What is it? This man’s first day driving a bus? I swear, If I’m late, I’ll –

She’s thick, ain’t she? Man, if I had just five minutes, I’d...

I rub my eyes and sit. I made the wrong choice. Fucking telepathy. “Know all!” they said. Turns out all there is to know is that people hate. A lot. Oh, and they think about running away, stealing, and, my God, they hurt inside… at least in this little slice of paradise. I shake my head and cover my ears, but it doesn’t help. The implant uses bone conduction technology. There’s no drowning it out.

I pull out the instructions.

Thought Genie! Step into the minds of anyone not wearing a mind vest and know all! Chip will dissolve in 24 hours. If the chip does not self-dislodge, T.GENIE NOT AT FAULT! All sales are final.

I huff. Yeah, my fault. I should be flying around right now with the rest of the addy-flight freaks, but there’d been a few things I wanted to know. Did my brother-in-law cheat on my sister? Bastard. Was the lying prick Stephen stealing my ideas from my office desk? Does Mel still love me... I rub my temples and see Du Pont Circle coming up.

“Next stop, Florida Ave.,” the speaker buzzes.

I make a note to stay off the damn bus til the weekend. I stand and brush past a man who breaks eye contact as quickly as he makes it. He smells like ashes and ozone. I shimmy-shuffle past the lady in the front seat with all the bags. And then I hear it.

Wait ‘til she sees what I did. Oh, man! I can wait ’til that dumb cow sees what I did to her. She’ll regret droppin’ me. Oh, man...

The words bother me, but they aren’t that unusual, even after just two hours in the city with the Genie. It’s the tone. I know. I know, but thoughts have a tone. And that particular thought stops me cold. My stomach drops. What is this? I... feel something. The Thought Genie is basically a high-frequency tuner. Reads some kind of chem signals in the brain and interprets the neurons and synaptic patterns. Science shit. Who knows? But there’s no place they talk about feeling the transmitter’s feelings. Fuck.

I yank at the device above my ear, but it’s locked in tight. I shake my head and try to differentiate between my feelings and the man’s, but they’re entangled.

Mary’s all but dead and she doesn’t even know. Walking dead, bitch. What she deserves.

I stumble backward and shake my head. A prim woman in a pressed skirt and tight glasses bats me with her paper like a bad dog. “Sorry. Sorry, ma’am. Miss. I -”

I shoulda made her pay years ago. Well, best served cold, ain’t it, Marrrry?

“I’m - ugh, excuse me.” I make for the bus door and trip. “My stop, driver. Coming.” I muster and feel my fists clench. My insides tighten like a spring. My eyes focus on the black grippy floor. What? Why? I turn. The man is staring at me. Jaw tight, fists clenched, eyes locked. Shit.

I mat my hair over my Thought Genie and scramble to my feet. Just some distance. Just need some distance and he’ll go away. Poof. I jog a few steps and feel the connection begin to link to another mind. Thank God. Anyone else. I jog around the corner and breathe out against the cool morning brick. I feel a vibration in my head, then a pause as it uplinks.

Where did that piece of shit go? Dammit! Damn tech mutants. I’ll kill him. Freak. Eavesdropper! What’d he hear? What’d he hear?

“Help, sir!” I say to a man striding past on his phone. He raises his eyebrow behind thousand dollar sunglasses and sweeps passed. I peel off the wall and peek around the corner. There he is. Walking this way. A conservative mad man in stark relief against a city that accepts him. Wears a cool salmon tie against a crisp blue suit that cuts to his svelt body like a shell. But inside it, he hides. A hermit crab human. A white-collar monster.

I run.

Kill him!

Can’t think. Can’t separate his thoughts from mine.

There he is. What’d he hear? Never gonna tell another secret again.

I race. A store. Glass windows. Keep running. There, Kramer’s Books! I know it. Maybe Josh is working. Oh, God!

Go on, little rabbit. Can’t hide from me.

I bang open the door and look around. Quiet mid-morning. Empty. Old book smell. Two, three... all women. “Josh!” I call. A woman behind the counter shushes me and beckons me over, shaking her head. “Call the cops. There’s a killer - a killer coming!” She stares. I begin to cry loose sloppy tears and run to the back of the store. A way out? Back Entrance?

No way out. He’ll try to come out this way. You still listening, pal? Go ’head. Listen.

I run upstairs. The stairs creak and moan. I stumble past rows of Mechum and Bryson. I turn the corner into the wide-open space with no exit.

Right behind you.

I smell ashes and ozone. I see the huge window and race toward it. Blind sprint. Can’t breathe. No more tiles. I stop and turn. “What’d you do?” I scream.

“You’ll never know,” he says as he shoves me through the glass. I hear the crashing glass above the fray of his myriad thoughts.

Got ’im. Close. Too close. I can get out of this. You’re next, Mary.

Bright light. Grey clouds. Crack. Buzzzzzz.

“It’s alright, ma’am. I’m... Agent Foster. That man’s a criminal. Stole private property. I’ll go outside and phone the cavalry. You just relax now. Stay here.”

The light fades. A blue suit steps over me, careful of the oozing crimson.

Now, where’s that bus stop.

#Prosechallenge #superpowers #Dangerousminds #thriller

What would I do

if I could fly for a day?

I’d fly all day, of course,

to faraway lands,

across the seas,

over the highest peaks,

and relish every moment,

reliving the thrill

for the rest of my days

shackled to the ground.

Nay.

To long for that

which is no more

and never will be again

is to serve a life sentence

in a prison of false hope.

What if, for but a day,

I could move unseen,

and roam unchecked

through the normally forbidden?

What would I do with a gift

more suited to thieves

or crooked men

of the lecherous kind?

The temptation to sin

claws at my chest

and lures a darker self out

to play with no consequences.

Alas, my conscience

is mine to bear alone.

A single, blemished day

on an otherwise faultless existence

stains with lifelong guilt.

No.

Or maybe.

Maybe I could perform ″miracles″

like the angels who walk the Earth.

A kind deed out of thin air

or an invisible saviour

to inspire for centuries to come

with every religion claiming

it was their God.

But alas, tis but a parlour trick

to reaffirm in the faithful

that which I myself have lost.

No.

I cannot.

It would be better

to inspire kindness

from one human to another

than to keep others waiting

for the Hand of God

which strikes more than it saves.

I am a simple man

and do not want much,

except that which eludes

my fellow men --

the truth.

Oh, not the divine truth

or whether aliens exist.

I want the truth

behind your smile,

that look within your eyes

when you hold me tight,

and tell me that you love me.

What better way to know that

than to hear your thoughts

just as they are born

and still untouched

by the senses?

It may only last a single day,

but what I hear, unspoken,

will keep me happy

till my dying breath.

The morning light is unbearable. You are way down in your sleep, and the sun just ruins it out for you. I wish I closed the curtains down last night. Well, I just cannot blame the sun. If it wasn’t for the sun, my mom would have done this. Considering all the havoc that could create, maybe the sun was helping me out.

I got out of the blanket; It was strangling my foot. Maybe it was asking me to get more sleep. But no, I couldn’t. It’s Monday, and I got to go to school, the most boring place in the world. I mean, it’s not that bad. I get to hang out with my friends and do some crazy things. It’s nice, except for the strict rules and melodrama.

I pulled myself out of my bed. Ah! How good it feels to do a morning stretch! I could hear the sounds of my bones realigning after a long sleep. I walked over to the table to see if there was any homework left to do. Weekends often does cruel things to me, once it turns Monday. I was glad to notice there was nothing much. “You are improving, Susan,” I told myself.

I untied my hair and moved on to the mirror. I have jet black hair. I mean, really black. It’s like, the light would not be able to escape out of it. But, as I moved on to the mirror, the sight that awaited was not one to turn excited of. But more like, to scream as if the whole world would tremble.

But I didn’t. I just stood there, staring at the blank mirror, not even breathing. Where the hell am I? What happened to me? Am I dead? No, why would I be dead? I am just 16. What if it was a cardiac arrest or something? No, it can’t be. What the hell! I tried to feel my body. It was there. Then why was I not there in the mirror? My heart was still racing. What was happening?

Suddenly, I heard my mom. “Sweetheart, wake up. It’s nearly 8. You will be late. Did that just rhyme? I think I should try poetry.” My mother was always like that; she talks to herself a lot, loud. I saw her pushing the door open. “Honey, where are you?” The short, blonde woman asked with no tension at all when I was standing right there, where she could see.

“Honey!” Her voice began to crack. “Where you at? Don’t play games with me.” I could see her face turning red. She was breaking down; she is quite sensitive. She doesn’t need much reason to cry out loud.

But, this means she could not see me too. I could not see myself in the mirror, now she can’t see me, standing face to face. Am I really dead? But, then my body should be right there on my bed. And I should be the spirit. I don’t believe in the afterlife, but that’s how it’s supposed to work. Soon, I realised what was right there in front of me all this time. I am invisible.

I was petrified. But how could this happen? Am I going to stay invisible forever? I don’t want to do that.

Wait! On second thoughts, this will be AMAZING!

*****

I walked through the streets, alone, no strings attached. I was doing everything I ever wished for. I was dancing through the streets. I stole an ice-cream from the tall, grim guy. I did all sorts of faces right in front of my teachers. And I slapped Anna hard on her cheek. Ah! That was the best part. She almost fell down. This was the best day of my life.

It was now near night. I felt I should go home now. I could not even imagine to what extent, mom has gone with my missing. I slowly opened the gate. But that’s when I saw her again; the lady who lives at the other end of our block. She was mysterious, never talks to anyone, rarely gets out of her house, those large glasses and that long, messy brown hair. She was, in all ways, intriguing.

I realised I don’t have a better chance than this. I could know more about her and, she won’t even be able to see me. I slipped in through the front door. It was dark. The lighting inside was very dim. She was definitely hiding something in here.

Suddenly, I heard her movements. I ran upstairs quietly. She might not be able to see me, but she could sure hear my voice. So, I was careful. She rested on the old sofa, sipping coffee from her mug. Alright, now I had to make my moves. I decided to search upstairs first. I looked around, but I could not see anything except the darkness.

But, my hands struck something down. It was a vase. I caught it very close to the floor. That could have destroyed everything. I took a deep breath and leaned against the wooden wall. Bang! I fell on my back. But, to my surprise, I was still inside. I fell right through the wall; it’s a secret room, I realised.

Unlike the whole house, this room was sheer white and was brightly illuminated. The wall made such a huge noise. She would be up here any second; I had to hide. So, I ran across the room, to the other end. But suddenly, I stopped dead on my tracks.

I saw something. I could not grasp what it was. But I was sure I found something; I was afraid to look back. My heart was pounding against my chest. Trying to gain all my courage, I turned around in one swift move.

I was paralysed. I wanted to scream, but my chest felt so heavy. I couldn’t even breathe. It was a man; strapped to the wall, half-naked, devoid of his eyes and ears. There were no feet beneath his pants and no palms after his wrists. There were wounds were all across his body. I felt to vomit but somehow controlled myself.

But, his ribs were moving. He was breathing. He was alive. Oh my God, this was a grave mistake. I should never have come here.

“Please don’t hurt me anymore.” The man cried. There were no tears. But, his voice was trembling. “Please.”

I stayed quiet. I didn’t know what to do. I had to hide, I ran to the corner and hid behind the table. It was not safe. But, I had no other place to go. That lady will kill me. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die, not like this. I wept, closing my mouth tight. She was here.

She looked around the room like a beast. Then, she went straight at the dying man. “Who is here, Tyran?” She screamed at him. “I don’t know, I don’t know.” The man was crying. I felt helpless. What should I do? She was speaking again, ” I know someone’s here. Show your face.” She was laughing now.

But she could not see me. So, if I could get past her in a quick run, maybe I could survive. That was when I looked at the wall against me. I could see a shadow; a shadow of myself. I am visible. She can see me. I looked around to see what she was doing. But, she was not there. My heart was racing now. Suddenly, I felt someone behind me.

I was too afraid to look around. I don’t want to die. God, please help me. But I could now see two shadows on the wall. Oh, God! What can I do? I could not stop my tears. I slowly looked around, ready to accept my cruel fate. She stood there, looking directly at me. She was smiling, but that was definitely not one born out of joy.

#fiction

I sign my life away for $25,000. More than I’m worth but it’s not like I’m going to tell them that. After all the needles and tubes and tests, I’m a bit wobbly as I make my way out the main entrance of the clinic. Is it the pill that makes my stomach knot and my palms sweat, or is it the knot of unease settled in my stomach?

The sun burns through the thin fabric of my sweater and I shiver, lifting a hand to sheild my eyes. I’m not invisible, yet no one pays me any attention. Can’t they see the wires snaking up my spine or the camera nestled in the golden rose strapped around my neck?

Maybe the pill kicked in sooner than expected. Afterall, I’m not a rat. Which is something they’ve told us too many times to count, though as a warning or a form of comfort, I’m not sure. Even in the latest batch of tests, a rat died, limbs jutting out at jagged angles, mouth open and blood crusted around its eyes.

They gave us one last out before taking us back, one by one, into the exam room. As our group shrunk from twenty to nineteen, eighteen, seventeen, I didn’t miss the way their eyes darted from one dusty picture frame to the next, fingers intertwining in their laps and feet tapping erratic rythms on the glossy tile. They’d taken our phones at the front desk but I’d brought a poetry book which I flipped through, trying to block out the annoying melody of nervousness. My eyes skimmed each page, every word burned deep in my brain from years of sleepless nights.

I tried to skip page 49. And yet, the ink pulled me in and I couldn’t get my fingers to move past it. The lines formed chains, tugging me down, down, down until I found it among the waterstains.

From childhood’s hour I have not been

As others were—I have not seen

As others saw—I could not bring

My passions from a common spring—

From the same source I have not taken

My sorrow—I could not awaken

My heart to joy at the same tone—

And all I lov’d—I lov’d alone—

Two words had been sloppily scribbled above the dash. With you. I heard the words, echoing and repeating long after my head grew foggy from all the vials of blood they took.

And all I lov’d—I lov’d alone with you.

It’s a little hazy now, a memory I left behind when I stepped out onto the sidewalk. The book is tucked away in my backpack, where it will probably stay until I can bring myself to dig it out again. I don’t even know why I brought it in the first place.

I glance in a store window. My hair is darker than I remembered. Longer, too. And my undereyes are so puffy it looks like I cried all night, which I haven’t, of course. I make a mental note to get an eyemask later.

I don’t. Get the eyemask, that is. The subway’s too crowded to even breathe and I’m so sick and tired of bodies being crushed into mine I can barely stand to look at another person within a hundred feet of me. Which is basically everyone.

Only when I’m in the stairwell of my apartment building do I finally get some space. Definetely no quiet though, with muffled shouts and thumps bleeding through the walls. My skin prickles with sweat and my steps slow. I hate this place, the way the air sticks in my throat, heavy with that attic smell—all dust and insulation and crumbling memories.

But it’s all I can do to not sit down on stair 169. The door is right there, looming over me, but if I sit with my back to it I can pretend it’s not there. But eventually my legs will carry me through this door to one marked 9E.

Two hours, they said. So if they’re right and my body responds like a rodent a mere fraction of my size, I should be invisible in twenty minutes. I wonder how the other half of the trial group are doing, trapped in isolation chambers and surrounded by cameras and one-way mirrors. The rest of us will be compared to them in what I was told was an effort to determine the effect of strong emotion on the duration.

Or maybe I got a sugar pill or something and they want to see if the placebo effect is strong enough that I turn myself invisible. A tiny laugh escapes my lips. It’s not much, but it gets me into the hallway.

By the time I get to the door my legs hurt and my fingers shake a little as I fumble for my key. I push my way inside, dropping my backpack on the floor with a dull thunk. The air is dry, empty and almost stale. Not a single light is on, the bright glow of a streetlamp fighting to get through drawn curtains. It has almost always been like this, and yet a small part of me hopes —well, nevermind.

“This is my lovely abode,” I say for the researchers monitoring me. I doubt they’re amused. “I can’t decided which crime I want to commit in fifteen minutes.”

I bet that’s what the others are planning on doing. And nobody’s going to stop them, not even the researchers. That rush of adrenaline, the spike of panic—it’s perfect.

For a moment, I entertain the idea. It’s a distraction, a chance to be someone else for a night without consequences. But that’s not really what I want. Not anymore.

I flick on the light over the kitchen sink as I slip off my sneakers and kick them in the general direction of the other shoes. There’s half a chicken sandwhich next to a plate of spaghetti I should have thrown away a week ago. Neither sounds appealing and I’m not hungry so I might as well go lie down on the couch.

The still room begs me to stay and I linger for a heartbeat under the faded yellow glow. The shivers are back, cold seeping from the fake marble countertop into my arms. I have what, ten minutes now? Time is dragging as it slips through my fingers and even my phone seems confused, the spaces between each minute growing uneven.

I rummage through the drawers without so much as a word as though I don’t already know exactly what I’m looking for. Maybe all of my observers have become bored to tears and left, though I doubt it.

Finally, among the matches, two pocket knives, a pair of scissors and a stack of multi-colored notecards, I find it. Ripping off a piece of duct tape, I wrap it around and around the charm containing the camera. In my mind’s eye, I see the researchers freaking out in their lab over loss of visuals on Patient String of Random Numbers like in the movies.

“I’m just going to take a shower and I don’t think you need to see that. I mean, I’m not invisible yet.” They won’t come bust down my apartment door because they can’t watch me for fifteen minutes, will they? “Oh, and the mic too...that’s just weird, man. And I’d like to note I’m not breaking any terms of the contract I signed. I’m not removing any of the equipment from my body nor causing any damage to them.”

At least, I don’t think so. I hope not.

I cover the mic before I change my mind.

Jumbled syllables fall from my mouth as I scramble back. Splotches of my hands float in the air, my knuckles disconnected from one another. I rip at my sweater, struggling to pull it over my head.

I can’t breathe. Panic explodes through my body at the sight of my dissolving arms. Even the skin tight body suit they gave me is phasing in and out. My vision wavers and blurs. I think...I think I’m going to pass out. I can’t...

My stomach flips and turns, bile burning the back of my throat. An acidic, bitter taste burns my tongue and I’m shaking so bad my legs refuse to hold me. Or maybe they aren’t even there anymore.

I’m not sure how long I stay there, huddled in the corner between cupboards and the stove as I hyperventilate. But gradually, my breathing evens out and I can actually stand up. Though walking is another matter altogether.

I can’t stop searching for my arms, even though I can’t see them anymore. I’m nothing more than a floating pair of pants and my insides don’t like it one bit. The croissant from this morning—the only thing I’ve eaten all day—threatens to come back up and I have to keep swallowing it down. It didn’t even taste good the first time.

“Okay, focus, Lena.” I scratch at my arms, but the once comforting gesture only makes things worse. “It’s okay, Lena, it’s okay.”

The words blend together as I shuffle through the tiny living room area into a narrow corridor. In the darkness, the walls press in on me, blank faces angry and accussing. The shadows settle in my aching bones and I can’t chase them away. Not anymore.

Another closed door awaits me, another opportunity to change my mind. Just like those two girls did this afternoon when they left the waiting room.

But despite how much I’ve tried to bury it, I can’t. It keeps coming back, stronger and stronger and some day, I know it will carry me away.

When I open the door, what was and what is collide with a dizzying rush. The air is stolen from my lungs and I am frozen in time, stuck between two worlds bathed in washed-out blue—what we were and what is left.

The blankets swallow you up and I tug them back. You’re drowning again and I can’t save you, can’t do anything but wipe away the tear trickling down your already soaked face.

You whisper my name through cracked lips and my heart breaks all over again. My fingernails dig into my chest but I can’t make it stop. Slowly, your eyes open but they don’t see me. You look right through me, feverishly scanning for my face. Just so you can tell me to leave with a voice that isn’t yours.

Even your eyes are different, darkened with the unfathomable depths of demons I can’t fight. What have they done to you? They stole the man I loved, dragged him to a hell even pills can’t bring him back from.

I want to hold you tightly, want to stay beside you all through the night. I want to tell you something but the words stick in my throat.

I am a coward. A coward for not being able to face you anymore, a coward for creating an excuse for why your eyes stare right through me, all recognition gone from your face. I am not the woman you love anymore. I am a coward for wanting something from you that you can’t even give yourself.

I am sorry and angry and sad and so, so tired.

The carpet muffles my footsteps and when I slip under the covers you barely stir. I stare at the ceiling, the once familiar pattern of criss-crossing cracks nothing more than broken plaster.

The pieces I’ve tried so hard to keep together are shattering into a million shards, burning as they pierce my skin. Perhaps this is what dying feels like.

Like every time before, I roll on my side, my arms searching for you but all I find is the body of a fragile paper boy. You try to twist away, lost in your restless sleep. But I won’t let you, not this time.

I kiss your neck. Your skin is so cold.

I shouldn’t stay. I can’t stay. But if I leave, I know where I will go. I’ve visited the roof many times, stared over the edge to the ground far below. There’s too many people, even at night. But nobody will stop me now.

Then I hear my name again, so faint it might be my imagination. I close my eyes, scalding tears dripping on the pillow. I cling to you with every bit of strength I have left and, for a moment, I can pretend I’m not in love with a stranger.

After a lifetime of wonder and worry, it is apparent that death is not the end, but neither is it a beginning.

I frequent the old haunts, collecting dust among the cobwebs in the high corners, swaying with them in the breezes while she carries on.

She has changed. Gray has crept into once dyed, and highlighted hair, while the style has grown out. Quick, light meals have whittled away what was already a naturally small frame. She spends more time on the porch, less on the phone, more in the garden, less on the computer, more with my dog Roscoe, and less with her friends. She pauses in hallways as she moves from room to room, enchanted by outdated photos in outdated frames. She lies awake deep into the night, then rises before the dawn. The things she once teased me about she has become. She is contemplative, skeptical, aloof.

She and Roscoe are now fast friends. She even lets him into the bed at night, an abhoration just a short while back. He lays with his chin on her foot through the quiet nights and days, needing to keep her close. He was a good dog for me, and he is a good dog for her.

She is only happy when the girls come, but they do not come often. They do not like the changes. The changes in her. The changes in Roscoe. The changes in the house. The interminable silence.

They tell her the house is too big, that she can’t keep it up alone. They are right, but she will stay. She and it will fall apart together. Memories do not travel well and there are too many to pack, so she will stay, she tells them, and keep those memories company.

”But it is so sad here,” they say, “with Daddy’s things all around.”

But the things do not make her sad. They are her things, too.

Me? I am indifferent. Indifferent about the house. Indifferent about the things.

I am only eyes that hover here... watching her, and waiting.

it's like knives have sliced your skin to ribbons. gashes in your back, blood mixing with the stale air.

and from the two gaping holes, a pair of moth's wings. dusty and tattered, reflected through the cracked mirror.

this is... strange. unexpected, to say the least.

your feet tap lightly against the thinning carpet in the hallway. the dying light bulbs, flickering softly, have never seemed so beautiful.

there's a fruit bowl, chipped china, sitting on the kitchen table. you sift through it. bananas and apples, oranges and kiwi. in the darkest depths, you discover a rotten pear, squishy and spattered with dark spots.

there's a tangy aroma wafting off of it, sweetness bordering on rot. the flesh melts into your hands, and you can't help yourself. the hunger in your stomach comes in short, insistent bursts.

the pear brushes your lips. the layer around it is waxy.

the juices crash into your tongue. it's the best thing you've ever eaten.

the pear is gone too soon. your attention diverts to the door outside. maybe there's... light out there.

your fingers are delicate, wisps of bone. you have to choke the handle with your grip.

you are weak, paper blowing through the wind.

the outside world has never seemed so alive. your senses have magnified. waves of color and sound and smells crash over you.

there's a buzzing noise. it's close, invading your ears. you can't decipher where it's coming from, but it's close. you spin in circles, scanning the sky.

when they find dying rays of the sun, crawling and weaving into the sharp blue sky, you are temporarily distracted.

you used to despise the sun. how it dug into your flesh and wrinkled it, how it scattered you with angry burns. it made the air scorching, like it was made of invisible flames.

but now, it is a luminous beacon- of light, of hope. now, you can comprehend its symbolism. what it represents, what it truly is. you are drawn to it. the pull is inevitable.

the buzzing. it's from your wings. you had forgotten about them, adjusted to their weight. your wings are aching to fly, toward the sun.

at that thought, you begin to hover, over the patch of dead grass that was needling your bare feet. your wings flap slowly, twisting and morphing under the weight of the air. they are brittle, and the scales that encase the lace and tulle inside slough off, floating to the ground like volcanic ash.

it's awkward, at the beginning. but, practice makes perfect.

you need to start your journey now. the sooner you reach the sun, the better.

you will die happy, bathing in its light.

the higher you soar, the colder it gets. your lungs collapse in on themselves. below you is a tragically gorgeous quilt. it only looks beautiful when it's far away.

a snake of traffic becomes a glistening rainbow ribbon. smoke from factories become fluffy wads of cotton. houses, all the same, become flawlessly executed lines of stitching.

the air is ice now, not the flame you once knew. you thought getting closer to the sun would pull you into its circle of warmth.

black slides into your vision. your wings twitch, then stutter. they are beginning to bleed, a soft shower of crimson rain.

you will never reach the sun.

your eyes slip shut. your mind has left your body, continuing on without you, towards that beautiful, beautiful, light.

but your body, your prison, shall tumble to the earth and shatter.

*****

your eyes fly open. you are wrapped in layers of silk, it clings to you, presses your limbs together.

you're still alive... but something's missing.

you claw at the threads, claw at your mind.

what is it?

what is it?

a tear blossoms. you drop to the ground, gape at the vessel. a glowing white orb, hanging from the thin branch of a willow tree.

and suddenly, you know. you rake your hands up and down your back, feeling nothing.

your wings are gone, now only their shadows remain. you will miss them, you will not easily forget.

as you walk away from the tree, to nowhere in particular, you gaze up at the moon, a soft echo of the sun's light.

and

you

abandon

your

cocoon

once

more

Back to school sucks. Especially this year. Normally you can numb the pain by catching up with friends or by getting back into sports. But not now. It’s only classes this year, nothing fun, everyone separated by sheets of plexiglass like we’re at a bank or something.

And back to school sales? They always make it seem so joyous with posters of smiling, anthropomorphic pencils and apples that for some reason are just so damn happy to see you. Total BS. Everyone wears masks at the store now, but I know exactly what faces they’re all wearing—the same, dull, mildly annoyed expression that says “shut up and let me get my pencil sharpener and notebooks so that I can leave.”

I look anxiously down the road for any sign of the bus, but the street remains painfully empty. I told my aunt I was going to the store to get some school supplies, which I did, but I may have taken a detour through the skate park along the way. I can still make it back in time for the stupid dance classes she’s signed me up for—apparently, she doesn’t think skating is a good enough hobby for someone of my, you know, gender—but there won’t be enough time if I skate back. The bus is my only option at this point.

Finally, I hear the glorious sound of a diesel engine, and the big, blue city bus pops into view from around the corner. As it pulls up to the curb, I shoulder my bag—now full of colored pencils and erasers that I will never use—and am about to head up the steps when I feel someone push past me and cut their way to the pay station.

“Hey, watch it jagweed!” I call out angrily. I recognize the boy. He was in a couple of my classes at school last year, but I don’t really know his name. He’s super quiet most of the time and keeps mostly to himself. I let out an annoyed sigh as he disappears into the mass of people standing in the aisle, and I climb into the bus with angry steps.

“Sorry, ma’am. We’re at capacity. You’ll have to take the next one,” the bus driver says apathetically.

“No! Seriously? Just let me through, I’m small.”

The driver shrugs and covers the receiver on the pay station. “Sorry.”

With poison in my glare, I tug my mask down, stick out my tongue, and bound back down the steps, kicking the side of the bus as I disembark.

Well crap. I’m definitely going to be late now. I look at the rear of the bus just as it’s pulling away, and before my mind even knows what my body is doing, I drop my skateboard under my feet and grab a hold of the back bumper, just like in Back to the Future. I duck down low as the bus pulls me forward, adrenaline surging through my veins.

I laugh, shocked at myself. I’ve done a lot of stupid stuff before, but this has to be at the top of the charts. If my aunt saw me right now, I’d be in so much trouble. Shoot, if a cop saw me right now I’d be in so much trouble. There are a few pedestrians on the street, but no one seems to have seen me yet. My hands turn sweaty as the wheels of my board vibrate dangerously against the uneven pavement, and I consider letting go and forgetting the whole thing before we get going too fast, but a battle rages in my mind between my desire to avoid the wrath of my aunt and my natural sense of self-preservation.

If I could only turn invisible.

Then, just like that. I am.

I almost let go, that’s how surprised I am. In fact, at first I think I have let go when I look down and see nothing connecting me to the bumper. My arms, legs, clothes—shoot, even my board is invisible.

What in the actual hell?

My first instinct is to panic, but I’m too amazed and too excited about the endless possibilities to stay that way for long. Imagine all the places I could go skating that are usually off limits, all the movies I could see for free—whenever theaters open again, that is. This is nuts!

A few stops later, I’m scrolling through a mental list of ways to exploit this new development when I see the boy get off the bus and walk towards a patch of trees a ways off, his steps slow and his head held low. I wonder what he’s doing out here. This part of town is notoriously sketchy, and most of it is just abandoned warehouses and train tracks anyways. What this kid could be up to is beyond me.

I’m so distracted by this weirdo that I don’t even realize the bus is pulling away again, and I suddenly lose my grip. I rush to grab the bumper again, but it’s too late. The bus is already moving too fast. I cus internally and slam my board against the street. This fricken boy. That’s twice now he’s caused me some sort of delay in getting home.

He turns around at the sound of the board clattering along the street, and I pause as he looks directly at me, but then his eyes move on, unaware of my presence, and he continues walking.

Well, so much for making it home in time. As long as I’m stuck here, then, I might as well put my invisibility to good use. A fiendish thought crosses my mind, and I decide it’s about time to deliver some sweet justice to this kid. I’ll just scare him a little, just enough to make him piss his pants. I follow him into the trees, making sure to soften my steps as I walk, and trace his path through the loosely packed woods. We continue on for several minutes, with nothing but the trees and an occasional squirrel to keep us company, and soon the minutes begin piling up to an uncomfortable level. There’s a weakly defined dirt path, but certainly nothing trodden enough to indicate that it’s frequently used. I begin to worry that he’s headed somewhere weird or creepy. I don’t want to know what this guy does deep in the forest.

I’m about to head back and forget the whole thing when the trees clear and we emerge alongside an old, rusted railway bridge that spans the length of a canyon. It has to be hundreds of feet deep, with a small river curving lazily around a series of bends, its water green and brackish. What could he possibly be doing here?

I follow him to the edge of the bridge but I draw the line there. I’m terrified of heights. To my horror, he jumps up onto the rails and continues along the side of the bridge, making his way toward the other side. There are bits and pieces missing from the planks below the rails, and he’s forced to hop over certain sections, something he does with complete fearlessness.

This kid’s psycho, I think to myself.

Then, when he reaches the rough mid-point, I see him take a deep breath and climb up the barrier along the side until he’s practically standing at the very top. He closes his eyes and stretches out his hands, and I feel my heart stop, suddenly realizing what he’s about to do.

“WAIT!” I yell, practically flying up onto the bridge by instinct alone, my panic overriding my fear of heights. The boy lowers his arms and looks around frantically, but clearly he still can’t see me.

“Who’s there? Who are you?” he shouts, still scanning the edge of the forest. I run the final steps to where he’s perched on the ledge and take a second to grab my breath, a little unsure of how to respond. He turns back and looks down at the river again, and I can tell he’s about to proceed, so I force my mind to work harder than it ever has before in its life and spit out a quick response.

“Your angel! Yeah, your angel!” I say breathlessly. Crap, I need to work out more.

“My angel? Now?” He turns his head skyward, an enraged expression carved onto his face, and he begins shouting. “You know how long I’ve prayed for an angel, and you decide to send one now? I’ve been praying for miracles, I’ve been praying just to be seen, and now, after years of silence, right when I’m about to remedy my pain on my own, you send an angel, now? For what? To stop me? You want me to continue living like this? What kind of sick god are you?”

He takes one final step up onto the railing and leans forward, but I hurry and grab his jeans with every last bit of energy I have. He stumbles as I pull him back, hitting his chest and head against the cold, rusted steel before collapsing to the ground on top of me. I let out a strained wheeze and shove him off onto the space between the rails and the barrier along the side.

I look over and see him staring through the holes in the barrier, blood spilling from a gash on his forehead and tears rolling down his cheeks. I almost feel bad, but then again, I did just save his life. Then, without warning, he gets up and begins climbing again. With an exasperated groan, I grab him by the shirt this time and pull him into a bear hug, squeezing him so tight that he can no longer use his arms. After a couple minutes of a struggle, he gives up and slumps back down to the ground. Sobs penetrate the peaceful air, and he buries his head in his hands.

I sit down next to him, my mind alight with all sorts of questions, and I try to decide how to react next. I can’t really leave him here, can I? But what can I do? He doesn’t even think I exist; I’m invisible for heaven’s sake.

I’d guess probably a half-hour slips by quietly. His sobs stop after a while, but his head remains firmly fixed to the insides of his arms. I don’t want to abandon him, but I’m beginning to worry about what my aunt will think if I don’t show up soon. Still, I can’t leave him to do something stupid. I could drag him, maybe? But I don’t know, he might think it’s the devil or something, seeing as he’s religious and all.

“Please don’t make me go back to school. Please.”

“What?” I ask, surprised by the sudden break in silence. He lifts his head up and stares past me.

“Why didn’t you send an angel earlier? When I needed you?”

“Well,” I begin, making crap up as I go along. “I’m here now, yeah?”

“Can you make me normal?”

“What?”

“Normal! Can you make me normal? Like everyone else?”

I feel like throwing up, and guilt suddenly rocks my chest.

“Hey, no one’s normal, kid.”

“More normal, I mean.”

I’m silent. For once, I don’t have a witty remark or a throwback, and even if I did, now probably wouldn’t be the time. He shakes his head, seemingly taking my silence as a rejection.

“How about making someone see me? I don’t need much. Just something to let me know I’m not invisible.”

A tear rolls down my cheek as I’m suddenly overwhelmed by the intimate dive into this boy’s heart. I can hear the pain infused into his words, his longing pouring out of his eyes with each tear. Funny, how all I wanted earlier was to be invisible, and it turns out that’s this kid’s living nightmare. I stare at him through my clouded eyes, feeling more powerless than I ever have before.

“Why don’t you go talk to someone or something? You know. I’m sure people just need the chance to get to know you.”

“No! I can’t! If you’re my angel, then you should have been listening to my prayers! I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I just can’t. I try, but I can’t. It’s like something takes my voice and I stand there looking stupid!”

“Well, you seem to be talking to me just fine.”

He lets out a tired sigh and puts his head in his hands, kicking a broken piece of wood with his toe.

“That’s different. You’re an angel.”

His words make me feel all fuzzy for a hot moment, but then the guilt returns, guilt for not noticing this kid before, for stalking him through the woods, for impersonating deity. Deity? Are angels deity? I don’t know, I never really went to church. Regardless, whatever they are, I’m not it.

“Okay, here’s the deal. You give me one more day, yeah? And I’ll see what I can do. Just go home for now, get yourself to class tomorrow, and I promise I’ll help you out. Deal?”

School starts tomorrow, so maybe I can find him or alert someone or something. I don’t know, it’s a long shot. Hopefully I’m visible by then again. I’ll go home and see if I can reverse what I did earlier and wish my invisibility away or whatever. There’s a stab to my heart as I realize that’s what this kid has been trying to do, for years apparently, and to no success.

He turns his head to look in the direction of my voice, his cheeks stained by the dirt tracks where his tears cut into his face, and he gives me a small nod.

“Okay.”

~

I stand on top of my board, looking above the crowd of students milling about before the beginning of class, taking care to look out for teachers as I do so. Turns out this invisibility thing only lasts a day, for me at least. So, one less thing to worry about.

The bell’s about to ring and I haven’t seen the kid yet. I looked him up in the school directory by his picture, and, as luck would have it, we have our first class together again this year, but I’m by the door to the classroom and he hasn’t shown up yet. The seconds tick away the final minute on the clock across the hallway, and each flick of the little red hand sends my blood pressure spiking even higher, my breaths quickening with each moment. What if he broke his deal? What if he went back to the bridge and flung himself off? The thought brings the threat of tears back to my face, and I’m a fraction of an instant away from breaking down when I see him.

He’s over by the stairs to the second floor, curled up and hugging his backpack, staring at the linoleum floor as the masses flow around him, all oblivious to his presence as they rush to their first class. I jump off my board and cut across the hallway, ignoring the insults hurled my way as I bump into people. Then, my good sense makes a presence and I slow to a casual walk, not wanting to appear weird and creepy for running up to him.

He looks up when I stop beside him and I lower my mask to give him a friendly smile.

“Hey! How’s it going? You were in my class last year, right? I think we’re in the same boat this year, too.”

He lowers his own mask. A smile passes his face, and I wonder if he recognizes my voice. I reach my hand out to help him up and he takes it.

“Sorry, I never really got to know you. My name’s Tess, what’s yours?”

“Wyatt,” he says shyly. It’s probably the first time I’ve heard him say anything inside school boundaries. I smile wider and take him by the hand back across the hall.

“Well, come on Wyatt. Don’t want to be late for class on the first day.”

As we’re crossing the threshold into the the room, the chiming of the bell echoes loudly across the campus from one end to the other.

Just in time.

“Al and I are going up to the Catskills for the night, okay?”

“That’s great!” Gabby, my wife of nearly 30 years replied. “You need to relax,” she continued. “When do you leave?”

“4:00 am.”

“Oh…okay. Did you tell your parents?”(My parents live with us. They don’t speak much English and although my wife is conversational in Turkish, it just makes life easier if I mediate.)

“Yes, they know.”

“Good. Well, have a great time, my love. Relax!” She said, kissing me goodnight before turning out the light.

I felt a little guilty. I wasn’t really going camping. I was taking part in an experiment. Our son, Denny, a material science engineer, had been working on some kind of nano cell-displacing ray that diffuses human cells in such a way that one becomes invisible to the human eye (and inaudible to the human ear) for a limited period of time. Over the last year, he had tested it on various frat buddies with varying degrees of success: floating hands, noses, eyes were not quite marketable. On the upside, everyone reappeared in one piece. After a lot of tweaking, last month he tested it on himself and, accidentally, on his dog, Max. Max chose the moment Denny nano-rayed himself to jump up and lick his face. Overall, it wasn’t a bad thing except that even though they were both invisible, they were not invisible together. When they reappeared, Max was clearly a little traumatized by the whole experience.

Yesterday, Denny asked if I would try it out for him. He has a huge presentation for the NSA next Monday and he wants to be sure his claim that complete invisibility will last for twenty-four hours - no more, no less - is true. We didn’t tell his mom because, well, she would find a reason to say it wasn’t a good idea. That’s just how she is. Smart lady and the sweetest, kindest woman you will ever meet, but she worries about everything. Capital E. Case in point: She won’t move to California even though she loves it because, well, it might fall off in an earthquake. No joke. That’s how she thinks. So, if she knew I was about to be nano-rayed, she would immediately start listing every single thing that could possibly go wrong. We love her dearly, but she is the president-elect of the worrywart-piss-on-my-parade-party-pooper club.

In the middle of the night, I slipped out of the bed, got dressed, packed a little bag and left. I had packed my car with the camping gear – in case she checked the garage – so I was ready for my adventure. I drove to my son’s house. The lights were on even though it was barely 4:30 am. The door was open before I got out of the car.

“Baba, what’s up, man!” Denny said, when I got to the door.

“Me,” I said, laughing.

“Haha, pops, funny, not funny. You ready to do this?”

“Sure, I’m excited. But how will I communicate with you after you make me invisible? I want you to take me home so I can be home while I’m invisible.”

He looked at me. “Spying on mom?”

“No, nothing like that,” I denied. “I just don’t want to be wandering around or sitting in your house with Max while you are at work. I can’t open doors or anything, right?”

“No. And you won’t feel hunger or have to use the bathroom. I peed a lake when I reappeared though. It was almost funny. Especially when it appears Max had to and did poop.” He laughed a little, but clearly distracted by his own thoughts. “The nano-ray cell diffuser must react differently somehow on animals, because by the way he was sitting right next to me when we reappeared, he clearly knew where I was even though I didn’t know where he was. Interesting.”

I interrupted his tangent before he could veer way off into science-speak. “So, if you shoot me at 6am, I should reappear tomorrow at 6am, right?”

“Right. Here’s what we can do: I’ll shoot you in the car on the way home. I’ll open the door as if I’m looking for something in the passenger seat and you get out and do your thing. You’ll have follow me into the house. Then…good luck! I had to wait on Matt [his housemate] to come in and go out when I was invisible which was really annoying. I’m really not sure how useful this will be for NSA, but they are VERY interested.”

“Six figures interested?”

“I patented it already, and I will be leasing not selling. I’m offering five years, with first dibs on the second and third generation versions. Seven figures.”

“Shhhhhhiiiiiiitt? What? That’s my boy!!” I said, whacking him on the back.

“If they like what I’m selling. We’ll see. They will have me use it on their test subjects before they make a final decision. I should know by next Friday.”

“Unreal. I’m so proud of you, Denny!” I pulled him in for a hug. He let me before he pulled away.

“Thanks, Baba. Okay, let’s do this. How about we grab some breakfast at Dunkin and get you home?”

“Let’s gooooo!”

******

“Denny! What a great surprise!” Gabby said, hugging our son.

“Hey, Mom. Whatssuuuuuup?” he said, briefly hugging her before stepping back and walking into the kitchen. He used the half bath to pee. I will never understand his lack of need for privacy. He left the door open as he talked to his mother.

“What brings you here so early in the morning? I was about to run, but I can make you breakfast. What would you like? An omelet, pancakes, muffins?”

“Nah, I just wanted to surprise you. I knew Baba was going camping with Uncle Al, so…” He washed his hands at the kitchen sink then opened the fridge, grabbed a jar of strawberry preserves and a spoon. He ate a few spoonfuls then put it away, and grabbed a bottle of water.

“You knew? I’m always the last to know everything,” she said, looking a little annoyed. I do always seem to forget to tell her things…or I assume I’ve told her because I’ve told my parents at dinner…which is usually in Turkish.

“Haha, yeah, well, I’m going biking at Bear Mountain before work, so, just wanted to say hi. Catch ya later, Mom!”

“Oh, okay, sweetie, but, you should go say hi to your grandparents. I’m sure they’re awake despite the early hour. They always love to see you.”

He rolled his eyes. “Fine.” The eye rolling surprised me. Slamming the door to the basement open in frustration? What? I followed him downstairs.

“Yakışıklım! Nasilsin? İyi misin? Aisha, gel! Denny burada!” My father said, all smiles, as he smacked my son on the arm and called for my mother to come to their living room.

“Dedooooo!” My son said. ‘Dede,’ means grandfather. He made it his own with ‘Dedo.’ He was all cheer, no sass, thank goodness. My parents are 80. They deserve better than rolling eyes and slamming doors. “What’s up, man?”

“Good, good.”

“Denny! Çok özledim! Gel! Yakışıklım! Maşallah!” My mother said, wobbling into the room as quickly as she could after four back surgeries, knee surgery and more than a little overweight. She pulled Denny into a tight hug kissing him all over his face.

“Babaannnoooo!” ‘Babaanne means grandmother (literally father’s mother). Once again, he’d made it his own with ‘Babaanno.’ “How you doing? How’s your back?”

“Gut.”

“Good. Good to see you guys. Take care. Gotta go. Have a great day!” he said hurrying back up the stairs as they watched him, smiling. I watched the smiles fade. Without a word, my mother went back to her room. My dad went to his room and closed the door.

Huh.

Upstairs, Denny was already pulling out of the driveway by the time I got there. I was surprised he didn’t stay longer with Gabby. Then again, he knew I was there so… I watched Gabby standing on the porch, waving goodbye and blowing kisses. She always does that whenever anyone is leaving the house. It’s her way of making sure that if something horrible happens (she is always thinking the worst) the last memory we have of each other will be a pleasant one. Sweet and macabre at the same time.

When the car was out of sight, she stopped waving. When she came in the house, I saw that she was crying. What?

“What a sillyit I am,” she said to herself. “He’s a man. Of course he doesn’t want to hang out with his mom. That’s what you want as a parent. To raise, happy, healthy independent humans. At least he stopped by.” She wiped her eyes. “And he calls.” She blew her nose. “And he lets me edit his writing.” She laughed, put on her sneakers and headed to the garage to run on our treadmill. I followed her.

I watched as she set up her iPad to read, put her towel on the side and started up the machine. I peeked – 10-minute-mile pace. Nice. I used to be faster than her. Not so much anymore. I looked to see what she was reading. I read a few lines and my eyes started bulging for sure because my sweet little conservative wife was reading smut. What? I looked at her and she was clearly caught up in it. I started laughing and then read some more. Maybe I could get some ideas…

After her run, she stretched and did some physical therapy exercises for her back, made a pot of coffee then showered. She sings in the shower. She has a beautiful voice. Suddenly she stopped and I could hear wracking sobs from behind the shower curtain.

“I have to stop this,” she said to herself. “Life is good. I have no right to feel sad.”

Sad? She’s the happiest person I know.

She got out of the shower and her eyes were puffy from crying. She dried off and looked in the mirror. “Now see what you’ve done? Ugly, ugly, ugly!” She started crying again. “Old and ugly!” she started crying more. Ugly? Old? I felt like I was in the twilight zone. People think my son and my wife are a couple, that’s how young she looks. I keep wanting her to let her hair go gray just so she looks more like me. Not a wrinkle on her. She is beautiful – inside and out! What is wrong with her?

She sobbed some more then washed her face in cold water, weighed herself, grimaced, did her hair, put on some make-up and smiled a thousand different ways at herself in the mirror. I smiled back at her, shaking my head. Then she started taking pictures of herself. Full body nude pictures of herself. I stopped smiling. My wife does not believe in taking nude pictures. I’ve tried. She sat on the toilet and I stood behind her. She was sending the pictures in an email. I am very interested in your film. As long as it is very brief nudity, I would welcome the opportunity. I look forward to hearing from you.

I’m choking on spit. My wife left a 25-year career three years ago when I was diagnosed with Parkinson’s. She had a milestone birthday that year as well, so was probably also in the throes of a mid-life crisis. With a great deal of encouragement from me and my son, she started pursuing her passions – painting, singing, writing and acting. Acting is the only paying one albeit very sporadically. She’s still working on getting the big break. Our agreement is no kissing. I didn’t think I had to specify no nudity. I wondered if this was the first time. I wondered what else she wasn’t telling me.

She got dressed and went downstairs. She growled a bit as she wiped bread crumbs off the table and counter and cleaned the panini machine she never uses since she doesn’t eat bread. “Fuck,” she mumbled. “I don’t get it. Every single goddam morning they leave shit on the table, shit on the counters, shit in the sink. They don’t have to fucking do anything else. Can’t they at least clean the fuck up after themselves? Fuck!”

My mouth fell to the floor. My wife doesn’t curse.

I stood in the corner by the window listening, watching as she cleaned up the crumbs, swept the floor, emptied the dishwasher (slamming the cabinet doors as she did so). Then she poured a cup of coffee and went to the breezeway to drink it while she painted. She put on Rachmaninoff. Aha. Definitely a bad mood day.

After a couple of hours, and another cup of coffee, she washed her brushes and grabbed her pocketbook and some shopping bags. I couldn’t figure out how to get in the car with her so I just waited for her to get back. I didn’t need to watch her food shopping although I was pretty sure it would be different than I expected. The whole day had been so far.

While she was gone I sat in the living room until I heard my parents come upstairs.

“O gitti. Gel, duş yapıyoruz şimdi.”

Huh? They waited for my wife to leave to use the shower. We only have one full bath in the house, so I get it, but I thought it was kind of weird that they waited for her to leave. I didn’t follow them. No desire to see my parents naked. As they walked up the stairs, I heard my father tell my mom to be careful. He worries that, with her back, she’ll hurt herself on the stairs. She has two more months of healing and therapy before they can visit Turkey. He is dying to go. The only reason they are not there is because of her health issues. He has drowned his sorrows more than one night in whiskey. That, I know.

“Kapa çeneni, Cemal.”

Shut up, Cemal. My mom has grown increasingly cantankerous since the last surgery. She is only nice to my wife. Which makes sense. My wife is the hand that feeds us…and she is always smiling and happy. I think about the day so far and think, at least, in front of us she is.

I sit in the living room for at least two hours before my wife gets back. She makes various trips from the car to the kitchen with all her groceries. She puts on Eminem (another sign she is not in the best mood, perhaps – his music is so angry) while she unpacks and puts away the food. She brings a couple of treats downstairs to my parents and I hear them exclaiming and thanking her. She comes back upstairs and starts making dinner.

And I realize she never ate breakfast. It’s way past lunch time at this point. She’s just drinking water.

She spends hours in the kitchen cooking, periodically checking her phone for casting notices and texts that will not come from me. Denny calls and chats with her, telling her some jokes he made up (or found on the internet) that make her laugh. After they hang up, she calls her mom to tell her about me and Denny and listen to whatever stories her mom has for her today. They talk every day.

While she talks, she makes chicken soup (my mother requested it at dinner last night), köfte (little flavorful hamburgers) in tomato sauce with fried potatoes, tomato pilaf (because my parents like rice and bread with every meal even if there is pasta or potatoes on the menu), and shepherd’s salad. Then she makes a tuna salad which I know is what she will eat for her dinner since she does that often when she’s made a meat main dish. She sends a text and I look and see she is texting me to take my medicine.

And I wonder what I will be like when I reappear. Twenty-four hours. No meds. I don’t feel anything and haven’t since Denny zapped me. And I start to wonder if the zap might have a positive effect on me. And I start to hope. It’s a bad habit I’ve gotten into since I got sick. Hoping for miracles.

At 5:00 she makes herself a (very strong) gin and tonic and reads for a little while (I still can’t believe my wife reads smut). At 5:30, she makes herself another (very strong) gin and tonic. She practically gulps it down and makes a third.

I remember she still has not eaten today.

At 6:00 she calls down to my parents to tell them dinner is ready.

Dinner is interesting? Excruciating? My dad tries to make conversation and my wife does, too. A mixture of Turkish and English. He asks if she’s heard from me. No. It was nice to see Denny. Yes. How’s your back? She asks my mother. My mother goes into a long explanation in Turkish and clearly has lost my wife whose eyes are a little glassy and whose smile is a little too bright.

I’m wondering if she drinks like this every day or if it’s just because I’ve left her alone with my parents.

After dinner, they say goodnight and go back downstairs. My wife clears the dishes, washes pots, puts food in containers for my lunch the next day, cleans the table, the stove, the sink and then turns out the light.

She sits in her chair in the living room and reads for a while. Then she pulls out her computer and starts writing. I look over her shoulder and see it’s a poem. And I see that she is crying as she writes. And then I am crying invisible tears (as nonexistent as her tears and sadness have been to me till today) because her poem is to me. To us. It is a celebration of love. It isn’t a sad poem. And yet it is.

I’m tired of this day. I go upstairs and lay on our bed. I can’t wait till this is over.

She comes to bed early. She is asleep almost instantly. The gin, I suspect. And I think, she always falls asleep quickly lately.

And I think, we need to talk.

And I wonder what she will say when she finds out about my day as her invisible shadow.

On a positive note, the nano-ray worked. Twenty-four hour invisibility is a real thing. Denny has a shot at a lucrative contract with the NSA.

As I lay there, tremor-less, I cannot help but hope that his invention has an unexpected side effect.

He stepped on a land mine.

It blew off his leg.

He came home to nothing.

Had no choice, but to beg.

When he asked for recompense,

they politely deferred.

Now he counts his coins

on a park bench, unheard.

She carried her child

through rapists, cartels.

How could she know

they’d be locked in separate cells?

No pleading, no request

could deter her crying.

Now they send her back

to a land of the dying.

He called the police

when he heard shots fired.

But on their arrival,

a judgement transpired.

Before he could speak,

he was brought to the ground.

Now their knee is on his neck.

No pulse to be found.

“The state of being ignored;

not taken into consideration.”

Who demanded

we agree to this...

stipulation?

You ever have that dream where you’re falling, only you don’t wake up you just keep falling? And you swear the sensation of falling is real and it’s exhilarating and scary and unreal all at the same time. I like that dream. I like it a lot.

Last year, when we could fly and go places, I went to Japan. Tokyo mostly. It’s like the future, there. Not the actual future but like the future from the original Blade Runner movie, only less rainy. They have the kinds of conveniences that are inconvenient until you know how to utilize them properly. I guess that’s just new technology.

Anyway, I was in Tokyo, being a tourist, marvelling at the future they live in and I got propositioned to be a contestant in a game show in the entertainment district. A guy in a bright orange shirt with a lanyard and clipboard saw me and said, ‘Hey, American, you want be on game show? Win a-big prizes?’ I assented and he brought me half a block to another orange-shirted individual with a different clipboard and another ID badge clipped to her shirt. She helped me fill out some paperwork and had me sign it. Then I was ushered into a studio inside the building we had been outside of.

I know, and like, Japanese game shows: Takashi’s Castle (the source show for MXC), Hole in the Wall, the one where people had to live in an apartment and survive by winning newspaper contests (which I only know about because my friend’s brother was a musician on its theme song). And I expected something sadistic and highly luck-based. I was dead-on.

Blind like Bat had contestants wear flippers (like underwater flippers, for your feet) and traverse a gently padded floor in which large holes created limited pathways, kind of like that old labyrinth game with the marble. Except there weren’t dead ends, just holes.

Contestants were given twenty seconds to survey the flood before being blindfolded and given a low-frequency pulse generator (it looks like a Nerf gun) to replicate a bat’s sonar system. The idea was the large wavelengths generated would bounce of the floor creating a kind of echo but not bounce of the holes, giving the user a sense of where the holes were and where the pathways were.

Contestants went one at a time and we weren’t allowed to see any one else’s attempt. When it was my turn I used my surveying time to plan out the first twenty feet, just less than halfway across the floor. Once blindfolded, but knowing my initial path, I utilized the pulse gun those first few steps to calibrate myself to its use: imagine dropping a stone down a filled-in well as opposed to a deep, open well. It was subtle, but there was definitely a sensible distinction.

The other issue I foresaw was getting turned around in the middle of the room. If you weren’t careful you could easily lose your sense of which side the exit was on and go the wrong way. So I planned to alternate left and right ninety degree turns and do my best to stay in the middle of the floor.

I was successful. I navigated the floor, found the exit and won the game. My prize - a session in the most advanced virtual reality system in the world (you know, the future) with the ability to go anywhere, fly through the air, all while suspended in a tank of oxidated water in a hyperbaric chamber to simulate weightlessness. I wouldn’t be actually flying, but my brain wouldn’t know that.

There was additional functionality as well. I could move things at will, create, destroy them. Other people’s (the bots generated by the game) thoughts would appear in text bubbles if I so desired. I could dilate - shrink or grow - and lower my opacity to appear ghost-like or set it to zero and be completely invisible. All of these features were nice, but I knew from my first moment in the synthetic world what I was going to do.

I flew to the eastern edge of the Sargasso Sea and then went up as high as the simulation would let me, about five miles above sea level. I created a hole with a ten foot diameter directly through the center of the planet all the way to the Indian Ocean off the west coast of Australia. A perfect tunnel from one side of the world to the other. The opportunity to experience freefall for hours.

I flattened myself against the outer edge of the simulated atmosphere and turned off my ability to fly. I fell. I fell to the surface of the virtual world, through the hole I’d created. As I recalled from my high school physics class, this contrived scenario would result in an object accelerating to the center of the planet (ignoring air resistance) and then decelerating until a velocity of zero was achieved at an altitude equal to the original height of the fall, at which point the entire thing would happen again and continue to happen ad infinitum. A perfect oscillation. Perpetual freefall. But unlike a satellite orbiting a planet, a freefall with a variable speed.

I was the object and I fell for hours. I fell until the simulation technicians turned off the simulator and the fluid I was suspended in was drained and I was released from my harness and headset. I left the simulation studio with a smile etched on my face.

The next day I took the train to Kyoto where the cherry blossoms were in bloom. They were nice.