arrived. The landing craft did not head for a major city as everyone had supposed, but directly to a large plantation in Brazil. News crews and diplomats scrambled to get there in time, but only one old woman was present for first contact when the gangly yellowish creature stepped down and said, "Hiya, neighbor! Mind if we borrow a cup of sugar?"

Awakening

It was impossible to know how long the world had slept. When that first day dawned, he was aware that he and the world were waking together. It was quiet. There was a cold white powder everywhere he looked.

It was not long before he realized he had awoken to a world of chaos and danger. The ground often shook beneath him so violently that he was sure he would be flung off the earth and into the unknown, beyond atmosphere and imagination. If it was not the earthquakes, it was the weather. The white powder that had been his first sensation seemed to fall constantly from the sky, swirling in a perpetual white haze. Cold battered him. It was all he could do to survive. Nights, at least, seemed peaceful; though sometimes strange lights burned far off, and these seemed portents of nature's fury. After suffering long through this torment, he concluded that cruel, merciless gods ruled his universe.

One day, without warning, the world went dark. All was once more quiet and still. It would remain so for long ages . . . until next Christmas when the decorations were dragged out and the snow globe was set on the mantle.

Blind

Frank was the sort of man who drank cheap beer and talked at the urinal. From the next cubicle over, I could always smell the tuna he had for lunch and hear him laughing too loudly while reading celebrity gossip on his work computer.

When he died suddenly, a few of us from the office went to the viewing. A beautiful woman with eyes red from crying stood beside the casket. I didn't even know he was married. Afterwards, at the bar, one of the guys joked, "Love really must be kind and patient and blind too for a woman like her to cry over a man like that." We all laughed. It wasn't that Frank was so despicable, but there simply didn't seem to be anything to admire.

But driving home that night, I couldn't keep the tears from my eyes. Maybe it was too much whiskey. Maybe it was because I had seen true love. And maybe the love did not blind Frank's wife, but helped her see past the ordinary or obnoxious to someone who could always protect, trust, hope, persevere—someone worth weeping for.

Maybe I had been blind.

Crying, I drove through the night alone.

Pudding

The sky was dark that Tuesday, and his options were rice pudding or sugar free Jell-O. After three weeks, he still wasn't used to the desserts. I don't have diabetes, he thought. Why can't I have the real stuff?

"Hey Karl, want us to deal you in for a game of Rummy?" one of the strangers across the room asked.

"Sure," he answered, still facing the dessert table. "Why not?" He sighed. At least it's not bridge again. From outside, low thunder groaned in agreement.

Then it started raining.

Now that's an idea . . . Karl shuffled across the community hall, carefully stepping out of his slippers at the door. It took longer than he expected for the attendants to notice, but soon enough a woman in one of those grey dresses was tugging his arm and saying, "Mr Sheffield, come back inside or you'll catch your death. What are you thinking?"

Karl smiled with childish delight. "You don't belong somewhere till you've got its mud between your toes."

Dripping water on the playing cards, Karl sat down to the game table. Still chuckling to himself, he set aside his dentures, smacked his lips, and ate an enormous spoonful of rice pudding.

Funeral

His funeral was the first time I had seen my sisters together in eight years. Mom had asked me to say a few words, and I agreed without really even thinking. I still didn't know what to call him.

Misty, my older sister, had always called him Roger, which always made mom look sad. But when Julie, the baby of the family, started calling him Daddy, it made mom cry. Of course, that always made Misty angry. I remember spending most of my childhood confused and generally tried to avoid calling him anything. Sometimes I wondered if all the arguments that came later hadn't started with that simple difference.

When the time came, Misty spoke first, which surprised me. She had a whole speech written out, but started crying when she was only a few words in and couldn't finish. Then Julie got up. She talked quietly, but had all the right words. When she sat down, Mom nudged me.

I stood at the front of the church looking at my sisters sitting together, Mom with tears in her eyes, even Dad was there. "I'm afraid of love," I said. "So, I avoid it. Then I'm safe."

I sat down.

Scrape

Scrape . . .

They would never think to look here, he thought. And he was right. None of them would ever stumble across the hiding place. In fact, no one would lay eyes on the box for the next century and a half until it would be discovered by some kids who had never heard of Flint McGee.

Scrape . . .

The sound of metal against stones clawed at his ears. It was annoyances like that which drove him to these extremes. Some of them could be put up with. Some, like this sound, had to be put up with. But others needed to be taken care of.

Scrape . . .

Just a little farther . . . it will be perfect. He was right. It would be ten feet by ten feet by ten feet. Overkill, certainly. But some efforts are necessary, he thought. Some things must be hidden.

Scrape . . .

It was that sound again. He was glad that it would stop soon. Just like the other: that incessant whine he had silenced. But this one would stop more simply and gently than the last.

Scrape . . .

Finished. It was perfect. He climbed the ladder, pulling it up behind him and said his last farewell to Flint McGee.

Scrape . . .

Fatherhood

Frank drives to the next town over, stops in the drug store, and buys a father's day card. With a crayon in his left hand, he scrawls "I love you, Daddy" in the card and his own name and address on the envelope and drops it in a mailbox. He shows the card to everyone at the diner. Frank is the proudest father you will ever meet.

Frank has an expensive photo quality printer. In his free time at work, Frank scans through page after page of stock photo websites for pictures of teenagers that look like the pictures of children in his wallet. He updates the photos every year.

Frank stays up all late writing out scripts for various phone conversations, recites them in front of a mirror, and memorizes one half to be performed at just the right moment. At the table by the window, in the break room, at the bus stop, he looks down at his phone pleasantly surprised when an alarm goes off.

Frank has a heart attack at 46. He doesn't make it. After several days, a young man named Frank Jr. whom no one has ever seen before, arrives to claim the body.

Riddle

It looked like her father was merely sleeping beneath a blanket of grass. They had buried him at the top of the hill, beneath the old dogwood tree, and for forty-three days following the funeral, Penelope didn't speak.

Her mother, shaken by grief, was at a loss, as were her teachers. Though despite Penelope's silence, she continued doing well in her classes, except choir. Her brothers tried to get her to talk, either by asking her questions or by poking her ribs, but Penelope never made a peep.

After forty-three days, Penelope visited the grave again. Her mother, who had been there every day, laid a forty-third carnation on the headstone and wept softly. Penelope stared hard at the stone like it was a riddle, then whispered the word: "Why?"

"Penelope?" her mother asked. "Did you say something?"

"Why?" she said louder.

"I don't know, Penelope. I wish I did."

But Penelope was looking neither at her mother, nor at the grave, but at the sky. Taking a deep breath, she shouted that one word—"Why?"—until she started to disappear. When she was nearly invisible, a strong gust of wind lifted her up and carried her into the sky.

Pendulum

They say a frictionless pendulum will swing forever: back and forth and back and forth and always at the same rate. Of course, there's no such thing as a frictionless pendulum in real life. There's always something slowing them down, so as they swing back and forth, the arc gets shorter, but it goes back and forth at a slower rate too, so it takes the same amount of time for each swing until it eventually stops. Or maybe it never stops. I don't know. Maybe the arc of the swing gets so short that you can't see it anymore.

This is kind of a pendulum—yes, a pendulum. I've been watching it for over an hour. How long it will swing? It's mesmerizing—hypnotizing even, in a strange sort of way. I like to think that pendulums will swing forever, just in smaller and smaller arcs.

It's starting to rain now. I should probably go inside, but where? I have no real home anywhere now. I will stay here, hypnotized by the slow swaying, and I will die here in the rain at my father's feet as his body swings back and forth . . .

Back and forth . . .

Back . . .

And forth . . .

Pine

Jack breathed in deeply the scent of pinewood as sawdust filled the air. _This wasn't the work I set out to do_ , he thought. He had learned carpentry to make beautiful houses and fill them with exquisite furniture. Unfortunately, in his small, impoverished village, dismal utilitarian tasks like this constituted the majority of his work, though even this was not as large as most. He checked the measurements again. 3'6"—so small.

He thought of the man who had commissioned this project—his desperate request and earnest thanks. That man deserved Jack's finest work, as much care as he would give a grand staircase, even for a project as simple as this one.

He worked with renewed vigor. But just as he was about to pound the first nail, several loud, excited voices outside startled him from his concentration. Somewhat irritated, he thrust his head out the door to see what the ruckus was.

"Jack, did'ja hear about that Thompson girl. Doc Conners says her fever broke"

With a smile and a sigh, Jack cleaned up, putting away tools, sweeping the floor, and setting the boards aside. _Perhaps they'll get to become part of a bookshelf instead of a coffin_.

Beating

The bell rang like a scream in the night. "Help!" he shouted. "It's the bell. Someone help!" Then he remembered the shovel and began digging frantically. Everyone had told him there was nothing to worry about; no one could remember the last time a bell rang. The graveyard shift was merely a sign of fidelity, a duty to the dead. But here he was in the dark, and the bell with its chord running down into the grave was ringing, which meant his uncle had been buried alive.

By the time his shovel struck wood, several other townspeople, awoken by his shouts, had gathered around the hole and were hacking at the earth with spades and shovels of their own. As they uncovered the pinewood box, they could hear a frantic beating and rustling beneath the boards of the coffin.

"Lift the lid off," someone shouted. "He needs air." The blacksmith had arrived with a crowbar and set to work prying up nails. When enough were finally removed, they tore the lid from the coffin. And the night was filled suddenly with a din of beating wings, as one hundred doves flew out of the coffin and toward the moon.

Metro

It's his first time in Paris after six years away. Lights outside the metro car flash and fall away like the memories that sprang from everything he saw. With a screech of weary brakes, the train pulls into Luxembourg, the station where they had said goodbye.

She refused to let him go.

"Kiss me goodbye."

"I already did."

"I know, but kiss me again."

One train went by, then a second, and then a third. When the fourth came, he told her, "This time I really have to go," but she held on to his jacket and buried her head in his chest.

"Not yet, not yet." The doors closed and another train went by. The fifth finally carried him to the airport. Coming out of the metro that day had felt like being born.

His train leaves the Luxembourg station and dives again into the tunnel. It is as dark as he imagines death must be. Suddenly, another train appears beside his, rushing in the opposite direction. He wonders if she might be on that train, and if they are passing each other as they always had, side by side for a moment, then lost into their separate darknesses.

Animal
Section V

Selection

The first animal committee concluded with the designation of territories. The areas around the equator had been particularly popular, leaving the polar and mountain regions reserved for the hardier mammals and birds. Everyone was feeling positive, especially with the balance of predators and prey to maintain equilibrium.

Then a voice interrupted. "Excuse me?"

"Yes?" Lion—the committee president said.

"Hi, humans here. Um, we didn't get any territory."

"Let's see what's available. Can you endure extremes of temperature?"

"Iffy."

"Disease resistance?" Warthog asked.

"Hit or miss."

"Strength?" Elephant inquired.

"Check out these guns," the man said while flexing his bicep.

"We'll say 'modest'," the lion said skeptically. "Any fangs? Claws? Horns or antlers?"

"Uh, no."

"Any advantages at all?" Owl asked.

"We walk upright. Good sized brains."

"Look," Lion said exasperated. "You're an absurd creature. We're just going to drop you somewhere near the middle. Do your best, but it's possible that you may need to move around to find the place that's best.

"Thank you," the human said. "We're just grateful for the opportunity." And with that the human contingent waddled out with their strange two-legged gate.

"Poor things," Horse said.

"I give 'em a decade," the dodo said.

Housebroken

The cat gazed up at Pearl expectantly, as though it had rung the doorbell itself. Pearl looked up and down the street, expecting to spot the fleeing prankster who had abandoned the creature. Seeing neither she tried shooing it away. The cat meowed. Soft. Frail. Familiar. Pearl looked hard at the pathetic, mournful eyes and shook her head.

In one swift motion, she scooped up the cat and carried it into the bathroom. Not giving the animal time to react, she plopped it into the tub and turned on the shower. The cat mewed weekly, but didn't struggle. While the shower ran, Pearl made a grilled cheese and bacon that was ready when the cat emerged from the bathroom. It sniffed the sandwich then attacked it ravenously. After dinner, Pearl brought the cat into the guest room. It curled up on the bed and was quickly asleep. Descending into the basement, Pearl unpacked a box she hadn't seen in years, took out a t-shirt, boxers, and sweatpants, then stealthily laid them at the foot of the guest bed.

"Oh Max," she whispered, "What has your father done to you now?"

The next morning, her son emerged from the guest room.

Lost

Charlotte stepped outside for lunch, and headed for the deli, but, remembering she would probably run into James there, turned around and headed for the park. There was usually a hot dog cart near the fountain but, when she came over the low hill shielding the center of the park from the road, Charlotte saw neither the fountain, nor the hot dog stand, but a large circus tent. Intrigued, she peaked inside. The cavernous tent was empty except for a small chair, illuminated by a single spotlight. She found the chair occupied by a rather large toad.

"Shows over," it croaked, "exit to the left."

Slightly disconcerted, Charlotte drifted toward the exit, opposite of where she entered, and left the tent to find herself in a forest. Night had fallen, and a row of torches lit a trail between the trees. Unsure of where else to go, she followed the trail into the woods. Ghostly faces peeked out at her from behind the trees, pressing their fingers to their lips. It hurried her steps. She came into a clearing, where a girl was sitting. It was herself at age 13. "I think I'm lost," one, or both of them, said.

Remains

Originally published as an honorable mention in the 2014 Lovecraftian Micro Fiction Contest hosted by the H. P. Lovecraft Film Festival and CthulhuCon

Many called it a miracle. If Marcus hadn't been woken up by a nightmare, he would have been crushed in his bed when the ceiling collapsed. The Schwartz's had bought the house eight years before, when Anna was two and Jamie was pregnant with Marcus, but they had never explored the crawlspace. When the water spot appeared nearly a year ago, they simply lacked spare cash and so, ignored it. But even if they had made the repairs immediately, nothing could have prepared them for what was in the ceiling above their son's room.

The smell was rancid. No one knew how long the carcasses had been up there—probably since the former owners moved out. Phil called them vermin, and Jamie called them beasts. Their daughter, Anna, called them monsters. The authorities called it an incident and did their best to hide the evidence, removing it in black bags at night. Specialists summoned to examine the remains tried to explain it away by calling them inbred iguanas. But little Marcus called them raptors. However, what he didn't admit to anyone was that when he came into his room and saw the wreckage, one of the creatures was still moving.

Waiting (i)

When Dillon looked at the night sky, there was a halo around the moon as his breath rose in a thin cloud of mist.

_How long have I been out here?_ he thought. It must have been at least two hours since he took his post. He had done his best to wait patiently, but he was starting to give up hope.

—SNAP—

_What was that?_ He looked up and down the path, hoping for a familiar figure coming toward him, but there was nothing. Nothing he could see anyway. That was the scariest part. Dillon knew that his friends were close, but he didn't know what else was. Coyotes? Bears? Something worse?

"Hello?" His voice sounded thin and shaky. "Is anybody there?"

It was unnaturally quiet. Dillon could almost hear his heart beating. _Something was there_ , he thought, _something made that noise_. The problem was the trees. Anything could be out there, and if it wasn't on the path, he wouldn't see it. His heart beating faster now. _I've been here long enough. I'll just leave._

But he didn't. After all, his friends were counting on him. He couldn't abandon them. They needed his help to catch the snipe.

Spill

For the briefest of seconds, he lost his bearing in reality. It was dark. Or his eyes were closed. Maybe both. He could have been flying or falling or dead and he wouldn't have been able to tell the difference. Then he felt the blood rushing to his left cheek and with it came a sharp, stinging pain. His sense of balance came back just in time for him to realize that he actually was falling. Staggering, he tried to recover, but he stepped into a slick, wet patch of floor and crashed to the ground. He smelled beer. There was a beer in his hand, though most of it was now spilled all over him. And he heard people—a growing sound of laughter from all sides. He saw faces looking down at him, leering, malicious, and all laughing. Except for one. A tall, leggy woman stood over him with a look almost of hatred. His first thought was that she was the sort of woman he would like to sleep with. Then it all came back—his cocky swagger, the stupid words that had spilled out of his mouth, and the slap that had sent his world reeling.

Headlights

At 4:00 am, Jordan was cruising down the country road going 73 miles per hour with classic rock on the radio and five cups of coffee in his veins. And even though he had his high beam headlights on, the deer seemed to come out of nowhere, leaping into the road with all the noble resolve of a doomed centurion falling on his sword. For a moment their eyes met. They faced each other like expert opponents in a game of chess who know after the first five moves who will win and who will lose. And regardless of whether the game will go on for minutes or days or years, they play it to the conclusion. Each looked at the other with the eyes of fate. So, when Jordan lifted his foot from the gas and fumbled for the brake, and when the deer turned to run back into the safety of the woods, it was not because they expected to escape, but because those were the only moves available, just as it was the rules of physics that carried them irrevocably closer together, closer to checkmate. As bones and metal crumbled, Jordan and the deer knew each other.

Thunder

In 1955, a lost WWI landmine, buried beneath a Belgian farm, exploded, possibly due to a lightning strike. The only fatality was a cow

"Did you bring in the cow?"

Ludolf stood dripping in the doorway as the torrent raged outside behind him. "Did I do what?"

"The cow! The cow!" Mathilde cried.

Ludolf looked at his wife in disbelief. "You want me to go back out there?"

"I want you to save the cow"

"It's a cow. It can take a little rain."

"Well you're a cow, so you should be able to take it too."

Ludolf was exasperated. Thunder, lightning, wind, and rain were fighting their way into the house and he refused to engage them again on their own turf. "Nothing is going to happen to the cow," he raged. As though to punctuate the determination in his voice, a bolt of lightning crashed down from the sky.

Both Ludolf and Mathilde had heard their parents' stories about what the English soldiers had left beneath their farm thirty-nine years before. Somehow that lightning reached deep enough into ground to ignite the several tons of explosives. The house was rocked by thunder and a shower of dirt and stones. Ludolf looked out the window and gaped at the twenty foot deep crater in the hill where he had last seen the cow.

Boss

My boss was a dog. A black lab named Duke, to be specific. I didn't know that when I took the job, but I'm not sure whether it would have affected my decision. He was always energetic and friendly and interacted with employees enthusiastically. However, he was rarely in his office and thus wasn't very productive, meaning the rest of us had to do his work. His assistant's job was particularly demanding. She was hired around the same time I was and had expected to answer phones and schedule appointments, but Duke relied on her for walks, feeding, even cleaning up messes. I felt bad for her, but she would just shrug and say that a job's a job. It was most people's attitude. They were content to have a positive work environment.

Then the boss bit James. Nobody knows exactly what happened. Corporate denies knowledge of the event, but there were threats of legal action and a substantial payoff. Needless to say, Duke and the company parted ways. Corporate brought in a replacement—a hotshot who had made important gains at several small branches in the Midwest. My new boss is a blue-headed macaw. Things are not the same.

Laugh

The lizard was trapped under a bowl.

"What do we do now?"

"I've got an idea," Phil said. "Let's boil it."

Markus laughed. "We totally should."

In minutes a pot of water was bubbling on the stove. As Phil dumped the lizard into the pot, boiling water splashed onto Markus's arm. Phil laughed while his friend swore. Soon, however, they laughed together at a faint scream emanating from the pot as the lizard slowly stopped thrashing.

"Dead?"

"Probably."

"Let's make sure."

With a spoon, Phil scooped up the steaming reptile and, chuckling, used a strand of dental floss to fashion a miniature noose. The two friends laughed at the how lizard's legs and tail flopped around as he swung from the gallows of Phil's fingers.

They laughed and laughed.

Still laughing, Markus grabbed the pot and hurled its steaming contents at Phil, whose screams were cut short when Markus began beating him with the pot, battering his face. Markus laughed as blood and teeth spilled onto the carpet. He laughed as he fashioned a noose out of bedsheets. And he laughed at the way Phil's feet flopped around as he hung in the stairwell.

Markus laughed and laughed and laughed.

Raccoon

A raccoon's hand looks remarkably like a human's. That's what Mark thought as he lifted the heavy stone over his head. The creature in front of him reached toward the sky as though it hoped to find a handhold to climb out of its own blood. It chomped at the air, trying desperately to coax a mouthful into its lungs, all the while making a raspy gurgling sound in its throat. It was a pitiful sight, but the worst part was the intestines that had spilled out on the road after the car tore open the raccoon's stomach. The animal would not recover.

Mark had never hit anything while driving before—not a mailbox, a tree, an animal, certainly not a person. But he almost hit all those things when he had seen the raccoon and swerved wildly to avoid it. As it was, the animal was the only one to suffer. Now he stood over the carnage he had created, preparing to finish the job. But that hand . . . so small and feeble, reaching out to heaven like a prayer.

Mark dropped the stone beside him and collapsed in the grass while his car's hazard lights blinked on and off.

Wings

Todd's first pet was a bird: a parakeet named Mr. Rainbows. And when Todd was only six, he set that bird free and stared in amazement as he watched it fly away. For years, he dreamed of flying away too. So, when Todd was a little older, he grew wings. He wasn't a very good flier at first—the best he could do was fall gracefully. But as he practiced and got stronger, soon he was able to leap from his second story window and glide through the breeze climbing higher and higher until the fences and roads that had kept him caged were nothing but faint etchings on the glittering countryside below. He would fly for hours without a single care weighing him down.

They shot Todd down one day, right out of the sky. They found his body where it had fallen in the woods, cut off his wings and called it a hunting accident. _It wasn't safe_ , they said. _He was a danger to himself and to others. After all, what if everyone took it into their heads that they could fly? What would we do with all our roads and fences? This is for the best_.

Constrict

It was something you'd see in a dream, and for a moment, he thought it might be one. James was late and angry, making it a miracle he hadn't run her over as he came around the curve. She was just standing there, right in the middle of the street. Immediately, he slammed on the brakes. The woman was facing away from him, but obviously heard the screeching tires and turned around slowly. Her hands were raised to her face, one holding a match, the other cupped to protect the flame lighting a cigarette between her lips. However, it took him a moment to discern what was particularly unsettling about this stranger: she had a serpent wrapped tightly around each arm, their small heads swaying slowly as they too turned to look at the car. Eyes like embers burned into him. She approached the driver's side and leaned her head toward the open window. The coiled snakes extended their heads into the car, flicking out their tongues to taste James' frightened breath. A voice like ashes: "Do you think she hates herself because you left?"

James hit the gas. He drove away as fast as possible, afraid of looking back.

Illumination

Alenka marched with determination, hoping the precise movements would distract her from the anxiety creeping into her belly. It was to be her first time out of the tunnel, and she would face the trial of illumination. It was a rite of passage everyone went through when they reached adulthood—an initiation into the sacred truths. Only those who survived were deemed worthy to work for the community. Now it was her turn.

Leaving the tunnels was like being born a second time. She could not have conceived of anything like the sky or the enormous plants that towered above her.

"Climb," said Dalida, the guide for the new initiates. "Climb and see the light."

Alenka was first. With shaky legs she began climbing, fearing the wind would carry her away. When she reached the top, unfathomable brightness poured over her. For the first time, she saw the sun. _At last_ , she thought, _I understand. This is why we build our towers so high. This is why we must work so hard. This is illumination_.

A nearby wren spotted the lone ant perched on a blade of grass and in one swift motion gobbled it up.

Alenka was not worthy.

Leash

He hadn't needed a leash for Max in their fourteen years together. Floyd would say, "Come on, Max," and the dog would trot along behind him. They would spend long afternoons at the river side by side. Floyd would scratch him behind the ears and say, "You're a good boy, Max. You're a good boy."

Floyd and Max grew old together. Their steps got slower and smaller. Max could no longer spring up at Floyd's call, but he was as faithful as ever. One afternoon, Max shakily rose to his feet. Looking back, he barked just once. Floyd nodded and stood up. Together they walked through the town, over the railroad tracks, and into the country. They walked through corn fields and crossed creeks. When they got tired, they would rest. Max would nuzzle Floyd's leg, and Floyd would scratch Max's ears. Then they would move on, Max leading, and Floyd following.

They reached the farm around sunset. The yelping of puppies echoed from the barn, and someone watched them from the farmhouse. Max limped toward an enormous old oak. Floyd sat with his back to the tree, and Max rested his head in his lap. They closed their eyes.

Bernard

They all smiled and patted his head. He hated it. Especially when the teenagers said, "Cool picture. Did you draw that? Are you gonna be an artist when you grow up?" Well of course he drew it, but he was going to be an astronaut when he grew up. Or when the old ladies turned to each other with silly grins and said, "Well isn't he just the cutest thing?" But they wouldn't answer his question and they smelled funny, and he wasn't cute, and neither was Bernard. Or when the men leaned over him and said, "Where are your parents, young man?" But he already knew where his parents were. They were at thirty-two-twelve-north-sycamore-street-mount-carlisle-michigan. But he wasn't looking for his parents. He was looking for Bernard.

He'd given up and started walking home when he saw an old man with big glasses sitting on his porch and decided to give it one more try. "Have you seen Bernard? This is him, and he's lost"

The old man squinted at the picture and wrinkled his giant nose. Then his eyes brightened and he said, "Why that's the Apatosaurus I found last week. I wondered if his owner would come looking."

Vegetable
Section VI

Gate

Light poured through his office window, spilling onto the floor. "That won't do," he said, setting a bucket beneath the window and filling it to the brim.

Walking home from work that day he spotted a tiny pebble: warm grey with bright flecks of blue. "You can't leave that on cement," he said, "It needs proper care." He picked up the pebble, putting it safely in his pocket.

Broken glass littered the footpath outside his house, but the evening sunlight refracted a field of rainbows in front of him. Before dinner, he put a shovelful into a clay pot, made a small hole with his index finger, dropped the pebble inside, covered it up, then measured a half cup of light from his bucket and poured that into the pot as well.

In a few weeks, a small shoot sprouted and grew quickly. It soon needed to be moved to his backyard, growing into a tree called beauty. He ate its fruit when sick and wrapped its blanket of leaves around him to sleep. He planted more of its seed until he had a garden filled with color and light. And he wondered if Eden was utterly lost after all.

Picnic

The odors of macaroni salad and fried chicken mingled with the earthy smell of nostalgia. It had rained that morning, and the sun was still invisible behind the worn-out clouds.

"I thought Jim was coming."

Meghan was seated on the blanket, but reclined with one elbow on the damp grass that she plucked absent-mindedly. "I thought he was too," she said.

"Did he decide not to come?"

Each blade of grass would fight against her grip for a moment just before it tore. There was something immensely satisfying in that moment of release, the same satisfaction she had gotten from shucking peas with her mother years ago. Meghan shrugged. "Apparently."

"Well, maybe he's just running behind. Do you think we should wait?

Meghan scowled. One of the blades had refused to tear and, consequently, a whole clump of grass had come up in her hand, roots and all. She tossed it aside briefly wondering if the roots would ever find their way back to the soil.

"Meghan? Should we wait?"

She sighed, pulled herself into a sitting position, and brushed the clumps of dirt and broken blades of grass off her elbow. "He's not coming," she said. "Let's just eat."

Iris

The movie was over and the DVD menu had just repeated for the fifth time, but no one noticed. Ryan was tearing paper towels into squares, Julie was applying a third coat of paint to her nails, and Celia was still talking. "I can't wait to go to Scotland with my dad this summer," she said. "I just want to go over there and find a man. A Scottish man—like a mix of Gerard Butler and Ewan McGregor. He'll come up to me and say . . . and say . . ."

Ryan now had a stack of paper squares he began folding into origami flowers.

"And say what?" Julie asked.

"I don't know," she said "Something romantic and Scottish. I was trying to come up with something like: 'Your eyes are as green as the fields of Edinburgh.' But Edinburgh's a city, so there are no fields, and anyway my eyes aren't green."

She sighed.

Just then Ryan spoke for the first time since the movie had started. "Maybe something like: Your skin glows like the sunrise over the highland hills." And he handed Celia a bouquet of fresh-cut irises.

Bright crimson dawned on Celia's face. "Um . . . yeah," she stammered. "Something like that."

Cotton

We never wanted blood on our hands.

I've worked these fields all my life, planted the seeds, picked the harvest. Just like my father before me. He was the first slave on this plantation. Now that he is old, he spends the whole day twisting hemp into rope until his fingers are as stiff and hard as cattle horns. My wife and my mother work the looms. Most of the cotton goes to factories, but we weave a portion into canvas to use on the plantation. My son is still young and strong. He turns the crank on the gin. If he is too slow, they whip him till blood runs down with his sweat. We've all felt the lash. Our blood has fed the cotton for generations.

But at least we had our lives.

A group of Yankee soldiers came to hang George Morris. Something to do with the war. They used my father's rope to do it. They covered his head with one of my wife's canvas bags, made from our cotton. They took his life, but we did the dirty work. We were slaves to a dead man's blood.

That's when they told us we were free.

Green

In my dreams, your hair is green. I know it must be a symbol, but although I have read my Jung and my Freud, I cannot tell if that green is the color of life and health or of sickness and decay.

"Is everything alright?"

"I've been thinking a lot lately."

"About what?"

"It's hard to say."

In my dreams you smell like an earthy mulch of damp leaves and rotting bark. And when I touch you, my hands come away covered in a dark loamy hummus that clings to the grooves and creases of my skin, your scent following me long after we part.

We sit beside each other in silence. Neither of us can remember who spoke last, but we know that things are not the way they used to be.

In my dreams, when I say, "I love you," you answer with the sound of creaking branches, burrowing roots, and rustling leaves. Twigs snap. Beasts chatter and moan. Wind howls. But I see no shapes I recognize, no forms to help me discern where we are in relation to each other.

I wake each morning knowing that, for whatever reason, you are a little farther beyond me.

Stains

Cody wasn't quick, but he wanted to make a name for himself.

The sidewalk beside the cemetery became a hazard for the kids late each summer when the mulberry trees along the fence began to shed their berries. The juice from the fallen fruit left dark stains that could ruin even old, dirty sneakers. The challenge was to make it through the minefield without stepping on a single berry. Of course, this became increasingly difficult as the season went on. The dark stains that annually spread across the sidewalk testified to the impossibility of the task.

Only the bravest and most determined could make it across. The passing cars left clear tracks in the road where their tires carried away the berries and their juices. So, if there was a break in the traffic, a quick kid could jump in the road and dash past the danger.

Cody didn't see the green light down the block. Cody didn't see the car heading right for him. But the driver saw Cody. With horn blaring and brakes screeching, the car spun wildly out of control and plowed into a tree.

But Cody couldn't looked back. He just ran and ran and ran.

Missing (ii)

The florists along 28th were all closing up when you arrived, desperate for something with orchids, my favorite flower. This time, you would do things right.

"You're not even going to ask me to stay?"

"Maybe this is a sign."

You dashed into the Duane Reade on 7th for chocolate. What they lacked in quality, you made up for in quantity, grabbing armfuls of dark chocolate. You tapped your foot nervously while the cashier rang them up, then ran out of the store without taking your receipt.

"So this is goodbye?"

At 34th and 6th you got on the B train to Flatbush. The subway ride gave you time to think, focus, sort out every word. I know I messed up before, but I'm ready to love you like you deserve. Whatever it takes, I want to be with you.

You arrived at my door, bouquet in one hand, a bag of chocolate in the other. Reciting your plea one last time, you buzzed my apartment.

No answer.

The lights of New York are receding as the plane ascends. Los Angeles lies ahead. Sailing through the night, I am suspended between the past and the future. I am missing you.

Cascade

Tom saw the eastern portal ahead on the tracks and reached for the egg timer. His shoulders tensed. Twenty minutes. This was why he hated the direct to Seattle route: 7.79 miles of darkness, the longest tunnel in the country.

The train dove into the abyss.

The engine car had lights, of course, but outside he could see only the tracks immediately in front of him. And blackness. The tunnel hadn't bothered him before his diagnosis, but now it was a reminder. He had no guarantee the tracks would continue, no guarantee the mountain wouldn't collapse on him, no guarantee he would make it to the western portal.

Tom wasn't sure if he was alive or dead when he saw that first grain of light ahead, and he didn't care. He simply willed the train toward it.

Ding!

Twenty minutes had passed. Tom exhaled. He had reached the end of the tunnel. But as the train leapt out of the darkness, he was bewildered by what he saw. His windows were surrounded by a flurry of small, pink petals. They seemed to come from nowhere, cascading over the train and enveloping it in color as it sailed over the tracks.

Veil

Dora's brother was a meanie who pushed her into the mud in her favorite pink dress. She was beneath the maple tree crying when she heard a whisper. "Psst, it's safe up here." A grubby little hand reached down and helped her climb into the tree. Todd was hiding because he had broken Bobby Flenderson's brand new Louisville slugger. He was a bit of a klutz, but he knew how to climb trees. He understood how time and space could dissolve behind a veil of shifting, shimmering leaves. And as soon as Dora's hand was in his, he knew that he never wanted to let it go.

They ran through fields, waded through streams, chased the breeze. They tripped along on raindrops and gathered stars to light the paths to each other. There were soft kisses, tender whispers in the night, thousands of rising and setting suns watched together.

"Dora?" A voice called from the bottom of the hill.

"Todd Henry Sheffield!"

Startled young eyes opened wide.

"I gotta go."

"Me too."

The veil opened. They scrambled out of the tree and went their separate ways, but not without a glance back at each other, wondering when they'd meet again.

Maple

Whenever he faced a problem he couldn't solve, Collin went back to the beginning. After the doctor's call, he knew there was only one course of action. First, he went into the living room and kissed his wife on the forehead, "I have some errands to run, but I'll be back in a few hours. I love you."

She looked up from her book and smiled. "Love you too."

It was a short drive to the next town over. There, Collin came to a small house of painted brick. He opened the front door and walked through once familiar rooms, still in their same shapes, but filled by different lives. Out the back through the patio, he approached the old maple. He was taller now and could reach the lowest branch with ease. In a moment, he was among the leaves and boughs, his muscles recalling deep-rooted habits. He peeked out of the treetop high above the world. He found a childhood joy and a long-forgotten peace. The wind grew stronger, and lifted him out of the tree.

The telephone's ringing woke Collin from a deep sleep.

"Mr. Fitzpatrick? This is Dr. Datar. I'm afraid I have some bad news."

Ivy

She waited with her hand in the air so that he'd see her waving. Only he didn't look back. The car ambled down the long gravel path and even paused before pulling into the street, but he never looked back.

Still, they were in love—they'd told each other so—and she would wait for him. She stood on the steps, her eyes rooted on the end of the drive both day and night. When she became too tired to stand any longer, she sat on the railing, leaned against the old brick walls of that house.

Friends came, begging her to come in or to come away, to give up her watching, but she would only shake her head and say, "He will come; he will come." She did not move for friend or family. She did not move for heat or cold. She did not move when the creeping ivy coiled itself around her feet, reached up, embraced her like her lover used to. She waited.

One day, an old man came to the house and unlocked the door with a tarnished key. That night, with tears in his eyes, he burned the house down, ivy and all.

Flowers

Elsie usually didn't like to see people on the anniversary. Unfortunately, someone had knocked and Arnold was out. She peaked through the curtains and saw a small group of kids standing on her porch. In truth, they were probably adults, but at her age, most people looked like kids. She cautiously opened the door but kept the screen shut tight. "Yes?"

"Sorry for disturbing you," a girl at the front of the group said, "but we were wondering what these white flowers are that smell so wonderful."

Elsie didn't know what to say. She hadn't planted flowers outside her house for forty years, not since they had lost Dorothy. "What white flowers?" she asked.

"These," one of the others said, pointing.

Elsie opened the screen slightly and stuck her head outside. She saw them—lush, thriving bushes thickly covered in white flowers. She gasped. Eyes shining she said, "Why, those are azaleas."

"Azaleas," she said. "They're lovely." And with that the kids left, thanking Elsie as they went.

She stood in the doorway until they rounded the corner. Then she stepped outside. Elsie reached out to touch one of the bushes, making sure it was real. "Azaleas," she whispered.

Woven

You asked what I was thinking, and I lied.

Walking beside you in the cool of autumn, I said I had work on my mind. In truth I was thinking about the tree in the chain-link fence. Planted too close together—over the years, bark has swallowed metal, tree has uprooted fence, and fence has stifled tree. Now the two are fused, inextricable. To separate them would be the destruction of both, but neither is what it was meant to be. I was thinking that is how we love each other. I don't know whether I am the tree and you the fence or the other way around. But I am sure that there is more to love than that. More than what have.

But how could I tell you this? Hand in hand, how could I say that our life together has been nothing more than painful familiarity, that we are woven together, but have never been one? Ashamed to think so little of our thirty years, I kept my silence.

Perhaps that too is love. Or something less.

I asked what you were thinking. You said your neck was bothering you.

I kissed your cheek. We kept walking.

Chainsaw

I borrowed the chainsaw from the neighbor on one side and gasoline from the neighbor on the other side. I look up at the spreading green, which shades my head for the last time.

The tree was struck by lightning twenty years ago. In the fury of nature it had lost all its branches but one. "We should chop it down," dad said.

"But it's over sixty years old," my mom said. "It was here when my grandfather built this house."

"We could plant a new tree. Maybe a fruit tree . . ."

"My mother would disapprove," she'd say.

"Your mother is dead."

But mom would look out the window, sad and silent until dad gave up.

The charred, black pillar remained in the yard, like a shadow of death. Gradually, new shoots ventured out, and after a decade, there was shade in the yard again, where the ghosts of my ancestors sat on hot summer days.

The house is mine now, though it still doesn't feel like it. Surrounded by the belongings of my parents, grandparents and great-grandparents, not yet dusty, I feel like I am trespassing on their graves. I cannot breathe in these shadows.

The chainsaw roars to life.

Leaves

"Maybe we were like the leaves," you say, "only showing our true colors right before the end. They're fiery and beautiful, but just the last gasp before the end."

We're standing outside the cafe, figuring out how to say goodbye the last time. The air is as dry and as sharp as a snapped twig.

"We were like a leaf," I say. "We died and fell a long time ago, but it was slowly and gently. Now we're dry and crumbling, but the wind keeps picking us up and tossing us around. Sometimes it almost looks like we're alive."

You look at me with blank eyes. You don't know whether I am being poetic or cruel. "Well. We had some good times, right?" My mouth stretches wide, but not exactly into a smile. You try again: "Remember that weekend in Vermont? The place in the mountains?"

"I try not to," I say. "But I can't help it."

"Remember how we watched the leaves turn colors?"

It's cold. I sigh and ask you why you're doing this.

"I just don't want to forget stuff like that. We had some good times, didn't we?"

"We were a leaf," I say. "We fell."

Mineral
Section VII

Sand

The grains of sand clung together as if their lives depended on it, which perhaps they did. After all, what is a grain of sand by itself?

"What's wrong?"

"My foot hurts."

Together they were a writhing octopus, a pod of dolphins, a beautiful mermaid, a mighty fortress, a terrifying dragon.

"Well, you were on your feet all day."

"No, it's not sore. Something in my shoe."

They rose into the sky, defying all reason. Grain upon grain, until suddenly the heap becomes a sculpture, becomes art.

"Probably sand."

"I rinsed my feet twice. It feels more like a rock."

When the pictures had all been taken and trophies passed out, the beach cleared, and the water began to advance.

"Just a grain of sand. I could barely see it."

"Told you."

The invading tide gained courage as it crept ever closer, first scouting the terrain, then laying siege, then taunting.

"Stupid sand castle contest. Felt like a piece of glass in there."

Finally, rising up like inexorable fate, a foaming wave collapsed over the remnants of all the day's effort. Octopus, dolphin, mermaid, castle, dragon—all were subsumed into fate. And the shore was smooth and silent and still.

Fine

He woke disoriented—the new bed, the new room, the ring on his finger. The strangest feeling was the black dress socks still on his feet from the day before. Realizing his feet probably smelled, he decided to leave them on. Abbie was already in the shower, so he decided to make coffee. The coffee pot was one of few appliances in the kitchen, a carryover from his college days. Later, they would be opening the gifts and maybe replacing it. The pot was gurgling and spurting when he heard Abbie get out of the shower. He found her sitting at her vanity, combing knots out of her long curly hair.

"You're up," she said, looking at him in the mirror.

"Coffee's on."

"Thanks."

"Look," he said, "I'm sorry . . . about last night."

"No," she interposed, turning to face him, "I shouldn't have—"

"It's fine. It's just . . ."

"Maybe we shouldn't—"

"Yes," he said. "I'm so glad you said that. That's what I was thinking, but I didn't want you to be . . . disappointed."

"It's fine."

The words hung in the air with a sad sense of finality.

"Sounds like the coffee's done. Want a cup?"

"Sure. That would be nice."

Gold

He hadn't even entered the shop yet, but Holly could already see the glint of gold. Right on time. She took a cup from the counter and wrote his order on it. The drink would be ready when his receipt printed. That's how you keep the regulars happy. She knew most of their drinks, but none came with his punctuality. His regularity and his gold timepiece were why the baristas called him the Watch.

"Triple medium caramel and toffee nut soy latte."

"$4.81."

He quickly swiped his credit card—gold, like his watch—and signed the receipt while Julius set the finished drink on the counter. "Have a nice day," Holly smiled.

The Watch grunted and took his cup. Somehow the lid wasn't quite sealed, and it sprang off the cup. Hot coffee splashed onto the Watch's hand, and he dropped the cup spilling the remainder of its contents onto his shoes. He glared at Holly with fire in his eyes. "You little—"

But he never finished the insult. Steam burst from his ears, his nose, and his mouth. Quickly, his whole body dissolved into vapor, leaving only coffee-stained shoes, a pile of clothes, and a pristine gold watch.

Porcelain

When Caroline and her husband had put the down payment on the new house, she thought that everything about it was just perfect, from the brick exterior to the spacious kitchen to the bench beneath the elm tree out back. But it was too good to be true. Off the master bedroom was a bathroom, and between the Jacuzzi and double sink was a toilet, and in that toilet, level with the water line, was a ring of calcium.

"No one will see this bathroom anyway," her husband said.

"I'll see it."

So she scrubbed. She scrubbed every bristle off the toilet brush, bought a new one, and scrubbed every bristle off again. She emptied three bottles of toilet cleaner and several spray bottles of various household cleaners. But despite all her efforts, calcium still clung to the porcelain like mountains cling to the earth.

"If it's that important, we'll get a new toilet."

In a frantic desperation, she seized a spoon from the kitchen and for a furious hour, chipped and scraped at the toilet. And then it was done. Bits of calcium were sinking to the bottom of the toilet, and dark gray scars ringed the porcelain bowl.

Directions

I can tell you the directions, but I cannot tell you whether or not to follow them.

In the Adirondacks, there is a mountain shaped like a broken crown. Start on the south side of the mountain and climb till you reach an abandoned mine. There will be signs warning about danger. Ignore them and go inside. Take the utility elevator to the lowest level. When the door opens, a ram will be waiting. He will ask for your darkest secret in order to pass, and he knows whether or not you're telling the truth. If you lie, he will head-butt you. But if you are honest, he will spit out a key and direct you to a waiting room down the hall. Leave your name with the receptionist and have a seat, but do not read the magazines—they will make you feel depressed. After fifteen minutes, someone will call your name and guide you to the vault. The key opens a safety deposit box that contains an oil painting of your most cherished memory. You may take the painting, but if you expect it to be a masterpiece, you will be disappointed. Their artist is not very good.

Change

Titus set out alone that night with three cans of spray paint and a righteous fury. His friends, though he hesitated to call them such, were asleep. They used to be idealists. Outside a midtown diner, they would smoke cigarettes and talk about shaking up the system and changing the world.

"The hardest part is getting people's attention."

"No one cares."

"You know what we should do? Graffiti. Some sort of public art downtown that people can't ignore."

Inspired, Titus went out that night and bought the paint. But the next day at the diner, his friends laughed.

"Come on, Titus. We're not actually doing that."

A week later, in front of a wide beige wall, a spray can rattled; a lid popped; a nozzle hissed. Then red and blue lights and a siren's chirp. Running feet; he climbed a dumpster, climbed a fence. Then, a slip of the hand. A skull struck the pavement.

Titus made the morning news. Taggers shook their heads at an amateur; the building managers shook their heads at a blemish; the authorities shook their heads at another foolish delinquent. His friends shook their heads, but didn't speak.

And the world went on the same.

Knife

Myrtle had turned out the lights and locked the diner, leaving the two men in darkness. They were such fixtures of the restaurant that they blended in with the memorabilia on the walls. The knife still lay between them, binding and dividing them like an old promise.

"What're you waiting for?" Tyrone asked grimly.

"I'm waiting for an excuse not to do it."

"What do you think I've been giving you for the last forty years?"

"Is that the only reason we're friends? Your guilt?" Silence. Henry studied a streetlamp's reflection on the blade. "Why tell me today?"

"How about some music?"

"Not now."

"Come on," Tyrone said, rising, "when was the last time someone put a quarter in the jukebox?"

"Four hours ago. You played American Pie and told your old joke about music for dessert."

"Four hours is too long." A quarter clinked. "How about this one?" Love Me Tender trickled out of the speakers. Tyrone tapped his foot softly. Behind him, Henry stepped up quietly and stabbed his friend between the fifth and sixth ribs. He went out the back and walked to the cemetery. In the morning, they found his body in front of her grave.

Sensation

It's possible the audience would have remained oblivious if not for the sudden closing of the curtain. This was a new play, after all. Had the stage crew simply waited for the impending conclusion, the curtain would have closed anyway, music would have chimed in, and the audience would have been distracted with stretching, peeing, and discussing whether or not the latest Broadway sensation lived up to its hype. They probably would have been impressed with the realism. Such is hindsight.

But the gun was so loud, the shock and screams so genuine, the curtain fell so quickly. The audience's bewildered silence was broken by shouts and screams from behind the curtain. A rush of whispers through the house quickly swelled to a maelstrom of shouts. "It was real; it was real! He's dead; he's dead!" So when a second shot rang out, the stampede was immediate.

The subsequent investigation was inconclusive. The source of the second shot was never discovered and no one was charged with the actor's murder. Local and national news ran moderately clever headlines about a phantom. Naturally, all subsequent performances were cancelled immediately. That night, the playwright dumped a box of bullets into the river.

Part

Only one road lead to the factory, and it took half an hour for all the first shift guys to get into the lot. Ben had forgotten how much he hated that line. But I need the money even more now, he thought, spinning his loose silver ring.

As Ben walked to his station, other guys grinned, patted him on the back, said things like, "Have a fun week?" "Managed to pull yourself away from her, eh?"

"Morning, Jim," he said, reaching his place at the hydraulic press.

"Hey, Ben," Jim said from the other side of the conveyer belt, grinning like the others. "Welcome back."

The men worked quietly, loading sheet metal onto the belt, until Ben realized something was missing. "My wedding ring!" he shouted as the conveyer belt carried it under the swiftly falling press. Like a lightning bolt, Jim swiped at the silver band, knocking it to the ground at Ben's feet. "That was close," he said, slipping the ring into his pocket. "You're a life—"

He looked up to see Jim's face white as milk. "Ben," he said, "I can't feel . . ."

Jim collapsed, the blood from his severed arm spilling onto the factory floor.

Break

We never got a chance to buy lamps or picture frames or china, to buy knick-knacks to fill our house. We never had any of the little nothings and nonsenses that go into making a home. Just the promise. But we would have had so much fun as we walked the aisles together, finding the perfect drapes, debating over salt shakers, choosing whether we want white mugs or green. Such insignificant conversations, but our ordinary moments always meant so much to me.

It's not just that I miss what could have been—what will never be. More than that, I wish I had something to smash, something to tear, something to burn. I wish I had something to destroy the same way my heart was destroyed when you left.

But what do I have? Pictures and texts are deleted in an instant with neither wreckage nor catharsis. The promises you gave me are already broken. And the memories I always carry cannot be touched. All I have is this note, the one you slipped into my back pocket while my lips were pressed against yours. I hold it in my futile hands, unable to break the words "I love you."

Silver

"You dropped your fork," she said.

The old man looked up, confused. "What?"

"Here," she said, "I didn't use mine." He nodded and timidly took the proffered utensil.

It was the first time they had ever spoken, even though both had been coming to the same diner every Saturday morning for the last three years, often sitting in these same booths, facing each other. Usually, like today, the man would just sit with his black coffee and corn beef hash and stare out the window, like he was expecting something that never arrived. Her decision to break the silence had gone as well as she could have expected, and he was already looking back out the window. But just when she moved back to her booth, he spoke.

"It's the end of the world."

"I'm sorry?"

"Look at those shafts of light," he said, "the ones coming through the clouds."

"Yes," she said. "They're lovely."

"Do you suppose those are aliens or the Second Coming? Or maybe both . . ."

"I . . . I think it's just the sun."

He squinted, his face creased with wrinkles, then softly said, "No, I don't think it is." The diner filled with light. And then he vanished.

Oasis

The little blue stone shone like an oasis in the blistering sands of that beech. I had never seen anything like it, and slipped the pebble into the pocket of my swimsuit to save for Amy. I didn't know rocks as well as she did, but I could tell this would be a perfect addition to her collection.

Her face lit up when she opened the little box, as much from surprise as from the radiance seeming to shimmer deep within the stone. "It's beautiful." She held it up for a closer look. "Just beautiful."

It was bigger than I remembered.

It fell to the ground, not just the rock, but the entire display. Big as a baseball, heavy as lead, it had brought the whole thing down. After that, the bright cerulean stone sat on the table, growing until the wooden legs splintered. Together, Amy and I were barely able to roll it to the back yard.

"Maybe it's a seed?"

For a week it grew. One night, we could hear it cracking, splitting. There was light leaking out at the seams.

In the morning, we found the pieces. Dull and grey, they crumbled to dust in our hands.

Enough

He sits alone in a dark room. In a dark world. A world with too much pain. He's looking for a way to stop the pain. "Will it be enough?" he asks while loading ammo into his backpack. "How many bullets does it take to change the world?"

With arms and armor and iron expressions, they wonder if it will be enough. Reports have been coming in of chaos, danger, pain. "If we could only stop the pain from happening," they say. "If we could only wipe the world clean." But how many bullets will it take?

At night, the men in the rebel camp keep the lights and their voices low; they keep guns at their side, but whisper their hope that the sun will rise on a better world, a new world, a just world. They sit on boxes of ammunition, hoping it will be enough.

And the blood pours out. In the streets, at the hospitals, in the refugee camps, the dying cry "Enough! Enough!" Nurses and loved ones hold their hands, watch the light fade from their eyes; they ask the heavens, "When will there ever be enough?"

How many bullets until the world has changed?

Hands

It looked like a lump of iron, cold and dense. "Dad?" Cindi said, lifting it off the shelf. "What's this?"

"What?" Harold looked up from the box he was sorting, and his eyes fixed on the object.

" _I love you, you know."_

" _I love you too."_

" _And I trust you. More than I've ever trusted anyone._

"It was your mother's," he said hastily. "Leave it alone."

"But what is it?" Cindi asked.

" _I want to give you something."_

Harold looked over the dusty items scattered around the basement. He had thought he was ready, but now it was all too much. "We're done for the day," he said. "This junk can wait to be sorted."

It was smaller than you might expect, but heavy and hot to the touch.

" _For you," she said, placing her heart into his hands. "Take care of it for me?"_

Harold was heading for the stairs, but Cindi grabbed his arm. "Is everything alright?"

"Leave it."

"Dad."

He pushed away. Then he heard it shatter.

"Dad—I'm sorry."

Harold fell to the ground trying to scoop up the pieces. They crumbled to dust, slipping out of his fingers like soot and coating his fingers black.

Mind
Section VIII

Want

"Well, what do you want?"

Mary's frank, honest eyes looked at Tommy expectantly. "I suppose I knew that was coming," he said. "But that doesn't make it easier to answer."

"I guess not."

"You know, I've asked myself that same question. I can barely stop asking it. And every time, I come up with a million possible answers, but never the right answer—the one thing that I truly hope for. And then I start to think that it's the wrong question. I mean, shouldn't I really be asking 'what do I need?' After all, they're rarely the same thing. And if I'm really honest with myself, I'm probably the worst person at knowing what I actually need. But if I don't know, who does?" Tommy sighed heavily, then continued. "I'm sorry. I know this hard must be on you. But I think I just need to be alone for a while." He rose, donned his coat and said, "Thanks for everything."

Mary just watched him walk away. What could she say?

When the door closed, she turned back to James who was still in the booth. "How about you?"

"I'll have the club sandwich with the mixed vegetables, please."

Last

Henry asked if he could kiss her one last time. She sighed, but said, "I guess." He leaned in close, heart racing; he felt her breath, smelled her perfume. All so familiar.

And a thousand scenarios flickered through his mind.

He would kiss her too long and she would slap him.

After one kiss she wouldn't let him go—they would tumble onto the couch and make angry, sad, confused love all night until they woke up happy.

She would call him later and say, "I can't stop thinking about you."

He would grab her by the neck and kiss her hard until she screamed—he would say, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry,"—she would ask him to leave—or maybe to stay.

They went on and on—some beautiful, some frightening, some sad. He had no idea what would happen. He only knew he had to find out.

Their lips met.

And she did nothing—she didn't resist, didn't kiss him back, didn't even flinch. She acted like he wasn't there, like the kiss that meant everything didn't even exist. It was worse than anything he could have imagined. When he pulled away, her face was blank.

"Goodbye, Henry."

Page

He had been reading all afternoon until the sunlight faded with evening. Keeping a finger in his place, he rose and turned on the overhead lamp before returning to seat and book.

Something about the yellow radiance enveloping him had altered the page. He read it, came to the bottom, realized that he couldn't recall what it had said, returned to the top and read it again. Then again. The words were recognizable, but the meaning seemed to have drained out of them and was running down his hands. The page was a wall on which the words seemed to dance around, rearranging themselves. They stole the meaning from his blood, making a mural that depicted the story of his life. And he was in the mural. Or the mural had grown until it swallowed him in its tempest of haphazard strokes, bold lines, dismal colors. He was drowning in it.

"Pete?" He recognized his wife's voice. It echoed around him as if it was said loudly, but from lifetimes away. "What are you reading?"

Looking up from the page was like coming out of a trance, leaving him disoriented, his head ringing.

"You're crying," she said.

He exhaled. "Yes."

Milk

He was writing the words "get milk" on a post-it, had just finished the downward stroke of the "l" when it hit him—writing that message was removing the need to think about getting milk. The post-it would remind him later. Not needing to think about milk, he would naturally forget it in an instant. If he was illiterate, he would have to remember the milk himself. How much had he forgotten in his life? How much could he have remembered? He thought of all the papers he had written in high school and college, all that he had faithfully journal led since his youth—all this he could have remembered. Literacy had made him stupider. He imagined scholars coming across "ignorant savages" who were actually superior intellects. The idea grew larger: a story, maybe even a movie about an alien race coming to earth, visiting not Washington or London or Beijing, but a remote, illiterate tribe of Africa. The aliens would marvel at their intelligence and worship them.

The dog barked.

He sighed, went to fill water bowl, then returned.

What had he been doing? He saw the post-it: "get mil," and nodded, writing the letter "k" with great satisfaction.

Copy

Dustin pressed the cancel button furiously as the copier continued to spit out pages. Finally, with a shrill beep, it stopped. He hadn't set the copier to sort, and with 75 copies of a 15 page document, he certainly didn't want to do it by hand. The dozen pages already printed went into recycling; he changed the settings and started over. The machine shuddered into motion while Dustin looked around the room for a distraction. He looked up at the ceiling and started counting tiles. 68 with a few irregular sizes. The machine beeped peevishly. Out of paper. Dustin wrestled the drawer open and shoved in a new ream. Satisfied, the copier continued its work. Dustin poured himself another crappy cup of coffee from the pot that had been there since eight and drank it with a grimace. 68 tiles; a few irregular. Just like always.

A beep—almost cheerful. The job was done.

"Ah, there you are." His boss entered the room. "I made some formatting changes to that document. Think you can run it again?"

75.

Output.

Sort.

Start.

The machine roared with laughter. Dustin counted to 68. He counted again. The copier beeped. Out of paper. Again.

Reflection

It's like that old visual trick with the rabbit and the duck. Or like a reflection in a puddle. You look at it, and you can see the sky and the trees reflected perfectly. Then all of a sudden, something switches and you only see the dirt or sidewalk beneath the water. Both of them are there, but somehow you can't see them both at the same time. It's like that. The first time I saw a dead soldier, it terrified me. The only other dead body I had seen before that was my grandmother because she had an open casket funeral. But the second time, something had shifted. I didn't see a person, barely even a body. It was just a lump of matter. It may as well have been a statue of a person—just a chunk of rock. I got used to seeing them, just like you get used to seeing rocks. But every now and then, it shifts back, and there's a person again. I see a whole lifetime of joys and sorrows broken on the ground. I see myself reflected back. I see all of humanity on the surface of that body.

And I weep.

Stories

The woman sat alone with her cappuccino and puffy red eyes.

"She looks like she's been crying," Braydon said from four tables away.

"I wonder why," Amy said.

Maybe she just got caught cheating on her husband. Or worse, she just met the other woman and found out she's a better fit for her husband. Or maybe she just came out to her parents and they disowned her—don't want to ever see her again. Maybe she just lost the right to see her children because she spends all her money on coffee."

"Why do you do that?" Amy asked.

"I thought you liked this game?"

"But they're always depressing stories about strained and broken relationships."

"She was crying," Braydon said, "What else should I think?

Amy focused a moment, then said, "Maybe she lost her job, but it's still a couple hours before her husband gets off work, so she came here for a pick-me-up. But she's not afraid to go home, because she's got an awesome, loving husband who believes in and encourages her." Just then, the woman looked at her phone, smiled, and left.

But Braydon was looking at Amy. "You're incredible," he said. "Let's go home."

Amber

When no one else's eyes are on you, that is when I perceive it most. You step back, and your glance returns to your darling. It is swift. Subtle. But now that I've seen it, I can't see anything else. Almost frightened, your eyes dart back to be sure he's still there, even if you've been holding him all the time.

And that is how it goes most of the time. Your hand is wrapped around your darling almost like it no longer belongs to you. And without him you quiver, like you are losing your own body. Or perhaps it's merely the two becoming one. I could almost call it love.

But tell me: are you happy? I see the lust when you look at him in your quiet moments, stroking your darling with the tip of your thumb. And when you laugh your loudest, head tossed back, I see your sadness at his departure. Tell me: is he kind to you? What does he whisper when you guide him to your lips? Are they promises or secrets? And is it sweet or bitter going down? Tell me: are you filled or emptied at the bottom of your cup?

Spot

It had to be removed. I first saw it while shaving my legs. They were so smooth, no bristles or bumps—smooth and perfect. Then I saw it. A little dark spot, slightly raised. It hadn't been there before. Or had it? I'd never seen it before. I poked it, pinched it, scratched it. But the ugly dark lump hadn't disappeared. Now the skin around it was red and blotchy. People would see. It was like a beacon pointing at my blemish, my imperfection. I scratched it harder. And harder. I felt skin beneath my fingernails, blood oozing out of my leg. It hurt, but not terribly. No worse than cutting myself shaving. That was when I got the idea. So simple. I could just cut the little mark off. Like surgery. So I did. At first, there was blood everywhere, but I wiped it up, and there was just a tiny gouge. It scabbed, so I had to scrape the brown crust off again and again. But it healed. Now I cut them all off—all the freckles, marks, and lumps. Purification. It's worth the pain. They're hardly noticeable anymore—just tiny light marks, slightly shiny. And perfectly smooth.

Memory

The shop was on 9th and Washington, right where Mike said it would be, but David was afraid to go in. So, he walked around the block instead. Coming to the store again, he hesitated, and then walked on. He bought a pretzel and a Coke, sat in a nearby park, and thought it over.

_It's legal_ , he thought. _It's fine_.

Napkin and Coke bottle went into the trash, and he walked back down 9th. He stood across the street from the shop as the light changed from green to red to green again. Finally he crossed. Inside it looked almost like a pharmacy. There were candy bars beneath the counter and an isle with toys and coloring books.

"Can I help you?"

"Me?" David stammered. "Oh um, yes." There was no turning back. "I would like a memory please."

"Happy? Sad? What do you need?"

"Both," he said, "if that's possible."

"Sure. Melancholy. Coming right up"

A moment later, pills were on the counter. He paid hurriedly, almost ashamedly. He swallowed the first tablet without water as soon as he was out the door. He remembered a girl, a candlelit dinner, starlight, and then tears. The pill was working

Troubleshooting

"I'm not sure my boyfriend is working properly," Toni explained.

"What seems to be the problem?" the representative asked.

Already frustrated by dealing with robotic Q&As and by spending twenty-five minutes on hold, Toni said curtly, "I'm not happy with it."

There was a pause on the other end. Uncertainly, the rep asked, "Did you receive a different boyfriend than the one you ordered?"

"It's not that," Toni said. "I got the hunk chassis with the supportive personality program, just like I wanted."

"A very popular selection. Is the boyfriend functioning properly?"

Toni sighed. "Yes. I've tried out all 101 uses from the instructional guide. I even downloaded some extra apps and programs for him, but he still doesn't make me happy."

"Ah!" the rep said confidently, "did those apps cause any trouble?"

"No."

Another pause. "So . . . _is_ there a problem with the boyfriend?"

"There's gotta be," Toni yelled.

"Why do you say that?"

"Well," Toni said, "because I'm not happy."

"Hmm . . ." the rep said—a discouraging noise. "Ma'am, the fine print of your owner's manual clearly states that our products _may_ enhance, but _do not guarantee_ happiness. Now may I ask: were you happy before you ordered your boyfriend?"

Dial

Seven digits. Just seven digits. They were staring at him. Laughing at him. Though the piece of paper fit into the palm of his hand, the numbers seemed to tower over him like a wall or like a mountain range that must be climbed. Of course, the real issue was not whether he would be able to (it was, after all, just seven short movements), but what waited on the other side.

He imagined that beyond those jagged stones was a gently sloping valley where water ran gently from hidden springs, where he ate sunlight and drank the breeze. He imagined peace and joy. But just as vividly, he would imagine a wasteland, nothing but sand and rock for as far as his eyes could see, where scorpions hid during the day waiting to attack by night. Or worse yet, he pictured nothingness. He saw himself scale the last peak and then step out into a void with nothing but silence and darkness to hold him as he plummeted, falling forever down.

On his phone's dark screen, the white bar of the cursor flashed steadily like the rising and falling of his hopes. He sighed heavily and began to dial.

Prolific

On nights when his father passes out drunk, he goes into the streets with a backpack full of spray paint. In dark, downtown alleys, he finds brick walls littered with bullets. He calls it mixed media and covers his canvas with words that rage like a sunset by Turner.

On nights when his sister comes home from her boyfriend's place with bruises, He takes a baseball bat and smashes a mailbox into a rough self-portrait that he titles "Madonna and child" to confuse his critics.

On nights when he visits his friends and everyone else is high, he writes manifestos on stones and hurls them with righteous fury at the constructs of society. The windows he breaks are installation pieces in which viewers contemplate reflections that are fragmented like cubist paintings.

And on nights when he misses the mother he never knew, he does performance art. He lies perfectly still on a park bench until the stage is bathed in swirling red and blue lights. The swelling of sirens is his cue to improvise a dance filled of spins and kicks and leaps into the shadows.

But every night he cries himself to sleep, repeating, "Meaningless, meaningless, everything is meaningless."

Go

There is a dream that taps at the window when you forget anyone else is in the room. He pulls up to the house in the same old Pontiac he drove when you were young. His knock on the door is firm and decisive, but you promise you will stand your ground. It doesn't matter—he is in the room, filling the room, towering over you. He speaks of love, but in a voice that fills you with a fear and an excitement you barely remember. His breath still stinks of Rebel Yell and Newport cigarettes. He says "Let's go."

And you say "No."

"Let's go."

And you say "Please."

He says "Let's go."

And you are in the car with him driving away, leaving behind home and family and cares and me.

I know your dream as well as you do. I feel it like an oily film that clings to your skin. I see the dream reflected in your eyes when you look out the window. I hear its echo when you cry out his name in your sleep. I know your dream as well as you do. But I don't know if it is nightmare or fantasy.

Alone

When the doctor gave her the news, Ana felt like she couldn't go straight home. Instead, she went to the park, to her favorite bench.

They were sitting beside her, one on each side. Ana couldn't remember if they had been with her the whole time, or if they had only just arrived. Both faces seemed so familiar.

There was a young man on her right, eyes glittering like a starry night. "Come with me," said a voice clear as a mountain spring

On her left, sat a severe woman, eyes black as a crow's wings. "Come with me," said a voice deep and dark, dry and rough as desert sand.

"Who are you?" Ana asked.

"I am Hope," the man said, burning with confidence.

"I am Despair," the woman spoke, cold as certainty.

Then Ana recognized Despair's face—it was her own. She turned to Hope and realized that his face was also hers. In fact they weren't beside her at all. They were sitting across from her, one and the same—her own reflection. She was alone with her hope, with her despair. It was not good to be alone. Ana stood, left the park, and hurried home.

Body
Section IX

Bandage

There was a lot of blood. The others were still outside while Kendra helped Jim into a chair and inspected his leg. "Does it hurt?" she asked.

"Yeah," Jim said through clenched teeth.

"Bad?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry," she said. "It wasn't my fault." He shrugged. "I mean it. It wasn't my fault. At least . . . I didn't mean for it to happen."

"Not exactly the same thing, is it?" He was almost growling.

"You're angry."

"No," Jim said, struggling to stay calm, "I'm in pain."

Kendra soaked a washcloth, "I don't want you to be mad at me."

"Then let's stop talking about it."

She started washing the wound. Jim winced. "I'm sorry."

"It's fine," he said. "Really."

"You sure?"

"Why are you so upset about this?"

Kendra rinsed the cloth, watching Jim's blood flow down the drain. "I just don't want this to stick with you . . . to change how you think about me."

"What do you mean?"

Kendra was looking down, wrapping gauze around his leg. "I don't want you to . . . dislike me."

"I don't," he said.

"You don't?"

He smiled. "Not at all."

Smiling as well, she finished bandaging the wound. "There," she said. "How's that?"

"It . . . feels great."

Knell

For the third straight day, he waited for the phone to ring. Again he struggled to swallow his food in defiance of the fate that awaited him. And again silence lengthened minutes into hours and hours into weeks as the fatal call refused to come. His ears strained for the phone's ring to the exclusion of all else, until any noise resembling a bell would shake his whole body. He began thinking about what an awful noise bells make: metal crashing against hollow metal—the sound of the last days.

He wondered how long blood tests really took. Did the doctors already know and were, for whatever reason, refraining from telling him the news? That thought accompanied a new sense of dread, for he began to realize that as agonizing as his wait was now, the wait that followed could be even more agonizing: the brutal expectation of death.

But then he heard it. The ringing phone cut through his consciousness, and he scrambled to pick up the receiver.

"Yes? Hello?"

"You need to come to the hospital right now!" a frantic voice replied.

"What is it? Who is this?"

"It's me, dad. I'm here with Michelle. You're a grandpa!"

Cough

He was reading the newspaper in front of the fire when the fit struck. He found himself coughing uncontrollably until not just his throat hurt, but his side and his back as well, aching from his body's violent convulsion. Finally his lungs relaxed and he could breathe again his feeble breath.

"You alright?" his wife called out from the top of the stairs.

"Not bad."

"That sounded awful. I'm surprised you didn't cough up a lung."

He wasn't so sure that he hadn't done just that. His hands and the newspaper were covered in splotches of blood. There had never been that much before. "I'm fine," he said. He did his best to wipe off his hands on the newspaper, tossed the whole congealing mass onto the fire, then finished washing off his hands and face in the bathroom before going upstairs to his wife's embrace.

"You know," she said tentatively, "if you would just give up smoking, I bet you wouldn't cough like that so much.

"Don't worry about me," he said. "It's just a cold—a little bug I picked up."   
She gave him a long searching look of concern, but found nothing and sighed. "Whatever you say."

Reunion

She did not rush to greet him—that was what he noticed first. Their reunions were always ebullient, occasioned by lots of screaming, running toward each other and a long embrace. That's what best friends did.

"Hello," she said, "Sam."

"Kris!" he replied, "terrific to see you."

Sam wrapped long arms around her, but she returned the embrace timidly. Something was wrong. He thought of how she'd acted after accidentally seeing him naked at a friend's pool party. While changing into his suit, Sam had simply forgotten to lock the door. For weeks after what they called "the Incident," Kris could barely look at him. Their relationship had changed.

"Were you waiting long?" she asked.

"No, no. Just got here."

"Good."

"Yeah."

"I was afraid," she said, "with the traffic."

"Nope," he said. "We're just fine."

That was when he noticed the ring. She had reached up to tuck her hair behind her ear a gesture he'd seen her make hundreds of times, but this time there was a ring on her finger. It explained everything—she was an engaged woman.

"So . . . you and Bill?"

"Yeah."

"Do you love him?"

"I don't know."

"But you're marrying him."

A pause. "Yes."

Store

My alarm was wailing like the crying of my children when they were born. I tried to wake up, but my eyes wouldn't open, tried to move, but my stomach lurched. I moaned. My husband's voice spoke, sounding miles away.

"Honey? Don't worry about the kids, I made their lunches. They're getting on the bus. You rest."

The world was silent and dark for hours with only my lurching stomach to break my sleep. But every time it woke me, I would think of the kids. We needed milk. There would be no breakfasts tomorrow without milk. Standing up felt like jumping off a merry-go-round, and it was all I could do to get to the bathroom before throwing up. Wise or not, I went to the store. All I wanted was milk.

"Check out the old lady in that isle."

"Slippers and a bathrobe? Classy."

"Talk about white trash."

"I bet she does drugs."

"I bet she's on drugs right now."

I tried to ignore it. But then the cashier's voice broke me out of my stupor. "Excuse me, ma'am, but are you okay?"

Unthinking, I lashed out and slapped him. I gasped, and weeping, left the store empty-handed.

Dance

An ice cube slipped into his mouth, where thrumming bass notes made it rattle against his teeth. He looked down at another empty tumbler.

"I'm out too," she said, setting her glass beside his.

"You want another?"

"Or we could dance." She smiled so sweetly.

He crunched down on the ice. "Alright."

She tugged him out onto the floor. Even in the thin crowd, he was jostled by thrashing bodies. "You've gotta stay loose," she laughed. He shuffled aimlessly in the shaking dark. The air was thick with pounding hearts, with hazy eyes, with sweat and alcohol. But her face was shining. Whenever bodies came between them, she would reach out, grab his hand, pull him back.

The band started playing a slow song. He looked toward the bar, but dutifully held out his arms. She wrapped her hands behind his neck, stepped in close. "I like this song." They swayed slowly, dancing cheek to cheek, heart to heart. She was trying to be happy. It was easier when she couldn't see his eyes wander around the room.

And then he whispered, past the music, the smells, the liquor. "It's hard, you know: being loved. Don't let me run away."

Impact

Laughing in the sunshine beneath a beautiful blue sky, neither of them saw it coming. Jason even looked both ways before stepping into the street. Maybe the truck parked on the curb obstructed their view. Or maybe they were simply blind to a tragedy they couldn't conceive.

That red muscle car barely even slowed before the impact. David watched in horror as Jason's body went limp, crumpled, sailed through the air. Even in the midst of a cataclysm of sound, he later swore he could hear individual bones in Jason's body shattering. The car stopped, tires screeching. Jason's skin scraped across the pavement. Dented metal, cracked glass, shattered headlights. Blood.

People were stopping, staring. People were screaming. Someone kept shouting 911. Someone was crying, _I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry_. David was oblivious to all of it. He knelt in that pool of blood, took a ragged hand into his own.

"Jason?"

"I have to tell you . . ." Jason struggled to speak, choking on blood.

"There'll be time for that later," David said. "Everything's going to be fine."

"No, I have to tell you . . ." His cloudy eyes were focused on a bird flying overhead. The bird pooped right in his mouth.

Mess

Mack was sitting quietly on the couch, sipping a glass of ice water in which the ice had already become tiny boats skimming the surface. The couch leather stuck to his legs as he shifted.

He heard footsteps in the next room halt. Then a shriek.

"What did you do?" Denise burst in, shouting.

"Nothing"

"That mess in the kitchen is not nothing, Mackenzie Quigley."

He sighed and rolled his eyes. It was too hot to worry about something like this. "It didn't get on the carpet," he said.

Denise was getting irritated. She was a kettle on the stove getting ready to scream. "That's not the point. It needs to be cleaned up."

"I'll do it later."

"But how long's it been there?"

"I don't know . . . a couple hours maybe"

"And you just decided to leave it there? Dripping and everything?"

He shrugged. "I'll clean it later. I didn't expect it to bother you this much."

The kettle boiled. "HOW COULD THIS NOT BOTHER ME?"

"Don't worry. I checked his pockets—found a fifty. I figured dinner and a movie are on me. Well, on him, I suppose."

"Oh," she said, suddenly becoming very calm. "Where are we going?"

Dissolution

Home is close, but time and space have both dissolved in this swirling haze. I don't even know if I'm going the right way. There are lights deep in the street, and I'm spinning through that sea of red and green. My tires don't squeal on the solid sheet of ice

The party is inside, but I'm on the porch keeping my beer cool and watching the snow fall. You come out for a smoke and offer me one. No thanks. You ask if I'm alright.

Sir? Sir, can you hear me? Can you make some sort of response? Victim is conscious, but unresponsive.

Is this transcendence? Swirling snow and night dissolve all meaning, make all meaning possible. It's terrifying. It's almost peaceful.

Lights. Fire and Ice. Cutting tearing smashing twisting scraping. Violent. Brief.

Everyone has either left or passed out, and you are back out on the porch, clinging to the last darkness before morning. You listen. Quiet. The only sound is snowflakes falling, cloaking the world like a mother spreading a blanket over her sleeping child. You are warmed in spite of the cold.

Red snow. Everything far away. And I still don't know what it's all for.

Oils

The Lancasters who lived downstairs still remembered her. They smiled and waved from the porch as Margot passed by. It had been five years since she'd climbed those oak stairs beside the house, but the seventh step still creaked. She knocked softly, as though she was afraid of arousing the past, then knocked again, louder.

"Yeah," came a scratchy voice, "come in."

With a turn of the knob, she was enveloped in the pungent odor of linseed oil, damar varnish, and turpenoid. It was like the intervening years had never happened. She would cross the room, almost dancing, until she was in Samuel's arms and kissing him deeply. He would guide her to a stool or to the couch, wherever she would be posing. And with the most charming furrowed brow, he would look at her more intently than anyone she'd ever known.

Margot was smiling to herself, but when she looked up, Samuel seemed almost distraught. It was only then that she looked around the room in its present state. Leaning against the walls were dozens of paintings, all in various stages of completion, all portraying the same woman—the woman standing beside Samuel wrapped in only a sheet.

Sawdust

I had seen enough of the Three Stooges to know that when you're carrying a long 2x4 over your shoulder and turn sideways, you'll probably hit someone in the back of the head—maybe two. They would stumble and tumble forward and then, once the audience had finished laughing, they would get up and drop a paint can on your foot or smash your hand with a hammer: comic karma.

But that's not how it actually happens.

When I pulled that 2x4 off the rack and turned around, I heard a dull thud. Max didn't pitch forward and roll, he crumpled to the ground like a marionette with its strings cut. There was no laughter, only a faint moan followed by sputtering and gurgling. I immediately dropped the board and rushed to his side, stubbing my toe and bruising a shin in the process. "Max," I said. " _Max!_ " He tried to answer, then vomited in my arms and passed out. "Someone, call an ambulance," I shouted.

They closed the shop for the rest of the day. Six o'clock the next morning I was sweeping up sawdust from the day before, the sawdust that had soaked up Max's blood and vomit.

Fingers

My pinkies had come back first. The left had gotten a sprain trying to cross the highway and limped all the way home. The right had spent the night hiding behind the Krispy Kreme dumpster, eating donuts from the trash.

My right thumb had hitchhiked once around the world, but took ninety days to do it.

One forefinger had gone to Paris to find himself while working as a tour guide for the summer. The other had a riotous but disappointing political career in the neighboring town.

One middle finger toured with a rock band, but came back hung over after a week of heavy partying that made it to the tabloids. The other had a short run in an avant-garde show that was a big sensation with critics but made very little money.

My left thumb tried a career as an artist and had five gallery showings that year in New York, but hadn't sold a painting.

My ring fingers were the last to return. They had left to make a life together and were gone for thirty five years. The left came in a cab and the right walked from the train station. They never said what happened.

Hair

Maggie was sitting alone in the living room when her husband staggered in, later than usual. "Ryan," she said. "I know."

For a moment, his whole body tensed, but quickly regaining composure, he said, "Know what?"

"Where you've been for one thing."

"I told you," he said, trying to sound casual, "I went to the doctor's."

"Yes," she said knowingly, "to that specialist."

"That's right," he answered, beginning to sound nervous.

"I found a hair, Ryan."

Her husband was suddenly frantic. "Please," he said, "let me try to explain—"

"There's nothing to explain," she said more firmly. "I just wish I had recognized the signs sooner: that extra time you spent in front of the mirror all of the sudden, the new shampoo, your frequent visits to 'the doctor,' and those silly hats you started wearing. I had hoped that after all these years, I wouldn't have to deal with something like this."

"Maggie," he said, "please."

"I want a divorce."

The words were like a blow to the ribs, forcing the air from Ryan's lungs. "A divorce?" he stammered.

"Yes," his wife replied. "You've known from the beginning that I could never love a man who was bald."

Stab

He had been able to tell something was wrong. A warrior's instincts never dull entirely, and his were still sharp, even after a few years of politics. Still, he hadn't had time any time to defend himself before the first knife found its way into his side. Then there was one in his back. Then one in his stomach. One in his shoulder. The stab wounds just kept coming. Most of the senators were old men too frail to do much serious damage, but when one blade found its way between two of ribs, he finally understood that he was going to die.

Then he saw Brutus.

"You too, friend?" he managed spit out between gasps for breath.

"I'm afraid so," Brutus said. He was walking forward with destiny in his eyes and an especially long dagger in his hand. "As a matter of fact, I arranged this little get together."

"Why?"

"You're out of control, Julius. I saw what you were becoming. I saw the greedy, grasping monster you are. All of Rome wasn't enough to satiate you"

Caesar glared. "This is about me dating your sister, isn't it?"

Brutus paused a moment, then said "Yes."

"You suck, Brutus."

Expect

He didn't know what to talk about. Ordinarily, they never had trouble talking, but that was part of why they were here.

"Have you . . ."

"What?"

"I . . . it was a silly question. I was going to ask if you've ever done this before."

"Oh . . . no, I haven't."

She kept her eyes on the road, and he turned back to the window where a shadowy reflection of himself was just as confused as him. He didn't know what he should feel: excitement, fear, confusion?

"We're here."

"Do we . . . go in?" he asked.

"I thought we would. Unless you're more comfortable—"

"No. No, let's go in." He wasn't sure if this would resolve their issues, but they wanted to be friends. Or something anyway. All they really wanted was to get rid of the tension, and neither of them had thought of any better way. So, they found themselves sitting on this couch together.

"Are you ready?" He nodded. "We don't have to . . . you know. We'll just . . . see what happens."

"Of course"

"We're just . . . clearing the air."

"Right. It doesn't have to mean anything." He said the words knowing they both had hidden desires. And for the first time, their lips met.

Haunted

Every bullet has a ghost.

I wake up disoriented with the sun in my eyes. Birds? No, just wind chimes from the neighbor's apartment. It's the first time in seven years I've slept past 5:30 on a weekday, but after yesterday I need the time off. I hardly slept at all, and my hands are still shaking so badly that I spill half my morning coffee on the counter.

Great.

"I didn't do anything wrong," I whisper for the seventy-ninth time.

I turn on the TV and flip through a barrage of daytime television that I never even knew existed. After the Today show and an episode and-a-half of Pawn Stars, I feel like I need to get out of the house. I could go on a run, or maybe get a cheeseburger. I compromise and decide to walk to 7-11 for a Slurpee—that way I don't have to pass the park again.

I'm not ready.

"I had to," I whisper.

My jacket is still on the chair where I left it last night. My sneakers are by the door. Pulling them on, I notice the rusty brown stains. Blood. It isn't mine.

The ghost tears into my heart.

Body

You see, with touch . . . with my body, I could always bring him back. Whenever I thought I was losing him, when I saw that look in his eyes that meant he was going away, I would hold him tight, and I would kiss him and kiss him and caress him until he would look at me again . . . and see me. Even as I aged, when my skin and my breasts started sagging, I would press my face to his, and I would guide his hand to that space between my legs, and somehow . . . maybe purely out of habit, he would make love to me—sometimes for hours. And he would stay.

You can say whatever you want about how it was cheap or degrading, but he was my husband, dammit. There's no other way to keep a man like that. And it worked. I don't care if he spent every weekend with a different tramp, I kept him. And now, after forty years, you're going to try and take him from me. He's bone of my bone, isn't he? Flesh of my flesh. Then I may as well be dead too. So do it—and bury my body with his.

Road

The road home from the hospital is perched on the side of a mountain. In the darkness, it's easy to forget which side is the cliff face and which is the drop off. Lights flicker through the darkness, pass by, disappear.

Miranda is quiet, and I can't stop talking about pizza toppings. Donny loves pizza, and he's always trying strange toppings—that's why it's on my mind. Of course, Miranda doesn't know that. She probably thinks I'm nervous. Maybe I am. The road winds in tight curves. It would be easy to tumble off.

I want Donny to like her. And I want Miranda to have time to get to know him. People tell me I'm going about things all wrong, but it seems too important to wait. Of course Elaine was there—she had every right to be, but it ruined everything. Miranda and Donny barely got to talk at all. It wasn't fair. None of it's fair.

Each time a car passes in the other lane, Miranda pushes an imaginary brake. My hands shake on the wheel.

I hope he's sleeping alright.

The moon looms large ahead of us. It looks like I could drive right into it.

Left

I married you because you looked like him. You were a little shorter, but otherwise you could have been twins—the same dark hair, the same strong jaw, the same green eyes that spoke their love openly. My friends all told me it was unhealthy, told me it would never last, told me to move on. But it was not to replace lost love that I married you.

When I scolded you, it wasn't because you had done wrong, but so I could see the wince of pain on your face that I wished to see on his. When I offered you seconds, it wasn't out of tenderness, but to destroy the body I loved by watching yours grow heavy and flabby. And as your hair greyed and grew thin, I tried to take pleasure in knowing his hair too had faded.

But after a lifetime I begin to understand that this is futile. It is you who suffers, while he lives on in memory: unharmed, unchanged, perfect. Sometimes, you catch me looking at you with the contempt I feel for him. Still you look at me with love. I wonder, when you're gone, what I will have left.

Kiss

Each night after they made love, she would lie back in the bed and sigh contentedly. Ever so gently, he would lean over and kiss the little brown freckle just above her left breast, then lie down beside her. Their breathing would fall into rhythm. They would sleep. When the morning light crept across their bed, he would prop himself up on his elbow, lean over and kiss that small freckle.

"Why do you do kiss that ugly splotch?" she sometimes asked.

But he would shake his head and say, "Every part of you is beautiful."

One morning, after he rolled over and kissed her, he paused. "Honey . . . ?"

"hmwhat?" she mumbled, eyes closed.

"It's different."

And there were long drives and pale waiting rooms and furrowed brows and notes scratched on paper. There was a needle and there was a knife and there was waiting. And there was waiting. And there was a phone call, a long drive, a waiting room, a furrowed brow. There was silence. There was a long, long drive. And there was silence.

In bed, he leaned over and kissed the blotchy white scar above her left breast. A single warm tear fell onto her chest.

Embrace

"You have a coffee pot?" she asked, sticking her head into the kitchen.

"Uh . . . yeah, but—"

"I'll make some coffee," she said rifling through the cupboards.

"But it's after 11:00," he argued.

"Don't worry," she said. "It won't keep you up."

He waited on the couch in silence as the stranger shuffled around the kitchen. The entire situation was confusing. He was getting too old to be bringing strange, younger women to his apartment. But she had been so friendly that he hardly had to invite her.

"Cream and sugar?" she asked.

"Sugar. No cream."

In a moment she returned and handed him a steaming mug. "Sugar, no cream."

"Thanks."

She sat in the chair opposite him. "You've been in love, haven't you?" she asked.

The question startled him. Not knowing her intentions, he was hesitant to answer, but finally managed to stammer, "Yes."

"What happened?"

His answer came slowly: "I was selfish. She met someone generous."

She studied him a moment. "I can make you pain go away. If you want that."

His throat was too tight to speak, but he nodded. Then Death came and sat next to him; she embraced him and took away his regret.

Heart
Section X

Pump

Amount Due: $63.14.

Joseph stood at the pump feeling overwhelming embarrassment as he dumped pens, buttons, napkins, water bottles, even his socks into the bin hoping that they would cover the deficit he still owed. The bin began shaking and humming as it scanned his deposit. To his relief the numbers were rolling down quickly. In his mind's eye, he was picturing his room, his dresser, and his wallet on top where he had left it.

Why didn't he check his pocket first? Why did he fill the whole tank?

First he had tried change, but the ¢31 in his pocket and the $2.47 scattered in the car were far too little. Now he had dumped all the junk in his car, but the price which had been dropping quickly started to slow, then stopped abruptly.

Amount Due: $5.98

Now what.

All he had left with him were the clothes on his back and his father's old hunting knife. It still shone like it did when his father bought it fifty years ago. He took the knife from his pocket, unfolded the blade, and cut his heart out. The thump of its beating resonated in the bin.

Amount Due: $1.23.

Mail

"Mommy." It was little Gracie's voice from the living room. "What's this?"

I entered the living room and found my five year-old daughter sitting in the middle of a pile of envelopes I had just brought in from the mailbox. "B-R-I-D-G-E-R," she read aloud.

"What does that spell?" I asked.

She furrowed her brow in thought; then there was a dawning of realization. "Bridger!" she said. "That's our name!"

"That's right," I said. "This letter is for us."

Smiling, I began gathering up the scattered mail when she asked, "Mommy. Who's Maggie Smith?"

"What did you say?"

"M-A-G-G-I-E S-M-I-T-H. Maggie Smith. Right here."

I swallowed hard and said, "Well, you know how your Grandma Bridger is your dad's mommy?"

"Yes. And Grandpa Bridger is his daddy."

"That's right," I continued. "And before I married your dad, my last name was Smith. Maggie Smith is my mom."

"So . . . I have another grandma?"

She was so smart. "Yes . . . you do."

"Cool!" she said. "Why haven't I ever seen her before?"

With my maternal reflexes, I snatched up the letter. "Go play outside, Gracie."

"Okay," she said and scurried out the door. As calmly as possible, I slipped the letter into the trash.

Breakfast

The scent of chlorine from the pool hung around her like perfume. His fingers tapped as relentlessly as a metronome on any available surface. In the entry of the diner, they were inescapably aware of each other's presence. Both stood restlessly next to a sign reading, "Please wait to be seated."

They recognized each other, of course, but neither spoke. No one even made eye contact. But they never did, though chance had persistently intertwined their paths before this. Admittedly, the breakfast options in town were limited, but it was uncanny how often they met. She would come straight from her morning swim, he would tumble out of bed, and they would find themselves eating breakfast at adjacent tables. Just this week, they had seen each other at Bagel Haus, Eggs n' More, and the Mug Shack. Sidelong glances, quickly diverted eyes, wistful sighs. Still they sipped their coffee separately, refusing to believe in fate.

Today both had decided to risk the slow service at Toby's Diner, arriving at almost the same time. Carol, Toby's wife, approached them with a coffee pot in one hand and menus in the other.

"Table for two?" she asked.

Both reddened. Their eyes met.

Ring

Ring . . .

He always let the phone ring twice before answering, just to be sure it was a real call.

Ring . . .

"Hello?"

"I hate you and I never want to see you," a shrill voice rang out.

"Um . . . who is this?"

"Cheryl" the voice replied.

He paused a moment to reflect, his mind swimming through a sea of names and faces, but landed on nothing familiar. "I don't know anyone named Cheryl."

"Who is this?"

"Matt. Matt Reinhart."

There was a pause. A gasp. A click. And he walked away from the phone.

Ring . . .

Ring . . .

"Hello?"

"I want you to know that I hate you, and I never want to see you."

He sighed. "Cheryl, this is Matt again. Goodbye." The phone was barely out of his hand when he heard it.

Ring . . .

Was it . . . ?

Ring . . .

Should he . . . ?

Ring . . .

"Hello?"

"Don't hang up" the now familiar voice squeaked.

"Cheryl?"

"Just let me explain . . ." He decided to let her. "Today has been very rough and filled with a lot of misdirected hostility. Then I heard your voice and your name, and something changed inside me. I knew. Matt Reinhart . . . do you believe it's possible to hate someone you've never met?"

Knock

Knock, knock, knock.

The door was rough against his knuckles and left them slightly red and tender. He rubbed them each individually, an old habit he barely noticed anymore. It was just something to fill the time. Waiting was the worst part.

Knock, knock.

She wasn't answering. Or maybe she wasn't home. But there was a car in the drive. Maybe she was out walking or just couldn't hear him.

Knock, knock, knock, knock . . . knock.

He rubbed his knuckles and looked down at his shoes. They were shabbier looking than he remembered. The faded brown leather and frayed shoe strings were held together by little more than quaint familiarity. Not very impressive. If she didn't answer today, perhaps he would come back wearing better shoes, just in case.

Knock, knock, knock.

Nothing. He could hear birds singing and a cyclist riding past, perhaps an ice cream truck somewhere in the distance, but no sound from the house. He checked his watch and sighed. Once again his hopes had proved a waste. Fortunately, he had come prepared for such a failure. He slipped a card into the mail slot and trudged slowly away. It read:

Kent Barker

Super Sucker Sales

869-3352

Notes

When Travis had to clear the trash off tables in the food court, he used to pretend that any notes he found were for him. One scrawled on a napkin said, "Remember milk." So, after work, he stopped at the gas station for a gallon of milk. Written on the back of a receipt was, "I hate her dress." He chuckled, and wrote back, "Me too." One scrap of paper had seven digits followed by "xoxo." He actually made the call, but when someone answered; he panicked and hung up. More provocative was the condom with "Meet me in the bathroom in five minutes" on the wrapper. But by then, the joke was old. Every note meant for someone else was a reminder of his loneliness. He dumped the condom with the rest of the trash and moved on to the next table.

Soon, they were just annoying. So, when he found the note saying, "Hi, I've watched you for so long. You're cute, and even though you don't know me, if you want—" he didn't even finish reading.

Across the food court, Elaine watched as the words she had written with the greatest anxiety disappeared into the trash.

Choice

I saw her in the park—a grown woman at a small booth made of 2x4s and plywood, like some parody of a Peanut's cartoon. A sign read, _Deal of a Lifetime_. I strolled over and asked, "Are you selling something?"

With a nod, she answered, "A choice."

"Sounds odd. Any buyers?"

She smiled. "Everyone's left with something."

"Really. What kind of choice?"

She delivered a practiced sales pitch: "For no cost, I can give you a question: 'What would have happened?' And for the price of just your heart, mind, and body, I can answer that question.

"What?"

She began again. "Give me your whole self now, and you'll know true love. You'll experience joy and anguish and lose any control of your life. Or, for free, you can walk away whole, but carrying the weight of the unknown forever."

My heart was racing. "I don't want to choose."

"No one ever does."

Looking over the rickety stand, I asked, "How long have you been here?"

"Months."

"Has anyone chosen love?"

She answered flatly, "No one."

My decision had already been made. "I'll take it."

"Are you sure?"

I held out my hand. She took it, and everything changed.

Visit

I had planned on making burgers for Andy and me. It was Memorial Day, the day we brought out the grill for the first time. This year, I would let him try to flip the burgers—now that he was finally tall enough to see over the grill.

The car door must have been quiet, or maybe Andy's TV show was too loud, so I was busy flattening the patties when the doorbell rang.

"Dad, someone's here."

"Can you get it?" I asked. "My hands are covered in cow flesh."

"Eeew. Gross, Dad."

I moved to the sink, assuming it was the Jehovah's Witnesses or some poor kid selling candy bars on his day off school.

"Hello," Andy was saying. "Can I help you?"

"Hi there," a woman's voice answered. "Andy."

"You know me?"

Hand's still wet, I rushed into the living room where my son stood looking bewildered in front of a tall, blonde woman. "Andy," I said, "Go to your room now."

"Don't do that, Frank," she said.

"You know Dad too?"

"Andy. Room."

"But Dad, who is she?"

"I'm your mother," she said.

And it was out. The three of us stood motionless in a triangle. Silent.

Bitter

George always loved watching the sugar crystals dissolve into the oils on the top of his espresso as he stirred it. It gave the experience a feeling of completeness for him.

tink-tink . . .

He sipped the bit of coffee still clinging to the spoon, and his face brightened. It was perfect. As sweet as heaven and as black as hell—just how he liked it. This was a roast he had been looking forward to for some time. Once every five years, his old friend Giulian Moreno sent him an espresso roast directly from Rome on his birthday. No one made coffee like the Italians. This morning, he had dug through the cupboards for the cast iron hand-grinder he used for these beans and no others. Once it was finely ground, he percolated the coffee never leaving it unattended. This was an art—a ritual.

"Ahh . . ."

The first drink brought back five years of hopes and disappointments. Fortunately, the sugar held back the bitterness of those disappointments. That was how he liked it, and presumably how Giulian liked it as well. No bitterness.

George thought back. Hand shaking, he held the cup to his lips, but could not drink any more.

Silence

When you ask how my day was, are you trying to say something else? I listen closely to hear you say, "I love you," but even if you said those words directly, I wouldn't recognize the sounds. Whenever we talk at all, it's like seeing an old acquaintance: searching for a name, a context, a means of understanding the friendly smile. Flustered and tongue-tied, I tell you my day was fine. It's not what I want to say, but for months, I've waited in silence for you to say "I love you too," and I can't wait anymore.

After hanging up, I press a few buttons. Nights like this, I used to listen to old voicemails where you whispered sweet nothings, but they became too painful. One by one, I deleted them. Tonight, I summon the only ghost I have left. Murmuring crowd, passing cars, distant music. You say, "Hey, Kat, sorry I missed you again. Guess we're just not connecting today. I was hoping to find out if you were close or not, 'cuz I was about to leave. Maybe I'll see you at the Jen's thing tonight? Anyway, talk to you later."

Silence.

I play the message again.

Gift

Evelyn's most valuable possession was her antique Victrola. She'd found it in a garage sale as a freshman in high school and spent fifteen years of allowance money on it, just because it looked pretty. And it was a beauty. It was hand cranked with a brass sound horn, and the box was made of stained, polished oak. However, in the fifteen years since then, she had never gotten around to buying any records.

But with their tenth wedding anniversary approaching, Josh had decided to do something about that. A friend at work was looking to sell his grandmother's collection of antique 78s. He had all sorts of show tunes and jazz crooners that Frank knew his wife would love. But it was also expensive.

On the morning of their anniversary, Josh led Evelyn into the living room where she found a dozen boxes all filled with records.

"How did you afford this?" she asked.

"You know my dad's old 69 Camaro? I knew I'd never get it running again, so I sold it. Now you would have records to play."

"Oh, honey," Evelyn said, "you shouldn't have. You see, I sold my Victrola to buy myself an iPod Touch.

Sleepover

Alder finally understood that something was seriously wrong around the time Jonah had to get dressed for tee ball. All the other boys' moms and dads had picked them up a long time ago. For a while, Alder barely noticed and didn't care. He and Jonah were best friends, and they were the ones who came up with the idea for the sleepover in the first place, and now they had the fort all to themselves.

By lunch, things were different. Alder was missing his mom and dad. He felt like he shouldn't talk, even when Jonah asked, "How long are you staying?" The grownups were whispering:

"She said she would be here by 10:00 . . ."

"Well what are we supposed to do?"

"Did you try calling her?"

"Of course."

After lunch, they didn't play anymore. Jonah's dad kept looking at his watch, and his mom was making lots of phone calls. Alder just sat next to Jonah, who was wearing his uniform and holding his glove.

Then Alder's dad was there. Only, he didn't seem happy like usual. He picked up his son and said, "It'll be okay, Alder. It'll all be okay."

Without knowing why, Alder started to cry.

Meeting

While waiting, I watched the cars passing on the interstate. I wondered what had led those drivers to the road they were now taking, wondered if any of them spied my face and wondered what had brought me to that Denny's. I wondered too, afraid to hope.

Finally, you arrived. We embraced—your touch still familiar. The waitress brought coffee, and then you said, "I've been thinking about you."

"That's what you told me on the phone," I answered.

"I wanted to see you."

"You said that too."

"Are you upset?"

"Not yet," I said, trying to hide my trembling. "Have you talked to _her_?

I saw your jaw clench. Hands shaking, you sipped your coffee and said, "I told you; she dumped me."

"Six weeks ago."

You sighed. "We've talked."

I studied the shadowy reflection in my coffee cup. "Then why am I here?"

"I miss you. I want to be with you."

"That's not enough."

"Because I love you," you insisted. "Because we love each other."

I wanted to believe you—to believe things could be different. "And her?" I asked. "Do you love her?"

You paused. By the time you found your words, I was driving away.

Doors

If it weren't for my son, I could have pretended I wasn't home. My window looks out on the porch, so I can see anyone at the door and decide whether or not to hide. Even with just a glimpse of his profile, I knew immediately who was there, and I knew I wanted to disappear. Unfortunately, Monty had just learned knock-knock jokes, and called out loudly, "Who's there?"

After sending him to his room, I opened the door. "What do you want."

"Hi, Ella. I bet this is a surprise—"

"Save it," I snapped. "What're you doing here?"

"I wanted to make things right."

My muscles tensed. "Make things—How? What could you possibly do? How could you—"

"I know, alright?" he said. "I know. If life was fair, I'd be dead, and dad would be alive. I wish I could change that, but . . . come on, Ella. I'm your brother."

I had never felt love and hate so strongly at the same time. Then I heard Monty's voice, "Mommy, you've got a brother?" I sighed. He was never good at staying in his room.

Turning back to Devon I said, "Would you like to meet your nephew?"

Warrantee

I couldn't find the warrantee. I rifled through drawers and folders, uncovered old receipts, instruction manuals, old ads and catalogues, paperclips, several half-empty packs of gum, but not what I needed.

It had been an accident—a stupid, stupid accident. She didn't realize I was holding it out to her, I let go, it fell. But if I had the warrantee, I'd be fine.

That's when I remembered a letter I had received from the manufacturer a couple of weeks before. Determining it wasn't a bill, I had set it aside, but it might be able to help, even just give me a phone number. I fumbled through old mail until I found an envelope with that unmistakable red logo in the corner.

"Dear valued customer, It has come to our attention that your initial fifteen year warrantee is set to expire in fourteen days. To renew, please . . ."

I checked the date of the letter and counted back. I double checked and counted back again. It had expired two days ago. The warrantee had run out. I looked toward the table where I'd left the broken remains of my heart, wondering if I'd ever be able to use it again.

Waiting (ii)

It's 2:00 AM. I've been at the diner for six hours. My waitress is an attractive girl named Janelle. This late, there aren't many other customers, so we've been chatting on and off about working our way through grad school. I've heard every detail of her thesis on Anne Sexton, and she knows all about my work on sculpture in Late Antiquity. We pretend not to be bored. I think she's been flirting, and she's probably convinced I've stayed here so long just for her, but I'm actually waiting for Linda.

It's 2:06, and I finally spot the nametag on a waitress just starting her shift. She approaches my table carrying a pot of oily black coffee. Clutching an envelope in my pocket, I examine her wrinkled face, her sagging shoulders, every strand of her drably dyed hair. Though I don't need more coffee, I hold out my empty mug, and she stops to fill it.

"Room for cream, Hun?"

"No thanks."

They are the first words I have ever said to my mother.

She disappears into the kitchen, and Janelle returns. "My shift's ending," she says. "Wanna get out of here?"

I can't answer. I'm crying into my coffee.

Soul
Section XI

Help

"Tell me, do you believe in God, John?"

"Yes."

"And do you believe in his son? That Jesus died for our sins?"

"I do."

"God bless you, John. God bless you for doing his will."

John checked his watch. This tiny Hispanic woman had latched onto him after he gave her a five. In his heart, he believed this God's will, but he was beginning to think that she had a different idea of what that meant. Now he found himself putting ten dollars on her gas card.

As they walked out she said, "Don't worry, the grocery store is close."

He paused. "I'm sorry, but I have to go. I've done all I can."

"John . . . think of God, John."

He couldn't bear those eyes. Beneath her look of confusion, there was something else. Disappointment? Certainly. Anger? Possibly. But what frightened him most was the subtle disdain that glistened just beneath her gaze. She thought herself more holy, and perhaps she was. "I'm sorry," John said, "I wish I could do more, but I just can't."

"John . . ." she trailed off.

For a moment there was silence. "I—I'll pray for you," he said guiltily, then slowly turned and walked away.

Worlds

They wanted to know how to create worlds. For generations, it had been simple: "Once upon a time," had seemed sufficient. But the minds of humanity were ambitious and strained against any limitations. They reached further, trying always to create more and better. Almost like a disease, stories reproduced and multiplied faster than anyone could have imagined or predicted. With relentless vigor, humanity created, analyzed the results, and then created more.

Always there were more questions than answers. What made it possible? What held all the stories together? What made any of them different?

Humanity tried to break their stories down into ever smaller parts—into sentences, words, morphemes, phonemes—scrutinizing each in the hope that it would provide the key to creation. When this course of action proved to be futile, they tried more a radical approach. Out of either desperation or inspiration or both, they hurled the stories at each other, smashing them together and smashing them apart, hoping to understand how chaos could become order.

Perhaps it was a reward for their diligence. Perhaps it was an act of sheer will. Perhaps it was by faith. But for a brief moment in the turmoil, they observed Word.

Summer

Sean swallowed his bitterness in mouthfuls of black tea. "I mean, it's not like Will and I were super close or anything. But we were buddies. Friends. I miss that."

"I get that," Becki said through slurps of iced latte. "Like you had a lot of the same interests but didn't want to like pour out all your deep, dark secrets."

"Like buddies," Brandon added.

Sean just looked out the window. "I don't know. I just miss being with him, you know?"

"Maybe this summer you'll see him. You guys can be buddies again."

"Yeah," said Brandon, "summer's good."

"Summer's great," Becki continued. "No more classes. It's too bad we can't just keep hanging out all summer. I'll miss you guys."

Sean took another swallow of tea. "I don't think I'm gonna miss anyone."

"Oh, I know what you mean," Becki said. "Like we've been around each other a lot. I think we need some time apart to realize how important we all are."

"No. To be honest, I don't like it here. I'm just looking forward to seeing Will."

"What." said Becki.

"What?" said Brandon.

Sean stood. "I've gotta go." He threw away his tea on the way out.

Neck

Nasrollah dropped the pages and staggered backward across the room. For a moment, he didn't breathe. The fallen sheets lay like a serpent that would nip his ankle if he got to close. With that in mind Nasrollah crept around the table, approaching the pages from behind so he could snatch them by the tail.

Seeing the sheets again was almost as shocking as the first time. The colors were more so vibrant that he was sure they'd consume themselves, like a shooting star or burning saltpeter. More impressive still were the forms themselves: a fluffy white cat, a crowd of people, a dinner party. Coming to a portrait, he paused. The woman had a proud face, but looked like she might weep. Bewildered, he wondered how life could be contained on sheets of parchment without even leaving a brush stroke. At that moment, Nasrollah realized he loved her.

Nasrollah shook himself fiercely, like he was coming in from the cold. He took up a brush from the table, dipped it in a nearby pot of red paint, and with zealous determination, slashed at the necks of every figure, so that the artist would never again attempt to supersede God.

Look

The man probably smelled like piss and puke. It was impossible to be sure from across the street, behind glass, and surrounded by entrancing aromas of fresh coffee and pastries. Nevertheless, it was not difficult to imagine. The couple knew he'd been sitting there at least an hour, probably longer based on his little island created from old newspapers and broken down cardboard boxes. His clothing showed hints of its original hues, but had mostly settled into indistinct shades of brown and grey darkened in places by stains of what could have been anything from dirt to vomit to blood. Occasionally, he would lift his plastic cup to passersby, but most times he didn't even bother.

"Mark!"

"Hm? What?" Mark replied without tearing his eyes away from the window.

"Have you forgotten that I'm even here?"

"Jen, look. There's a dog now."

A dog had indeed joined the man across the street, appearing almost out of nowhere to come and lay down beside him. The man clung to the dog as if it was his entire life.

"What is so engrossing?" she asked. "What could you possibly be staring at?"

"God," he said. And a tear ran down his face.

Judgment

Yes it's true; I died today. Only briefly, of course—the EMTs on the scene quickly revived me. But it was long enough for me to approach the gates of heaven and face my judgment.

Of course most will not believe me—they will say it is a hallucination or worse, they will say that it is all a fantasy, concocted out of delusion or from a malicious desire to manipulate the beliefs of others.

But I tell you that I saw eternity. And I saw it closed to me. The entire court of heaven was gathered, and I sat in the seat of the accused. The prosecutor, wearing my own face, read out the list of my offenses. My defense attorney declared that blood had washed out all my wrongs, and eternity waited with open arms. But the jury, a dozen of me, cried out, "Guilty!" The judge, also me, swung his gavel and shouted, "Guilty!"

It sounds ridiculous, I know.

I tell you that I saw eternity, reaching out a hand to me. It was just the two of us. And he kept reaching, reaching.

And I woke. And I wonder why those hands would ever hold mine.

Aboard

Red lights flashed with rainy halos. A train was stopped on the tracks, and we were the only car at the crossing.

"I hate this," I said.

"Life is in the waiting," you answered.

Aboard the train, people smiled, talked, milled about. They waved at us; we waved back. They beckoned. We got out of the car and dashed through the rain to climb aboard. The conductor greeted us by name. Amidst jubilation, the train started moving.

Outside the windows, we passed the same intersection over and over, saw our car parked there with ourselves sitting inside, waiting. Faster and faster we went—or perhaps the world was spinning around us—until, like a kinetoscope, the images blurred into one. We watched ourselves waiting, aging, sometimes looking cross, sometimes looking tender, until we huddled close together and you laid your head on mine.

The train stopped. Outside the window was our empty car, sitting in the rain. A voice rang out, "This station stop, waiting. Next, eternity."

You moved immediately to the door, tugging me along. I hesitated. You stepped off the train, then turned back toward me.

"The train is preparing to depart. Please step away from the doors."

Tone

She couldn't get that ringing tone out of her ears. To make matters worse, the ticking of the turn signal resounded in her head the entire drive. The quiet rhythm she normally didn't even notice was now impossible to ignore. It was a reminder.

When she pulled into the garage and turned off the car, she didn't get out immediately, but sat and listened to the erratic clicking of the cooling engine. Somehow the inconsistent rhythm of the sounds was more soothing—that is until it started to slow down and to fade. In the ever greater periods of silence she would hear the ringing tone claw at her ears again until it was too much, and she had to enter the house.

But as soon as she came inside and set down her keys, she could hear it—the tick . . . tock . . . tick . . . tock of clock above the fireplace. It paralyzed her. The noise was like a hammer beating on an anvil—a great and horrible timer counting down the seconds until silence—counting down the heartbeats until death, and the soul-rending tone of the machine flat-lining, the tone that was burned into her brain the moment her mother died.

Thanksgiving

When my sister Linda stumbles into the living room at eleven o'clock yawning and asks, "What's going on?" my dad answers, "How could you sleep through the parade?"

And Uncle Phil shows up at the door looking ashamed and already a little drunk. He says "I think I ran over your mailbox. Couldn't see it."

And Aunt Summer says, "How could you miss that ugly thing?"

And when the smoke detector goes off, my mom rushes into the hazy kitchen where I'm coughing and trying to fan away smoke. She glares at me, and asks "What on earth happened? How could you burn mashed potatoes?"

And we can't find my cousin Mary and her husband Jim because they're arguing in the pantry, saying, "How could you sleep with another man?" and "How could you sleep with another woman?"

And there are sirens in the yard where the police are leading away Robby Jr. in handcuffs, while Aunt Phyllis hits Uncle Rob and shouts, "How could you call the cops on your own son, and today of all days?"

But my grandmother sits at the table speaking softly, "God is great, God is good, let us thank him for this food."

Morning

The bells were ringing at St. John's across the street. Harsh. Metallic.

He stood in the window, squinting at the glaring morning sunlight. Cars had already begun filling the church parking lot, bringing women in purple dresses, girls in pink frills, boys tugging at their collars, and men in suits also tugging at their collars. They entered the old, brick building with gentle smiles and warm handshakes.

He heard his wife stir in the bed behind him. "Is it morning?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Sunday?"

"Easter," he said. He looked back at his wife in the pile of sheets and wanted to cry. She almost seemed to be drowning in the heavy bedding wadded around her tiny form. Her skin was pale, her cheeks hollow, and her eyes heavy and mournful. She seemed almost to be a shadow against those white sheets instead of a person. The few small movements she made were ghostly. Wraithlike. Lifeless. Rather, the life had gone out of her. He remembered that awaiting them downstairs were all the bloody towels and rags they had used to clean up the miscarriage the night before.

"Can you close the blinds?" she asked. The light is just . . . too much.

Remembrance

The tray came to him next. He had always thought communion at a wedding was a nice touch, and he gingerly plucked one of the plastic thimbles of grape juice before passing the tray.

_Juice—not wine_ , he reminded himself.

Outside these Protestant Eucharists, he had only ever drunk grape juice from sippy cups as a toddler. It had always been wine when he was growing up Catholic—when he was an altar boy and an older kid showed him how to get in the sacristy—when he was older himself and showed younger boys the same trick—when the janitor and Father Mulloy found them in a naked heap on the floor—when he wanted his wife too much or maybe too little and hit her the first time.

He wasn't sure if he still believed in transubstantiation, but he knew it was more than grape juice, and it was more than wine. When he swallowed that tiny mouthful, his veins would run again with the nectar of sippy cups, chalices, and long-stemmed goblets. Like always, the reminder of his death would give him life.

"Do this, whenever you drink it, in remembrance of me," the pastor read.

_Amen_.

End

Written in response to the Sandy Hook Elementary School Shooting, 14 December 2012

The cup of tea had cooled in her hands an hour ago, but she had never even taken a sip. In fact, she had barely moved all day. As she had for most of the last week, she spent the day in her armchair facing away from the window. She could not bear to look out at the day. The sun mocked her by shining today. Even with the blinds closed, a brutal light, somehow made harsher by the falling snow, broke through windows and shattered her fragile peace.

She heard a diesel engine roaring on the street outside. It was 3:51. The bus was right on time. It was the last Friday before Christmas, and laughing children were frolicking through the snow and into their houses for two weeks away from school.

But her son would not be coming through the door. The unwrapped presents in the corner of her closet would never be played with. The tree beside her would remain only half-decorated until it rotted where it stood.

They Mayans were wrong. The world was not ending that December 21st. Hers had ended a week before. Not with earthquakes or exploding bombs, but with a child's cry.

Miracle

Everyone said it was a miracle. They tell me I'm blessed, ask what I'm going to do next; they tell me that now I can go anywhere.

Anywhere.

And of course, they ask me what he's like. I tell them what they expect: that he was wonderful, that he was mysterious, that the fire of starlight is in his eyes. I don't have the heart to admit that a part of me hates the ugly carpenter.

I have fallen four times, gotten lost twice, and once cut my heel so badly that I was almost lamed again.

For although he gave, he stole from me as well. He stole my whole world. After thirty-eight years, I was content with the life I had, such as it was. There was my mat, and there was the pool, and as long as I tried to move from one to the other, it was enough. Now I'm a prisoner freed after long internment. I'm a newborn child. I don't know how to live in this world.

"It's a miracle," they say. "You can walk!" But they don't understand. The miracle was when I stood. Walking is a curse. It's a beautiful, wonderful curse.

Tears

On the seventeenth of February, Cyril Petras was followed by the sign of the tear.

The woman working the toll booth sniffled and wiped her nose after taking his ticket. She was crying because she had given up on love the night before and was now regretting it.

The homeless man on the corner of Monroe and Seventh whimpered as he shook his cup of change. He was crying—not because he lost his job, his wife and his leg as his sign said—but because the tumor he didn't know about was growing, and the pain never stopped.

The waitress at the cafe sneaked a Kleenex from her bra to wipe her eyes in the kitchen. She was crying because there was an ASPCA commercial on the TV above the counter, and she still missed her dog Rufus, who ran away when she was nine.

Cyril's secretary was shaded his red, puffy eyes all day. He was crying because someone had filled every drawer of his desk with tampons—again.

Cyril may have noticed these tears, but if he did, he didn't mention it. Otherwise, things might have been different. But on the eighteenth of February, he was dead.

Call

She was holding the phone in her hand, looking at it when it began to vibrate. Startled, she nearly dropped the phone as she scrambled to answer. "Hello? Yes?"

"I'm sorry."

The voice was very soft. She didn't recognize it. "What's that? I'm not sure who this is."

"I'm sorry."

"Just, tell me, what do you want?"

"I'm sorry."

"Listen. I don't know who you are or what you're talking about, so it's no good repeating it. I think you have the wrong number."

"I'm sorry."

"Why are you saying that?" she asked. "What are you sorry about? Who is this?

"I'm sorry."

Some sincerity in that voice that summoned up deep memories. "Is—is this Jessica? Is it you, sweetheart?"

"I'm sorry."

"Listen none of it matters anymore. Your father may still be cross, but we do want you to come home. Please come home. Jessica?"

"I'm sorry."

"No. This isn't Jessica. Who are you? Did she put you up to this?"

"I'm sorry."

"Please," she said. "Please. I want to talk to her. I want to see my baby."

"I'm sorry."

She paused, trembling. "Why are you doing this?"

"I'm sorry."

The dial tone roared through her ears.

Blood

I couldn't believe the results on my screen: your name. It's strange realizing that I don't care why you did it. I guess love can drive us mad.

I was only nine when I came home from school and found my father with a bullet through his chest. The paramedics had to pry me away from his body, but it was too late to save him. His blood on my hands, in my veins, still calls to me like a vengeful ghost. They never found the killer.

I stare at the long rows of vials—my life's work. Years of training, of answers, of justice. My love's duty went drop by drop into each little glass bottle. And suddenly it all seems meaningless. You make me a traitor to myself. I have your blood from the scene of the crime—blood once pumped by the heart that beats in rhythm with mine. But how can I convict my love?

I will delete the records. I will open every vial and open up my veins. They'll find my pale body here in the morning. They'll find my blood in every sample.

I will be all victims.

I will be all transgressors.

Peace

He was as mysterious and as silent as the universe, only he was flesh and blood. Marcus curled his hand into a fist and struck the man in the face. The blow hurt his hand, but his victim's grunt of pain made it that much more satisfying.

Marcus had never participated in the unofficial beatings some of the others enjoyed. Criminals, when faced with punishment, laid their weakness bare. It was pitiable.

This man was different. He held is head up high, but not with pride. With peace.

Marcus hated him for it.

Why should the guilty have peace when he did not? A couple others had already started the beating, so Marcus threw a punch as well. Why shouldn't the condemned suffer since he had suffered? The pain in his hand was small—manageable. And he could easily hurl it back at the prisoner's face. In striking this stranger, he struck his debts, his headaches, his wife's miscarriage. He punched the face of his captain, of Caesar, of his father. He beat against all the pain and misery in his life until he was doubled over, out of breath.

Blood ran down the man's swollen face. He remained silent.

Time
Section XII

Shadow

I saw you come into the pub with your new husband. Cici told me you were in town—your first time back in the country after five years. She had asked if I would see you.

I hadn't even known you were coming.

Maybe that's why I'm here tonight. Maybe a part of me hoped that you would be here too. Maybe it was the same part of me that came to drown my sorrows.

I stood up, honestly believing I would say hello, meet your husband, wish you well. But I walked right past your table and ordered another whiskey at the bar. Your eyes left him just once and glanced my way. Did you recognize the man you said was more a part of you than your bones? Did you take me for a memory—a shadow of bygone years cast over your sight? Or have we become strangers now, with nothing left to recognize?

I passed you again going back to my seat, I breathed deep, hoping just to catch your scent one more time. But you've changed your perfume. After five years on opposite sides of an ocean, tonight I feel farther from you than ever.

Time

Tina was still asleep while I was getting dressed. She looked beautiful, her pale hair shining in the morning light. I wondered if I should wake her. I checked my watch, but it wasn't moving.

There was a knock on the door.

"Hello?"

"You are Maht."

The stranger stared at me with unblinking eyes. A sense of dread welled up inside me. "That's me."

"It is time."

I stared in disbelief at the impassive face. "Now?"

"It is time."

"You leave me here, I don't hear a word from you in decades, and now . . ." I looked back toward the bedroom. "Can I have a minute? Before I go?"

"We cannot comply with that request."

"You don't understand," I said. "Being with these people . . . It's just one minute."

"We cannot comply. It is time."

"Matt? What's going on?" Tina stood at the edge or the room, rubbing her eyes. "Who's this?"

"Tina!" I said. "Go back in the bedroom. I'll explain everything in just a minute."

"We cannot comply."

"Matt?"

"Tina, there're some things I haven't told you.

"It is time."

The light was starting to shine around us.

"Tina, don't ever forget—"

There was a flash. We were gone.

Okay

The swing was gone, and the railing had been painted—it's the little things that make you wonder what's real and what isn't. When Esther left (why had she done that?) she'd promised she was never coming back. But many years had passed since then, and here she was, standing on her parents' porch. There was something she needed to know.

She pressed the doorbell. A two tone chime—so familiar, though she had never heard it from this side of the door.

Lately, Esther had been thinking about the years when she had lived in that house. Memories of scraped knees, school bullies, mosquito bites like connect the dots, thoughts of failed try outs, dented cars, broken hearts, they all reminded her of another promise that seemed be broken.

The door opened, and she saw the faces that were embedded into her memory, though both of them looked a little older, a little greyer. Esther had changed too, picking up scars and pain as she crossed the years and miles that had carried her away from this place and back again.

"Tell me," she said, trying not to cry, "what you meant when you promised everything would be okay."

Cage **s**

Thhwmp . . .

Thhwmp . . .

"You gonna swing that bat, old man? Or you just gonna stand there all day?

Thhwmp . . .

Another baseball struck the mat behind him and fell to the ground. He knew eyes were on him, though he tried not to care.

Thhwmp . . .

Already he had let two cycles of pitches go by without swinging and was now halfway through a third.

"Look man, why don't you move to the softball cage and leave the fast pitches to the real men?"

He grunted. All he had to do was lift the bat. It was always the hardest part after so long.

Thhwmp . . .

_This one_ , he thought.

PING . . . shnk.

Foul tip.

"Oh, he's still alive. I was gettin' worried. Maybe you should get outta there before you hurt yourself."

He had known it was a bad pitch as soon as he started swinging. Too high. But he had swung. What was more, he had gotten a piece of it. That was all that mattered.

Thhwmp . . .

He smiled and adjusted his grip.

Crack!

A chorus of gasps and profanities burst out behind him as the ball sailed for the sky, tore through the net meant to contain it and just kept rising.

Soup

Alex was trying very hard to seem interested a can of soup when Sam approached and said, "You can acknowledge me, you know."

"Hm?" Alex said as innocently as possible.

"We know each other."

"Oh hey, right," Alex said, feigning sudden recognition. "Sam! How are you?"

"You're working pretty hard to avoid eye contact," she said coolly.

"I was looking at soups." Alex gestured with the can as though it legitimized the claim.

"We worked together for 24 years."

"Yeah," Alex said, embarrassed. "It's been a while."

"Are you still at the firm?"

"Different department, but yeah."

Both nodded slowly, then stopped. Sam looked away, then back at Alex. "You never said goodbye."

Alex looked down and said, "I know."

"We should catch up sometime," Sam offered.

"Sure."

She knew the reply was half-hearted at best. "Well . . . I'll see you then."

"Sam . . ."

"Yes?"

"Sam, we . . . I . . ."

She knew what Alex was trying to say—the same words she had waited years to hear, but which Alex had never been able to utter. But knowing wasn't enough. Sam shook her head and said, "It was nice to see you."

And Alex just watched her go, still holding the can of soup.

Dust

Edward had stopped believing in death 250 years ago, and hadn't aged a day since he was thirty-five. He could walk along the bottom of rivers and oceans and come up sputtering, but unharmed. His favorite party-piece was throwing himself off the host's roof head-first then standing up uninjured—a trick that resulted in far fewer party invitations. This trend wasn't helped by the fact that Edward far outlived everyone he had ever known.

At 250, Edward stopped believing in gravity. It wasn't a decision, but something that simply occurred to him. It had been so long since he had been drawn to any other people that he could no longer conceive of innate attraction between bodies. Soon his feet were no longer touching the ground. The earth kept spinning and revolving, but he was no longer bound to it. He couldn't tell if he or the earth was falling, but soon trees and clouds and sky and moon had all slipped away, and Edward was alone in the dark of space.

For millennia, he wandered. Stars and galaxies were born, aged, and died. Seeing all this pass by him, Edward could barely believe that he existed. Then he didn't.

Tug

Two pairs of eyes widened with horror in a Wal-Mart aisle. A small child, looking for her mother. A woman, looking for new towels. A small hand, tugging the hem of a dress. Moments later, a scream.

Fiona just wanted to look at the balloons. But after a disappointing attempt to seize one behind her mother's back, she found herself alone. She looked down the next aisle. And the next. And the next. Soon she was running, still too frightened to scream, until she saw that familiar sweater and dress. Her small hand reached out, but as the woman turned around, Fiona saw her mother dissolve into a complete stranger. If a goblin had turned around, it could not have been more terrifying.

Helen had been imagining a tug on her dress every day for fourteen years, but this was the first time that she had turned around and found someone standing there. However, it wasn't the girl's presence that horrified Helen. It was the fact that the girl looked exactly like the daughter who had disappeared fourteen years before.

Lost and confused, Fiona said one word, a question which stabbed into Helen's heart like a knife: "Momma?"

Helen screamed.

Entropy

Bricks. That was all he owned in the world now. He picked one up, ran his hand over its surfaces. The corners were square, its surfaces level and relatively smooth. Aside from a few chips and scratches, it seemed strong and useful, just what a builder would use to make strong walls for a solid house.

He laughed bitterly, tossing the brick back into the pile. Years ago, he might have tried to build such a house himself, but he was old now, lacking the necessary strength and optimism. The hand that had held the brick had been strong and useful too, but was now crumbling and frail, covered with its own score marks.

Slowly, he lowered himself down and sat on the curb. His bones ached. Time had ravaged him, but slowly, the way that rain gradually wears away statues into dust. Stretching it out was the worst part, waking up every day a little weaker—a little closer to the dust. He wished that time wasn't a steady rain, but an earthquake, sudden and devastating like the one that had destroyed his house. Jealously, he regarded the pile of bricks, wishing he'd been home when the earthquake struck.

Script

I have seen this play before, or was I in it? I played the part of the son who yelled and stormed out of the room. My performance was riveting, even if my diction slipped. I am a master of emotional recall and simply had to think of all the times my father walked into the house with a beer already in hand, to think of all the times he yelled and said I didn't know a thing about the real world. That's what I'm thinking about now, only this time I'm yelling. I'm playing the father, though I've never seen a script.

I hate this play.

It all drags on from here, melancholy and depressing as bad goes to worse. I don't want to watch it. I don't want to watch my son walk out that door. I want to change the whole second act—speak new lines while cast and crew scramble. Will the plot continue anyway? Are we trapped like chess pieces, given only so many directions to move until the unavoidable end?

Angry young eyes look into mine. I know those eyes. I'm looking out of them at myself. I don't know whose words I'm speaking.

Ghosts

The car wasn't there, but I saw it nonetheless. You were behind the wheel, and I was beside you as the car drove right through mine. Though we were difficult to make out, I was able to follow the ghosts of our lost future to the house we would have owned if things had been different.

If only things had been different.

From my car, I saw how we would have laughed, kissed, embraced, cooked dinner side by side. Our ghosts grew more and more substantial the more I yearned for that reality. After dinner, you stepped into the yard to watch the setting sun—its bold rays almost illuminating you. Feeling bold and reckless, I crept into that strange yard and leaned forward to kiss your perfect face.

But I felt nothing. As real as you looked, you were not actually there. You are married to another woman, living on the other side of the country. Though it haunts me still, this future died long ago.

It was late when I returned home. My husband greeted me at the door, and I answered with a thin voice. He looked at me intently, almost like I was hard to see.

Travelers

Another day of walking. Another day closer to a place where we can build a life. We've crossed a continent side by side, but now there are green plains ahead. We'll raise a standing stone to the sun and plant our feet upon that fertile soil. This, we'll say, is ours.

We'll cross the ocean together. Tossed back and forth by wind and waves and chance and fate. In the storming nights, we'll hold each other tight as we pray. And in the morning, the albatross above the horizon promises we're getting close. Soon our feet will stand upon the shore, and we'll build a house on solid ground.

Let's sail into the stars. Through endless tides of darkness, we'll ride on currents of light, seeing heaven in the heavens. And when the empty spaces seem like an endless void, our gravity will pull us together. We'll find heat and mass and light between each other until we reach a promised land.

And stability, it's true, may be a lie. There's always uncertainty; there's fear and pain. But together we have love. So however far we go, we've already found what we need.

I'm at home when I'm with you.

Steeped

It was crowded, and louder than usual. A gust of cold wind hit him as one more soul was ushered into the tiny coffee house. The bell above the door tinkled. Another angel's wings, he thought.

His attention returned to his tea: Irish Breakfast. He used to drink it with his grandmother, who was neither Irish nor ever ate breakfast. She just liked tea. "Tea is peace and comfort," she would tell him. "A good pot of tea can make the worst enemies into friends." She always used to say that. But that was almost forty years ago.

This was the best Irish Breakfast tea in town. Almost as good as Grammaw's. "Excuse me . . ."

Steam and memory rose from his cup, and he looked through the mist at a stranger's face.

"It's pretty full here today. Would you mind if I sat with you . . . or are you expecting someone?"

The bell tinkled. Wind rushed in. He was silent a long moment, knowing nobody was coming for him. His eyes fell to his tea. It was getting cold.

"It's alright. I'll find somewhere else." And the stranger was gone, lost to the bustling noise of the coffee house.

He felt cold.

Home

I walk down that familiar street in summer and fall and winter and spring and now, and pass myself, just a girl, walking the opposite direction eight years earlier. I see the thrift store standing where the grocery store burns down ten years ago. A dog barks sometimes or all times and bites me, I think, in the future. I fall into mud in that ditch when my first crush pushes me down sixteen years ago. I kiss a boy for the first time beneath that tree ten years ago but they chop down the tree nine years ago. Still, I lose my virginity to another girl on that stump eight years ago, just before I leave.

I turn and walk up the steps to that house that is bright green, and I drive by and see them paint it brown five years earlier. I knock on the door, and I slam it eight years earlier—they shout at me and my mom cries and I shout and I run. I cry alone in my room eighteen years earlier like I cry alone in my apartment a month ago.

A stranger answers the door.

"I'm sorry," I say. "Wrong house."

Moan

_One more time_ , he thought. _Then I'll be content_.

He wasn't supposed to be walking himself, but it wasn't far, and no one had to know. He tottered into the hall, past the bathroom and the kitchen, into the living room. It was a much longer trip than he ever remembered, and it was with shallow breaths that he sat down at the piano bench.

How long has it been?

His fingers ran over the keys. They were dusty. He hadn't touched them since checking into the hospital, and apparently no one else had either. But he was home now, back with his piano.

Looking down at his hands against the ivory and ebony, he sighed. So frail. The wrinkled appendages hardly seemed like the same hands that had brought packed concert halls to their feet decades ago. These gnarled fingers didn't appear to be capable of bending, let alone of summoning music from the keys.

A tear gathered in the corner of his eye, trickled down his cheek

_Just one more_.

But with both hands poised above the keyboard, his heart stopped. His last song was a moan of discordant notes that faded slowly into silence. And nothing more.

Rings

Running through the rain, scattering mud with bare feet—shoes kicked of long ago, now lost—and shelter beneath a tree—panting, laughing, shaking, trembling; hands embrace; bodies embrace; lips embrace; feelings to big, too new for words; and raindrops like diamonds showering down.

How much do you love me?

The suit, the dress—black and white rumpled together—left on the floor; and silence, but for the brewing of coffee—the first of thousands of cups on thousands of mornings—and the echo of unasked questions being thought for the first time; the first feelings of loneliness in the same room, frightening for how soon it has come; and leaves so luminescent they blaze rustling out the window.

How long will you love me?

Counting pills—all shapes and sizes—depositing the week's supply and saying over each a prayer for health, for life, for a little bit more time; praying silently for healing of wounds that have no medicine, for scars that speak in the silence, for forgiveness that has been granted over and over, for time to be erased; pale sky; black trees encased in ice, creaking, threatening to shatter.

How is it you have loved me?

Lightyears

The end is not far off. Surely, by now, they say that I am lost. Probably, it is true. I could not find the earth again if I tried, and the whole crew has passed. Gone from the world, cut off from all contact, I am, effectively, dead. Among the stars. Alone. I am both in heaven and in hell.

I was made to last indefinitely, able to run on solar power, programmed to navigate threats, equipped to harness radiation, gravity and solar winds to guide my course. I have chased comets, witnessed the birth and death of solar systems, seen what lies in the void. But I cannot outrun entropy. A battered hull, burned out wires, filled with bones. My clock, which has piled up nanoseconds into millennia, will stop. Coated in the dust of a thousand supernovas—I too shall pass.

And then?

What has it all been for? Have I succeeded or failed?

And the stars are always moving. Some lumber past, some streak through space, but all are wheeling, spinning, shifting. Sometimes it is dark and cold, sometimes so bright I think I might burn up. But always there is color. I lose myself in color.

Waking

In the fiery light of sunrise, the bones looked like they were drenched in blood. It was impossible to tell how long they had lain open to the elements. The skeleton had nourished the earth with its skin and organs, been buried, and had emerged once again. This morning, as daylight poured over mountains and flowed between forest trees, a green shoot peaked out of the skull's left eye socket and reached a small leaf toward the sun. The plant grew quickly—stems became branches, and the skeleton lifted up its head to look at how the surrounding world had changed, seeing trees that had grown taller, and mountains that were just a little shorter. Tendrils reached beneath armpits, tickling the skeleton slightly before propping it into a sitting position. The plant continued to grow, stretching out branches like a waking sleeper. Leaves filled the skeleton's chest cavity, shaking in the wind with the sound of a deep breath. Staggering to its feet, the skeleton leaned against the young sapling. The bleach-white bones almost glowed in the mottled half-light of the forest floor. Above, a bright, clear sky trickled through leaves, and the skeleton began walking out of the forest.

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About the Author

Floodwaters

You can trust that all of this is a lie, though I am being honest. You know that these words, flowing gently, steadily, inexorably forward, hide more than they tell. And although I pour myself into every word I write, I manage to do it while never showing my face.

The simple fact is that true feelings do not confine themselves within the gentle banks of prose. No, they are the rain, coming in waves, falling where they please in gentle showers or raging storms. If, perhaps, they find their way into the channels of language and meaning, carved deep with use over many years, they may be beautiful, but they should not be mistaken for the feelings themselves.

Carefully, I have dug drains and ditches. I have piled sandbags high on the shores. I have done all that can be done to make my feelings safe. But this torrent keeps raging. The water keeps falling, keeps rising. The border between rain and river begins to blur as words, thoughts, meaning, all are washed away.

But look closely. In the floods, you might see it—my reflection. Faint and indistinct, it ripples between the lines as the prose flows by.

Gregory M. Fox is an author and artist as well as a teacher of writing and art history at Bethel College in Indiana.

Read more

Keep up with the stories posted weekly on the blog of A Breath of Fiction at http://200story.tumblr.com.

Acknowledgments

These stories could not have been written without the help of everyone with whom I have ever interacted. However, special acknowledgment must go to my family, who have always supported and encouraged my writing: to Chet, one of my best friends, supporters and critics and the person who came up with the idea for this volume; to Kate, who got me to re-examine the way I write, ultimately leading to my 200 word story project; and to Emily, one of the most supportive and encouraging people I have ever known who has also offered ideas and inspirations some of these stories.

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