I faked my own death.

The pyres were lit, faces contorted in ugly shapes resembling demons, dark outlines without souls to speak of. I tried to become one of them, to lend a neighbourly hand, to follow inconistent rules by which they organized their broken society. I was forever an outsider. Forever the grime on the bottom of their tanned hide boots. Good enough to offer advice, when no one else possessed the knowledge.

"Ma'am? I've found myself in a precarious position you see.... it's just that... I canna have proof of my sins... they say you know how to deal with this.... problem..."

Always the same story, a young woman with nowhere else to turn. I feel for them. Perhaps too much.

It takes just one. One mouth to begin a vicious rumour, a rumour that sleuths through the village, infecting minds, filling them with malice. A man is no longer a man, but part of a collective predator, moving forward together as a swarm of bees. To nullify an identified threat.

"What a relief! Glad that's taken care of!" They say, clapping eachother on the backs.

"If it weren't for Pat, we'da never known there was a witch amongst us." They look toward a sour-looking, middle-aged man. He smiles with satisfaction, yellow teeth gleaming in the early evening light.

A chill passes through the body of each man, causing them to look around in alarm.

"Did you feel that there?" the second-in-command asks, feigning calmness.

The moment of anticipation is delicious. As a cat plays with her dinner, I'll have a bit of fun with these dolts. It would have been easier to accept me, but they couldn't.

"Stop staring."

Taking the small hand in her own and giving a sharp tug.

Once a safe distance away.

"That could be you."

The owner of the small hand looks down, confused.

"But I am me."

A shrug.

"Perhaps if you hadn't been so lucky, if you hadn't been born this way."

Still confused.

"Like reincarnation?"

Still tugging.

"Where did you learn that word? And no."

More confusion.

"I was born here, where else could I have come from?"

Exasperation.

"A universe where children ask fewer questions"

Thinking this hard is painful.

"The girl from before is from another universe?"

Pause.

"Are our lives very different?"

The tugging stops.

"I suppose not. Regardless of where we are, children will always ask impossible questions."

My chest heaves unnaturally, sitting in blackness

Someone has made haste, out the door

A chill goes with him,

Enough remains to weigh this body down

Later, when I tell the story

of sinking into proverbial quicksand

They'll all reply

"But of course, it's the Traveling Salesman!"

While overhearing a tale told between two,

of a heaviness that lifted the moment she opened her eyes,

of a chill that lingered until dilluted by light,

I'll know what to say,

what will be of little comfort,

while stroking her hand

"But of course, it's the Traveling Salesman!"

When one wonders why he can't escape

a feeling of constraint

a desire to decline

Powerless to move aside

The Traveling Saleman has time to bide

Lest you open your eyes

A bird gazing into a pond does not see feathers

Rather ripples washing over a familiar face

Not an exact reflection

Only an imitation

"Meet me halfway" says the voice

Birds do not think twice

To dive headfirst would mean death

The living alone await each breath

to finally wander, find new hosts

The veil between worlds fades

Look before it flees

To see the other side we must drown

As a bird gazing into a pond once saw

Peering up at a new reflection this dawn

"Conas tá tú?"

"Tá mé go maith, grampa"

Irish dances in my head

I'm there once more.

Space opens to his left

Beside the pot,

filled with pond water

Tea waiting to be shared.

The nest is empty,

but it's still warm.

They say our world is doomed. Mayans chose 2012, yet here were all in the year 2029. Yes. You read that correctly. Twenty-Twenty-Nine. I had a vision ten years ago, a bleak future flashing before my eyes, telling me to find meaning elsewhere. I heeded this sudden advice, appearing like a distant and unexpected family member there to torture me.

Yesterday, news arrived through an ancient radio transmitter at my bedside: massive earthquake, many dead, flooding to follow, slowly sinking. Speaking so casually as if it were not a city lost, but a broken swing set at the local playground. How many disasters had I seen in my lifetime and narrowly escaped? Our existence on this planet is out of my hands, out of yours. Or perhaps this is just something we tell ourselves in order to remain immobile, petrified by the thought of a future we are slowly nailing to the ground.

They say what is yet to come cannot be known, I think we know exactly where we’re headed.