 
# Watch

## Volume 2 of A Breath of Fiction

Gregory M. Fox

August 2014 to June 2018

Copyright 2018 by Gregory M. Fox

Smashwords Edition

## Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support.

# Table of Contents
# Earth

Key, New, More, Footsteps, Changed, String, Road, Crack (i), World, Specters, Orbit, Buried, Destination (i), Dark, Particles

# Air

Wind, Tradition, Sorry, Fog, Plot, Word, Hug, Trajectory, Disappear, Noises, Meaning, Laundry, Apocalypse, Around, Destination (ii), Breathe

# Fire

Flame, Glow, Provoke, Muffins, Thermodynamics, Glare, Footage, Bloom, Signs, eQuest, Candles, Broken, Fire, Bombs, Light, Flickering, Enough

# Water

Shore, Edge (ii), Ooze, Power, Whole, Storm, Return, Immersion, War, Cup, Coffee, Breakwater, Fount, Edge (i), Itch, Clarity, Paris, Wash

# Animal

Predators, Oddities, Tasmania, Dragon, Web, Aspiration, Apprehension, Order, Locks, Kindness, Roar, Piñata, Open (ii), See, Cold, Beneficence, Ash

# Vegetable

Snap, Refuge, Smoke, Grow, Decay, Shed, Almonds, Raising, Endless, News, Emergency, Lost, Descent

# Mineral

Pedestal, Symbol, Golden, Bro, Countdown, Inconclusive, Paper, Missed, Defense, Bones, Crack (ii), Threshold, Plaster, Hobby, Business, Fabricated, Stone

# Mind

Decorations, Pride, Static, Thrall, Nightmare, Reach, Monsters, Civilization, Sage, Floss, Night, Muse, Art, Struggle, Remember, Normal, Trees

# Body

Blanks, Glowing, Incarnation, Explanation, Pillow, Closed, Face, Employment, Siblings, Invested, Found, Drift, Blood, Door, Hands, Time

# Heart

Open (i), Hide, Preserves, Void, Melancholy, Forsooth, Midnight, Silence, Perspective, Blurt, Wrinkle, Rescue, Gravity, Fate, Held, Repairs

# Soul

Glass, Fragile, Laundromat, Moral, Miracle, Call, Crisis, Promises, Sunset, Anger, Safe, Recipe, Trouble, Hurts, Deal, Deliverer, Cheek, Compassion

# Time

Rooms, Travels, Ravages, Timer, Kid, Pretension, Seasons, Connection, Acts, Back, Parallel, Finished, Passage, Love, Freeze, Forever, Drive, Saving, Watch

# About the Author
#  Earth

## Section I

## Key

Follow the river into the forest, but don't swim in the water. Don't eat any red berries. Collect as much bluish green moss as you can carry. Find a strong, stout walking stick. Don't light a fire after sunset. You will come to a waterfall. The rocks are slippery and sharp, but you must climb behind the falls. Don't look down. You will find a cave there. Using strips of fabric, wrap the moss around the end of your walking stick. It will burn slowly and make a good torch, which you will need in that unrelenting blackness. Echoes will sound like the voices of people you love. Don't follow them. The cavern will split into three tunnels. Don't follow the one with light at the end; that is where the dragon sleeps. Don't follow the one that goes uphill; that is where the spiders hide. Take the tunnel going down until you reach a large vaulted chamber. There, the Watchers will be waiting for you. Don't look them in the eye. Don't ask them any questions. Don't tell them your name. But present them with a worthy gift, and they will give you the key. Then your quest begins.

## New

The miles fly by. I promised I would never run, but you promised you would never hurt me, so I guess we both lied. Now I'm on my way to somewhere new, and probably _somebody_ new as well. When this bus reaches Atlanta, I'll have a fresh start.

At least that's the idea. Unfortunately, I've been here before: riding a bus in the middle of the night, running from someone, hoping for something better. The last time was just before I met you.

Back then, you said that I was just your type, and I said that you were perfect for me. But all my exes were cheaters, and all your exes abandoned you. I guess we shouldn't be surprised by how things happened. Maybe it's just who we are.

And maybe I'll end up running again. I obviously don't have a good track record. Why should Atlanta be different from Dallas or from any city I lived in before that? But on this bus, I'm suspended between past and future. Full of expectation, I feel like I'm truly myself. I feel at peace.

Still, the bus keeps moving.

It's a dark night.

In spite of everything, I keep hoping.

## More

For a moment, Zippo didn't know where in the world he was, and then it hit him. The ground.

No more.

He could feel the blood trickling out of his nose, out of his mouth. "You want some more?" a voice said from somewhere between his head and the moon.

No, please.

A nearby wall helped Zippo pull himself to his feet. He tried to spit out a profanity, but his fat lip and missing tooth made the word almost unrecognizable. Big-T just laughed. "Alright then," he said. "If that's what you want."

There's been so much.

Zippo shook his head blearily, confused. Then he saw Big-T waiting for him. He lurched toward brute and fell into him. Big-T laughed as he grabbed the battered man by the hair. Then he stopped laughing.

No.

Zippo stabbed again. The knife was a cheap move, but it was the only way. He stabbed again.

Please.

Both men fell to the ground. Big-T was screaming. And there was blood. The knife was covered. Zippo's hands were covered. He held the blood against Big-T's throat.

_No more_ , the saturated ground pleaded.

"What are you waiting for?" Big-T groaned. "Finish it."

Please, no more blood.

## Footsteps

She tugged his hand the way she would tug the harness of a stubborn mule or a complacent cow. This happened every time they neared the ocean. Her husband's bare feet levitated six inches off the ground as he leaned toward the sound of crashing waves. She waited, patiently at first, while he stared through the trees, searching for a broad expanse of blue.

But there were appointments to keep and errands to run, of which she began to remind him. He didn't move. So, she moved for him, leaning in the direction of the road. At first, it seemed like he was dragging his heels, even though he was floating, but eventually, he turned away from the sea. With each of his wife's steps, he sank lower, until his feet began to scrape along the earth, forcing him to walk along with her.

That night, she washed his battered feet. The scabs had broken open again. They were getting worse. But he never complained. "I love you dearly, dearly," he had told her long ago. "But someday I may try to leave you. Just hold onto my hand." She was beginning to wonder if she truly understood those words.

## Changed

Disasters, miracles, open war: there were many fantastic stories in those days. It was hard to know what to believe, but it was still possible to hope.

There were many stories about you too. You were everywhere and nowhere; no one knew if you were a hero or a villain or what such words even meant anymore. Back when the trains were still running, I took one all the way to Chicago because they said you were there. I walked the streets for days, asking questions, following crowds, climbing through broken windows of abandoned storefronts for a place to sleep. I never saw you.

Now, I wonder if stories still reach that little town. The world seems so much bigger, so much smaller now. I follow the roads that I can, but never really know where they will lead. I wonder what you hear about me--if anything. I still wonder what would have happened if I had followed you from the beginning.

After the fires, stories stopped coming. I asked around, but heard nothing. Then one day, I saw you walking down the street. You looked right at me, then walked away. I finally understood the world had changed.

## String

In the dust and darkness of that attic was much memory, but little treasure. Malcolm wasn't supposed to be there, but he was used to doing things he wasn't supposed to. He always hated visiting his grandpa in that gloomy house anyway. His parents told him to have a good attitude, but he knew that in private they called grandpa "closed" and "a shadow of himself."

So, while the adults talked, Malcolm's mild transgression was saving him from complete boredom. Whether by instinct or by fate, he moved toward the one item in the attic with real value. The case had gone unopened for decades; the clasps were so corroded they barely moved. Somehow, Malcolm pried it open, and light fell on graceful curves, smooth mahogany, glistening bronze. Of course, Malcolm didn't know that this guitar's magic had enabled his grandpa to pack stadiums or that when the magic was used up, both man and instrument--suddenly ordinary, suddenly useless--had been shut away.

Nevertheless, feeling a sense of purpose for the first time, Malcolm lifted the guitar and plucked a single string. Downstairs, a tear trickled down his grandpa's cheek. But as the note vibrated, Malcolm came into being.

## Road

The road rolled away beneath their tires, as it had for the last three days.

" _A_ WESOME _B_ URGERS, EXIT NOW!" one billboard proclaimed.

" _C_ ash for Gol _d_ ," offered another.

"Are we there yet?" Todd asked sarcastically, not looking up from his phone.

Aaron had stopped laughing at the joke days ago, but now that they were actually close, the question made him smile.

" _E_ astbound Tra _f_ fic Keep Ri _gh_ t," a large green sign alerted them.

A Fly _i_ ng _J_ truck stop day just off the highway.

_Thirty miles to go_ , Aaron thought. _We won't need to stop again_.

And the signs whizzed past . . .

" _K_ ansas City--175"

"Speed _L_ i _m_ it 65"

"Edgar _N_ els _o_ n _P_ arkway"

They took exit 39 and turned left in front of the Li _q_ uo _r_ and _Stu_ ff.

Todd finally looked up from his phone. "Everything's still here," he said. "It's all the same.

"A little different," Aaron said, pointing to Ri _v_ erside Cafe, which now stood where there used to be a dive bar they had frequented in college.

They took _W_ ashington across the train tracks where the yellow RR _X_ -ing sign was still dented after all those years.

Aaron was checking the license plate of the To _y_ ota ahead for a _Z_ and never saw the stoplight.

## Crack (i)

Bob couldn't move. He stood on one foot in the middle of a broken slab of sidewalk cement. A moment after stepping of the bus and realizing his situation, he'd done a quick calculation in his head. It had been exactly thirteen years, thirteen months, and thirteen days since the last time he stepped on a crack. The number was undeniably significant.

All those years ago, he had been a cocky thirteen year old who decided he had spent far too long taking awkward strides through halls and across parking lots just because of a silly children's rhyme. Walking to school that day, he had deliberately stepped on every crack in his path, a task which also required a great number of awkward strides. But then he was pulled out of school early that day. His father took him to visit his mother in the hospital. That morning, she had slipped off of a ladder and broken her back.

Now, Bob was again poised on the edge of fate. Maybe eight feet away there was a slab of unbroken concrete. From there he'd be fine. Bob jumped. He tripped. He heard the cracking of vertebrae.

Bob never took another step.

## World

I just want a way out. Out of my seat, out of this restaurant, out of your life. I don't know how long I've been silent. I don't know if I am paralyzed or if time has slowed. I only know I want to escape your eyes that look at me so intently.

What if I did it, just stood up and walked away. Would you follow me? Of course you would. I could get into my car and drive, but you would call, maybe even show up at my door. How far would I have to run before you stopped? In another city, would your face appear in a crowd, searching, hoping? Across an ocean, would your voice emerge from the jumble of a foreign language the way ghosts emerge from white noise? Far away, beneath a dark night sky, would I still hear the echo of your words? When I looked at the stars, would I see your eyes above me, filled with that same yearning?

"You're my everything," you said. "You're my whole world."

Even though I don't know how to bear that burden, I realize that you're my whole world too. I say, "I love you."

## Specters

The kitchen was illuminated only by candles. It was late, her eyes were heavy, but this was important.

Her eyes closed.

A clock chimed, and she was wide awake. The room now blazed with hundreds of long discarded candles: tea lights, scented candles, some half burned, some still in plastic wrap. Light flickered, swirled, and shook to the twelve booming tones of the grandfather clock her parents had owned when she was young. Somewhere, a radio alarm clock blared static. Digital watches chimed incessantly.

It was time.

The cupboard doors started rattling, then flew open, spilling out all the old dishes that she had broken over the years to shatter on the ground once more.

Old CDs from years past were all playing it once, jumping and skipping discordantly, turning her favorite songs into a garbled cacophony.

A skeletal cat raced through the room pursued by a muddy, mangy hound. A dozen goldfish flopped helplessly amidst the broken glass on the floor.

Phones were ringing, metallic bells and digital chimes alike. The voices of ex-lovers and abandoned friends buzzed in the air.

"Hello?"

"Hello?"

"Anyone . . . ?"

Then her husband was across the table from her, smiling kindly . . . sadly . . .

Then darkness.

## Orbit

"You've been to Ganymede?" Dara said, eyes as wide as interplanetary transponders.

"Once," he said. "For work."

"Was it beautiful?"

"I guess," Jayesh answered. "Yeah."

"As soon as I save up," she said wistfully.

As a child, Jayesh had visited the moon with his family to see earthrise from the Sea of Tranquility. Sometime since then, the Sea had been filled in with casinos and outlet malls, designed to tempt weekend visitors or travelers on layover. They called it "Gateway to the Solar System," meaning the people who lived there were all stuck between where they'd been and where they'd rather be. Disappointed, Javesh had considered ending his vacation early. Then he met Dara.

"Bartending's not a bad gig," she explained. "And in a place like this, you meet lots of interesting people." Her eyes twinkled like Saturn's rings. After her shift, they went out into the lunar night and tried to spot his home planet Mars among the stars. "I wish you didn't have to leave," Dara whispered.

There was weight in her words--the same weight that kept her trapped in the moon's weak gravity. And Javesh knew if he got any closer, he'd never escape her orbit.

## Buried

Awake beside my sleeping husband, I suddenly wonder if anything's left of what you and I once buried. So in the middle of the night, I take a shovel from the garage and drive an hour to the farms where we grew up. That same gap in the barbed wire fence is still there, and I creep into the empty field where we used to spread blankets beneath the stars.

As I start digging, I can remember every night: our hands finding each other, then our lips, then our bodies. That where we argued about right and wrong, about trust, about the future. That was where I sat without you on many cold and quiet nights, where I prayed for guidance, for mercy, for deliverance. I never told you about those nights, but I think you knew . . .

The shovel scrapes against something hard.

As I grew distant, you grew angry. It was push and pull, like the way we held each other in the dark.

"I'm trying to save us," I whispered.

"No," you answered. "You're killing us."

The moonlight falls pale and cold on the bones of our relationship.

As tears fill my eyes, the bones begin to stir.

## Destination (i)

I've never been good at navigating, and the hand written instructions I had been given weren't very clear anyway. I shouldn't have been surprised that I got lost. I turned left at the used car dealership, but wasn't sure if it was the right dealership. Regardless, I never saw the carwash that was supposed to be my next landmark. Suddenly, I was heading out of town.

I pulled into the last parking lot before what looked like miles of farmland. The parking lot belonged to a dive bar, where I hoped to ask for directions. Inside, there was a band playing old hits with scratchy voices and heavy bass. Everywhere I looked, people were smiling, and when I finally reached the counter, I found myself ordering a drink. Then I got another. Then I was dancing with a beautiful brunette, then laughing with a group of strangers, then telling the bartender I loved him.

But it wasn't my real destination. The band packed up. Gradually at first, then in a steady stream, people started heading back to their homes. Alone at last call, I staggered out into the pre-dawn cold--no idea where I was or where I was going.

## Dark

He was lost and bleeding, it was dark, and there was sand in his teeth. The grit was agonizing, but he had no saliva left to spit it out. How much sand had he swallowed? How much of this land had become a part of him? And now it was soaking up the blood that dripped slowly, steadily from the wound beneath his armor. Now he was becoming a part of it.

Death was close. Perhaps he would become a saint. But no, they would probably need a body for that, and his would be lost. Perhaps it was just as well. He had done things that were cruel and cold, just like that midnight desert. Perhaps it was right that he should perish there.

There was sand in his mouth, lots of sand. He had fallen. He tried to lift himself, and couldn't.

But suddenly, there was light. Heavenly light. And there was pain. And there was a face, dark as the blood soaked sand. Eyes like stars, shining with compassion. That's it--the light was stars. He had been rolled on his back. Someone was treating his wound. The stars shined so far, so bright in the dark.

## Particles

I left a fingerprint on the piano, right after you dusted. The tiny whorl, I'm told, is completely unique, implicating me for undoing your work. But in truth, dust is already settling on the polished surface. Dead skin cells hanging in the air--the remainders of our bodies.

And if you look closely enough, we're all just clouds of particles, swirling around in a chaotic dance. Gathered from the depths of the seas and from exploded stars, gathered from the bodies of two strangers who met by chance, gathered from carrots and apples, pizzas and cheeseburgers: the fact our bodies exist at all is incomprehensible. It is so much more likely that the bonds holding us together should dissolve, scattering the pieces across the cosmos. And when it does, what are the chances our dust will again form into a body?

Am I one? Am I billions? Do I exist at all?

And in this chaos of fleeting phenomena, how is it possible that you could love this agent of disorder who leaves a trail of fingerprints and dust, who will cease to exist before even comprehending what that means? And yet, you do. What a miracle that love exists.

## Section II

## Wind

The windows rattled in their jambs, waking Alden from a deep sleep. He smiled. It was the first gale of wind season, which meant that soon he would see Paz.

Windmills ran non-stop during wind season: both large, permanent fixtures and smaller mills set up by self-starters on rented lots. There were frequent breakdowns, providing plenty of work for a freelance mechanic like Paz.

"Can I get a wingsuit?"

Alden knew the voice immediately and looked up with a smirk. "Got a license?" The two clasped in a warm embrace. "It's good to see you, Paz."

Nine months a year, Alden was a bricklayer, but during wind season, he rented equipment to tourists. Most just wanted kites or parasails. But then there were thrill seekers or hunters going after gale-fowl and windhogs. These free-sailed in wingsuits.

"Why don't you come up with me sometime?" Paz asked, tightening her harness.

"I . . . don't really like heights," Alden said. "Plus I have to manage things here."

Eyes met. Both turned away. "Okay."

"I'll see you when you get back."

He watched Paz soaring into the sky until she disappeared. Feet on the ground, his heart was heavy. In three months, she'd be gone.

## Tradition

I walked beside rows of graves and houses covered in cobwebs. It was Halloween, and there was a fitting chill in the air. It tapped on my shoulder, and I would be almost certain someone was beside me. But of course, no one was there. No one was around at all, just pumpkins that grinned and scowled, awaiting the trick-or-treaters soon to arrive.

BZZZZZZ!

I jumped at my phone's vibration, but quickly recovered to answer your call. "Hey mom."

"Hi Honey. Just thought I'd call since--"

"Yeah, thanks. How are you?" We chatted a bit. I told you that I had bought Peeps for us to share, but now I'd have to eat them all myself. We were the only ones in the family who enjoyed those sugary marshmallow confections, and they had been our Easter tradition. Nowadays, they make them for all sorts of occasions, including Halloween. These were shaped like little ghosts--fitting for a ghost visit.

"That would have been nice," you said. "I . . . I'm sorry."

"Yeah. Me too."

This is our new tradition. You make promises and don't keep them; I make you feel bad about it. I kept walking, feeling your absence beside me.

## Sorry

The dogs were barking like mad, so Dale stepped outside to check on them. That's when he heard a loud crack like the report of a shotgun. A flurry of birds leapt up from the field. Before the echoes had faded, Dale was inside his truck, accelerating toward the hazy smoke rising near the edge of his property.

Dale reached the smoke and found a man standing in the middle of a twenty foot ring of smoldering soy. "Hey," he yelled, leaping out of the truck. "What the hell?"

The figure turned around. He was gaunt, wide-eyed. "I'm sorry," he whispered; "I shouldn't be here."

"No," Dale growled. "You shouldn't. You . . . you're hurt." Between the man's scorched clothes and skin covered in soot, Dale hadn't initially noticed the blood or the way one arm hung limp from a dislocated shoulder.

"I'm sorry," the stranger said. "I didn't mean to end up here."

"Here, let me help you."

"No," the man said, "You need to leave."

The hair stood up on Dale's arms. "What's happening?"

There was another crack. This time, Dale felt the blast in his chest. Then there was a second, and a third.

"I'm sorry," the man repeated.

## Fog

The fog dimmed everything, not just my sight, but the sound of my footsteps and the taste of my food. Somehow you barely noticed. "I thought this guy was the one?" you asked between bites of hotdog.

"I'm not sure if there is one for me," I muttered.

We reached the end of the pier and couldn't go any further. The fog was so thick we couldn't see back to the boardwalk. It was like we were adrift on a raft together.

"So what happened?"

I shrugged instead of answering; instead of eating, I tore my hotdog apart and threw the pieces into the water. How could I tell you that I broke up with him because he was too much like you?

Something scaly emerged from the murky water to gobble up my hotdog. "I guess it's true," you said. "There are plenty of fish in the sea." It was as sappy as your smile, but I loved you for both anyway. That love hurt. I turned away to face the boardwalk. Shadows moved through the fog. You were the only one I could see, but even you were hazy. I wished for sunlight to burn away the mist.

## Plot

"I'm supposed to kill you."

Sang turned and saw his oldest friend, Yun, standing behind him. "What? Why? Wait, how did you get into my apartment?"

"It's how the story goes," Yun said grimly.

"Story? What story?"

"This story. The one we're in."

"I thought we were friends?"

"We are."

"Then why do you want to kill me?"

"I don't want to."

"But you said--"

"I said I'm _supposed_ to kill you," Yun clarified.

"Well I won't let you do that."

"That's what I'm trying to say. I'm not going to."

"No, you _won't_." And with that, Sang lunged toward Yun, striking him in the jaw.

"What was that?"

"You can kill me over my dead body." Sang stood with fists raised.

"What? That doesn't even--" Another punch. "Would you stop that?"

" _Never!_ " Sang cried, jumping around the room, "and you won't get away with it."

Yun lunged at his friend. "Just hold still."

"No! Ah! "I'll kill you first."

"Listen, we have to--ow!" The friends grappled around the room. "You don't need--stop--we can just--"

For his own safety, Yun pushed Sang away only to see his friend topple over the tenth floor balcony.

## Word

"What was that?" Patricia asked. But then it was happening. Her mouth opened; she began to speak.

When they first met, Nick had charmed her by saying a magic word and opening her beer with no hands. Later that night, he had performed the same trick on her bra. Now, he was using that word on her. Patricia was spilling her every secret.

Scholars and mystics had spent lifetimes seeking the word that Nick had learned from a homeless woman. She would use possibly the most powerful word in the Old Language to open ATMs for cash. Nick used the word even more lucratively, but wealth, power, and party tricks weren't enough to secure happiness for him and Patricia.

So she opened up, revealing all her annoyances and frustrations, her hidden fantasies and dark thoughts, her long-term affair. It was more than Nick could take, but he didn't know how to make her stop. So, he repeated the only word he had. Suddenly, Patricia's torso split down the middle, and her organs spilled out in front of Nick.

Nick screamed. The word tore out of him. The roof ripped apart, the sky split, and the universe opened--vast, terrible, unfathomable.

## Hug

I felt nothing.

Everyone was saying goodbye. We were happy; it had been a good night. You and I ended up face to face. Your arms wrapped around me.

We had avoided each other all night; that's why things had gone so well. We knew this was inevitable. All my friends know all your friends, and most of them never even knew about us. Sooner or later, we were bound to end up at the same event.

I stayed near the fire. You stayed near the drinks. I tried to avoid even looking in your direction. Even so, I felt the tug of your presence. The whole night, my heart was drawn by some magnetism to its opposite. The memories were back. The feelings were back. I didn't want to feel anything, and yet all I wanted was for you to come hold me.

Then the night was over. Everyone was saying goodbye. Everyone was hugging. We ended up face to face.

And you said, "Oh. You're here?"

Your arms wrapped around me; mine around you, but I felt nothing, just a breath of cold air across my skin. The hug had already died. All I felt was its ghost.

## Trajectory

It was Meera's month to monitor the ship while her fellow travelers remained in hibernation: a necessity of sub-lightspeed interstellar travel. It was a lonely job. Despite the ship computer's advanced AI, it wasn't very good company. So, Meera spent lots of time talking to kitchen appliances and scanning the long range frequencies for any sort of human transmission.

¬One day, amid the buzzing static, a tone emerged: a long wailing note on ion guitar. Just before it faded, drums came in, followed quickly by a high, gritty voice. Meera also recognized the signature sound of Debri Disc, the best band ever from the Tau Ceti system.

Just then, an alert started chiming. Meera ran to the bridge and saw the computer displaying the trajectory of an incoming vessel. Their paths would just barely cross. Meera hurriedly opened the viewscreen.

A nearby point of light was moving fast, growing bigger. It took in the shape of a sleek, silver cruiser. Their viewscreen was open too, and for a few seconds, she could see a pink-haired woman in the other cockpit. She looked toward Meera and blew a kiss. Dumbstruck, Meera waved back. And then their ships passed on into darkness.

## Disappear

"You may think you are enclosed by solid walls, but I can--no, that's . . ." Someone coughed. "But with a wave of my wand . . . I mean . . ." The restless audience was giving up. "But . . . but . . . but . . ." the magician stammered. It didn't matter. It was the greatest illusion ever conceived, and no one would ever witness it.

The Great Ambrosius was brilliant. He could summon fire, teleport, levitate, and produce coins from ears. The rumor was that he had an even bigger trick hidden up his sleeve as well. Unfortunately, he also had terrible stage fright. When the lights went up for his New York debut, Ambrosius tried a classic remedy. With a blink of his eyes, the audience's clothes dematerialized, and the magician transformed into a showman.

The audience was spellbound and amazed throughout the show. "Now, for my greatest illusion . . ." It would have been a triumph, but then an old man stood up and exited the theatre. He was actually enjoying the show and simply needed to relieve himself. Unfortunately, Ambrosius was still picturing everyone naked. His face flushed, his tongue tied, and everything started falling apart. One by one, members of the audience mooned The Great Ambrosius and then vanished.

## Noises

Siobhan was alone in her bed, and she was terrified. It wasn't because of the thick, moonless dark. It wasn't because she had heard the low creaking of the front door opening. It wasn't even because of the soft footsteps just beside her. There were things in the room, but only one frightened her. "Have you come for my child?" she asked.

Bursting clouds, howling wolves, creeping moss: _We've come to see her, yes_.

Even with her eyes clamped shut, Siobhan knew better than to turn toward the source of the words. They didn't like to be seen. "And . . . you'll take her?" she asked.

Snapping twigs: _No_.

Siobhan's heart raced, "I thought that's what you do."

Crackling lightning, screeching owls, burning trees: _The child does not want to go_. There was a breath behind her ear, soft and cold as the first snowfall of winter: _You're lucky_.

Siobhan sat up with a start, eyes wide open. The room was empty except for the crib. They were gone. Desperately afraid, Siobhan ran out into the night, shouting, "You have to take her, please! I can't--I'm not ready!"

Rustling leaves, laughing spirits.

Silence.

Siobhan's daughter started to cry. She went inside.

## Meaning

There was a dark spot in the sky.

Solomon could see it in the upper left-hand corner of his office window, and he spent the entire day staring at it. It never moved. Meanwhile, news stations speculated endlessly. According to experts, the spot appeared at the same location in the sky no matter where on earth you stood.

"I have to know what it means," Solomon said, staring into his beer with the same dazed expression that had stared out his window at work.

"It's probably nothing," Walter said. "Just a satellite or whatever."

"Or maybe it's _nothing_ ," Calli offered. "Like a void. Maybe a black hole that's going to swallow the whole solar system."

Ethan shook his head. "Ozone layer's finally breaking up. We're all gonna burn."

"But what does it _mean_?" Solomon asked. No one answered.

Solomon shuffled home in the dark. The night was cold and close, and he felt that spot all around him. He felt the end and the beginning of everything. "What does it mean?"

The next day, it was gone. News stations continued speculating, but most people moved on quickly. Many hadn't even noticed the spot.

Solomon spent the whole workday in tears.

## Laundry

Something had gotten into Douglas's dryer through the vent. He hadn't yet identified the creature, but whatever it was had been consuming his socks and underwear. So naturally, Douglas began hanging his laundry to dry. Despite this stratagem, pants and shirts began disappearing as well.

The beast was persistent.

Douglas consulted several different exterminators. When they all laughed at him, Douglas took matters into his own hands. The first step was installing a tall wooden fence around his property, but that was only temporary until he could rent a mixing truck to pour a concrete wall.

"Couldn't it just be the wind?" his friends asked when they heard about the project.

"Of course not," Douglas scowled. "The wind would never do that." Disappointed by their lack of support, Douglas withdrew from his friends into increasingly elaborate defensive measures: barbed wire, a shotgun, security cameras, a moat.

All failed.

Months later, Douglas locked himself into his bedroom, nailed the door shut, and turned out the lights. Fishing line and clothespins suspended a wool coat, the last article of clothing he owned. Naked in the dark, Douglas heard heaving breathing. His own voice, or maybe an echo muttered: "This is the end."

## Apocalypse

Sasha gripped the wheel tightly to keep her hands from shaking. She had seen the evidence for herself. She knew what was coming. The first reports had been considered crackpot theories, no more plausible than Bigfoot. But stories kept multiplying. Now the official study had just come in from the only member of the research team still alive.

"You're quiet," Ethan remarked.

Sasha glanced at her husband, always full of compassion. "I got some bad news at work," she said.

"What's that?"

"The world's ending.

"Is that all?" he chuckled. "Honey I'm an ecologist. I know all about melting ice caps, and--"

"You think I'm worried about rising sea levels?"

"We _do_ live on the coast." Silence. He hesitated. "Is this about having kids?"

"No," Sasha replied firmly, resisting the urge to say more. Ethan believed having children was an act of hope, but Sasha considered it irresponsible considering the state of the world. And now. . .

"Would you look at that?" her optimistic husband said. "It's snowing. We may have a white Christmas after all."

Then they saw what Sasha feared--a fiery red light on the horizon--the first radioactive reindeer below the Arctic Circle. Apocalypse had begun.

## Around

Patty had just sneezed into the cashier's hand. "Er . . . sorry," she said, accepting her now mucus coated change. "I've got a cold."

"Yeah, that's really going around," the woman said flatly.

Suddenly, Patty seized the cashier by the collar. "Where?" she growled.

"W-what?"

Patty spoke through gritted teeth. " _Where is the sickness going?_ "

"I d-dunno," the cashier whimpered. "That's just what people say."

Patty released her, muttering, "It has to be stopped." Then, taking her bag of decongestant meds, orange juice and tissues, Patty resumed the hunt.

Out on the street, Patty listened for coughing. Sickness was around alright. She followed the sneezes and blown noses across town to a rough looking bar called Wheezy's.

_Fitting_ , Patty thought.

Inside, all the patrons were sniffling. The bartender had a red nose and kept dropping glasses. This was the place alright. The only person not coughing was a shadowy figure in the corner. Patty asked a waitress to send the man a screwdriver. Vodka and OJ--moments later, there was a shriek across the bar. A green looking man was fleeing. This was her chance! Patty pulled a gun from her purse, aimed, and--

"AhhhCHOOO!"

Patty shot a hole in the ceiling.

## Destination (ii)

-:In one mile, turn right:-

"Are you . . . sure about this?" Douglas asked.

Jeffrey whipped his head sharply and jerked the steering wheel slightly. "You're asking this now?"

Douglas shrugged looking sheepish. "Well?"

"What?"

"Are you sure?" he repeated.

_-:In 300 feet, turn right:-_ the GPS chimed.

Jeffrey's mouth hung open. "I thought we talked this through?"

"We did, but--"

"This was your idea."

"I know," Douglas said sounding queasy, "but now that it's actually happening . . ." He trailed off.

The GPS filled in the silence. _-:In 400 feet, merge left:-_

"Do you want to stop?" Jeffrey asked harshly, even as he joined the highway's faster traffic. "Do you want me to turn around?"

Once more, an electronic voice broke the silence. _-:In one mile, turn 63^5.7¿4° and cross into the ethereal plane:-_

Douglas was stone, staring straight forward like he might actually be able to see their destination on the road as they accelerated.

"Douglas," Jeffrey said, his voice suddenly tender. "I'm scared too." He reached out a hand and gripped his husband's.

-:In a quarter mile, turn 63^5.7¿4° and cross into the ethereal plane:-

They were still accelerating. "Okay," Douglas said. "Let's go."

-:Cross into the ethereal plane now:-

## Breathe

Tonya knew that crying means life.

With her lip quivering, she clenched her jaw.

As an OB nurse, Tonya had helped to deliver a couple hundred babies. And every time, she held her own breath until she heard the ear splitting wail of a newborn baby's cry, the clear indication that the child had functioning lungs, that life was prepared to fight against the cold shock of existence.

She could feel the cold setting in, and not just because of the open door. The darkness beyond met with the darkness inside her. He was leaving.

"Breathe." Sometimes a newborn would be silent, and for a long moment everyone in the room would hold their breath as well. In those moments, Tonya used to whisper, "Breathe." Most of the time the baby would start crying seconds later. Everyone would relax, and the celebration could begin. And sometimes the cry never came. Those were the babies, Tonya never forget.

Breathe.

"No!" she cried out in a half-sob.

Her husband stopped in the doorway and turned back. "What?" he asked softly.

"No." Her voice was feeble. There were tears in her eyes. But she was fighting. "No, I don't want you to go."

## Section III

## Flame

"Did you bring everything?" Xian asked. I handed the old man my sack containing the small pine branch, cloak, and bronze knife. "So be it."

He led me behind his small stone house to the shallow cave where he made light his slave. Inside, a small, hot fire burned. Xian sat on a low stool and used the knife to strip the bark and twigs from my pine branch. Next, he cut the cloak into long strips. Finished, he held out the knife, but when I reached for it, Xian swiftly seized my wrist and sliced the palm of my hand. Before I could even scream, he was collecting my blood in a small bowl. Once he had enough, the cloth served to bandage my hand. He mixed ground sulfur into the blood making a thick, dark paste. This, he painted onto the branch, which greedily soaked up my life's blood.

"Now, we wait."

Hours later, my hand ached, but the wood was dry. Xian touched the tip of the branch to an ember, and a blue flame sprang to life in his hand. "Now let us see," he said, holding the fire aloft, "what sort of man you are."

## Glow

I was thinking of you when it happened. I was wondering where you were, what you were doing, who you were with. I was alone. The TV was explaining how cleaner teeth would make me happier. The screen flickered. Of course, I didn't know what that flicker foretold. How could I? I simply thought of how you always said that you loved my smile. It made me sad, but still I smiled.

Then it happened. Darkness. No TV, no lamps, no sulfurous glow of sodium streetlights, not even my cell phone. The city heaved a trembling sigh as every electrical current went still at once. For a moment, I thought I had died without getting to see you one last time. Then I heard the screams. A panicked city shouted and wailed, dropped glasses, bumped into furniture, beat on walls and doors. Cars suddenly deprived of headlights crashed into poles and buildings and each other. It sounded like hell itself had opened up.

What happened next surprised me. Suddenly, the city was quiet. Millions of lives scared, alone, just about to inhale. And I saw light. Pale and gentle. Stars. I wondered which of them would lead me to you.

## Provoke

"Did you get it?" Miles whispered.

Joan pulled back her cloak, revealing the heavy glass jar she had taken from her father's workshop. Inside, coiled and still, was a baby dragon. Miles and Edwin shouted in amazement, then quickly hushed their voices so that no one still awake in the village would hear their cries. They took turns tapping the glass, trying to provoke a little spurt of flame from the infant monster and laughing at its futile attempts to fly.

Then Miles asked, "What would happen if we killed it?"

Joan shook her head. "We can't. I have to take it back."

"Just tell him it got away," Miles said as he began looking for a stout stick or a heavy rock.

"I don't want to kill it," Edwin protested.

"My father would know," Joan said.

Miles rolled his eyes. "You're just scared. Give it here."

He grabbed at the jar and Joan tried to wrench it away. In the midst of their struggling, the jar slipped, fell, and shattered on the hard stones paving the square. Awake and angry, the tiny creature screamed. Its cry echoed off the stone buildings into the night.

There was a distant roar.

## Muffins

"Don't leave," you said.

I was afraid to go outside, but there was no more smoke out the window. We needed food, and you needed medicine.

"I'll hurry," I promised.

I had expected the destruction: burned out cars, collapsed buildings, bullets and shrapnel. Reality was worse than I imagined, but at least I had prepared for it. What I didn't expect was the smell of pastries.

The aroma was unmistakable: butter and sugar and baking fruit. I rushed through the streets, past bodies and parts of bodies searching for the source. And there, completely undisturbed by the chaos, was a bakery. Behind the counter, a little old lady smiled like a kindly grandmother.

I rushed in and ordered a dozen of the large blueberry muffins--your favorite.

The woman smiled and said, "Take care of these muffins. Eating one will cure any ailment." I didn't believe her until I tried one while walking back toward our hideaway. By the time I was licking my fingers, my aches and cuts and even my persistent cough had vanished. I started running, but I was lost. I couldn't find our building. I couldn't find you. I couldn't find anything I recognized at all.

## Thermodynamics

A quiet Saturday. Burgers were flying, and ice cream was dripping.

A man in a heavy brown coat stood by the bathroom door. He was coughing hoarsely.

Her arms were crossed as she stared at the menu. "I didn't mean anything by it."

Looking at her, he asked, "Then why did you say it?"

Children were screaming. It was hard to tell which one or about what because there were eight of them in one family, and whenever one stopped another began.

The old men who had lunch together every Saturday were arguing about football.

Some alarm behind the counter was beeping incessantly.

It doesn't matter," she said.

"Everything matters," he answered.

The fire had already started.

A car in the drive thru was honking. The man was coughing louder. The manager was chewing out one of the fry cooks. The teens in the corner were laughing loudly, cruelly.

They all felt it before they knew what was happening--the heat, as though there was too much friction in the air.

Another alarm. Running. Screaming. Hands grasping. Doors held open.

It was loud. The flames howled, sirens wailed, firefighters shouted. But everyone who had been inside the building was silent.

## Glare

A voice in Alice's head was warning, _Don't go toward the light_ , but the glare was too enticing. No one else in the restaurant seemed to notice. _But how could they not?_ she thought. Stealthily, Alice approached the shining sphere, polished so smooth she could see her own reflection. _What if I just . . . touched it?_ Immediately, her hand was moving. She knew she shouldn't, but the forbidden had always held an irresistible fascination for her. The orb was as smooth as glass, but soft and warm to the touch. Alice had never felt anything like it.

"You shall now be granted three wishes," a voice boomed. Alice jumped and let out a shrill gasp. The man whose bald head she had been rubbing turned around to look at her. He was chuckling. Alice had been caught in the act, and didn't know whether to try to explain or to flee the scene, so she remained paralyzed between the two. "Do you often make a habit of caressing strangers?" the man asked.

"I just wanted to see what would happen," Alice answered.

"Well, you're about to." Beneath the smooth, shiny skin, a red light was flashing in his head. "I'm sorry."

## Footage

From eight blocks away, Amir recognized the thick black smoke of burning tires. Another protest. No doubt there was yelling--chants from the protesters, orders from soldiers, threats on both sides--but from this distance it was just a gentle murmur interrupted by the occasional crackle of gunfire.

Amir shivered. There was a chill in the air. He looked down the street toward where it was all happening and sighed. He would have to take the long way home.

The protest made all the major news networks, local, national, and international. Some called it a riot, others an uprising, still others a massacre. Amir tried to stay disinterested, knowing how the media was always bending and twisting reality, but then he saw it.

Before he could even react, the image was gone. He rushed to his computer and tried to track down the same video he had just been watching, pouring through endless footage of screams and explosions, flames and blood. Amir felt the cold settling into his bones.

Finally, he found it. In the background of the paused video was a young man, mouth open in anguish, blood streaming from his head.

Amir was looking at his own face.

## Bloom

It always starts small. An untended fire, a cigarette butt, a spark.

Are you even listening to me?

What is it now?

Look, I'm trying to trust you, but . . .

What do you mean "trying?"

The flame blooms to life so easily.

This is what I'm talking about.

I'm not listening to this.

Exactly. You don't care about anyone but yourself.

How can you not be sure?

I'm just not.

But you promised--

I know what I promised; stop pressuring me.

The fire goes wild. Hungry, it feeds; careless, it destroys. And the inferno rages.

Can't you shut up for five damn minutes?

I don't deserve to be treated like this.

Deserve? You don't want what you deserve.

Did you ever even love me?

I can't keep putting up with your insecurity.

Then why don't you just leave?

## Signs

"You seem nervous," Iris said with a quick glance at her brother in the passenger seat.

"It's the signs," Isaiah said, picking at his hair.

Iris nodded. "I see them," she said.

"So do I, _obviously_ , but what do they mean?"

"What, like 'keep right for I-80?'"

"More like that," he said, pointing off to the right.

"The billboard?"

"No," he said sounding exasperated. "The _tree_. Red leaves in June."

Iris squinted. Sure enough, just behind the billboard was a cluster of bright red leaves. Then they raced past at 76 miles per hour, and the tree was gone. "That's a sign?" she asked.

"Yeah, and there was a blue jay sitting on the antlers of a dead deer about a mile back."

"Are you sure you're not just overthinking some things?" she said, keeping her eyes on the road.

"Maybe," Isaiah replied, scratching at his stubbly chin. "But then there's you."

"Me?"

"You've been crying."

"I'm not . . ." but just at that moment, Iris's vision blurred. She sniffled and wiped the tear from her eyes. "I'm . . ." Confused and shaking, she turned to look at Isaiah, which is why she didn't see the fiery red brake lights illuminated ahead of them.

## eQuest

Zhala, a young human girl, and her elf friend Ildauram sat beneath a broad ash tree, scrolling on their phones. "Hey, wanna go on a quest?" Zhala asked.

"What quest?"

"Supposedly there's this cave behind a waterfall with a whole mess of gold."

"Oh," Ildauram ansered, "yeah I heard about that."

"So you'll go?" she asked, bringing up the waterfall on her maps.

"Nah," he replied lazily. "I looked it up. Apparently it's just a scam. Some undead king recruiting minions or whatever."

"Even better!" Zhala said, reaching for her sword. "Let's kill the undead king."

Ildauram frowned, but didn't look up. "I already e-signed a petition to dethrone him. That's good enough."

"Oh. Okay." Zhala resumed looking through her phone. "What are you planning to do today?"

"I was gonna download a new spell app. Mine has too many weird ads, like for werelights and stuff."

"Werelights are cool."

"Not these," he said.

Tiadora closed the article with an exasperated sigh. The story was just another social commentary on her generation's use of electronics.

Suddenly a curtain of fire cascaded overhead. "Oh yeah," Tiadora said. "I knew I was doing something." She typed into Google: "how to kill dragon."

## Candles

Footage of the attack played constantly on every news network: Hong Kong destroyed in just a matter of hours.

"The world's ending," Liza said numbly.

"It's just one city," Will grunted. "On the other side of the world."

Then Tokyo was gone. There was endless speculation about the origin of the extraterrestrials, the details of their biology, and the capabilities of their technology. China was in chaos; NATO tried to form a hasty plan of action; North Korea launched a dozen nuclear weapons above their own airspace and barely slowed down the armada.

"We'll be safe," Will said.

Liza shook her head. They were predicting how the nuclear fallout would progress.

"Why would they come here?" Will continued. "We're in the middle of nowhere."

Cities were extinguished like candles. Soon, only local news stations were left reporting on the latest disastrous rumors. At last, the power went out.

"What do we do?" Liza said.

"We'll be alright," Will answered.

"How?" Liza asked her husband in disbelief.

"I took care of things."

"You mean . . . what do you mean?"

"I made a deal," Will said brusquely.

"You mean . . . we moved, so . . ." And suddenly, Liza knew it was possible to live with monsters.

## Broken

"You are good people," our housekeeper Myriam told me in low whisper. "You should not stay in this place. It's dangerous."

"That's why we're here," I answered.

She shook her head, "There are some who do not care what you've done for our people."

"Myriam, do you know something?"

She answered, "I know people."

The next day, the soldiers guarding the compound told us to stay inside. A haze of smoke drifted from the city. That night, there were bombs. I didn't know who was dropping them, just that they were close enough to shake the bed where I lay awake beside my husband.

When the sun rose, things were quiet. We got into the trucks and headed out into the streets to set up clinics. The soldiers were tense as a flood of human misery gathered around us. After four hours of bandaging wounds and setting bones, I slipped into a battered building one street over. I quickly found Myriam's apartment and knocked. Her sixteen year old son opened the door.

"Anti," he said. "Wamin khatakum."

_You. It's all your fault_.

Myriam's body lay on the couch beneath a broken window. She was pale, bloody, and still.

"Wamin khatakum."

## Fire

With trembling hands, Mota fastened the last clay jar to his belt. "Do you think it's enough?" Lutaar calmly extracted the last of the flare-stones from the fire they had been tending. "Six jars each," he answered, "just as the Wolf warned."

"Right."

Suddenly, a voice sprang from the darkness, "How treads the night?"

Both youths wheeled about and pointed their spears at the man who had unexpectedly appeared beside them.

"Chief Raanu?" Mota said, lowering his weapon.

"Sir," Lutaar followed. "We're finishing preparations."

"Do you have enough fire?" Raanu asked.

"Six jars each," Mota replied.

"Good," the chief answered. "You are good with a spear, Mota, but this task requires more than strength. Before weapons can pierce the creature, you must remove its defenses. Use the fire wisely." Mota nodded, but Lutaar was staring darkly into the fire. "You are ready," the older man said. "Sol protect you."

"Is that all?" Lutaar asked.

Raanu stiffened. "Lutaar," he said carefully, "as chief, I _mus_ t bid you walk toward possible destruction. Therefore, what I _wish_ to say would bring shame upon us both. Be braver than I, my son."

Lutaar's eyes were shining. "I understand," he said. "Sol protect us all."

## Bombs

The bombs are falling, and I don't know where you are.

I told you we should go straight home, but you said there were a couple more shops you wanted to check, and then you'd catch up with me.

I told you we should do the chores tomorrow, but you said you were tired of putting them off and that we'd be fine if we didn't waste time.

I told you we should have left with the others, back when it was still safe. But you said that you didn't want to live a life of fear--that the city needed people with hope to stay and keep things going till the others came back.

We stayed: you for hope; I for you.

It's been three years now, and suddenly I'm running through dark and empty streets calling out your name. All that's going through my head is _I told you so; I told you so; I told you so_. I know that's cruel and careless, but I'm too scared to think of anything else, like what might happen if a bomb falls in the wrong place. I'm too scared to think of one of us left without the other.

## Light

"You got a light?"

It took a moment for Ryan to discern the shadow loitering at the edge of the alley. She looked a bit rough with her wild hair and dingy, oversized coat, but Ryan wasn't one to judge. He tossed her a lighter.

Catching it, the woman asked, "This all you got?"

Ryan shrugged.

"It'll do," she grunted.

"You know, they sell lighters for like 99 cents," he said before considering that maybe she didn't have any money.

"I don't need a lighter, just a light," she said, digging through a satchel.

"You need a cigarette too?"

Without answering, she pulled a rock out of her bag and ignited the lighter beneath it.

Ryan looked around nervously. "I didn't think-- I'm not comfortable with . . ."

He trailed off as the stone gradually began to glow: first a dull red, then a warm purple, and finally a brilliant pale blue. The substance of the rock seemed to change too, from coarse, dense stone to transparent crystal.

Ryan was mesmerized. "How did-- What . . . ?"

"A little light goes a long way," she said, then lifted the radiant sphere above her head and hurled it to the ground.

Night vanished with a crash.

## Flickering

We are flashing lights, looking desperately for someone who flickers with the same rhythm we do. What was it that brought you to me? I understood the introductions, the conversations, the way we ended up together that night, but not why.

We were driving back to your place when I saw the fireflies. They always filled the fields this time of year. That was why I liked taking the country roads around the edge of the city. You were telling me about someone at work, but I interrupted you. "Look," I said, "they're like magic."

"Hm?" You glanced at the galaxy of lights, each one seeking its match. "Oh, I guess." And you went back to what you were saying. I don't remember what it was.

Outside your apartment, I kissed you goodnight, but had already planned not to call you again. I drove by the same field and pulled over, but the fireflies were gone. It was too late now, too dark. I wondered which fireflies had found their partners and which were now alone in the night like me.

I got out and looked up at the stars. Their light had travelled so far. It was so faint.

## Enough

Majestic the night. Beneath the stars, the man felt cold and small.

"More fire," he said roughly. His wife watched curiously as he tossed one log after another into the flames. Sparks, heat, light swirled up. "It's working."

"Isn't the moon lovely?" the woman said.

Her husband squinted at the sky and muttered, "More."

Trees fell. Flames rose higher. Still the man's heart felt cold. And beyond the orange glare, darkness waited. His wife laid a hand on his shoulder. "It's splendid," she said. "Are you finished?"

Despite the fiery light, his eyes were dark. "It's not enough."

He brought out the gasoline and the gunpowder. The forest ignited and shouted at the heavens. Light cut across the sky so that roosters crowed and wildlife fled. "It's almost there," the man said with grim resolve. Only a pale shadow of moon was visible above.

But the woman called over the roaring inferno, "You need to stop. This is out of control." He wheeled on her fiercely, but her eyes, tender and majestic, made him pause. She reached up and touched his face. He wept.

A towering wave. The sea rose up and doused the pillar of fire.

Stars shone overhead.

# Water

## Section IV

## Shore

The sky is dark on the horizon, and I can hear a low roar rising. I know what is coming, but I will not leave.

For years I have walked along your shore, admiring. I could lavish words by the thousand describing how the light shines in the graceful movements of your love. I have built a home for myself overlooking the currents of your heart. But every time you reach out to me, I keep my distance. We never even touch.

Now the storm is coming. There are bolts of lightning out above the water. The wind sings a mournful tune in my ears. Still I stay where I've always been, accepting the inevitable flood. But while I don't flee, I don't immerse myself either.

For I have seen the way your heart can rage. Your love is dark as well as lovely. Beautiful and terrifying. Your depths are beyond my strength, and it will be easy--so easy--to lose myself in your love.

It is dark. It is raining. Waves rush around my feet, and I'm more frightened than ever.

I'm no longer sure if it will still be love when your waves finally sweep me away.

## Edge (ii)

"What are you worried about?" Salvia asked. She plopped down on the flat stones and kicked off her shoes.

"We're at the edge," Aspen replied. The water rippled gently inches away from his toes.

With her socks stuffed into her shoes, Salvia started rolling up her pants. "You look nervous," she said. "Haven't you ever crossed this stream before?"

"No." _He should tell her. He should explain_.

"Well, come on," she said splashing into the shallow creek. "It's just water."

But Aspen still hadn't moved. "It's not about the water." _How could she possibly understand what this boundary meant? She didn't even know what he really was_.

Salvia stopped halfway across the creek. The water was just above her knees. She looked back at Aspen with concern. _They had known each other such a short time_. Then she asked, "It's the song, isn't it?"

Aspen flinched, stared at Salvia with eyes wide. "How do you . . . ?"

"If you cross the stream, you won't hear it anymore, right?" He nodded slowly. Salvia looked down at the flowing water. "It's terrible--losing your song. But then you get to make your own music."

"With someone else?"

She nodded.

Aspen stepped into the water.

## Ooze

"It's disgusting."

"It's beautiful."

Carrie's mouth gaped in disgust. "Are you serious?"

"They're the best specimens I've ever seen!" Dr. Markov exclaimed. "We must harvest immediately."

Carrie's nose wrinkled in revulsion. "Of course by _we_ , you mean _me_."

"Naturally."

"Great," she said, rolling her eyes. "I'll get right on it."

Carrie put on protective coveralls, gloves, and a facemask, all carefully designed to protect her from contact with the potent substance. Properly equipped, she entered the chamber and approached the specimens. Ordinarily, it was easy to scoop up the product, but there was something odd about this sample's consistency. "It's runny," she said, struggling to gather the fluid. "Why is it so runny?"

"This isn't your typical mushy crap," Markov's voice buzzed through the intercom. "Filtering that gives back a quarter of the volume at best. This is the real thing: pure, undiluted, perfect!"

Carrie was skeptical, but as she moved around the lovers in the chamber, they began whispering back and forth:

"I'm at home when I'm with you."

"You're my favorite person."

"I love you."

"I love you too."

Fresh pink love oozed from the couple, making Carrie gag. Outside the chamber, Markov teared up. " _Beautiful_ ," he said.

## Power

"Next."

Tyrell stepped forward. "I'm applying for a potion license," he said. "I got this form."

"Alright," the pasty man behind the counter said. "Let me take a look." Tyrell watched nervously as the clerk skimmed the document. "Okay . . . Alright," the man mumbled. "Hold on . . ."

"What?"

"You've indicated here that you have a prior conviction for improper use of magic."

"Right, a long time ago."

Avoiding eye contact, the clerk explained, "We can't grant a license to anyone with a record of--"

"But that was an enchantment. Potions weren't even involved."

"I'm afraid that doesn't matter."

"Look," Tyrell said, leaning across the counter, "I need this. I been shoveling griffinshit for years. But my cousin's starting a business. There's a job for me, _if_ I get a license."

"You can file an appeal," the clerk said, sliding another thick form across the table. "It takes a few weeks to process."

"That's it?"

The pale man just fidgeted.

"I called off work to be here, man."

"I'm sorry, sir."

"That's money. Money I use to feed my kids."

"I'm sorry about your situation, but . . ."

"Yeah, I know. Sorry, sorry, sorry." Powerless, Tyrell turned to leave. "You know who's sorry? Me."

## Whole

"There's a woman in your office," my secretary said as I walked past.

"What?"

"Said you were overdue for a talk," she continued without looking up.

"Who?"

She shrugged. "I didn't get her name."

Ignored my secretary's ineptitude as my excitement mounted. It had to be her . . .

Bright red hair. A graceful smile. Kind, radiant eyes. "We'll be together," she promised.

I had been alone for so long when our lives crashed together. A child of divorce, I had never trusted anyone before, but I dove head first. "My air, my life," I said, "my whole world."

Too heavy. Too deep. Too fast. Pressure mounted. "It's too much" she told me. I was lost. I couldn't speak, couldn't even cry. She said she needed time.

That was one year ago. At last, I'd be whole.

I opened the door to my office, but there was no sign of my long lost love. Instead, a gray haired woman turned her head.

"Mom?"

The woman who had walked out on her family sixteen years earlier rose to her feet. "My baby," she said, "it's been so long."

I had cried for hours the night she left, but never once until she returned.

## Storm

The sky shattered, burned, and swirled. The oak tree whipped back and forth like a prizefighter's fists. We watched through a skylight as the tempest bombarded the glass.

"This is love," she yelled amidst the thunder. " _Real_ love."

"It's a storm," I replied, floundering in the poetry.

"Isn't it magnificent!"

"This is a bad one. It could bring down a tree. Maybe we should be in the basement."

But she was riding the updrafts. "It's perfect!" she cried, smiling irresistibly. So I bent with the power of her winds.

The air was electric. We made love amidst the staccato rhythm of falling raindrops, beneath the rolling beats of aerial explosions. Lightning illuminated silhouettes of our passion.

Afterword, looking up at the skylight, she whispered, "It's perfect."

"It can't always be like this," I answered.

She sighed. We spent the rest of the night in silence.

The next day, she got up early and went to work without saying goodbye. Thirty minutes later, I stepped out into the sunlight to survey the damage. Then it happened.

It wasn't the storm. A breeze as gentle as a sigh, and the oak came down. The house came down. It was all broken apart.

## Return

"Do you have to go now?"

Viggo had finished packing his bag an hour ago, but had then emptied and repacked every item, just to make sure he had everything--just to postpone this moment. "I have to go sometime."

"But why now?" Freya's question was meant to be playful, but there was earnestness underneath.

"It won't be any easier if I wait." And he couldn't wait forever. The ship would sail in two days, and he had many miles to cover just to reach it.

"You'll come back though . . . right?"

"Of course," Viggo answered, shouldering his pack.

"Don't say that."

"What?"

"Don't answer like the question is of no consequence, because it is."

His shoulders slumped, the pack suddenly heavy. "I know," he said. Viggo searched inside himself for some certainty to offer his wife, but the horizon ahead was a broad sea beneath a hazy sky, and it was hard to find his bearing. "I can't tell the winds where to blow," he said, voice quavering. "But I promise, you will always be my destination."

Freya had turned to the window, to the direction of the sea, as though already awaiting his return. "Come home soon," she said.

## Immersion

_Beauty that anoints the soul_ \--that's what people said. It was for this that James had dropped everything, given up certainty and safety to take his family halfway across the galaxy. He could remember when he was a kid, hearing about the explorers who spent their entire lives just trying to reach the next star. Now, thanks to gravity maps and high efficiency ion engines, such trips were becoming commonplace.

Of course, this was no weekend excursion to Alpha Centauri. Their voyage would be to the frontier of known space. Friends had wished them luck sincerely, knowing that with one little accident, they might never meet again.

It took fourteen months in hibernation to cross gulfs of space so empty, not even black holes would form. They woke on a cold lump of rock orbiting a gas giant beneath a sky of strange new stars. But that wasn't why they came. As the moon's revolution carried it out of the planet's shadow, the Prospero Nebula unfurled before them. Majestic radiance baptized the little family from Iowa.

"Look at it," James said through tears. "Have you ever seen such beauty?"

Looking up, his daughter asked, "Does our hotel have a pool?"

## War

Bullets embedded in brick walls. Bombed out store fronts. Blood on the streets and sidewalks. Such a simple difference in perspective resulted in unspeakable destruction. The division had always been there, but no one predicted how quickly it would grow to violent extremism. At least--not until it was too late.

The establishment was affluent and powerful, and for so long they had dictated their will flippantly, concerned only with their own aggrandizement. The opposition, meanwhile, was a motley aggregation of the disaffected and disenfranchised found in every city and town across the country. The middle ground disappeared, and even the unaffiliated were forced to choose a side. Communities split. Friends, families, even spouses turned against each other. There were rallies and manifestos, and the caffeine fueled mobs were easily whipped into a frenzy. Both sides lashed out in violence, and both sides suffered brutal retributions.

Beneath their verdant ensign, the establishment forces gathered. "The cup!" they chanted, "The cup is TALL!"

Meanwhile, the opposition mustered in cafés, diners and coffee shops, declaring "The cup! The cup is SMALL!"

Like some terrible goddess of war, the mermaid emblem grinned, pouring out twelve freshly brewed ounces of wrath onto the earth.

## Cup

"Ah, crap," James spat.

"Something wrong with your latte?" Donovan inquired.

His friend answered dismally, "We gotta find a new coffee shop."

"Oh?"

James displayed his cup. Seven digits. A smiley face. The words _Call Me_ written in graceful letters.

"This always happens to me," he groaned.

"What does?" Donovan asked, frowning at his own beverage.

James shook his head. "Every time I start going to a coffee shop, inevitably, one of the baristas falls in love with me and gives me their number."

"Every time?"

"A couple times, they were even dudes. It's not like I can blame them. And I'm flattered--honestly--doing something like that takes guts. But it puts me in a sucky position. I have certain standards, you know? But if I don't call, then things get awkward, and then I'm always worried about spit in my latte."

"Speaking of lattes," Donovan interjected, "that's actually my drink."

"What?"

Donovan pointed to a little square on the cup beside the word tea. The box was checked. "Here's your latte," he said, trading cups with his friend.

"I thought . . ." James trailed off, examining his blank cup. "But . . . why doesn't she like me?"

But Donovan was already dialing.

## Coffee

"Delphia!" Ivy called out, "We've gotta get going so we can stop by Starbucks on the way to softball."

Georgi emerged from the kitchen holding a carafe of water. "I didn't know you wanted Starbucks," she said.

Ivy pursed her lips slightly. "I didn't. I wanted you to make some."

"I'm trying," Georgi said, raising the carafe.

"Now?"

"Yes?"

The ensuing silence was broken by a clatter of cleated feet as their daughter Delphia bounded down the stairs. She stopped immediately between the two. "Uh, what's going on?" the perceptive ten year old asked.

"We're just talking about coffee," Georgi answered.

Delphia brightened. "I like coffee."

Georgi looked at her daughter quizzically. "No you don't."

"Yes I do!"

Ivy was still tense. "It's not about coffee."

"It's not?"

Ivy sighed, then turned to Delphia. "Come on, girly," she said. "Let's get going."

"Can I get a macchiato?" Delphia asked.

"Do you even know what that is?" Ivy replied, ushering the girl and her equipment out the door.

"How about I meet you there?" Georgi offered. "I can bring the coffee with me."

"Georgi," her wife said intently, "forget about the coffee."

The door closed. Georgi was still holding the carafe.

## Breakwater

It was the same beach where we'd met. We searched for the exact place where we had stood to watch the sunset, letting our feet sink slowly into the soft, golden sand.

Footprints trailed behind us side by side as we walked down to the breakwater. Enormous slabs of roughhewn granite had been hauled from the quarry to the shore and heaped in a long line that stretched into the water. There they had lain ever since. Waves broke against the stones, diffusing their energy and keeping the harbor safe. We climbed out onto them, helping each other along with slower steps than we had taken the last time we were here. The years had certainly worn us down a little, but mostly they had smoothed out our sharp edges. Chilly wind swept across the end of the breakwater, and you nestled into my side for warmth as we rested before heading back.

By the time our toes were back in the sand, high tide had come in, sweeping away our earlier footprints. So we made new ones. Hand in hand, we watched the sun set over the ocean once more. The vast, glittering sea lapped gently at our feet.

## Fount

Lee's eyes opened to see a beautiful woman. Momentarily, he was pleased, but then he remembered what had happened before the blackout: days climbing the mountain, reaching the peak, seeing the fount iced over, and his frail body collapsing. He sat up quickly and was startled to find he was still at the top of the mountain. Ice swirled around them, but the woman beside him was dressed only in thin robes. Maybe he was hallucinating.

"You have come for renewal?" she asked, her voice like a bubbling brook.

"Yes," Lee answered hoarsely.

"Heart, soul, mind, or body?"

It sounded like a riddle. "Won't one affect the others?"

"Perhaps," she said, "but you cannot know how."

She looked at him intensely, dark eyes shimmering with hope, and Lee felt himself falling in love. If only he were a younger man . . . but that was why he had come here. "Body," he said.

Her eyes fell. "As you wish." She kissed Lee on the lips, and again the darkness took him.

When he came to, Lee was a young man once again, and beside him was the frozen corpse of an ancient woman, clad in robes. Hot water gushed from the fountain.

## Edge (i)

The kids stood on the edge of the bridge like they were waiting for something. That's what the 911 caller said--she was afraid they were going to jump. It was on Don's beat, so he headed over, but by the time he arrived at the bridge, no one was around. He looked over the railing and saw nothing either spectacular or out of the ordinary, only murky brown water. He called it in, situation normal, and he left.

But something about the ordeal left Don feeling uneasy. He started tracking missing persons reports and asked around if anyone had heard about a body in the river. When driving his beat, he would always slowly down along the bridge, thinking the kids might appear there again, but of course, they didn't. After tracking down the original caller and interrogating her hostilely, Don was suspended.

He had been so certain something would happen, but nothing did.

On a listless grey day, Don woke up early and started walking. After a couple hours, he had reached the bridge. Peering over the railing, he saw swirling brown water. He climbed up on the edge and stood there. He waited for something to happen.

## Itch

I hadn't recognized you at first, even as you repeated your name over and over, "Billie . . . you know, _Billie_." Still I gaped vacantly in the grocery store, trying to place this stranger into any meaningful context. "You're going to make me say it, aren't you?"

"Say . . . what?"

You sighed. "I'm Billie, and . . . I'm an alcoholic."

I'd never seen a fellow member outside of meetings and suddenly felt far more exposed than I ever had admitting my alcoholism. But you were as relaxed and genial as ever, even when I awkwardly commented, "You haven't been at a meeting for a while." We were right around the corner from the liquor aisle, and I wondered if you felt the same itch I did. "We all thought that maybe you . . ."

"I know," you said, "yeah. But I'm really doing great. And it's so good to see you. We should get drinks sometime."

I stiffened. "Actually, I . . . uh, I'm not--"

"No, no, no," you interjected, grabbing my arm. "Coffee! I just meant coffee."

"Oh . . . yeah maybe."

Grinning, you took out a pen and wrote ten digits on my forearm. "See you around."

As I drank in the sight of you leaving, my arm itched.

## Clarity

The world rippled and churned and then glared red. Clarity. She veered left to avoid the brake lights, and a torrent of water once more obscured the world. Wipers arced, and the world came back into view. Lightning illuminated a car on its side in the ditch.

Doesn't it make you feel more alive?

She decided to wait out the storm beneath an overpass and scanned the radio for tornado warnings. Getting mostly static, she gave up. Stillness. Silence. But all around her, a thunder-laced downpour. The windows began to fog.

It's our song--the rain is playing our song.

Suddenly, she felt trapped. The car was too small; the storm too severe; the memories too close. Flashing lightning outlined the shapes of two young lovers in her mind. The thunder was an echo of racing hearts. In a storm just like this, in the back of a minivan, they had been drenched by a love they thought was real, a love that suddenly seemed real again.

Hold me tight. Don't ever let me go.

The vehicles whizzing past shook her small car. Sunlight glared through tears in her eyes. She blinked. Clarity. There was somewhere she needed to be.

## Paris

The world was ending, so we spent all our money on a trip to Paris. "If not now, when?" you asked.

Unfortunately, apocalypse got there first. Museums were looted and left derelict. The wine was expensive because _every_ year was a good year when there were no years left. The Eiffel Tower was surrounded by the crazy, the desperate, and the hopeful with varying degrees of faith that the landmark would provide them deliverance. But before we could escape the city of lights, air and rail transportation shut down. All the workers just abandoned their posts. "What was the point?" they said.

I wanted to find a car, but you said, "No, a boat." We couldn't afford gas for the run down pontoon boat, so we just floated along the Seine, whose current carried us out of the city. The farther we went downstream, the more boats clogged the river. As a massive flotilla we drifted past the fallen Pont de Normandie out into the English Channel. Food and wine was passed from boat to boat. Musicians played dancing tunes. There were fireworks and candles. Embracing, we watched the sun set over the Atlantic for the first and last time.

## Wash

The filth swirled down his dark body in a grayish brown stream. The shower was hot, and the soap smelled like honeysuckle, washing away sweat, dirt, and dried blood.

As the last remnants of grime gurgled down the drain, he had a sudden impulse to be swallowed. So, he pulled the little lever that plugged the tub and let the shower fill the basin to the brim. Then he stopped the faucet and sank into the water, which promptly overflowed, spilling onto the bathroom floor. He didn't care. He was thinking of that bit of trivia about drowning in an inch of bathwater and sank lower, curling up so that the steamy liquid completely enveloped him. He wondered if this was what the womb felt like.

Scars peeled off his skin while bruises faded, leaving his skin smooth and brown. The buzzing which had clouded his thoughts for nine years dimmed, then went still. When he lifted his head to breathe, guilt and regret stayed in the tub. The addiction, which had clung to him for decades, slipped gently away. He rose from the bath, glistening, clean and suddenly scared. But naked and cold, he stepped out into the world.

# Animal

## Section V

## Predators

Leona was nearly the last to arrive--just as she'd intended. She surveyed the boardroom imperiously for a moment thinking, _What a vicious pack of predators_.

"Nice of you to join us," Adderson said venomously. Leona didn't deign to answer that, but tossed her mane of blonde hair and took a seat. Al flashed her a wide, toothy grin. Jacky started chuckling--maybe at her, maybe at nothing. It was unsettling either way.

Then G. Zellers entered the room, and everyone grew still. It was the president's first board meeting since his stroke. The once powerful man looked weak and frail. Leona licked her lips.

Zellers took a long time to sit, then meekly announced, "I'm afraid I . . . don't have an agenda."

A cacophony of voices erupted. Egle was squawking, Fawkes was whispering into people's ears, Barry was snapping at everyone who spoke up, and Jacky was laughing uproariously. Zellers looked skittish, his eyes wide.

" _Enough!_ " Leona roared, silencing the room. She turned to the president, purring "Sir, perhaps you should let me lead the meeting. You know I can handle this unruly bunch."

"A-alright," Zellers stammered. "Sure."

Leona had him cornered. The only thing left now was the kill.

## Oddities

Maggie was very dizzy, very proud, and most of all very happy. She had rescued Devin, "The Antlered Boy," from the carnival's _Gallery of Oddities_ , and they were riding the tilt-a-whirl together. Devin kept his antlers, which Maggie thought looked fake, hidden beneath a shabby grey top hat. After going on all the rides, they bought popcorn to share and headed toward the lion cages.

Suddenly, a short woman with bushy eyebrows and a plaid jacket burst out of a tent nearby. "There you are," she shrieked pointing straight at them.

Devin was behind Maggie. "I have to go now," he said. Maggie turned to run, but Devin was already gone. The top hat and popcorn lay discarded in the grass.

"Where'd he go?" the woman yelled. "What have you done, you foolish girl?" Maggie was frightened, but the woman had no interest in her and ran off looking for Devin instead.

An hour later, there was still no sign of Devin, and the carnival was much less fun alone. Walking home along a country lane, Maggie didn't notice the young stag in the field beside her. However, she did hear a soft voice on the wind whisper, "Thank you."

## Tasmania

Archie Harris is a Tasmanian Devil.

Archie insists that Devil is just a nickname. He's actually quite a nice guy.

Sometimes fights happen. Sometimes you have to stick up for yourself. It's nothing personal.

You should have seen Tasmanian tigers. Now those guys were mean.

Archie Harris dreams of one day becoming a pilot. He doesn't have a particular grasp on how planes work, but if a bunch of stupid birds can figure it out, then he can definitely manage. Archie doesn't particularly care what you have to say about opposable thumbs.

Cartoons are deceptive. Archie has never once in his life travelled as a tiny tornado of destruction. He is also very well-spoken, thank you very much.

Of course, if you had to spend your entire life isolated on a tiny island with just a bunch of echidnas and platypi for company, you might get a little stir crazy too.

Yes, platypi. And they're overrated.

He's sure that it's wonderful: rising above the world, sailing through the clouds, watching the sea churning all those kilometers below you.

Don't trust kangaroos. They're uppity and they're bullies.

Archie knows that there has to be more out there. Someday, he'll see it.

## Dragon

Peace. I slayed the fiery beast and saved the squire in distress. Now we are home from the far off lands, and the squire is my groom. I am crowned in wealth and glory and domestic bliss with everything someone could dream of. Happiness. Rest. Tranquility.

But I still wear my armor. It may be scarred and bloodstained, but it tells me who I am. My husband says each day that I should set the gear of war aside. Perhaps he is right. But I fought for so long that it's hard to imagine real peace. Isn't there always the possibility of danger? Isn't there always another enemy? And after all, who wouldn't envy all that I have gained?

If they fear me, we'll be safe. My name has turned back armies before, and any fools who dare to challenge me must learn why. The spouse I treasure looks at me with wide eyes, almost with fear. He doesn't understand, but this is all for him. I'll keep what's mine. He'll never be captive again. Battle is my throne, death my scepter, and through them I will achieve peace. I'll ascend on glorious wings and burn the whole world down.

## Web

It was like I walking through a spider's web. I could feel the tugging on my skin, at my breasts, at my face, but I could not see what irritated me.

"Is everything alright?" you asked.

"I'm fine," I said. "Well, I don't know. It's probably nothing."

"You're cute when you concentrate," you said.

I smiled, but I felt it again, the tugging, tighter this time. And I understood; I was being wrapped in words. I'd never noticed it before, or maybe I always had, but now I knew how to see it. I could follow the strands. _Cute_ led to _Beautiful_ , a solid strong thread. That split off two ways. One strand was _Powerful_ which led off into darkness. The other was _Fragile_. I followed that to _Weak_ , which led me to the nexus of it all. There it joined with strands like _Useless_ , _Stupid_ , _Needy_ , and _Evil_ , the center of a great horrific spiral where I was trapped--a web across the surface of the world, woven for centuries, woven by us all.

That's where I found you, tugging on all the sticky, silver threads tugging me. Such a pitiable thing, not even aware that you were trapped.

## Aspiration

"I love you."

Matias was unnaturally still for a moment, then spoke: "Did you say--"

"I've known for so long," Ofelia interrupted, words spilling out of her mouth. "I've been afraid to say it, afraid of your reaction, afraid everything would change, but I can't hide it anymore because I do . . . I love you."

Matias's jaw clicked. "Ofelia," he said very calmly.

"Yes, Matias?"

"Ofelia, I'm sorry. This can never be."

"But . . ." how could he be so calm? "but . . ." didn't he care? "but . . ." she was starting to feel sick, " but _why?_ "

Matias very purposefully laid a hand on Ofelia's shoulder. It was cold and heavy. "You know that I care for you," he said, "but I am not like you."

"Opposites attract," she answered.

"We are from different worlds."

"That doesn't bother me."

"We have different goals."

"I can support your goals."

Matias's jaw clicked. He cocked his head to the side and said, "My goal is to exterminate the human race."

"W-what?" Ofelia gasped, "Why would you say something like that?"

Matias's jaw clicked. His mouth opened wide and suddenly, a small lizard emerged. Mouth still open, Matias's voice said, "Because I'm a gecko in a robotic suit."

## Apprehension

Jenny was scared, but she was also eight years old, so that made sense. Giant men with metal clothes were all around her, and they were all frowning. For a moment she tried to wriggle away, but she could hear her mother somewhere saying, "Jenny, no," so she grew still. The soldiers grabbed her with big hard hands and carried her through the crowd until she stood before the king himself.

"This is the one?" he said. A guard nodded. The king, a bulky man with a big beard, looked down at her coldly. "Tell me, girl," he said. "Why would you call your king . . . a monster?"

Most people, even children, would have known to hold their tongues, but Jenny had a persistent habit of speaking her mind--that's what got her into this situation. "We don't have any food," she said, "because you gobbled it all up."

People all around chuckled, but the king growled, "Impertinent little brat."

Jenny gasped at the insult, then put on her most serious face. "You shouldn't be such a meanie."

Amidst roaring laughter, the king grudgingly waved off the guards. The procession moved on gaily. Jenny was free. However, the king still frowned.

## Order

He didn't say a word. He didn't touch his food. He barely even moved. Meanwhile, I could feel a piercing in my gut, almost like I had swallowed a fork. It was the feeling I got every time I screwed up a customer's order.

The whole evening was a fiasco. It's not often we get high profile customers--half of the restaurant had been frozen in stunned silence, the other half was snapping pictures and chattering like mad, some even screaming. But I still had to do my job. I squared my shoulders, approached the table, and then stammered through the list of specials. He just grunted. When I returned to take his order, I couldn't understand a word he said. So I guessed. What was I supposed to do, ask him to repeat it? Obviously I should have. This was a grizzly bear after all. If I wasn't mauled to death, I would almost certainly be fired.

Then something amazing happened. After sniffing once, the bear shoved his face into the plate, rapidly devouring the entrée in one bite. With a satisfied belch, he shuffled out of the restaurant. That's when we realized the jerk had left without paying.

## Locks

Outside the room, a dark bristly mass was consuming their boss from the head down. She had been too late. Branwyn stood at the locked door, watching through the narrow window. It was horrible to witness, but it was the only way to know what the creature's next move would be. With her freshly shaven scalp and grim expression, Branwyn looked like a worthy adversary for the bleak circumstances.

In the opposite corner of the conference room where they had taken shelter, Shauna was curled up in the fetal position, cradling her prickly head. Her soft sobs were the only sound in the room. Between them, Eugene paced the length of the room. With one hand, he rubbed his shiny, bald head while his thoughts revolved in stubborn circles. "We should've known this would happen."

"How do you figure?" Branwyn asked flatly.

"Don't you get it?" he retorted. "We tampered with something natural, enhanced its body, made it stronger, healthier, silkier. Of course we wouldn't be able to control it."

"But it was just shampoo," Shauna whimpered.

"Sure. And I bet the dinosaurs said it was just an asteroid."

"Hush," Branwyn snapped suddenly.

"What?"

"The hair. It's coming this way."

## Kindness

"This is where you're meeting your friends?" Nora asked.

"Yep."

"Did they say when?"

The girl nodded. "Soon."

Windshield wipers squeaked. "Do your parents know where you are?"

Kwan smiled, but said nothing.

Nora immediately became convinced that she was helping this black girl run away from home. For all Nora knew, Kwan could be a fake name. And how old was she anyway? The girl had just been so convincing, pleading for kindness on a storm night. Helping her had seemed like the right thing to do, but now the middle aged white woman was second guessing herself. If any authorities found them here in the middle of nowhere, surely Nora would seem suspicious. "Maybe we could call your parents, just to--"

"They're here," Kwan interrupted, opening the door to let in the sound and spray of the storm. "Thanks!"

"They're--now?" Nora asked, looking for another car. "Where are you--"

The car door slammed shut. Kwan was walking ahead of the vehicle. Suddenly, Nora spotted the glowing eyes of two silver canines barely illuminated by her headlights. Kwan looked back, her own eyes glowing and said, "All is well."

The rain ceased. Three foxes disappeared among the trees.

## Roar

They brought Rex on as a consultant for the movie, but he quickly realized that it was just so they could claim they had an expert on set. The director barely talked to him and mostly ignored his recommendations. The cast and crew avoided Rex almost like they were scared of him. And he hadn't even met any of the other dinosaurs appearing in the film.

Everyone had told Rex that Hollywood was no place for a Tyrannosaurus, but he wouldn't listen.

Then one day, as he was moping in an unused soundstage, Rex saw her: the most beautiful female Tyrannosaurus he'd ever beheld. Rising from behind some foliage, she coolly examined her surroundings.

"H-hello?"

But her head swiveled away like she hadn't noticed him.

"Hey!" Rex called across the studio. Her head turned toward him, then away. Was she playing hard to get? Rex charged forward roaring, but her head kept turning back and forth mechanically, almost like a . . .

Clearing the cluster of trees, Rex suddenly discovered that the beautiful dinosaur was nothing but a disembodied robotic head. His roars of horror and sadness disrupted shooting on the neighboring soundstage. The director rolled his eyes. "I hate hiring dinosaurs."

## Piñata

Warm sun shone as the family walked toward the store. Piled-up snow in the parking lot was melting, leaving behind mashed up leaves from the previous fall.

"It's like a paper mache," Julian said, "like the bowl I made in class."

"When I was a bit older than you," his mother, Erica, said, "we made our own piñatas."

"You _did!?_ "

"Scraps held together to make something beautiful," she said wistfully.

"They're tacky," Aaron grunted. "Their whole point is to be destroyed." He knew his wife would be scowling at him and purposely avoided eye contact.

"Can I have a piñata for my birthday party?" Julian asked

"Buddy, I don't know if we're going to be doing a party this year," Aaron answered.

"But we _always_ do a party."

"We'll see, honey," Erica replied.

"We talked about this," Aaron growled.

Erica hissed at him, "Not now."

"Well if we _do_ have a party," their son continued, "can there be a piñata?"

"Julian, forget the piñata. It's a bunch of hollow trash."

"But . . . but then something awesome comes out of it," Julian protested.

Aaron stopped short and stared at his son. "Something awesome," he said softly, "yes." Aaron took his wife's hand.

## Open (ii)

"Lena has a cool party trick," Meghan offered.

Lena wished she knew how to juggle. Suddenly, everyone was looking at her, waiting for a performance. With a sigh, she walked to the side table and touched a bottle of wine; its cork shot out like a rocket. People gasped. Next, Lena held someone's phone flat in her palm; its screen lit up, the unlock pattern traced itself, and music started playing. People murmured. Finally, she pressed both hands against a wall; every door in the house opened at once. The whole party applauded.

"What about living things?" Thom asked.

Lena swallowed hard, then slowly reached to touch a large house plant; it slowly unfolded a bouquet of small white flowers.

Unsatisfied, Thom goaded, "What about _people?_ "

"No," Lena said quickly.

"I'll do it," Meghan said.

Lena continued to object, but people were cheering. Meghan smiled. Lena shook her head and took both of Meghan's hands in her own; immediately, black dye leached out of Meghan's hair revealing fiery red tresses. Acrylic nails clattered to the floor. Meghan's mouth opened and she blurted, "I'm in love with Lena!"

The crowd gasped. Thom yelled, "Me next!"

Lena whispered, "I love you too."

## See

I'm the only one who sees it, but others can tell it's there. That's why they avoid looking at me. They're doing it right now on the subway. I'm surrounded by people, but there's not even a passing glance in my direction. The creature looms over me, and they can't stand its presence. Molting black feathers from large wings. A cruel, hooked beak, dripping blood. Those yellow eyes that never blink. My shadow--the reason I am always alone.

"It would be easier that way, wouldn't it?"

The sudden voice surprises me. I turn to see a woman looking at me. "Excuse me?"

"To believe that you're doomed," she continues, "that there's nothing you could do. It would be easy."

For a moment, I'm dumbstruck. I don't know how the woman had managed to know what I was thinking, but I quickly scoff at her words and turn away. "You don't understand."

"It's a lie."

And then I see it, the hideous, black, bat-like thing that sits beside her. I see her shadow.

"You should understand," I say, "there's nothing easy about this."

"No. But hope is even harder."

There is light in her eyes. And she's looking into mine.

## Cold

Her toes weren't cold anymore, which was a bad sign since she was walking barefoot through the snow. A large raven atop the frozen remains of a roadkill carcass cocked his head watching the frail vagabond's slow progress.

"What are you staring at?" the woman asked.

"You're freezing," the raven answered. "You're going to die."

"Maybe." She sat on the curb, pulling her thin jacket a bit tighter around her.

With a flourish of its wings, the raven leapt to the woman's side. "Not maybe," he said. "In this form, I can tell. It'll be soon."

"So?" she sniffled. "What do you care?"

The raven turned his head from side to side, looking with one eye and then the other. "You don't have to stay human, right? You're--"

"I know who I am," she snapped. " _What_ I am." The wind howled, but her numb face and fingers couldn't feel it.

"Is this some sort of punishment?"

Her eyes closed. "I thought so once, but not anymore. I've learned so much as one of them."

"Like what?" he cawed, "What have you learned?"

But death had already received her. The raven contemplated her body silently, then shuffled his wings and vanished.

## Beneficence

The house was thick with the smell of boiling walnut husks. "Do you ever think we might be wrong?" Giles asked.

Tabitha continued stirring without looking up and said, "What's wrong with protecting our son?"

Their son Devin's antlers had come in two months ago. They were pale blue. It happened once a generation, and the aberrant child would be sacrificed for the beneficence of all. So every few nights, Tabitha and Giles rubbed walnut dye over their son's antlers and prayed to preserve their secret.

Devin grew and so did his antlers. Each autumn the family gathered bushels of walnuts then boiled the husks to make enough dye for the whole year. They stored it all in the cellar with dried flowers to mask the bitter smell.

That same odor clung to Devin, making his teenage years a trial. One day on the jousting field, he locked antlers with a hulking eight-pointer, who sneered, "That all you got, Shrub-Grazer?"

"Don't call me that," Devin growled.

"Gonna make me, Scat-Head?"

"Shut up!"

Crack!

The older boy's antlers had shattered. Blood gushed from his scalp. Fearful awe silenced the crowd around Devin. His dyed-brown antlers shimmered with a silvery blue glow.

## Ash

They had reached the end of their quest, the evil one's lair. In the castle courtyard, she was waiting for them. "Fell creature, meet your end!" Sir Conlan cried, charging toward the vile beast. It would take a perfect blow right to the heart. He ducked and dodged the creature's claws, raised his mighty sword high, and was swatted away by a spiked tail.

Friar Nevan saw the evil one for what she truly was: a sorceress. Powerful, yes, but her monstrous form was just illusion. He threw a glass vile at his enemy. There was an explosion of light and heat and smoke. "Let justice claim you," he said. But when the smoke cleared, the sorceress was wearing a wicked smile. Her scepter glowed, and with dark magic she hurled Friar Nevan against the granite walls.

The squire, Gareth, walked carefully past his fallen comrades and approached the woman. She was younger than he had expected, perhaps no older than himself. Her hair and clothes were disheveled; her face and body were bruised. "What have they done to you?" he asked. An open hand struck Gareth across the face. Looking into her frightened eyes, he said, "I'm so sorry."

# Vegetable

## Section VI

## Snap

I'm going to tell her.

She's standing in the kitchen snapping peas. It feels just like when I was growing up, though it's been years since I last spent so much time in the house for anything other than a special occasion. "Hey mom," I say, leaning against the counter while she works, "you remember . . . Martin. Right?"

"Yes," she answers evenly.

"I ran into him the other day."

My mother's face sours. The peas plop noisily into the pot while empty pods clatter into the trash. "I never liked that boy," she spits. "From the moment I laid eyes on him, I knew right away he was trouble."

I feel my shoulders tense. "Before you had even met him?"

"Yes." She wrenches the pods open with a quick twist of the wrist.

"You know," I begin, trying to remain nonchalant, "you shouldn't make quick judgments about people like that."

She shakes her head. "You'll understand when you've seen more of the world." Rent husks tumble into the trash. "Everyone has a type. After all, just look what happened." The words were matter-of-fact. With the twist of a knob, the stove's flame roars to life.

I'm going to tell her. Eventually.

## Refuge

"We might have to give up," Jessi said glumly.

I was looking carefully at each tree, saying, "Everything's so different."

"It was just a game, right?"

It was offered as consolation, but I wondered if that's really all it meant to her. I wondered how an idea could seem so different to two people. I wondered if wanting something could make it real.

It would be dark soon. As a child, I could walk through those woods with my eyes closed, then open them in a different world. Trees like towers held up a roof that glowed green and gold. There was no brush, no thorns, no creeping bugs. It was far from parents who yelled, siblings who cried, bruises that never seemed to heal.

Jessi was the one who had shown me the way. She saved me. Together, we spent hours in that seemingly magical grove. I had always thought of our happiness then as a seed which grew into our present love.

I looked at my wife. Shivering, dirty, obviously miserable, still she tried to smile. "Let's go home." I said.

"But we haven't found it."

Surveying the trees, I said, "I think we've been there all along."

## Smoke

With a bag of garbage in each hand, Kaicey kicked the door open and trudged over to the dumpster. It was her third trash run of the shift, and she could feel the smell sinking into her clothes. Suddenly, there was a rush of warmth behind her and a _fwwsh_ like a match igniting. She turned around and saw a cloud of smoke dispersing around a gangly young man.

"H-hi."

"Uh, what?"

"Hi," the boy repeated.

"Can I--"

"You're really pretty," he blurted out.

"Um . . ."

With a flourish of his hand, there was another _fwwsh_ , a smaller puff of smoke, and suddenly he was holding a bouquet of roses. "These are for you."

Kaicey looked down at the trash bags she was still holding. "What am I supposed to--I'm working."

The boy reddened immediately. "Oh, you're right. That's--I'm sorry. Let me just--" _Fwwsh!_ The flowers disappeared. He shook his head and mumbled, "I'm sorry. This was really stupid. I'm an idiot." _Fwwsh!_ And he was gone.

Kaicey shrugged and then hefted the bags into the dumpster. Turning back toward the restaurant, she saw a vase of roses in a quickly dispersing cloud of smoke. She grinned.

## Grow

Once upon a time, a girl's parents divorced, making her a child of two homes.

When her father found a new house, he was still too sad and disoriented to do yard work. Grass grew tall. Bushes reached through the fence like hands looking for another's to hold. By the time his daughter arrived for summer, the place was quite overgrown. His ex-wife sneered, but the six year-old clapped her hands and plucked a flower to tuck behind her ear.

From then on, he never trimmed another shrub or blade of grass. Each summer his home more and more resembled a forest, a magical escape for his precious daughter.

Instead of simply neglecting the vegetation, he began to care for it, feeding and watering the plants so that they grew tall, so that there were always flowers when his daughter arrived.

The girl grew into a woman. She visited less and less. Her father lived among the plants. The house put down roots and grew tall. Trees extended their branches through the windows, offering fruit and nuts. Vegetables sprang from the floor. They sustained him as he had sustained them.

And still without fail, whenever the girl returned, flowers bloomed.

## Decay

No sooner had Jack reached maturity than he began to decay. This was no long, slow slide into decrepitude--in a matter of weeks, Jack passed from the fullness of life to the gateway of death.

The first signs of his impending fate were wrinkles. Lines deepened into creases, forking and creeping across his face like roots in soil, draining his life away. Next spots started to pepper his weathered, yellowing skin. The impurities grew and spread into a blotchy, mottled mask of ruin.

Rot settled into Jack's teeth. Those which didn't fall out of their own accord grew soft, shriveling up inside a smile that was increasingly black and putrid.

His eyes drooped. Flesh withered away. Unlike many, his nose did not grow large and protuberant. Instead, it shrank, receding into face until his features were almost unrecognizable.

One night, while the world slept, a rodent padded up to Jack's lumpy form, climbed the wreck of his face, and chewed away an entire eye socket.

But the final blow came the next morning when Jill saw him. Untouched by decay, she shrieked at the sight of his disfigurement. She quickly recovered however and hauled her Jack-o-lantern to the trash.

## Shed

"What do ya think you're doing?" Wallace roared. Immediately the neighborhood kids who had gathered at his backyard gate scattered.

Wallace knew the rumors and suspicions about him - about his shed. Every year or so, some kids would get up the nerve to try to break in. Fortunately, they always scared easy.

Then Wallace saw him - a shrimpy kid standing at the edge of the sidewalk. "Get out of here," Wallace growled.

The boy flinched, but didn't leave.

Wallace had never encountered this. With his reputation, kids usually ran away on sight. That made it easier. They didn't deserve his secret, so let them fear it. "What do ya want, kid?"

The boy was silent.

Glaring, he asked, "You really wanna see it that badly?"

The boy nodded.

"Fine then." With no further words, the old man turned and walked through the gate toward his shed. The boy followed. Wallace took a key from his pocket and fiddled with the handle to unlatch it.

The boy reached out and, with one last furtive look at Wallace, pushed the door open.

Inside the shed was a slender, shimmering tree with blue leaves. As the boy stepped closer, it began to hum.

## Almonds

It was the city where we fell in love. You liked to pluck almond blossoms, tucking them behind your ear with a smile. Walking through the wealthy part of town, I promised that someday I'd buy you a big, beautiful home and plant almond trees in the back, that we'd raise our children to have better lives than ours. We were young, and it was easy to make big promises. But you said it would make you sad to spend your life in the same city where your mother died. How strange then that I was the one who moved away, leaving you behind.

It was the city where we fell in love, and I watched it burn. Online, there were photos of civilian bodies caked in blood and dust. I scanned every face for family, for friends, for you. Every news network was playing the same footage of missiles launching, walls collapsing, politicians and generals discussing strategy. Then they transitioned to discuss job reports, basketball scores, and new restaurant trends. But no one mentioned whether the almond trees were still growing or whether you'd ever managed to move away.

It was where we fell in love. No one cared.

## Raising

The boys are talking loudly about superheroes, while I look around nervously at the other customers. A woman nearby looks at them and says, "Such cute kids."

I manage a smile and reply, "That's what the gypsy who sold them to me said." The woman nods vaguely and turns away. The lie is funny enough to amuse people, but they never answer, perhaps because they're vaguely afraid that it's true.

The truth is worse.

I cut off both my pinky toes and planted them in the garden. That fall, I dug the boys out of the soil. Now we're off to a farmer's market where I hope they'll fetch a good price. At least, that's what I told the boys today when we left the house.

The truth is worse.

I never wanted kids, and now I'm afraid that I'll hurt them. The boys don't know that their mother committed suicide. She and I used to fight. I could make her life hell with just my words. Now I'm stuck with the boys. I can already see them imitating the way I walk and talk. Desperately I hope for someone to take them away before they become monsters like me.

## Endless

At last, Nada had reached the endless grove. Each tree had a tall smooth trunk that was wider than she was tall. They stood like the columns of a cathedral, supporting an emerald vault above her. There were no handholds to scale them, and the bark, true to legend, could not be pierced by even her steel dagger. But Nada was prepared. It had been difficult to care for the crossbow as she traversed the dessert--cleaning out sand, oiling the rail and trigger, waxing the strings--but now it would be worth it. With twine attached to the bolt, she fired nearly straight into the air. The bolt arced perfectly over a branch and landed nearby. Nada tied rope to the string and pulled it up over the branch, then used the rope to climb the tree. Among leaves and branches, she found the magic golden fruit that would make her immortal. After descending, she bit eagerly into the succulent flesh. But Nada hadn't understood the stories. In sudden pain, she groped toward the sky, fingers turning to branches, blood to sap, skin to bark, and feet to roots.

The trees of the endless grove swayed and were still.

## News

Mac spoke into the phone softly. "Yes . . . yes . . . you mean . . . oh no . . . no it's awful. I'm so sorry. . . . Of course. . . . Yes. I'll see you soon." He hung up and stared blankly at the screen, even after it went dark. "I can't believe she didn't make it," he said at last.

"Who didn't make what?"

"What? No, that was Annette. Her wife didn't make it."

"Didn't make what?"

"No, it's not something she made--"

"Well obviously. You just told me she didn't make it; I just don't know what the _it_ actually is."

"It's not . . . she didn't . . . Look, she passed away, alright?"

"What way? A way to make the thing? Were there instructions?"

"Are you serious right now? She kicked the bucket."

"Did she make the bucket?"

"What? The bucket? No, of course not; I'm telling you she's--"

"Finally! Was that so hard? So, if she didn't make the bucket, does that have anything to do with why she kicked it?"

"No. There's no actual bucket."

"Right, because she didn't make it. But then what did she kick?"

"Why are we even arguing about this?" Mac growled. "You're a house plant; plants don't talk."

And the fern's leaves drooped.

## Emergency

Having worked as an ER nurse for ten years, Sue wasn't surprised by anything anymore. Still, seeing a grown man with a finger stuck up his nose was a first. Jared explained that he had been trying to dislodge a booger when the appendage got wedged in his nasal cavity. Sue tried both organic and synthetic lubricants to dislodge the finger, but nothing worked. She was reaching for pliers when Jared started choking.

Additional nurses poured into the room and discovered an entire plant stem lodged in his throat, leaves and all. "What did you swallow?" Sue asked, but Jared couldn't articulate a response. They trimmed the stem and rushed Jared off for testing. Meanwhile Sue called Jared's emergency contacts--his mother and father. They arrived at the same time as the test results, and a doctor sat them down for a serious talk.

Jared's finger had completely fused with his nose. Additionally, a CT scan had revealed not only an entire watermelon plant growing in his stomach, but also that Jared's brain was completely rotten, most likely from television exposure. He might never recover.

Jared's mother cried. His father shook his head. "We tried to warn him," they said.

## Lost

We used to know the way, back when we followed our feet and not directions. Wind was our music and the moon our lantern. The doors of the forest opened to that hidden grove where the deer welcomed us, the birds serenaded, and the faeries danced.

Fun adventures, weren't they? We were small, and the world was large. Of course we believed that it all went on forever, as far as the imagination could conceive and further. How nice to trust that we could always find more happiness.

I went back, you know. I revisited the fields and forests were we played as children, the sites of our old adventures. All of it was there, the remains of the dam across the creek, the old fox's den, the outlines of a fort. It was all so little, so insignificant. I found no happiness there. I found out that everything I once considered meaningful was a facade that would sooner or later break and fall apart.

I expected that our mystical grove was just a tiny patch of weeds. Only I never found the way. Now I can't help wondering, what have I lost? What else could still be out there?

## Descent

The child was placed in a crib made of oak.

The tree grew from a small acorn that sank into the soil above a mass grave. On that very spot, a legendary bandit had murdered his entire gang of cutthroats and robbers for sole possession of a hoard of gold. The gang had killed 30 people in a train robbery to steal the gold from an old southern gentleman who decided to move out west when he lost his plantation after the War. On his property, slaves had picked tobacco, sugar, and cotton. The profits from these crops had paid for the gold from an eccentric Spaniard living in the Yucatan Peninsula. This man's great grandfather had been a pirate on the high seas and looted a Portuguese vessel. The king of Portugal had acquired the gold crusading against the Muslims. The caliphs he slaughtered were the descendants of Arab merchants who had traded Asian spices for precious metal mined in Africa. There, a king had enslaved his own people, sending them underground to dig for his wealth.

He was once a child, laid on a bed of grass. But he learned evil. We all learn. We must begin again.

# Mineral

## Section VII

## Pedestal

"Tear it down!" they cried.

Times had changed. People could no longer tolerate the radiant gold visage of the dead Queen in Capitol Square. The cruel woman had oppressed them enough during her life. It was time for a hero of the people.

The General's image was cast in gleaming bronze, capturing the fierce dignity of the greatest military leader in the nation's history. But this statue was despised more vehemently than the last, if not as uniformly. The General had used minority troops as bait and cannon fodder, not to mention his near genocide of indigenous peoples in the colonies. The statue was removed within five years.

Next, a stainless steel representation of a famous philosopher and cultural luminary. But his writings were laced with bitter misogyny, and it was discovered that his tragically early death was due to syphilis acquired in the brothels he frequented.

A beautiful philanthropist was enshrined in marble, but the fortune she had generously shared was amassed through vicious exploitation of workers and dubious foreign trade deals.

Finally, a granite statue of Fred, a failed businessman who enjoyed fishing. But outcry erupted when Fred was arrested for public urination.

They left the pedestal empty.

## Symbol

It was a symbol. It had to be. And now they would fight. He could already hear Nadia's teasing voice: Clumsy Kevin. Sometimes it was funny, but often it was infuriating. Kevin loved his wife, but teasing him about this would go too far.

Generally, Kevin disregarded symbols. Only one had ever captivated him with its beauty and significance: his wedding ring. All those years ago, he had been captivated by the minister's description of how the circular shape and precious metal stood for unending love. And through all the hardships of marriage, his ring had reminded him of that commitment.

And now, the ring was broken.

He showed Nadia the pieces. _Here it comes_ , he thought: _Clumsy Kevin_. The tungsten was only supposed to break under extreme pressure, but after seventeen years of dings and scrapes, simply bumping against the brick mantle had shattered it. And what did that symbolize for their marriage? Would a simple fight over clumsiness break it to pieces too?

"Oh no!" Nadia said. "I guess it wasn't indestructible after all. We'll have to buy you a new one."

"Really?"

She smiled. "You're not getting out of this marriage that easily. We're tougher than tungsten."

## Golden

Everything was lining up.

Sabrina's pump up mix-cd was still playing in the car, and she sang along loudly. She had just nailed a job interview with her dream legal firm. Eight years of hard work defying everyone's expectations were about to pay off.

Douglas pulled out of the truck stop supremely satisfied with his purchases: ten gallons of gas at $1.89, a slushy with blue raspberry and Mountain Dew mixed together, and a six pack of Dolph Lundgren movies in one set. It would be a good night.

The sky was clear. A glorious afternoon was becoming a lovely evening. The sunlight, rich and golden, shone brightly, reflecting off the exit sign for Hobbes Street and right into Douglas's eyes.

The photic response was immediate. Douglas sneezed violently. Eyes closed, muscles contracting, he jerked the wheel blindly, plowing his car right into Sabrina's, and together they careened into a ditch.

Blue-green slushy and snot spattered Douglas's windshield. Sabrina's stereo blared a crackling version of Katy Perry's "Firework." While waiting for police and tow trucks, Douglas asked the beautiful stranger, "So . . . do you like movies?"

Sabrina cocked an eyebrow. Everything had been lining up before this. She began to smile.

## Bro

The car was out of control.

Chris was walking hand in hand with his girlfriend when he saw Donovan coming from the opposite direction. Their eyes locked. Mutual understanding passed between them as they drew closer together. At the same moment, when they were about four strides apart, both jutted out their chins like an inverted nod. Then they passed by each other without a single word.

Michelle looked over at her boyfriend quizzically. "You know that guy?"

"Nope."

"He looks like some sort of thug."

"Nah," Chris said, "he's alright."

The vehicle was still accelerating when it hopped over the curb, charging toward Chris and Michelle from behind.

"Yo!" Donovan yelled.

Chris spun around and saw the speeding car. In one quick motion, he tossed Michelle aside into the bushes. Just before the car struck him, Chis leapt into the air, did a complete flip above the vehicle, then landed on his feet, while the vehicle continued its wild trajectory.

"What just happened?" Michelle asked, scrambling to her feet.

The men walked toward each other. "Thanks bro," Chris said.

"It's cool," Donovan replied. They bumped fists, and Donovan continued on.

Chris turned back to Michelle. "See? I told you."

## Countdown

Xarren found Arezza using a plasma iron in her workshop. "What're you doing?"

Arezza shut down the iron, removed her goggles, and presented a steaming ceramosteel bowl. "Cooking SpaghettiOs," she answered.

"Now?"

She shrugged. "I was hungry."

"Aren't you supposed to be reconfiguring the fusion matrix?"

"Ugh, don't remind me." She opened a toolbox, fished through wrenches and laser shears, and retrieved a spoon. "That's been stressing me out for weeks."

"It's almost time for--" Xarren stopped short and looked around the room. "You covered all the clocks?"

Arrezza slurped a spoonful of pasta and said, "They were stressing me out too."

"I can still hear ticking."

"Maddening, right?"

Xarren rolled his eyes. "Have you at least re-galvanized the blast chambers?"

Arezza snorted. "I can't do odd jobs with the fusion matrix hanging over my head."

"Then why don't you finish it?"

"Right now: because I'm eating SpaghettiOs."

Xarren sighed. "We're capable of interstellar travel, but people are still eating canned pasta."

"Want some?"

"You're ridiculous," he said. "We're launching in an hour, and--"

"Nope," she said, mouth full.

"What?"

"No way I'll finish the fusion matrix by then."

Xarren groaned and said, "Sure . . . give me a can."

## Inconclusive

"We're friends, right?"

"Incorrect. According to contract, our relationship is defined--"

"Look," Evan interrupted, "I need to talk to someone about all this so I can feel better. Since you were there for basically everything, you seem like the best person."

T0-83A's processors hummed; he said, "As your companion, I provide whatever assistance my capabilities allow."

"Great," Evan said, "So, I'm feeling really guilty about how everything went down with Heather, even though I think it's for the best."

"Regret is a common reaction following difficult decisions with negative consequences."

"She _was_ pretty angry."

"Physiological metrics indicated multiple possible emotions, including anger."

"Let me ask you something," Evan said nervously. "Do you think she really loved me?"

"Love is a complex variable," T0-83A answered.

"Okay, how about this: when she _said_ she loved me, did she mean it?"

A pause. "Inconclusive."

"So, she was lying?"

A pause. "Inconclusive."

"Can you give me an answer that's actually helpful?"

"That is my primary goal," T0-83A answered.

Evan groaned. "Well was she still angry when she left? Or was she sad"

"Physiological metrics indicated multiple possible emotions, including sadness."

"But I did the right thing, didn't I?" Evan asked. "Didn't I?"

"Inconclusive."

## Paper

"Maybe we should get rid of these glasses," Beth was saying.

From the nest room, Don answered as he always did: "Weren't those from your grandmother?"

They were: the Waterford Crystal wine glasses they had received as wedding gifts all those years ago. "Yes, yes," Beth answered in the kitchen, "but we _never_ use them."

It was the same conversation with every move. And thanks to Don's job, they had moved often. He delivered his next line right on cue: "Maybe now's our chance to start."

Beth peeled away the newspaper which had kept the fragile dishes safe during the 500 mile journey. She held up a glass in front of her, looked it over, and shook her head. "I feel like they're too fancy for us." Crumpled newspaper was accumulating into heaps around her. They had gathered a couple dozen papers in preparation for the move. She hadn't even read any before packing them around her belongings.

The sound of glass splintering cut a discordant note through the house. In the kitchen, Beth stood frozen amidst a sea of shattered crystal. _How could she have forgotten?_ She stared hollowly at the wrinkled newspaper on which Don's obituary was printed.

## Missed

By the time she got home with her new phone, Hope already had three voicemails. The missed calls couldn't have been from anyone she knew, because nobody had the number yet. Curious, she played the first message

"Hey Baby, it's Sasha. I know you're mad, but I promise I can make it go away. Baby, please. It's been too long. I need you."

Hope rolled her eyes. "Desperate much?" She played the next message.

"Hey man, you're in a load of shit now, you know that? I don't know what happened, but the way Schläger is talking, he might actually kill you this time."

Hope couldn't stop. She played the final message.

"Do you think that I am stupid, hm? I know. I'll let the boys use you for target practice and let the dogs have you for supper. Sasha is mine."

Hope was afraid to breathe. Just then, the phone began vibrating. Terrified, she let the call go to voicemail, but immediately played the new message.

"Baby please call me back. Look, I know I said I wasn't going to keep it, but I just--I couldn't. She's ours. Baby, I'm having a girl. You're gonna be a father."

## Defense

I never meant to hurt anyone.

Don't look at me like that. I had to.

Everyone was anxious with the police there--that wall of riot gear. It made you expect something bad to happen. You want to assume they'll protect the right people, but you never can tell these days.

I don't know how I got to the front, but things were crazy there. We were face to face with the other side, and people all around were angry and shouting. The terrifying thing was their eyes. They looked at us like we were less than human. But _they're_ the animals. They're the ones who wanted to start a fight.

I just wanted to get out of there, but the crowd was pushing ahead. I was falling, and someone grabbed me. Everyone was shouting. I shoved the stranger away and fell to the ground.

You can't imagine what it was like. I've never been so scared. People were attacking each other left and right. Somewhere nearby, gunshots went off. And the man I had pushed away was reaching for me.

You have to fight to defend yourself, right? My hand found a rock. I did what I had to.

## Bones

They stood at the edge of the valley. The bones were stacked in orderly piles with a skull on top of each pile. "Where do you think they came from?" Tab asked.

"No saying," Dell answered, "but I know what did it."

Tab shook his head. "You're not serious."

"What else?" she asked forebodingly.

"Animals," he proffered weakly.

"No way," she retorted.

"People."

She scoffed. "People don't do things like this."

"I don't know," Tab said staring fixedly at the contours of each bleached bone. "I've seen . . ." He shook himself. "So what do we do now?"

"Sacrifice," Dell said plainly.

"What?"

"Sacrifice," she said with a playful smile. "It's what they demand."

Tab turned his back on the dismal scene. "What sort of sacrifice?" he asked.

"Blood."

"You don't mean."

She withdrew a knife and carefully sliced along her forefinger. A trickle of red sprang from the wound, and Dell shook the scarlet drops into the valley. "It's what all the stories say." She held out the knife.

Tab remained immobile. "This can't be real. _They're_ not real."

The flames of the setting sun glinted off the knife as she raised it above her head. Blood scattered across the bones.

## Crack (ii)

Persi held the gun tight against her shoulder, but her fingers were relaxed. She had carefully chosen a spot that would definitely do damage, but wouldn't be immediately fatal. The phone was nearby. So was a pile of rags for the blood. She was prepared. Persi gritted her teeth and squeezed the trigger.

Nothing.

Persi swore, equally from relief and from frustration. Her hand was now shaking as she inspected the gun. The safety was engaged. She flipped the switch, double checked that there was a round in the chamber, and once more pressed the muzzle against the muscles on the outside of her shoulder. Shallow breaths and sudden perspiration blurred Persi's vision, so she closed her eyes.

Crack!

It was the recoil that really surprised her. On firing the gun, Persi's wrist was wrenched forward awkwardly, sending the weapon sailing across the room. When it struck the wall, another round discharged, hitting her right in the gut.

Briefly, all was still.

Then, still dazed, Persi slowly tore off her shirt to inspect the wounds. A spiderweb of cracks in her skin surrounded each dented bullet. But just like with the knife and the hammer, the cracks were already healing.

## Threshold

"I don't need pity," she said. "I need you to open the gate."

"I wasn't . . . I just thought . . ."

"It doesn't matter," Mara said through gritted teeth. "Just open it."

"But in your condition--"

" _Juvante._ " Her face was as pale and stern as a heroic marble statue. The hand clutched to her side was a dark, slick red. "It's the only way." Juvante nodded and went to work.

First, the frame. Juvante picked up a knife one of their assailants had dropped in the scuffle and approached the cement wall, hoping Mara wouldn't see his hands shaking. He scratched an arch into the wall's surface.

Next, the latch. He shrugged off his backpack, reached deep inside, into the hidden pocket. The gem glinted red as Mara's blood in the fading light. He pressed it to the center of the arch. Sparks--a burst of flame around his hand. And the stone was fused to the concrete.

Finally, the key. Juvante closed his palm around the knife, sliced, and pressed the wound to the ruby. "Now you." Mara apprehensively released her side and placed the bloody hand over Juvante's.

Light opened around them. Hands squeezed tightly for fear.

For life.

For hope.

## Plaster

When they moved into the house, Shelly had noticed that the paint in that corner of the wall was slightly darker. That's why she'd wanted the desk there. But now, with a baby on the way, the desk had to move. As Devin shoved the heavy desk out of the room, a corner dug into the wall, leaving a deep gouge. Shelly ran a finger over the mark, and plaster began to crumble away in large chunks. Behind it, the wooden slats of the wall had been cut apart to make room for a crusty tin box.

How long had it been in the wall? Who had left it there? Why had they gone to such great lengths to hide it?

Making an even bigger mess of dirt and plaster, Shelly pried the tin out of the wall. The box was a bit larger than a briefcase and fastened with a small padlock. But the latch itself was so rusty, Devin was able to pull it off with one good yank.

Shelly lifted the lid. Inside she found a rotary phone, a long hunting knife, a wad of hundred dollar bills, and a small jewelry box.

The phone started ringing.

## Hobby

Kathy crept uncertainly down the steps toward her husband's man cave. She could hear the voices of football announcers animatedly discussing the latest play. This was a bad time, but she didn't have a choice. "Honey . . ." she said, peering around the edge of the couch. "You know that I love you, right?"

Gary frowned slightly, muted the football game, and turned to his wife. "Of course."

"And you know that I respect your opinion when you give me advice, right?"

They'd had conversations like this before. Whatever advice Kathy may have been referring to, she had obviously ignored it. "What did you do?"

Kathy's answer was interrupted by heavy metallic footsteps on the floor above, followed by wood splintering and linoleum siding being torn apart. Somewhere not far away, dogs started barking and a woman screamed.

Gary sighed. "So you're back to building killer robots?"

Kathy shrugged. "It's the only way I can unwind. And besides, this robot hasn't killed anybody."

" _Yet_."

Kathy pursed her lips. "I don't need you to explain why it was a bad idea, but I do need your support now that it's done."

Gary turned off the game. "I'll fetch the magnet bombs," he said.

## Business

"What up, man?" John yelled into the phone. "I'm about to hit the town. Wanna grab some drinks?"

"Sure, yeah," Andy answered. "Hey wait. I thought you were broke?"

"Nah man, I'm flush," John replied, savoring the statement. "I sold some of my guns. Things are great."

"Ok, cool," Andy said, used to his friend's oscillating fortunes. "You can just sell guns? Just like that?"

"Why not? Sold 'em to my neighbor. No big deal."

"Alright sweet," Andy answered. Then a thought struck him. "But . . . isn't your neighbor kind of a bastard or something?"

"What do you mean?"

Andy replied in a low voice. "You told me he, like, hits his wife and stuff."

"That?" John said calmly. "Whatever. It's not my problem."

"And you sold him guns?"

"Yeah, but dude, she's ugly."

" _Dude_ ," Andy answered, his voice heavy with disgust, "she's a person."

John laughed. "I'm joking. Chill! Look, whatever goes on over there, it's none of my business. I just needed some cash. So come on, pussy; are we doing this or what?"

"No," Andy answered. "Thanks though."

"You know what?" John spat, " _Suck my_ \--" He went silent.

"John?"

"Shit . . ."

"What is it?"

His voice was shaky. "Gunshots."

## Fabricated

"Why did you tell me?" Elise stared dully at the ruin her life had become.

"What are you asking?" Sara said.

"Why did you have to tell me?" she asked again. Her voice was louder, and Sara finally noticed the anger that tinged it. "Were you jealous or something? Couldn't you just let me be happy?"

Sara couldn't look into her friend's eyes, but said, "I thought you'd want to know."

"Fake," Sara had declared with smug confidence an hour earlier.

"What?"

"You're looking at a fake," she repeated. "The color's all wrong."

"What are you talking about?" Elise asked.

"Well maybe not all wrong. But it's not right. And just look at the creases!"

It had all unraveled from there. Sara had continued to point out every single flaw. The evidence was overwhelming.

"I was happy," Elise said. "I might've been happy for the rest of my life if you hadn't said anything. You took everything from me. You ruined my marriage. You . . . _you destroyed my husband_."

"But, Elise, _he was a robot_."

She sniffled. "But at least he was tidy. He never even left the cabinet doors open."

The scrap metal on the ground buzzed, "01001001001000000110110001101111011101100110010100100000011110010110111101110101."

## Stone

Each step carried Leon deeper into darkness. Ghostly figures watched him with pale empty eyes. He'd known they would be here of course. He just didn't expect there to be so many.

Tonight's gala is the first time the public will have the opportunity to behold the sculptures which have redefined the history of Western civilization. The collection, discovered in a cave on a previously uncharted Greek island, predates Ancient Greece's "Golden Age" by centuries.

Leon's every breath echoed, so that it sounded like the stones around him were beginning to stir. Then there was a scraping noise. He jumped and turned, flailing wildly.

The life-size statues constitute a profound artistic study of human fear. But among the haunting masterpieces, there are curious outliers which complicate any analysis of the unknown artist's oeuvre.

Leon had shattered his sword against lifeless rock. The quest was hopeless. Any moment, the Gorgon would appear and turn him to stone like all the rest. There was only one thing to do.

Most notable is the so-called "Rude Youth" with his tongue sticking out, his tunic hiked up, and his buttocks fully exposed. Organizers of the gala have chosen not to display the controversial sculpture.

## Section VIII

## Decorations

"Your ornaments are . . . unique," Shannon said examining the oddly shaped objects. Some were crystal and gold, others were rusty iron, knots of wire, twists and folds of cardboard.

"Thanks," Marta smiled. "Each one's a memory."

"All of them?" It was a tall tree, almost seven feet, and crowded with dozens of ornaments, no two alike. "That's impressive."

"Well how's yours decorated?"

"You know, candy canes, glass balls--the usual." Shannon scanned the tree for any symbols that might be meaningful to her. Recognizing none, she pointed randomly at a shiny piece of metal with a sharp hook and asked, "What's this one?"

Marta looked. "The car accident on my eighteenth birthday."

Not what she had expected. This time she pointed at a delicate piece of rippled gold. "And this one?"

"Ah, that," Marta said in a voice that was low, but steady. "That's my mother's last heartbeat."

Shannon's hand retracted quickly. She hesitated a moment, then asked, "Are any of them . . . memories of me?"

Marta didn't look at her, but answered, "There's one for the time . . ."

"Don't say it," Shannon interrupted. "They're all the bad memories. Why?"

"It's the season of hope," Marta explained. "They remind me why hope matters."

## Pride

I wanted to spend that evening with you, not with all those other people. I wanted you to love me as I am. I was drunk.

Your grad school friends have always made me feel stupid. I know you tell me I'm smart, but I still don't understand their humor. When everyone else was laughing, I'd take another drink. They joked about libraries, confirmation biases, and America. They cursed the army and militarism, and you just laughed along with them.

But my dad served. And my grandpa served. And I still sort of wish I had enlisted, so I wouldn't be stuck with so much debt.

Petty, possessive, and proud, I climbed onto the coffee table and started singing _The Star Spangled Banner_. People chuckled, then got quiet. Your whole face was magenta as I wailed the final notes. Having made myself the fool I always feared to be, I staggered into the kitchen to continue drinking.

I woke up on the couch with a headache. You were in the recliner, drinking coffee. I knew you'd be there, because I know that you love me as I am. For the first time, I wondered if I truly loved you too.

## Static

The first time they turned on the machine, the only noise was static. The scientists all thought their experiment had failed and were prepared to tear the whole thing apart and try again, maybe even start with a clean slate. But right before they pulled the plug, someone shouted, "Wait!" Julie, the research assistant, was sitting right next to the speaker, her lips moving noiselessly. The scientists waited, watching her. Finally, she nodded. "Voices."

Dr. Corbel snorted. "It's just white noise."

"No," Julie insisted, "We just have to refine it."

The brought in a piano turner whose careful hands delicately adjusted nobs and antennas. Gradually, the static began to resolve into the roaring of a crowded arena. The scientists started getting excited. Julie still sat by the speaker silently moving her lips. After several hours of work, the roar became a cacophony, like a crowded food court, and they were able to discern distinct voices: men and women, children and adults.

"But we still can't make anything out!" Dr. Corbel complained.

Across the room, Julie spoke softly, "They're all saying the same thing." Once more, everyone turned to the research assistant. "They're saying, I just want everything to be okay."

## Thrall

Crispin stared at the door where Olena had just left. Other patrons of the restaurant remained hushed as the echo of their raised voices still vibrated in the air. Crispin understood he would never see his girlfriend again.

"That was ugly," a familiar voice said.

Crispin's chest tightened. He turned and recognized dark hair, fierce eyes, red lips smiling without a hint of pity. "What are you doing here?" he asked.

"Is that anyway to greet me?" she said. "Sit down; let's catch up."

Crispin knew he should leave, but he also knew she would just follow him. He sat down, but at least managed to say, "I want to be alone."

She chuckled. "No you don't. Even though you always are." She sat down across from him. "Isn't this what I told you would happen?"

"How did you find me?" he asked.

"I never lost you. And in your heart, you know that you never wanted to leave me either."

Crispin bowed his head, trying to escape her gaze. "You're a liar," he said feebly.

"Maybe," she answered. "But I've always been right. Haven't I."

Feeling bitter, angry, and increasingly powerless, Crispin stared into the face of his depression.

## Nightmare

The first thing Victor heard was his son's screams. Then there was the thumping noise, shaking the entire house. _No_ , he thought. _It can't be real, can it?_

Earlier that day, driving nails into the wall, Victor had said, "Nothing bad's going to happen, I promise."

"But how do you know?" his son Joe asked.

"That's what this is for," Victor said, hanging the dream catcher above Joe's bed. "You know all those monsters you've been dreaming about? It's like a net to catch them."

Joe looked over the strings, beads, and feathers. "It doesn't look like a very good net to me."

And now Joe was screaming. Victor opened the door to his son's room. Joe was sitting up in bed, panting. Everything was quiet.

"Dad?"

"Everything's alright," Victor said. "Just another nightmare."

"But it felt so real."

Victor picked up a fallen dream catcher and said, "I know, Bud. But this will be the last one. I promise."

After kissing his son on the head Victor said goodnight and shut of the lights. The wooden hoop in his hand was hot and vaguely slimy. At last, he had caught the dream. Now what would he do with it?

## Reach

Natalie was angry. She didn't want to be angry. And worse, she was making Sam angry too. "I feel like this shouldn't be that difficult to understand," she said, exasperated.

Sam folded his arms in front of his chest. "So now I'm stupid, is that it?"

"What? No. That's not what I'm saying at all."

"That's what it sounds like."

All Natalie really wanted was for Sam to hold her in his arms and say that it would all be okay, but he wouldn't even listen to her. "I'm not attacking you," she tried explaining. "Stop being so defensive."

"I'm not being defensive," he shot back, wishing she could see his pain. "I'm trying to understand. Sorry it's so difficult for me."

It was all going wrong, and Natalie didn't know how to fix it. "You're missing the point," she groaned.

"I think you've made your point," he growled, "but go ahead. Explain what I'm missing."

Natalie was just across the room, but she had never felt so far away. Her eyes were half-angry, half-distraught, and it was his fault. But all he wanted to do was reach out and hold her.

"Forget it," her voice cracked. "It's not important."

## Monsters

"What do I always tell you?" my father asked.

I dutifully repeated the mantra he'd taught me. "No monsters live beneath my bed. The monsters live inside my head."

"That's right," he said. "I'm sure you heard _something_ , but your _mind_ decided it was a monster."

I trusted my father. He was big and strong and wise, and he had a beard. Grown up people understood these things. So next time the lights went off, I was brave. The floors creaked. Shadows shifted on the wall. The curtains rustled and stirred. Surely something awful lurked in the dark. But I just repeated, "No monsters live beneath my bed. The monsters live inside my head."

Thirty years later, though I am big and grown up with a beard of my own, the words still comfort me. My building is old and drafty. The city is filled with sirens. Sometimes I wake to the echoes of someone screaming. I try not to fear, even when the darkness around me seethes with malevolence.

But this morning, I found blood. The window was open. Blood on my hands and on my face.

No monsters live beneath my bed. The monsters live inside my head.

## Civilization

Surprisingly, I found the simplicity of life in Germania far lovelier than the busy mass of humanity in Rome. My brother-in-law Calvus, the region's magistrate, took it upon himself to educate me on the true nature of life in Caesar's farthest outpost. Outside the walls, he showed me the squalor in which the Slavs lived.

"Barbarians," Calvus muttered in disgust as we walked between stinking mud huts. "Came here to take whatever they could skewer with an iron dagger, and when they ran into Rome, had to content themselves with dirt. Now they live like rats and they're just as impossible to exterminate." A fight broke out near us, two giant men, swiping at each other like bears. Calvus dispatched an attachment of Visigoth conscripts to "end" the dispute.

Days later, despite my brother-in-law's report, the Slavs were leaving, gathering their possession's into wooden carts and fleeing north. In a week's time, their slum was all but empty. "Good riddance," Calvus declared. "It's hard enough to civilize Germans without that scum around."

But I was thinking about what could drive a rat from its home.

The next day, we woke to fire, screams, and breaking stone. The Huns had arrived.

## Sage

"Ascendant One," Angela asked, "how can I get my parents off my case?"

The old man answered, "A map can only tell you where the roads are. It cannot convey you anywhere."

Angela nodded and stepped aside. Next, Corbin spoke. "Hello your Greatness. I was wondering . . . I mean . . . why won't Jenna call me back?"

The wrinkled face pondered, then announced, "An entire world may live on the surface of a still pond, but a breath of wind can destroy it."

Corbin looked disappointed, but he too stepped aside.

"Great Ascendant One," Jonah said next, "Should I try to get a new job?"

The mystic answered in a low voice, "I have seen soldiers weep when they leave their homes, and I have seen the helpless weep at their approach."

As Jonah too fell into line, Misty was left, sneering and incredulous. "So, do you actually know anything, or are you just full of crap?"

Her friends were aghast, but the Ascendant One smiled. "I know you farted in the hallway outside my chamber."

"What?" Misty gasped.

"And you blamed it on your friend Corbin," he continued

" _Dude_ ," Jonah scolded.

"No I . . ."

"Dick move, Misty," the sage said gravely. "Dick move."

## Floss

"Tho, oehr oe gaen hah acashin?" Shawn asked, fingers in his mouth and floss between his first and second molars.

Eric spat toothpaste into the sink and answered, "Oh, I don't know."

"You dun nah?"

Eric shrugged. "Well it's just been a hypothetical thing until now."

"Ud you uth a thud anow id," Shawn added, tugging on the floss.

"Well, of course I've _thought_ about it."

"Hlee?" Shawn said. Removing the floss, he added, "I'm impressed you can understand me that well."

"Yeah. I'm fluent in floss."

"Oh, like how I'm the only one who understands you before you've had your coffee." Shawn smiled. "So where we going?"

But that was precisely when Eric knocked back some mouthwash. "Mmn hmh," he answered, and they both laughed, Shawn nearly spewing cool mint across the bathroom. "Moh, m mhnkn Mmlnna."

"Wait, really?" Shawn answered.

"Mhm!"

"You'd be up for that?"

"Hm khlnh," he answered, eyes bright.

Shawn flashed a wide, clean smile. "So we're really doing this, then?"

Eric nodded enthusiastically, gargled, and then spit.

That night, both were restless. Shawn was eagerly looking forward to Florida beaches while Eric was feeling anxious about learning to ski for a trip to Denver.

## Night

Stu was lost. In the fading light, he had lost the path and couldn't seem to find it again, though he had a sneaking suspicion that his steps had re-crossed it several times in his blind wandering.

"Alone . . ."

Stu shuddered. He knew it was just the wind in the trees, not a ghostly voice speaking his fears out of the darkness, but it was still eerie.

"You suck . . ."

That one had been clearer, but almost too clear. It must have been his imagination. Then a twig snapped. Was someone, _something_ , stalking him?

"You have three bids due tomorrow and a meeting with the division chair . . ."

"What?"

"You're under a lot of pressure. Don't screw it up."

And so Stu wandered, haunted by anxieties until the very hope of deliverance was swallowed in the darkness . . .

. . .

"Sir?" a voice was asking. "Sir are you alright?" It was a real, human voice.

"Please," Stu gasped, "I'm lost. Pease, I'm trying to get to Sleep, but I can't find it."

" _Why--don't you know?_ "

"Don't you know?" his rescuer exclaimed. "You're here! This _is_ Sleep!"

Stu sighed blissfully. "At last!"

The stranger tsk'ed. "But I'm afraid it's morning now, so you'll have to go."

## Muse

After years spent searching, Charles found the lone tower atop a mountain, home to the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. "You must be the Muse!" he cried. "Just as the legends say."

"That's me" she replied casually.

"Please," he begged, "all my life I've wished to be an author, but I lack true genius."

"No problem. I'll grant you complete mastery of words."

"What must I do?"

"Nothing," she said. "I just kick you in the balls."

"Wait what?" But her leg was already swinging. In a burst of mind-rending pain, light shone in Charles's mind so brightly that he could see the shadows cast by individual atoms and could understand how they were assembled. The universe was a symphony and he could read the sheet music. "Wow," he said, recovering from both the kick and the vision. "That was in _tense_ \--just like camping."

"How do you feel?" the muse asked.

"In _spired_ , and not just because we're in this tower." Charles paused, noticing his odd phrasing. "What exactly are you muse of?"

"Puns of course."

"Puns!" he groaned. "Are you a _child_? Because you've gotta be _kid_ ding me!"

"Are you upset?"

"I should be, but I'm too a _Muse_ d."

## Art

Stones smashed and splintered. A wild scream filled the dusty air. Og hurled another stone at the cliff face. Someday, his descendants would write songs and poems and books about the feelings he was experiencing. They would talk of rage, grief, betrayal, heartbreak, but Og had none of these fancy words. He only had rocks.

At that moment. Li was off with Pu doing who knows what. Li was supposed to be with Og, but Pu had humiliated him. There was still dried mud and dung stuck to Og's face except where it was streaked by the water that kept coming out of his eyes.

He hurled another stone. But this time, something unexpected happened. It struck the cliff face and splintered. Inside, the stone was bright and shining like the lights that filled the sky when it became dark. For the first time, Og conceived of beauty residing in something other than Li. His brain was churning. He had something resembling an idea.

Li and Pu were by the river. Og rushed toward them and shoved the shiny rock into Li's hands. Her eyes widened. This was it. She lifted up the rock and smashed it over Og's head.

## Struggle

Jason was struggling. The toilet seat was sticky, the stall was covered in graffiti, and his bowels just weren't moving. His grunt echoed off the tiled floor and walls.

"To live is to struggle," a voice said from the next stall.

"W-what?"

The stranger's voice again, "It is only by encountering resistance that we become aware of the limits of our being and, consequently, our existence."

"I see," Jason replied, fairly certain that he didn't.

"Sight is untrustworthy," the man cautioned. "We only look through pinholes at shadows, but what choice do we have?"

"This is interesting," Jason said, "but I'd rather be left alone."

For a moment, the bathroom was quiet. Then the voice spoke again, slowly and deliberately: "We are each alone. Loneliness is what unites us."

"Please stop!" Jason snapped.

"Yes!" the man answered urgently. "Embrace struggle. But don't misdirect your aggression. The true adversary is within you."

"Are . . . are you talking about poop?"

"No more questions!" the stranger shouted. "Revelation is upon you if you have the strength to face it!"

Thunder roared, followed by a splash. "Oh god . . ." Jason groaned.

"Good," the stranger replied, "it is only in being unmade that we begin to be."

## Remember

It was 11:55 before they had a chance to talk one-on-one. "You've been busy!" Sydney said, hoping she sounded casual.

Ethan's cheeks were flushed from dancing and from drink. I know," he said sheepishly, "I've been trying to make _Auld Lang Syne_."

She looked down at his red plastic cup. "Is that some sort of drink?"

"No, it's . . ." He sang a little, "Auld lang syne."

"Oh, that stupid song?" Sydney immediately regretted her phrasing.

He smiled. "That's the one. It's all about remembering the past. So I want to make sure this night is something everyone remembers when they hear that song."

As Ethan downed his drink, Sydney teased, "I don't know if you'll even remember all this tomorrow--let alone years from now."

"No," he said with a sudden sobriety. "I could never forget all this. The lights, the laughter, talking with you."

"Me?" she blushed.

"Sure!" Ethan said, smile radiant.

"And . . . will it be a happy memory?"

"Happy," he nodded. "And sad too. Memory is always both."

"It'll be happy for me," she said, leaning forward. "You've done your job well. _My_ auld lang syne will be perfectly happy."

Ethan leaned forward too, and vomited onto Sydney's shoes.

## Normal

"Don't you see? _Don't you see?_ "

Collin didn't see. At least, he didn't see what his screaming boss seemed to expect him to see. All Collin could see was the disarray of his desk, the spittle flying out of the man's mouth, and the confused, concerned expressions of his coworkers.

Security escorted James Henway, Assistant to the VP for Operations, out of the building, and he never returned. The official memo that went out used word like "indefinite medical leave" and "stress induced fatigue" and "perfectly normal." Still, James Henway's breakdown was office gossip for over a month. And of course, everyone wanted the scoop from Collin.

"I don't know what he was going on about," Collin said. He said it over and over so many times that he started to wonder: what _was_ he going on about? What was Collin supposed to see?

So, he started to look. Looking was a surprisingly novel experience. He saw things like desks, coffee, doors, clocks, and computers. He saw shoelaces untied, ties askew, skirts that shifted, and shirts with stains. He saw smiles, furrowed brows, touches, red noses, glances, and watery eyes. He saw overflowing life and vast empty space. He saw.

## Trees

"The _trees_ ," he insisted. "I have to get to the _trees_."

"Honey, there are trees all around us," the answer came.

" _No_ ," he snapped. "The TREES."

Her eyes were tiny explosions. Would the clouds rain? Why couldn't she see with eyes that were backwards wheels. He could drive them to the trees.

"Jingle jingle ching ching ching," he requested.

"What?"

"It's there," he explained. That was the fact, the only ice in all the cream, the only stuff in all the dream, the mean, the bean, the sheen . . . He was getting lost again. Where was the bean? There. "There!" he exclaimed again, feeling the iron of the word anchor him. "There." But there was also the problem. "There's too much here," he groaned.

"Too much what?"

"Too much _here_. Too much _here, here, HERE!_ "

The sinkhole again. He could see the bumps on her tongue when she gaped. They were laughing. He wanted to laugh too, so he just relaxed and let it all out.

"Honey, what is it? What's wrong?"

"Wrong?" he echoed.

"You're crying."

"Lost it," he muttered. "Lost my mind. Left it in the trees. Lost the breeze . . . ate the cheese . . . drown the seas . . . please . . . please . . . please . . .

## Section IX

## Blanks

"Dinner Table Tennis!" Calvin cried out. A couple minutes later, some contestant caught up, made the same guess, and Vanna White illuminated the Before & After phrase. Calvin grinned and ate another scoop of hospital Jell-O.

"How do you do that?" I asked.

Calvin shrugged. "Just filling in the blanks."

I had a head for facts and figures--probably why I had become an accountant--but Calvin was better with imagination and intuition. That's why he was good at Wheel of Fortune, and I was good at Jeopardy, which was up next. We had watched a lot of game shows during that week in the hospital.

DE___ __D ___E_, the screen read.

"Death and Taxes." As usual, he proved to be correct. "It's perfect for us," he noted.

"Perfect?" I asked.

"You handle the taxes, and I'll take care of the death."

I went cold. My throat constricted. Seeing my distress, Calvin asked, "Didn't you know?"

"The doctor said--"

Calvin was smiling. He took my hand. "It's what she didn't say that matters."

Calvin was always the one who could fill in the blanks, but not me. So what could I possibly do with the emptiness when he was gone?

## Glowing

"Oh my word, Retta," Connie exclaimed on seeing her. "You're glowing!"

"You mean you can tell?" Retta said, disappointed.

"It's _pretty_ obvious," her coworker nodded.

"I was hoping this top would hide it. We weren't telling anyone yet."

"Wait," Connie gaped, "are you pregnant?"

"Isn't that what . . . you said I was glowing."

Connie frowned. "That's because you're--like-- _literally_ glowing."

And she was. It was hard to tell initially, but if Retta stepped into a shadow, a faint, golden glow was discernible. And as the pregnancy progressed, that glow became brighter. Soon everyone noticed it. Even in sunlight, a shining aura clung to her. For the last couple months of the pregnancy, her husband had to wear a sleepmask at night because her glow filled the room like daylight.

She had never wanted this, never expected that it might happen to her.

The doctor worried, though none of her tests revealed anything. She tried to prepare Retta for all possible contingencies, but the delivery was completely uneventful. As soon as Retta gave birth, the glow disappeared, and the baby was fine.

That night, Connie watched her baby's faint glow. And she wondered when the other signs would begin to show.

## Incarnation

Keisha told me I should see him. The words were a slap in the face from someone I trusted, just like the thousands I had received growing up.

The voicemail had been making me sick for weeks, but I couldn't delete or answer it. The man who abused me for 18 years had called saying, "God wants me to make things right with my kids."

Fear, confusion, rage. _What god is that?_ I wondered. I had avoided talking about it with anyone until Keisha asked if I was alright. She, at least, would understand.

Keisha was born six weeks early to a crack addicted mother. In foster care, she was abused or neglected by a series of six different families until moving in with her boyfriend at 16. Her boyfriend at 18 beat her. Now, at 22, she was on her own with a three year old daughter. I sometimes thought she was "the problem of pain" incarnate--a clear excuse for why a good god can't exist.

I told her to shut up and leave me alone.

Keisha nodded. Without saying another word, she wrapped her arms around me. In that tight embrace, I understood that God is love.

## Explanation

As always, the smell of soy sauce filled the air. "What happened to your knuckles?" Andrea asked.

"What?" Ted said absent-mindedly as he continued typing.

"They're all red."

Her husband paused and looked down at his hands. "Oh. Right. See . . . there's something I haven't told you."

Andrea's brow furrowed. "What's that?"

"I . . . well--this is embarrassing," he sighed. "I got into a fight last night."

"What?"

"Just four or five guys," he shrugged.

Andrea stared hard at her husband; concern, fear, and skepticism played across her face. "You're kidding."

"No, it was alright. You should see the other guys."

"But hold on--I thought you were a pacifist?"

He nodded slowly, then shook his head. "See, there's something I haven't told you."

"Oh? What now."

Ted glanced toward the door, then the window. Softly, he said, "I'm Batman."

Andrea rolled her eyes. "Okay, see I was considering believing you, but now--

"I'm serious."

"So you're a millionaire playboy with a secret life as a crimefighter?"

"And a butler."

"Then why do we live above a Chinese Restaurant?"

"There's something I haven't told you."

"Fine," Andrea growled, "don't tell me what actually happened."

"No wait," Ted pleaded. "This part's really good."

## Pillow

Elaine sat stunned as the doctor explained, "We see this a lot. Not as often as people shooting themselves with nailguns, but more than people getting in fights with their reflection."

"Are you saying . . ." she trailed off. "But . . . it's a pillow."

"A _decorative_ pillow," the doctor explained. "That's what's causing your neck pain."

"It's still a pillow."

The doctor's mouth tightened. "Technically," he said, "but if you saw some wax fruit, you wouldn't eat it, _would you?_ "

Elaine didn't like the way he asked that. "I'm not an idiot," she said.

"Of course not," the doctor said flatly.

"Can you believe that?" an indignant Elain asked her friends later.

"Ridiculous," Rachel replied.

"Unbelievable," Sara added.

"I know! So rude."

Rachel shook her head. "I can't believe you sleep on decorative pillows."

"Excuse me?" Elaine gasped.

Sara glanced at her sidelong. "Please tell me you don't water the plastic plants at the office."

"I just don't get it, mom," Elaine said into the phone. It had been a long awkward day, and her neck was hurting worse than ever. "Am I crazy? Are decorative pillows really that bad?"

No response.

"Mom?"

"I thought . . ." a sniffle. "I thought I raised you better."

## Closed

_Finally_ , he thought as he locked the doors. No more hiding until they closed or breaking in after hours. He could see her every night.

They first met by accident. One day, he'd fallen asleep reading and got locked inside. On his way to the door, he heard her voice among the shelves. So often since then, he'd visited during the day and taken her book off the shelf just to stare at her picture--the picture which only came to life when the library closed. Unfortunately, her ghost was bound to the building. Her book wasn't even listed in the catalogue, because if it ever left, it would disintegrate. That's why he'd needed to break in. But after two years to get his Master's degree in Library Science and another year until there was a job opening, he finally had keys to the building.

He found the familiar volume, settled into a sofa, and opened it. "Hey, Baby," a deep voice said.

Something was wrong. There on the first page, someone had drawn a goatee with a handlebar mustache onto her picture. "Your face!" he cried in horror.

The picture just shrugged. "Don't judge a book by its cover."

## Face

" _This isn't working!_ " Tony said in frustration.

"Your _face_ isn't working," Harold answered dryly.

"What?"

"I'm saying you're _ugly_."

Tony scowled. "That's a stupid joke."

But Harold was wearing a wide grin. "Your _face_ is a stupid joke."

Tony sighed, "Not this again."

"That's what I think--every time I see your face."

In truth, Tony had better than average looks, but he also had a slightly larger than average nose, and it made him self-conscious. "Are you being serious right now?" he asked.

"Seriously funny," Harold chuckled.

"Stop it."

"Stop mooning me with your butt-ugly face."

Tony crossed his arms and turned away. "Why would you say that? You know how fragile I am."

"Is that why you're so ugly? Did someone smash your face and then put the pieces together the wrong way?"

"You're really mean, dad. You know that?" Tony said.

And Harold shot back. "You're _mom's_ really mean."

A shrill voice called from the other room. " _Harold!_ "

"Seriously," he said, "the woman scares me."

"Really?" Tony asked.

" _HAROLD!_ " the voice bellowed again.

"Really," Harold answered, whispering. "And you want to know the scariest part?"

"Your ugly face?" Tony replied.

"Yes, son," Harold beamed. "Yes, it is."

## Employment

"Did you get a gun?" Tim asked.

Mac, his counterpart, scowled. "What?"

"They gave me a gun," Tim said, withdrawing the weapon from his pocket and looking it over.

"Yeah. And?"

"Will I actually need to use it?"

"Shut up," Mac growled.

And for a moment, Tim did. There were raised voices coming from inside the warehouse. Tim shifted on his feet. "It's my first shift," he confided. "I'm kind of nervous." No response from Mac. More shouts from inside. "What do you think is going on in there?"

"I said shut up."

"Right. Sorry."

Just then, the door flew open and a skinny dude with the face tattoo tumbled out onto the pavement. He was followed by the guy called Stone, who closed the door behind him, took a gun from his jacket, and shot the skinny dude in the head.

The thing which had once been a person lay heavy and still on the ground. "Take care of this mess," Stone sneered before going back inside.

"He just--did he--" Tim stammered, "he _shot_ that dude."

Mac kicked the body experimentally. "What'd you think the gun was for?"

That's how Tim decided to get a new job.

## Siblings

They met at the pancake house, got a booth, and then Gene abruptly asked, "How did you get my number?"

"From Mom," Tabbi replied nonchalantly.

"How did she get it?" Gene pressed.

The teenager pursed her lips. "I don't know, she's mom."

"Good point," the young man sighed.

"Anyway," Tabbi said, trying to ease into conversation, "how've you been?"

He shrugged. "Fine."

Gene examined his menu. Tabbi examined Gene. "You don't really look how I remember."

"Well, I was still a girl then."

"Obviously," Tabbi said, rolling her eyes. "That's not what I meant."

"Really?"

"You're so . . . tidy and put together," she marveled. "In my head you're still, like, a grubby blob."

" _Thanks_."

Tabbi's face flushed. "Sorry, that was supposed to be a compliment. I don't know how I'm supposed to talk. I mean you left so long ago that you're practically a stranger."

"You know they made me leave."

"I know."

Siblings examined each other with matching eyes. "So why am I here?" Gene asked.

Tabbi looked down. "I could really use a sister right now, but . . . even a brother wouldn't hurt."

Her face was still red. She wouldn't look up. "Tabbi, what's going on?"

She sniffled, "I'm pregnant."

## Invested

" _That's_ what you're paying?" Margret gasped. "Martin, we should have shopped online too. Now I feel like an idiot for going to a store."

"Well," Ethan said without making eye contact, "it's not exactly _all_ we're paying."

"Oh sure it is" his wife Erin said.

"No," Ethan corrected. He always felt embarrassed hanging out with their wealthier friends like Margret and Martin. "We needed some spare parts."

"Spare parts?" Mary asked.

"A bit of a fixer upper, you know?" Ethan said.

"Ah, see? That's why you go to a big dealer," Martin chimed in.

"If you can afford to," Ethan mumbled.

"It's an investment," Martin announced authoritatively, "builds capital over time."

But Erin smiled, saying, "I bet twenty years from now, you'll hardly be able to tell where they were bought."

"Certainly," Margret agreed.

But Martin still felt the need to justify himself. "Right, well, I'm just saying. We got ours in mint condition. It just saves a lot of trouble. The thing practically takes care of itself."

Margret winced. " _She_ has a _name_ , dear."

"I know that. It's Lilly."

" _Layla!_ " Margaret scolded. "Honestly Martin, she's your own daughter."

Ethan smiled. "So, do you think you'll get any more kids?"

## Found

I live in a different city now, but I still avoid dark places. I don't sleep at night. Everywhere I go, I watch my footsteps, always wondering when they'll find me again.

I didn't know whether to call them people or creatures, the tiny things that came from the tunnel. That dark, abandoned subway line was my place to think, so I hadn't seen the lights coming until they were almost on top of me. Suddenly they were everywhere, thousands clustering around my ankles, murmuring in small voices, all saying the same thing: "Is it you?"

Feeling lost in a dream, I said, "Uh, sure."

A cheer went up from the crowd. "We found you!" they cried. "We found you!"

They were almost like living toys. I could pick them up, tell them what to do, watch them dance in joy, always repeating, "We found you!" But there were so many that I couldn't help kicking some, even crushing them underfoot. At first, I barely noticed, but then I saw them chopping off limbs with tiny blades, penitently laying them at my feet. Horrified, I fled, crushing more in the process. Behind me, they still cried, "But we found you!"

## Drift

"We can talk now." Beth stood outside beneath the streetlamp with the phone pressed to her ear. Through the front windows, she could still see her friends milling about, smiling, talking happily. She hadn't wanted them to hear, just in case.

"I need you." Cal's voice was always rough, but on the phone tonight it sounded worse. And it sounded shaky.

"Now?"

"I'm sorry," he said. "I know tonight's your thing."

"I wish you had come with me," she said. Beth was pacing now beneath the soft orange glow of the electrified sodium vapor. Everything look slightly distorted by that false fire.

For a moment, Call didn't say anything. She worried that she shouldn't have brought it up. Ultimately, he just ignored the comment. "Please, baby," he said. "You're the only one who can help me."

She knew it was the truth, and it made her feel good. Important. But she still didn't like talking about it. Beth glanced over to the house. Inside, things seemed unchanged, but she wondered if anyone was watching her and questioning. She drifted toward the edge of the pool of light. It was hard to tell where the light ended and the darkness began.

## Blood

John approached the house clutching the hoe tightly. His wife and young son were inside, but somehow John knew something was wrong. Before he could reach the door, it swung open from the inside. A large, dark figure stood in the opening, silhouetted by firelight. John saw the glint of a steel sword. "Who are you?"

"I am Sir William of Bristol in the order of the Shrike."

"What is–"

John heard the footstep, but before he could turn, there was a dagger to his back. "Night is close."

"I'm not–" John stammered, "I don't–"

Sir William was perfectly still. "We ensure the security of the king," he said, "by eliminating those who wish him ill."

"Wish him ill? But I don't–I mean I know I've said a few things, but–" John's words were cut short by the dagger pressing harder into his back.

Sir William spoke: "We carry out our orders. Always."

John nodded. "Do whatever you want with me, but please. . .spare my family." There was a quick glance between the two knights. "What? What is it?"

"I'm sorry," Sir William said. "We weren't here for you." For the first time, John noticed the blood on the knight's sword.

## Door

"Hi, Mrs. Landry," Charles smiled as the door opened.

"Charles," his mother-in-law returned stiffly.

"I'm here to pick up Irene," he said, still smiling. "Mind if I come in?

"Yes," she said without moving, "I _do_ mind."

"Excuse me?"

"I don't want you in my house."

Charles tensed, but the smile returned. "I'll admit it; we got into a fight, and I lost my temper. It was stupid. But everything's fine now."

"Charles, I think you should go."

Like a bolt of lightning, his fist struck the doorframe. Mrs. Landry shuddered. Charles' hand bled. " _She's my wife, dammit_."

"Charles . . ." a soft voice interrupted. Irene now stood in the doorway beside her mother.

"Irene, baby, come on," Charles said, suddenly conciliatory. "You're upset; I know. Just come home. Everything will be alright."

Her eyes were teary; her lip, split and swollen. She didn't speak.

"Baby I'm sorry. And I've missed you so much."

Irene reached for her mother's hand and held it tight.

"Irene, I love you. Don't you know that?"

Her faint voice was adamant as she explained, "I know you _want_ me. But you don't _care_ for me."

Charles's eyes raged, but he remained silent.

Irene closed the door.

## Hands

"I can't," Acadia said, stopping just before the doorway. The Prime Minister hadn't heard her, but after a few steps, noticed the young woman was no longer beside him. Sour and impatient, he stopped to wait.

Gentle hands wrapped around Acadia's shoulders. "Hey, it's alright," Ida whispered. "You can do this."

500 meters away, a thin man adjusted the scope of his rifle.

The bustle and noise of the crowd echoed ominously in the dimly lit hallway.

"It's time, your Grace," the Prime Minister said, his mouth tight.

But Acadia had turned away. She might have run back the way they had come if it weren't for Ida holding her hands tightly. Tears in her eyes, Acadia stammered, "I shouldn't be here. I'm not ready--not the right person. I'm not . . . I'm not . . ."

Ida placed a hand on Acadia's cheek, stilling her nervous protests. "You _are_ ," she said.

A gentle smile.

A gentle kiss.

The crowd erupted into cheers as their new queen stepped onto the balcony. Birds flew into the air. A gunshot was fired. Someone screamed. The shooter swore. Guards hurried a frantic Acadia inside. She reached desperately for Ida's hand which lay still on the balcony floor.

## Time

Her name was Joni, even though her name-badge said "Cathy," and she was having a bad day. The couch she had been sleeping on dipped severely in the middle, the crack in her windshield was getting worse, and a trashbag had torn open on her way to the dumpster. And now yet another stupid customer was complaining about how they had replaced the buffalo sauce with regular barbecue.

"I'm not the freaking chicken czar," Joni snapped suddenly. "Get over it!"

"I guess it's somebody's time of the month," the customer grumbled into his wallet as he fished for change.

"What did you say?"

He looked up. There were tears in her eyes, but it wasn't anger, it wasn't pain, and it wasn't her time of the month. Joni would never have a period since she had been born male. But for the first time since she had started hormone therapy, someone had insulted her for being female.

"Thank you," Joni said. "Have a wonderful day."

The customer was dumbstruck. In Joni's eyes, he could see radiant, unconditional love, love for him and for the entire world. And the man began to feel that perhaps he could love the world too.

# Heart

## Section X

## Open (i)

"I'm telling you, Kofi, there's nothing."

"That's impossible," I said. "You'd be dead."

Ishani shrugged--an infuriatingly casual gesture. "Apparently not," she said.

"You're lying."

She shrugged again. "Maybe."

Frustrated, I growled, "Fine, open up and show me."

Ishani looked away, suddenly very subdued, "Can we not do this?" she asked. "It's stupid. I'm sorry it even came up.

"Show me," I insisted.

"You won't like it," she said, shaking her head. "People don't like it when I show them."

"Why not?"

"People don't like having their worldviews shattered. Think about it, Kofi: If there's really nothing there, what does that mean about me? What does it mean about you?"

She had a point, but it sounded like she was just trying to cover her deception. "I still want to see it," I said.

Resigned, Ishani took on a stoic demeanor. Looking me dead in the eyes, she removed her shirt, then her bra. My face reddened. Of course the keyhole was in the center of her chest like anyone else's, but I hadn't thought about what that demanded of my friend. But Ishani seemed beyond embarrassment now. She inserted a long silver key into her chest. The lock clicked.

## Hide

We cover our faces with green paint. You're Frankenstein's monster. I'm the Wicked Witch of the West. We put on smiles.

"He laughs too much," my friends say, "and too loud."

It's hard to take them seriously with their wigs, bright costumes, and plastic accessories. I shrug and say, "We have fun together."

"It's like he's hiding something."

Across the room, your friends ask, "Why is she always so busy?"

"She's dedicated to her work," you say. "It's admirable."

"Are you sure you know what she does with her time?"

We got married quickly, maybe too quickly, but that was over two years ago. I thought we'd be done with these conversations by now.

"We're just trying to look out for you."

We go home. I drive because you had too much to drink. You're quiet. I'm still tense after finally telling off my friends. They'll want me to apologize, but I won't. At the house, we help each other out of our costumes. I see your rounded belly; you wipe makeup from the creases in my face. We avoid the mirror, fearing the monsters it would show. We hide, but not from each other. We're only hiding from ourselves.

## Preserves

The clerk held the jar of silvery liquid up to the light. "Good quality fear," he said.

"Do you know what I had to go through to get that?" Roy said.

"I imagine it was a frightful ordeal." The clerk said dryly.

"It was!"

"I don't really care. Do you have the rest?"

Roy continued fishing jars out of his bag. "Here's the sadness."

"This is more than I needed."

"Uh, yeah. It was just easier to bring it all."

"I see. Well, waste not." He picked up the next jar, full of translucent gold fluid. "Oh, is this the only happiness you brought?"

"Uh . . . yeah?"

"Hm."

"What?"

"It's awfully cloudy. See here? Tinged with melancholy."

"Is that bad?"

"Well it needs to be pure."

"Pure happiness?" Roy gaped. "Where am I supposed to get that?"

The clerk frowned. "Well I can distill what you have here, but I'll need about twice as much."

"Twice as much?" Roy's voice cracked. "Do you know how hard it is to get happiness? I needed help from other people just to get that much."

"Not my problem."

Roy waited. The clerk stared at him impassively. Roy sighed. "I'll see what I can do."

## Void

"Is this what you wanted?"

We stood on the edge. You wouldn't look down, though I couldn't help doing so. Lines and shapes became indiscernible before fading into darkness, beyond which there could be anything. Or nothing.

"Of course not," I said. You were angry, but not with me. Not really anyway. But I was the only one around, the only one at whom you could direct your anger. But I knew that trying to explain that wouldn't help things. Instead I said truthfully, "I never expected any of this."

"Obviously," you said. "What did you think would happen?"

"How should I know?" I wondered if it was even possible to know how one thing led to another, or possible to anticipate the movements of neurons and subatomic particles, of emotions and ideas, or possible to bridge the chasm between two people.

"Did you even think at all?"

"Yes," I said, finally looking away from the void. "I thought of you."

And you were quiet. You looked into the darkness, finally understanding that it was as much your fault as mine, if anyone's at all. Finally you asked, "Well what do we do now?"

I took your hand. We fell.

## Melancholy

The singer's voice came in, soft and melancholy:

I used to be so strong before you came along . . .

Then I opened up my heart, and you tore it apart . . .

They were silly lyrics really, but Jessie still found herself sniffling. She was so tired of tears, but they kept coming. When her friend Shana had caught her crying earlier, the girl had simply shoved a CD case into Jessie's hands, saying, "Song three is, like, _exactly_ what you're going through. You have to hear it."

So when Jessie got home, she locked her bedroom door, put in headphones, and threw herself onto the bed. Staring at the ceiling, she lost herself in music.

I meant it when we met to confess our love,

But did you? No, you couldn't care less . . .

He was just a boy. A stupid, stupid boy. Why did she even care if he thought she was weird?

These tears are what remind me

I'm not a machine.

Jessie screamed. Clenching her first, she crushed both CD player and CD alike into bits. There were cuts in her hand, exposing the metal machinery she worked so hard to hide.

Jessie's mechanical heart was more broken than ever.

## Forsooth

Mary felt the solid grip of William's hand in hers as they walked. She coughed softly and asked, "Do you think we're, you know, going somewhere?"

William turned with a raised brow, answering, "I know not what thou meanest. Don't we walk across this sward of grass e'en as we talk?"

Mary sighed. It was always like this with him. "No," she said, "I know we're _going_ somewhere, but I'm talking about _us_. You and I. Is there . . . something here?"

William chuckled. "Thou speakest e'er in riddles, lady fair. What game is this? What could be here but what is sensible? There's naught to be grasped, but perhaps there's substance to the bond we share."

She blinked, waiting for something more. Nothing came, "It's like we're not even having the same conversation," Mary said.

"I see the morbid crease between thine eyes," William replied. "Thy mood is like a dagger poised to slice."

"Excuse me?"

"I see that I have erred, and rightly earned thy wrath," he answered quickly, "but sword by shield can be turned, so let my love, tempered and strong suffice, to turn thy anger into tender sighs."

Mary rolled her eyes. "I hate the Renaissance Fair."

## Midnight

Karen stood in the middle of the street, staring. Something was off--other than the obvious fact that she had walked into the road at midnight without a word.

"Karen?" I called out from the doorway. "Something the matter?"

Her head turned to face me. "Maria," she said calmly. "I didn't mean to wake you."

There had been moments that worried me: strange habits, unexplained absences, abruptly ended telephone conversations. I tried to dismiss my concerns as the paranoia of being in a relationship that was going well. But now I was truly afraid.

"What's going on?"

"I'm sorry," Karen said. She looked back to the road. I shivered.

"Just come back inside," I urged, walking toward her.

She shook her head.

Right beside her, I stared at her inscrutable expression. Then something down the road caught my eyes. A light. For some reason, I hadn't even thought to look in the direction Karen was staring. What was she so focused on? Was there a car coming?

Karen's hand clasped mine. She said, "I'm glad you're with me, Maria. I didn't want to lose you."

The light seemed close and far away all at once. It opened. It consumed us.

## Silence

My mom used to joke that silence was the devil, but I was more afraid of breaking it. The room was so quiet I could hear the clocks ticking--not just the one on the wall across from me, but a clock in the next room too. They were slightly out of sync so one echoed the other.

"Are you there?"

Your voice blared from the phone though you were almost whispering. I hadn't been counting tics or tocks, but I knew that about five minutes had passed since the last time one of us had spoken.

"I'm here," I answered.

"What are you thinking about?"

Silence. There was a tear in my eye. I didn't know where it had come from, just like I didn't know where the doubts and fear and pain had come from. They were voiceless words ringing in my ear. But maybe if I didn't speak those words, the feelings would cease to exist. "I'd rather not talk about it."

"Oh," you said, trying to sound casual. "Okay."

I had hurt you, but I no longer had the strength to do anything about it. With hooks in my heart, Silence dragged me down into torment.

## Perspective

Suddenly, everything made sense. Devin stood up and announced, "I have to go."

He could tell--he knew the couple was in love. Although you couldn't hear their actual conversation through the CCTV, you could see the soft touches, the lingering looks, the tender smiles. It was enough to understand. And seeing them put his own life in perspective.

The other guard on duty called after him, but Devin kept walking to his car. He was thinking of his wife, Marta. Several texts from her sat unopened in his phone: reminders, complaints, echoes of the banality their life had become.

And then the couple had gone. It was so sudden, he almost missed it. But once they had disappeared from the security monitors, he felt a new sense of purpose in his heart. He understood what he had to do.

"Devin?" Marta said as he marched into her office. "What are you doing? What's going on?"

It had been an abrupt ending. The tear, the stillness, the turn. He had seen it all. The loving couple had arrived together, but left separately. They left alone.

Devin took his wife into his arms, whispered her name, kissed her deeply and desperately.

## Blurt

"I love you too, Sean," Marie said, smiling brightly.

"What?"

And her face fell. "Wait, didn't you just . . . ?"

I winced. "I said . . . 'I like food.'"

"Oh. I thought you . . ."

And then we didn't speak for three months. The next time we saw each other, we were crossing Central Park in opposite direction. Marie was walking hand in hand with another man. I saw her first and felt my heart start racing. Fear, anger, and shame started coursing through me as I witnessed her smiling at this stranger. She turned, saw me, and stopped short. "Sean."

"Marie."

"Who--what now?" the stranger said, looking back and forth between us.

"It's been a long time," Marie said solemnly.

"Not that long."

"You look . . . well."

"I was wrong," I blurted out suddenly. "I was wrong not to say it . . . not to call you . . . I . . . I love you. I've loved you for so long."

Silence.

"This is so awkward," her date commented.

"No," Marie said. "It's beautiful!"

"Really?" I exclaimed.

"Wait, _really?_ " the man asked.

Marie shrugged. "Sorry, guy, but I was basically settling for you anyway."

And then Marie and I started making out. It was totally awesome. And just a bit indecent.

## Wrinkle

You are angry and tired of being angry, which just makes it worse. Your partner is still shouting. "Do you even care about my feelings?"

"Would you please just stop it already?" you yell back. "You're being ridiculous."

"See?" she says, her face red with burning anger. "That's exactly what I'm talking about."

Your faces, your bodies, the whole moment is tense strained with tension. And like a taught cable, if something breaks, and the recoil would tear you both apart.

But then you do something completely unexpected: you laugh.

"What?" your partner says, still flustered. "Why are you laughing?"

"I'm sorry," you say, still chuckling, "But you wrinkle your nose when you're angry. It's really cute."

Your lover's face is still red, but now with embarrassment. Still she begins to mile. "Well you're basically a sprinkler when you yell," she says. "That's not how I like swapping spit with you."

"Are you sure? I hear it's good for the skin," you tease. "Hey, you just wrinkled your nose again." And this time, your partner laughs with you. "I'm sorry," you say, "I was stupid."

"I know," she smirks, "But I was too." She wrinkles her nose and kisses you

## Rescue

Vicente was in good spirits for someone with 16 broken bones. "I hear McGrath tried to drop the house on me," he chuckled.

"Kid's an idiot," Jack growled. "I never shoulda let him drive the backhoe. Got a mountain of paperwork for all this."

"Sorry, boss."

Jack got suddenly flustered. "Oh it's not-- it's fine. I mean you're the one . . ."

Vicente rescued him, interjecting, "I also hear you came to the hospital when they brought me in."

"Sure. Gotta take care of my guys," he said. "Make sure everything's squared away."

"You rode in the ambulance with me and everything," Vicente continued.

Jack looked over the mess of plaster, gauze and thread that were holding Vicente together. "You were in real rough shape," he said.

"I'm glad you're here, boss." Somehow, the simple words were more than just a pleasantry.

Jack suddenly realized his hand was resting on the cast that enclosed Vicente's. He stood quickly. "I should get going. Lots to do, you know."

"Jack." It was the first time Vicente had ever used his name. The man's eyes, blackened, swollen, and ugly though they were, shone with a frank, earnest beauty. "I'd really like it if you stayed."

## Gravity

A shimmer in the void. Light from the nearby sun illuminated a gathering haze as the wormhole siphoned dust off a nebula all the way across the galaxy. Matter was accumulating, and gravity readings began to climb.

At the controls of his rig, Faulkner felt like a god. With a few gestures, he'd manipulated the fabric of space and was building a planet out of dust. But the same technology which made precision wormholes possible also enabled his wife to contact him anywhere in the Milky Way.

"Do we have to go over this again?" he grumbled into his headset.

Matter swirled in a dance of gravity and inertia, clustering into a sphere. Temperature levels rose under the pressure of that gathering mass.

"Of course I'm not happy about it," Faulkner said, "but since when do you care?"

250 lightyears from the nearest inhabited planet, and his wife could still argue with him.

"Fine," he growled, "Then maybe we should just end it." The connection suddenly drowned in a wave of static. Faulkner checked the instruments, then stared at them in dismay.

Somehow, the gravity had spiked, and his would-be planet was collapsing to unthinkable densities. His entire ship shuddered.

## Fate

"Well you _do_ owe me," you said.

"Owe you?" I snorted. I thought our vows said we weren't going to be keeping score."

"Oh, this is from way before our vows."

*

_This is why you should never go on blind dates_ , I thought. I sat there for three hours hoping you wouldn't make the connection, and you never did. At the end of the night, you even asked for a second date. That led to another. And another. And then you were telling me how it felt like it was fate for us to meet. It almost sounded like a joke, but then you said you love me, and I forgot everything else.

*

I just wanted to leave. The guys at the bar had been bigger pigs than usual, and one more man standing in front of the door was not what I needed that night. I grabbed a glass of water off a table, and threw it in this total stranger's face. Understandably stunned, the man still smiled and stepped aside. Suddenly embarrassed, I hurried out into the night.

*

"Wait, you knew?" I asked.

And you smiled. "How could I forget the moment I started to fall in love?"

## Held

You were strangers and assumed you'd remain that way. She happened to be sitting at the next table at the bookstore. You didn't mean to eavesdrop on her conversation, but you couldn't help it. The store was quiet, and the book you held just wasn't holding you.

"What? . . . What are you saying?"

You tried to imagine who might be on the other end of that call, what might make someone's voice tremble that way in a public setting.

"No . . . What?. . . No. I can't believe you would even think that."

It was drama--the sort of feeling that all those square feet of fiction tried so desperately to capture.

"Look, can't we talk about this? . . . But we. . ."

Heartbreak. You know too well what that feels like. Glancing up, your eyes locked onto hers. In that moment, your heart was gone. Or rather it had expanded so wide that you could no longer contain it. Instead, it contained you. And it contained her.

She looked away.

"What do you mean joking? . . . No it's not funny . . . Ugh, I'm gonna kill you when I get home."

And suddenly, she was gone. You simply resumed reading: the part where the couple finally confessed their love.

## Repairs

"It's broken. I'd almost forgotten until recently." She didn't make eye contact. Forlorn and embarrassed, Alice held out the broken pieces. "Can you fix it?"

"Let me get my tools."

Diego couldn't afford the rent, but made up the difference by fixing things. He patched the shed's roof, installed a new sink in the bathroom, and even fixed the car's clicking noise. Alice came to trust her lodger. Diego's rare words were always gentle and sure, like his hands when he worked. So unlike any man she'd ever known. The realization pained Alice in a place she hadn't felt for years.

The process was delicate. Diego opened his chest and used his smallest screwdriver to unfasten his heart. With a small knife, he cut the organ apart and shaved away thin strips before soldering it back together. With this malleable material, Diego reassembled the small, hard pieces of Alice's broken heart, filling in missing parts with what he took from himself. He wiped tears from his eyes, blew on the heart gently, and it began to beat.

"Will you . . . hold onto it?" she asked.

Diego nodded, carefully fastened her heart into his chest, then held out his own to Alice.

## Section XI

## Glass

I'm waiting for a cab. It's dark--darker than seems natural--and I think there's still glass in my hand. I just can't feel it because everything's already out of place.

The new apartment didn't feel like home, but it was just down the road from a bar. The beer was awful, but cheap. Some scruffy looking college kids were playing old school blues, and music made the beer flow faster.

"It isn't fair," I said. And since no one seemed to be listening, I said again, "It isn't fair." The boys started playing a slow one. I didn't know the song, but it was as sweet and sharp as bourbon, and it made me think about Rosie. So I downed another glass and cheered, "Play it again, boys!"

"This next one's a bit faster," the pudgy lead singer said.

"Play it again," I roared, sick with sorrow and sick from drink.

He shrugged. "Uh . . . maybe next time."

"It isn't fair!"

But he wouldn't understand. Suddenly, everything was breaking: noses, glasses, hearts, chairs. It was hazy, then dark . . .

The taxi pulls up. A wrinkled face asks, "Where to?"

"The bottom," I tell him. "Should be just a little ways ahead."

## Fragile

The plans were glorious--a city of glass and light, bringing the latest engineering technology to the height of its aesthetic capabilities with equal accommodation and provision for all. It would be a city of dreams.

But there were obstacles almost immediately. Critics condemned the cost of the idealistic endeavor. Revisions were made for fewer buildings and smaller, with cheaper materials wherever possible. Even with these concessions, the glass domes were difficult to build, no matter how beautiful or innovative. And as more and more people began pointing out, the structures might be even more difficult to maintain. "Who will clean the glass?" became a common question, soon followed by "Who will break the glass?" People became suspicious of the neighbors or strangers who might smash their fragile homes. The architects published fliers and delivered speeches, promoting the ingenious ways their design turned fragility into strength and could be easily repaired, but the words fizzled amid a buzz of uncertainty and the shouts of increasingly contentious divisions.

With only the foundations laid, the project was abandoned. The people withdrew back behind the thick stone walls that were good enough for their ancestors, boarded up their windows, and locked the doors.

## Laundromat

With the box lying on the linoleum, Jenna shook the change in her hand then looked at the digital readout on the washer. A couple machines over, a short, round Latina woman was scrutinizing small squares of fabric as she pulled them out of one by one from the washer. "Um, can I get a quarter?" Jenna asked.

The woman didn't look up from her work but simply tipped her head, "Machine over there. Makes change."

Jenna hesitated, then said, "I just need a quarter."

The woman frowned, threw a brown square into an empty machine, and looked back at Jenna. For the first time, she noticed the girl's red-rimmed eyes. Lips pursed, the stranger withdrew a quarter and handed it to Jenna.

"Thanks." Jenna opened the box. Inside was her conscience, vast and gray. It shimmered as she stuffed it inside the washer. The quarters clinked into the washer, and Jenna started pressing buttons.

The woman watched all this closely. "Can't use hot water on that," she cautioned.

"Leave me alone," Jenna said in a thin voice. But then her arm was seized by a cold, iron grip.

"No," the woman warned. "You'll destroy it."

"I'm counting on it."

## Moral

Once upon a time, there was a story with no moral. It was told to a group of youths. One went out the next day and robbed a store. He was shot while fleeing and died cursing God. Another youth went and told his sweetheart that he loved her. They made love that night, and before morning he was gone, never seen again. A third joined the army and was carried away to far off lands. Several years later he returned, but never spoke of his time away. The fourth became political, and as mayor brought unemployment to its lowest rate since the town got its first stoplight. The final youth took no immediate action, but he committed every word of the story to memory. In the coming years, it would trickle continuously from his mouth, whether it was short quotes or slight variations on the plot. Only once did he tell the story in full to his five year old son. Fifteen years later, that boy killed his father. A tree grew between two sidewalk slabs. A child cried at night. A woman painted a masterpiece, but showed it to no one. The sun set. And then it rose.

## Miracle

"Do you believe in miracles?"

Dennis felt like it was a miracle that this moment even existed. After months admiring Lisa from across the office pool, they were suddenly alone together beneath a starry sky. The company's dull annual gala was still going on inside, but when he slipped away, there she was. Now she was asking about his thoughts and opinions. It was magical. But of course, Dennis couldn't give that answer. In addition to possessing incredible beauty, Lisa was a deep and thoughtful person. Dennis needed a deep and thoughtful response.

"I think miracles happen when we take advantage of coincidence" he said, with just a slight hint of suggestion.

Lisa frowned. Of course her co-worker, who was already berating himself for the idiotic response, had no idea that she had been spending her nights holding a hand attached to an IV or that, for the first time in years, she wanted to pray, but no longer knew how. For all his ardor, if Dennis had understood that love is sacrificial, he might have recognized that darkness was closing around her.

Instead, he could only stand mute beside Lisa while she watched the stars fall from the sky.

## Call

The human race called to the stars, and the stars answered, just not the way that anyone expected. It wasn't a stray UFO crashing to earth or an invading army of hostile aliens, not even a fuzzy radio signal or a blip of electromagnetic radiation. It was a phone call.

More specifically, every phone on the earth received a call at the same time. And everyone near a phone--cellular, landline, satellite, or other--answered.

"Hey, this is Naos," a glowing voice said. "Is this earth?"

Everyone answered, "Yes."

"I noticed your call," Naos said. "What was it you wanted?"

Some said that they wanted a new job or car or house, others listed off items like they were writing to Santa, some spoke another's name, and a few answered, "nothing."

"No," Naos said, "What do you really want."

People replied: power, freedom, knowledge, pleasure, truth or the like.

But Naos spoke firmly, "What do you want?"

The human race answered in thousands of languages and one voice, "To matter."

"I see," Naos answered. "And now that you have spoken with a star, a being 25 times larger than your sun, have you achieved your desire?"

And humanity was silent.

## Crisis

"The world is wrong."

"I assume you don't mean the snow?"

They smiled. Hajir had only seen snow a few times before reaching the States. He sat in the food court, wearing a heavy coat while Christmas shoppers bustled around them. More than one eyed Hajir suspiciously. "It's not the way it's supposed to be," he said.

Peter looked steadily into his new friend's eyes. "You're right. We all have to do our part to change it."

"Yes," he said.

At a nearby table, someone muttered the word "terrorist."

Hajir felt a weight on his shoulders. "You should leave."

Peter was frowning. "Let's both go."

"No," he answered. "I have run so far. I'm ready to stop running."

"Then stop."

Hajir wouldn't meet his friend's eyes. "You don't understand."

"I understand what's inside people." Peter looked around at the shoppers, at the nearby table, at his friend. "I understand what's inside me. What I could be, but don't have to be."

Hajir had a wire taped to his arm, connecting his suicide vest to a trigger. "I came here to kill you," he said. "All of you."

"I know."

Hajir's hand was on the trigger. Peter's hand was on his.

## Promises

"Don't vote for me," the politician slurred. "Jus' don't . . . I can't be trusted."

A teenager with a smartphone and a YouTube account captured the video at 1:00 am. By the time the polls opened several hours later, the politician was dressed in his finest suit and smiling despite his hangover. His confession had only 400 hits.

"I lie," the disheveled man in the video growled. "All politicians lie, but me . . . all those promises!" He started laughing, perfectly straight white teeth opening in an unnaturally wide smile.

The first numbers started coming in around noon. Just like everyone was expecting, the good-looking young man from Michigan promising hope and security had already taken a strong lead.

"I'm a monster!" he yelled into the night. The kid recording the video chuckled. Then the man grew still. "You think it's funny? Do you know what I can do with just a little power? No one knows. They've all fallen for it. And if I win . . . Tell everyone. Make sure they know."

It was too late. By the time a major news outlet noticed the video, it was all over: a landslide victory.

"It's a bright day," the politician said to the cameras.

## Sunset

When they arrived at the abandoned building, Heather had been reluctant to follow Darrell up the fire escape. After leaving friends at the diner, they had walked a mile along the river in almost total silence. Heather told herself that it was more romantic that way--they didn't need to talk--and it made this moment feel even more magical. "Wow. It's beautiful."

"What?" Darrell replied. "Oh, the sunset. Yeah, it's nice."

"Isn't that what we came for?"

"Not exactly." Darrell wore a strange grin that made Heather blush, but then he said, "There. Can you hear it?"

Heather shook her head. "Just some dogs barking."

That grin again. "Not just some dogs; all of them. They'll stop soon."

"What do you--"

Just then, silence descended so forcefully that Heather was afraid to breath. Darrell whispered, "They're coming."

Pale, wasted, glowing slightly, a dozen ghosts rose out of the roof beneath their feet, groaning hoarsely:

_In the dark_ . . .

_So cold_ . . .

"Why?" Heather pleaded.

_No one cared_ . . .

_Dark_ . . .

"They wanted my soul." Darrel said.

_Where could we go_ . . . ?

"I had to promise I'd bring someone else."

_No one_ . . .

Scared and embarrassed, Heather asked, "Can't we at least make out first?"

## Anger

Cathy stuck her head into the living room. "Aaron, can you take out the trash?"

"Why can't you do it?" her son snapped back.

"I was just asking--"

"I'm in the middle of something right now," he said, staring intently at his phone.

"Okay," she said. "I get it."

She saw his tense shoulders relax. "Sorry," he mumbled, dragging himself to his feet. "I guess I shouldn't have eaten all that anger. My stomach's really upset now."

"I told you that would happen," Cathy said, shaking her head. "Why did you keep eating it?"

Aaron shrugged, tying up the trash bag. "I didn't wanna waste it."

"Wouldn't that be better than feeling miserable?"

"You don't have to lecture me," Aaron growled, stomping outside. A moment later, he returned, frowning. "Sorry, again."

"It'll pass," Cathy said. Aaron just plopped down on the couch. "Look," she continued, "a little bit of anger isn't bad every now and then--it can even be healthy. But too much, too often . . ."

"I know," he groaned. "I'm just an idiot."

Cathy scrutinized her sulking son. "Have you been sneaking extra sadness too?"

"Shut up!" he said and stormed off to his room.

Cathy sighed. "Teenagers."

## Safe

Just before the Event, we barricaded ourselves in. The whole world would tear itself apart, but we would be safe.

Food, water, toilet, beds. We had everything we needed. No utopia, certainly, but no dystopia either. Nothing special at all. But that was the plan--it had been all along. We would have exactly what we needed, and then everything would be okay. We wouldn't have to despair. We wouldn't have to hope. We would sleep long and restfully in the complete darkness. It would be enough, and we'd be safe.

But despite all our precautions, we couldn't keep it out.

Soon enough, we started to notice difference among ourselves. People generally fell into two groups. For the first, everything seemed to be fine, though they stopped speaking. They ate. They defecated. They slept; that was it. I didn't know if they were robots or animals.

The rest of us, we were going mad. We ate voraciously at times and sometimes not at all. We wept and laughed. We fought and made love. We told stories. Our hearts trembled. No one wanted to admit it, but clearly, our experiment had failed. We had brought it in with us--the dreaming.

## Recipe

The recipe is simple, but not easy.

On medium heat, melt 2 tbsp. of butter in a large skillet. Sauté ¼ cup of chopped garlic and ½ cup of minced pride. Add 2 red bell peppers and 1 butternut squash, both cubed. Dice up your own heart, freshly removed from your chest. Add it to the pan. Stir in 2 t. of salt, 1 t. of ground black pepper, 1 tbsp. of chili powder, 1 t. of pure extract of willpower. Last, add just a dash of insecurity. Put on low heat to keep warm.

In a separate pan, mix together tomato puree, a bottle of strong red wine, and a cup of tears shed between midnight and 5:00 am. Bring to a boil. Add one soul. When it dissolves, reduce the temperature and let the solution simmer, stirring occasionally until the mixture reduces to the consistency of desire.

Combine this sauce with the other ingredients in a 9x13 baking dish. Sprinkle shredded mozzarella cheese on top and bake in the fires of a passionate true love for one year or until solid throughout.

Remove from heat and allow to cool for 10 minutes.

Your metamorphosis is now ready. Enjoy.

## Trouble

The steeple wobbled, but nobody saw. Among the rabble of Naples glided a wimple. Sister Sybil, the nun with the dimple, was making her way to the chapel beside the river. There, a stranger was waiting. All dabbled with stubble, he wabbled and stumbled. "Trouble!" he cried. "I'm in so much trouble, and I need a charm for forgiveness!"

He'd gambled his savings and tippled on whiskey and fallen asleep on a table. Guilt had bubbled his gut and hobbled his soul, so he'd come to the chapel for grace. Beneath the steeple, Sybil counseled the stranger, "Forgiveness is ample, but only for those who repent."

The tippler quibbled for something much simpler, a bauble to guard against guilt. He reached for an apple, graven in marble, and pulled it out of a statue. Stones rumbled. The temple tumbled and toppled stone after stone right into the babbling brook.

Crash! Boom! Splash!

No rubble remained, not even a pebble--just a man with an apple and Sybil, her dimple, and wimple. "Heaven's son," she requested, "will you help reassemble the shambles of this holy chapel?"

But the stunned stranger mumbled, "Forgiveness is ample," and clutching his bauble, he stumbled away.

## Hurts

Conner got busted for armed robbery, but then he got religion in the big house. He tried to tell everybody the good news, but few people took the scrawny white boy seriously; they just started calling him Little Jesus. That really bothered Jesus Herrera, who had gone by "Little Jesus" since he started getting into fistfights at the Catholic Middle School he attended on scholarship. So, Jesus broke the wheels off a laundry cart, dropped them in a tube sock, and attacked Conner in the prison yard. The kid didn't lift a finger to fight back as Jesus beat him to a pulp. Of course, the skinheads didn't like seeing a white prisoner get roughed up by a Mexican, especially since they had found Conner so entertaining. So the day after Jesus finished his stay in solitary, he got his face slammed into a wall and three limbs broken before guards could intervene. In the infirmary, Jesus's mangled body was laid out on a bed right beside Conner's.

"I'm sorry, man," Connor said.

"What's the matter with you?" Jesus asked.

"I don't know, man." Connor answered. "My heart hurts."

Connor died six hours later. Jesus stole the dead guy's Bible.

## Deal

They were working so hard not to look at him. And the closer they passed, the more stiffly they set their faces forward. "Spare change?" he repeated nonetheless. A nearby businessman picked up his pace. Grant rolled his eyes. "Anybody got a fifty to spare?" he asked wryly. "I'll tell you the future for $100." As his voice got louder, the pedestrians worked harder to avoid him, crowding away from the apparently crazy beggar. "For 500, I'll grant a wish," he yelled, undeterred. "All you gotta do is rub my belly!" Maybe he was going crazy, but somehow Grant no longer cared whether or not he made any of these strangers uncomfortable. "Here's the deal of a lifetime," he rasped. "For a measly $1,000, you get a hug from a homeless, black alcoholic. Who's buying?"

"I will."

Grant spun around sharply. Standing right beside him was a middle-aged woman, digging through a homemade purse. She withdrew a thick wad of bills and held it out.

"This should cover it."

Grant stared hard at the cash for a long moment, then shook his head.

"Just a hug then," she said and seized him in a tight embrace.

Grant began to weep.

## Deliverer

The derelict mosque where they'd taken refuge felt more like a mausoleum than a hospital, especially with Bethari laid out on the table. "We all thought you'd be the one to save us," Cinta said softly. She still couldn't look fully into Bethari's dim, glazed eyes. Instead she focused on the pale hand she was holding.

"All?" Bethari asked weakly.

"Most of us," Susilo admitted with a quick glance over at Kuwat by the window.

The ghost of a smile danced across Bethari's cracked lips. "And now?"

Kuwat just shrugged.

"They . . ." Cinta hesitated. "They shot you."

Bethari's eyes closed heavily for a moment. "I noticed," she said.

"You didn't stop them," Susilo said.

"Couldn't stop them," Kuwat added quickly. Everyone took note of the emotion that was thick in his voice. It was a long time before anyone spoke.

"Stopping _them_ and saving _you_ ," Bethari explained, "are two completely different ends."

Finally, Cinta lifted her eyes to those of the woman who had been her hope for so long. "So then, you are the--"

"The Deliverer? No." At this denial, every face fell or turned away, but Bethari kept her gaze fixed on Cinta and said, "But _you_ are."

## Cheek

"Why are you so hateful? Do you even know?"

All Evelyn had wanted was to enjoy breakfast with a friend--not cause a conflict. All she said was, "Sometimes I can't help wondering if there might be a terrorist nearby." Of course, she knew not every Muslim was a terrorist, but she couldn't help how she felt. Unfortunately, the Muslim couple at the next table heard her. The woman in the hijab had dark, wounded eyes. The man with the thick curly beard turned around and immediately confronted Evelyn. Now she was too stunned to speak.

"That's what I thought," the man scowled. "So next time, keep your petty, small-minded bigotry to yourself."

Scattered patrons applauded while others stared darkly into their coffee. Evelyn rushed out of the diner, half-blinded by tears.

"Wait!" a woman's voice called after her. Evelyn kept walking. The woman ran ahead and stood in her path, grabbing her by the shoulders. It was the woman in the hijab. Fear drained the color from Evelyn's face. But the woman held her and whispered, "I'm sorry." For a moment, their eyes met--both fearful, both pained. The woman leaned forward and kissed Evelyn gently on the cheek.

## Compassion

Marcia lost three teeth to some jerk for being trans. The next day, she posted a video online. "Bad things happen," she said, "But they don't have to end that way."

One night, a young Saudi woman named Samiya saw the video and decided she would try to bring good out of her bad situation. The next day, she took off her burka and went to the store without her husband. Some men saw her, raped her, and left her for dead.

The story got a 500 word column on the BBC's website where Gavin, a teenager from Missouri read it and resolved to take a stand against that sort of evil. He threw a brick through the window of the local Halal market and spray painted "God will judge," on the wall. But within days, all the other neighborhood businesses got together to fix the window and renovate the store. "It's beautiful," one woman told the reporter from the national network. "Compassion can save the world."

Kurt wasn't watching the broadcast. He was passed out drunk on the apartment floor while his wife cried. Their son Duncan sat alone in his room, wondering what to do with his pain.

## Section XII

## Rooms

To ask where the Timekeeper's palace is would be misleading. To ask when it is would be closer, but it still won't help you get there. You need an invitation.

"It's good to see you again," the Timekeeper says.

"You too. How are you?"

"I will have been good," she answers. Verb tense is tricky in her house.

The Timekeeper is ancient, but ageless. She is lovely and gentle. She is terrifyingly deep.

"When would you like to see today?"

"I was hoping to visit the same room as last time, if that's alright."

She nods, but displays no emotion. She doesn't need an explanation. She's seen it.

Every room is an event, and like gears, the rooms are always shifting. They get closer together or farther apart, the movement of one will drive the movement of others. The surface of this mansion is time. Anyone can see the movements, but reading them is difficult. Even fewer understand the complex mechanisms that drive them.

But the Timekeeper does.

The door is open. Inside is a time before everything fell apart. "Thanks. I think this time I'll finally get it right."

The door closes.

"No," the Timekeeper says sadly. "You won't.

## Travels

Some dates I passed through like a bus stop, eager just to move on to the next destination.

So many times, I have come back to you. You have been my hometown. You're in the background of my moments--some big, some ordinary--so long that I don't remember meeting you. I have never chosen to love you, but I keep coming back. Though I've never sought you out, you have become a part of me. Is that love or weakness?

So many I loved like a tourist. It was exciting and new. Each experience was rich and unrepeatable. There were lots of photos, and I sought out all the highlights. But eventually I met with exhaustion, disillusionment, a sour taste.

And I keep coming back to you. For all the years, I don't know you. I never sought you out or explored you. Instead I was looking out beyond. I love you; it's true. We have the love of nostalgia, the love of familiarity. But it's not enough.

You are not where I belong, though it sounds unfair to say it. I have to hope my home is still out there. I just don't know where to find it.

## Ravages

The soldiers said they had held me for two years, but in the monotony of imprisonment, with nothing to distinguish one day from another, it could have been two decades or a single month. It was only when I was released that I could tell time had passed.

At first, I thought they'd taken me somewhere else--to some far off warzone as a last act of torture. Then I realized I was standing in front of my old office. It was like seeing an old friend after long years and failing to recognize them because of the ravages of age and illness.

While I had lain in my cell, the city had died.

The trees that once lined the avenues had all been burned. The markets were abandoned and empty. Buildings were stripped of their walls. Windows had been bombed out, leaving once lively shops nothing but dark, gaping openings. Empty counters. Bare walls. Dirt, death, ruin. And everywhere, bullet holes and shrapnel.

"Pretty!" someone behind me exclaimed.

I turned and saw radiant blue. Patterned tiles of lapis lazuli on the walls of some long abandoned store. A young girl stood before the opening, marveling at the simple beauty.

## Timer

"We don't have time for this," he said. George looked down at his watch: 7:29. He could feel the ticking against his skin. The sand was trickling away too fast. She really cared about him. George knew he should explain.

"You can trust me. Why won't you just talk to me?" Irene pleaded.

If only things could go on as they always had. The watch on his wrist was like a weight, pulling him down--pulling him away. Why now? It was convoluted, backward, turned on its head.

"Just tell me. What is it, George?"

"Can we not do this right now?" He could feel their lives were diminishing every moment. Age had always been the real problem anyway. She didn't need to know what was happening. He knew that refusal to talk would strain things, but it would be worse if he tried to tell the truth. "We don't have time," he said.

"Something else. Something's bothering you."

"We're running late," he insisted. Even if he told her, how could she possibly understand?

"What is it?" Irene asked.

"Let's go," George said, but she didn't move. They should be gone by now. George looked down at his watch: 7:26.

## Kid

Mack and Corrie were watching their daughter, Andi, and her friend trying to bungee cord some luggage to the roof of her rusty old Chevette.

"They should get some rope," Mack grumbled.

Corrie glanced at her husband and smirked. "You're still cradling her."

"What?"

"Andi's eighteen," Corrie said. "You're looking at an adult, but all you see is that squishy baby with the big eyes, who couldn't even hold her own head up without you."

"She's still a kid."

"So are you sometimes."

Mack smiled wryly. "You know what I mean. She's still my baby." Corrie just nodded. "Alright, what do you see?"

Ever so slightly, Corrie tensed. "I see the woman she'll be. Strong. Mature. Coming to see you--maybe with her own family, maybe just to check in. I see her holding you, supporting you. And when you see her eyes--my eyes--you'll remember me. Even when I'm--"

"That's not for a long time," Mack said softly.

"Not that long."

"When are you going to tell Andi?"

Outside, a large suitcase had fallen off the car, and the girls were laughing. "Not today," Corrie said. "I want to let her be a kid just a little longer."

## Pretension

Bernie, Chuck, and Bob were barely old enough to be admitted to the bar, but they still swaggered around like they owned the place, talking loudly and filling their table with empty glasses.

"Look at those phonies," Chuck said pointing out a group of men at the bar with stiffly styled hair and trim outfits. They wore ties neatly knotted, and one sported cufflinks. It even looked like two had Rolexes on their wrists. All three were drinking whiskey, but they spent as much time sniffing the liquor as drinking it.

Bernie shook his head. "Who do they think they're impressing?"

"If I'm ever that pretentious," Chuck said, "do me a favor and shoot me."

"Right?" Bernie agreed.

Beside them, Bob nodded.

On the other side of the bar, Bernard, Charles, and Robert were enjoying an exceptional 30 year single malt, commemorating three decades since they'd all met in college. They couldn't help but notice the swaggering youths across the room with their shaggy hair and wrinkled clothes.

"Who do they think they're impressing?" Bernard remarked.

Charles chuckled. "Remember what idiots we were when we first started coming here?"

Beside them, Robert's hand closed around the gun in his coat.

## Seasons

Stu stamped the snow off his shoes and stepped inside. The neighbor's twinkle lights peaked through the blinds until he flipped a switch, illuminating his bland living room.

"Hello Stuart," a low voice growled. Stu spun around to behold an old, bearded man looming behind him. The gentleman was bedecked with a bright red stocking cap and matching red bathrobe. He held a shepherd's crook with mistletoe hanging off the end and had a wreath around his neck. After a long swig from a carton of eggnog, he said. "I'm disappointed Stuart."

"Wh-who, who?" the accountant stammered.

"The Easter bunny," he drawled, breath smelling of peppermint and spiced wine. "Has Autumn been here?"

"Who?"

"Don't play dumb," the old man said, "That brawd with the leaves and pumpkins. Her season's over. You don't have to do what she says anymore."

Stu tried to inconspicuously reach into the coat closet. "I don't like pumpkins," he said. "How did you get in here?"

"Well it wasn't easy. No decorations, no music. If not for the snow--"

"HiyyyyaAAAH!" Stu screamed, swinging a baseball bat. But the stranger he was attacking had vanished.

"You can't hide forever," a ghostly voice echoed. "It's Christmastime."

## Connection

"Soraya! I'm so glad you answered."

She recognized the voice immediately. "Andre?" she asked. "What's going on? Are you alright?"

"I had to talk to you." Andre's voice was intense, hurried.

"Okay," Soraya said, "about what?"

"It's not . . . do you remember what you told me when we broke up?"

_Averted glances. Stilted words. Snow falling persistently, melting into the tears that trickled from their eyes. And silence_. The memory from seven years before came flooding back. Soraya's whole body tensed up just thinking about it. "Yes," she said. "I said there was no connection between us. That we should stop pretending."

It sounded like Andre sighed on the other end of the line. "That's right," he said. "And do you remember what you said after that?"

Soraya didn't know why Andre was bringing up that painful conversation, apparently out of the blue, but she answered. "You asked if we could still talk, and I said no. It would be too hard."

"We went 390 days without talking," Andre said. "They were the worst days of my life, but we've talked every day since. I didn't want to miss another one."

Soraya smiled. "I love you, honey."

"I love you too."

## Acts

This is the part where everything seems great:

You're rich.

You're hot.

I think this is love.

Sounds about right.

This is how conflict enters the story:

Were you flirting with him?

What?! What are you talking about?

You were!

You're making too big a deal out of this.

Am I?

Well maybe if you had more time for me.

I wish I did, but work--

You always blame work.

Well, my work is important.

Whatever you say.

It is. They may even offer me a job at corporate soon.

You mean, in New York?

Well . . .

This is how it all falls apart:

I slept with him.

You what?

It was stupid, I know, but--

Yes it was.

It was an accident. Things got out of hand.

Did it mean anything?

Well . . .

Fine. Then I'll take the job. I'll move away and you two can be together.

That's not--

It's done.

These are the valuable lessons we learn:

I had the chance for real love, and I lost it.

I've been selfish, but I can change.

This is the part where everything works out

I wanted to say I was wrong.

I was too.

Can you ever forgive me?

. . . No.

## Back

You never knew it, but I can go back. With a blink of my eyes, I go back in time as far as I like and do things over. I fix my mistakes.

The smack was deserved after what I said. Enraged and embarrassed, you walked out the door, and I knew that we were finished. So I went back. Instead of an insult, I told a joke. You slapped me anyway. So I went back. The next time, it ended in tears; after that, another slap, then more and more tears.

I went back further to avoid the conversation entirely, but the pain was still there. We grew cold and hard and lonely, until one day, you just left. So I went back. I started out with an apology. We had a long conversation. You thanked me for being kind and then walked out the door forever.

I went back further and further. I did everything different. I relived our years together over and over, but always it ended with you walking away.

So I went back to the beginning, back to that quiet coffee shop. Our eyes met. I looked away. You were happy, and I was alone.

## Parallel

Sam felt like the queen of summer, cruising the highway with Kesha beside her and Traci in the backseat singing along with the radio.

Then she saw the other car.

Sam was used to seeing plenty of silver Corollas besides her own. But this car's bumper hung a few degrees off level with a sticker announcing "We are not alone" next to a UFO and a vanity plate proclaiming YOLO--exactly like Sam's.

Unsettled by the impossibility of the coincidence, Sam accelerated to pull alongside the copycat. Peering at the other car, she couldn't see much, but there were two figures in the front and one in the back, bouncing along with whatever music they had playing. Sam glanced in the rearview mirror at Traci dancing behind her, then took off her sunglasses to look back at the other car. It was them: Traci, Kesha, and . . .

The other driver turned her head, removed her sunglasses, and looked back at Sam with her own eyes.

The lanes veered apart. Sam and her friend were heading east; the others disappeared west. Music blared cheerfully. No one else had seen their duplicates.

Sam gripped the wheel tightly and stared at the road ahead.

## Finished

"GOING OUT OF BUSINESS SALE!" the banner proclaimed. Matu knew he ought to take it down, but he decided to leave it for whoever leased the space next, just like the nail holes scattered across the walls in strange constellations. The white paint reminded him of blank canvass--always his greatest enemy. Now he would never cover them again.

He tried to think about what he was actually losing, hoping it would keep things in perspective. No more noxious turpenoid fumes. No more overpriced lease payments for the studio. No more adjusting frames to get them level. No more anxiously watching his bank account slowly diminish. No more blank canvasses.

Matu shut off the lights and made his way by memory to the back door, avoiding furniture that was no longer there. The door locked behind him. He was free. He could look up at the stars without ever trying to paint them. He didn't have the skill or the passion or even the desire if he was honest. Though he had liked being "an artist," he knew deep down he wasn't one. That façade had been the greatest masterpiece of his artistic career. And now it was finally finished.

## Passage

Not everyone can see the door.

Amir had been coming to the bookstore for years without seeing anything unusual. But one day, while checking out the back of a novel, the door suddenly caught his eye. "How could I have missed that?" he said. His girlfriend looked up from her own book, but saw nothing. Amir suddenly understood that the stories were true.

Most just assume it's an urban legend, even as they repeat the story. Some say it's a trap, others say it's the only escape, still others say that if there is a door, it just leads out to the alley. And yet people make pilgrimages to the shop to see what's really there. Others visit daily to see if their eyes have been opened. Most never see anything but a bare patch of wall. However, once someone sees the door, they can't help but see anything else. And after that, it's only a matter of time before they open it, never to be seen again.

Amir didn't sleep that night. In the morning, he called his girlfriend and broke up with her. He was already aboard a greyhound bus, heading for the other side of the country.

## Love

"I love you."

She would never remember the first time he said those words. What she would remember was the smell of rain and mud the 1,427th time she heard them. Though the sound of the words had long ago become familiar, it was like she understood a new language for the first time. Meaning sank into her consciousness, became a part of her, let her know she would make it through the storm.

By her wedding day, she had heard him say those words somewhere around 75,000 times. If he had ever been nervous to speak his feelings, even the memory of it had been obliterated by years of dedication. And although there had been times that she claimed she never wanted to hear him say those words again, when she heard them as a bride, she treasured them.

After that, the words were heard less. Their lives changed, as they'd always known would happen. But despite the distance, certainty never faded. So decades later, when the tube in his throat kept the old man from speaking, she could recognize it instantly in his eyes. Holding his hand, she said, "I love you too, dad. I love you too."

## Freeze

"The bus ain't comin," the old lady said.

I stepped into the street and craned my neck, hoping for a glimpse of the 6:15 to Washington, but I could still only see snowy haze.

"What do we do?" the man in the tie was asking again. "How do we get across town?"

I looked down the street the other way, although there was no reason the bus would come from that direction. Just more snowy haze. I hoped no one noticed my foolishness.

A scruffy young guy with a large backpack trudged up to the bus stop and looked around confused. "S'the bus late, or are you all early?"

"The bus ain't comin."

The girl in the fur-lined boots looked up suddenly from her phone. "What ch'you mean the bus ain't coming?"

"Look around," the old lady said.

Without even glancing at the snow, the girl said, "That's some B.S." and returned to her phone.

"What do we do?"

What could we do? Go home? Walk? Step out into the swirling unknown? Or stay and freeze?

We all just stood there.

At 6:53, headlights cut through the snow. The bus arrived. We climbed aboard and went on with our lives.

## Forever

Forever. We were the first.

"Are you ready?"

"Not at all."

"Me either."

"Let's go."

It makes us the greatest, but it also makes us the worst. We open wide the doors for everyone else to come through, but we do so awkwardly, uncertainly, and sometimes ruinously. We are the first explorers, laying waste to civilizations before us. We are the entrepreneurs, transforming the industry and making the old ways obsolete. We are the scientists, asking not if we should, only if we could.

"This is our fault."

"Don't think of it like that."

"But we started it."

"We did."

Unlike so many others--all those looming figures of the past--we get to see the results of our actions. We get to see our history written. The life that we have gained, as eternal as was promised, is a life of loss. We watch the world we knew unravel and disintegrate transforming into something new--because of us.

"How long has it been now?"

"I've lost count."

"Do you regret it?"

"Not at all."

We bear the consequences, good and bad, forever. We'll go on bearing them as long as we're together. As long as we both shall live.

## Drive

Silas waited with his hands on wheel while the police officer looked over his documentation. "Mr. Holbrook?" he said.

"Yes?"

"This license is expired."

"Yes," the old man answered.

"It expired fifty years ago," the officer continued.

"I know," Silas replied, "but I haven't driven in all those years so I didn't need to renew it."

The officer's flashlight glared off of Silas's pale face. "But you felt the need to drive tonight?"

"Something important is happening," he said. "I had to drive."

The officer squinted at the license again. "This also says you were born in _1825_."

"I know. One of the numbers was wrong."

"Kinda figured." The officer clicked his pen. " _19_ 25, right?"

"No officer."

A heavy sigh. "Why don't you just tell me when you were born."

"1625," Silas answered with a straight face. "I was born in _16_ 25."

Finally, the stone face cracked a grin. "You know what year it is now, right?"

"I do".

"So you know that would make you . . ."

"Almost 400 years old. Yes."

Something in the man's certainty made the officer straighten up. "Hey, come on," he said. "What's going on here?"

Silas smiled. "I've waited a long time to meet you."

## Saving

I didn't know what to say to my relatives, so I just looked down at my dress. It was purple instead of black, but purple had always been grandma's favorite color.

My dad used to say that grandma could skim the light off a Sunday morning.

"Jasmine, honey," My mom said softly. "They read the will."

"Mm," was the only reply I had.

"She's left you something."

I had seen her do it once--years ago when I was a kid. We walked down to the river one afternoon. Grandma laid out a picnic while I chased frogs and dragonflies. Just before we left, she snatched up a sheet of sunlight and folded into a small bright square, just like she had folded up the blanket.

The lawyer barely looked at me. He was grim and grey as he read my name and inheritance. Jasmine Hale: small red trunk.

"What'd you do that for?" I'd asked her.

"I'm saving up," she explained. "Happiness like this is hard to come by."

I had forgotten all about that until I saw the trunk my grandmother left me.

"I've been saving a long time," she had said.

The trunk was heavy and warm.

## Watch

The bookcase was filled with little boxes, and each box held a watch. Not one of them ticked.

John scanned the boxes, reading the label and date on each. Fingers lingered on one, then withdrew and closed around another. Castle, the label read in handwriting decades old.

"What's the point of wearing a watch that doesn't run?" friends had asked him over the years.

"It does run," he would say, "but only for a moment." Then he would stop it forever and put it in a box.

John laid the watch on the cement floor of the garage, then brought the hammer down as hard as he could.

Wind howled atop the turret. The Atlantic spread out on one side, rolling Welsh countryside on the other. "It's gorgeous," Cait declared. His wife. God, she was even more beautiful than he remembered. He stepped closer, wrapped his arms around her, and buried his face in her hair. "Hey you," she smiled. Their lips found each other, kissed deeply, pulled apart.

"I love you," John whispered urgently, "so much."

"I love you too."

Then the moment vanished forever. He was alone in the garage, broken bits of watch scattered across the floor.

###

#  About the Author

Gregory M. Fox is a husband and father, an author, artist, and educator from South Bend, Indiana. His wife, Emily, is his greatest source of inspiration and support.

The stories contained in this collection were first published on Gregory's flash fiction blog _A Breath of Fiction_. Since starting this project in 2010, he has published more than 400 stories of exactly 200 words on this site. Previous stories from this project were collected into Gregory's first ebook, _A Breath of Fiction: Volume 1: The First 200 Stories_. Visit 200story.tumblr.com to read more stories, or find more information about Gregory's writing at gmfx.net.
