Seventy-nine years have passed since the attack on Pearl Harbor, and until the tragic events of 911, Pearl was devastating to America.

I just want to share a bit of informational history to you, and if you ever get the opportunity to visit Oahu Island; this has to be on your list for places to visit. You will walk away a somewhat changed person.

The USS Arizona Memorial, at Pearl Harbor in Honolulu, Hawaii, marks the resting place of 1,102 of the 1,177 sailors and Marines killed on USS Arizona during the attack on Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941, and commemorates the events of that day. The attack on Pearl Harbor led to the United States' involvement in World War II.

The memorial, built in 1962, is visited by more than two million people annually.

Accessible only by boat, it straddles the sunken hull of the battleship without touching it. Historical information about the attack, shuttle boats to and from the memorial, and general visitor services are available at the associated USS Arizona Memorial Visitor Center. The battleship's sunken remains were declared a National Historic Landmark on May 5, 1989.

The USS Arizona Memorial is one of several sites in Hawaii that are part of the Pearl Harbor National Memorial.

How this came to be is interesting.

Robert Ripley, of Ripley's Believe It or Not! fame, visited Pearl Harbor in 1942. Six years later, in 1948, he did a radio broadcast from Pearl Harbor. Following that broadcast, with the help of his longtime friend Doug Storer, he got in contact with the Department of the Navy. He wrote letters to Rear Admiral J.J. Manning of the Bureau of Yards and Docks regarding his desire for a permanent memorial.

While Ripley's original idea for a memorial was disregarded due to the cost, the Navy continued with the idea of creating a memorial. The Pacific War Memorial Commission was created in 1949 to build a permanent memorial in Hawaii. Admiral Arthur W. Radford, commander of the Pacific Fleet, attached a flag pole to the main mast of the Arizona in 1950, and began a tradition of hoisting and lowering the flag. In that same year a temporary memorial was built above the remaining portion of the deckhouse. Radford requested funds for a national memorial in 1951 and 1952, but was denied because of budget constraints during the Korean War.

The Navy placed the first permanent memorial, a 10-foot (3 m)-tall basalt stone and plaque, over the mid-ship deckhouse on December 7, 1955.[4] President Dwight D. Eisenhower approved the creation of a National Memorial in 1958. Enabling legislation required the memorial, budgeted at $500,000, be privately financed; however, $200,000 of the memorial cost was government subsidized.

The national memorial is The 184-foot-long (56 m) structure has two peaks at each end connected by a sag in the center of the structure. Critics initially called the design a "squashed milk carton".

The architecture of the USS Arizona Memorial is explained by Preis as, "Wherein the structure sags in the center but stands strong and vigorous at the ends, expresses initial defeat and ultimate victory. The overall effect is one of serenity. Overtones of sadness have been omitted, to permit the individual to contemplate his own personal responses, his innermost feelings.

The national memorial has three main parts: entry, assembly room, and shrine. The central assembly room features seven large open windows on either wall, and ceiling, to commemorate the date of the attack. Rumor says the 21 windows symbolically represents a 21-gun salute or 21 Marines standing at eternal parade rest over the tomb of the fallen, but guides at the site will confirm this was not the architect's intention. The memorial also has an opening in the floor overlooking the sunken decks. It is from this opening that visitors can pay their respects by tossing flowers in honor of the fallen sailors. In the past, leis were tossed in the water, but because string from leis poses a hazard to sea life, leis now are placed on guardrails in front of the names of the fallen.

One of Arizona's three 19,585-pound (8,884 kg) anchors is displayed at the visitor center's entrance. (One of the other two is at the Arizona State Capitol in Phoenix.) One of the two ship's bells is in the visitor center. (Its twin is in the clock tower of the Student Memorial Center at the University of Arizona in Tucson.)

The shrine at the far end is a marble wall that bears the names of all those killed on the Arizona, protected behind velvet ropes. To the left of the main wall is a small plaque which bears the names of thirty or so crew members who survived the 1941 sinking. Any surviving crew members of Arizona (or their families on their behalf) can have their ashes interred within the wreck by U.S. Navy divers.

The USS Arizona Memorial was formally dedicated on May 30, 1962.

It was listed on the National Register of Historic Places on October 15, 1966. While the wreck of the Arizona was declared a National Historic Landmark in 1989, the memorial does not share this status. Rather, it is listed separately from the wreck on the National Register of Historic Places.

Oil leaking from the sunken battleship can still be seen rising from the wreckage to the water's surface. This oil is sometimes referred to as "the tears of the Arizona" or "black tears."

Every United States Navy, Coast Guard, and Merchant Marine vessel entering Pearl Harbor participates in the tradition of "manning the rails." Personnel serving on these ships stand at attention at the ship's guard rails and salute the USS Arizona Memorial in solemn fashion as their ship slowly glides into port.

Arizona is no longer in commission, but is an active U.S. military cemetery. As survivors of the attack on Arizona die, many choose either to have their ashes scattered in the water over the ship, or to have their urns placed within the well of the barbette of Turret No. 4. As a special tribute to the ship and her lost crew, the United States flag flies from the flagpole, which is attached to the severed mainmast of the sunken battleship.

As of now, Lou Conter and Ken Potts, both 99, are the only living survivors of the Arizona.

Ring Ring “Time to wake up” says the alarm going off... “it is Seven O’Clock”.

“Wake Up, Wake Up or you will NOT”!!! Says the Alarm Clock.

This Clock is Not just any ol’ alarm clock, oh no it is NOT.

This Clock is “Father Time” and it is NOT just a Clock.

He has a golden face with a mouth that speaks and says what he means and means what he says.

He has a green eye that moves one way and a blue eye that moves back and forth and all around.

He blinks and shows expression with his eyes when he speaks all sorts.

But it’s his Violet third eye in the middle that sees and tells the future, there is no bad or good.

It just is. Nothing more nothing less it’s just that.

Exactly in the center where his nose goes are two hands, black arms with gold cufflinks at the end of his arm and before the two hands, pointing at the numbers on his golden face.

No this is NOT just any clock this is a sacred clock, one you will not find on the shelves in the stores.

no no

This clock is made from a Sacred tree in the Black Forest. Unknown to man. It has magic properties, powers beyond your comprehension, you will not understand or believe. The wood is a deep dark color with a hint of purple in the richness of the wood grain. When the sunlight, or moonlight hits the wood it transforms into an iridescent purple and radiates.

The most intricate carvings are always changing. There is a design that goes around his face and is always changing. It is as if time consumes the present.

The beginning of the design is clear, tells a story but before it gets to itself again at 12:00 it disappears.

and the violet third eye appears.

There is NO clear future, it is always changing.

But this magical time is when you can hear your future.

at Noon and at Midnight

ask Father Time.

“Destiny, Fate or Karma. Father Time Show me my path, For I desire to know thyself.”

beware once the words are spoke, the truer they are.

This clock is passed down from person to person, it is your responsibility to care for this clock and listen to the wisdom long forgot.

This Clock is not just any ol’ clock, This clock not only tells you the time, it tells you, your past and future when you know the right formula.

This clock was born to “keep humans inline” to bring structure and balance to a very evil breed.

The personification “Father Time” is born. There is no going back!

Father Time has no emotions, no heart, he is ONLY A Face of Time, to tell us...

Tells us to stay, to go, to wake up, go to sleep, His hands point in the direction and you chose to listen or discard his words of wisdom. If you discard and chose a different path there WILL be harsh consequences. Destiny, Karma or Fate. You will suffer the rejection of Father Time’s words. if you chose to reject them.

Free Will, it is always your choice. Father Time will tell your future but remember it is always changing. The future is ALWAYS present. That is for certain. There is no wrong there is no right, you cannot manipulate the future for your present.

Father Times words are so powerful once they are said to change the future will come a great price.

Humans are the most evil. More evil than the “evil demons”

The “evil” demons were created evil from the beginning of time, it’s all they know. They are evil hideous monsters, that only know death. Doing as they are created to be.

But the Humans are NOT that, We were created in Love with a Heart. So for humans to be evil that is Most evil and that is why evil attaches itself to such a human and they become possessed.

No longer controlling their own thoughts. They have given into the darkness and lost their desire to search for true love. They have become heartless.

″The humans are lost, they have forgotten the real treasure is Love not winning the rat race. It takes magic to make magic.

It takes believing in different to make a difference. Be the change you want to see in the world and start it with every morning.” says the talking clock.

Ring Ring “Time to wake up” says the alarm going off. “Will you not wake up”?

“It is your job to show the world forgotten love. Wake up” says the talking Clock. “Wake Up, I will teach you what the world has forgot. I will teach you how to find Love and how to NOT give up.” Says Father Time The Sacred Ancient Clock.

“WAKE UP”

Kronos is born evil and only knows evil. How do you care for an evil clock?

That can be good with future information, but can also torture you with the information.

Father Time, both good and evil.

Only a Grimm can hear his words

only a Grimm can be it’s

caretaker

Athena

This is longer(4255 words), so read at your own risk. I wouldn’t mind if you stopped reading in the middle, but feedback would be helpful if you had any to give. Also WARNING: this contains mentions of drugs, violence, curse words, and more. If you are uncomfortable with the above listed topics, I would avoid reading this piece.

A man, with the last name of Miller, lived with his wife and two children in a run-down apartment. Between working at the dry cleaner and his job packing and unloading crates in the warehouse, he wasn’t home but a few hours to sleep and eat each evening. His wife, a tall, spindly woman with large green eyes accentuated by her nut-brown, hollow cheeks was more dear to him than anything including his children. Their apartment was situated amongst another two-hundred or so other run-down apartments in their apartment building in the center of Queens, NY. It was home to large population of not only other poverty stricken families, but also a large population of rats, drug dealers, and several homeless men and women who sat on the sidewalk in front of the apartments.

One year, a large amount of workers had been moving into the city in search of jobs. Their willingness to work for less money and to work longer shifts allowed them to find jobs. Mr. Miller, although a hardworking man, lost his job at the dry cleaner one day after getting in a fight with a customer when they wouldn’t pay, and they ended up rolling sleeves and spilling blood(some of which happened to stain a wedding dress and a few suits). He hung his head as he walked home, not eager to see the dissapointment of his children, and more importantly, his wife when he would have to tell them he’d been fired. The search for new jobs was unsuccesful, and after several weeks, their meager savings of money had been used. Food was hard to come by and soon he and his wife went hungry, so the children could eat. As more time passed, there wasn’t food enough even for the children.

After being fired, he had more time to spend at home. One night while he laid in bed sleepless due to his former sleep schedule, he rolled over to his wife who croaked, “Won’t you ever go to sleep on time again?”

He ignored her and proceded to ask about the pressing issue he’d been meaning to ask for days, “I ain’t gotta clue what we gonna do for food. I mean we don’ eat so the kids can, and now they ain’t even got food anymore.”

“You ain’t gotta clue? Well, imma tell you what we’re gonna do. Shit, I don’ know why we didn’t do this years ago,” she propped herself on her side, so they’d be face to face. “You gonna take them kids to work with you, and you gonna leave them in the park or somewhere where they ain’t never gonna be able to come back.”

He blinked at her but the darkness around them hid this one significant hesitation. Her words hung in the air as though caught in the cigar smoke flooding their room from the open window where their neighbor often smoked.

“We ain’t gonna abandon the kids,” he stated, “They not even old enough to work yet.” He thought some more and added, “The next time we’d see em’ ’ud be on a front of a newspaper titled: Two Children Found Dead in Central Park. Murder, rape, wild animals... they ain’t know halfa what they need to to stay alive.”

To this the wife suggested, “You know howta get you outta trouble. You teach ’em when as you walk. And they old enough to work. They just lazyass children.”

“They’re only 15. If I can’t get a job, they ain’t gonna be able to either. They gonna starve to death.” Thank God it’s summer he thought, already knowing he was eventually going to give in.

“Give ’em a bit of bread while you walk. Tell the two of ’em to save it for later. Someone’ll come pick um up before they starve. Them cops go ’round there sometimes and other people there all the time.”

With this he couldn’t argue, but he still had a bad feeling. “I still ain’t wanna leave them. I mean they’re our children...” He trailed off. His argument and the willpower to argue his wife’s decisions both growing weaker the longer he talked.

“But baby,” she hummed, “what about me?” She knew this was what would appeal to his emotions. “If we don’t send the children away, we’ll all starve. We’ll all die, and I’ll die first cause I’m so skinny.” She picked up his hand and ran it over her ribs then rested it on her hollowed cheek. Just as she had thought would happen, his moral obligations to his children were forgotten, and he conceded to her plan.

The following morning, he woke the children while his wife was still asleep, and in a moment of weakness and moral conciousness, told them of their mother’s plan. Shocked and appauled, they were filled with disgust for their mother. The father gave them a loaf of bread and ushered them through the front door. The dingy carpet bade them farewell and sparked an idea in young Gretel.

“Pluck off peices of bread as you go, so we can find our way back,” she whispered to her brother.

“I ain’t gonna do that,” he hissed back, “I’m hungry and I wanna eat my food not drop it on the ground.”

“Think about it this way moron, if you don’t wanna starve in the park, I advise you make a trail to follow.”

“Fine.”

As they walked, Hansel dropped small pieces of bread. They fell between people’s feet and under people’s feet, getting ground into the concrete. As the sun began to set, rats scurried accross the sidewalk, collecting the pieces of bread along with the other morsels on the roads and walkways. Near Central Park, they ran out of bread, and could not see the path behind them either. They stopped, and their father said farewell to the children, leaving them with nothing but their clothes and each other.

As he walked home, he was overcome with an awful ache. Guilt pressed in on him with each step that brought him closer to home without the children. He knew he had done a terrible thing. So, nearing the middle of his journey home, he made up his mind to head back to the children. He shoved through the crowd, pushing toward the edge of the sidewalk closest to the road where there were less people. His feet moved faster now with worry that the children may not be there when he returned. As he speed-walked in the near dark, a rat ran over the sidewalk and across his path. He managed to step on it’s tail, and the beast shrieked and bit his other ankle. He yelled and lunged off of the sidewalk, getting crushed by a stoned New York City taxi driver.

Meanwhile, the children, in Central park still, were led by the more practical Gretel as Hansel trailed behind complaining.

“I told you it was a bad idea. We ain’t never gonna find our way home in the dark.”

She ignored her twin brother’s grumbling as best as she could so as not to slap him across the face.

“I frikin told you so, and you wouldn’t listen.”

The park was new to both of the two children, but before it grew too dark to see, Gretel had watched people come and go from several specific directions which she supposed to be exits.

“I’m hungry now.”

Gretel was also hungry, but him saying so did not help her mood.

“You’re a fucking idiot you know.”

She turned around with a snap. And Hansel cried out. The boy bounced back, hands already up in fists. Gretel lunged toward her brother, driving her shoulder into him. He grunted and stumbled back a few steps, regained his balance, and took a step forward swinging his fists at her. They hit her jaw and shoulder, pulled back, and were ready to hit her again. He paused when she put her arms over her head and face.

“Geez, man. Sorry.”

“You ain’t sorry. You meant whatchu said. I know it,” she mewled.

“C’mon, Gretel, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. Promise.”

“I’m an idiot. ’N I got us lost here. No food, no water, no place to sleep. Shit, Hansel. We gonna die here.” Her shoulders started to shake and she leaned into her brother.

Not one for affection, he simply patted her head. This time he took the lead, taking only left turns. In Gretel’s misery, she didn’t realize they were making loop de loops through the park, which saved Hansel from yet another scolding. Gretel’s absence from the lead was peaceful, and Hansel blundered ahead inatentive to his sister who was unusually quiet. When he decided to take a break to tie his shoe, a quick scan of the surrounding area told him she was no longer following him.

Gretel had stopped lamenting and decided to let her brother waste their time by making a horrendous amount of left turns and stops to tie his shoes. She had slowed down, each step making her sleepier than the last until she stopped at a bench to rest. She figured her brother would realize no one was following him and stop to take a break with her, but she overestimated him because to her minor suprise, he kept walking. Not that that bothered her enough to do anything about it with her sleep craved mind.

She had fallen asleep, head lolled over the edge of the bench but woke, half-asleep, to someone picking her up. Believing her brother had come back afterall, she rested her head on their shoulder and continued to sleep. The man carrying her, however, was not her brother, and was not bringing her to safety.

Hansel heard a sound like feet to his left, and followed it blindly through the dark. under a streetlight near the edge of the park, he could make out the shape of the man, and the fact that he was carrying something. Either a sudden burst of intelligence, or maybe a small amount of pity from God was granted to him at this moment and told him to continue to follow this man. Out of the park and down a dimly-lit back alleyway, the man trudged and Hansel followed. He followed this man through a few more back alleys, through a door hanging by a single hinge, and down a set of stone stairs.

The man turned on a light in the corner, put Gretel down. The couch on which she was set looked as if had never been cleaned. There were stains of all colors, and reaked even from where Hansel stood, nose scrunched and gagging slightly. The whole room smelled like marijuana and an indescribable choking scent that was the main cause of Hansel’s gagging.

Gretel was still asleep when the man came back and tied her hands together. The movement of her hands ad the light woke Gretel up, and this time she was more awake. Her eyes grew wide, as she soaked in her surroundings, and gagged as the smell caught up to her. With a quick sweep around the room, she noticed Hansel, but didn’t know why he wasn’t tied as well.

Communication in general between Hansel and Gretel had never been great, so their nonverbal communication was not a step in the right direction. What is going on? Gretel asked through wide eyes and a slightly open mouth. This place stinks like dog shit, marijuana, and a sex-ravaged beast’s bed. Hansel tried to say by putting two fingers to his lips as though smoking, a squidged nose, and a puckered mouth. This was not translated well by Gretel who was now confused as to why all her brother was thinking of was smoking. With a slight tilt of her head and creased eyebrows, she asked What are you talking about? Translated by Hansel as: What? He rolled his eyes, pointed at the man who entered the room again through a door opposite the couch, made a kissy face, and pretend gagged, which wasn’t hard to do considering the smell of the room.

Gretel hadn’t noticed the man earlier because she was still waking up, but now her eyes grew once again, and she shrank away from the man, scooting further from him on the couch. He was watching her as he sat down too close to her. She turned her head away, disgust etched in every part of her face. She was now facing Hansel again, and the man looked to where she had her head turned. He stood up quickly. With a flick of his wrist behind his back, he had a knife out in front of him, and Hansel could see the handle of a shotgun in his waistband.

The man inched closer holding out the blade chest height toward Hansel. Hansel put his hands up. “I ain’t got nothin on me,” he mumbled.

“What’s that kid?” The man growled. His teeth, or at least the few left, were yellowed and chipped. Even from four feet away, his breath caught in Hansel’s nose and sat there rotting.

“I ain’t got nothin on me,” Hansel repeated.

“Well then there ain’t gonna be no trouble then is there?” the man hissed through the seven visible teeth.

He grabbed Hansel’s arm and pulled him into the room adjacent to the one the man had previously been in. The grimy walls let in no light except through a barred basement window, the small, yellowed kind that only small animals can fit through. Hansel was tossed in and the door was shut and locked behind him. The man could be heard from the other room only by the low, raspy sound of his speech. Gretel’s high-pitched voice was the same way, only a blur of sound. Hansel knew whatever was being said was not good.

Later, Gretel was thrown inside the room as well, and landed on her hands and knees as Handel had earlier. Hansel was sitting against the floor and had been trying to get the mouse that lived in a hole in the wall to trust him. He looked up as the door clicked open, the mouse scurried away. The raspy voice from the other side chuckled then footsteps could be heard walking away.

“What did he do to you?” Hansel whispered

“Nothing yet,” Gretel answered to her feet. Gretel started to cry, and Hansel looked back at the mousehole wishing for his quiet old company back.

“Well, we gotta find a way to get out of here then,” he suggested lamely.

* * *

Across the city, Mrs. Miller paced through the small apartment fretting over her husband’s absence.

“Oh god, baby. Where are you? You were supposed to be home hours and hours ago.”

“Maybe he was kept late at work.”

“What a shithead. He probably abandoned me for the children.”

“I thought he loved me more than those two sewer rats.”

“To hell with him. I’ll get myself a new man.”

“But what if he comes home and finds me cheating?!”

“Ain’t never gonna forgive me for that.”

She worked evening shifts at a local diner though, so she had to quit her frantic pacing and get ready for the day’s work. On her way to work, she stopped to glance, like she usually did, at the front page of the New York Daily News in the newspaper stand, so she wouldn’t have to buy the copy. Today, she glanced it over, continued walking, and backsteped back to the stand. The title screamed: MAN KILLED BY TAXI DRIVER. Underneath, a picture of Mr. Miller on a stretcher was printed in faded color. The text under the picture and title read: African American man leaped into traffic right before a taxi driver under the influence of drugs and alcohol was caught speeding and crashed into him. The man was killed minutes after he was hit with several broken ribs, a broken neck, and punctured lungs. When he was killed, he was supposedly going back to his apartment: 7th St. 17th Ave. Apt. 124, Queens, NY (as written in his wallet). The man’s name was Mr. Miller and the case isn’t still being investigated as the driver has suffered injuries from the crash and is currently in the hospital...

Her hands flew to her heart, and she stood frozen and unbreathing. That was her address. A sob caught in her throat and she wailed.

* * *

Back in the basement room, Hansel sat with his back against the wall while Gretel stood at the door listening like she had the past four days for any sound of the man talking or coming to the door. Hansel sat uselessly against the wall opposite the door, playing with the mouse who he’d named Jamal Paul, PJ for short.

“Ain’t he the cutest little mouse?”

Gretel shushed his from where she stood at the door. She was trying to listen to a conversation the man was seemingly having either to himself or to the phone because there was only one audible voice and that was his own.

“He got brown and white spots ’n everything.” Hansel rubbed it’s belly with his finger.

Gretel turned around with her finger to her lips and shushed him again. With her ear back against the door, she could pick out only a few of the words. Only when Hansel wasn’t talking to her from the inside of the room that is.

“Jamal, my sister ain’t never let me talk much. How are you so quiet, PJ?” The mouse was sitting on Hansel’s front hoodie pocket now tugging at the material with it’s teeth.

“I’m tryna listen, pea brain,” she hissed back at him. The conversation on the phone was unusually long. She kept catching the words: “pick her up” “Yup. In a few weeks” “she’s too skinny now” “I know but men ain’t like them only bones” “fine, fine. Not too much, I know” “yes, she’s fine” “to hell with ‘im” “you’ll make good money with her” “You better fuckin’ believe it” “I ain’t seen many so young and pretty” “found ’er in the park” “yup”. From what she gathered, she could only guess she was being sold to someone else in a few weeks, but only when she was less starved.

She heard the clunking of footsteps then and hurried to sit next to Hansel. The mouse jumped up and scurried away, just as the door opened. A plate of food was slid in and the gruff voice commanded, “Eat! I better not find any left, you hear!”

“Ain’t gotta tell me twice,” Hansel muttered, already at the plate and eating. Gretel sat against the wall. Until they had a way to get out, she was not going to eat more than a tiny morsel each day. Starving herself was the only way to keep them here until they could escape.

The month passed and she grew skinnier instead of plumper which only made tha man angrier. Hansel on the other hand, was well fed and glowing, a prized pig at the fair. Gretel was taken from this room and locked in a room separate from Hansel’s. As much as Hansel disliked Gretel’s constant scolding and mothering, he hated to be separated from her and devised his own plan to be reunited with his sister.

When next the man came to the door and opened it, Hansel ripped it all the way open, noting how careless the man had gotten. The gun was on a table Hansel could see behind the man, and the knife was not in the man’s hand. Hansel punched the man and pushed him over. Stepping on his nose gave Hansel a satisfying crack, and blood began to flow from the unconcious man’s nose. He searched through the man’s pockets retrieving the knife and a set of keys on which he was surprised to find a mickey mouse keychain. The shotgun from the table was slipped into his pocket and he began his search for Gretel.

The basement house was small, so it didn’t take long to find Gretel locked in the kitchen. Tied to a chair, she sat in the room, a delicious smell of cookies mingling with the putrid stench of the rest of the house creating a confusion of smells, not unlike when you spray febreeze in a bathroom after shitting he thought to himself. The knife was slow at cutting through the plastic ropes and gave enough time for the unconcious man to become concious again and to stagger into the kitchen, holding his face.

“Fuck,” Hansel whispered and sawed at the plastic faster. One rope left and he’d be done. He looked up again and the man was right next to him. The rope was almost cut when Hansel saw a burst of colors and felt a pop in his ear. Hansel stumbled and fell over, and the man proceeded to step on his face as Hansel had earlier done to the man.

Gretel pulled at the ropes tied behind her back attatched to the chair. The man sneered at her and walked slowly over. The blood from his nose was smeared over his face like war paint, some even in his eye, dying it red.

Gretel stood suddenly and swung around. There was a splintering crunch, and he was on the floor again. Gretel’s hands were attatched only to a small piece of chair now. She picked up the knife and sliced through the last of the rope, wringing her hands out. The man was not unconcious though, and stood, unbalanced and shaking with anger. Gretel backed away, the oven at her back. He charged at her. She sidestepped, opened the door, and he crashed headfirst into the oven where several trays of golden cookies were sent cascading to the floor.

There was a shrieking emanating from the oven where she held the door as far shut as she could. Minutes passed before a roasting meat smell mingled with the baking cookie and other smells. The shrieking turned to moans which grew steadily quieter until they turned to nothing. Hansel sat up, hands over his dripping nose, and peered at his sister holding the oven closed with legs sticking out of it. He always knew she was scary, but he never knew she would bake someone alive. He added a mental note to stay on her good side as much as possible.

They were suddenly reminded of the possibility of freedom, when they caught a glimpse of light from the semi-larger-but-still-grimy kitchen window above the sink. Gretel gathered some of the food she found in the pantry and refridgerator and bagged some of the cookies as well. Hansel went back to the room he’d been locked in and gathered the mouse into his pocket after taking the gun out and placing it at his waistband as the man had done before. Gretel, after assaulting the kitchen pantry dug through the other rooms and found a large pile of money which she hid under her shirt. They met at the door and were out on the streets again as fast as possible.

* * *

Their mother, had not fared well from the news of the passing of her husband and had had a heart attack after she read the paper.

* * *

The children, back on the streets, had never been happier, but their joy was short-lived as they didn’t know where they would go before dark. They wandered the streets and eventually came upon a newspaper fluttering in the breeze. Hansel picked it up and began reading as he walked, stuttering through the words using the small amount of reading practice he’d had from school.

“Maaan killed by tax-I dr-ih-ver,” he sounded out. “Hey, that looks an awful lot like pa, ain’t it?” He pointed to the picture and showed it to Gretel.

“Shit, that don’t just look like him, it is him!” she gasped. She took the newspaper from him, handing him the bag of food instead. She read bits and pieces out loud while she skimmed the page. “leaped into traffic... under the influence of drugs and alcohol... punctured lungs... the man’s name was Mr. Miller...” She sighed and looked over to study Hansel’s reaction. When none came, she turned her attention back to the paper.

“It’s got our address here!” she hollered. Immediately, she set out to find their location and get them back home before dark. As soon as she found the street signs, they were off. Their feet grew sore, but the fear of being out at night again kept them going, and they made it into the neighborhood they knew well. Their apartment was locked, but the door was easily kicked in.

They soon found out about their mother’s death, but celebrated, much to the surprise of their neighbor who gave them this news. Gretel got a job as a waitress, and with the money they stole from the man in the basement, Hansel was able to go back to school, and continue on to college. Gretel quit her job as a waitress when he went to college, left the apartment, and was accepted into a community college in the middle of the country far from any large city. Each lived happily ever after...

Until, that is, Gretel couldn’t live with the guilt of cooking someone alive and was found by her roomate dead in their oven. And Hansel became a vetrinarian specifically for rodents, but contracted a respritory illness from one of the mice and died soon after. So maybe neither lived very happily ever after after-all.

When Jacob Smith discharged from the army, he took with him only a foreign sidearm he had claimed as a war prize, a gold ring presented to him when he has passed out and many memories of his valour. There was nothing else in his life; not a wife nor a girlfriend, no job or home. With his parents already dead, the only family that remained was his estranged brother, Milo.

Milo lived on the wrong side of the tracks. The broken suburbia – with its dilapidated shop fronts, constant sounds of yelling and sirens and the underlying threat of violence that hung in the air like a poison cloud – reminded Jacob of many of the war-torn villages he had visited during his tours of duty.

When Milo answered the door, his dilated pupils took a moment to register his brother.

‘’Sup, bro?’ he drawled.

‘I’m out,’ Jacob announced. He’d never been one to mince words. ‘Need a place to stay. Can you put me up for a while?’

‘Got cash?’

‘Not yet,’ Jacob answered.

‘Nah, dude,’ Milo said. ‘Gots to pay your way in this world.’ And with that, he closed the door in his only brother’s face.

Stifling his frustration, Jacob left and began to wander the neighbourhood. He doubted there was a hotel in the area, or at least a reputable one. Anyway, he did not have any money to pay for his lodging. After a while he found himself in the local park. Chains of the broken swings groaned in the twilight. Half a seesaw sat abandoned and useless. The roundabout lay rusted and unmovable.

‘You look troubled, friend.’

Jacob turned to the elderly man hobbling toward him. He was wiry and bent over, a charcoal cloak over his shoulders protected him from the chill in the air. Old as he appeared, his sapphire eyes glistened with life.

‘In need of some help, are ya?’ the old man asked.

‘What is it you offer, sir?’

The old man shook his hand dismissively.

‘No “sir”, if you please,’ he said. ‘My name is Theo and you can address me so.’

Jacob smiled, despite the strange air the man exuded.

‘Of course, Theo. And what aid can you offer, I wonder?’

Theo grinned devilishly. His eyes shone in the gathering gloom.

‘Riches beyond counting.’

Jacob fought to keep his laughter in. What riches could this man, a homeless man if ever he had seen one, give to Jacob? Rather than providing an honest source of income, he was more likely to enrol Jacob as a peddler of drugs or inform him when the local shop was most vulnerable to being robbed.

But Jacob decided to engage the man. If nothing else, he was entertaining.

‘And what would I need to do to earn such reward?’

‘Just two things,’ Theo said, stepping closer. ‘The first is to prove your courage.’

Here we go, Jacob thought. Would pillaging the store be proof enough for you, old man?

Theo continued. ‘I want you to kill...’

Jacob bristled. This had turned dark fast.

‘…that bear.’

Jacob spun in the direction Theo was pointing. Looming from the darkness was a large grizzly. Not stopping to wonder how such an animal had found its way to the outskirts of the city, Jacob raised his stolen gun, aimed with practised ease and shot the bear square through the forehead.

‘Yes,’ Theo chuckled. ‘Yes, you are the one. Bravery comes easily to you, as natural as taking a breath.’ He shambled over to the fallen creature. From under his cloak he pulled a hunting knife and a bumbag. He threw the bag at Jacob then set to work on the bear with the knife.

Jacob caught the bag with one hand. It was heavy and sang with the chime of metal on metal.

‘What’s the next thing?’ he asked.

‘Hmm?’ Preoccupied with skinning the bear, Theo seemed to have not heard.

‘Two things, you said,’ Jacob reminded the old man. ‘Two things to earn these riches beyond counting.’

Finishing his task, Theo ripped the hide from the bear and dragged it over to Jacob.

’Yes. Two things, yes. Next, you must see about yourself. For the next seven years you must not wash yourself, nor comb your hair or beard, neither must you cut your nails nor say one paternoster. If you die within that time you are mine, but if you live you are rich and free all your life long.

‘The sack you carry is filled with coin and will not deplete. It will pay your way over the years, but more is available should you succeed.’

Jacob zipped open the bumbag and pulled out a handful of coins. There was all manner of money, different sizes and denomination and nationalities. He dropped the coins to the ground and scooped out another fistful, and another and another. Sure enough, the bumbag was not emptying; for every penny, doubloon and yen he retrieved, another took its place.

Reaching up, Theo draped the still-warm bear hide over Jacob’s shoulders.

‘This will keep you warm. Wear it at all times ’cepting at night when you must sleep upon it and no other bed. Do so, and you shall be named Bearskin.’

‘Seven years?’ Jacob asked. Despite the scent of bear which now engulfed him, he still wasn’t certain this was actually happening. He expected laughter to come from the darkness as men with cameras revealed how he’d been punked.

‘Aye, seven years,’ Theo said quietly. ‘Meet me here in seven years and the riches will be yours.’

*

Bearskin found a place to stay for the night, a rundown hotel which charged by the hour. It took him a while to pull out only sterling coins from the bumbag to pay for his room. He soon realised though that the more he was successful, the more pound coins were in the bad. Soon it contained nothing but English currency.

Disregarding the bed with its stained and faded quilt, he threw the bear hide on the floor and lay down upon it. It was warm and soft and offered the most comfortable night’s sleep he’d had in years.

Bearskin spent the next year shuffling around the neighbourhood. The homeless population was high here, perhaps the greatest concentration in the city, and he helped out where he could, overflowing their begging cups with coins. It did not take long for him to became a welcome and praised sight, and the street people would offer prayer for this kindness and wish him eternal health.

During the fourth year, with his hair long and matted, his beard covering much of his face and nails sharp enough to slice steel, he chanced upon a skirmish in an alley. A middle-aged man was being accosted by three men, all bigger and younger than him.

‘I can get the money,’ the victim stammered.

‘Too late,’ spat the hoodlum wearing a brown jacket. ‘Shoulda thoughta that ’fore you borrowed from Sharkey.’

‘B-but my b-business needed a b-boost.’

‘Buh-buh-buh,’ mocked the second, his trainers a gleaming white. ‘Nobody wants to buy your tatty furniture any way, old man.’

‘I have daughters to feed.’

The last assailant, dressed all in black, stepped forward. ‘Maybe we need to meet these daughters,’ he snorted menacingly.

Bearskin had heard enough. He marched forward, a deep rumbling growl sounding in his throat.

The three youths turned and paled at the size of Bearskin. As one, they fled quickly, squealing like scared little pigs.

The recused man looked up at Bearskin, fear all over his face.

‘Do not fret,’ Bearskin said. ‘I am not here to harm you. Now, take me to this Sharkey.’

Despite Bearskin’s assurances, the man still looked afraid and, unwilling to anger his saviour, led the way to the loan shark. He took Bearskin to a small laundrette, the façade withered and peeling.

‘He works out of the back,’ the man explained.

‘Wait for me,’ Bearskin commanded, then disappeared inside. He returned a few moments later, a great smile on his face. ‘Sharkey will bother you no more.’

Blood drained from the man’s face. ‘What did you-’ he began.

Bearskin laughed as he realised the man’s fear.

‘No, I did not hurt him,’ he said. ‘I have simply paid your debt and released you from his clutch.’

‘Thank you, sir, bless you, sir,’ the man muttered.

‘And now, to your place of business.’

‘Yes, sir, of course, sir,’ the man replied, and took Bearskin to his shop: Wilhelm’s Wo derful Wor d of icker.

Bearskin looked at the place – the crack in the door panel, the dust on the display shelves. ‘Are you Wilhelm?’ he asked.

The man nodded silently.

‘Then the first thing you need to do is replace that missing lettering.’ He took Wilhelm inside and poured out enough money onto the counter for the shopkeeper to completely refurbish the place.

*

Over the next few months, Wilhelm’s trade began to boom. He was so grateful for Bearskin’s help, he invited him to tea.

‘Though I can offer nothing material as my thanks,’ he said, ‘my daughters are all wonders of beauty, so choose one of them for a wife. When they hear what you have done for me they will not refuse you.’

Bearskin thought it odd that, in this day and age, a father would pimp put his kin so, but he had grown fond of Wilhelm’s company and accepted for the chance to sample a homecooked meal. When they reached Wilhelm’s home, the man called out to his daughters:

‘Amalia. Bettina. Christiane. Come and meet the man who has saved this wretched family from ruin. Come and decide which of you should wed him.’

Amalia entered the room and looked at Bearskin. His monstrous hair and unruly beard; the hide that covered him, now reeking and worn; the talons at the ends of each of his fingers. With a shriek loud enough to break crystal, she turned and ran away.

The next girl to enter was Bettina. She glared at him, the revulsion clear on her face.

‘How can I take a husband who has not a bit of human countenance?’ she scoffed. ‘I would rather marry the rat that infests our kitchen cupboards, for at least it seems used to living inside.’ And she promptly left.

Christiane came in last. Looking on Bearskin, she shuddered involuntarily and gulped a few times before speaking.

‘Dear father, this must be a good man who has assisted you out of your troubles; if you have promised him a bride for the service your word must be kept.’

Bearskin felt his heart break for this angel of a woman. To put her pride aside and place her loyalty to her father above all else, he knew she would make him a kind wife. And, once his deal with Theo was completed and he was able to hack and wash away the years of hair and filth, he knew he would make her a fine husband. For the first time in his life, Bearskin could envisage a happily ever after.

‘Fair Christiane, I would not presume to wed you in this state,’ he said as he slipped the golden ring from his finger. He snapped the ring in two and used his nails to carve his name on one half, her name of the other. Tossing Christiane the half which bore his name, he said, ‘In a few years I will be free of my pledge. At that time, I will resemble a man again and then we can marry.’

*

For the remainder the seven years, Bearskin continued to stalk around the neighbourhood, aiding the unfortunate where he could. He watched Christiane from a distance, sad that she wore nothing but black since their parting yet glad that she was keeping her promise to her father. The day he could return to her was drawing ever nearer.

And so, seven years after first meeting Theo, Bearskin made his way back to the park. He was aching to be rid of the bear hide which was now almost one with his own skin. He longed to bathe and to shave and to lie on a soft mattress.

As he neared the playground – now bright and sparkling thanks to his own generosity – Bearskin heard the old man’s voice.

‘My name is Theo and you can address me so.’

Theo was obviously talking to someone else. That didn’t concern Bearskin. He had no shame in interrupting their conversation to demand Theo make good on his promise of riches.

‘Of course, Theo,’ the stranger said.’ And what aid can you offer, I wonder?’

‘Riches beyond counting.’

The familiar words echoed in Bearskin’s ears.

‘And what would I need to do to earn such reward?’

Fear prickled Bearskin’s spine. He began to run forward.

‘Just two things. The first is to prove your courage. I want you to kill...’

With professional reflexes, the young man tuned from Theo, lifted his weapon and put a bullet right between Bearskin’s eyes.

Last time I trust Henry Malone for anything.

Since the day we met he’s made his way pedaling snake-oil in the backalleys of Brighton Street. An alley cleaver like that isn’t to be depended on, not ever, least of all by a teenage girl.

It was early and my common sense had yet to wake up—it usually lags in about three hours behind me. I’d befriended this boy from school, Diggy, and for a few weeks we’d been conversatin’ in the cafeteria. I wanted to have him over. But I knew my last grounding had yet to release, which meant no company. We devised a plan where Diggy would sneak in through the window of my bedroom but therein resided the problem. My window was about twenty feet off the ground. Not even NBA jumping legs could get him that high. He offered to catapult off the dumpster, but alas, even Brighton’s notorious mountains of garbage couldn’t gain him enough leverage. So I made a rope by tying bedsheets together. Fortunately when it came untied he was less than three feet up.

Never one to surrender, I spent the night tossing and turning, desperate to form a plan. I’d have to utilize my creativity for this one, or so I thought till an answer broadsided me like a freighter flying 180. On my way to school the next morning I ran into Henry, his hair all greased-back and his trenchcoat hilariously oversized. Never one for subtlety, he threw it open, brandishing a vast spectrum of wares, from off-brand watches to off-brand perfumes to off-brand smartphones. If he had an off-brand kitchen sink in there somewhere I wouldn’t have been surprised. That was Henry.

“Hey kid. Wanna’ buy a watch?” he pressed.

“No thanks. I can miss the bus on my own. Those things are five minutes slow. You set ’em and a glitch stalls ’em out again.”

“Oh, come on. Perfume?”

“I have bad enough acne without a rash adding to the fray.”

“Smartphone?”

“Hear those things have a penchant for exploding. I want to keep my face.”

“Why?”

“Shut up.”

“Okayyy, Miss. What do you need?” he pursued. “Name anything and I’ll get it.”

The answer was only meant to be facetious.

“Got anything that’ll let me sneak someone in through my window? It’s two stories up and tying sheets just ain’t cutting it.”

“Yeah,” he shrugged.

“Just as I thought, you— Wait, what? You do?”

“Yeah. May sound crazy, but if yer willing to experiment I’d say there’s a way. You got real nice hair, see...”

“Okay. Creepy. Did your brain just short-circuit because that was totes non-sequitur.”

“Just listen. A tonic. It’ll make your hair grow at a hyperaccelerated rate, and you can use that hair as a rope.”

“That’s...the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” I declared, before mulling it over a bit. “I mean it’s ridiculous. I feel insulted that you’d even—How much is it?”

“For you, five bucks.”

“Why do I pay you?” I huffed. “I’m not an idiot. But fool me this many times, shame ain’t even a factor anymore. It’s all numb.”

We made the exchange, and I slouched low in case anyone off the main road recognized me in passing. It felt dirty, like a drug deal. Was that it? Was I no more than his junkie now?

Speaking of junky, I slathered the stuff on my hair that night, hoping I wouldn’t die in my sleep. Maybe there wouldn’t be any bad reactions, or bad vibes. Maybe the hair wouldn’t grow inward and crush my brain to pulp. Like I was using it anyway...

The next morning I awoke to find myself an island amid a sea of hair. My golden locks churned around, leaving me to stifle a scream, be it from terror or joy I know not which. Well, at least I knew Henry hadn’t lied. In my cynicism I’d poured the whole bottle on, figuring it to be water. It was colorless and odorless. Easy mistake.

How was I gonna’ hide this from my parents, from my teachers, from everyone? I grabbed a baseball cap off my nightstand and attempted to stuff my hair into it like I used to. When that failed I slid on a hoodie, leaving my hair tucked inside. One problem—it flowed out the bottom like a fountain, dragging across the floor. So I gathered it and stuffed it under the hoodie’s copious flab, till I was inflated like a weather balloon. Thankfully Dad was already at work and Mom was busy with the baby. So I managed to slip out undetected.

“Dang. You cold, Zel?” Diggy made a face when he saw me. “What is this, a dare? Are you doing that dumb fifty hoodie challenge? You’re supposed to take them off right after. You’re not supposed to wear them around.”

Looking like an unhinged blob of humanity, I took him by the shoulders and guided him gently to the janitor’s closet where I proceeded to spill both my hair and my guts.

“This is insane,” he spat.

“Just one visit and I’ll cut it all off,” I pouted. “I want you to see my room.”

“That’s a long ways to go just to show me your room.”

“I’ve done stupider.”

“I believe you.”

That evening I was elated when a rock hit my window. I yanked the sash up and poked my head out to see Diggy standing below.

“Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair!” he cried. I did. But I misjudged the distance and wound up crushing him. Slight collateral. He survived. And in five seconds he’d latched on and was shimmying up. I gritted my teeth, straining to hold his weight. Guess I didn’t really think that part through either. He weighed twice what I did, so it quickly became a contest of whether he’d make it or whether my head would pop off first. That would be unfortunate.

Speaking of unfortunate. When I was a kid I had this rope swing in the backyard of my fam’s old place. I’d enjoy hours of gliding through the air, till one day it snapped. Dryrot had eaten it from the inside, and though it looked perfectly intact and safe from the outside—it wasn’t. You probably get where I’m going with this. I even recalled the sensation. The rope jerked a bit, gave, gave more, then snap. I felt a similar sensation right then, as Diggy scaled my hair. He was almost to the window. But my hair was starting to jerk. The strands were breaking from the inside-out.

“Diggy!” I tried to scream, but it was too late. He was already on his way to the ground and I was already mentally throttling Henry Malone. A profound lapse of judgement. One of many.

The doctors said Diggy had a broken leg and a couple sprains. Nothing too serious. The tonic I’d used had worked, initially, but its cheap hack-job formula had weakened the hair, so while it was technically longer, that full look was just a brittle artifice. It wouldn’t have held a feather up long, let alone a human body.

Next time I saw Henry he had an ointment all whipped up that could supposedly heal Diggy’s broken leg.

“Woah, what happened to you?” he paused, after I’d lowered my hood and displayed the shaggy remnants of my new bob.

That was my only reply. Throttling him would’ve been overkill.

So I just kept walking.

#fiction

Luke was in a tight spot. Doors were slammed. How could he? That was always the newest girlfriend’s refrain. But they were all the same. The same desperate, clingy girls who populate the ghetto like mosquitoes in a swamp, waiting to suck his blood and his future dry.

But he was looking for something serious this time. Someone who knew what it meant to love. He needed a real girlfriend. He left his latest girl’s apartment, his head down and well on his way into the rest of his life.

But then he heard the voice of an angel.

Keisha was alone once again in her bedroom on the twentieth floor, with her Sony headphones and Walkman, singing so that her perfect soprano voice drifted down to the street below.

Her perfect blonde hair, snug in a ponytail that touched the floor, whipped around as she danced to her own tempo. Songs about love that transported her to a different world. She desperately wanted to escape the ghetto. The songs she listened to transported her to the loving arms of a man, relationships that promised escape. To anywhere away from her cramped one bedroom apartment.

She lived with her aunt, who ran a tight ship. She was strict and wouldn’t let Keisha leave the apartment. For her aunt was deeply afraid of the ghetto and what it could do to a young girl like Keisha - especially those young men who roamed the streets like so many lost souls. It was a dangerous world out there, and Keisha needed to be kept safe at all costs.

As it turned out, the cost was significant. Keisha had lost all faith in finding love.

At the moment of Keisha’s loss of faith, Luke looked up. All he had to do was cock his head and he could hear every word. Every angelic tremble of her vocal chords promised him real love, this time.

He had to meet this girl.

He made his way over to the massive apartment building where the voice was coming from. He waited until someone left the apartment and snuck in behind them, and proceeded to take the stairs to the top floor.

But he was disappointed. No one answererd their doors on the top floor. Dejected, he went back to the street and started singing right back at that beautiful voice. He sang in the direction of the girl’s voice, hoping. Hoping for a miracle.

The girl’s singing stopped. Suddenly, he saw a face appear in a top window.

“Hello!” he shouted, smiling up at her window.

She merely shook her head. The men of the ghetto were all dangerous, and he was probably up to no good, wanting all the wrong things from her. Or, maybe that was her aunt's voice, telling her to be wary.

She closed her window, and when her head whipped around to walk away, he saw at least twenty feet of hair swish behind her. My God.

“Wait!” he shouted.

She turned back around, and that’s when he shouted: “Let down your hair!”

Keisha froze. Was this man telling her to loosen up?

Suddenly, Keisha's aunt could be seen creeping up behind Luke in the street. Her aunt was going to throw something at Luke! It was barbed wire, the same wire that kept Keisha from leaving their apartment.

Keisha screamed. Luke turned around, just in time for her aunt to blind him.

Keisha started screaming, "Here! Here! I'm letting down my hair!"

But as Luke was blind, he could only fumble his way forward towards the sound of her voice.

"Sing!" he cried out.

Keisha started singing. She sang the sweet overtones of Duran Duran with her perfect pitch. And Luke followed her voice.

Keisha then let down her hair.

"Pull!" she screamed.

Luke caught on. Keisha pulled him up, ever so slowly, but upwards, towards her bedroom.

When Luke finally arrived in her bedroom, he sat down, and cried. Keisha wasn't sure if he was grateful, or sad, or what. But he then suddenly grabbed her hands.

"Will you marry me?" he asked.

Keisha didn't know what to do. Should she rebel, and marry this man? Should she follow her heart and go away with him?

Could he help her leave the ghetto?

"I will," she whispered.

And with that, she pressed "stop" on her Walkman and the tale came to an end. For, these types of stories cut us off from reality as does barbed wire cut our eyes.

Ever since she was young, Laqueshia Johnson was nicknamed “Red”. Maybe because she loved to wear her daddy’s red baseball cap since she was three (When he’d come home from work, he’d pick her up and fly her around the house. She’d giggle and laugh, then take his cap and run all around the house until he finally caught her). Maybe it was because Laqueshia was just way to heck frickin hard to pronounce or spell, so the kids at school decided to call her the first thing that came to mind (she just so happened to wear a red shirt on her first day). Maybe it was because her middle name was Rhett, something she didn’t really find out until she was twelve. Yeah. That was probably the real reason why she was called “Red”. An accidental mispronunciation. BUT, never mind all that. The reason why she was called “Red” doesn’t matter at all in this story...

It was a rainy night on the west side of Detroit. Red was bobbing her head to the fresh beats in her headphones as she finished up some algebra homework. Lying on her belly, elbows deep in a pink unicorn pillow, she tapped her pencil against her emoji binder to the rhythm of the pouring rain as it pattered upon her windowpane.

“Dinnertime!” her mamma called from the little dining room.

With a sigh, Red rounded out the last zero she was forming and started up from her bed. She slung her mp3 player down onto her beanbag and rushed out of the room.

“Hey, hun,” Mamma smiled, kissing her on the forehead.

“Mamma, you know I’m too old for all that now,” she giggled in embarrassment, “I’m sixteen!”

“You always gonna be my baby, Red,” Mamma grinned, “You know that.”

Red found a seat and plopped down. Before her sat a bowl of instant ramen that was staring up at her for the third time that week. She sighed in annoyance but quickly straightened her posture with a smile as she felt Mamma’s sharp, correcting gaze land upon her.

“That’s better,” Mamma smirked, “Say your grace now.”

Red bowed her head and closed her eyes.

“Thank you, Lord God, for the food you provide us. Thank you for blessing me and mamma with this nice apartment, and the money to pay the rent...”

“Yes, Lord,” Mamma interjected.

“Thank you for helping me get good grades in school...”

“Thank you, Jesus!” Mamma over-emphasized.

“Thank you Lord God for legs to walk, a bike to pedal, and the bus to ride, but please help us to get enough money to buy a car to drive...”

Mamma breathed a silent laugh as she glanced up at Red only briefly.

“Thank you for Grandma. She lives on the other side of town all by herself, and she’s been sick lately. Please help her to get better. Thank you for Daddy, too. Please help him get out of jail soon. In Jesus’ name we pray, Amen,” she said swiftly.

“Amen,” Mamma nodded in agreement.

Red quickly grabbed her fork and began devouring the noodles.

“So, baby, how was school today?” Mamma asked.

“It was okay,” she said with a mouth full of ramen, “TGIF though. Them exams is somethin’ else.”

“L-O-L, right?” Mamma chuckled.

“Yeah,” Red giggled.

“Speaking of TGIF, tomorrow is Saturday...” Mamma hummed, “Do you think you could go drop some stuff off at your Grandmamma’s house for me?”

“Sure, Mamma!” Red smiled. She loved to visit her Grandma. Even though the journey required two bus transfers and a few miles of walking or biking in between, she enjoyed observing the scenery of the neighborhood and all the people from different walks of life who lived there. She also had a secret graffiti project she had started (without her mamma’s knowledge) on the side of an abandoned storefront, and she’d been itching to add the next piece.

“Alright, but be careful, now,” Mamma warned, “They been talkin’ about that gang on the news.

“What gang?” Red asked.

“That new gang or somethin’,” Mamma murmured, “They been causin’ trouble, robbing people, and even kidnapping little girls,”

“Mamma, I ain’t a little girl anymore!” Red laughed, “I’m over all that ‘stranger danger’ crap.”

“Laqueshia,” Mamma said sternly, “You can never be too careful.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Red nodded and looked down, finishing her noodles without another word about it. Mamma had broken out her real name. That meant it was time to stop arguing.

The next day, Red woke up bright and early. She looked out the window and smiled at the morning sun gleaming through puddles of yesternight’s rain. Dressing in her red hoodie, ripped jeans, and worn-out sneakers, she grabbed her purple backpack and headed to the kitchen.

“Mornin’ Red,” Mamma smiled, kissing her on the forehead, “Here’s the bag. There’s some tea, balms, and bath salts in there, along with a cup of my homemade chicken noodle soup, and a slice of my famous apple pie.”

“No fair, Mamma! I want some,” Red whined, shoving it into her backpack, “How come we get microwave ramen every night, but Granny gets all the good stuff?”

“Don’t worry,” Mamma laughed, “It’s what we’re having for dinner tonight.”

“Yes!” Red grinned, chugging her fist.

“Don’t stay out too late, now,” Mamma said as Red ran to the door, “Love you!”

“I won’t!” she grinned, “Love you, too!”

Walking down the street, she half-smiled at the environment around her. It was beautiful, yet broken. The pretty flowers in balcony gardens against the smoky clouds of exhaust. The cute little houses scattered amongst the dilapidated hulls scrappers had ransacked and squatters had called home. Green grass covered in spots by litter and illegal dumping. The pretty chirping of birds masked by the sounds of domestic disputes, swerving cars, police sirens, and occasional gunshots.

Red put on her headphones and bobbed her head the rest of the way to the first bus stop, stepping around puddles in time to the hip hop. Once she arrived, she leaned her back against the signpost and closed her eyes. Almost lost in the music, she nearly didn’t notice a young man approaching. At the last minute, she felt a presence and flung open her eyes. Smiling beside her was a young Hispanic man with slick black hair dressed in a leather jacket and faded dark gray jeans. He smiled with shiny white teeth and dark brown eyes. Caught off guard by him, she slowly lowered her headphones.

“Hola,” he waved.

“Hey,” she breathed.

She stared at him as his eyes looked her over, wandering from her dark, dimpled pie-face framed by her thick black box braids, to her petite pear figure, curvy hips, full thighs, and dingy red shoes. She began to feel a little uncomfortable, but something about the man was alluring. She mentally fought with herself, debating on whether she should run or stay.

“Sandalio,” he smiled, holding a hand out towards her.

Red stood there frozen in shock. Her brain didn’t know how to react.

“My name is Sandalio,” he repeated, “And yours?”

“Leq-- Uh--” Red shook herself out of the trance, but she couldn’t decide which of her names to tell him. Should she reveal her real name? This wasn’t ‘stranger danger’, was it? Maybe it was. She should tell him her nickname, “Red. I mean, Red. My friends call me Red.”

“Red?” Sandalio grinned as he shook her hand warmly, “I like it.”

As the two parted hands, Red looked off awkwardly.

“You waitin’ for the bus?” Sandalio asked, breaking the silence.

Red nodded but did not look in his direction.

“Little shy, huh?” Sandalio laughed.

“I ain’t shy,” she retorted, finally making eye contact with him again, “Just thinking, that’s all.”

“Thinking about what?” Sandalio asked.

“None of your business,” Red smirked, turning away again and putting her headphones back half-over her ears.

Sandalio snorted a laugh, then pulled out his iPhone. As he began playing some sort of app, the bus pulled up. Red got on the bus and sat towards the back in the corner. Sandalio followed and sat immediately behind her. Red removed her headphones and placed them into her backpack that sat next to her on the seat. Leaving her bag half unzipped, she tried to distract herself with her phone. She opened her match-three app and began to play.

“Woah,” Sandalio exclaimed, looking over her shoulder, “That’s a high score.”

Red self-consciously put down her phone and whipped her head around. She found herself nose to nose with the boy. Startled, she yanked back and leaned against the window.

“So,” he continued, resting his chin upon his folded arms that rested over the back of her seat, “How old are you?”

Red’s blood pressure was increasing. Her back was pressed against the glass as far as she could go.

“How old are you?” she retorted with edge.

“Twenty-one,” he smirked, “Your turn.”

Red was really uncomfortable now. This guy was older than she thought he was. He was a grown man! She was only sixteen, but she couldn’t tell him that.

“How old do you think?” she blinked.

“Hmm... Let’s see...” he chuckled, “Nineteen?”

“You got it!” Red nodded, sighing internally.

“You’re kinda cute,” he said, biting his lip, “You look so young.”

“I get that a lot,” she exhaled, looking back down at her phone but still not settling back into her seat correctly. A text had arrived from her mom. “I forgot to put crackers in that bag!” it read, “Could you stop by the store and get some for her, please? She just has to have them every time she eats soup.” Red texted back a thumbs up and a heart.

“You got a boyfriend?” Sandalio asked, brushing his hair back.

Red shook her head shyly, tilting her phone screen away from him.

“Lucky me,” Sandalio peeped, raising his eyebrow, “So, bonita, where are you going on this bus all by yourself?”

Red’s eyes dashed around to find an excuse. She knew she couldn’t tell him where she was really going.

“A friend’s house,” she decided aloud.

Sandalio nodded his head with pondering eyes that drifted to the ceiling of the vehicle. Red glanced out of the window, then back at the man who was now adjusting his watch. Upon his wrist, she noticed a small tattoo of a wolf’s head.

“What’s that?” she blurted involuntarily.

“Oh, this?” he smiled, revealing the entire tattoo, “It’s a wolf. You like?”

“I guess it’s alright,” Red nodded as she stared at the intricate detailing, “Why do you have it, though?”

“Well, it’s my name,” Sandalio explained, “Sandalio means ‘true wolf’.”

“Interesting,” Red nodded, looking back at her phone.

“So, what does ‘Laqueshia’ mean?” he asked.

Red’s heart nearly stopped. How did he find out her real name? She looked up with a face as pale as someone her complexion could get.

“I saw it on the nametag in your backpack,” Sandalio laughed.

Red swiftly grabbed her backpack and zipped it up, but it was too late. The man’s bright grin grew more and more sinister in her eyes.

“What you got in there?” he asked curiously.

“Stuff,” Red snarled.

“That ‘stuff’ smells pretty good, like apple pie,” Sandalio slurred, “Can I have some?”

Red didn’t answer. She had to find a way to get away from him. She looked out of the other window and saw that the bus was slowing to a halt.

“It’s my stop,” she breathed, hastily jumping up and heading towards the doors.

Just then, Sandalio caught her by the arm, causing her to gasp.

“Have a nice day, Laqueshia-- Red,” he smiled shyly, letting go.

Red almost wanted to scream, but the look in his eyes was hypnotic. Besides, he only desired to bid her good day.

“You too,” she nodded and leapt off the bus.

When her kicks hit the pavement, she stood there motionless with her back to the bus until she heard it start off again. She glanced up and stared down the street until it was out of sight. Sighing in relief, she headed along her way. She was glad that the boy had stayed on the bus. She wouldn’t call herself nervous, but she just didn’t like being followed. On her way to the next bus stop, she passed her mural and added a few strokes of spray paint. The painting displayed an open book laying out in the midst of a lush garden. From its pages leapt musical notes, emojis, and splashes of color. She smiled and stood back, drawing out her phone to take a picture of it. Just after she took the snapshot, a text notification popped up. “Hola, Rojo,” it read. She nearly dropped her iPhone. How? How did he get her number? The second after, a text from him answered her thoughts. “It’s Sandalio. So sorry I snuck your number, but I saw it in your backpack on the nametag and I couldn’t resist. I can’t imagine meeting such a beautiful girl and never being able to see her again.” Red’s fingers quivered. She probably stared at her phone for five minutes, unsure of what to do. Suddenly, she realized the time. She was going to miss the second bus! Red shoved her spray cans back into her backpack and ran away from her mural. Her feet pounded rhythmically against the sidewalk as her breaths grew shallower and shallower. Just as she arrived at the next bus stop, the bus was nearly pulling off.

“Wait!” she panted as the doors began to shut.

The driver rolled her eyes as she opened the doors back up, letting Red inside.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Red breathed, collapsing into a seat.

All throughout the ride, she stared at her iPhone. Her heart was beating fast and her palms were sweating, but she attributed that to the run. She took a deep breath and looked at his text again. Her fingers hovered indecisively over the keyboard until she finally typed “LOL” and hit send before she talked herself out of it.

“Whew,” he texted back, “I thought maybe I had a number off.”

Red texted back a laughing emoji.

“We didn’t have much time to get to know each other,” he continued, “What’s your favorite food?”

”...my mom’s chicken noodle soup,” she answered after hesitating.

“If I tried it, I’d probably think the same,” he responded with a cheesing emoji.

“What’s your favorite color?” she asked.

“Blackish grey,” he answered, “And I assume yours is red?”

Red replied with a thumbs up.

“So, your friend lives on the East side?” Sandalio texted.

“Yeah.” Red texted back with a nod.

Somehow, she was less afraid when there was a screen between them. She felt more confident, and she didn’t even ask herself how he knew this information.

“Fantastico!” he replied, “I have folks over there too. They live anywhere by the Berkshire Development?”

“Not too far from that. They on Bartham and Hearn near Fiori Park.” Red responded, then added, “My ‘friend’ is actually my Grandma. I’m taking the pie and stuff to her.”

“Cool cool,” Sandalio instantly replied, “I wish I was your abuela right now. JK”

Red laughed aloud.

“But I’m kinda serious,” he continued, “She’s a lucky lady right now. She gets :soup_emoji: and :pie_emoji:, and, best of all, she gets to see your gorgeous face.”

Red blushed and sent an emoji to match.

Before long, the bus paused at the stop. Texting a quick “GTG, TTYL,” she hopped off and shoved her phone into her pocket. She was smiling bright, inhaling the warm spring air. She glanced down at the sidewalk and saw many little yellow dandelions jutting out of the cracks. She remembered collecting them and giving a bouquet of them to Grandma ever since she was a toddler. The nostalgia of her grandmother's neighborhood warmed her heart. She knelt down and gathered some as she skipped along. By the time she reached her granny’s house, she had a whole fistful. She smiled big and wide, climbing the steps and raising her fist to knock, when, suddenly, her phone let out a sharp *ping!* sound. The noise caused her to remember her mother’s text. She had forgotten to pick up the crackers! But, Red did not despair. She knew exactly what to do. Cooper’s Convenience Store was on the corner just a few blocks down. Turning on her heels, Red ran down the sidewalk towards the place but abruptly stopped. She had heard a hacking sound ever since she’d gotten off the bus, but now she knew what it was. One of her grandmother’s neighbors stood chopping away at a large tree in front of an overgrown vacant lot just yards away from the house.

“Hey, Mr. Jack!” she shouted over the noise, “What are you doing?”

“That you, Red?” the man panted, bringing his axe down to lean upon it for a moment, “Well, I’m a’choppin’ this ’ol tree down.”

“Why?” Red asked in disappointment. She had many fond memories of playing around that tree. She climbed in it, broke her arm falling out of it. She hid behind it when she played hide and seek with her best friend. She and her first crush had even carved their initials into it.

“It’s dead, now, lil’ missy,” Mr. Jack replied, wiping sweat from his brow, “Last night’s storm nearly took it down. Wouldn’t want it to fall on somebody next time around.”

Red sighed.

“Oh, I know you had a great time with this tree,” he said lovingly, “But there’s a time for everything, you know that. A time and a purpose for everything under the heaven.”

Red nodded. She was disappointed, but resolved that being attached to a rotted old tree was silly for a sixteen-year-old woman, so waved her acquiescence to Mr. Jack and continued on to the store. As she waited in line, she checked the notification on her phone. There was nothing except a little GPS symbol, so she swiped it away and shrugged. When it was her turn at the counter, she bought crackers for Grandma. She also decided to purchase a sodapop for Mr. Jack and a candybar for herself. She shoved them all into her backpack. The walk back to Grandma’s was slow and sad this time. She didn’t know why, but something about that tree was special to her. It had always been there when she needed it. When she passed by Mr. Jack chopping away at it, she passed him the ice cold drink and took one last look at her favorite tree. She didn’t want to imagine it being gone.

“Thanks, Red,” he breathed, after taking a much needed sip, “Visitin’ your grandma?”

Red nodded

“Better not keep her waitin’ much longer then,” he said, putting down the bottle and picking up the axe again.

Coming within a few feet of her grandmother’s house, she instantly perked up. Her grandma’s face was something that always cheered her up. Just picturing it in her head was enough to put her in good spirits. She leapt onto the porch and lifted her fist to knock again, but this time, she noticed that the door was already cracked open.

“Grandma?” she asked cautiously, but receieved no answer.

Red slowly pushed the door the rest of the way open and stepped inside. The house looked just as it did the last time she had visited, but something seemed wrong. A few things wer knocked over, but she knew her grandmother was getting old, and it was harder for her to bend over, so Red shrugged and picked up the things for her.

“Grandma?” she called again, louder this time.

“I’m in the bed!” she heard a muffled mumbling voice yell back.

The voice sounded very strange. She realized that Grandma’s illness must have been worse off than she had originally thought. It was a good thing Mamma had thought to send her with soup.

“Okay!” she shouted, “Imma heat up your soup and bring it up to you, alright?”

Red headed to the kitchen and popped the bowl into the microwave. Then, she got a tray and sat upon it a napkin, a spoon, the crackers, and a glass of water. As the soup continued heating, she placed the box of teabags in the cabinet, threw the slice of pie into the fridge, and took the bath soaks and balms to the bathroom counter. Hearing the beep of the microwave, she completed the tray with the bowl of soup and headed upstairs. As she entered the open bedroom, she gazed upon the bed. Inside was her grandmother. She was covered with blankets and quilts from head to toe- even her face was covered. What she could see of it was discolored, and her eyes were harsh and wild. The room was completely silent save for the sound of slow, heavy breathing and the rhythmic solemn hacking of Red’s beloved tree being chopped down that resounded through the open window.

“Grandma, you look bad!” Red exclaimed, sitting the tray down on the sidetable, “You all bundled up! Why you got the window open? Want me to close it and turn the heat up?”

As she turned to fasten the window, a quick hand grasped her arm. She gasped and looked down as she felt the familiar clutch. To her horror, she saw the the wolf tattoo upon the wrist.

“You not my Grandma!” she screamed, trying to yank away, but the grip was too strong.

“Don’t worry,” Sandalio laughed evilly, removing the blankets from himself, “I won’t hurt you.”

Red screamed loudly, but he leapt out of the bed and covered her mouth from behind. Red kicked and and jabbed, shimmying herself out of his grasp.

“What the heck did you do with my gradma, you creep!?” Red screamed through fear, rage, and tears as she quickly ran over to the other side of the bed to put distance betwen herself and him.

Sandalio flashed a sinister smile and inched around towards her. Apprehensively, she looked around the room for some sort of weapon.

“I didn’t hurt your abuela,” he said softly, “I don’t want your abuela. I want you.”

Red’s chest heaved and her blood rushed as she stood frozen in fear, when, suddenly, he lunged at her. Thinking quickly, Red leapt onto the bed and tried to roll onto the other side when Sandalio laid hold onto her legs.

“HELP! HELP!” she screamed as he turned her over and pinned her down, “HELP ME! ANYONE PLEASE!”

“You’re a frisky one,” he laughed, bending his head down to her face.

Red reached up and grabbed the scalding soup from the side table and splashed it all over him, causing him to cry out and loosen his grip. At this moment, she kicked him into the wall and flipped herself off the other side of the bed. Landing on her hands and knees on the floor, she saw her grandmother’s twisted arm sticking out from underneath the bed.

“Grandma?” she gasped in terror as she saw her once warm eyes garing out at her nearly glazed over.

All seemed to go quiet in that moment. Sandalio had stopped cursing, She heard no breathing (not even her own), and even the hacking sound had ceased. Before she could ponder anymore, Red found herself pinned to the floor. Sandalio was on top of her with his hands to her throat. Red tried to scream again, but it only came out in choked whimpers.

“Little naive girls are the best prey,” he grunted, “They are so innocent and trusting. They leave clues out right where thieves can see them.”

As he spoke, his grasp around her neck grew tighter. She hit him repeatedly with her fists to no effect.

“They let criminals track their phones, and they tell too much information,” he continued, “And, best of all, they’re pretty.”

Red felt her consciousness slipping away. Her sight fogged with tears, and her throat could produce sound no more. Her arms dropped limply to her sides and her eyelids fell. Her hearing was the last sense to go, but she thought she heard the familiar hacking sound return and grow closer, louder, and more furious than it had been before.

Just then, the bedroom door was thrown open, and in barged Mr. Jack with his axe.

“Get the heck off of that girl!” he roared, holding the sharp tool over his head in a defensive stance, “Get on up and get the heck outa here!”

Sandalio yanked up and stood to his feet quickly, drawing a gun into his right hand and aiming it at Mr. Jack’s heart.

“Stupid move, muchacho,” he grinned slyly, motioning with a flick of his glock for the man to move over to the wall, “Now, put down the axe nice and slow.”

Mr. Jack slightly lowered his axe with a devastated face, then suddenly raised it again and threw it. Sandalio screamed in excruciating pain as it flew and sliced directly through his right arm. Hearing everything, Red finally recovered herself and opened her tightly shut eyes. Lying right beside her was the bloody severed arm with gun still in hand and the eyes of the wolf tattoo staring directly back at her. Red quickly jumped up and fell into Mr. Jack’s arms, weeping. Mr. Jack pulled out his phone and called the police. Sandalio was collapsed in a bloody pool upon the carpet.

“Where’s your grandma?” Mr. Jack asked.

Red pointed under the bed. Mr. Jack gently pulled the elderly woman out. She was alive but shivering and trembling.

“Oh, Red, thank God you’re alright!” she kept saying, “God bless you, Jack. Thank you, Jack.”

Soon, the police and the ambulance arrived, and Red had never been so relieved to hear those sirens. There were no handcuffs required for Sandalio, and everyone else lived happily ever after as one can in the hood.

The only thing I know for sure is that all the philosophers were wrong. Death is not pleasant nor something to not be feared, death is cold. Dante was right by setting the 9th circle of hell in ice because torment is not burning eternally it is being gnawed by frost’s relentless bite.

The slow thawing was when I regained conciousness. Not some half-assed pediatric conciousness but Jungian conciousness, acute awareness and wisdom. The reverberations of life permeated my body as waves of sensation crawled across my frame. It was like being stabbed over every inch of my body.

As I began my slow journey outward I began to sense more and more. My eyes adjusted to light as if they had been hibernating and needed to relearn how to see. My body began to shiver from the cold as my feeling bagan to return. Torents of sound richotcheted around my brain like bullets colliding isnide of my skull.

It took a few minutes to relize I was not alone. I truly think that for a few minutes I beleived I was the only man alive, blissful minutes. The men who stood around me were tall, but I had no great claim to perception of height because when I looked across the room I saw a drinking glass stand seven feet tall.

“His irises are uneven and they keep unfocusing,” one of the doctors said. But to my untrained ears it sounded like a hoard of racoons clawing through trash,

My sight remained tinged for a few minutes but soon my senses began to dull. The heightened state of conciousness, however, did not leave me.

It was days before I could remember why I had gone into the cryochamber. Peices of the complex puzzle of life formed in my mind and slowly conected. The yound boy who would one day become Adolf Hitler. My mother who carried me a few years to early so that I would have to serve in one of the biggest blood bathes known to man. The mother of a future German soldier who would throw a hand grenade near me in such a precise location that only a few shards hit my frontal lobe leaving me wounded but not dead. The years of trying to find expieremental surgeries to remove the shards and finally my retreat to the cryochamber.

If even one of those peices had been altered slightly, it would have changed my future and subsiquently made a blemish in the overall history of mankind.

I was under constant surveilance, as if I were in the Soviet Union and not the United States of America, in the facility.

I was given a small room, which resembled a hotel with plad curtains and a TV. The TV I was given was like I remmebered: small, boxy and black and white. They told me a lot had changed but if the TV were a symbol for how much things have changed then not much seemed to have shifted. This beleif was soon destroyed as I eyed the mini fridge (that is what I was told it was called.) The shelves were decked with food that I did not recognize.

As I was inspecting my room for clues of what the future meant for me, a doctor entered my room.

“I assume that knocking is a foreign concept in 2019,” I said sarcastically to the doctor. His only response was a shameless chuckle which infuriated me.

“I do apologize for that, but I am very eager to be talking to you. There are only a handful of people who have been frozen for as long as you have and survived.”

“Please get to the point of why you are here I wish to sleep,” I said with a hint of distaste.

“Yes of course. We have given you scheduled times that you may leave with an assistant so that you may begin to familiarze yourself with the world,” the doctor said.

“If this TV is any indication of what this world has become then I will not have to familiarize myself with much,” I responded.

“Oh. That is not what televisions look like now. We have tried to decorate your room in a manner which fit your time period. Televisions are very large now.” My superiority wavered at this. Up until this point I hadn’t thought much about the advancments of human technology because I had beleived it hadn’t advanced too much.

“Well I guess we will see how I can handle it,” I say incredulously, “Now please leave.”

The doctor swiftly got up and drifted out the door.

The first thing I noticed, when I left the facility, was that cars had advanced so that they looked like sharp wasps instead of fluid worms. They moved faster and vibrant colors splashed across each one. Even the dull greys and browns were glossy and colorful.

The second thing I noticed, as we drove into the suburbs of New Jeresey, was the ammount of people. I was told that we were still leagues away from any actual city, but swarms of people choked the streets. They were all different colors, mixing together like choclate powder in milk. Like ants, they all flowed from there dwellings and recreation centers clogging the world.

We eneded at a park in New Jeresy outside of all city limits. The grass had seemed to dull in the years since I had seen it. The clouds were darker as if they had been pumped with gasoline (I later figured out that was the case).

I envisioned my world, my life in the fold of this gargantuan monster of planet. I was enveloped in the claustrophobic feelings which were created from the sheer ammount of people I had seen.

The park itself seemed so uncomfortably unsanitary that I retreated back to the car. The trees were the only thing which hadn’t changed all too much. They stood like sentinals of time unhindered by its flow.

It reminded of a story I had been told when I was young. It went a little like this, “One day a strong storm swept across a forrest leveling many trees. As one of the trees fell, it landed next to a little fern which had not fallen. The tree, while laying there, asked the fern ‘how is it that I have fallen and you have not?’ The fern responded, ’Dear friend, the wind is proud, for this reason we ferns bow to it whereas you trees stand steadfast. You would not have fallen if you had shown humility.”

I found myself seeing the planet in the same way. The advancments made by human kind were just the steadfast stubborness of the tree and one day soon, I am convicned, we will follow that fate.

Pain was first, the feeling and then the word. It turns out the body comes back before the mind, so my body hurt and my eyes really hurt, but I didn’t have words for it.

And now I am naked in a metal box.

I feel like a kid must feel, discovering their body and the words for things at the same time: hand, hair, arm, palm. I run my hand through the hair on my arm down to my palm. Everything feels cold.

I open the door of the thing I’m in and step in water. It’s freezing, and I remember: they froze me. You have to, Jack, the men said. We’ll come every day, they said as the cold blast hit.

Jack.

The room is huge, cluttered. Boxes equipment and stuff. I cough as my lungs adjust to the air, or it maybe it’s the dust. There’s a locker nearby, with a checked shirt and pants. They must be mine, they feel right. There’s also a pair of shoes and a wallet, with a State of Pennsylvania Driver’s License. Jack Zielinski.

No one is here to talk to this Jack Zielinski, so I start walking.

The sun hurts. The blue sky hurts more and I don’t know why, but it’s wrong. I walk a while. My legs feel strange, and I cough, and I walk. I half see some buildings and people, but I can only focus on the voice I keep hearing in my head. Zielinski! the man calls. Hey, Zielinski! and I can’t see him, but I feel it, and then I say, “Yeah?” and grin and know that’s me, that I’m Jack Zielinski, and then I can look around and see. I can start to take things in.

An old colored woman looks at me with fear, and as she ducks around me on the sidewalk I think, Well that makes sense, but I realize I had said “Yeah” out loud and I’m grinning like a crazy bastard. I laugh.

There weren’t this many cars or people before. Some buildings look familiar and more don’t, and they hadn’t been this tall. There’s this huge black tower above everything. I wonder how much steel it took to build it, and then I know what’s wrong with the sky. Where am I? I panic a little and look all over the place, and there’s a newspaper box. The Pittsburgh Post-Gazette.

The sky’s too clear. There’s no smoke. There should be smoke from the mills.

Hey, Zielinski! my boss calls again in my head. I grin and say, Yeah? I’m at the blast furnace.

So this is Pittsburgh. Do they even still have the steel mills? I look closer at the Post-Gazette. July 17, 2019.

The docs put me under in 1952.

It’s the only way. You have to, Jack, the men said. They wore white coats. We’ll come every day, they said as the cold blast hit.

Over sixty years.

I’m goddamn hungry. I see a food cart way up ahead. I start to run, but my legs wobble and I cough, so I just walk as fast as I can and pull out the wallet as I go. There’s a five.

The sign says “Hot dog $3, Sausage $5, Pop/Water $2.”

It’s ridiculous. “Seriously, a hot dog costs three bucks?”

The vendor scowls. “That a problem, buddy?”

It is, but I gotta eat. “We could’ve eaten for a week on that,” I tell him, handing over my five. “Gimme a dog and a water.”

“Whatever you say, buddy.”

I understand the cost a lot more once he hands me the bottle. It’s clear like glass but flexible, and I couldn’t break it if I tried. It must cost a fortune. I down half the bottle immediately to try to do something about that damn cough—so much for the benefits of clean air—and sit down on a low wall at the end of a little park. The dog is good and hot, but I barely taste it because I’m asking myself what I meant. We could’ve eaten for a week on that.

Who’s we?

With something in my belly I sit and think, and watch. Lotta Steeler stuff around, and a couple things of the Pirates, so that’s still the same. Lotta people in t-shirts and shorts, some in suits, that there’s a nice suit like I could never afford, that’s—

I almost spit out my water. That’s a colored guy wearing that suit. And the one in that suit, over there, is a woman. What the hell kind of a man lets his wife walk around wearing a suit?

Wife. We. I have a wife. I have a wife. And I don’t know her name.

I’m crying now. This place… what the hell is this place? A bright red hat catches my eye: “Make America Great Again.” You said it, pal. This woman pushing a stroller looks at me like she pities me, and I start to feel angry, but the stroller, that nose—Angie. My wife’s name is Angie, and—

I start running again, and my legs wobble and I cough, but I don’t care because I’ve got to find a phone booth. KE3-154. I’ve got to call KE3-154. But I can’t find a phone booth anywhere, and even if I could would they be there? I keep running and I remember Mercy Hospital. She was going to have the baby in Mercy Hospital.

I stop and I scream. “Where is Mercy Hospital!” I cough and when I catch my breath enough I scream again. “Where is Mercy Hospital!” This lady looks really afraid of me—I must look awful—but she points down the street and I run and stumble and hack up my lungs till I’m in the lobby and right up to the desk.

The receptionist points at the lady behind me and says something about a line, but I cut her off. “I need a birth record!”

“Sir! There is a line of people here…”

“I need a birth record! Angie Zielinski’s baby!”

“Sir, it is entirely inappropriate to ask for private medical information. HIPAA laws prohibit me from—”

I pound the desk. “Angie Zielinski!”

She eyes me, and then she slowly picks up what must be a phone. “One moment sir…”

While her call’s going through I look around. There’s a family sitting in some chairs, and a doctor approaching takes of his mask—her mask, it’s another goddamn woman. How did—

They wore masks. And I remember now, all of it.

Do you want to kill Angie? We don’t know what you’ve got, they said, or where it came from, the Russians maybe, but we’ve never seen anything so contagious. We know it’s already killed half your shift and the other half is locked away till they die. Cryogenic freezing sounds crazy, but if the experiment works we’ll thaw you and be standing right there with a cure. And you’ll be a hero.

It’s the only way—otherwise you’ll just keep coughing and be dead by tomorrow. You have to, Jack, the men said. They wore white coats and masks. We’ll come every day, they said as the cold blast hit.

But where were they when I woke up?

The woman behind me coughs.

Well this is awkward. I created the challenge, and I have nothing. I’m surrounded by writers who have inspiring stories behind who they are, and why. And I have no story. I searched the internet looking for something that I just thought “Looked good.” What would they say? When all I had to search up to find my profile picture, was literally just typing in the words “Universe Man”