"you never cease to surprise me, do you know that? i never thought you'd actually meet me here."

"and turn down some free blueberry pancakes? you must not know me very well at all then, little brother."

"oh please, of course you'd get the most childish thing on the menu. besides, i never said i was footing the bill."

"oh? i mean, it's not really a problem, is it? we could just light this whole place up once we're done, y'know, end things with a bang like the good old days."

"because theft is so below you you'd automatically resort to murder? please. plus, you know i've left that life behind me."

[laughter]

"i'd resort to murder, little brother, because it is fun, which is something you need to be reminded of. honestly, i've never seen someone with such a large stick up their- hi, darling, we'll get two plates of blueberry pancakes and the sweetest coffee on the menu. yeah, that'll be it. big guy over there's paying today so i'm gonna eat good!"

[pause as the waitress leaves]

"i'm not paying."

"ha! you will if you know what's good for her. matter of fact, you will if you know what's good for everyone in this restaurant right now. it'd be such a shame if the whole thing went up in flames, now wouldn't it?"

"i came here to talk you out of all this, jeremiah. after all this time, you're still right where i left you, a pawn in dad's game. aren't you tired of all the killing? after everything that happened with susana, i thought you'd be-"

"big words! didn't know you could speak this much in one go, color me impressed!"

"i can get you out of it. i have the resources now, you can join me and have a fresh start. what-what you're doing is wrong, jeremiah. you know it, susana knew it-"

"i don't know what you're talking about. susana died because she defected, the same way you should've died three years ago. if our father knew where i was right now, there'd be a bullet in your head, and that would be a mercy compared to what he'd want to do to you. you're fucking lucky i didn't rat you out, do you realize that? there is no starting fresh for us. you think you can just ignore your past? ignore everything that the midnight reaper did? you were almost as vicious as i was, little brother. all throughout the city, people would whisper about you in awe and fear. you don't get a fresh start just because you grew a guilty fucking conscience. you still killed upwards of 600 people, and you can never outrun that. i know you still hear their screams and their sobs, and even more, i know that you enjoyed ripping them apart. you're a fucking killer through and through as much as i am, as much as dad is. this heroics act is not only bullshit, its fucking pathetic."

"jeremiah. i-"

"thanks for the pancakes, dear! big guy over there's gonna give you a nice big tip for the stellar service you've provided, i just know it."

[silence]

"anyways, you've gone and pissed me off now so i'm gonna need you to try to convince me not to blow this place up as soon as i'm gone, preferably while you're still inside."

"you know you wouldn't. if you wanted me dead, dad would've been here by now."

"...fine, but that's not saving that lovely waitress of ours or the dozens of others in this stupid fucking brunch place, now is it? if you know me at all, you should know i came stocked, so..."

"jeremiah. i know you're upset. and that's fine. i'm not saying i'm fucking perfect, i know i'm fucked up. i know i'll have to atone for centuries before i can wash all the blood out of the past. but i'm trying. if i got you away from dad, i really think you'd be able to see-"

"ha! you want to get me away from dad. that's fucking rich. you never witnessed dad at anywhere near his worst, do you realize that? i made sure of that. i made sure he didn't beat the shit out of you until i was sure you can take it. i made sure you were able to make it out by keeping his attention on me, you massive fucking moron. i can't leave because he's got eyes on me constantly. i can't leave because if i do he's coming for your ass first to hit me where it hurts. don't talk to me about our dad because you don't even know him. not the way i did when we were kids, and not the way i do now."

[silence]

"i have the resources now-"

"your resources won't do shit to him. maybe you think they will based on the version of dad you knew, but they won't. by the way, are you finishing those? because if not i'm taking them. you have two seconds to decide, and... yup, they're mine now. fucking delicious."

"if my resources won't help then explain it to me. tell me what i'm missing and i'll find it."

"can't hear you over how fucking good these are. we should've gotten three plates, but oh well water under the bridge i guess."

"jeremiah."

"the coffee's kinda shit, but i guess i asked for the sweetest thing on the menu so that's on me. do you still hate coffee by the way?"

"i- i do, but back to the subject-"

"black tea, right? shoulda known. oh well, give me your shitty coffee too then. looks like this brunch is ending up as a feast for me on your dime, isn't it."

"what do i need to change before i can get you to agree with me? you need to give me something, i'm risking everything to meet with you right now and you're throwing that all away-"

"i didn't ask you to do any of this shit. don't try to guilt me for something that's not my fault. but anyways, duty calls and i have a detonation sight to check up on in an hour, so..."

"i just want to get you out of all this."

[pause]

"we both know there's no getting out of this. you might think you're out, but you're not. anyways, i wish i could say it's been fun but its actually been atrocious, so. hopefully this is the last time i'll see you little brother, i'd suggest you get out of this building in the next fifteen minutes, you never know what might happen."

I look in the mirror and see a stranger.

I know it's me this image has my face but the insides are lies.

Who am I really?

I have created a persona for others to like, but the problem is I don't like him very much.

He's the ultimate "my guy," he's funny but shy, artistic and tormented but there's more than meets the eye.

He's played this role for so long he believes it but when alone he's faced with the real shit.

I look in the mirror and the conversation goes again, "Hi, who am I?"

"Hey, you're THAT guy."

Before my grandmother came to live with us, she had only been a woman in photos, a stranger who happened to be my grandmother. I’d never spoken to her on the phone, or received a card or presents. I only knew that she’d grown up in Germany, had my mam quite young, and had moved to the west coast of Ireland when my mam was a toddler. My mam called her Mutti, and I called her Omi.

Her name was Tara, a name she said she gave herself as an acknowledgement of a new phase of life after her arrival in Ireland. She wouldn’t tell me her birth name. She said it was a name for a past stage and therefore irrelevant to the present.

However, she still had a German accent and said mit instead of with. I don’t know why she used this one word of German because her English was otherwise flawless. Maybe, she was paying homage to her ancestors. Maybe, it was simply her stubborn nature. She had a steadfastness and pride about her that beguiled me. And for the short time I knew her, I came to adore her. Her accent and bearing made her seem like some foreign noble. Someone special. And her presence and attention made me feel special. Like there was more to me than just being a weird kid. I felt like I had been waiting for her the entire eight years of my life.

She told me that there were things about my ancestors my mam didn’t want me to know and that my so-called weirdness had to do with this. That I was just tuned to a higher frequency, something other children couldn’t comprehend. Her words ignited my world yet I sensed our time together was limited. Three months later she was gone again and with her departure my parents’ dull account of family history regained its hold.

I’d always accepted my oddness and its shadowing effect on my life as the way things were. Compared to other kids my imagination was like some wild thing in need of taming. When I went to get neighbourhood kids out to play sometimes their mothers didn’t invite me in. It wasn’t verbalised, I just felt I wasn’t meant to cross the threshold. Waiting on the step for my friend to appear, I would drink in as much of the pristine interior as I could see from the door. A portion of plush carpet, a fireplace, glasses in cabinets, family photos lining the hallway. How I longed to get through that doorway and experience that normality. Where was the dust and other signs of life? It was all so orderly. My mam couldn’t perform this miracle of immaculateness like their mothers could. The minute one of them stepped into my house, the light from the windows seemed to ignite the dust and cobwebs. Papers, books, dishes and bits, seemed to be strewn everywhere.

It’s not like my mam didn’t strive to be like everyone else; she just couldn’t pull it off. Usually when she spoke to people, I’d spot that look of bewilderment spreading across their faces. I couldn’t stop it happening no matter how I tried to cut her off and derail her train of thought. It was just something about our family.

Tara insisted that our otherness was important, and related to a powerful, ancestral heritage. That my pre-historic kin had lived in perfect connection with all living things, in a world flourishing with untouched natural beauty: pristine mountains, forest and ocean abundant with nourishment.

She said the rural area of Ireland I lived in still had a helping of that raw, wild beauty my ancestors had enjoyed. But like the entire planet it was under threat as humans continued to assault the natural world, consequently ushering in their own demise. This was because the old ways had been crushed by the intruders. That’s what she called most people, the intruders.

Whenever she came with us grocery shopping, she’d give sideways glances at laden trolleys and later in the car ask me if I’d seen the junk the intruders bought. Or if I was watching TV, she’d comment on the intruder brainwashing apparatus.

One time, Tara came with us to the playground and minded me while my mam posted a letter. Spotting some girls from school, I ran over to the slide calling to them. Turning, they mumbled hello and then completely ignored me. Tears stinging my eyes, I walked back to Tara and sat down next to her on the bench. Taking my hand, she held it tightly.

“It’s not you who doesn’t fit in, it’s them. The intruders! They don’t belong here,” she said.

A feeling of ownership surged through me as if these clumsy children before me were intruders into my realm. I sat up straight, mimicking my grandmother’s posture.

“Your mother should tell you the truth,” she muttered.

As soon as my mam returned, I asked her straight out if it were true.

“How ridiculous,” she said, bringing me away to the ice cream van. Waiting in the queue, I watched my grandmother sitting on the bench, grim-faced watching the children play.

From then on, my parents began to control how long I was alone with my grandmother and no matter how I approached it, my mam refused to engage in a discussion about these mysterious ancestors and terrible intruders.

(I have friends reading it, but would love some feedback from strangers.)

https://www.amazon.com/KEEPER-FLAME-Lisa-D-Verdekal/dp/B0CD12P8QP/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=

Why try to win the Powerball -- I just got a check for $100 which was totally unexpected. I had to write a term paper for school which turned into a novel. Was shocked when I got an A+ and my teacher suggested submitting my story online.

Two dozen glazed donuts will be my first purchase. Finally, I can be the one who brings treats to our early morning practice. Can’t decide if I should tell my parents about this. I know they would be proud to think their one and only daughter is now a published author. But they definitely will want me to sock away the remaining $80 of this gift for my future education.

This might be the only time in my life when I can do something totally unheard of. I’ll create a challenge which anyone can enter. All they have to do is describe their plans for spending this unexpected windfall.

What to do with this substantial check, in 500 words or less?

Substantial to one is survival to another.

$1000 is a lot of food, even with eggs at $5/dozen. But it won’t cover a month’s rent.

$5,000 would cover the rent, but not the credit card debt.

$10,000 pays the credit, but not the student loans.

$25,000? A deep breath of relief I haven’t taken in years.

A moment of swimming, not sinking.

How long will it last? Will I get another? What if I mess this up?

And now I’m spiraling again.

But there’s a minute, when I first open that check where it doesn’t matter if it’s a dollar or a thousand. That check says, “Someone read your words and they see you as a writer.”

The value of this check is in its validation.

I’ll spend it on my self-esteem,

Invest it in my imagination,

And deposit whatever’s left in my dreams.

I’m not sure if the adage that money is the root of all evil is true, but if it is, I must be one holy mother fucker! What would I do if I received a fat check for a first novel? All I know is it’s a mistake because giving me money makes about as much sense as giving a chimpanzee a dildo.

I realize some might use their wealth to pay for a weeklong hedonistic and drug-fueled adventure in Vegas. In the name of debauchery, the days are filled with the sound of slot machines as they sing lady luck’s siren song. The hot dessert nights, however, feed a different craving. This naughty hunger might be satisfied by snorting cocaine off the perfect belly of a high-priced escort. Writer’s note: I don’t condone the use of illicit drugs. In place of cocaine, might I suggest taking tequila shots out of the high-priced escort’s navel instead?

Me? I would spend my wealth in the most boring way possible. I’d pay bills, put my kiddos through college, and buy my wife a few of the things she has always wanted. When it comes to wealth, growing up poor tends to stifle any golden fantasies of having money and all hope of wealth is stomped into the ground with the steel-cleated boots of reality. Frankly, the thought of being wealthy, fuck even being middle-class seemed about as possible to me as witnessing aliens perform extensive anal probing on bigfoot using the still attached horn of a unicorn while a leprechaun keeps sasquatch sedated with anesthesia made from pixie dust.

So, should I ever find myself with a large advance from publishing a novel, the only thing I would do for myself is immediately check into the nearest psychiatric facility. Since I have a little money, I might splurge a little and pay extra for a straitjacket with my initials embroidered on it. Only in my deepest state of lunacy could I ever believe that I am capable of writing and publishing a novel. If I’m ever found experiencing this literarily based delusion of grandeur, please lock me in a nice, warm, padded cell (wearing my embroidered straitjacket) for my own protection. After all, even someone who is slightly mad can come to accept that they’ve officially lost the battle with the voices in their head. I believe I am just self-aware enough to understand when I have transitioned from slightly sanity-challenged to the full on, “Arts and crafts time will be held in the dayroom after the nurses distribute medication” level of bat guano fucking crazy.

A first novel advance check isn’t in the cards for me because my current psychotropic medication regimen isn’t strong enough to burn a path through the insanity drenched, rabid spider monkey filled technicolor jungle within my head. Without the clarity provided by a strong antipsychotic defoliant and insane monkey repellant, I can’t write a novel. I would be too busy ducking flying insane monkey feces.

Time-travel technology turned tragic today. The team trained themselves thoroughly, taking their tools to the transmission tower. The trip took them to the threshold--three thousand thirty three. There, they tried to track the titanic tumult that threatened the timeline. Team trainer, Tony Talbot, told the telecasters that "This terrific ten-person temporalnaut team traded themselves, trying to tame the time-twister."

Home. I've always wanted to go home. Realizing I'm the last living member of what I was given as a family and unwanted by them as long as I have memories stored, I know that family in the real sense of it, I'll never have. I wanted a family so bad. To have ppl that wanted to see me coming. To have people that took my side when things went wrong for me. Ppl to give me advice truly meant for my benefit, not on how to act to appease a others family. Of course I still don't have that. But I have had the kind of life that has accepted it. And I have a wonderful family now even though in reality it's not mine. I don't have that fear for the 1st time. Then, 10 months ago they found my son dead. Something happened to me. I can feel it. I know it's there but I can't tell what it is. It's destroyed me. When I saw him laying there. I .. I'm not the same now. I want to live, laugh and love. But at the same time I don't. I lost my brother few months after. My job couple months before. My father in law passed 2 months ago and now we live in another town with my mother in law. I'm struggling. Justice was my son. My wife or anyone here never met him. So they don't know. And if I break down it'll only cause them to be upset and I'm already nothing more than a burden. I stay to myself. I make little spots in the garage or back porch to sit. If I go inside to try and have some contact with them they pause the t.v. as if I'm interrupting whatever they're watching. Even though I've mentioned that was rude and personally I would rather rewind my show in 2023 as opposed to making them feel that way. But I feel safe, for now. I hope I can neat this, whatever it is. I'll only be as valuable as what I can bring to the table. At least I know