

## WELL WISHES  
FROM A PROMPT

### Ashleigh Bonner

Copyright © 2017 Ashleigh Bonner

All rights reserved.

This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without the express written permission from the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

To request permission, contact the author at  
ashanauthor@gmail.com

Description: A collection of stories created from writing prompts. Tips for authors.

# Writers, your words change the world. Readers, your passion inspires universes.

Thank you for choosing this collection of stories created from writing prompts. The genres range from romance to tragedy and are connected through the themes of mortality and the bittersweet journey.

With writing tips, discussion questions to stimulate thoughtful discourse, and dynamic characters, this book was crafted to give you an edutainment experience that will inspire you to tell your once-in-a-lifetime story.

If you discover any errors, email me at ashanauthor@gmail.com. I'd love to fix them.

Finally, please share and leave reviews.

# DEDICATION

To Mom:

Your love gave me the words.

Your sacrifice gave me the courage.

### TABLE OF CONTENTS

To My Readers

Dedication

1 • Kendra's Sun

2 • Forever Never

3 • From Dead Men

If you're thinking about suicide...

4 • An Unusual Smoke

5 • Counting Cars

6 • Death And His Sister

7 • The Elected

8 • Gloria After Jack

9 • And Down Will Come

Where To Find Writing Prompts

Acknowledgments

About The Author

# 1 • Kendra's Sun

Last night, the Sun didn't set. It fell.

I don't watch the news, so I knew nothing about it until 4:17 a.m. the next morning.

I would have had a clue at 3:45 because my older sister understands the sun, its predictability and sometimes, its unpredictability, but I told her many years ago to wake me at twilight, not at nautical twilight, and definitely not at astronomical twilight.

"Sister," she says, from Frostburg, Maryland, through the phone lines that strip away our miles.

"Sister, it is June 26, 2015. It is 5:17 a.m. and ten seconds, my time, and 4:17 a.m. and ten seconds, your time. Twilight was set to occur at 5:17 a.m. and zero seconds, my time. I have been watching outside my window, and twilight did not come at 5:17 a.m. and zero seconds. I am waiting. It is late." She sucks in a huge breath, and I laugh.

She's been obsessed with the sun since she was young.

"Good morning, Sister. It's OK, sometimes the sun sleeps in." She insists that we call each other "Sister" because "a name can change, but being related does not change." I agree, but every day her name is harder and harder for me to recall. Even though her attendants repeat it every time I'm on the phone with her, her name fades from my mind almost immediately. I wanted to forget her name when I was young, but now I have no control over its misplacement.

The forgetting began when I understood that she would be different all of her — and my — life. As a child, I believed that if I misplaced her name I could misplace her. I could lose her, and when I found her she would be the same as me. I would take down everything with her name on it, and scrub my mind of all the letters. But, the letters always came back.

All six of them.

She takes another breath, softly, then says:

"Good morning, I do not want the sun to sleep in, it should be awake. I do not think this is a good morning. What time did the sun go to bed in Disney? May I greet you again?"

"Yeah, greet me again." I flip the switch on the old lamp next to my bed slowly, so it crackles; she likes the crackling noise. And then open my messy calendar and put the pen behind my ear. I've marked tiny numbers in each date charting the rising and falling of the sun.

"Possibly bad morning, Sister," she says, in her monotone voice.

"Possibly bad morning, to you," I answer, squinting at the blurry writing on my notebook. I reach over and put my glasses on. Even though we talk every morning and night I always forget them.

When we were kids her flat voice used to grate on my nerves because I could never tell if she was happy, sad, or getting angry. But, as the years have gone on, I've learned to look at her behavior to understand her emotions.

At the top of my calendar reads Disney, Oklahoma — Land of no Disneyland.

"The sun went to bed at 8:46 p.m., June 25, 2015, in Disney. Four minutes late, Sister." I say.

"How many seconds?"

I forgot to look. I contemplate making up a number, but she'll know I'm lying.

"Don't know." I blow into my hands to warm them, then wipe hard crust from my eye. Why is it so cold in here?

"You should have checked. I will wait two more minutes," she sighs and goes quiet, leaving me feeling a little guilty. Her roommate's snoring, the attendant's sleep-deprived steps dragging across the hallway, and the guard outside of her door who clicks his pen when he's bored, and when he isn't bored, so you never know how he's feeling, is a constant reminder of our differences.

My sister's watched, most of the day, but the guard won't move until she, or her roommate, try to leave the room.

My bedroom is papered with charts and graphs of the sun's rising and setting that she handwrote. Some letters are large, some are small, and others are backward, but I laminated all of them because I know she spent hours making them legible.

I wipe the cold sweat from my forehead. It's too damn early to discuss a sun that set 7 hours and 31 minutes ago, my time, even if I do have a few days off of work. I run to the small kitchen and make a cup of coffee, wisely deciding on instant instead of brewed, as the seconds when she'll be back tick down faster than I anticipated. Just in time, I make it back to the phone.

"Sister, the sun is still not awake. It will never wake up," she says.

The coffee is strong and light with tons of cream. I breathe in the liquid energy and feel my lungs perk up.

"It will, don't worry."

"It will not, it will not." The panic in her voice sounds like she's stepping on seashells. The plastic of the phone squeaks a little as she grips it tight.

"It _will_."

"Look for the moon, Sister."

I go to my window and glance out. The sky is dark. No moon, no stars, nothing. There should be a little less than half a moon. I know this because the sun powers the moon's light, and that's important. Well, at least to my sister. A moment of dread makes me shiver. It is very dark out.

I shake off the paranoia. Nothing's wrong. Don't be... I stop the thought but it slips through anyway. Strange. Don't be strange.

My sister is... strange. Her voice screeches from the phone, and echoes in my room, and, a little after that, her roommate jumps up and runs to a corner. This is how things work in my sister's world.

"Kendra, dear. What's wrong?" Angela, her favorite attendant says.

I write Kendra on the back of my hand. It sounds right.

"The sun is dead. I want my laces, I want my laces, I need to go, my shoes will not stay with me as they are!"

"Remember when you had your laces, you kept tripping on them. That's why we got the Velcro."

I go back to the phone, take a large swallow, and feel my taste buds die as the coffee scorches them. Damn it!

"I want my laces, my shoes will not—" she screams. Her roommate bangs herself against the wall. Guilt, with its whispering, gnawing accusations, causes me to spill some coffee on my bed. I work hard, I do, but I don't make enough to afford a single room for her. I need to work harder.

The thuds continue.

"Frieda, calm down. It'll be all right."

Another attendant rushes in towards Frieda, unclicking the straps of the helmet that will protect her head. This is how things work in Frieda's world.

"Where are you trying to go, Kendra? Use your words," Angela says.

She screams again. "I need my laces. Go to Disney. I need my laces!"

"I have your laces." I say. Sometimes, my voice can bring her back before she falls over the edge.

One set of her shoelaces hovers above me, orange and red, holding round papier-mâchés of the Sun and Earth. The other set is twisted into a bracelet around my wrist.

"Kendra, darling, did you hear your sister? She said your laces are safe. She's taking good care of them."

The bedsprings creak a little as she bounces on the bed, trying to calm back down.

"Yeah. I'm holding them tight." I say.

My voice does nothing. Not this time. She bangs one hand on the bed, increasing the speed to match the two words tumbling from her mouth.

"Not safe. Not safe. Not–"

I wipe the back of my hand across my forehead again, as new sweat drips into my eyes.

Click... click... click. I listen to the guard's pen in my head. It provides a calm metronome to the chaos.

"Kendra, honey, let me talk to your sister."

Angela's hands fumble for the phone. After some time, her voice, unhurried and reassuring, reassures me.

"We'll take good care of her."

Thuds and screams boom from the tiny phone speaker.

My sister's words are gone.

The room fills with the sound of footsteps as more attendants come in. They still haven't oiled that damn squeaky wheel on the restraint bed.

"I know you will, Angela. Make sure they're gentle. I'll be there in a couple of hours. Tomorrow, at the latest."

"Of course," she says.

I snatch the Sun and Earth down, untangle her laces from them, and then throw the planets on the floor. Their perfect round shapes cave in a little.

Using my frequent flyer miles I book a flight, grab a few changes of clothing and my favorite coffee mug, and head for the door. On my way out, I glance back. The Sun and Earth lie on the floor, uncared for, damaged. She'd never want me to "be so mean to them."

I rummage through drawers and cabinets and find black thread, then hang the Sun and Earth back up. They bobble against each other.

According to my computer, it's been 45 minutes. I'm about to miss my bus. If I miss the plane, she'll be upset for days. I take one last look around and see my calendar on my nightstand.

I snatch it from the table, then bump my head against the Sun and Earth. I swat them away from me, and they bounce harder against each other. As I lock the door, through the glass pane, I watch the Sun fall. The Earth swings side to side, right where it used to be. A chill ripples through my body.

I shake it off again, then run down the street lit only by the streetlights, and jump on the bus.

The radio's playing a CD, some oldies soft rock song; I think it's called Faithfully. Most of the seats are empty, and the ones that aren't hold half-asleep people. Fifteen minutes into the ride, the driver flips on the FM station, and the music is replaced with:

"Breaking News! Last night, the sun didn't set. It fell. You heard it from WYJT. Always first on the scene!"

The bus driver changes the station, mumbling that he heard this garbage already.

But the same message plays.

The sun has fallen.

I crash into the back of the seat in front of me when the bus driver slams on the brakes. Cars honk behind us, and the teenage alcoholic-in-training spills some of his "PowerAde." Muttering, the driver cycles through station after station.

"A planetary emergency. The sun has fallen. There is no sun. All planes are grounded."

No one speaks. Everyone strains to hear the radio.

After they've heard enough, people pull out their smartphones, and Google it. They start crying, yelling in disbelief, and getting off the bus. Someone pulls out a tablet and everyone left huddles around the live video feed, including me, because I have a dumb phone.

A crowd of reporters, like scientists, analyze an astronomer. They shout in the way reporters do:

"Why didn't you know about this sooner?"

"Are we going to die?"

"What happens to the Earth when it has nothing to revolve around?"

The astronomer clears her throat. "Earth will wander in space, at the same speed, in a straight line."

"And how cold will it get?"

For a moment, there's silence. Fear hushes the reporters.

"The temperature will steadily decrease, until—"

"How much time do we have left?"

She swallows hard, then answers the previous question before addressing the new one. The tiny movement already answered it for her. We don't have much time.

The coiled dread that presses down on my bladder begins to unravel. It slithers up my stomach, consuming me like fire devouring dry wood. In seconds it wraps around all the muscles and organs of my body. I try to grab the dread before it reaches my brain, but it's slippery like seaweed. It coats my brain in a thick, black, oily film, and all I see is death.

A chasm of death for all of us.

I glance down. The shoelaces peek out of my tightly closed hand—orange and red.

The ink on the back of my hand is smeared. I put my glasses on. If I can figure out her name, maybe that'll make everything better. Yeah, that'll fix everything. I stare hard. Her name begins with a "K". I lean down, but I can get nothing else from the mess that has become my sister's existence.

What did it say? What's her name?

I have to know.

If I know, that'll fix all of this.

Clicking. Squeaky wheel. Screams. Loud screams in my head.

"The Sun is dead. It will never wake up, Sister. Not safe. Not—"

I look at the screen, but I see nothing.

And then I do. Dim, poorly formed letters float forward from the screen's middle, getting larger as they come closer to me.

Kendra.

Her name is Kendra.

### DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

1. What is the importance of remembering someone's name?

2. What are some similarities between Kendra and Sister?

3. Did the character's voices help or hinder the story? Discuss reasons that support either side.

4. If Kendra were the narrator, how do you think the story would go?

5. *How did you experience this story? Were you engaged immediately, or did it take you a while to get into it?

6. What are some ways you would have written this story differently?

### WRITING TIPS

**P** ractice evoking emotions in yourself first, and building the scenes and characters second. With the feelings already present a story will emerge.

**D** on't reference your character's senses. For instance, "I heard a bell." State a bell rang. Like us, your characters should experience their world firsthand, not through a filter.

# 2 • Forever Never

Humans are born with a mark around their wrist that has a matching color with that of their soul mate's. This color can change throughout their life. Your mark has had a blue hue since you were 14, but one night, while you're out, people start looking at you funny. You realize that your mark is gone.

I check my other wrist. The mark is missing from that wrist, as well.

Thinking the mark may have gone deeper into my skin, I rub my wrist. But nothing's there.

No. No. What happened? It's 8 p.m., and after-school activities just let out. Other students stand on the sidewalks, staring at me. Judging me. "What did she do?" they whisper.

What did I do?

Someone bumps my shoulder. Because of the smell of apples, I know who it is before she even opens her mouth. Valerie Trent, the girl everyone hates.

She takes a large bite out of an apple, then says, "I always knew you'd become a Lonesome." As usual, her tone is sour and her breath is sweet. More than likely, she was birthed with a crumbled soul. "Aww, don't look so surprised. Your soul mate found out you were unlovable and cast you away. Duh."

While chewing, Valerie studies me. She takes another savage bite, and for a moment, looks at me with true pity. Regretting her moment of weakness, she says, "Or maybe your soul cast you away." She laughs as she walks to the recycling bin. Pressing the "food" button slowly, showing off her mark, she throws the emaciated core in. The recycling bin whirs as it turns the core to juice and sends it to the farms to be used in other foods.

Nothing is wasted.

Valerie stares at the bin, then turns to me, "Your life is like that apple, just, you know, more useless." She smirks at me and continues to her destination—the sizzling pits of Hell. She swings her arms in wide circles, emphasizing the orange glow that beams from her wrists. I stand there, stupidly. Too numb to defend myself.

After a while, I feel the rain on my chest. I zip my jacket up further and cross my arms tightly around my chest, trying to hide the fact that my wrists no longer glow blue. I sit on the curb — at least it won't cast me away, and think of all the things I could have done to lose my soul mate. Not even just one soul mate, but every possible soul mate.

Maybe I loved too much, hated too much, didn't respect my mom enough, or didn't love myself enough.

What could it be?

What could I have done differently?

I decide that Valerie's wrong. I love everyone. Well, except her. And my fourth-grade teacher. How can I be unlovable?

I close my eyes. This is a nightmare. Yeah, that's what this is. I'd been having nightmares about losing my mark ever since I turned 17, and the Forever ceremonies began.

I shake my head, trying to wake myself up, and then dip my shoes in a deep puddle near the curb. The cold water seeps into my shoes, and I shiver. When that doesn't work, I think of ways to scare myself awake. Spider's self-amputation, dryer lint, The Headquarters. Nothing. Even though thinking about The Headquarters makes me want to run far away, it doesn't help.

I open my eyes. They're glossy with unshed tears. It's real. I've lost my mark.

"Boo!" comes a male voice behind me. Westley, my best friend.

"Hey, Tanya. I heard about your... situation."

He gulps. Will he cast me away now that I'm a Lonesome?

He sits down beside me, but less close than he usually does. No, he won't stop being my friend, he'll just make me feel worse. In my peripheral vision, he glances at his own mark.

"Westley, it's not gonna fade just because you sit by me. Plus, you're already Combined."

For a moment, he looks unsure, then shrugs.

"I know, I know," he says, and laughs. It sounds strained. He doesn't remind me to call him West. He doesn't remind me that Westley was given to him because his father hates the Eastley people. That's how messed up his head is, right now.

And mine, too, I guess. For once, I remember he hates his real name.

It feels too late, now.

I want to go home, but my mother is late picking me up, and the walk is too far.

"Are you gonna cast me away?"

He shakes his head and gives me a sideways hug. "Forever never."

"Do you think it'll come back, West?"

"No," he answers. Always honest.

I shrink further into myself. I need a lie so badly I can taste it.

"Lie to me. Do you think it'll come back?"

He clears his throat and opens his mouth, but a lie won't come out. He tries again. Nothing. I ask him questions that he can answer.

"Will you schedule a public viewing?"

"Of course." He rolls his eyes. "Lianne and I'll visit the sixth of every month."

I look down at my hips. They've gotten wider, haven't they?

"Do you think the farm will create a Birther out of me?"

He moves in front of me, lifts my jacket, and stares at my hips. His lips move silently as he calculates. "Be serious, Tanya, your hips are two inches too small to be granted Birthing rights." He sits next to me, again, and pats me on the back, gently. Like I'm a nursling and it's burpy time.

I slump further. Being a Birther would be great, but grasping for imaginary straws is wasteful.

I shove him, lightly. "Yeah, like you'll be a Seeder!" He laughs. All his teeth show and the corners of his eyes crinkle, slightly.

"Not a chance. I'm, uh, my seed containers are-"

I hold up a hand, stopping him before he launches into specifics. "I know, I know, _grossly_ different sizes."

He pauses. "Well, not _gross_."

I get light-headed, as I laugh, and I'm pretty sure West is about to blow his huge laughing budget. This is exactly why we've been friends for so long.

I breathe out some of the pain. And happiness. He was about to say "I'm Combined." He doesn't have to worry about being granted Seeding rights because he doesn't have to worry about becoming a Lonesome.

I tuck my wrists back into their hiding spots. If I had more time I would ask him all the reasons he thinks I lost my mark.

"I'll be different. The farm'll... change me." My voice won't go above a whisper.

"Good, because I'm tired of all these tears." He shrugs. "Don't worry. I know who you really are. And so does Lianne."

At that moment, like a siren call, West's Forever, Lianne, walks up. This sort of thing happens a lot with them. He says it feels like she's pulling him towards her. Lianne kisses the back of his head. He closes his eyes and bites his lip. Their marks flash unnaturally bright, even though this affection is a recent development between them. She scoots him closer to me, then sits on my other side. With more tact than West will ever have, she doesn't act uncomfortable around me. To her, I'm the same person. I'd hoped she'd be my Forever, but that was just wishful thinking. Her mark and mine never matched.

I stare at the string of turquoise-red quotation marks that frame her wrist and feel sick.

Before their Forever ceremony, West and Lianne had sets of open quotes paired with sets of closed quotes surrounding their wrists. Now, Lianne has a ring of open quotes, and West has the corresponding closed quotes. West had always had that mixed color. And so did Lianne. It was a sign their bond was strong. Until Lianne and West were Combined at an early admission Forever ceremony two years ago, I couldn't believe they were meant for each other.

West hated her and she hated him. They had completely different personalities. West was goofy and she was serious. West completed all of his assignments and she hung in the lower registers of school attendance. It was wild.

After their potential Combine had been announced, they'd both appealed to Combination to be paired with someone else, citing a mismatch of souls. They argued their nursling would be a menace guided by a crumbled soul. West had even gotten a tattoo over his mark, but the glow just burned brighter. Nothing worked and their appeals were denied.

They would be together, even if they didn't want to at first, because Lianne and West's color was rare, meaning they were perfect for each other.

Her mark is blurry. I blink, and tears fall down my cheeks.

"I don't want to go."

"But you have —" Lianne cuts West off with a look. Now isn't the time for his honesty.

"I know you don't, Tanya." She pulls me to her and I breathe in her mint-scented lotion.

I want to stay in her cocoon of caring forever, but West is right.

I may not want to leave, but I have to.

A Lonesome isn't allowed to stay with everyone else. I'll interrupt the connection between potential Combines. Without Combinations, two soul mates won't meet and create civilized souls for children. The world will be full of disturbed children. Dangerous children, if they get no soul, at all.

I cry. Lianne holds me tighter and whispers into the top of my head. She says everything will be fine. She gives me the lie I need so much.

After a while, I pull away from her. I have to learn to not need anyone or I won't survive the farm. I set my face, and emotions, to a blank mask.

Mom pulls up, then. Upon seeing me, she jumps out of the car and runs over. She says that every mother knows when they've lost their nursling. She grabs my arms and pulls them from my chest, rubbing her thumbs against the soft inner skin of my wrist. And then she sinks down, her knees pressing into the hard curb, and rocks me. Her hot tears fall into my hair.

I bury any feelings deep down inside. Eventually, her despair means nothing.

***

In the bottom of my bag lies some undergarments, a few notebooks with sketches of the sky, and pictures of mom and Martin. Most likely, that's all I'll be allowed to take. There's no guarantee I'll get to keep all of it. A representative from the farm watches my every move, while she rattles off the long list of stipulations on my existence. She follows me through my home. Each of her steps leaves a hollow sound in the mesh of tight-knit chatter that used to fill my home. Training has begun. Mom's face is stained with tears and her eyes are dazed. They couldn't get her to calm down, so gave her a sedative.

She also follows me, reminding me of all the little things I might need. Her voice is slurred. In each room, I hug her, tell her that I love her. I burn each hug, each room, into my memory. Martin questions the second representative in a loud, angry, voice. When she remains silent his 11-year-old angry voice cracks. He begs her to let me stay. Tells her how much he loves me and that I'll live in the basement. He says he'll never waste time, again.

Crying, full out, he says,

"She's wanted!"

Even though I'm hiding in the bathroom with my hands over my ears I hear him.

He means nothing. She means nothing.

Chanting this to myself saves me from falling into a messy puddle on the floor, which saves me from never being able to see my family again.

30 minutes later, on my way out, mom whispers, "Don't forget your spirit."

I give mom and Martin one final hug and head to the farm three hundred miles away.

***

The bus is full of Lonesomes. The seats are close together, in rows of three. The driver has the heat on, just to make us more miserable. I'm placed next to the window, in front of the bathroom. My attention feels like it's being pulled towards the front of the bus. I ignore this strange sensation. There's a low hum of voices. Girls and boys whisper to each other, wondering how they lost their marks, comparing misplaced colors. Some of them talk about their families.

He means nothing. She means nothing.

I study the other Lonesomes. Their faces are as blank as mine.

One boy stares out a window. The lower section of the windows are blacked out so all we can see is the sky. He holds the seat tightly. A tear slips from his eye, and he doesn't wipe it away. If he doesn't learn to control himself, he won't make it in the farm.

Lonesomes who don't make it in the farm get sent to The Headquarters. Under the low hum of nearly silent Lonesomes the last lines of our daily recitation loop in my head:

"If The Headquarters is unable to rid the Lonesome of all emotion a vegetative state will be induced.

If the Lonesome's brain matches the needs of The Headquarters, the Lonesome will be placed in a virtual simulation to provide much-needed solutions to real-world problems. If a match cannot be found, the Lonesome will be used to test new pharmaceuticals.

Resources will never go unused.

Nothing is wasted."

The boy breathes out, and his face crumples.

I take a deep breath as sympathy threatens to break my newly crafted wall. I won't cry. I won't cry.

Not for him. Not for myself. Not for anyone.

It may be unlikely but if my mark does come back I want to be ready to go back to my life.

The pulling sensation yanks my attention, clearing all my thoughts. A Lonesome girl stops at the end of my row. She looks at me like she was castaway and I showed up out of nowhere, boat bobbing at the shore. We take a sharp breath. She recovers quickly and motions that she has to use the bathroom. I stare at her wrist. It's smaller than mine but just as barren.

Do I know her? Why does she seem familiar?

What did she do to lose her mark?

What color did she have?

The pulling. Could we have been Forevers?

I dismiss the thought. It doesn't matter now.

She scoots passed my two seatmates and stands in front of me, pointing to the sky. It's a gentle indigo with loosely spaced cumulus humilis clouds floating around. Nice weather is coming.

Nothing special.

"Tanya, right? The view's beautiful; you're missing it. Mine was pink, by the way. Yours?" She hovers over me and then looks into my eyes. Tentatively, curiously, she brushes her fingers against mine. Love, like jumping into a warm pond, spreads through me.

"Blue." I turn away from her. Put my wall back up. She walks away.

The pond goes ice cold.

***

After six sweaty, quiet hours, I arrive at the farm. The building is multicolored and full of triangle-shaped rooms. The colors are there to remind us of our loss.

Each Lonesome receives a long list of rules, a brochure, and clothes that match the color of their old mark. My sets of standard issue pants and shirts are light blue. I'm allowed to keep one picture. I keep the one of mom and they take the one of Martin.

I pretend to make a fuss. Truth is, I have copies taped to my inner thigh. The corners dig into my skin when I sit down. Other Lonesomes lose pictures of five family members. Their grief is real.

Seeing the light blue of my mark on these clothes hurts. I try to reason my way through the ache.

Having a soul mate isn't everything.

I'll always be me.

Just me.

A sharp spasm in my chest tears my gaze from the floor.

"Tanya, right?" The girl from the bus asks again. She's already changed into her pink clothing. It looks good on her. She has brown curls that are lighter than mine and an Eastley accent. West's father would disapprove.

Still being new Lonesomes, talking is allowed. In a month, after the grueling training, interacting with others will be forbidden.

"Yeah, Tanya," I answer.

In just a few hours, my voice has gone monotone. It reminds me of my first Lonesome farm viewing when I was ten. After that mandatory visit, I promised myself I'd never go back. The Lonesomes's vacant stares and rigid movements scared me so badly I faked illness when any subsequent viewing was scheduled.

Now, I understand their behavior isn't a choice, but a necessity for survival.

"Well, aren't you gonna ask my name, Tanya?" The girl sits beside me. Not too close, but not too far. Farm-approved distance. I want to move closer to her, but I'm afraid, so I get defensive instead of brave.

"Why? In a week we won't get to talk again."

"Wow, you're not even gonna try to fight. Look." She points a slim, well-manicured finger to a boy and girl across the room.

"What am I looking at? They're just Lonesomes." I wave my hand in the air, dismissively.

" _You're_ a Lonesome." She mimics my gesture back at me and I feel like less than nothing. I vow to never use that on someone, again.

She lowers her voice. "Look closer."

I see passiveness and empty stares. Nothing else.

I shake my head. The girl leans slightly towards me and then looks at me like I'm hopeless and stomps away.

The room feels empty without her.

***

Some Lonesomes crack on the first day of training. Maybe it's the posters on every wall of the farm that break their wills. Posters that show bodies in medi-hulls covered in needles, tubes, and surrounded by liquids of every color. Brains trapped in sprawling maze-like virtual simulations. Under the images are slogans like, "No Lonesome is Wasted." and "One body. One brain. Many cures." and "Putting Lonesomes to Use for You!" Each poster has The Headquarters as a watermark. On the third day, a boy rips the posters off the walls before being taken away. A spike of rebellion, and sadness, flits through me.

Each day we are taken for tests and "safety liquids". Fluids are inserted. During tests, needles are inserted and fluids are extracted. So many bottles in so many colors it makes my brain spin. Each bottle holds a clear liquid and has a label that has a letter and a string of numbers. The trainers check our entire body, especially our organs and brains.

The girl and I aren't in the same wing. I don't know what they're doing to her. Sometimes, I can feel when she's closer, but I try to ignore it because it hurts when she leaves.

Over the next month, I get to know my fellow Lonesomes more than I would like to. We sit in silent trainings for 16 hours of the day. We receive three hours for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and there's just enough time left to get five hours of sleep.

In my dreams, I remember my spirit and the smell of Martin's favorite cereal. I remember mom's hug, her voice, Martin's laugh, and all the rooms of my home. I want to make sure my life is recorded in my long-term memory.

The three hours for eating aren't because the farm is concerned with our digestion; it's to test our willpower. During these periods, I think about the girl in the pink. What is her training like? Where is she? What's her name? Will she make it through? Is there any way I can see her? If I don't make it, will she ever know? Sometimes, I zone out, thinking about her. But I try not to. Punishment is swift and customized.

At every meal, we're crammed into circular tables where our elbows overlap and our thighs rub together. We try to silently get out of each other's space, but some of us fail. The room's temperature fluctuates between cold and hot, on a random schedule. When it's cold the trainers look for any sign we're using each other's body heat, and when it's hot they look for misery on our faces.

Our food rarely gets eaten. Too stressed, you know.

Sometimes, the trainers pick one of us and berates that Lonesome for the entire hour. This is the hardest because they know all about us through our files. During those times, if I'm not chosen, I glance around the table. I recognize the tiny movements of clenching fists, and grinding teeth as we fight to not stand up for each other. Other times, some of us get praise, and others get criticism. Around the table, I see relief, envy, embarrassment, and jealousy. And during "special occasions," they talk about personal details of our lives. Extremely personal.

They show pictures and online conversations and we have to just sit there, getting more and more humiliated as each minute passes. I'm starting to forget where I end and someone else begins.

By the end, we're emotionally comatose. And silent. And hungry.

The girl keeps me fighting. I want to know her name.

The farm is larger than I thought. We're in the East1 wing and don't interact with Lonesomes outside of our bunch.

At night, we lie in our tiny triangle-shaped rooms, using small gestures to communicate. The language of Lonesomes is another thing that has kept me sane. What began as medium-sized movements became smaller and smaller as time went on. These small gestures and knowing looks can communicate entire paragraphs. Scratching your nose for two seconds: 'I'm about to lose it.' Tapping your thigh with your thumb: 'You better not. I'm here for you.'

Our rooms form a circle. In the middle, there's an empty space with sixteen cameras aimed at each of us. The base wall has our mark's color, but the two side walls are made of thick panes of glass. No privacy. The crying boy is in my area. He's right across from me and I haven't seen a hint of tears. His eyes are red from lack of sleep because he's on the hardest regimen of us all.

My "home" has a bed, a portable shelf that hangs from a pole, and a desk and chair that unfolds from the base wall. The heat isn't hot enough and my covers are thin, but I'm doing okay. While some have more than me, most have less. Especially the boy. He has a thin airbed and a sheet. He stopped responding the day we arrived.

None of us protest, anymore. None of us wants solitary confinement. Usually, when Lonesomes come back after that, they break. And just like that, we get someone new.

***

Eight days left of training. I lie in bed, half-awake, wiping black ink from my leg, where I'd drawn the sky. Mom and Martin's pictures are tucked under my body. I had another nightmare about flat dead eyes and mouths that don't speak. I wish I could say that becoming a Lonesome has gotten rid of my fear of Lonesomes, but it hasn't. I've just learned to hide it by remembering that all of us are alive inside.

"Strongest bunch I've seen, yet," A trainer whispers to another, as they walk past my room.

"Not me. What about the ones in West28?"

"Most of 'em aren't strong. Maybe, two. That short one, in the orange, and the curly-haired one, in the pink. We really have to prepare our lesson plans with that one."

"Yeah, she kinda scares me."

They laugh and close the door. It locks with a loud clanging noise that wakes most of us up.

West28 wing. That's where she is.

***

Training ends, and we're moved upstairs. The trainers don't watch every single one of our moves, anymore.

Our new homes look just like our previous ones, except the walls aren't transparent and we have more comforts. There are no markers to differentiate our rooms, so I get "lost" a lot. While I'm lost I search for the East wing exit. Doors appear from walls in random places. I run my hands along the walls and ask questions, but even though everyone's looking for the exit, no one has any idea.

Meals are comfortable and I get a full night's sleep, now. The cameras have faded into the background.

The dark circles around my eyes are gone and the crying boy's face has lost some of its paleness. Just yesterday, I learned his name is Skyler.

***

It's early.

The intercom: "Public viewing has commenced."

Of course, the farm is being kind. The outside world is coming to us.

People who are important to me. A woman. Two boys. A girl.

Mom, Martin, West, and Lianne.

I walk into the main lobby. It's half-full. West's voice carries me towards them. They're standing near a U-shaped couch, opposite the door I just came through, chatting loudly. West and Lianne snuggle closer. As one, they crane their necks to see above the crowd. They look like actors, really bad actors, looking in the wrong direction. Mom sees me first. She walks over, hugs me, and then starts crying. Huge, dramatic sobs. All I can think is:

Needs more acting classes.

West and Lianne turn toward me with a theatrical flair. Horror crosses Lianne's face, but she quickly wipes it away. West stares at me until she elbows him. They creep over to me like I'll strike at any time.

Mom rambles on about how much she's missed me and how nothing has changed.

Did I love her, before?

She says Martin is sick and will be here next month.

"Uh... hey, Tanya." West shuffles from side to side in front of me.

I tap my pinkie finger against my thigh to say hello. He repeats himself when I don't respond.

Trainers stroll through the visitors, looking casual, chatting benignly. Their eyes tell a different story. Alert, observant, and ready to dole out punishments.

"Hi, Tanya. You like it here?" Lianne waits a few seconds, nods as if I answered, and then asks another question. Mom and West follow her lead.

Minute after minute they ask me yes and no questions.

Once, West mimics my voice and answers a question the way I would. His answer: "Oh no, Valerie Trent lost her apples. Wow, they must've been running fast." He and Lianne burst into laughter, and I clear my throat, laughing with them. Mom smiles, softly. After severe stomach pains, Lianne's laughter turns into nervous chortles and then into a full-blown awkward silence.

"Too soon?" West glances at Lianne, who nods.

"Next time." Mom whispers. "Martin sounds just like her."

True.

They talk to each other, to me, make jokes, and keep glancing at me to see my response, but the gap can't be filled.

After 40 minutes, mom barely speaks. She's putting all her effort into not crying.

Needs more acting classes.

I glance at the other Lonesomes. Skyler tilts his head, licks his lips, and scratches his elbow for two seconds: 'I am so bored. Please shoot me in the heart. If you miss, the head will do.' He started communicating when training ended. Every couple of seconds his little sister taps him. Her mark is dark green. She shouts at him, thinking he must've gone deaf, and then asks her dad what's wrong with him. When her dad says nothing's wrong, she screams,

"But, you said... He... He won't talk to me. What did I do?"

She falls on the floor in writhing tantrum mode. Her dad picks her up and rubs her back. Granted family viewing rights, she's too young to be here. Not yet eight.

Skyler tilts his head, licks his lips, and scratches his elbow for two seconds, again.

I focus on the three people in front of me who look so familiar but feel so foreign.

West stares at me in his peripheral vision, mumbles he has to... go do anything but this, and walks away. I watch him go. His footsteps drag across the floor.

I'm different, West. Do you still know who I am?

Only Lianne tries to keep conversation going. For her trouble, she gets silence and monosyllabic answers from mom.

With ten minutes left of the viewing, mom gives me a long hug. Her cheek presses against mine and our hearts beat against each other. She whispers all of her love into my ear. She doesn't cry. I think that's how she gets through. Her resignation drills a hole in the wall I created and my emotions seep out.

West trudges back in.

I head to the bathroom, dragging my feet like him. In a stall, I take deep breaths.

Don't cry. Don't cry. They're better actors than you thought.

I pull the last piece of tissue from the roll. Before blowing my nose, I peel the leftover strips from the cardboard, leaving only brown, then drop it in a recycling bin to be used in boxes, next.

Nothing is wasted.

I won't be wasted.

When my emotions are under control I go back to the lobby and receive hugs from the people who love me.

The intercom: "Public viewing completed."

As our friends and family walk out, Skyler and I do the same motion. Rub our index and thumb finger together: 'I'll miss you, please come back.'

The doors close, and then another set opens. With our heads hanging, we file out as a different, and larger, bunch of Lonesomes file in.

We'll be visited by regular people, all day. They'll stare at us, talk at us, ignore us, try to connect with us, fear us.

The girl in pink walks through the door. I don't see her, but I feel her. Everyone else fades into the background. I turn around and look at her. Her posture is worse than mine. Her face is dead. I pitch forward, bounce off someone in front of me, and plop down on a couch. The muscles of my face don't twitch in surprise. My face is dead, too.

One day, I won't react like this.

A trainer laughs at my clumsiness, not knowing we're communicating as the girl comes closer. Her movements are crisper than mine. Military-like. And yet, each tap of her leg or tiny arch of her eyebrow has a bit of an attitude. I glance around. All of her wing moves like her.

I tap my wrist: 'West28.'

She pauses, then pretends she wasn't surprised: 'North4?'

A scratch of my eye: 'East1.'

'Kidding, I know. Grab a gun, East1. I've heard things.'

She does a small movement. It looks kind of violent. I clear my throat: laughing. That's my wing's accent?

Quick taps of my fingers on my arm: 'I've heard things, too. Fighting the good fight?'

'There's only one good fight. I'm battling it, right now.'

She sits next to me and motions to a girl and boy. Again.

Her bunch is still filing in.

The boy and girl aren't communicating. What am I looking at? I look harder. A tiny smirk on the boy's face says they have some inner joke.

The girl scoots a tiny bit closer to me. 'Her mark was gray and his was purple. They've become Forevers.'

With marks that don't match?

I struggle to merge these facts, together. I haven't thought about anything but survival this past month. Moments pass, and then it dawns on me.

My wrist has no mark. Their wrists have no mark. No mark means I can be with whoever I want. To use Valerie Trent's word, duh.

The lobby is nearly full. Time is running out.

'What did you say your name was?' I ask her while moving a third of an inch nearer. The closer I get to her, the more relaxed I feel.

'So glad you asked again.' She opens and closes her mouth in a fake yawn: smiling. Her front tooth is slightly crooked. It looks good on her. 'Candis. I feel like I know you.'

'I feel the same way.'

Candis. That's her name.

Is this what West feels? The comfort? The familiarity?

The intercom: "Public viewing has commenced."

We stand up.

Candis rubs her wrist like someone removed tight handcuffs. I look into her face. I do know her. She's my soul mate.

'Will you cast me away?' I ask.

She moves a fraction closer.

'Forever never.'

### DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

1. What do you think the line "Maybe I loved too much, hated too much, didn't respect my mom enough, or didn't love myself enough?" means?

2. If you love everyone, should you feel entitled to be loved back?

3. How did Tanya change as the story progressed?

4. List some possible reasons Tanya lost her mark.

5. Besides the freedom to be with whoever she wants, what else did Tanya gain? What did she lose?

6. If a mark is not needed to find your soul mate, what do you think the mark is used for?

7. What does this story say about love?

8. If you are deemed soul mates, should you be forced to be with each other?

### WRITING TIPS

Alienation. Loneliness. We've all felt it. The key to writing these emotions is to remember a time someone/something made you feel that way, or you felt you weren't good enough. For a moment, put down your story and delve into that memory. Write a diary or journal entry with every thought that pops up as you remember.

Show your reader emotions. Tell your reader events.

With emotions, you don't want your reader to analyze the situation. Just experience it.

With events, it's all right if your reader uses their intellect.

# 3 • From Dead Men

Late one night you see a man jump off a bridge. You run to where he jumped off only to find a handwritten book entitled:

The Lessons We Should Learn from Dead Men

I open the book to the first page.

It's blank.

I close the book and run down the steps.

Black and gray shadows cling beneath the bridge in the pale yellow light. Most of the river drained out long ago.

He's there, moving back and forth in the shallow water, too heavy to be carried away. His back rubs against the bed of the river. His face stares up at me. There's some life left in it, but it's already starting to get that dead look. Purplish, you know. Black ink is on his lips and fingers. A line of blood flows away from the back of his head, but he's smiling and doesn't seem to care.

Dead bodies don't freak me out. There were a lot of junkies in my building.

Sometimes they sat down and didn't get back up.

"Hey. Are you—" _Ok? Dead? Alive?_

No answer.

Well, two of those were unlikely anyway.

Sirens wail in the distance but they don't sound like they're coming my way, so I take off my shoes and socks, and walk in the water. It comes up a little past my ankles. My toes burn from the cold. The river stinks, like permanent marker and old fish. It smells better than the house I left. That smelled like old fish and human misery.

I bend down to check his pulse but pull away at the last moment so I won't leave fingerprints.

He looks about sixty. But, like, a young sixty.

I look for any movement from him and then get out of the water. I dry my feet as best I can, and then put on two pairs of socks. My boots barely fit, but I have to take care of my feet. I walk over to the emergency pole and call the police. The fence that was erected 20 years ago to prevent this exact situation hadn't helped at all. He vaulted it easily. Didn't even cut himself on the barbs at the top. I lower my voice when speaking to the dispatcher, but he still says,

"An hour, kid. We got a lot of _those_ types tonight."

I open my mouth, to try and talk some compassion into this man, but the click of a dead line cuts me off. Pressed against my ear the phone muffles everything around me. Simplifies everything. I focus on the bits of noise and try to remember if my life had ever been that simple.

Nah, it hadn't. I hang the phone up and walk back to the man.

His shirt is striped, maybe dark green and gray, with "Evan" stitched into the pocket. Should I stay or go? Looking at him makes me think of my dog, Scrat, right before he died. He didn't want to be alone. I decide to stay. Maybe give Evan some kind of eulogy.

I sit on the sidewalk next to the water, where the joggers run, and open the book. The cops won't be here for hours.

Passed the first page, the second page, the eighth page. They're all blank. A freezing gust of wind snatches the pages from my hand and turns the book to the twentieth page. There's writing. Small in height, but still stretched across the unlined paper.

Green ink.

5 de Enero de 2003

Lección uno

No hay páginas en blanco, simplemente vive hablado de la memoria; precisa, no correcta, por lo que nunca escrito como un hecho.

Adolfo Soto (San Miguelito, Panamá)

Spanish?

Evan doesn't look Latin. But who does, really, I don't know him.

Don't know Spanish, either.

I think back to middle school. Which month is Enero?

Maybe April?

I have no clue, so turn the page, hoping the next entry will be in English. On the backside, there's black ink along the bottom. It says:

January 5th, 2003

Lesson One

There are no blank pages. Just lives spoken from memory. Accurate, inaccurate, so never written down as fact.

Adolfo Soto (San Miguelito, Panamá)

I flip the page back over and whisper the Spanish clumsily into the quiet.

The wind blows again. I pull the thick parka with the large paint stain closer and adjust the men's pants that are too big for my wiry teenage body.

"I can't stay too long, Evan, uh, Adolfo, they'll take me back."

It's strange how things have changed. Here I am sitting under a bridge talking to a dead man, and still, my life now is much better than the one I left.

I turn the page.

الدرس الثاني

لا تستخدم الماضي البسيط للتذكر, لأنه بينما سوف يتعجل الشفاء أيضا سيتعجل النسيان

مهدي حميدو

(الجزائر العاصمة، الجزائر، 15 يونيو 2003)

And turn it again.

Lesson Two

Do not use the past tense for remembering, because while it will hasten the healing, it will also hasten the forgetting.

Mehdi Hamidou (Algiers, Algeria, June 15th, 2003)

I don't really understand this one, but I close my eyes and think about Scrat. Five years ago. He materializes, misty. In the memory, his bark is softer, and his fur is thicker. Did... does he, like hard or soft food?

I concentrate, remembering harder. Claws scratch at a frost-bitten door that a person bigger than me locked. The picture of Scrat slides further away until he disappears altogether.

I turn the pages, reading faster. Trying to get Scrat's whimpering out of my mind.

If the police catch me, they'll take me back. I can't go back.

Lesson Thirty

8/10/2012

Don't hang onto life too hard, because even if it wanted to it can't hang onto you.

Scott Marcus (Georgia, Indiana)

Did all these men commit suicide?

I keep going, page after page. The translations clarify over half of the book.

Сабақ Қырық бес

31.08.2014

Өлім менің өмірімді алмады, немесе мені қорқытты. Мені демалуға тура келді, ал өлім маған жұбаныш берді.

Алексей Блаженов (Астана, Қазақстан)

Lesson Forty-five

08/31/2014

Death did not take my life or scare me. I needed rest, and it tucked me in.

Alexey Blazhenov (Astana, Kazakhstan)

Was Scrat scared when he was near death? He didn't need rest.

Even after all these years, his final day is clear in my mind. I taste the clean, icy air through the crack in the bottom of the door as I press my mouth to it, whispering to Scrat, telling him that I'll come and get him as soon as I can. He whines.

The person grabs me.

Under the bridge I focus on the words in the book, reading, reading, trying to block out the feeling of the person's hands yanking me away.

Sirens. My watch says it's been three hours. I'm nearly finished with the book. I need to leave.

I glance at Evan. His face and hands are completely purple, now. The smile has frozen on his face. I take off my second jacket, shake it, and lay it across him. I shouldn't, I could get in trouble, but...

Scrat needed a jacket.

"Bye, Evan. I'm not the religious type, so I'll keep it short. You seemed like a cool guy. Past tense or not, I won't forget you. I hope you're warm wherever you are. Scrat likes the bottom of his tail scratched. Thanks for the translations."

I run away.

The book fits neatly in the crook of my arm. There's only one entry left.

After finding somewhere to sleep until morning I clean myself as best I can, and then head to the hospice and sign the referral list. Visiting hours start at 10. My grandpa's resting there. I pull out two crumpled bills, buy the smallest coffee the vending machine has, then flip passed more empty pages to the last entry, on the last page.

Lesson One Hundred and Twenty-Six

Know your fellow people. Learn their language, culture, and beliefs. Write down all the stories that you are told.

Evan Park (Quebec, Canada, 2015/09/27)

I walk around this wing full of dying men and ask them what they know.

### DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

1. If the men committed suicide, what are some reasons you would or wouldn't give them a eulogy?

2. * How has the past shaped the main character's life?

3. If Evan could hear the main character, what do you think his response would be?

4. What do you think kept the main character compassionate?

5. How did Scrat's death affect the main character?

6. What was your favorite quote? Least favorite?

# WRITING TIPS

**F** ind something in the present to trigger a flashback. This could be a physical object, the sound of someone's voice, or an emotion.

**I** n most cases, keep flashbacks short. In all cases, make sure they advance the story.

The past should help your reader understand your character on a deeper level, not be used as an info dump.

# If you're thinking about suicide...

(or concerned for someone else)

Call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline (NSPL) at

### 1-800-273-TALK (8255)

Available 24/7. For everyone. Free and confidential.

Chat with a caring counselor through

 The Lifeline Crisis Chat

chat.suicidepreventionlifeline.org

For international support, visit:  
<http://www.suicide.org/international-suicide-hotlines.html>

ADDITIONAL NSPL SERVICES

**TTY:** 1-800-799-4TTY (4889)

**En Español:** 1-888-628-9454

**Veterans Crisis Line:** 1-800-273-8255 (Text 838255)

**Disaster Distress Helpline:** 1-800-985-5990

(Text **TalkWithUs** to **66746** )

# 4 • An Unusual Smoke

Navy blue smoke oozes slowly from the keyhole.

_I'm hungry. Starving, actually_. But I'm ashamed to admit that to anyone. Beneath my shirt, my ribs show clearly against my skin. I'm dying, and so is everyone else within a thirty-mile radius of the transfer station I stand in. We're dying of sickness, of polluted air, of diseased animal meat.

Every year, our world rots. Every year, on the 23rd day of June, our world is restored for a month, only to begin slowly decaying again. Our town is hit hard. Most areas get more than a month of health. We need a Snatcher. To be more precise, we need an Unusual Snatcher. Only an Unusual Snatcher can give life to everything within a thirty-mile radius. But, just because we need an Unusual doesn't mean The Land Above will send one.

Three years ago, I made a mistake. One that I'll never forgive myself for. I sacrificed my older brother to save my own life. I knew what the consequences would be for him, but I wanted to live. And now? Now I need him to save me, again.

It was a Sunday, and we'd been smoking in and out of the keyholes, or keyports, for hours. I was reckless. We turned our flesh to smoke and went into the keyports that littered our doors. In vapor form, our essences were two different colors. Mine was green; my brother's blue. The keyports linked us to anywhere we wanted to go. Home, school, The Land Above. We didn't want to go to The Land Above. No one intentionally goes to The Land Above except for Snatchers. They're the only ones who come back out alive.

That day, I'd been breaking a rule my mother, and brother tried to instill in me.

Don't push against the portal.

I knew it wasn't safe, but I did it anyway. I pressed against the pliable vortex until I started to spill out into the Nothing.

My essence smoked out as soon as I hit the Nothing. My skull solidified, and the bones were heavier than usual. My brain bounced around in my skull, like a small boulder, the fluid around it straining to stay liquid. My skin wrapped slowly around my muscles, and I'm pretty sure the only thing that melded my skin to me was the goosebumps from the cold. Agony shot through my nerves as my soft tissue hardened. Torture pulled at every piece of my face. But the pain was eclipsed by the emptiness. The Nothing sucked at my emotions, ripping them straight from me. Before I lost fear, I opened my mouth.

"Help me!" I knew my brother could do something other people couldn't.

The Nothing continued to yank me out. My shoulders tore a large hole in the portal walls and I spilled out faster.

Calm enveloped the upper half of my body, while my lower body twisted in terror. I grabbed some of the terror that radiated from my essence and attempted to call out again.

But by that time I couldn't talk because I had no air left. My brother would save me. My brother would save me. He always did. Inside the portal, my brother did something that was rare and something that no one else could do. He smoked out his arm into a strong grip while in a portal. Rare. He smoked out my legs. Unheard of. No one can control another person's smoke. With a grunt, he grabbed my legs and yanked me back in.

The portal closed quicker than it opened, and my arm fell down into the Nothing, concrete and no longer a part of me.

Later that same day, my brother was given The Land Above access. He would become a Snatcher. I had gotten him chosen. My mother knew he could smoke out while in a portal. She had hidden it since he was young. But she didn't know he had developed the ability to control other people's smoke. It was an unpleasant surprise.

My family accepted his choosing with well-concealed apprehension.

You see, there are mixed feelings when it comes to Snatchers. We need them to survive and yet...

***

Navy blue smoke oozes slowly from the keyhole. Because of it, the street empties. People push and shove to try and leave first. They turn to smoke, and in their panic, bump into each other, so less of them get out than they had hoped. Sickly animals groan, trees drop their final leaves and rotted fruit, and thick, polluted air chokes us.

Doors with dozens of keyports line the street. The one with the navy smoke is mine. I put a hand over the fog, and it pushes against my palm. I push in harder, and my hand starts to get warm. Tendrils of it creep through my fingers no matter how hard I try and keep them closed. Finally, when the pain gets too much, I grab my shirt and push it into the keyport. For a moment, the smoke stops. Then it blows me back, and I crash onto the pebbled street. The port disappears as the smoke streams out, making a noise like a thousand creaking floors.

And there he is.

My brother.

"Tryin' to keep me out, little bro," he says in a sing-song voice, as soon as the top half of his body smokes out into flesh.

"Yeah, you only bring bad news," I stand back up.

"As usual, you're imprecise. I don't _bring_ bad news; I'm the bad news people _bring_. But I'm also the good news, right?"

He pokes my cheek, laughs, and then wipes some dirt from my shoulder. Done with me, he turns back towards the door.

I glare at his back.

An indigo spark flickers down his spine.

"Stop glaring at me," he says. I glare at my feet.

He hovers at the keyport, his lower body still smoked in, then leans in, and looks back through the keyport to The Land Above for any signs of leftover essence. Blotches of honey color burst onto his skin, spread, and start taking over the swirling navy. He shrugs his shoulders and turns to me.

"You think I like this... honor?" His eyes flash turquoise, always the last to fade.

"Maybe," I look over his head, trying to figure out how to get around him so I can smoke into the keyport above his and go home.

He chuckles, and I back up a step. "Truthfully, I'm startin' to like it, it has its perks."

He moves towards me, and whispers, "Don't blink."

And then he smokes in completely. Not in stages, like the rest of us, but so quickly I never see his flesh fade. Just poof, and he's a cloud of blue smoke. I gasp and stumble back, then blink, despite myself. When I open my eyes his top half is already fully smoked out, again. His natural complexion overtakes the blue. What have they done to him?

"You never listen." He pushes me. Soft enough to show me he's playing. Hard enough to show me he's not.

"How–" I can't think.

"How did I smoke in so fast? I just told you, perks."

"Are you an Unusual?"

"Yes."

"When, how'd they choose you?"

"Because of you."

No matter what their abilities are, not all Snatchers are chosen to be Unusual Snatchers. My brother has that certain something that qualifies him.

His eyes drain of the unnatural color, and the dark brown left makes my heart hurt. He looks like my brother, now, and I want to ask him more, but I'm afraid. He'll be very precise.

He looks down the street, at people smoking into their doorways, transferring anywhere, except The Land Above. He smokes out slow, so more of them can leave. His eyes settle on the forehead of a little girl staring at him. Her face is flat, her eyes curious. When he meets her gaze, though, she starts shrieking. Her father tries to get her to focus so she can smoke into a keyport, but she's inconsolable. He peeps at my brother and his face pales. For a split second his bravery falters, and he glances at the keyport, wondering if he could live with himself if he left her. But then his courage returns and he hugs the little girl to him.

My brother's entire body is trembling. He looks down at his own smoke and grinds his teeth, willing the pain away. Not even an Unusual Snatcher can stay smoked in forever. He lets go, and pelvis, leg, and feet bones crack into place. When he touches the ground every keyport locks.

With his back to the door, he stands tall with a wide stance. He surveys the pickings, looking for the ripest person. People huddle on the ground, under dying trees, and in corners. Some are a mile away. None of it matters; no one can hide. Each person has an aura. A light that differs by small gradients. He's looking for the brightest. I look down at him, my heartbeat thudding, and know that I'm lucky he's my brother because he can't choose me.

Old memories of when we were young fill my mind. Playing in the portals, melding into each other and then racing against time to disentangle our essences. Painting my arm honey, and his leg cinnamon, then pretending to Mother that our essences had mixed. Talking long into the night about the transfers we'd make as soon as Mother lifted our ban.

I never thought I'd hate to see him coming.

I stare at him, staring at the little girl and her daddy. My brother looks tired, exhausted, like he doesn't remember what sleep is. His eyes never move from the father and child. He's made his choice.

He takes a step towards them, and I reach for his shoulder.

"Do you have to? She's–"

He shrugs me off, turns around, and puts his hand on my chest. I start panting, softly, then harder, as he slowly smokes in one of my lungs. When he's done it swirls around inside of me. Pain pounds in my chest. His eyes blaze an abnormal cobalt so intense my thoughts scatter.

I gasp, and the terror I tried to hold in explodes onto my face. He smiles and laughs, and tickles the border of my other lung.

"You sure you want to question my decision?" he says, pleasantly.

A scream boils up inside of me at his lilting tone. It's an odd Snatcher trait that means he's angry. He laughs again, a twinkling sound, loud and hard and long, and I know he's right on the edge of rage. Everyone behind him cowers as the sound echoes through the transfer station.

I shake my head, and he puts my lung back slower than he removed it. The scream that I was too afraid to scream rips through the station, and then I go silent. I hoard air, gulping it down like it's trying to escape, and wipe my running nose. My lungs burn from the dirty air.

"Don't be reckless," he says and pulls out the rod.

It's intricately carved with navy Snatcher script, and dipped in crystals, signifying an Unusual. Four feet long, the rod looks like nothing more than a thin pole. It glitters in the dim sunlight after he wipes it off. My brother heads in the girl's direction.

The other people watch and wait. Now that they know it isn't them, they chat without care or concern. Halfway there, the little girl runs up to him and pounds on him with her tiny fists. The rod makes a thin cut along her cheek. Her father limps behind, yelling for her to stop. We both freeze when my brother raises the rod above her.

"No!" she screams. "Not m–!"

He grabs her by the collar, and moves the rod to his other hand at nearly the same time, then lifts her up, and carries her to the man. She screams and kicks the entire way.

He shoves her into her father's arms. They hug once and she kisses the man's dusty cheek. When she clings to his neck my brother yanks her back to him.

"I love you, daddy," she sobs.

He raises the rod and slices through the air. The little girl screams.

I hate myself.

The man's face, full of love, begins to slide apart. My brother releases his tight grip on the girl, wipes the rod, and turns away. Each movement is precise and blurs with speed. He laughs, loudly. It's so high-pitched it sounds like a scream. He runs his hand down the length of the rod, and the crystals glow. With a flick, he whips the rod. It makes a cracking sound, flashes red with heat, and then stiffens. He turns back to the girl, sobbing in fetal position on the ground, and slices down. Silence. He turns towards me. His eyes are a whitish blue, like they've gone blind. Though his mouth is closed, I hear the high-pitched laugh screech through my head. It echoes, and I don't know how to stop it. Bits and pieces of the man, full of love, fall around the girl.

She howls.

He wipes the rod, then walks back to our door with a spring in his step. His skin is bright, his eyes are a sparkling sapphire. A natural side effect of a completed assignment. He doesn't look at me, just touches my shoulder. His hand shakes. The phantom ache of my missing arm lessens. He won't look back.

She howls, grabbing for her missing limb.

The blue fades from his eyes, and I see it. A tear. It spills over his lid, right from his haunted dark brown eyes. He swipes it away, glances high into the trees and then smokes into The Land Above.

_Because of you_ , he'd said.

I wish I could take it back. I wish I hadn't been so reckless. I should have listened. If I hadn't pushed against the side of the portal. If I hadn't screamed for him to save me, they would've never discovered he could control other people's smokes. They would've never discovered he could smoke in and out, wherever he wanted. They would have never known he was unusual.

My brother will be punished. He always is. For choosing the dimmer aura of the two, it'll be severe.

She howls. All alone. That's my fault, too.

The man's body begins to melt into the land. His pools of blood grow smaller and smaller. She screeches and soaks up some with her shirt, but none of him can be kept. Though she hugs her shirt to her body, it goes back to its original color as her father's blood turns into essence and melds with the air. A cauterized hole, with crystals coating it, is all that's left of one of her legs. She'll have no lingering pain.

When her father's all gone, and her leg has sunk into the earth, the trees blossom and plump fruit weigh down their branches. The animals' sickly color recedes, and they graze on luscious green grass. Sunlight pours through the clean air. People, like living skeletons, flock to the trees, picking fruit, and taking huge bites. The farmers gather their milking pails and fruit baskets. People rejoice, the fear of their own sacrifices the only lasting memory of today.

I look high into the trees, as my brother did. An apple hangs from the highest branch. Withered.

She howls, and no one cares. I move towards her and then stop. I won't be reckless.

### DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

1. If the younger brother was the Snatcher, how do you think this story would go?

2. Does the younger brother have the right to question his brother's decisions?

3. * Do you admire or disapprove of the main characters?

4. List some reasons the older brother allowed the girl and her father to say goodbye.

5. What do you think made the father worthy of being sacrificed?

6. Do you think the younger brother is a reliable narrator?

7. How do you think the story would go if the older brother was the narrator?

8. List some reasons the older brother may have qualified to be an Unusual Snatcher.

9. Which section resonated the most with you? The least? Why?

10. Who would you cast if this was a movie?

### WRITING TIP

**A** great way to draw your reader in is to give your characters a dilemma. Not only do they have to hurt someone, but that person has to be their best friend, or their mother, or sister.

Your book should have at least one major conflict of interest that is built upon throughout the book. Subplots can add back story to this major conflict and/or introduce smaller struggles that are related.

# 5 • Counting Cars

A five-star wanted level in Grand Theft Auto V (GTA V)  
from the police perspective.

Context: Grand Theft Auto V (GTA V) is a video game where players steal cars and go joy riding, among other things. It was created by Rockstar, a video game developer and publishing company.

"This doesn't make any damn sense. How are fifteen of us chasing this criminal and she's still getting away?"

Officer Kevin Lamont slams his fists onto the steering wheel. Every time he gets close to catching this car-stealing skank, he's thwarted. He wishes the creators of GTA V would level him up so he doesn't come off as an incompetent loser. While those fanatics behind their controllers gloat about getting away from the 5-0 even with their chase rating set at maximum, Officer Lamont seethes.

He can shoot a rabbit from 300 yards, drive a car like a professional racer, and track an unsub better than a basset hound can find a dying bird.

If his settings were set to maximum, all criminals would be apprehended.

How did he get sentenced to GTA V?

He knew the answer to that question, but he didn't want to think about it right now.

He blinks, and that bitch speeds past him. She's murdered fifty people, run over eighty other pedestrians, and stolen 132 cars. And that was just her criminal activity for this morning.

He revs the engine of his Interceptor, which could easily go above 180 mph, but it stalls out at 120 mph. A message appears on his windshield, telling him he isn't allowed to go any faster.

Fuck!

He picks up his two-way radio, and barks, "Scotts, corner her at The Generic Hotel. I'm almost there."

He makes a sharp U-turn, heading to the hotel from another direction.

The real shit of this assignment is that once in a while when they did catch the law-breaking son or daughter of a bitch, the gamer would just restart. Officer Lamont may live in a game, but the people who are murdered in this game don't just re-spawn. There's no restart for them. They're gone, forever.

He gulps down some coffee; it's sour from his grief. He needs to focus. He needs to catch her.

From the gamer's perspective, the bodies just disappear into thin air. Rockstar doesn't want those losers behind the controllers to have to ride through entrails and blood and brains. How real is that? In the gamer's world, bodies don't disappear. They rot and stink and bloat and lie there until someone cares enough to get rid of them. He hates hearing the gamer's joy when they run over an old person or a stripper.

No one gives two shits about a stripper. Or, apparently, an old person.

In his world, where do those bodies really go?

They go to the goddamn morgue, that's where.

The medical examiners can't keep up with the flow of decaying bodies coming in. Officer Lamont knew this because he once walked into that sterile death place and pictures of dead people's faces, or what was left of them, hung all over the room. The dead had names like Jane Doe #65. John Doe #100. Janey Stripper Doe #122.

#122.

***

Her face materializes in his mind. He didn't know she had gotten into that life. He didn't know _her life_ would be reduced to a number on a picture hanging from a clothesline.

Officer Lamont walked into the morgue to look at strangers and came out having identified his niece's body.

The medical examiners – young, but not new – laughed at the tramp stamp on her lower back. Carved into her skin was an ice cube sitting on a stove burner, set to high, with the sun blazing down on it. The text read, in serpentine script, "Too cool to melt."

It was beautiful. She'd been proud of it because it'd been her own design.

His niece's name was Meghan, not Jane. Her face was distorted from the light and the impact of the car. Her skin had gone gray, and her body was clad in nothing more than two strings and a handkerchief of fabric.

She was twenty and worked at Fantasy to pay for college, initially.

Officer Lamont refused to give her money because he knew she was on drugs. She'd begged him, saying it was for school while scratching her leg, her arm, and anywhere else that had that junkie itch. She'd said she was about to get kicked out, while twitching and trying to wipe her bleeding nose, discreetly.

She was on drugs. Hard drugs.

She was on a gurney, about to be put into a freezer while these weird death-obsessed douchebags laughed at her.

If he'd given her the fucking money...

If he'd checked on her more often...

Officer Lamont covered her nearly naked body with the sheet. One of the morgue guys laughed. Officer Lamont hit him with his gun. Right in his laughing mouth. The courts didn't laugh, though, and neither did his Captain. He got a much worse punishment than getting kicked off the force. He got assigned as a nameless idiot cop for GTA V.

He couldn't be dangerous, or effective because the game wouldn't let him. His skills went to waste behind the driver's seat of a car that was rigged to make him lose.

He couldn't even get out of the car until his shift was over or he busted someone.

He would spend the rest of his life fighting a game that rewarded the player for stealing cars, breaking shit, eluding the cops, having mindless sex, and murdering people.

Fuck.

***

Officer Lamont slams his fists onto the steering wheel, takes a deep breath, and watches the map, tracking the bitch in the cherry red Pegassi Osiris. He needs to catch her before she kills someone else.

He takes a left. Though he's going as fast as he's allowed, she's on a straight stretch, six streets away. Scotts will stop her. Officer Lamont's speed detection system shows she's got turbo and going 250 mph.

250 mph in a 55 zone!

In a year, he barely makes half of the 100k needed to buy the turbo and armor for that car, and here she is using it to terrorize the city.

She turns and ricochets off every car she can. Not concerned in the least about destroying a $1.95 million supercar with an insurance half his salary. Damn ill-begotten gains. He increases the volume on his siren and speeds up. With a trick he learned from a friend, he pushes his car to 130 mph.

This is the only hack that works on a regular basis, but he can't use it too often, or the programming will block it.

10 goddamn extra miles only helps a little.

A few minutes later he comes up behind her. She's stopped to watch a group of gigolos cross the street. A huge group. They cross streets in hordes. Office Lamont plans his move. Even though it would only seem like a few minutes to the gamer, in his world she'll spend a few weeks in prison.

Scotts slams into the side of her car. It rolls a couple of times and crashes into an L-shaped building. One perk of being an idiot cop is the mortality hack. Minimal damage. Officer Lamont jackknifes into the back, enjoying the sound of expensive car lights cracking. The player tries to back out, but Officer Lamont wedges her against the building.

Three seconds he has to hold her before she'll be sent to prison.

3... 2...

She turns. Scrapes the building. Anything to get unstuck. Scotts rams into her side again, and the car flips. She falls, crashing onto the roof. Not wearing a seatbelt, of course. Upside down, the gull-wing doors explode off to let her out. The left door pushes her car away from the building, nearly righting it. The right door shatters Scotts' windshield, but he shoves her car, making sure it doesn't flip right-side-up.

Office Lamont's colleagues pile on top and to the side of his car. Most of them are almost as good a driver as he is. It's their settings that cause them to respond this way. Luckily, Scotts had gotten there and delivered the first blow. Officer Lamont cringes, knowing how clumsy and stupid all of them look, crashing into each other.

She jumps out, but with so many of them surrounding her, guns at the ready, there's nowhere to run.

When the game says, "Busted!" he relaxes.

He watches the gamer's screen go black. She doesn't see what happens next. Doesn't care, either.

Officer Lamont gets out of his car and handcuffs the driver. She doesn't fight, just smirks, and says, "Your life sucks."

He tightens the handcuffs, so it hurts. Victory mixes with shame. Part of his anger, a tiny part, he'd tell you, is because she ruined a car he can only dream of driving. He glances back, the gull-wing doors have deep scrapes through the glossy red. Rocking slightly on their exteriors, they look like birds shot out of the sky. Scotts shakes his head, as he stares at the frog-eye headlight on the ground. Officer Lamont sighs and takes her to prison.

***

Later that day, when his shift is finally over, Officer Lamont sits at home. He stares at the cushion next to him. It's a muddle of colors. The designers never gave definition to his home. He thinks the couch may have polka-dots, but those might just be pixelation smudges.

Great, he has to sit on pixel shit stains.

He stares at his reflection in the large champagne glass. His features are blurred, distorted. But that's not because of the curvature of the glass. His face actually is a mass of human-colored blur. His nose is a tiny bit more than a blob, and his eyes are either black, brown, or orange.

Officer Lamont looks around. The rectangle in the corner may be a desk, but it could be a dining room table. Either way, it's in his living room.

He thinks about all the families he'll have to notify tomorrow.

All the children who will ask him when mommy or daddy is coming home.

All the times he'll have to say: "They're up in Heaven, now."

All the brothers and sisters, and mothers who will open the door, and he'll take off his hat with a somber look to deliver the horrific news.

All the people who'll look in his eyes, and know before he speaks what his words will be.

All the bodies he'll have to ask them to identify.

All the dental records that'll need to be combed.

All the tears.

_Too many._ He takes a long swig from his favorite sedation — black coffee and vodka.

It burns. Both from the heat of the coffee and the heat of the alcohol. It burns a hole through him.

When he's drained the large champagne glass, and the number 122 shimmers at the bottom, and he can't sit up straight, he lies on his stomach, buries his face in his pillow, and cries himself to sleep.

### DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

1. What was your favorite scene? Why?

2. Did the pacing help or hinder this story? List some reasons.

3. Have you read a story similar to this one? How were they similar?

4. Who would you cast if this was an audiobook?

5. Why do you think people continue doing the same thing even though it leads to the same outcome?

6. If we spent time as Officer Lamont, what do you think we'd appreciate?

7. What was your least favorite scene? Why?

8. Is the ending satisfying? Why/why not?

### WRITING TIPS

**P** lacing a world parallel to another can be achieved by making one realm dependent on another. By creating this mismatch of power it creates an underdog scenario, and the reader will want to see the "weaker" world triumph over the stronger one.

Spend some time thinking of all the power struggles that would occur if these two worlds were able to interact with each other.

**W** hen writing an action scene:

\- Use strong verbs

\- Check the placement of your characters

\- Sketch out object rotations and how those will affect the scene

\- Don't add impossible physics

Build your world with boundaries, impossibilities, and stick to them

**E** ven if it's just one sentence, mention when someone/something moves. Yes, that does include teleportation. ;)

# 6 • Death And His Sister

"Little brother, have some," she offers the cup to me.

I look down into it; a green, sizzling liquid sloshes gently near the rim. Smoke circles the top of the drink, not daring to rise any further. Even the smoke fears her wrath.

She no longer sheds the human shell with chubby-cheeked flesh. Though she is my sister, I have not seen her bones in centuries. Only her wings. White with black tips. Larger than my own. Her wings engulf her tiny body and nearly deafen as they flap to the surface. She skips along the human streets with wide green eyes.

Trust me, her gaze says. I so badly want to tell the humans not to. But that is not my place. My place is in my sister's shadow.

I had hoped when she sat down with one cup she would have some for herself, but no, this drink is for me.

What is in this beverage is known only to her. It may be the best taste I have ever experienced; sweet, with powdered maggots, or it may seep into my bones and cause agony for weeks.

I stare into her face; her right eye twitches with malice. We have different duties, she and I. She mingles with the humans, choosing many, trailing her hand along their faces, legs, arms, giving them a slow death. I follow after her, giving a quick death to those I am allowed. Fear replaces their smiles when I touch them. They shiver from cold, then clutch their chests, or collapse from an exploded artery in their brains. It is her job to make them beg for mercy and my job to deliver that mercy.

I lean into the low wall, away from her, with my wings spread wide. I try to hide the tremble that runs through them, but when she glances at my arm, protecting my heart, I am sure she knows my fear. I should not have tried to enjoy the sun, today. Another sun would have come tomorrow.

She leans forward, on the tips of her red ballerina shoes, and through sparkling baby teeth, says,

"Smile for the camera."

Perhaps I will look pensive in the photo, instead of terrified.

### DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

1. Do you think the voice helped or hindered the story? Debate both sides.

2. If the sister were the narrator, how do you think the story would go?

3. How did this story make you feel? What influenced this feeling?

4. Which elements would you change? Keep the same?

5. Could you relate to Death? His sister? How so?

### WRITING TIPS

**L** ook for twists.

Your reader's brain, especially the subconscious part, is constantly working to figure out what's going to happen next. As they read they're linking things together and searching for the patterns in your work.

Throw a twist, or three, in.

Your reader will appreciate it.

**T** o help your mind create meaningful connections, write ten possible courses of action or outcomes for your story.

# 7 • The Elected

Every job in the world is an elected position.

Every job.

Maxwell Monroe put on his suit. He straightened his tie and smoothed the wrinkles out of his lapel. He brushed his teeth for the second time that morning. He changed his suit, again.

Maxwell needed to look perfect if he was going to win the elections and become a dragon racer. There was a lot of competition — 52 other candidates. He stood in front of the mirror and practiced his speech.

"I swear to uphold the tradition of the dragon racers. To protect, cherish, and serve the dragons. I promise that, if elected, I will get bigger stables for the racers and their steeds. I will go to the Assembly of Wings and demand food ration increases for the pregnant dragonesses."

Hmm... he needed a word. A good word. Larger, huge, enormous? Yes, enormous food ration increases sounded better.

He went to the window and browsed the squat buildings. Few colors and designs greeted him. Spread throughout the country were tall buildings, mostly dragon perches. The skies didn't belong to the people, they belonged to the dragons. He heard it first. Wings beating. A dragon and its racer flew by. Near the ground. The window panes rattled when the beast flapped its wings. Maxwell bounced on his tippy toes, like a small child, while watching the magnificent creature.

He threw the windows open, as the racer turned around, then prodded the dragon high into the air. He watched as they climbed through the sky, its wings emitting fire with the increased effort. The smell of brimstone clouded the air. Maxwell sniffed deeply.

He slipped from the present and landed back in time.

***

He was thirteen years old and walking along the base of a volcano. He carried a locator stick, some netting, and wore a protective suit. He searched for wild dragon eggs. His great-grandpa, who was blind in one eye, told him that back in his day, a boy could find the rock-hard shells all throughout the lava, but now, after all the poaching and laboratory breeding, finding a wild-born was damn near impossible.

Maxwell took measured steps along the cooled gray lava, consulting his map every couple of feet. Carefully labeled, it tracked areas where he'd already searched. Red X's littered the paper. Each one signified his resilience.

This was his third summer of searching.

He walked further from the volcano until he reached a promising area. On his map, he'd drawn a blue circle. He pushed the locator stick into the surface next to him where the lava burned hot underneath. Steam puffed out of the hole. After scanning a ten-foot radius the pole beeped once. Nothing found.

He tried another spot. And another.

The day ended, and he found nothing.

He went out early in the morning and came home late at night for many more months.

Until the day the stick beeped twice.

Maxwell stood there while the beeps continued in three-second intervals. In disbelief, he listened for a full minute and bounced on the tips of his toes while shouting loudly.

After his initial excitement wore off, and he could think rationally again, he pulled the stick out and activated its built-in claw.

As he got closer to the dragon's exact location the number of beeps increased. When he was right above it, he heard a near-constant tone.

With his nerves screaming, he put the net into the lava. It unearthed the eight-inch-long egg that weighed five pounds and glowed bright orange. The dragon was a healthy temperature. As the shell cooled, it would turn red, then brownish-red, and then gray like the ground he stood on. When it reached that color, the dragon would die. Maxwell sat down to admire the egg.

He had two hours, thirty-four minutes, and seventeen seconds before he had to put it back. Unlike the lava flow, which would be hot for months, the baby dragon sucked in heat like quick sand. He cradled the baby until his arms grew tired, and then set it on the ground. Judging by the shell's rough texture, it would hatch in about three months.

He knocked on the egg. Though it was as hard as stone when touched by a human, he watched as the shell bowed out when the dragon kicked it. He stared as the imprint of three tiny toes faded. Patient.

His great-grandpa told Maxwell of his own impatience as a teenager. How he'd tried to crack the egg before its due date. How he'd beat it with a hammer and thrown it from a twenty-story window. The old man had laughed recounting the outcomes. After two hard whacks, the hammer had broken from its handle, flipped backward, and blinded him in one eye. And, after the shell left a large hole in the ground, his great-grandpa had been expelled from school for damaging property. He didn't get expelled just for breaking the sidewalk, though. This was one of many acts of mischief.

Maxwell whispered a lullaby and put the egg into the netting. When he placed it in the hole the blistering liquid quickly buried his precious find.

He hid its location even though he didn't have to. No one wanted a wild-born. They were "hard to train, stupid, ugly beasts that flew with no beauty".

Maxwell would prove everyone wrong. He'd make this dragon indistinguishable from lab-born ones. Unlike him, it would fit in.

Three months passed. Maxwell rose every day before the sun so he could catch the dragon's birth. The baby would hatch when the sun first appeared on the horizon, just like all the others before it. Though he wanted to, he never asked it to come out. He just waited. He went to bed, dreaming of fragile wings pushing to get out.

Two more weeks passed before the dragon was ready.

Maxwell took it out of the lava and set it on the ground. The shell had shed four layers and was now smooth. A small piece of the large egg jutted out and the wrist broke through. It would be a couple of hours before it fully hatched. He sat back. The shell went from bright orange to bright yellow as the dragon spewed fire from its entire body. A wing popped out. It was black with purplish-blue stripes and looked thin and sickly. He smiled. By the time the baby was done hatching the shell looked exhausted from holding it in. The tiny creature had a slim face, a smooth head, and three sets of wings. It was female. On both sides of her belly, three deep slices ran parallel to each other, like fence posts. Inside of the slices was a gossamer mesh that filtered out rocks. Though the mesh looked fragile, it could only be disturbed by another dragon. She was a Scaldion. Fast, intelligent, agile, and needing to bathe in heat more often than other dragons to stay healthy.

She looked at him with contempt, shivered, then rolled into the lava.

***

Maxwell spent much of his childhood with his dragon. Or maybe she spent much of her dragonhood with her human. Either way, when he tried to name her she answered to nothing. Like a cat, she came when she felt like it. Only once did she come when he called. He'd fallen and broken his ankle. She came immediately, fear and concern softening her demeanor.

After three years of coming every day, she allowed him to ride her. She wouldn't tolerate a saddle, so he rode in the groove between her shoulder blades. As the years went on she grew as large as he expected. But, he didn't grow as much as he'd hoped.

Her external wings had tough skin that could only be pierced by another dragon and spikes that he could climb. Her flight wings, in the middle, unfurled just an inch less than her external wings. He picked dead bugs from these wings. Once in a while, she'd allow Maxwell to touch her inner wings. They were closest to her, soft, and melded in and out of her skin to cover the slices on her abdomen so she would stay warm longer. Looking inside each slice, he saw streams of lava circulating around her organs, and smoke turning into a ball of fire before she burped. He was mesmerized.

***

It had been seven years since he found her. She was three years old, and he had just turned twenty. He spent as much time with her as possible, because she would outlive him by many years. Eventually, he had to remind himself she was wild-born. Her discipline was iron-clad, and she looked identical to lab-born Scaldions.

In a few months, he would enroll her in the Dragon Conservatory. They didn't check pedigree, just assumed all dragons were lab-born. At times, she still sneered, but her attitude would be an advantage. She would be used for intimidation.

There was one lingering problem. Because of his lack of height and her large size, he would only be allowed to visit her if he became a dragon racer. The Conservatory had strict policies on incompatible humans.

***

In the present, Maxwell blinked as ashes drifted down onto the streets. He watched as the racer guided the dragon through whips, curves, 360-degree turns, dips, and pirouettes. Finally, the racer prompted the creature to dive.

Maxwell closed his eyes and pretended he was the racer. He sat on the back of the majestic creature and plummeted to the ground in a cloud of adrenaline and daring. He pitched forward, the sky disappeared behind him as he neared the ground. He opened his eyes.

The dragon's tail left a trail of fire as it worked double time to control the complicated spiraled dive. It was beautiful. Flawless.

Nine feet from the ground, the racer pulled up on the reins. The dragon stopped short, touched ground, and then rebounded in the air. Each powerful flap of its wings sent bursts of flames from its wingtips.

After they reached a certain height, the racer loosened her hold on the reins, closed her eyes, and let the dragon steer. Other dragons joined it, and Maxwell watched as the flight made a perfect V-shape. The lead dragon began a complex sequence. Pushed the others to their limits. They swooped, rotated, changed directions in ways that no human could force them to do. They went under one another, over, and in seemingly random fashion. With only a hint from the lead and small growls, they flew as one. Only in a flight would the dragons show their true abilities.

It was splendid, and he was entranced.

When they were out of sight, Maxwell flipped through the D–F candidate manual. It was four inches thick, and 250 pages long. Each applicant had a short blurb that outlined their future contribution to society. This was the vote that really counted. Many people had lost because of low numbers in this area. He sent one last Chirp to his followers. He hoped he'd gained enough popularity to be elected.

Maxwell lived five minutes from the Assembly of Choice. The elections began in two hours, but he wanted to be early. He brushed his teeth a third time and then left his home.

At the marble building that encompassed acres, Maxwell took a deep breath. He leaned on the arched doorway, straightened his tie, and walked confidently into the room.

The cameras were already on. He knew he had made a wise decision to come early. He smiled and waved, silently mouthing "Hello" to the crowds that were watching from their homes.

An hour passed. Other candidates poured in.

By the time the elections were to start, every seat was full.

Elections would start at Z and go to A.

Maxwell sat in the chair, looking relaxed while he sweated pit stains into his light blue top. He didn't worry, though, the black suit jacket covered his anxiety.

He watched various debates between Zoologists and between musicians. The Zoologists debated the merit of corn feed versus hay feed for horse's behavior. The musicians debated other things.

He came to attention when the garbage collector candidates stepped onto the podium. They always put on an interesting show.

There were 16 candidates on the ballot.

The first one, Margaret Angelo, stepped onto the stage in a pristine dark gray suit. She began her speech:

"The other candidates will tell you they'll keep your streets clean. They'll tell you that your privacy will be maintained, and all other manner of lies. But I'm here to tell you that I'll fight for your sanitation needs. I'll implement self-cleansing garbage cans, industrial-sized paper shredders on every block, and free junk hauls."

Margaret signaled someone in the back. That person brought out an extremely foul-smelling garbage can. Maxwell's garbage did not smell that bad.

"I designed it, myself. The world's first self-tying, self-cleansing waste can." She paused dramatically. "Warning: Bag must be removed before cleaning."

Some of the crowd laughed. All of them, including Maxwell, held their noses, and groaned, as the smell took over the large space.

"This is what your home will smell like with the other candidates," she said.

Maxwell laughed, silently. She knew how to keep your attention. He'd choose her.

She put the lid on, and the can whirred. When she lifted the lid, the bag was tied, and its exterior clean. After removing the bag, and replacing the lid, she pressed a button. In five seconds the smell had disappeared from the room. It was replaced by vanilla and a hint of pine. She lifted the lid and tipped the waste can so they could see inside. It was spotless.

"This is what your home will smell like with me!"

He breathed in the scent, never knowing these two made such a good combination.

The audience erupted in applause. She was a shoo-in.

The voting remote sat on his lap. He picked it up. It had one display and two buttons in the shape of an inverted triangle.

The display read, "Voter MMonroe9, Candidate MAngelo16".

The other two buttons just read "Yes" and "No".

Maxwell chose "Yes".

If she could clear the room of that stench in five seconds, she'd make an excellent garbage collector.

He would choose "Yes" for many candidates in the same category. The elected was chosen by a combination of two different averages.

Maxwell continued to sweat into his shirt. Every 10 minutes, he peeked at the board that showed who was next. Dragon racing candidates would be in 40 minutes.

After Fencing students, Faith healers, Ergonomists, Elephant trainers, and a whole slew of other jobs ranging from the everyday to the extraordinary.

He nearly fell asleep during the fencing presentation. The students were beginners and touched clumsily. The one that got elected had a prosthetic leg. He was the most coordinated.

Finally, it was Maxwell's turn to go to the podium. As he walked to the stage, he rehearsed his speech in his head.

"... enormous ration increases... "

There were 53 candidates, and only 20 would be chosen. The Dragon racing elections lasted a week.

Maxwell had applied 14 times.

Nearly 35, this was his last chance to see his dragon.

He stepped onto the podium. His jacket fit his body, perfectly. The crowd's eyes, and the hot lights, bore into him. He drank a sip of water to wet his dry throat. 14 years of preparation, he was ready to win this time. He gave his speech, pausing at the right times, eliciting laughs, sympathy, and empathy.

He told them all the ways he would improve the lives of dragons and showed them his ideas for tactical methods of racing.

The crowd nodded and became excited at the possibility of beating their rival to the South, Howardton. For years, Howardton had won the races. With victory came control of imports and exports. Like Maxwell, the citizens tired of being finches in the skies of commerce.

He finished with a full-tooth smile that hurt his cheeks, and then went home and sketched out some new racing maps. He paced back and forth, pulling at the hairs on his eyebrows.

Last chance.

His dragon had excelled at the Dragon Conservatory, quickly becoming a lead. She was the strongest, most intelligent steed they'd come across. No one suspected she was wild-born.

If he lost, would he ever get the chance to say goodbye?

Every day, after work, he went to the fields and watched the local competitions. From first trial to the winner, he sat there for hours, envisioning himself atop a dragon, battling for his country's glory.

At the end of each day, he watched TV, looking for any nuance racers used to win. He wrote down every new strategy he found, while he waited for the phone call that would summon him to the Assembly of Choice.

It was January 3rd when he got the call. That was the usual date the call came in. He'd been standing by the phone for three hours.

"Maxwell Monroe, please report to the Assembly of Choice, today, 2 pm."

The person's voice on the other end of the line was polite and businesslike; it gave no hints as to whether Maxwell had been elected or not.

He didn't go early to the announcements. It looked bad to arrive early, like he was desperate for validation. Maxwell forced himself to take a nap for a few hours then walked slowly to the building. The other candidates also walked slowly. He'd changed three times and brushed his teeth four times.

Twenty names were called, but unlike Margaret Angelo, the charismatic garbage collector, he wasn't one of them.

The people wanted him to continue as a Dragon Trainer. Running for Dragon Racer automatically put him on the Dragon Trainer ballot. This career was for those who possessed the utmost competence, emotional well-being, and flexibility. Dragon Trainer, a coveted position, was one he did not want. He hid his dismay and accepted the position with composure. Tomorrow, after 14 years, he would finally be branded with the crest. As Dragon Trainer of the Scaldions he would wrangle the tiny, hot-tempered hatchlings, but not his own. She no longer needed intensive training.

Maxwell was heart-broken, but acted his part, well. He straightened his tie and stood confidently on the stage.

To his right were those elected to be Dragon Racers. He wished Mark Jayser hadn't been chosen.

Maxwell hated that guy.

### DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

1. Do you think the author constructed this world well?

2. Were there any parts that seemed too long or short? How did they affect your experience?

3. What would be some reasons you may root against Maxwell?

4. How would you write this differently?

5. List some of the advantages and disadvantages of using election as a hiring process.

6. * Do any characters remind you of people you know?

### WRITING TIPS

**A** ction scenes must be visual. They should flow like a movie in the reader's mind. When writing these scenes, try to play a video in your head, or imagine watching TV, then write words describing what is happening in the film.

**P** retending the reader is blind helps you remember to describe body language.

# 8 • Gloria After Jack

Gloria leaves her home in Seattle to find Jack in Italy. What is the relationship between Gloria and Jack?

Gloria pulls the last weeds from the cold ground. His name is etched into the gray stone, "Damien Scott Masters." Her boyfriend. Dead at 23.

It wasn't sudden. He had been dying before she met him, five years ago. She kisses the cramped script on his headstone. It's his handwriting. He'd chiseled the letters into the gravestone when he was first diagnosed, knowing he wouldn't have the strength later. Gloria settles back on her haunches and stares at the epigraph, "I am yours."

He wrote this before they'd met, so everyone would know he'd always be with them. His mother, father. Her. The wind carries the wilted flower from her hand.

" _Jack be nimble," Gloria hears._

The voice is young and not her older brother, Jack's. Is something wrong him? She looks around the cemetery. A little boy's looping in and out of the gravestones. His straight black hair hangs to the middle of his back. He turns around, towards her, his skin redder in the sun, and says, "Jack be nimble." His shirt has a purple stain from a Popsicle. She smiles at him. He looks like Damien. Maybe a cousin?

He's just singing a song. Jack is fine and has been fine for a year and a half. The boy smiles back at her. A purple ring surrounds his mouth. He runs to the southern section, and she doesn't see him return. He's probably visiting other family members.

Gloria keeps all of the flowers so she gets up to look for the wilted one. Twenty minutes later she finds it trapped in a crevice of a tree. When she picks it up, she hears the boy, again:

" _Jack be quick."_

Gloria looks towards the southern section. When she turns towards the mausoleum, there he is. He stares up at her and wipes his mouth. The purple stain fades.

She screams, stumbles over a headstone hidden in overgrowth, and falls to the ground.

" _Jack be quick," the boy says, standing over her. He has a light purple birthmark, shaped like a cobra's head, on his upper lip._

Gloria shakes her head, crab walks backward, and then whispers,

" _Damien?"_

The boy disappears. She sobs.

***

Jack opened his eyes. His covers were wrapped tightly around him. The nightmare swirled in his head. Thimble, nimble, symbol. A nimble. Yes, Jack must find him.

Dame, Damsel, yes, Damien was out there. He'd make Gloria happy.

Jack needed to stop the tears, or she'd drown.

Momma said lock her away, no, bard, card, no. NO! Guard, yes, guard her. Always protect the baby sister.

Jack peeked out of the dark curtains of his apartment that hid him from the world. Hid him from the cameras. The Space Needle in the middle of Seattle loomed above him. It had 300 cameras built into the three metal legs, and 150 built into the illuminated mushroom-shaped top. People rode the elevator all day long, snapped pictures and took video, tried to zoom into Jack's luxury studio. Jack turned away from the window, and stepped on the shards of glass from the mirrors, turned face down, so the cameras couldn't catch Jack's reflection. He glanced once more towards the window and shivered. THEY watched him. THEY always watched.

The pizza sat on Jack's bed, bubbling with white, squirming, baby flies. Small pieces of Jack's cellphone sat next to the pizza. Jack needed to leave his room. He needed to find the damsel, the Damien. The flies buzzed around the room, they emitted that comforting noise Jack knew blocked out the camera's microphones. He headed for the door.

"Shoezzzz," a fly said near Jack's ear.

From around the room, other flies started to repeat it. "Shoezzzz, shoezzzz, shoezzzz."

Quickly, their nasally voices overlapped each other. Some of them shouted at Jack. He covered his ears with his hands and shushed them.

"Okay, okay," Jack put on his shoes.

"Pizza," the baby flies called, and Jack started toward his bed. But, Jack hated this pizza. Jack walked out the door. Red dots from the camera's eyes littered the walls. Jack stepped back through the door and closed it. He took gasping breaths and tried to find a better idea somewhere in his brain.

"Okay, okay," Jack said. Only some of the cameras have night vision. Jack would leave in the dark. Jack would find the damsel.

For Gloria.

***

Gloria sat at work. Her brain was numb with grief. She went through her everyday routine.

Smile. Type. Sell insurance.

Smile. Type. Sell insurance.

Though her job was demanding she was the best at it. But, she had little enjoyment since Damien's death. Though she knew he was dying, not having him here hit her harder than she thought it would. He had prepared her, forced her to go to morgues and see autopsies. He was morbid, and she loved him for his acceptance of death. Truthfully, she just loved him. She loved the way he wore a monocle, rather than glasses because only one of his eyes was weak. She loved the way he always gave compliments. She loved his soft, tomato-colored skin against her own fudge-colored skin. She loved his undying spirit. She loved Damien Scott Masters. Maybe more now that he was gone. Reflecting on how much she loved him felt like she loved him more.

Even after six months of knowing he was never coming back, she still opened her email and typed his name in the recipient box, only to erase it and type someone else's. Someone who was alive and could receive her message.

Like Jack. Gloria got lucky with Jack. He took Damien's death well. He didn't relapse. He stayed on his meds. He had no paranoia and heard no voices. She called Jack at 8 a.m., every Saturday, to check in. To make sure his engineering job wasn't too stressful. To make sure he was eating. To make sure he was still with her. Just like Momma and Daddy had done. She looked for small signs that the illness was coming back, but her brother was good at hiding the earlier symptoms. Especially from her. She hoped she hadn't missed any.

Small miracles. Right now, all Gloria asked for was small miracles. Her brother taking his medicine every day, on his own, was one of them.

It was Friday, and Gloria thought about Damien. She needed to think about someone else.

She couldn't think about anyone else.

***

It was dark and Jack didn't know what time it was. He just knew it was time to go. His cellphone reported his every move, so he broke it.

"Jack sat up in bed," the phone said.

"Jack put his right foot on the floor," the phone said.

On and on, all day, it tracked him. Told him it had a camera and was recording him. Jack tried not to break it because he knew Gloria would call tomorrow, but it watched him and told everyone what he was doing. Where he was going. The phone threatened to call Gloria and tell her he wasn't doing well. It would lie to Gloria. Jack was taking his medicine every day. He picked up the first green pill bottle with the white cap, and then the second bottle. He pulled the pills onto his bed and counted. The first had fifteen pills left of thirty and the second, which he had to take twice a day, had thirty yellow tablets. If he was gonna find the Damien he needed to be well. He put both bottles in his book bag.

Static still crackled from the phone, even though Jack had ripped out all the large pieces and thrown them in different parts of the room. He turned to his right. Scuttling sounds came from the cage. Was it another camera?

"Wennnndy," the flies said. "Wennnndy."

Right, Wendy. His pet rat.

Jack ran out of food for her, so he put a slice of pizza in her cage. Wendy nibbled on it for a while, and then Jack put her in his pocket. She snuggled into a ball there.

Jack opened the door to his apartment with his cover over his head. The blanket was thick, expensive, and a gift from Gloria. Jack walked down the hallway, passing other apartment doors. He turned off the lights as he went. The other residents would be safer in the dark. After getting through the hallway, and down the stairs, Jack removed the cover from his head. He walked outside with it clutched in his hands.

If he was going to get anywhere he couldn't carry the heavy blanket with him. A homeless woman asked for some change and he gave her the blanket and a few dollars from his pocket.

"Thank you. God is watching you, sweetie. He will send blessings your way," she said.

That's what Jack was afraid of. God watching him. The Damien, Gloria, THEM watching him.

The woman spoke like the women from Jack's neighborhood. Formal and precise. He looked at her face. She wasn't much older than him. Why was she out here?

Maybe she was looking for someone like Jack was.

"Money, money." The little bird chirped below him after it had eaten a few crumbs.

"Money!" It whistled when it spoke. The bird sang about buying genuine bread crumbs.

"Okay, okay," Jack said.

Why did birds sing so much?

Jack patted his pocket. There was a bulge of cash. He didn't remember putting the money there, but real money was a good idea. Cash was safe, cash didn't have a chip that could track him.

"Who are you talking to, sweetie?" The homeless woman asked.

"The bird. He's helping me find the damsel."

She stepped away from him an inch, then looked to the Heavens, and said, "God is watching you. I know He is. Stay safe, honey."

She left him alone.

He turned around, ready to run back inside, but then he saw his sister's face in his mind.

She had cried a river of tears and then fallen in. Her nose dipped above and below the salty water. Her mouth gasped for air.

Jack must go back to where they'd gone as children. Jack must go to Italy. That's where the Damsel was.

***

It was Saturday, 8 a.m., Gloria called Jack. He always picked up on the first ring. That's one reason she loved her brother. When he could be, he was there when she needed him.

Brrngg!

She smiled, ready to hear his voice.

Brrngg!

Her smile fell. The second ring.

Gloria hung up the phone. Something was wrong. She must have missed the signs.

How bad was he? Where was Jack?

He couldn't have gotten that far. Maybe he hadn't left...

She locked her doors, jumped in her car, and rushed over to his apartment.

Black curtains hung on the windows. This was the only sign she needed. Jack was doing badly and she hadn't seen any of the warnings. She'd been too wrapped up in Damien's death. She ran up the stairs, wanting to call Jack's name, but knowing this would freak him out. He'd think she'd been spying on him. She opened the door with the emergency key and crept in. The stench hit her first. Death. Oh God, no.

He hadn't, had he?

Sometimes, things in his mind got so much, he had tried once before...

She steeled herself and walked further in. Broken shards of glass littered the floor, all turned over. She ran into the bathroom, then the kitchen, calling his name, no longer afraid to scare him.

Where was he?

Gloria opened the curtains. Light poured in. Pieces of his cellphone were all over the place.

He had tried to keep the phone. She knew he had tried.

She went to Wendy's cage. It was Wendy. The smell was coming from her. Jack's rat was dead in her cage. Skeletal and stinking. Gloria looked around. Where was Wendy's head?

Feeling sick, Gloria disposed of Wendy's remains. She looked for her skull but didn't find it. Jack's meds were on his night stand. She opened the bottles, poured the pills on his bed, and counted. Thirty in one, sixty in the other. He'd stopped taking his medication a month ago.

How did she miss that?

What kind of sister was she?

She placed the pill bottles back in the empty circles outlined with dust and took some deep, smelly, breaths. She touched as little as possible. Moving things could mess up the police investigation. She left the door open to let the flies and smell out, took some pictures, then left the rest there, and locked Jack's door.

He'd left no sign of where he'd gone, but she had some ideas. People with his condition went to places they'd been before. Unfortunately, her family traveled a lot.

In her car, she called the police and filed a missing person report. Long ago she'd learned there was no 24-hour waiting period. After telling them all about her brother's history, they placed Jack in the at-risk adult category and began the search. She called work and requested a week off, and then headed to the station with recent pictures of her brother. Fear pulsated in her chest and all the way down to her knees. Gloria sat on her heart.

She didn't have much time before Jack would be unreachable. Physically and mentally.

***

Jack's plane landed in Italy. The ants helped him get there. They were very polite. He walked into the airport, collected his stuff from baggage claim, and then put on his jacket. The smell of garlic hit him, and then the smell of wine. A small Italian bakery was open, to his right.

Jack walked outside in dark glasses that shielded him from the camera's lens. He'd put semi-transparent tape on the bridge and sides of the glasses – so the cameras would reflect off the tape – and wore a hat so THEY wouldn't know it was him.

"A room, stupid," a squirrel told him as it scampered past. Unfortunately, he knew enough Italian to understand it.

"You need a room, idiot! C'mon, think!" another squirrel said.

Jack sighed and hoped all the squirrels in Italy weren't rude. There were tons of them.

One squirrel cocked its head, and Jack saw a camera peeking out of its neck. It came closer to him. Its eyes flashed red. He turned away right before the shutter clicked. THEY got a picture of his back.

He ran away. That squirrel was black with a white line of fur bordering its tail. Those ones were the spies. Jack looked around. There were tons of spying squirrels. THEY had planted them everywhere.

THEY, THEY, THEY. Why were THEY always following him?

Jack counted, mapped out the squirrels. With both hands, he grabbed his hair and pulled it when the number reached 30, and he lost count.

"Do you need help? Are you lost?" An old man asked. His Italian was slow but clear.

Jack stared at the man's neck, then his eyes. Did he have cameras in him? Had THEY sent him to get Jack?

Jack reached into his pocket. The thick scars that crisscrossed his right wrist rubbed against the fabric and sent prickles of pain up his arm. Wendy'd nestled into a tinier than usual ball in the warmth of his jacket but consented to be taken out.

He stepped away from the man, and loud-whispered, "Wendy, is he after me?"

***

First, Gloria went to Jack's job. Maybe he'd hidden somewhere in the building. Again. After she searched the areas Jack had access to, Gloria walked to row E, section 40. The pale lime green walls reminded her of the last place he'd been in during his sixteenth hospital stay. She shivered, hoping he wouldn't get that bad, again, and turned the corner. Jack was one of five structural engineers, and his cubicle was pristine. His supervisor, Laura, was committed to hiring people with disabilities and knew about his condition, so Gloria spoke with her after finding his cubicle empty.

"He's missing." Gloria tried to keep the panic out of her voice, but she could tell some pushed through.

"It'll be all right, Gloria. We'll find him." Laura's patient voice calmed her.

Gloria nodded and took deep breaths. They always did find Jack.

"Remember the last time he went missing?" Laura had a knowing smirk on her face.

"Yeah, he thought he had gone to space."

"But where was he, really?"

"He was in the park ten blocks from his apartment, with his eyes closed."

They laughed. Gloria had found Jack in the playground tunnels, muttering all the commands of the astronauts. He kept saying the gravity seemed heavy. Later on, he told her he wore glasses with tape on them, and a hat, to hide from the cameras that littered the spaceship.

Every time Gloria talked to Laura she felt better. Laura would help her find Jack.

"When was the last time Jack came to work?"

"About a month ago," Laura answered. "He said you were going on vacation to... get away from everything. Even gave me a signed note."

Gloria shook her head, speechless. They hadn't gone anywhere. Laura pulled out a note, in Gloria's handwriting. Signed by Gloria. She snatched it from Laura and skimmed the text. Stupid. Of course, Jack could copy her handwriting.

He was getting ill, and looking for isolation. Jack's need for isolation, with the voices and paranoia, made everything so much harder to handle.

Gloria's eyelid twitched. It would be twitching until she found Jack.

"We'll find him." Laura patted her hand.

Gloria needed some distraction. She opted for idle chit-chat.

"How's he been doing at work?"

"Great. When he's well, he's one of my top engineers." Laura smiled. The smile didn't have any pity in it, just stubbornness and determination.

"The bob looks great. Did you go to Paul's on 4th?"

Laura nodded and primped her shoulder-length hair. Her eyes never left Gloria's face.

They would find Jack. Before he hurt himself or someone else.

At least Gloria hoped.

She got up and thanked Laura.

"You have my number?"

"Burned into my brain. I'll call you if I hear anything."

They hugged, and then Gloria walked out of Jack's building. She sat down on the curb to think.

***

After walking 10 miles, Jack pulled out crumpled notes and put them on the counter.

"One room, please. A week," he said, in halting Italian. This hotel served free breakfast. The woman counted the money, laughed, and pushed it back to him, speaking in rapid Italian.

"18 euros. No... charity..." she motioned for him to give her more money or get out. He picked up the notes, certain she was playing a joke on him. He counted them again. 20 euro notes, 18 of them. And then handed them to her a second time.

"I have enough. 360 euros."

She shook her head, no longer laughing. "It is 18-"

"I have enough! I can count, I'm an engineer!" Jack shouted, then quieted down. It was bad to yell at a woman.

She shook her head, silent.

"I'm an engineer. I am." He pushed the money closer to her and she stumbled back into the keys behind her. They fell onto the floor, clanging loudly.

Why wouldn't she accept his money?

"You're wrong. You don't have enough." His shouting must've woken Wendy.

"You sure?" He asked her.

"Uh, yeah."

He grabbed the notes and stared hard at them. The numbers shimmered, 20, 1, 20, 1, then stood still. 1 euro, 18 of them.

He could've sworn these were twenties. Had the woman stolen them?

"You stole my money?" He asked her. "Huh? Did you? I can count, I'm an engineer."

For some reason, reminding her he was an engineer verified something about him. But, he didn't know what.

She shook her head, still silent.

He crumpled the bills in a tight fist.

"She didn't steal your money," Wendy said. "Like I said, you're wrong. Get off her case."

He looked around the lobby. Cameras popped up like vampires from their coffins.

"I'm, I'm sorry." He stuffed the notes back in his jacket pocket. His hand touched plastic. He pulled out his credit card.

Had he brought this? It had a chip in it, didn't it? The chip was electronic. The chip had a microphone. He looked at the woman once more. Silver, metallic tears streamed down her face. She blinked and her eyes made a sound like a camera shutter, catching his back as he ran.

He threw the card in the flowerpot at the entrance of the hotel. No, no, no, the Damien tight, light, might, might pass him. He needed a place to sleep. Outside, yes. Outside, in the woods, had fewer cameras. He was pretty sure THEY weren't watching him from the trees. But maybe...

"Not watching from the trees. We checked Jackson." An ant said. The other ants agreed.

Though they sometimes spoke in fragments and called him by his full name, Jack trusted the ants. They'd helped him get here.

The ants gave him directions to woods that were hard to find. They helped him get to the deepest part of the woods. Jack shook his head, took a sip from the bottle in his backpack and popped two pills in his mouth. He needed to stay healthy to find the damsel. Jack stashed his tiny backpack in a large tree hole, then fed Wendy some berries. A few feet from that tree were smaller trees, about 10 feet high. Each had dense leaves, no dead branches or oozing liquid, and gnarled trunks. Good for building a makeshift treehouse. Not a real one.

He laughed.

Jack grabbed a stick and began sketching a blueprint into the dirt. Large, ANSI D. He enjoyed calculating all of the dimensions, even on a tiny project like this. Jack chatted with the ants as he worked. They assured him the cameras were far away. Jack began with a title block, then the grid system. When that was complete he made the revision block, legend, and his favorite part, the drawings. Moving a couple steps to the right, he drew the exterior elevations. Four sides. The front, rear, right, and left, drawn to 1/4" = 1'-0" scale. Third, the floor plan. One room and an eating area. He skipped the electrical elements but added floor joists. The bad squirrels might leave him alone with those. Jack added everything he might need to the Bill of Materials. A shovel, for sure, to dig a cathole. The ants gave him advice on places the Damien might be and the birds told him where to find maps. Many hours later, he had a small studio made from trees. Two feet off the ground, he stepped into his room, away from the bad squirrels, and closed the thick curtain of leaves. His room went dark and Jack was pretty sure he was safe from the cameras.

He lay on the hammock, silent, in case the microphones were listening. Jack shouldn't have yelled at that woman, even if she was a spy. He turned on his stomach. What was Gloria doing? Was she crying? He figured she was. He would help her. The sun went down and Jack drifted to sleep, seeing the smile on Gloria's face when he brought the Damsel back to her. When he woke, he checked on Wendy. She was quieter than usual. Probably scared of the new country. After he comforted her, Jack went exploring. With his dark glasses and hat, he felt calm. Only the squirrels worried him. When he reached the dirt road, he etched Gloria's nickname in a tree at the edge. The ants helped him get back.

From the little road with red dirt, go straight into the woods for two miles, then left for half a mile, then right for another two miles. As he walked, he carved the made-up alphabet they had created when they were children into the trees.

Only an hour and a half walk, his new home would be easy to find.

Later, Jack left the woods to go find the damsel. He would bring the Damien home and save Gloria.

He added tape to his glasses and pulled his hat low. Jack avoided people, and hid from the cameras in many doorways, as he searched Italy.

***

It had been a week. The police hadn't found Jack. Gloria'd taken flights to two of the most likely places, put up posters, and given her number and a picture of Jack to anyone who'd listen. Back in Seattle, Gloria called news stations and had gotten a local one to give her some air time. She begged for information and offered a reward. She received tons of false leads. At night, Gloria cried. For Jack. For Damien. With Jack gone, she missed Damien even more. With Damien gone, she missed Jack even more. She'd cried so many tears anchors of skin hung from her eyes.

To get some relief, she went out with Jack's supervisor, Laura. Sometimes. Like today. It was Saturday and she sat in the pizza palace with Laura, thinking about where her brother might be.

"Gloria, this is ridiculous. You have to eat something. Drink something. Do something for you. If you die because Jack is missing, how're you going to find him?" Laura had a point. To emphasize it, she pushed a slice of cheese pizza towards Gloria, who nodded, picked up the slice and took a small bite. It was good. So good. She took a larger bite. Her chair fell over, landed with a loud bang, and slid across the floor when she suddenly stood up.

Pizza! There'd been pizza in Jack's apartment. From Antonio's. Jack hated their "authentic" pizza. If he was eating it, he, he was leaving her a sign.

Jack was in Italy.

It was odd, but she was certain. Jack was in Italy. Somewhere. They'd gone there for a month when she was seven and he was ten.

"Pizza, Laura, pizza!"

Laura stared at Gloria, then said, "I know, it's good." She smiled, softly, then motioned for her to elaborate.

"Jack's in Italy." Gloria spat out.

"Okay, Jack's in Italy. Did'ja have to throw a chair?" A man grumbled.

Laura glared at the man, then took a breath and grabbed the entire box of pizza. They high-fived, and Laura took Gloria to the airport.

Gloria nibbled slowly.

What was Jack doing in Italy?

Would she be able to find him?

***

Jack was filthy. He'd stopped changing his clothes and only ate the berries the ants told him were safe to eat. Blue berries with red insides that hadn't been touched by squirrels. Jack was thin; his skin was pale like frost-bitten milk chocolate frosting, and his mind had grown fuzzy from lack of sleep. Jack rarely left his home in the woods, now. The ants told him THEY'd used the woodpeckers to put cameras in the trees a mile away. He hadn't found the damsel. Yesterday, he'd ventured out to a school, and seen one boy that looked like the Damien. But he had no cobra on his upper lip.

At night, he tossed and turned. The bugs crawled into his covers. The cold crept into his bones. The brown squirrels tried to get in. When they couldn't, they cursed him and called him useless.

The nightmares had gotten worse.

He dreamed Gloria's eyes were huge circles and each tear was like a shallow lake. When a tear fell from her face, she would stand in water that reached her ankles. When the next fell, the water would be up to her calves. The boy, Damien, tried to save her, but he was small and grew weaker and weaker. Jack could only watch. Jack never had a body in his dreams, just eyes. Gloria disappeared under the water many times, then reappeared. Jack watched her drown. Over and over again.

Where was the damsel?

Maybe the Damien was hurt?

If he was hurt, Gloria'd never be happy.

Jack crawled from his room and put the glasses on. The tape on the lens was so thick now his vision was blurred. He put his hat on and fed Wendy after the ants reminded him. He was out of water, but took a pill, anyway. When a whirring noise sounded behind him, Jack ran away.

Jack would never stop looking. Jack was the big brother. Jack had to protect the baby sister from her sadness.

### DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

1. What was your first impression? What influenced it?

2. * Why might the author have chosen to tell the story the way she did?

3. * Did you find the plot predictable? The characters?

4. In what ways did Gloria depend on Jack? On Damien?

5. How was this story structured? Did the structure help or hinder your experience?

6. In what ways did Jack depend on Gloria?

7. * What passage struck you as insightful?

8. How would you write the characters differently? The same?

9. If this were a movie, who would you cast? Why?

### WRITING TIPS

**G** rief can be hard to write. It's easier if you think of a depressing moment in your life and cry. While sobbing, focus on your body's reaction. Focus on the scattering of your thoughts as your emotions take over. Write both the body and the mind's reaction.

Try to capture how the soul feels when it's breaking because you so badly miss someone/something you loved.

**G** ive your grieving characters other people, or hobbies, to lean on. Isolation can lead to a slow story. And stunted character growth.

# 9 • And Down Will Come

Write the aftermath of a crisis.

Feathers. Bones.

A body. So heavy. Saturated with mass and grounded to this wasteland by an infinite skeleton. I blink, red veins make pink worms in my vision. Twisted limbs, the limbs of my brothers and sisters. And my own. There is no pain. Not yet.

I feel...

Weak.

Tired.

With the pain, death will come.

And after the deaths, we will be–

Ah! There it is, I think.

Is this what pain feels like?

Grinding, aching, screaming miserable pain.

Ahhh!

I had the words. Stunning words to describe everything, but they are fading in the limitations of this imperfect brain.

My shattered arm cries, reaching out to its shards thrown in so many directions.

Shouting.

Not me. A sister, a brother? I cannot tell any longer.

On my left, feathers, white like the galaxy's horizon, now slathered in the deep-red blood of another.

On my right, feathers, black as a crater in shadow, glistening with the life of a hemorrhaging heart.

What did we do, Father?

We only tried to love you. To worship you.

The sky sits on me and looms above me still. Mocking, retributive. Avenging the many hours I sat on it, stomped on it, murdered on it.

The pain intensifies.

God!

This field of shriveled vegetation goes silent.

Was that me, the first to be blasphemous?

The first to crumple?

I, who worshiped at the right hand of Father?

With help from my remaining grace, I turn on my stomach. Feathers bathe my knees and palm in a slippery soft crib.

My teeth grind and my head hangs like it is filled with grieving souls.

I feel the stares of my brothers and sisters. Disapproval. Shock. Torment.

Father, I repent. I did not mean it. I owe you my existence.

Father, I repent. I did not mean it. I owe you my existence.

A hollow bone, wrapped around my spine, unwinds from my coccyx. Agony shoots through my spine. The bone inches up, and up, pulling vertebrae away from the one beneath it, then snapping them back in place. I glance to my left and see the skin of my sister, rippling and tearing. Like my own. I count,

1 vertebrae... 2...

And breathe.

The bone makes a squeaking noise as it slides out of my ligaments, and suckles soft muscle as it slithers up.

Do not go, please do not go.

My plea blends in with those of my brothers and sisters.

I grab my wing, an immortal abyss of black, and shove it against my spine, but nothing will stop its separation.

Dense balls of condensation escape from my mouth. Sweat pours down my face.

21 vertebrae...

Father, I repent! Please, do not do this!

I stand. The lights of my siblings, only visible to us, flicker. My spine bends towards my navel and I stoop backward under an immense weight.

I did not know my wings were so heavy. When the bone reaches the top of my spinal vertebrae my wing crashes to this filthy place. Clots of blood drizzle down my neck from the large hole in the back of my head. When the clots reach my tailbone, cold and hard, the remnants of my grace stitch the opening closed. My wing will rot in the dirt; I am not strong enough to lift it.

I look around, craning my neck against my other wing. It drags me down, and I am ashamed at how quickly I want it gone. Ashamed how quickly I have betrayed it. I do not try to keep it. I want it off. It does not belong to me anymore.

Misery shoots through my spine as the second bone begins to leave me.

I look in front of me; our lights spill out of the holes in their rooftops, their vehicles. Our nearly mortal bodies lie in the remains of their tables and on the seats of their cars. To my right, a leg and shoe rest under a light. Above, a light glows from the middle of a spire, then goes out. The mortals run from us, their dimmer auras bobbing. I feel their fear like my own. With weapons in hand, they run towards us. They stare at us with their mortal understanding.

Father. We repent. Please, help us. Save us, Father.

My wing, as white as celestial grass, falls to the ground, and relief floods my exhausted body.

The last of my grace escapes me. I fall to the ground, on bended knee.

### DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

1. What were your first impressions?

2. Did you empathize with the fallen angels? Why/why not?

3. How did the structure influence the story?

4. Which passage would you change? Why?

5. In what ways did the title foreshadow the story's plot?

### WRITING TIPS

**S** ometimes, repentance comes only after punishment. Use shorter sentences to evoke that desperation, and longer sentences to describe the pain of having failed.

**R** epetition is another way to show the character's torment and regret. Use it wisely. Too much repetition can annoy your reader.

### PROMOTION

IF YOU AREN'T WORTHY OF THE GENE POOL, YOU DON'T

GET TO SWIM.

Earth, 216 years from now.

**P** resident Prodida is never alone. She's spent her life lugging around her Vice Presidents; four clones who mimic her every action, stripping her of her face and her identity. All she wants is to be remembered, but in one moment, with one act, she may have lost her Legacy.

With no Legacy, who will say she ever existed?

**B** urdened by President Prodida's rage, all this Vice President wants is freedom from her servitude. With only one year to go until she gains control of her body, her President commits an act of violence that may end her life before it even begins. Will she die beside her President, nameless and alone?

If she never has free will, does she truly exist?

Told from two viewpoints, _When We Was A Child_ is a journey to identity, through all the windows that open and close on the way.

Visit Ashleigh:

TWITTER: @ashanauthor

GOODREADS, FACEBOOK, INSTAGRAM, REDDIT: /ashanauthor

YOUTUBE, GOOGLE+: Ashleigh Bonner

WATTPAD: /ashanauthor_

# Where to find writing prompts

WEBSITES

Thinkwritten

Reddit (/r/WritingPrompts)

Writer's Digest

Poets and Writers

Writing Prompts That Don't Suck

Promptuarium

Pacific NorthWest Writer's Association (PNWA) Conference

AnyPossibility – Screenwriting

### BOOKS

What If? Writing Exercises for Fiction Writers by Anne Bernays & Pamela Painter

The Pocket Muse by Monica Wood

The 3 A.M. Epiphany: Uncommon Writing Exercises that Transform Your Fiction and The 4 A.M. Breakthrough: Unconventional Writing Exercises That Transform Your Fiction by Brian Kiteley

The Practice of Poetry: Writing Exercises from Poets Who Teach by Robin Behn

The Writer's Idea Book: How to Develop Great Ideas for Fiction, Nonfiction, Poetry, & Screenplays (10th Anniversary Edition) by Jack Heffron

### FINAL WRITING TIP

Write what rips you up inside.

Write raw.

Memories come with emotions attached.

Cry.

### Shout.

### Laugh.

## WRITE.

### ATTRIBUTION

Images

Sunset with birds:

"Flying bird in sunset"

Artist: rian (CC0)

Writing tip hand:

Artist: PublicDomainPictures (CC0)

Reaching hand

Artist: PublicDomainPictures (CC0)

Death and little girl:

 Fantasy Art, Death, Tea, Children, Little Girl, Skull Wallpaper

Discussion Questions/Writing Prompts

Discussion questions marked with an * were provided by LitLovers.

All writing prompts are used with permission from their original authors.

# ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thanks to my family, especially my mom, who stuck with me while I spent hours writing, re-writing, editing, and re-editing these stories. Your love, personalities, and patience with me is something I can't express in words. I can only experience it in a speechless wonder.

I could never do this without all of you. I'm eternally grateful I can be in your presences.

XOXO Mom, Margaret, Antione, Kia, and Malik

(Antione Jr., Serenity, Jayden, and Amira)

Also, thank you to the  Seattle Writer's Meetup Group (SWMG). Mondays, 6:15 pm, at the College Inn Pub were the best. 2016 was an amazing year, enhanced by discovering this group on Meetup (that special online place that connects you with your passion soul mates in real life). This group provided camaraderie, encouragement, critique, and lots of reminders for me to print copies. Lol.

Special thanks to my sister, **Kia** , and three members of SWMG who read the entire manuscript, and left detailed comments, during my long-form: **Kathy McMullen, Michele Cacano, and Ed Staples.**

**Christina Mitchell** wrote the amazing blurb for my debut novel _When We Was A Child_. I'm very grateful.

I'd also like to thank **Jenny O'Brien** , referred to me by **Doug Margeson**. Jenny edited my book. She did an amazing job and I highly recommend her for your editing needs. If you see any errors, that is only because I added/changed things after she edited. I've learned my lesson.

Again, please leave me a note if you see errors. I'd love to fix them.

Finally, thank **YOU** for reading, leaving reviews, and telling your friends.

\- Ashleigh Bonner (ashanauthor)

# ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Ashleigh Bonner hails from Lansing, Michigan.

She lived in Seattle, Washington for a stint and currently lives in Chattanooga, Tennessee.

Other than writing, she enjoys programming educational video games, creating card games, reading, traveling, and bike riding down steep hills. She has a moderate-to-severe obsession with tea. And an Oxford comma preoccupation.

Her poem, _The Metal In Stone_ , is published in the anthology Upon Arrival.

Email Ashleigh at ashanauthor@gmail.com

Visit Ashleigh at www.ashanauthor.com

Tweet her @ashanauthor

**Writer (noun.)** Person who cuts their fears into words.

