Aedan stood on the edge, the Valley behind him and the Mountain ahead. The sunset smoldered on the horizon in wavering streams of gold and purple, hinting at pinks and strange greens. He couldn’t remember green over the land, the carpets of bright grasses or the spiky green clinging to tall trees. His greens were insects, fish, water, and potted things. He tried to imagine it the way the older people described it. A mossy pond covering everything; the twilight stuck to the ground in prismatic variations of color. He laid this mental image over the landscape before him. In the dimming light, Aedan felt a longing for freedom that he had scarcely before allowed himself. He was going to see her, again.

“You ready, Aed?” Kirati bumped his elbow with hers. The resounding clink of their armor echoed across the expanse before them, and the shimmering vision of the never-known past vanished.

“Yes, I am ready,” Aedan answered with deeper significance than the moment needed.

They made their way from the well-worn path to the craggy, lumpy mess of a pass that wound along the side of the Mountain. Resilient moss and lichen clung and grew in the shady spots. They hiked for a few miles in silence, the three of them. Jetur, Kirati’s twin brother, led them along the ravine side, stopping now and then to pluck a mushroom or some lichen. Jetur's large frame belied his agile movement; the scowl on his implacable face revealed nothing of the kindness of which he was capable and readily gave. Kirati swung up beside her larger, quieter brother by the trunk of a long-ago petrified tree. She eyed Aedan. “Were these things really alive, Aed?”

“So it is told. The Librarians had books and books of photos, and most of them had the memories as well as the histories.”

“Did he really…you know…” Kirati interjected.

“Yes.” Aedan was not in the mood to describe what he had witnessed. It was raw.

“Are we really going to meet the Witch?” This was the most Jetur had spoken in days. Aedan could see that this was something that was going to be discussed whether he wanted it or not.

“Let’s just get to the Plateau, and I will explain everything. The Journalist and Surveyor live with her, you know," Aedan remarked flatly. The twin Climbers stared at one another, eyes as big as the dawning sun.

They finished the first leg of their hike in silence, excepting the few grunts of exertion when they climbed over the Pass.

The team finally dropped their packs on the ground. Aedan started a small fire with the lichens Jetur had collected, and Kirati stood guard while Jetur cleaned and skewered the mushrooms. He sniffed at them and smiled, “Mm-hmm.” Aedan wondered if Jetur smiled only at mealtimes. Jetur roasted the mushrooms over the fire and hummed an old tune.

Kirati’s eyes lit up when she recognized it. “Oh, that’s a classic. I love folk songs. Time, why do you punish me? Like a wave crashing into the shore, you wash away my dreams.” Aedan joined in lending harmony to the slow, melodic tune. They sang old songs together for half an hour or so, Jetur drumming a boulder with his knife. Aedan’s eyes shifted from his comrades to the core of the fire. He knew what was expected, and he dreaded it.

“Tell the tale, Aed,” Kirati said softly. “Songs sung and now comes the tale, right? It’s a part of history, now.”

“Right, history.” He sat quietly for a minute thinking of what to say. He told them the history of the Librarian’s time with the people of the Valley: his accomplishments and his demeanor. Then, he spoke of his death. “We met with the Journalist and the Surveyor just above the Pass. Henryk was tired, and the sun had peaked a few hours before…”

“Journ and Surve?? Really?” Kirati interrupted excitedly. “Who’s Henryk?”

“Yes. Journ and Surve. Henryk was the Librarian’s name, Kirati the Climber. Now, stop interrupting! His skin grew red, his face flushed. I thought it was the altitude. He was a Librarian, not a Climber after all.” The twins nodded in unison. A good story-teller knew how to win the audience’s favor with well-placed, subtle compliments. “But, it was the Sun. Too long in the heat and too old to be climbing about like a goat, his body gave way. I could see it in his eyes. He knew he would become a burden to us, especially to Vedika. His job would be forfeit, and he would use up resources. No, that was not his way. So, he leapt. He faced the Sun and leapt from the Mountain.”

Aedan stood and reached into his pack. He was done; that was as much as he planned to say about it. He wasn’t about to discuss Counsel business with them, especially when these seasoned Climbers were acting like children on a camping trip. He spun and unfurled his dome in one smooth motion. The twins looked up at him in amazement; they had never seen anyone but a fellow Climber set up the dome like that. Aedan ignored their gawking. “We’d better get some sleep. The sun is rising so don’t dally, unless of course you want your skin to burn off.”

Brackish

The light was warm and delicate on her skin. She watched in amazement as her fingers glistened as if covered with chocolate diamond dust. “Vika? Oh, Vedika Jones, where are you?” sang a deep, lilting voice. “There you are, you babbling brook! Gotcha.” Thick arms lifted Vika and swung her to broad shoulders. “Let’s go see what Nama is up to, huh? Probably a bunch of nonsense, as usual,” he chuckled as he squeezed Vika’s chunky thigh, making her giggle.

Her grandmother’s voice echoed from the other side of a small, daisy-covered hill. “Today, we have another goal: to rebuild and renew our world, not to be people on the Earth but people of the Earth. We can live in the world as it is, now; we can live in a better world than we were left and leave it better than we found it.” The grisly, bearded man stroked her cheek with a rough hand and said, “up now; wake up now, Vedika.”

“Papa?” Vedika mumbled.

“No. It’s me, Vika. You have to wake up, now.”

“Aedan, what are you doing here?” She looked into his hazel eyes. The light from the fire flicked at the gold there and set them glowing like amber jewels.

“The Counsel wants to see you,” he answered. Vedika’s mouth hardened to a thin line. Of course they would send him, the bastards.

“Well, tell them to come on up.” She closed her eyes. Then, she sighed; it wasn’t his fault. None of it was his fault. “Sorry. I, uh, was dreaming about the Summit, again,” Vedika confessed.

“Do you remember it, truly?” Aedan’s voice sounded hopeful.

“Sometimes it’s hard to tell what is memory and what is history.”

“You will make a wonderful Librarian.” Aedan spoke with a confidence that Vedika did not feel.

“There is nothing to suggest I will be the new Librarian, Aed. Maybe no one will be. I certainly don’t want the job—birthright or not.” She spoke to him as if they had seen each other yesterday. In fact, it had been almost eight years.

Aedan dipped the end of his torch in the smudge pot and watched as the flame slowly sputtered like fireflies springing from the tip and hissing against the mossy ceiling. He grabbed the poker and tended the fire pit; his faded orange pack was still strapped to his back. Vedika turned over and knelt beside him, gingerly reaching around his middle to unclasp it. She slid the straps over his shoulders and twisted on the balls of her feet to place the pack on the metal shelf that ran the length and height of the eastern wall. “There. That’s better,” she sighed. She unloaded his pack, making sure to place the samples in the correct cubbies. Soil samples on the upper left for 8,000ft and descending every thousand feet. The insect specimen and small rodent droppings had their own respective shelves according to elevation as well.

“Looks like a pretty good haul,” she whispered. He had remembered everything. Ten years on the Counsel had not softened his mountaineering skills. She stood as upright as she could in the small space and turned toward her room. “I guess I’d better get ready.” Before she could take the first step, Aedan’s hand rested on the back of her thigh.

“I…I didn’t mean to…didn’t want to,” he started in a whisper.

“Don’t!” Vedika snapped in a harsher tone than she had ever heard from herself. “Sorry,” she mumbled, “but if you say it I won’t be able to think. And we have work to do. Don’t we?” She touched Aedan’s shoulder, the one still made of living tissue. It felt the same as it had when he was a frequent visitor to the Mountain.

“I…I told them his tale. I hope you don’t mind.” Aedan searched her face for approval, for reassurance that he had done right.

She smiled. “Of course. It’s tradition. It is…history.”

Aedan followed her to her quarters. He looked around the small, cozy room. A painting in a light blue frame hung from the southern wall. It was a landscape of green hillside, a small cluster of buildings, and a woman tending a small garden by a winding road. He touched his fingertips to it and caressed the thick contours of the paint. “Was this a real place, Vika?”

Vedika turned to see what he was asking about. “Oh, yes.” Her voice took on a dreamy quality of admiration. “When this was painted in 1874, it was a small village called Pontoise. Camille Pissarro was the painter’s name. It reminds me of my grandmother’s paintings. She preferred watercolors and pastels, but when she used the oils it was like a fantasy, like something you only dream about. So much…emotion.”

“It is lush but a bit sad,” Aedan muttered. “It reminds me of you.”

Vedika giggled with incredulity. “How so? Her chunky brown arms or her facelessness?”

“The woman, she is solitary; she holds the future in that little basket.” He slipped his hand around her wrist and squeezed gently. “Such a small shield protecting the world.”

Confluence

The trip down to the Valley would take several nights, and she wasn’t sure how long the meetings would take or how much of the coming preparations she would have to oversee. Vedika was making last minute calculations; the samples Aedan had collected the twilight before were still in the machine. While she waited for the crystals to form, she gently sifted the soil samples and swabbed for particulates. “C’mon, microbes,” she happily muttered. She had heard her father say it so often that it had become a mantra. She wasn’t even sure what microbes were, but she knew what to look for, what numbers were good and bad. And she couldn’t help thinking about his face. The scruffy beard, his fierce eyes. He looked like a lunatic, a stranded spaceman on an alien planet from the classic Sci-Fi novels he had read to her when she was a girl. The patchwork of computer parts chirped. “Gotcha. Let’s see how we are doing, huh?”

When the twins arrived, Vedika and Aedan were introspective and quiet. Kirati and Jetur were their normal boisterous selves, checking and double checking everyone’s packs. They made one last sweep of the cave compound for supplies and food storage that hadn’t been packed. They were Climbers, after all. Being prepared was their way. And they were doubly excited by the presence of Journ and Surve, who sat discussing the ‘ifs’ and ‘wherefores’ of every little thing in hushed voices.

“I don’t like them going through my things, Aed,” Vedika whispered. She shouldered the double pack, adjusting for the bulkiness and weight. This would be her first trek to the Valley in fifteen years. Her heart jumped at the thought of addressing the Counsel and being around so many… people.

“They don’t mean to rifle; it’s just how they are. You know…you are something of a legend. You and the other two, living up here all on your own, and…” When Aedan had introduced the twins to the Journalist, the Surveyor, and Vedika, they had gone pale and sweaty with awe and excitement. Honest to goodness Mountain people were something to behold in their estimation.

“And what?” she smiled.

“Well, still doing the work. To them it seems like magic, like fantastic nonsense. How can you learn anything by looking at poop, dirt, and mucky water?” he chuckled.

“Right,” Vedika said with a hint of playful sarcasm in her voice, though she didn’t feel it.

“Midday is nigh. Let’s get some sleep and start at twilight. Gives us more time on foot between camps.”

Journ quickly made their way to the next alcove where they and Surve normally slept, and Kirati followed. Jetur and Surve were still talking, but they snuggled into a mound of blankets by the fire and quieted. “What was your name before you were Surve?” Jetur whispered conspiratorially.

“You wouldn’t believe me, Climber,” she smiled, mimicking his hushed tone.

“Tell me.”

“Sunshine,” she said, and they laughed until their sides hurt. One look from Aedan made them simmer down, though they giggled intermittently for several minutes.

Escarpment

“There!” Jetur’s baritone holler barely made its way to the rest of the group above the winds raging through the jagged cliff they had just navigated.

“I see it!” Aedan replied, grabbing Vedika’s arm to help her maneuver among the crags. “Let’s take it nice and easy,” he whisper-yelled in her ear. Vedika stumbled and her hands were shaking. Aedan motioned for the others to hang back.

When they reached the bottom of the cliff, she saw it: “Oh, Papa! I’ve missed you.” Though her knees burned and her back ached, she squatted next to the collection of large rocks where they had made an alter the year before.

Aedan stood behind her and rested his hands on her shoulders lightly. In one hand Vedika held Aedan’s torch. In the other, she held Aedan’s hand. “Priyatnykh snov, Papa. Vechnaya pamyat.” His bones were clean, pale, and intact. The others joined them. Jetur hummed a low tune that sounded somewhat familiar to Vedika. Kirati and Surve harmonized. The wind tugged at their voices, sending them swirling with the fireflies from the torch.

Back at their campsite, Vedika, Surve, and Journ poured over her latest test results and the conclusions her father had drawn during his meeting with the Counsel. They were in agreement; it was time.

On the sixth evening the crew from the Mountain trudged the last leg of the journey with relief and sore feet. Over the crest of a small foothill, the Valley came into view. First just the southern rim and finally, it lay out before them in gleaming splendor. It was nestled between the rolling foothills to the North and a steep cliff to the East. The crescent of earth opened onto a large pond fed by a magnificent, misty waterfall. Large boulders, rounded by ages of erosion, peeked through the gushing, foamy white at erratic intervals. This stair-step leant an ethereal look to the view from where they stood.

The twins smiled at each other as only intractable children, returning home from a grand adventure, can smile. Journ and Surve seemed unimpressed as they chattered on about ‘hows’ and ‘whiches.’ Vedika simply gasped at the beauty of it. The community lay out as it had all those years ago, but her memory of it dimmed in comparison.

The full moon broke through a low cloud bank and backlit the haze from the waterfall. There they were, like rough-cut diamonds sparkling ever so slightly—jutting from the earth and dirty—but awesome to behold. Each geodesic dome, scattered over the Valley like pretty, multi-colored mushrooms, gave off a dim, flickering light. The culmination of decades of preparation and planning, these dim lights represented the remnant of a population once soaring in the hundreds of thousands. There were hundreds of other such communities at one time, but contact had been lost as years rolled into decades and technologies failed.

With a whoop and a whistle, the twins bolted down the incline. They jumped on the path, between two winding sections, over the small rodent-proof gate, and smack-dab into a group of their youthful friends who were sitting at a communal table having a late breakfast. Vedika couldn’t help laughing at the sight of them, so free and jubilant, so happy to be home. Nearly twenty years their senior, Vedika chose the path. About half-way down, the path wound its closest to the waterfall, the source of power and life for the Valley. That was where she found an outcropping of smallish boulders and sat. She was weary, however her work had not yet truly begun.

Concretion

The Valley was abuzz with excitement. Fires were lit, food prepared, and music and song echoed a sweet cacophony of perpetual enjoyment. Though Vedika tried to steer clear of the jubilance, she was cornered more than once by well-wishers, folks with burning questions, and the occasional bump of the shoulder or hard glare. Counsel Kent had offered her her father’s dome which had stood empty since his death. She invited Journ and Surve to stay with her, and they had a few days. But, they were in high demand, as well, and went to what seemed to Vedika an endless stream of parties and impromptu conferences. She was to meet with the Counsel officially this evening to discuss her findings and her position. She hadn’t seen the twins since they had arrived, and she was starting to miss their entertaining company.

“May I come in?”

“Of course. I’m just here in my father’s study, Aed.” Vedika placed her book on the side table. A warm hand covered hers. She gazed at him, his young fit shape in the firelight. “You look well rested,” she smiled.

Aedan knelt in front of her chair and took her hand in his. “As do you. Your father’s garden is lovely. Better than the communal greenhouse, in my opinion.” His amber eyes met her gray ones, and there she found a depth she hadn’t before noticed: pain, sorrow, regret and hope, desire, compassion. Like deep pools reflecting the golden warmth of sunlight. And then his lips were against hers. She returned his soft, unassuming kiss. “I’ve wanted to do that for a really long time,” Aedan smiled against her mouth.

“Aedan. Are you mad?” Vedika teased as she pulled away from him.

“No. Not anymore,” he grinned. And then his face went dark. “I was crazy before now, when I was sent to bring you or your body back to the Valley.” He pleaded with his eyes.

“It’s okay. I had guessed the parameters of your mission…” she paused, squinting her eyes up at him. “And I knew that the latter would never happen.”

“How?” he blundered.

“Because people desperate to hold onto power, even a false sense of power, employ fear and cruelty. And nothing would be crueler than to ask you to betray me, your friend, former colleague, and confidant. You, who were my father’s favorite student and the only man he would have wanted to succeed him. What can I say, my father was a Librarian. I see patterns.” She smiled at him and stroked his bewildered face.

“Then, why did you come with us? Why?”

“Because it is time to tell the truth; because I care about my people. Now, walk me through the Valley. I have a meeting to attend,” she huffed.

Tributary

“People of the Valley,” Counsel Kent began, “a year ago we lost our Librarian. He was a man we had come to rely upon for information, for the truth. His daughter stands here, now, ready to take up his mantle, to be a seer, a prophet of the Earth, to show us the way forward and remind us of our past. Vedika, Librarian, please come forth.”

She stood at the podium, hands shaking. This was how the Counsel wanted it. She heard Counsel Jayne’s voice in her mind: “Tell them we can stay here, and you are the new Librarian. We don’t have much need for crazy old scientists anymore. Your father learned that lesson well enough.” But now wasn’t the time for worry; it was the time for action. It needed to be said, and she was the last of her line, the only one who could say it. She opened her father’s notebook and began.

“My father wrote down everything. I think I never saw him without a pencil in his hand or tucked behind his ear, even in his sleep. In his last days, he spoke with our Counsel about change. He quoted a man named Roy Scranton who said that ‘humans are wired to believe that tomorrow will be much like today — it is unnatural for us to think that this way of life, this present moment, this order of things is not stable and permanent. Yet the reality of global climate change is going to keep intruding on our fantasies of perpetual growth, permanent innovation and endless energy, just as the reality of mortality shocks our casual faith in permanence.’”

The Counsel grumbled amongst themselves behind her. This was not what they had expected. Vedika found Aedan’s eyes in the front of the crowd; she thought of all they had exchanged, of all he had unintentionally taught her about herself and her place in the world.

“This has been our home for over a century. This small piece of fertile land; this haven. We have done all we can: used her wisely; made her whole. Now, it is time to move on. The Plateau is ready for us. Once a wasteland of cold and sterility, she has awakened and needs our help to become the fertile place she should be. This was always the plan, our mission to heal the planet. As a world leader once said: ‘the journey is long […]. And we don't have much time left to make it. It is a journey that will require each of us to persevere […]. So let us begin. For if we are flexible and pragmatic; if we can resolve to work tirelessly in common effort, then we will achieve our common purpose: a world that is [greater] than the one we found; and a future that is worthy of our children.’”

“Go back to your Mountain, Witch!” someone yelled. More shouts arouse in agreement. The people in the crowd began shoving one another, disagreeing, and debating.

As a large, glimmering tear rolled down her nose, a speck in Vedika’s vision grew, inexplicably. It was hoary and crude; it was earth, hurtling along an arc as if she were a seat of gravity. And she fell. Her vision blurred, crimson and gray, and she saw Aedan and Jetur erupt from the crowd. Time slowed; Vedika felt her heartbeat and the desire to hold Aedan’s hand once more as a web of meaning. Sensation, thought, and feeling were linked, somehow made of as solid a matter as the cool ground against her cheek. All was black and still.

Seiche

Aedan sat on the rock under his dome. In the waning light he surveyed all they had done and thought about how they’d gotten here. The last few years had been tough, full of hard work and setbacks. The first thing Vedika had asked when she’d regained consciousness was, “how many? How many will come?” By all accounts one-third was better than they had expected and certainly enough to work the Plateau. Taking down the domes amid the protests of the Counsel and those who would remain had worked his nerves. But Vedika’s calm determination and easy manner never faltered. Though the twins had decided to stay behind, they worked tirelessly collecting seeds, hauling gear, or distracting bored, tired children with their antics.

The stone that had knocked Vedika unconscious now sat on her makeshift desk. She would carry the scar on her forehead the remainder of her years, a small rose star with pink flares. The light was warm and delicate on her skin. He watched in amazement; her fingers glistening like chocolate diamond dust. “Vika? Vedika…up now; wake up, now,” he beckoned.

“Am I dreaming, again?” she murmured.

“No, Librarian. You’re not dreaming; you are home.”

--Kit Menon (2023)

Once upon a time, there was a little girl named Cindy. Cindy lived with her mama in a small apartment on the fifth floor of a five-floor walkup. It was clean and mostly safe, and the best her mama could do as a single, working mom. Cindy’s daddy died when Cindy was one, in some godforsaken country fighting a war no one was ever gonna win, according to Cindy’s mama. On the table next to her bed was a picture of her daddy in his uniform, holding mama’s hand in front of the church around the corner.

Cindy was a big help to her mama. She could get her own breakfast with the pink step stool she and her mama had made and painted together. She could even make her mama’s morning coffee, with a side of toast and butter. If Mama was home, she would walk her to school - but sometimes she had to be at work before Cindy woke up.

Cindy was a latch-key kid. Most of the kids at school were. She wasn’t allowed to go to anyone’s home or let anyone in when Mama wasn’t home. She would let herself in the apartment after school, lock the door, have a snack, do her homework and watch cartoons on the little tv in the living room until Mama came home. If Mama was working a late shift, she would leave something on the counter for Cindy to eat. Afterwards, Cindy would leave the tv on while she washed her face and brushed her teeth. Before she got into bed, she would kneel and say her prayers.

“God, bless Daddy in Heaven and please keep Mama safe. Amen.”

Sometimes she fell asleep immediately. Sometimes she waited until she heard her mama’s key in the door. Her mama would come into her room and kiss her on the forehead, whispering, “I will love you forever.”

“I will like you for always,” Cindy would whisper back.

“As long as I’m living…”

“Your baby I will be,” Cindy would finish, reaching up to hug her mama.

“Did you say your prayers, baby?”

“Yes, Mama.”

“Good girl. God is always with you even when I’m not.”

“I know, Mama.”

“Sweet dreams, baby.”

One day, Cindy’s mama left for work for a pre-dawn shift. She hated to wake Cindy, but she didn’t like to leave without saying goodbye.

“There’s some chicken and biscuits on the stove, baby. I’ll see you tonight. Don’t be late for school,” her mama whispered, kissing her on the nose. “Be a good girl.”

“Okay, Mama. Have a stupendous day! I love you!” Cindy replied, rubbing her eyes.

“Stupendous? Well, that’s a mouth full.”

“I learned another one. Spectacular! Have a spectacular day, Mama!”

Her mama laughed and said, “You, too, baby,” before giving her a hug and preparing to leave.

Later, Cindy got ready and went to school. What Cindy didn’t know was that the building where her mama worked as a cleaning woman crumbled to the ground that day after an airplane crashed into it. It never crossed anyone’s mind to find out if any of the students at PS 125 would be affected by the disaster about which no one could stop talking in the faculty room. Cindy went home after school and spent the afternoon as if her world had not just crumbled with the skyline.

She didn’t worry until a full 24 hours had passed since she’d seen her mama. Despite her concern, she got herself ready and went to school.

“You’re so quiet today, Cynthia. Are you okay?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Cindy was afraid her mama would get in trouble if she said anything, so she kept her worries to herself.

“If you need to talk, don’t hesitate. Everyone’s a little shaken up after what happened yesterday.”

Cindy smiled and nodded like she understood and then bent over the book she was reading.

The next day she didn’t go to school. She sat watching the door, waiting for her mama to come home.

Two weeks passed before the school called child services regarding Cindy’s absence. Some quick research had Mrs. Myrtle Fields flying out of her office and catching two trains to 419 West 129th Street, apartment 5A.

Mr. Randolph was the super at 419 West 129th Street. He knew everyone’s business. Especially the female tenants. He knew where Mrs. Jones worked. And, more importantly, he knew when Mrs. Jones stopped coming home. Three days after the towers fell, he made a call.

“You still looking for a girl?”

“How old?”

“About 10.”

“Family?”

“None.”

“Pretty?”

“I don’t check out 10-year-old girls.”

“Yeah, I know. Just little boys. Whatever. Same price as usual.”

“Fine. You want me to bring her to you?”

“Nah, I’ll send Hazel from family services. The kid’s more likely to feel safe with her. No offense, but you don’t inspire a child’s trust, Randolph.”

Mr. Randolph used his keys to let Hazel in the apartment.

“Mama!” Cindy cried running to the door. She stopped short when she saw weasel-faced Mr. Randolph, as her mama used to call him.

“Hey, Cindy, this is Miss Hazel. She’s here to help you.”

“Where’s my mama?”

“Your mama is gone, baby girl,” said Miss Hazel.

“Mama wouldn’t leave me!”

“She sure didn’t want to, baby, but it was her time. Along with all those other poor souls in the towers, God rest their souls. She’s with God now, Cindy. I’m going to take you to a new family,” said Miss Hazel.

Cindy backed away, “My mama will be home soon. You better go. No one’s supposed to be here when she’s not home.”

“She’s not coming home, sweet thing,” she said, moving closer. “Like I said, she’s dead. But don’t worry, Miss Hazel will make it all better.” She knelt down and hugged the little girl. “I know a good family that has been wanting another little girl for a long time. I’ll take you to them. Good food, a warm bed, two sisters, a new Mama.”

“I have to wait here till Mama gets home. She won’t know where to find me if I leave.”

“Tell you what. We’ll leave a note with my phone number, just in case we’re wrong. That way, I can tell her where to find you.”

Cindy sniffled and said, “Okay.”

“Good girl. Now show me your room so we can pack some clothes to take with you.”

“Miss Hazel?”

“Yes, baby girl?”

“I’m hungry.”

“You like McDonalds?”

“I don’t know.”

“Hamburgers?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Okay. We’ll pick up a hamburger on our way to your new home.”

Mr. Randolph emptied the apartment and had it ready to rent before Mrs. Fields ever heard of Cindy Jones.

Maxine Morris lived in a small single-family home with her two daughters, Val and Vicky, and sometimes her man, Kenny.

“Welcome to our home, Cindy. We’re so happy to have you with us,” said Maxine with a smile like a shark’s, Cindy’s mama would say.

“Nice to meet you, ma’am,” Cindy said, holding out her hand like her mama taught her.

“Don’t ma’am me, child,” Maxine snapped, Cindy jumped. In a softer voice, “You can call me Miss Maxine.”

“Yes, ma’a…Miss Maxine.”

“These are my daughters, Val and Vicky. They’ll show you where you can put your things.”

“You go on in Cindy,” said Miss Hazel. “You’re in good hands now.”

“You’ll tell my mama where I am if she calls you, right, Miss Hazel?”

“Of course, baby.”

Val and Vicky grabbed her bag and took her inside.

“Here’s your cut, Hazel,” Maxine said, handing her an envelope.

“Thanks, Max,” Hazel said, pulling out a cigarette.

“Here’s your cot, Cindy.”

Cindy looked at the bare mattress against the basement wall, a bald light bulb hanging from the ceiling. The floor was cement. The wall appeared wet. The air smelled of mold. It was nothing like her room at home.

“Tha..Thank you?”

“Let’s see what’s in the bag,” Vicky said.

“Oooh, look at these dresses!”

“So pretty!”

“You won’t need these.”

“What?”

“You’ll have a uniform. Servants always have a uniform. You’re our new maid. You’re to do exactly what we tell you, whatever we tell you. You work for us now. Right, mother?” Vicky said, looking up to the open door.

From the top of the basement stairs, Miss Maxine said, “Yes, dear.”

“What a baby! Look at this, Vicky,” Val said, holding a well-loved teddy bear.

“Mr. Bear is mine!” Cindy said, grabbing him and holding him to her chest.

“Cindy! Come. Now. Girls, bring the dresses.”

Cindy ran up the stairs, into the kitchen. “Yes, ma’am,”--

Cindy’s head whipped around from the slap she never saw coming. She slid down the kitchen wall. “I said don’t ma’am me, girl. You will call me Miss Maxine. You better be smarter than you seem right now, or you won’t last long. You don’t want to be alone on the street, do you, Cindy?”

“I want my mama,” Cindy whispered, the tears flowing, as she held Mr. Bear to her throbbing cheek.

“Answer me!”

“No, ma’a…Miss Maxine.”

“You better get it through that little head of yours right now: I am the closest thing you have to a mama now. Your mama is dead. You’re mine now. Someone paid good money for you, and you are going to earn every bit of it. You hear me?”

“Yes, Miss Maxine.”

“Give me the stuffed animal.”

“But my mama said my daddy gave Mr. Bear to me when I was a baby.”

“Cindy…”

Cindy held out the bear with a trembling hand. Miss Maxine took it.

“Girls, come. Val, grab the newspaper off the counter. Get up, Cindy. You are about to have your first lesson.”

Miss Maxine went out the back door. In the small yard, there was an outdoor oven. She threw the bear in. She took the paper from Val and put it in the oven as well. Then, she lit a match and held it till the paper caught fire.

“Give me the dresses, Vicky.”

“Can I throw them in, Mother!”

“I don’t want you to hurt yourself, baby.”

“Please, Mother?”

“Me, too!”

“Okay, my darlings. But be careful. Don’t touch the fire. If you get burned, you’ll scar your beautiful skin.”

“What will I wear?” Cindy interrupted.

Miss Maxine backhanded her into the dirt. “One. Never interrupt me when I am speaking. Two. It is not your place to ask questions. You will not question me. Three. You will do what I ask without hesitation. Four. You will be silent unless spoken to. Do. You. Understand?"

“Yes, Miss Maxine,” Cindy said, trying to hold back her tears, staring into the fire.

They watched until nothing remained.

Cindy had a schedule. Every morning she made her cot with the sheets Miss Maxine gave her. She washed her face and hands and brushed her teeth in the laundry room sink and put on the gray dress and black shoes Miss Maxine insisted she wear. Every night she washed the one pair of underwear and tights she had worn that first day.

Once she was dressed, she went to the kitchen and started the coffee pot. Miss Maxine liked her coffee hot and black, like my men, she would say. Miss Maxine had taught her to make scrambled eggs and bacon so she would make eggs, bacon and toast for the girls. She could even make a passable pot of grits or oatmeal. On weekends she made pancakes or French toast.

After breakfast, she would find the girls’ books or whatever they had misplaced. Once they left for school, she would wash the dishes, sweep, mop the floors, make the beds, clean the toilet and the tub, dust, and vacuum. Miss Maxine would have her make her sandwiches for lunch or heat up a can of soup. Then she would give her a “cooking lesson.” She would tell her how to make a meal and expect her to do it without error. She “taught” her how to make fried chicken, pork chops, beef stew, barbecued ribs, biscuits, corn bread, collard greens, black eyed peas, okra, potato salad... Mistakes were not tolerated.

“We can’t eat burned meat, Cindy,” Miss Maxine growled through the cigarette in her mouth. “Come here.”

Cindy stood in front of her. Before she could react, Miss Maxine grabbed her arm and pressed the cigarette against her arm. Cindy cried out and tried to pull her arm away. Miss Maxine held tighter and screamed, “Quiet before I really give you something to cry for.”

Cindy whimpered but didn’t say a word as her flesh burned.

“Now, put those burned chops to the side. You can eat them for your dinner. You’ll have to do better.”

“Yes, Miss Maxine.”

Cindy was locked in the basement each night. Before she lay down, she always knelt beside the cot, oblivious to the cold, stone on her knees, and prayed. “God bless my mama and my daddy in Heaven. And please don’t forget me. Amen.”

And so it went, day after day, month after month, year after year. Miss Maxine only left the house for two reasons. Once a week she would do the food shopping. On those days, she would lock Cindy in the basement. Cindy always managed to grab one or two of the girls’ “misplaced” books and would read as much as she could before Miss Maxine returned. Studying was her only rebellion. Her only joy.

Miss Maxine was also a devout Christian and went to worship every Sunday. Cindy was given a pretty blue dress to wear to church where they all sat in the front row. Everyone thought Miss Maxine was a saint to take in a child orphaned by what was quickly being called, simply, 9/11.

That first Sunday, someone asked Cindy how she was liking her new school. Cindy made the mistake of replying truthfully.

“Oh, she means she didn’t go to school this week. She hasn’t been feeling well. Isn’t that right, Cindy?” This said as she pinched the fleshy, still healing part of Cindy’s arm.

Cindy knew better than to react. “Yes, Miss Maxine.”

When they got home, Miss Maxine whipped Cindy with one of Kenny’s belts. “You had better never embarrass me in front of my friends, missy. I will put you out on the street before you can blink. You hear me?” she screamed as the belt cut into Cindy’s back.

“Yes, Miss Maxine. I’m sorry Miss Maxine.”

Cindy kept her head bowed and her mouth shut every Sunday after that.

Cindy was a good girl and a quick learner. She did as she was told, didn’t talk back, and became indispensable to the family. By the time she was sixteen, she was not only a stellar housekeeper, but she was also a better cook than Miss Maxine, and, if she had gone to school, she could have aced all of Vicky and Val’s exams. But as smart as she was, it never dawned on her that Miss Maxine was just a training ground.

“Cindy, you’ll be leaving us tomorrow.”

“What? But, where? Why? I didn’t do anything wrong. Please don’t put me out on the street, Miss Maxine.”

Miss Maxine laughed a mirthless sort of laugh and said, “Be careful what you wish for.”

“Where will I go?”

“You won’t be on the street.” She paused. “You were a good one. I have to say I’m sorry to see you go. I’ll miss your collard greens.”

“Please…”

“Go to bed, Cindy. You’ll need your rest.”

“Yes, of course she’s still a virgin. She was ten when she came to me, and she’s only been out of the house to go to church.”

“I’ll pick her up at 9, after the girls leave for school.”

“Make sure you have my money. She’s a good one. She’ll do whatever you tell her to do.”

“She’d better.” He hung up the phone.

“Cindy, this is Marvin. He’s going to take care of you.”

“Miss Maxine?”

“You don’t need to take anything with you. He’ll provide for you now.”

“But…”

“Girl, what have I taught you?”

Cindy bowed her head. “Yes, Miss Maxine. Thank you for giving me a home these past six years. I don’t know what I would have done without you. God bless,” she turned and walked to stand beside Marvin. “I’m ready, sir.”

“Call me Marvin.”

“What will my duties be, sir?”

“Marvin.”

“I don’t feel comfortable calling you that, sir. The only men I know are at the church and Miss Maxine’s husband, Mr. Kenny.”

“Well, you make me feel old when you call me sir, so call me Marvin.”

“Yes, si…Marvin. What will my duties be? Will I be cooking and cleaning for you as I did for Miss Maxine?”

Marvin laughed loud and long.

“No. You’ll spend most of your time on your back. Or your knees. Or upside down if that’s what Mr. Viktor wants. He bought you for a small fortune. I should thank you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“He’s partial to young girls, to ensure their virginity, but ten was too young. He’s been waiting for you. Watching you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You will. Here we are.”

Cindy looked out of the car window. They hadn’t passed a house in a while. Now they were parked in front of the biggest house she’d ever seen.

“This is your stop. Let’s go.”

“Please don’t make me…”

Marvin leaned across and opened her door. “Don’t make me tell you twice, Cindy. You’re a beautiful girl. I wouldn’t want to ruin that face.”

Cindy leapt from the car. Marvin followed from his side.

“Welcome to my home,” a man said from the porch.

Marvin took Cindy by the arm, and they walked toward the house.

To Marvin, “She is lovely, isn’t she? Take her to my suite.” To Cindy, “You can bathe and change. There is a closet of clothing from which to choose. Pick whatever you want.”

“Th-thank you?” Cindy stuttered.

“Oh, my name is Viktor. But you can call me Daddy.”

“I don’t think…”

“Don’t think,” he whispered, steel in his voice. “Do.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Daddy.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

Cindy had never seen such ostentatious luxury in her life. Ever. Not even on television since the last time she’d watched tv she was watching the Rugrats in her mother’s living room.

“Well, my only advice is do as you’re told, and you’ll be fine. Viktor is a teddy bear when he’s happy. He’ll cut you up and feed you to the fish if you piss him off though. Don’t piss him off.”

“Goodbye, Marvin.”

“Yeah, hopefully I won’t see you again.”

Cindy started to close the door.

“I’m the one he calls to feed the fish. Be good, Cindy.”

Cindy shuddered and closed the door.

The bathtub was like a small pool. There were bath salts, bubble bath foam, flowery smelling soaps, and candles. There was also a separate shower stall. Cindy stripped and took the first long, hot shower she’d taken in years. Then she filled the tub and took a bubble bath. She was still in it when the door opened, and Viktor walked in.

Half his face was covered in scars that just missed his eye and lips. The other side was

perfect and beautiful, if a man who bought people could be considered beautiful. He was quite tall, especially from the vantage point of the tub, and Cindy sank a little lower under the bubbles.

“Da..Daddy, I’m not finished yet.”

“That’s okay. I’ll watch.”

“But...”

“Wash yourself.”

Mortified, Cindy grabbed a sponge and the soap.

“I’ll help.” Viktor took the sponge. “Stand up.” He began to bathe her. She wanted to die of embarrassment. No one had washed her since she was a little girl. No man had ever seen her naked. She wanted to stay his hand, but she couldn’t. His touch was gentle and almost reverent as he smoothed the sponge over every curve of her body.

“My turn,” he said, as he quickly removed his clothes and joined her in the tub.

“Bathe me,” he said, handing her the sponge.”

“Whe-where should I start?”

“My ugly face.”

“It’s just a scar. The other side is still quite beautiful.”

The fingers of one hand wrapped around her neck. “Never lie to me, Cindy.”

“I don’t lie, Daddy,” Cindy managed to say though her throat was being crushed.

He let go as quickly as he’d grabbed her. “Begin.”

She was a tall girl and easily reached his face and neck. His chest and back were broad, matted with soft, brown hair. She hesitated as she moved down and saw how different he was from her. She’d seen the human body in Vicky’s biology textbook. She knew how babies were made. But warm, hard flesh was not anything like drawings in a book.

“Touch me.”

“Daddy…”

“Do it...”

She touched him and her eyes grew big along with him.

“Oh my…”

“This is your first lesson, Cindy. I’m going to teach you to please a man. Today won’t be very pleasant for you. But today is for me. You are my birthday gift to me. Kneel.”

Cindy didn’t dare show her disgust or fear. She did as she was told.

Lesson complete, he picked her up out of the water and carried her to the bedroom.

“But we’re wet,” she said.

He ignored her as he lay her on the bed and then lay on top of her. When he was finished, he checked the sheets for blood. Finding it, he said, “Happy birthday to me.”

Once he’d taken her virginity, Viktor didn’t have much use for Cindy. Even so, he kept her abed about a week. She was a quick learner and obedient. The perfect woman for his highest paying client. Everyone’s least favorite guest would be her most avid patron he was certain.

“Tomorrow, I’m having a party, Cindy. Some of my best clients will be flying in from around the world. The rest of the girls will have to entertain multiple guests, sometimes at the same time.”

Cindy, head bowed, said nothing.

“You, however,” he continued, “will only have one man to service.”

She looked up. “You, Daddy?”

“Oh, no. It’s time for you to earn your keep.”

“I can cook and clean like I did for Miss Maxine, Daddy. Please, Daddy.”

He grabbed her chin. “Cindy. You will do as you’re told. Otherwise, I have no need of you. And you know what happens to people who’ve lost their usefulness to me. Don’t you?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

He let her go. “Good. As I was saying, I will introduce you to Marcel. He’s far more beautiful than I am. You’ll like looking at him. Just do as he asks and all will be well. He never does permanent damage to my girls.” He paused. “At least, not often. And he’ll never touch your face. House rules.”

He pressed a button on the night table. Immediately there was a knock before the door opened.

“Yes, Daddy?”

“Ah, Elaine. Please take Cindy to her new room. Give her the toy room. Marcel will be hers throughout his stay with us.”

“Yes, Daddy. Thank you, Daddy.”

“Thank you for what?”

“For bringing us Cindy, of course.”

He smiled, knowing what she wanted to say was thank you for not giving me to Marcel. Again.

“My pleasure, my dear. Come to me after you deliver Cindy. It’s been a while,” he said, caressing her cheek.

“Yes, Daddy."

Cindy was not prepared for the toy room.

“Good luck, Cindy. The bathroom is to the left. The bedroom door locks as soon as it closes and only Marcel or Daddy can let you out. There’s a fridge in the alcove stocked with snacks and beverages. Mostly fruit and raw veggies. Marcel’s a bit of a health freak. Well, just a freak really. I shouldn’t say that. Don’t tell Daddy, please. Please. Anyway, don’t fight and you’ll be fine.” Maybe. “Bye. Daddy’s waiting for me.” And she was gone.

Cindy stood in the middle of the room, turning in a slow circle, wondering what kind of games people played with the toys in this room.

Marcel arrived early the next day.

“I have a new girl for you, Marcel.”

“Well seasoned or fresh?”

“Fresh.”

“You spoil me, Viktor.”

“I aim to please.”

“Is she in my room?”

“Since yesterday. Are you hungry? Dinner is at 7 but your fridge is well stocked."

Walking towards the stairs, pulling off his tie Marcel said, "I'm ravenous. I'll see you tomorrow at breakfast."

Viktor smiled.

When the door opened, Cindy was seated by the window watching birds flying to and fro amongst the trees. The gardens seemed vast and quite lovely. There were manicured flower beds and walking paths. Through the trees she could see a small lake.

Arms wrapped around her legs, she was whispering fervently, "God, please don't forget about me."

The door shut and she jumped up.

"Hel..hello, sir."

Marcel left his bag by the door and threw his jacket on the bed. Then, he walked slowly towards Cindy. She stood unmoving, eyes bowed, hands behind her back. Trembling. He stepped so close their legs touched. With one long finger he lifted her chin so that she had to look at him.

"I am Marcel, but you can call me Master. You will do what I say without question, complaint or hesitation at all times. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir."

He raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, Master."

"Good girl.” Gazing at her through hooded eyes he said, “You are quite lovely. I think we will be very happy together."

As he bent to kiss Cindy, she swung her right hand from behind her back towards his neck. Marcel fell backwards, blood gurgling from his mouth, a peeling knife jutting from his neck. His jugular if her aim was true.

It is possible that she got the key from his jacket, escaped from the house, ran to the nearest town, got help, called the police, was put in witness protection for helping take down a human trafficking ring with tentacles in the social services system…and managed to live happily ever after.

I mean, this is a fairy tale…

Mr.Grover yawned loudly as he glanced at his watch. 3:00 P.M. Won’t the time pass by faster. At work, he often observed a curious phenomenon where time seems to trickle, bit by bit, like maple molasses gently dripping from an old can the way it used to when Mr.Grover’s mom would make her delicious shoofly pies. God how much he missed those!. Despite living in New York, nothing hits the same way like your mom’s cooking, Mr.Grover thought. Lost in reminiscing, he almost missed the giant rock hurtling towards the window on his right side, framed like a beautiful shiny crunchy pecan in his mom’s pecan pie…. Wait, giant rock?

Boooom! The rock crashed right through the window and shattered his shiny new mahogany wood desk, luckily leaving Mr.Grover unscathed as he narrowly dove to the side. A large gigantic robot slowly comes into view, with special focus on the giant twin blades protruding from the fists of the robot and eyes that could shoot red hot lasers instantly. The gigantic robot proceeded towards the Griggins and Golgins Insurance Firm Building where Mr.Grover works as an insurance adjuster. As it approaches, mercilessly stomping on cars, trees, hot dog stands, and street lamps, a sudden figure in the distance zooms in, knocking the robot backwards.

“Don’t Fear Citizens, your savior is here, it is I, Nuclear Megapunch. With the power of my Radioactive Kapow, I will slay this mechanical monstrosity and leave it writhing on the ground. Now stand back, and watch how evil that hides from the light, fails to escape the stronghold of justice…….”

“Stronghold of justice, Nuclear Megapunch, Radioactive Kapow, really, who wrote this insufferable crap! And what’s with this weird obsession with this random side character, Mr.Grover and his mom’s cooking!”. Neil Gaddar angrily stood up and threw the unfinished screenplay on his desk. Behind him stood his assistant, a rather youngish man, still green, and unused to the legendary and explosive temper tantrums of the thespians. He cowered, as Neil advanced forward lost in his tirade. “I didn’t spend years of my life after Northwestern acting in shitty soaps to receive this pile of junk. I graduated from Northwestern theater, goddammit! “And the first real shot I get, my agent gets me this crap. When he said a superhero movie, I thought it would be based on the life and dedicated service of the Steward, not this childish nonsense with flying robots, I used to do Hamlet, and now I’m a glorified CGI jockey!”.

Neil’s assistant steps forward and stammers, “But sir, market research suggests that the primary target audience, children ages 8-16 prefer this sort of film. Most of the kids weren’t even around when the Steward disappeared 13 years ago. Also, we still aren’t sure what character you're getting, and regardless this is merely a draft, I’m sure changes can be made to your liking…”. Neil sighed loudly, and stepped away from his assistant mid-sentence to take a smoke break. As he left, he ruminated. Neil regretted his outburst, after all, he himself was still new in the industry, with this being his first major commercial film. But how could the screenwriting be so bad. To take a man like the Steward, a man so humble that he disdained the flashy nicknames younger heroes would give themselves, a man who upon discovering his powers sought to use it for the benefit of mankind, eschewing fame and recognition, a man like that in a movie like this was antithetical. But none of it was his assistant’s fault, he ruefully reflected. Neil was shocked at his outburst, as he prides himself on his calm demeanor and respectful manner. It must be the Hollywood air getting to him, already transforming him into those entitled privileged divas in the tabloids.

A couple of weeks go by, and one day both the director and the writers are fired by the producers and replaced with more seasoned and capable ones. When Neil heard the news from his assistant, he breathed out a huge sigh of relief. Finally, he would be able to act in the film he really signed up for. Getting the chance to play the Steward was a huge honor. He was a man, who long ago was working in a laboratory experimenting on CRISPR, when, to stop some bank robbers, decided to edit his genome to give himself super strength, flight, invulnerability, super speed, and some amount of control over gravitational fields. Since then, he’s been faithfully serving the city, keeping everyone safe, and thwarting the schemes of the Mastermind.

The Mastermind. Neil winced as he thought of him. Another reason why Neil deeply despised the original script. Contrary to how the script portrayed him, The Mastermind was no fun little comic book villain. There were no cheesy speeches, grandstanding gestures, or convenient blunders allowing the hero to be victorious. The Mastermind was a soulless criminal, who was so feared that at what point, statisticians estimated that 1 in 6 people in the city had lost a family member or friend to the Mastermind’s schemes.

No one really quite knew who or what the Mastermind was as he specialized in building complicated machines of mass destruction, nothing like the kaiju robot thing in the movie, a pale imitation of the very real threat of the Mastermind. Both the mastermind and the Steward disappeared after a furious battle that left the city of Northshore in ruins. The fact that the original directors and screenwriters were seriously planning on releasing a movie that disrespected the Steward’s legacy as well as cheapened the loss of life caused by the evil of Mastermind was astounding.

“Mr.Neil!”, Neil’s assistant called, “Casting is in, and it looks like you’re cast as the Mastermind. The role of the Steward ended up going to Matt Kasbith, apparently he was really thrilled to do this role.” Neil was surprised, this was definitely going to be a tough role. But if he did it right, he could achieve his wildest dreams. No one would ever laugh at him, no longer would he have to act with undisciplined hacks only interested in partying and whiling time away, it was time that he embraced his destiny.

“Is this a bad time? '' Matt Kasbith walked in. “No not at all, how are you, it’s really exciting to work with you” said Neil. Neil was in awe of Matt Kasbith. Coming from a similar background like his, working in soaps and random student films for almost 8 years, doing anything for the money and stability, he suddenly came on the scene 5 years, and starred in a slew of critically acclaimed and commercially successful films.

“Now listen, I don’t have much time, I have to attend a dinner. I’ve seen some of your earlier work, Neil, you seem like a promising young man. But here’s the thing. When working with me, it’s a whole ’nother level. You have to be at your best, and I’m not just your costar, I’ll decide on takes and if you can’t hack it, I’ll find some other young actor to take your place, you’re replaceable. Just remember that.” With that ominous warning, Matt left.

Over the next few months, Matt stuck to his word. During takes, the director, Assistant Director, and Matt would all scrutinize Neil’s acting, ruthlessly tearing him down, and a couple of times, even reducing him to tears. Neil was in shock, he knew the conditions in Hollywood would get bad, but he had no idea the extent to which everything would just pile on itself and crush him under the weight of his own hubris. But he had to succeed, this was life and death, he had a name to create for himself and he wasn’t going to stop at some mild pressure from work. In fact, the more he spent on set, he felt this weird sensation crawling around his insides, inducing anxiety and stress. It was so weird how literal frustration and anger appeared like a chimera, sometimes even in his dreams, swirling round and round his psyche.

One day, after a brutally painful day, where he fumbled several times during a lengthy cinematic monologue, untrue to the character but positively brimming with anger and vile sentiments, Matt furiously slapped him as hard as he could. He knocked Neil to the ground, and then turned around, and recited the monologue completely perfectly. Without another word or a glance at poor Neil lying on the ground, he then walked away.

When Neil drove home, still brimming with shame, anger, and humiliation, he was fixated on Matt’s performance. How does he do it? How does he deliver the dialogues so perfectly, with just the right inflection of voice, with emphasis on the right places, completely flawlessly on the first take. Wasn’t Matt just another TV serial actor, how does he do it? That night, instead of falling asleep and getting ready for the 6 A.M. shoot tomorrow in the meat freezer, Neil went down a Matt Kasbith rabbit hole. Matt Kasbith appeared relaxed and calm, expounding on the power of belief, and how he truly becomes his characters, whether they be disgruntled cowboys, shopkeepers, or police officers. Neil looked at tons of film analysis blogs, random internet forums, video interviews, wikipedia pages, and yet he found nothing. Until he saw a random interview from 2019, where, fresh from the success of his 3rd film, Matt Kasbith expounds on his fondness for method acting, a type of acting where the actor lives and acts like the character their playing, until it’s impossible to distinguish the player from the role. Matt Kasbith goes on to describe the work of actors like Heath Ledger preparing for roles like the Joker, how dedicated they went. Neil realized that that’s probably what Matt Kasbith expects of him, that in order to prove himself and make Matt proud, he would need to embrace the challenge. Neil knew that he would need to take method acting to a whole new level, and truly embrace his character. It was quite a strange thought indeed, and Neil had the realization of just how much filming this movie has changed him, his initial impressions on the Mastermind were really different indeed. But a job is a job, and it is time.

Neil found it difficult at first. Like all great actors, the true artist embraces the darkness of his mind, and Neil needed to tap into that. Day by day, he worked, starting small at first. Deftly side stepping grocery store scanners, laden with bags of hot cheetos and chocolate milk, and sharply shutting doors on old women on walkers, he was finally leveling up. No longer the pathetic loser who had trouble with enunciation and tonation, Neil decisively spoke his lines with a kind of confidence that only comes from grabbing Life by the throat. He looked back on the last 2 weeks with pride, as he saw his prowess increase. Matt too began to warm up to him, almost as if he instinctually sensed what I was doing, Neil thought.

As Neil walked out of set after a great shoot where he battered several extras around with a robotic arm, he slowly gazed outside. His eyes seemed to skim past the K-mart, Kohl’s, H and M, Wendy’s, and Olive Garden, in the shopping complex in front of the studio, and move, almost as if on their own accord, to the right, and fix on the Metrogoldman Bank. Big shots and famous oil barons would store their money there or so the legend says. It was like Lady luck and Gentleman Opportunity both met and showed him the path illustrated by a glowing line, leading straight to success, wealth, and power. But how was he going to go through such an ambitious undertaking?

Neil glanced at the Mastermind suit he was still wearing from the shoot. To his surprise, as he thought those words in his mind, the suit started to glow.. A disturbing thought occurred to him, what if this suit can read my mind. As soon as he thought that, the scarlet and purple bodysuit started to morph, a protective helmet suddenly encasing his head, and armor encasing his torso appeared at light speed. Twin dual laser swords appeared in both of his hands. He grinned to himself.

As he walked towards the front desk, people began to stare. He knew they must have been intimidated by the awesome power of his suit. A security guard approached from behind. “Sir, we allow no weapons inside the building, so I suggest you take off this suit at once”. He slashed the laser sword across a marble podium, neatly slicing it in half. As the top half slid off, the guard blanched and slowly backed away. Neil strode into the building like he owned it. What else can this suit do, he thought. He remembered reading in comic books as a kid that the Mastermind suit was a neural interface designed to be intuitive. He thought about flying and rocket boosters appeared from the footpads, propelling him in the air. He then rocketed forward through 2 walls, causing untold destruction before reaching the vault. The suit had a powerful proton cannon he could use, but that would only suffice for one layer and needed to be charged.

He remembered an old TV show in which he was an extra, where he played a security guard whose only line was “you’ll never get through the complex 3 layered vault!” to the villain. He shuddered at the recollection of his old acting roles. One of the key plot points of the TV show about how some of these old vaults were made out of the same steel that comprised ships like the Titanic, so the villain froze the vault to get in. “What if it were really vulnerable to ice?”. As if in response to that rhetorical question, a shoulder blaster appeared, slowly rising from the suit, and in unison, fired an ice blast at the first layer. The door came crashing down and shattered at his feet.

Now, for the 2 other layers. Neil slowly exhaled in disbelief and despair. In contrast to the sturdy old-fashioned nature of the first door, this new door looked incredibly modern. Neil scanned the exterior. Made out of stainless titanium, the door seemed impenetrable and impossible to break. A tiny passcode adorned the exterior, so small Neil almost didn’t even see it was there. Neil was in a dilemma, part of him was screaming at him to fly back and force someone to open the door for him. But something held him back. He knew the people in there were innocent, and weren’t part of this. Almost like a reflex, Neil’s fingers typed at the speed of lightning, the suit’s internal computer making complex calculations on the probability of the code being correct. Within 3 minutes, the screen flashed green, and the door swung open. Facing the last door, Neil slowly licked his lips, and activated the proton cannon. The air started to shimmer and particles stopped as the cannon drew from the powers of the infinitesimal particles surrounding us. Light started to grow, and the cannon fired, shattering the safe door. Neil rushed forward and shot a tractor beam towards the contents of the safe, holding them suspended in the air.

Sirens started to blare. Oh no, the cops were coming! Why are they coming for him, he’s not a criminal, he’s merely an actor, he thought. Neil was feeling so worried all of a sudden, what am I doing, he thought to himself. This isn’t me. But there was no time now, a voice in his head told him that he needed somewhere to go, he needed somewhere safe. He needed a lair.

To his surprise, he promptly knew what to do. Neil started walking toward a fire hydrant, and as he did so, he twisted the cap off, and it came off easily, sliding like butter. Neil then slid down the impossible small gap, and went down in a tube that transported him somewhere so fast it took his breath away. When he got his breath back, Neil walked out into a giant underground cavern featuring technological marvels and weapons he could only dream of. He saw plasma cannons, laser swords, technological suits capable of immeasurable power, spaceships, rocket ships, and even a time machine, but that looked to be defunct. With this kind of power, forget a bank. Neil could take on the U.S. army itself.

Ughhhhhhhh. Neil woke up in a ball, with worn clothes, half shaven in a corner of the lair. 5 months ago, he found this place, and now, it’s like he lives there. As time passed, he started to get horrible mental blackouts, forgetting where he was and what he was doing. He glanced at the display case proudly housing his mastermind suit. Or was it his? Why was it so powerful, a mere film prop. Maybe it wasn’t, maybe he was just dreaming or hallucinating everything that just happened. That would be a relief, Neil thought, as his life was literally spiraling. He barely knew what the hell was going on, or where he even was. He would randomly turn on the TV and see terrible footage of orphanages burning down or ransacked police stations, then turn around and notice scorch marks and bullet marks on his sleeves. He tried calling mental health lines, old friends, family, mentors, but an invisible hand always held him back. Other days he would gaze triumphantly at the news, calling up random radio stations to make ridiculous demands or boast about the Mastermind coming back, only to call them back and apologize. Reports came in that The League of Heroes recognized him as a credible threat, and that they were authorized to use deadly force, scaring Neil greatly.

Up seemed down, down seemed up, and he wasn’t sure what the hell was going on. He would randomly either get furious phone calls from set telling him he was going to be fired, that he was a disgrace to his profession, or ones praising him for a great shoot, almost like the outcome of a cosmic coin flipped by an angry god. Viewing clips of his own performances, he scared himself. Strangely, throughout all this, Matt Kasbith stuck by him, saving his job many times. Matt had the talent of saying just the right thing to the right person and smoothing things over. Matt explained that great performers, including himself, go through this, as true acting is putting on a new identity, and there’s naturally going to be some resistance, but things always set in.

One day, Neil arrived on set, but to his surprise, he saw another man wearing a replica Mastermind suit. The director looked incredibly busy, coordinating a giant crane falling, as the other Mastermind started laughing viciously. “What is going on!”, Neil blustered. He strode confidently towards the shoot, and to his surprise, he saw everyone winced at his appearance. “Why did you replace me?”, he asked the director. The director took a while to respond, and seemed to mentally stumble over his words. Neil could tell that he was barely containing his rage. Finally, the director couldn’t hold it in any longer. “Do you know what the meaning of responsibility is! You are an unknown actor, and the entire success of the movie depends on you. You have an obligation to fulfill, and by not fulfilling this obligation, you’re jeopardizing the success of the picture. This was your only shot, and you blew it! Now, get out!”. Matt slowly walked away, dejectedly, and as he left the set, he thought he saw Matt wink.

“Thank god they didn’t ask for the suit back”, Neil thought. Nanotech crawled all over the Mastermind’s suit, replacing and repairing the A-grade steel, with otherworldly alien tech on his gauntlets. Neil was sitting alone in his lair, which, after being fired, permanently became his new home. For the first time in a long while, his mind was finally clear. All that mental wrestling, and hesitation over what was supposedly right was finally over. Neil knew that his purpose in life was a higher calling, something far greater than merely acting. Otherwise, why would the suit have chosen him? Filled with calm and cold certainty, Neil began laughing, quiet at first, but fueled by some sort of Hamletian Madness, began resounding throughout the dark cave.

“Calling all units, calling all units” garbled the police scanner stashed away in a corner of the lair that Neil had nabbed a couple of days ago. “C-15 code red. Armed robbers are infiltrating the West Central Bank on 31 Fold Street.” Neil smiled as he heard the sounds of sirens zooming past his lair. Perfect. Neil put on the Mastermind’s suit, and prepared to head out.

Thirty minutes later, Neil stood outside the police station, amidst the thunder and the rain. Based on his calculations, the diversion he set up would give him 2.5 hours, 1 hour for the police to get to the bank, and 1 hour to come back. He noted the thunderous outpouring of rain, sure that it would hamper their progress. The door slowly creaked open, revealing an array of cells filled with prisoners.

“Gentlemen, my name is the Mastermind! You may have heard of me, that I supposedly disappeared 10 years ago. But the truth is, I’m back. I’m inspired to take back what is rightfully mine. I need an army, and I want to extend an offer to you to join me, in my quest for glory”.

The prisoners looked around at each other, stunned at first, but then they grinned broadly. They slowly got up and began to clap as one. The clapping continued, but then was overshadowed by a loud rumbling outside. The skylight at the top of the prison opened, and colorful bright figures streamed in. The League of Heroes stood tall and proud, their naming belying their power and status. Neil’s eyes began to water as he recognized each one. Megaman, whose fists could punch through solid concrete, Morpheus, the god of sleep, Golden Dash, the man who outran death, and Super Knight, whose sword was sharper than the edge of obsidian. The computer system inside Neil’s suit began making furious calculations, assessing threat levels of each individual superhero, processing motion trajectories, and preparing counter measures. Good thing too, because before he could blink, they came at him on all sides. Neil released a column of flame, which the golden dash narrowly dodged, and then he shot lasers from his twin gauntlet blasters. It was no time to be scared, he thought, this was a time for action. Neil froze the floor around him, and as the golden dash returned around, he sharply skidded across the frozen floor, and crashed into the opposite wall, right into Morpheus, who was raising his hands to cast an incantation. Neil shook off the drowsiness and surged forward. But Mega Knight grabbed him, allowing for Super Knight to swing his powerful obsidian blade. As Neil saw the blade approaching, he activated his rocket boots, dodging the blade, and shooting himself and Megaman high into the air. Neil then took advantage of Megaman’s disoriented state to grab him, throwing him towards Mega Knight. Almost like time stopped, all of the heroes remained eerily still on the ground. Strange, Neil thought, he expected them to put up more of a fight. And weren’t there more heroes? He only spotted 4, Super Knight, the Golden Dash, Morpheus, and Megaman. Suddenly he thought of the wind curtain that inexplicably appeared earlier, and just like that realized he was trapped. A space opened, in thin air directly behind Neil, and the Sidestepper came out and grabbed the mayor, then vanishing to a safer location. Before he knew it, the league came at him with renewed force, and captured him. The menace of the Mastermind was over.

2 months later, Neil was languishing away in a solitary cell. He was surrounded by laser grids, and armed robots constantly scanning his mind for resistance but he had none. There was nothing left, his dreams were crushed, and everything was in ruins. Neil was so confused. He didn’t understand how method acting could lead to such a horrible outcome. It just didn’t add up. Where did all that specialized machinery come from, where did the actual Mastermind suit come from, why was he thinking he was the Mastermind and how did he discover the Mastermind’s lair, a secret kept from even the likes of the Steward. It was I, said Matt Kasbith, as he slowly walked in. “How are you able to hear my thoughts? '' said Neil, in surprise and shock. “Because I am the Mastermind. The truth is, 14 years ago, I disappeared because during the battle between me and the Steward, I hypersped us to Mars, and the shock of the interdimensional travel killed the Steward. You see, I was in control the whole time, and I knew that I could assume power whenever I wanted to. I disappeared after killing the Steward, because although the Steward was gone, I couldn’t possibly deal with an angered and grieved League of Heroes as well as the U.S. military with them. I had to make a new identity for myself, so I became Matt Kasbith. I toiled away for 8 years, with the sole purpose of finding a successor, someone who could take up the mantle for me, and revive the legacy of the Mastermind. The problem was that all of my previous associates shunned me. They wanted no part of the Mastermind. Despite the amount of money I put into it, and time, no one was willing. I grew older and older, and I realized how amazing being an actor was, but I couldn’t simply let the Mastermind die out. I needed someone foolish, yet impossibly determined, to take up the mantle. When I met you, I realized that you were the right person. So I hatched a plan. I hypnotized you, and slowly led you down the path of finding the equipment, of being desperate enough to become a criminal, all to lead up to this moment. I have succeeded beyond my wildest dreams, for you are now truly the Mastermind.”

With these ominous words, Matt slowly reached into his suit pocket, unseen by the guard’s eyes, handing Neil a mysterious remote, before opening a warp portal, and departing.

Tên tôi là Giang

Let’s di di mau!

Come on, let’s fucking di di mau

—-

Robert Lindsay woke up on the carpeted floor of room 103 at the Super 8 motel. A couple hours of restless sleep plagued by bone chilling nightmares of artillery fire and burning hooches, was still the best he’d managed since returning home five days ago.

The night had been for ambushes, and the day for shut eye. He'd been nocturnal for so long that rising and setting with the sun was proving to be a difficult task. One thing about boot camp was that they knew how to program folks into killing machines, but by God, they didn’t offer a hope and a prayer when it came time to reintegrate them back into society.

You’re a gook killing machine! A gook killing machine!

A lot of good that did when the gooks were seven thousand miles away. A lot of fucking good.

Robert got up, laboring his right leg that had taken shrapnel during a mission deep in A Shau Valley, and made his way to the small breakfast hall, where he poured himself a lukewarm cup of coffee and nibbled on a stale bran muffin.

Weighing heavily on his mind were his folks and Jenny Fitzgerald. In another life, another time, he stood stone faced in front of his old man, filled with piss and vinegar. Standing tall, chest puffed up with pride, as his father told him the stupidity of the decision he was making, and the lasting effect it would have.

You’ll never be the same, boy. No matter how hard you try to be normal, you’ll never feel right again. And for what? A losing war? Do you even know why you’re going over there in the first place? You think this is some John Wayne Gung Ho shit? You could die. Jesus, son. I went so that you wouldn’t have to. I sacrificed so that you wouldn’t have to!

Despite this, Robert hopped the Canadian border and volunteered in Plattsburgh, New York. A friendly recruiting officer shook his hand and told him about the importance of the decision he was making. He told Robert that a lot of Americans were defecting and crossing the border into Canada to avoid active duty. And that it was nice to see the reverse happening, too.

A Canadian fighting a war that wasn’t his to fight. Well, from what he was told, the damage of Communism spreading was a global threat. And last he checked, he was living on this spinning rock, same as everyone. So why wasn’t it his fight?

But now, he knew all too well how frighteningly right his father had been. Even after a few days, he watched out the window of the motel as folks carried on with their day as though their brothers, sons, cousins, friends, fellow human beings weren’t being blown to bits halfway across the world. Kids who weren’t even old enough to have a beer or place a bet were coming home in body bags. Old enough to die, but too young to live. He remembered Danson writing that on his combat helmet.

He couldn’t look at his father. He couldn’t look for fear of what he’d see looking back at him. Dead man’s eyes. That’s what Rickshaw and Devin called them back in Nam. And he knew he had it because once you saw the things you saw, you couldn’t unsee them. You couldn’t unfeel them. You couldn’t unbreathe them. You couldn’t wash them away like a great baptism. Those images, those thoughts, were projected out through your eyes. They were tattooed there like permanent damage.

Instead of going home, he walked down Main Street and stopped at Anderson’s Antiques. The proprietor of this dusty rank smelling antique shop was an old pal of his father’s, Reggie Anderson.

Inside the shop were old chipped rocking chairs, milk crates of vinyl records, toys, sofas, paintings, and at the back left-hand corner was Reggie, smoking a cigarette and reading the paper.

“Well, as I live and breathe. Ain’t you a sight for sore eyes” he said, coming around the counter with his arms spread out. He wrapped them tightly around Robert and followed the mauling with three hard slaps to the back. “A bona fide hero, in my little antique shop. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“It’s good to see you, Reg. I was thinking of the apartment upstairs. Could I rent it out?”

Reggie let out a long laugh before telling him his money was no good here. “Look kid. The apartment is yours, free of charge. A soldier’s discount. Mind you, the place is falling apart a little. But it’s fine to rest your head for the night. What are your plans anyway, now that you’re back in town?”

“I appreciate it, Reggie. And to be honest. I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

“Taking er a day at a time. Ain’t no sin in that. Have you been back to see the old man?”

“Uh, no. Not yet. I will though, soon.”

“Yeah, yeah, no doubt,” Reggie said. “You can take this here rocking chair, kid. There’s a mattress up there but nothing to sit in. We’ll get you a sofa too, in due time.”

He slapped Robert’s back again and held his hands there for a few seconds. “It’s good to have you back, kid. It really is.”

Robert looked at Reggie, whose hair was thinning and graying. His back was beginning to hunch. And he thought about coming into this shop with his father when he was a kid. How they would laugh and laugh, and even though young Robert hadn’t a single clue what they were talking about, he’d join in. He’d join in because they were men, and as a kid, all he wanted to be was a man. A strong, working class man like his father. Like Reggie.

The two of them would tousle his hair and Reggie would say, “You got yourself a good kid there, Billy. A real good kid. He’s going to do great things,” and his father would look down at him with a face filled with pride. A slight rise of the left side of his lip was all it took for the inside of Robert to feel like it was filled with a thousand butterflies that could lift his body off the ground.

And when the war came along, Rob watched his father eating his supper on his La-Z-Boy, bitter rage forming creases on his forehead. Walter Cronkite talked about the carnage in a place he’d never heard of. There were explosions, gunfire, grenades, and yes, there were body bags, too. But Rob was too young to think he could die. And now he realized that was how they got so many soldiers. Young kids who didn’t believe death would ever come knocking. But boy, did it ever.

Billy told the family how ridiculous the war was. How Ho Chi Minh wasn’t planning on taking over the world. How colonists had their foot on the throat of that country for so long that they were fighting back. That we would act the same way if colonists came into our country and tried to have their way with us. It was just Goddamn Lyndon Johnson who was in so deep that he couldn't pull them out now for fear of making him look weak.

He made a good point, but Robert didn’t want to serve for political ideological reasons. He wanted to serve because it was his time. And after his band The Freaks played The Dollar bar to a crowd of exactly three people, he wandered over to the closed antique shop and knocked on the door. Reggie answered, and there on that quiet evening, he told him he had to serve.

Reggie said, “Of course you do, son. It’s in your blood.”

That seemed like a million years ago.

How he wished he’d listened to his father

—------------------------------------------------------------

That evening he dreamed of the village in Quang Tri. How he looked around in disbelief that this was 1967, and not 1867, or 1767. These lives were so primitive, they were so simple.

There's a young woman named Giang, “tên tôi là Giang,” she says while offering a plate of rice. Robert gently waves his hand and shakes his head slowly back and forth. Schwarmy and O’Brien laugh as O’Brien slaps the plate out of her hands.

“Heeyyyy, Charlie. Come out. Come out, wherever you are,” Schwarmy is yelling with both hands cupped around his mouth. He puts his hands down and places them on the AK. He points it at women and children.

“Are you VC? What about you, kid? Are you VC? Hey O’Brien, do you think this little gook fucker is one of them?”

“Could be. They all look the same to me.”

They both bellow evil laughter. Robert is looking at Giang, who is attempting to pick up each individual grain of rice out of the dirt. By God, she’s beautiful, he thinks. And at that moment, he wonders if he’s on the wrong side of this thing.

He gets down on one knee to help, and she shrieks in fear. “No, no. It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you.” She nods her head quickly, then resumes, not wanting to lock eyes with this man. Not wanting to trust him.

They clean up as much as they can, and she stands up, brushing her long black hair out of her face and holding the bowl tightly to her chest, fearing that at any moment, this soldier, who is playing Mr. Nice Guy, will knock it out of her hands and join his soldier friends for some laughter at her expense. But he doesn’t. He looks at her and smiles, and in the distance he can hear O’Brien, and Schwarmy calling out for VC.

They’re telling villagers who don’t understand that they’re about to get zapped if they don’t disclose the location of the Viet Cong that are hiding somewhere in one of these hooches.

His rucksack feels like a thousand pounds on his back, so he takes it off and rests it against a hooch that he believes to be Giang’s. Inside there are two children running around, chasing each other with little pieces of bamboo, and Robert thinks of the beauty of childhood wonder. How kids could find the good in anything and how he wished that one day you didn’t wake up to find it all gone. Never to return. That warm feeling replaced with aching worry, anxiety, and a deep hatred for what you allowed the world to do to you.

He follows her inside, and she turns around. She thinks for a minute about what she’s going to say and then tells him in English that her grandfather worked in California. She struggles to get it out, but he’s happy. Her English is much stronger than his Vietnamese.

“He says there’s gold in the hills and the water sparkles like diamonds”

Robert says that’s beautiful. He’s never been to California himself but once thought about it. Like many kids who are called good-looking one too many times in school, he thought he could go to Hollywood and make it in the movies. But here he was, a long way from those corrugated steel letters that overlooked the La-La Land.

Outside, the sound of artillery fire shakes Robert from his daydream in horrific fashion. Giang jumps and looks behind her to shield her children, except they aren’t there.

She shouts with a primal screech that makes Robert feel like vomiting, and if he had anything more than half a C-ration and a couple sips from his canteen, he’s sure he would have spilled it all over the hooch.

Bianh! Dihn! Bianh! Dihn! Bian! Dihn!

Giang runs outside, Robert follows closely behind like a shadow. He fears the worst, because in his four months of humping through mountains, swamps, and fields of grass that grew far above his head that had to be cut with a machete, the worst that he could imagine happened. In many cases, it was even worse than he could imagine.

Now is no different as he looks at two lifeless bodies in the center of the village. They’re piled on top of each other in opposite directions, like a human X. Their bamboo sticks next to them. Schwarmy is standing next to the bodies, a smug smile draped across his face, and Robert has never wanted to take the life of another human being so badly in his entire life.

Giang is running to them, her hair flowing behind her as Robert watches, lifeless like a statue. O’Brien has a zippo lighter that he took from the Reverend when he fell on Hill 106. The Zippo says, Jesus Saves, and he’s burning the hooches with it. The dry heat erupts the homes in seconds. Clouds of pitch black smoke rise like a dark omen. As Robert watches the clouds of smoke and sees O’Brien winking, a homemade cigarette dangling loosely from his mouth, two more gunshots echo with the screaming of villagers. Robert feels his body, he’s rubbing up and down his chest, his neck, face, and back to make sure that the bullets aren’t lodged in his body somewhere.

He isn’t hit. But Giang is lying with her children. Still. Robert can feel the salt from his tears stinging his sweating face. He runs over to Schwarmy, eyes of hatred and blood that’s boiling so hot his entire body is in danger of combusting.

With the butt of the AK, he smashes Schwarmy’s nose. And climbs on top of him, delivering blow after blow to his face.

Behind him, he can hear O’Brien and the rest of the platoon. Walker, Cross, Frankie, and Lem, yelling out as the village goes up like Pompei.

Let’s di di mau

Come on, let’s fucking Didi Mau

There’s no VC here. I repeat. There’s no VC here. Let’s go. Come on, let’s go!

He takes one last look at Giang and the children, before he’s pulled off of Schwarmy by Walker, and his head keeps replaying her voice again, and again.

Tên tôi là Giang

There’s gold in the hills and water sparkles like diamonds.

Robert screams her name, and downstairs Reggie looks up at the ceiling with a somber look. It’s 3 in the morning, and he’s already on his second cup of coffee. He’s dusting and reorganizing. Moving a chair from one dusty corner to another. Piling the jigsaw puzzles of beautiful landscapes into perfectly neat stacks.

Robert is still screaming.

Reggie thinks about his time in the service. A little cafe in the south of France. A cute little nurse named Marie. Reggie, smiling so much that his face hurt. Marie laughing at all of his strange Canadian jokes, and strange Canadian humor. He remembers a small birthmark just above the right side of her lip that looked like an apple. Her smell. Lavender wafting off of her and into his nose, calming him and making him fall in love with her.

Then the tanks. The explosions and Marie.

He can’t go see Robert because there’s nothing to say. Nothing with any form of truth, anyway. He’d love to go upstairs and tell him that it will fade, and she will be forgotten, whoever she is. But it wouldn’t be true. No, sir. Not true at all, Reggie thought as he took another sip of his coffee. Smelling lavender, and thinking about the apple shaped birthmark.

—------------------------------------------------------------------------

Robert came down the stairs at a quarter past nine. Reggie was showing an old woman some China from the 1920s. She seemed interested in the floral designs on the aged white cups, and Reggie was closing in on the sale. A little flirting, touching her shoulder, and laughing like she was the funniest person on earth. Her cheeks were flushed, and she was waving her right arm at him saying, “oh would you stop it?”

Robert smiled and snuck behind the counter where a half-empty pot of coffee was sitting on a burner. There were paper cups next to it, and he poured himself one. The coffee was old, no doubt, but he still went back for a second cup.

After a few minutes, the old lady left and said she’d return with her grandsons, who would help her carry it all. Reggie said, “fine by me, ma’am. Looking forward to seeing you.” Again, she blushed and left as the bell above the door dinged.

“You’re a natural,” Robert said, raising his paper cup and smiling.

“Did you see that diamond necklace? The old broad has money. That’s when old Reggie has to turn on the charm.” He winked. “Say, what are your plans for the day, soldier?”

Robert knew what his plans should be, and that was to visit his father. But he was scared, something that Reggie read on his face instantly.

“Look, kid. I’ve known your father for a long time. And I don’t know what you’re expecting to happen when you see him, but he’s just going to be happy that you’re home. He’s going to want to crack a cold beer with you. And you won’t have to say a word about the war, kid. Not a word. Your old man and I have sat at The Dollar for over twenty years now, drinking, laughing, sometimes talking and sometimes sitting in silence. But always, always knowing that we understood what was floating around each other’s brains and knowing that just having someone who understands is a lot better than trying to forget it, kid.”

“I know, Reg. I do. But every time I’m about to head over that way, I think about the way we left things. Him screaming, and me standing with my chest puffed out like I knew a fucking thing about anything. He knew, Reg. He knew.”

Reggie placed his hand on Robert’s shoulder and said, “Of course he did, kid. But you know what? Your father stood in front of his old man too after Pearl Harbour and told him he was enlisting. Your grandfather spent two years in muddy fucking trenches. He had words for your father. Being young, kid. Being young means being full of pride. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to serve your country. Not a thing at all. And your old man understands that, kid. I promise you he does.”

And with those words, Robert left the shop. His father was likely working, so he’d wait until the evening to go pay him and his mother a visit.

—————————————————————————

That evening, as he headed down Main towards his folks’ home on Union, a cool fall wind blew, massaging his face and making him feel good for the first time in a long while. He passed the embankment that overlooked the freight yard, and he remembered parking his old man’s Ford and kissing Jenny deeply. Kissing her and thinking that life couldn’t possibly get any better than that moment, and now, he was sure that was right.

Jenny was off to college, and he remembered her Dear John letter. The one that said she loved him, but time didn’t stand still because he wasn’t around. The world kept moving; it kept spinning, and her life couldn’t pause. She was going away, and if he wanted to visit her when he returned, he was more than welcome. But it would be as friends. Not as lovers. And she had attached a picture of them, standing on his front lawn, getting ready for prom. Jenny’s long blonde hair, and big smile. She had to get braces the week before, and he remembered her crying because of it. And when she came to his house to show them off, her eyes puffy and red, he thought she had never looked more beautiful.

A grunt buddy named Damien had looked over his shoulder, and said, “you got yourself a beauty there, Jordan. Don’t let her get away.” And he responded, “I’ll try, brother. I’ll try my best.”

Every block formed a memory in his head about childhood. Bike rides, and comic shops. Georgie Flannagan’s little malt shop on the corner of Evangeline and Mill Haven. The candy stripe swirling in front of Paul’s barbershop. He thought about going in there with his old man to get a haircut. His father went first and when Paul asked what he wanted, he told he wanted the “Daddy Cut”. He laughed, and so did his father. They walked out that day looking like twins, and he’d never felt so much pride in himself, in his family, and in his town.

Before he knew it, he was crossing up Union Street. Maggie’s German Shepherd, still barking behind a chipped white picket fence. “Hey, boy,” Robert called, “How are you, boy?”

The dog responded with a couple of happy yips and yaps, and Robert thought he would like one and wondered if Reggie would let him bring a pup to his small bachelor pad.

Then he was standing in front of his childhood home. The three story, old Victorian that was built in 1890. Faded auburn Cape Cod siding, and brown shutters on his bedroom window. The garden stones that formed a snake formation up to the three steps that led to the front door. His mother’s garden of beautiful blooming flowers, bright purples, and pinks, whites, and yellows, all sitting neatly in a bed of red mulch.

Robert stood, unable to move for a few moments. Then he heard voices coming from behind the house. He recognized the sound immediately as Bob Collins, doing color commentary for the Red Sox game. His father was back there. He knew the old man was sitting on his favourite patio chair, with a cold beer in his right hand, and a cigar between the fingers on his left, or hanging from his mouth.

Robert’s heart was beating madly as he walked past his Ford truck, where he and Jenny loved each other, and talked about the future. And as he came around the corner of the house, he saw his father staring out at the river and the Appalachian mountain range in the distance.

He had a pair of jeans on, and he was still wearing a dirty work shirt. Robert walked up the deck stairs, and his father looked to his right and saw his son, for the first time in almost two years.

“I heard you were back in town,” he said. And Robert nodded. “You lost some weight.”

“Haven’t been eating much.”

“Looks it.”

Then he reached into the cooler that was sitting at his feet and hauled out a beer, placing it on the arm of the chair next to his. He didn’t say a word.

Robert walked slowly to the chair and sat down. His first beer with his old man. How many times he had asked to have one with him when he was a teenager, and his father replying that once he was old enough, they could drink beer and listen to ball games all night. But not a drop until then.

He popped the tab and took a long drink, nearly downing half the can before he took it off his lips. He let out an exasperated, “Ahhhhh,” and placed the can back on the arm of the chair.

“How are the Sox doing?”

“Down two runs in the seventh. We have two outs, but there’s a man on first and third. Johnny Curtis is pitching. Needs to stop throwing that damn curve. His fastball can’t be hit.”

“Who are they playing?”

“Milwaukee. Damn Brewers are streaky, but when they’re hitting, boy are they ever.”

“Yeah. It’s been a while. I’ll need a refresher course.” He swore he could see a hint of a smile form on his father’s weathered face.

“You came to the right place. Your mom is at Bingo with Wendy Alton, and Becca Sherman. Should be back in an hour or so.”

“Okay.”

Then the two sat in silence for a while. Every time Robert’s can was empty, his father grabbed him another one and placed it in the same spot.

In his head, he could still hear the voices of the 103rd, but this evening they weren’t as loud. He looked over at his father and knew that inside his head there were voices, too. Good ones. Bad ones. There was always a war waging inside his skull, as there would be for him. But sitting there, he realized Reggie was right. He didn’t need to discuss what had happened, and his father didn’t need to tell Robert what he saw. The point was they had both been to different iterations of hell, and they both returned.

Robert looked at the view. The sun was a brilliant orange flame that was setting behind a mountain range that he had taken for granted his entire childhood. Smokestacks billowed from the paper mill as the water sparkled.

tên tôi là Giang

tên tôi là Giang

There’s gold in those hills. And the water sparkles like diamonds in the sun.

First time I saw her was at a US bank in northern California. Had on a long, colorful dress, all patchy-like. Different colored sleeves and such. It wasn't really her you know? But it caught my eye as strange she’d put something like that on. She's always doing something like that. Something curious that pops me out of whatever head I’m in and makes me look at her. Didn't go talking to that woman with the colorful dress, sometimes I wish I had, but at this point I know she would've been gone by the time I said hello or excuse me or what have you.

She ain't always like that though, sometimes its got nothing to do with what she's wearing or doing. Another time, we passed each other at a grocery store and I felt her look back at me. Past stripped away, I know nothing, got me good and ready to not be distracted by that inner glow, just a pure, comfortable radiance emanating from just below the diaphragm; then snap, goodbye. That inner glow, it lasts a lifetime, but by the time I’ve turned around to get a good look and see if she’s there, there’s nobody. And you can’t rightly go hunting down a girl what passed you by in the snack isle of a Walmart in the middle of nowhere Midwest. Even though it was that same woman back at the bank in California and you know it down to your very soul.

Thing is, she definitely wasn’t in the same body. Got another look at her - the Walmart gal- one more, and when we made eye contact, that familiar feeling struck like lighting, through us both it looked like actually. Course, she might've been shocked at seeing me again and that’s all was going on in her meat brain. But she was still in there, and I felt it. After that, himmed and hawed around, buying a couple more things just to waste time trying to see her one last time, but after that bolt of lightning, I knew she wasn’t in the area any longer. Felt bad for the woman at the store, if she did think I’d been following her. Anyways…

Then again in Chicago. Years later in fact. I’m walking with my good pal K——, and some disturbance in the air whizzes by. I can see those, disturbances in the ether of life. I seen messages whiz into a phone, flash of a message being sent to my computer, someone sending a heavy text, things like that. Don’t really think this was one of those though, she must’ve thrown something to get a good look at my good side, left side of my face. I wasn’t really in a position of life to be able to encounter her full yet, but I think that was the most present she’d ever been in someone’s body since I felt her glow as we passed, and as soon as I noticed her and turned around to see if I could catch a glimpse of her true form, she was out of there, just a regular person walking down the sidewalk.

Sometimes wonder if she's a witch. Got my spiritual defenses up though, had 'em trained as I was brought up, I've recognized evil auras before. Not anything like her, not at all. Even have had my suspicions that she's trying to cloak her evil with that radiance, but after we met by accident, she left no doubts in my mind of the pureness she has to be; zero percent evil. I was at a party somewhere 'round that Midwest nowhere town; it was a goodbye party since I was leaving and all, wanted one last get together with all the people I love most. So a friend of mine, friend in person course, but mostly in soul, gathered up some of her friends, and rented one of them air b and b's so we could throw down and have a bit of a party. Well, the night got going as they do and after everyone was all good and buzzed and a little coked up, we were all in the conversational portion of feeling good at a party. So I'm sitting with my conversation partner talking about God-knows-what and Snap! she lands right in there.

Now listen, I ain't no lovesick gotta-find-the-one, somebody for everybody, love at first sight, or any other such nonsense believer, and I'm not particularly given to this sex-positive society neither. Granted, I am not denying peoples individual freedoms and its a persons right to do with their body what they please, all's I'm saying is: I don't care to participate in such actions with my body; and that's my right to do with mine. So, when I say she landed there in that woman's body, who I had been conversing with and up to that point hadn't given much more of a hoot about besides being a good conversationalist for our collective headspaces, I know, and you oughtta believe, that it wasn't some sudden lovesick strike of infatuation what happened upon me just then. Besides, I'd gone through that phase in college and knew the signs for a conversation going toward the 'who's place' portion.

So it was suddenly her. Like a snap of the fingers, she was in front of me and boy howdy let me tell you what, the first thing she says to me, the very first thing was this:

"I'm sorry but, I feel like we've met before."

Hoo-boy! As if you hadn't been taunting and teasing my psyche with your astral projection and borderline possession for the past eight years. But I'm inebriated and one cant be too sure about such things. Plus that feeling of recognition, it happens to people, so I've heard, so I can't just come out with an, 'ah-hah! Its you!' and wag my finger at this poor woman I just met. And besides, I'm still not all to clear on how that thing she does works, but probably the woman still has all her faculties about her, seeing as how a full possession without permission would be evil, and she don't come from the evil place as I've established. Of course, also, being in the spirit of complete honesty, I wasn't entirely sure or aware it was her until a little bit further in, and as such my response was something alone these lines:

"You know, yeah I feel like that too. Maybe at J——'s place at some point. Like in passing maybe?"

"Could be, hard to say though, I don't go to her place often."

I don't rightly remember what followed conversation-wise, but I remember there being a cheer from the kitchen with a cry of 'This has happened before!' because other members of the groupmind were recognizing the familiarity of the situation and someone who distracted both her and my attention said something along the lines of, 'I feel like we've done this before,' to which J—— responded with, 'OMG this must be something important, how many times have we done this?' All of this, of course, affirming my suspicions... the suspicions I had afterward, of course.

Part of me wishes I hadn't been so blitzed to talk to her. Directly even! We spoke of the shadow people, intuition, and at one point, where I got real fuzzy, it seemed she was giving me instructions, and I remember I had to concentrate pretty hard to get even a little of what she was saying. I think she did that somewhat on purpose. Wouldn't be as obvious that it was her until after the fact. Could also be that its easier for a projector to persuade an inebriated host who believes most of the same esoteric things anyways so the situation was perfect for a pop in on me. She was saying things like 'you cannot let anybody's opinion affect your life,' and 'do exactly what you know you must no matter what,' along with, 'oh I'm sorry, but like, I have to get this out of the way, I just want you to know that I have a boyfriend,' and Snap! The host kicked her out, and we disintegrated into the pleasantries of recovering from intimate conversation which, even in circumstances without the host body having a boyfriend, would not have led to petty sex or anything more than a close friendship. But when you have been divulging what seems like your heart to what seems like a stranger you met at a party because you were invited last minute by your sometimes-acquaintance J——, things can get a little mixed up, so we must be completely clear with our boundaries.

I understand.

The conversation after that was lackluster. I gave her some acid cos I vibed with her even without her there, we all sat around to play blackjack, and they left at some point while I was babysitting someone who's psychosis was flaring up and needed someone who had been in a similar situation to ground them.

At this point, because of certain alludations I've made as well as story points which are present because, well, that how they happened, it may be that some readers suspect that this italicized her is nothing but a leftover from some drug-fueled college days which resulted in a temporary psychosis. But let me tell you, during that time of my life, there wasn't hide nor hair or even a spectral whisper of her presence anywhere near me. Probably stayed away from me so I wouldn't go on thinking that's all she was, some sort of hallucination I cant let go. But those first few times I recognized that there was someone slipping in and out of my life under the guise of other people, I hadn't even touched alcohol. And like I said, during my wild years, nothing. Maybe a sad whisper every once in a while, finding me passed out. Reminds me of the first time I'd heard her.

Oh yes, I'd heard her and felt her long before I'd seen her, actually recognized her presence as more than some ghost. In high-school, I'd gotten me my first girlfriend, and shortly thereafter, She gave me quite a startle when one night, lying in my bed, I heard them old farmhouse stairs creak like my older brother was coming up em to climb into his bed; when I waited for the light to turn on, it never did.

Go on and do something for me right quick. Close your eyes, and hold your hand close to your face. Now, of course you know something's there cos you're holding your own hand there, I get it, but go along with me for a second and just observe the feeling of the presence you feel between your hand and face. Now take your hand away, and that feeling's gone. Well, I was waiting for the light to turn on, cos surely my brother was the one who came up from the main floor, but instead I felt that presence, that closeness, that warmth, that... inner glow. And right into my ear, without the feeling of breath hitting my head, I heard my name whispered, a woman's voice. I'd thought at first, based on the intonation and such, that it was my mother, then second, that it had to be my brother, because he was the one had been downstairs and who had to make the stairs creak, but when I opened my eyes, there wasn't a soul to be seen. Well, I leapt off that bed and threw on the light, looking around for that darn prankster B——, my brother, but he wasn't in the room, no one was. He wasn't in the hall, he wasn't even in the TV room across the hall, and that whole time I was searching, I was making a racket just by the creak of the floorboards in that old farmhouse, so he couldn't've run away, else I woulda heard his racket.

Later in life, I was able to recognize that glow. Realized it was her that whispered to me. Throughout all my years she's shown up in dreams, popped up in strangers to say some cryptic thing, always leading me somewhere, somehow. She'll stroke a book, make it glow, completely ignore others I've picked up, makes them uninteresting. Got to a point where I was only reading books she pointed out. Only watched shows representative of our dance, our esoteric views and values.

This endless waltz which she controls and guides me on a leash of interest

Unfolds the secrets of a life untold, when shown beguiles some sacred test

And evermore I will endow her with the power to lead me to my final rest

I cannot bear to leave her now for some childish cooked up dream based on societies expectation of how a proper boy should behave when he's all up and grown to get a home and find a wife to settle down and get a life and become some guy standing at the top of his stoop looking down on us driving by like he’s better than the world, back turned to his middle apartment squished between twelve others just like it, each with their own upper floor resident installed and set on a timer to bang bang bang their headboard against the floorboards right when you have sensitive life matters to attend and a back yard just out the window which you can look at but not use, so it of course is the only mangled swamp mass thicket of vegetation amidst your neighbors Zen garden, hammock, fire pit paradise which you’d definitely put the work in to make even better than if only the bottom unit had been available but thank God it wasn’t because who wants to live in the basement of New York where the piss bubbles up to your ankles on a monthly schedule and permeates the air whenever you have company over for the first time when honestly this world to me lacks luster in everything I see except for when I encounter Her.

So I stopped living in that place. The world. I stopped following The Guide (tm). I left it all. My family, my friends, my home. I have nothing left in this material world, none of it matters anyway. Everything I own, I can carry on my back. Every day I go out, I dawn the mask. I become a member of the world.

Where was I when it happened? Prague. Does it even matter? Do locations on this filthy planet full of writhing tubes screaming over properties and possessions and what every other tube is doing besides them really matter? It doesn't. It can't. But you want it. The context, the story, the full picture, the honesty. There it is, honestly; and none of it is nihilism. That's just a fancy word for the tubes to have something to fight about.

Anyways. Prague. Last year. I've read nothing but what glows with her pure light. I've touched zero substances to prepare myself to confront her with a clear mind. She was only ever popping up in a flash and can’t tell it was her til after the distraction happened reminding me to be more aware about everything that’s going on no matter where I’m at since she just might decide to appear directly in front of me one day and I’d probably miss it at this point. So I changed. I am aware of every single moment, so clear in my head so that way when I try talking to her directly like that one time at the party I can hear her leave the person and say:

It doesn't work like that. If you ever try to address me, their conscious attention will be drawn to the moment. I exist outside of that, within the cracks of a persons mind, when they aren't fully paying attention; I can wedge my way in, and talk to you, but as soon as they notice their current surroundings, I'm shut out.

When was that? It doesn't matter. Everything is black and white but what she touches. This world would not exist without our dance. This world would not exist without me. This world is my dream. A dream. Dreams! That's right, I remember now.

Prague. Last year. I was reading about dreams. How to control them, and I figured it out. So as soon as I've stopped my work for the day so I can afford to fuel this mortal shell, I go to my rented bed, and dissolve into the bright ball of consciousness and appear in the room. The round, checkered room. And I wait. I wait, and I observe. And I do not see her, she does not appear. So I create the room my body is in, and from there spread out to the world I have seen, the world I remember, and I create the world. But still she does not appear. But I have seen her in dreams before, so I know she must be here, somewhere. So I fill in the details of the world. The house I grew up in, the house I left, the things I remember, and I remember everything.

But still she does not appear. But I want to see her, I need to see her. So I create myself, from my very earliest memory. I try to remember her. I watch myself, my life play out, and when it is time for that first encounter, she does not appear. Even though this is my memory, my stage, my play of my life, she misses her cue, so I step in for her, to play the part as best I can, and whisper to that half asleep me, lying on my bed, waiting for my brother to turn on the light, I kneel close, and whisper my name.

Arezzo, Italy.

Valentina POV

Slowly walking through the busy narrow pedestrian street of Corso Italia, I smile as my eyes take in all the stalls of the antique fair the locals set up once a month in their fair city. The tall buildings to either side of the street are a beautiful piece of medieval-like architecture, and the shops and cafes that inhabit them mesh well with the single row of white vendor tents that sit in the middle of the street. The road winds as far as the eye can see, and my ears are tuned to the smallest details of the conversations around me. Most converse in Italian, with the exception of some American tourists in English, as the locals and vendors negotiate the price of artwork, jewelry, and much more. I spot a clothing vendor stall that’s momentarily empty, run by a middle aged-woman with short brown hair and an easygoing smile, lulling me in.

I pretend to look interested in the various clothing goods displayed, but I’m not here to shop. I’m here for information. There was an interesting circulating rumor that I had heard the day before, and now as I clear my throat, I try my best to not get my hopes up should it be untrue. “Buongiorno. Ho sentito una voce su un avvistamento di fantasmi in città. Ne sai qualcosa a riguardo?” The woman’s sweet gaze turns into a concerned frown as I bring up the ghost sighting rumor in her city, and she lets my question linger in the air between us for a moment before answering back in Italian. “SÌ. L'ho visto con i miei occhi,” she speaks softly, shaking her head. I bite down a smile as she recounts seeing the ghost with her own two eyes and listen as she continues.

Apparently, the ghost has been seen once each night for the past five days on the roofs of the city, and each time it has supposedly stolen things from the locals. Mostly paintings, and two pieces of antique goods the woman claims to have gone missing from her friend’s popular antique shop. “How awful. What did the ghost look like?,” I ask in Italian, and the vendor’s eyes cloud in thought, pursing her lips together tightly as if not wanting to relive the memory. “Come la morte. Indossava un mantello nero e non potevo vedere il suo volto,” she says, crossing her arms in what’s probably an attempt to comfort herself. I mirror her own concern, thank her for the information, give my sympathies and go.

I walk past all the people in the bustling street and try not to be too giddy at the thought of a disappearing thief described as death itself, dressed in a black cloak. Turning into an empty alley, I close my eyes and feel the sense of reality shifting, a feeling I can only describe in the likeness of falling asleep; the moment when consciousness becomes blurred into unconsciousness.

My eyes flutter open and I’m in my room, a vacation rental in the heart of Florence miles away from the city of Arezzo. Reality shifts back to normal, and no matter how many times I do it, no matter how long it’s been or how second nature it is to me, teleporting has always left me breathless. As if I always hold my breath, waiting to see if my lifelong power will finally cease to exist. As if the universe will recognize its error in giving an average girl the ability to defy time and space, and would no sooner rip it away from me, rearranging the cosmos back to normal.

Normal. To me, it’s always felt normal. To be different. To be alone. I sigh, heading out onto my apartment rental’s small balcony, gazing down at all the commotion of the busy day with Italians and tourists walking and chatting as the fresh morning sun beats down on them. Maybe with this discovery, if it is what I hope it is, I can finally feel like them too. Connected.

***

The August day melts away into a sunset, coloring the Florence sky in pretty hues of orange and pink. I give myself a once-over in the floor length mirror in my rental’s bedroom, feeling both excited and nervous and silly all at once. The ghost was said to wear a black cloak, so I had taken the day to scavenge the city for something similar to buy in their shops. A lovely little dress shop had this outfit in their window, and it was perfect for what I needed; a floor length flowy black dress with long sleeves, and a cute square top neckline that I figured would be okay. My plan would involve risking being seen teleporting by people, more than usual anyways, so I needed something to cover most of my skin. Picking up the masquerade mask from my bed that I bought at a party store back home in America earlier in the day, I wrap and tie the black ribbons to the back of my head and take a step back to inspect the final look.

My thick wavy black hair spools past my shoulders and stops at my chest, and the square neckline reveals my very tan skin, sun-kissed from spending years mainly outdoors. The feathers on either side of my mask mixed with the all black attire makes me feel like a bird- a raven. Ready to fly. I poke out my feet from underneath the dress to inspect my black sneaks, and I chuckle at how out of place they look at my otherwise formal-wear. But they’re very much a need, as I don’t plan on falling off a roof and breaking my head open, which dumb heels would only do.

Taking a deep breath, I go over the plan again in my head. Dress conspicuously- somewhat of a check, will be better with night visibility-, teleport to Arezzo once night falls, get a good view of the town from a location above, and hopefully find the ghost. I feel like a spy in a movie, ready to catch the bad guy or whatever the heck this grim reaper character is in the act. I should lower my expectations. If this is all just a bunch of hooey, then at the very least I’ll explore Arezzo’s nightlife and have a good time. Just fly, Valentina.

The sunset came and went, and eventually the night rolled around, sleepily covering the world in deep purple and blues. I let reality shift around me, focusing on where I want to go, and open my eyes to a secluded spot around Arezzo’s Medici Fortress, a 16th century military architecture now used as a public park. The location is perfect, with its panorama of the city from above and its views of the moonlit terracotta tiled roofs. Under the protected shade and cover of the surrounding trees and nightfall, I become practically invisible in my black dress, a feeling I know well. With any luck tonight, I won’t stay in the shadows for long.

Time passes, a few hours spent taking in the relative quiet of the park and I close my tired eyes. It’s now 10 pm, and my vision is exhausted from scanning over the rooftops over and over again. There’s a bench close by, and I had sat on it after it was clear I’d be here for a while. The same storm of thoughts rolls through my head, growing louder as the full moon shines brighter against Arezzo’s twinkling lights in town. I should have asked the vendor what time she saw the ghost, but even if I had and she did tell, I would have come early anyways. I don’t want to miss my chance. What if I already did? What if I didn’t? What if the woman at the market was wrong or she saw something else, something-

I feel a sudden jolt in my stomach, and I jerk my eyes open. My eyes widen as far in the distance a figure is illuminated by the lights and windows of the town, its silhouette sharpened against the gorgeous round moon above. I jump to my feet, quickly shifting closer, making sure to put some distance between me and the figure. I adjust to my new surroundings, now on top of one of the terracotta roofs in the heart of town. My breath catches as my balance is thrown off from the angular tiles, and I quickly adjust to avoid slipping off. Thanks, tennis shoes. I knew I was right to wear you. Searching around me, I’m caught off guard again as the figure is now clearly visible some roofs away and no longer an indiscernible shape. In fact, the ghost is looking in my direction. Correction, the ghost is looking at me.

***

Arezzo, Italy

Ambrose POV

Pausing, I take a sharp inhale. There’s something…no, there’s someone here. I turn my head, trying to find the source of my alarm. There, some buildings away on top of Arezzo’s clocktower, is a girl. The moonlight behind me shines at her, and I can tell she’s a she by the long dress that flows around her in the breeze, and I raise my eyebrows high at the sight. What is she wearing on her face? Is that a mask? She startles, realizing I’m staring at her, and my heart jumps, not wanting to scare her away. I sensed her. I had felt her presence. I still feel her.

A mixture of emotions run through me, mainly confusion as I don’t understand how she got up there. She could have climbed, sure, but I didn’t see anyone in my perimeter check just moments ago. Unless… unless she… I clench my hands, determined. Making sure my full face mask is tight and shrugging my cloak closer to me, I don’t hesitate as I let the world around me fall. I’m closer to her now, letting the world sink back as it was, and I hear her loudly gasp as I gaze up. She’s still on top of the clocktower, and I teleported to the roof just below her. This is stupid. I shouldn’t be so close. And yet.

My chest clenches as she gapes down on me, the close proximity revealing her appearance in detail. Her wavy black hair cascades down to her chest, which reveals a neckline that shows off her tan skin and chest. Her black dress cinches her waist up high, and she has a mask with feathers on either side of her that ruffle in the breeze like a bird. A bird in all black. A raven. I can’t fully tell in the dark, but I think her eyes are brown. She’s beautiful. C’mon Romeo, think. Break the tension. I clear my throat, trying my best to sound collected and non-threatening. “Ciao. Hai bisogno di aiuto per scendere?” I assume she’s a local, and her face turns from shocked to confused, to understanding as I ask if she needs help getting down. She lets out a bewildered scoff, and I brace myself for her response. I just teleported right in front of her. People usually react one or two ways when I do that, more often than not on the very terrified side. My appearance isn’t helping matters either.

“You just… you just moved. You were there, now your-”

“Here?,” I interject. “You speak English. American, I presume?” With that accent she must be a tourist, but she did seem to understand my Italian. She sounds young, maybe around my age, and not scared at all. More like she’s amazed, which is definitely unexpected. “I won’t hurt you. Do you need help? That can be one nasty fall if you slip.” We both glance down at the ground, the empty hard cobblestone road gleaming up at us in the faint light of the town. The girl turns back to me, breaks out into a grin, and my heart bump bumps against my ribs. “I think I’ll manage,” she starts. “Stranger danger and all.”

I chuckle, running my hands through my hair. Taking a dramatic bow, I make eye contact with her again, hiding a similar smile underneath my mask. She’s definitely something different. “My apologies, mia signora. I’m-”

“The ghost,” she cuts me off this time. I stand up straight again, cocking my head to the side.

“Is that what the people of Arezzo call me?”

“Among other things. Thief. Death. Your mask and cloak don’t exactly scream nice guy. So which one is it?” She tucks her hair behind her ear, raising an eyebrow at me.

“Hmm. I’m very much alive, so not a ghost or death. As for the thief allegation… I cannot give a comment at this time.” Mystery girl laughs lightly, and the sound fills the night sky. I want to hear her laugh fully, make more of the pretty sound. “I’m uh, a friend.” She puts one hand on her hips, leaning to one side. I flinch, not wanting for her to fall.

“A friend, huh? A friend would tell me their name, but that seems out of the question for you. Why are you here? Are you actually stealing from these people?” Her amusement disappears, replaced with a frown. I bite my lip behind my mask and cross my arms in defense, my cloak opening to reveal the long sleeve shirt that’s grown too hot in the August’s night air. “What’s it to you, tesoro?,” I reply, happy to see her annoyance in calling her sweetheart. So she does understand Italian.

“Well, amore, besides from being messed up, Arezzo is known for its art and antiques. It is a part of their history. You're stealing a part of them.” Her voice is stern now, but it doesn’t affect me as much as her calling me amore does. I flex my fingers inside my black gloves, perplexed at the new emotion. The clock tower’s ticking grows louder as it marks another hour gone, and I start, glancing at the time. 11 pm. I should’ve been done by now. This distraction is over. “I’m sorry, raven, but it’s now time for me to fly. This was… fun,” I say honestly, dipping into a small bow.

I turn to leave, ready to make my escape. As soon as I do, I’m greeted by her again. I gasp. She just- “Oh tesoro, you’re not going anywhere,” she quips, not even a few feet away. In the blink of an eye, she closes the distance between us, and I feel the familiar sense of falling again, only this time, I didn’t cause it. The world comes back, and I stagger back a few paces in surprise, falling to the ground. “Ow.” I rub my behind, completely stunned as I take a look around me. I certainly didn’t intend to be here. A cascade of emotions and thoughts envelop me, and I feel my blood spike with adrenaline.

The raven girl is standing over me, her glorious grin returning. “Welcome to my home.” I open my mouth to speak, but no words come out. All I can do is sit there dumbly, mind completely under her control.

****

Big Sur Cliffs, California (2 pm)

Valentina POV

The daylight of California’s afternoon sun isn’t enough to cut through the chillness coming from the Pacific ocean. The waves crash in the background against the steep cliffs, and I turn my head to observe them. We’re really high up, a good safe distance between the cliff’s edge and the fatal fall should we veer too close. Fatal fall for most, anyways. Turning my attention back down at the masked man, I can’t help but plaster on a satisfied grin. I was able to catch him off guard this time, and to see the bewildered look in his eyes is truly priceless. Though, I wish I could see his entire face. Maybe I should make that first move. I need him to trust me, even if I don’t fully trust him.

“If you’re going to stare at me like that, you might as well see all of me.” I slip off my mask, my nerves coming to the surface as I reveal the rest of my face, carrying the mask in my right hand. With my other, I fix my hair self-consciously, aware of how intently the ghost watches my every move. A beat passes before the ghost comes back to life, shaking his head as he attempts to sit upright properly. I offer my hand to help him up, and although he hesitates, his gloved hand takes my bare one, his cloak ruffling with the movement. In the clear daylight, I see his cloak, long sleeve shirt and pants are all a deep blue, but his full face mask is as black as the night we just left. “Well, are you going to say anything?,” I question, tilting my head up as his height is a good few inches above me.

“Uhm. You just teleported us.”

“Correct.”

“So… you’re like me.”

“Or you’re like me,” I retort. I can see his eyes crinkle in a hidden smile, and my fingers twitch at my sides, wanting to rip off that mask. “How about a formal introduction? My name is Valentina. It’s nice to meet you…?,” I trail off, switching my mask to my other hand before extending my right again for a handshake. He doesn’t hesitate this time as he takes my hand and shakes it slowly, probably still in shock of the fact that another person like him exists. As am I. This is a life changing discovery. He pulls his hand away and brings it to his face now, slowly tugging off his mask. “I’m Ambrose,” he says, revealing a face I can only describe as-

“Cute,” I blurt, immediately feeling heat on my neck and face despite the chill seabreeze air. Ugh, why did I say that out loud! I avert my gaze and only look back when I hear him chuckle, his eyes glinting in the sun. He has Asian accented features with pale skin and hooded eyes, and his thick eyebrows match his wavy black hair. My eyes trace his strong jawline and high cheekbones, then along the curves of his lips. He clears his throat, snapping my attention back to his eyes. “So, care to tell me what we’re doing here? Judging by the daylight, and you saying welcome to your home, I’m guessing we’re in America,” he says, his voice deep and with a hint of an accent. He turns his gaze towards the ocean, feeling the mist rolling off and closing his eyes for a second to enjoy it. “California, probably.”

I shake my head in disbelief, amazed at how detail oriented and clever he is. “We are. And I brought you here to talk. I just found out that someone else has the same ability as me, so I apologize if I’m not willing to let you go so easily.”

He places his face mask inside a hidden pocket on the inside of his cloak, then crosses his arms, raising an eyebrow in amusement. “You're keeping me hostage?”

“For the moment. Aren’t you curious too? You were definitely in shock when you fell on your ass earlier.”

He scoffs, looking away. “You-,” he starts, but loosens up. “Yeah, okay, you’re right. I definitely have questions.”

“You’re willing to answer mine as well?”

“Hmm.” He takes a second to think, thrumming his fingers against his arm. “How about we each take turns. If either one of us doesn’t answer, then that’s the end of this discussion. And we can leave at any time. Deal?”

I nod eagerly, shifting my weight to one side. “Deal. Though maybe we should sit down for this conversation. Know a good place?”

Ambrose is slow to answer, ruminating as he peels his black gloves off and tucks them inside his pants pocket. He extends his right hand to me while placing his other behind his back, bending into another small bow like before. “It depends. Are you hungry?”

****

Seoul, South Korea (6 am, a day ahead)

Valentina POV

The sunrise breaks open the sleepy sky like an egg yolk, commencing the start of a new day. All this zipping around the globe never gets old to me, but my body is starting to grow weary in protest. I’ve adjusted to the time in Florence, Italy, for my vacation, so while it’s barely the break of day here in Seoul, my eyes sweep low with sleepiness as my body thinks it’s closer to midnight.

The fluorescent lights in the 24/7 convenience store in Seoul both agitate and force me to stay awake, and I wonder if it’s another all-nighter for me this time. I take a sip of my strawberry flavored drink and glance to my right at Ambrose, who has finally finished making his cup ramen. His glee reminds me of a kid as he sits next to me, enthusiastically swirling the noodles around his chopsticks and slurping them up with a satisfied noise.

“Teleportation always makes me hungry. Does that happen to you?”

“Mm, it depends,” I reply, chuckling. “More so when I do it numerous times in one day. I try to avoid that, since I try to keep my body adjusted to one time zone at a time. It’s less hard on my sleep.” Ambrose nods in understanding, which is crazy to think about. He understands. “So, now that you have your food and asked your first question, it’s my turn.”

He frowns as he goes in for more noodles, expertly guiding the chopsticks and bringing them up to his lips. “That shouldn’t count, it was more a conversation than a question.” As soon as he finishes the sentence he stuffs his face again, unashamed of the slurping sound it makes.

I shake my head, amused. “Oh it definitely counted. Okay, here’s my first question; were you born here in South Korea? I feel like I’m seeing you in your element.”

“Yes, I was. And I’ll even let you know that I live here,” he says smiling, his lips tinged with the red ramen sauce. “You know, for the most part.” I did know. I understand. I swish my cup around, hearing the clinks of ice sloshing with the movement.

“Okay, so what-”

“Ah, ah,” Ambrose cuts me off, wagging a finger. “It’s my turn again.” I roll my eyes but nod, letting him proceed. We ask simple, easy questions for a while, and I commit to memorizing everything I learn about him. He’s a year older than me at 25 years old, he’s known about his abilities at an early age (same as me), he’s multilingual (I knew more languages than he did), and when he transports he feels like he’s falling.

“Really? I’ve always described it as going to sleep. That feeling when you become unconscious.”

“I could see that,” he answers, getting up from the thin table set up on one side of the store to throw away his now empty ramen cup. There was only one other customer at this time of day, and they were sitting on the other end, not paying us any attention. With my dress and his long cloak, our outfits seemed too out of place for a simple store like this, especially early in the morning when most people haven’t woken up yet. Ambrose returns, settling down next to me again. “Okay, my turn. This might sound weird but… do… can you sense me?”

I still, my mind going back to Italy when I first felt a change in the air. I had sensed him. I do sense him, even now. I didn’t know if I should have brought it up, but he must feel it too. What exactly is it, and what does it mean? “Actually, I-I think I can. When we were in Italy, I felt this feeling like… how do I describe it… almost like we were-,” I pause, suddenly a little sheepish at my final word. “Connected.”

Ambrose’s face creases in seriousness, his eyes staring intently into mine for a beat of silence before parting his lips. “And you feel that way now, right?”

“Right.”

He loosens his expression, the start of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I do too.”

It’s my turn to frown as a new thought forms. I wonder if… “Hey, I want to try something. Just so I know, you can only teleport to places but not to people, right?” His eyebrows raise in surprise as he quickly understands what I’m getting at. I collect my mask resting on the table in front of me and get up and throw away my empty drink, then try not to think too much as I grab Ambrose’s hand in mine. Leading him out of the store, I try my best to keep cool. Connected, huh. Let’s test that.

********

Seoul, South Korea (6:35 am)

Ambrose POV

In the empty alleyway of the convenience store, we make sure to scout our surroundings to make sure there aren’t any people or cameras around. “Okay,” Valentina speaks, loud enough for only us to hear, her eyes turning back to mine. “Let’s start small. I’ll go a short distance somewhere safe around the neighborhood, and I’ll wait a minute for you to find me. If I don’t see you after a minute, I’m coming back to this alley.” She purses her lips into a thin line, and I can tell she’s uncertain about this. There’s a chance I could bail, and if our theory is incorrect, she’d never find me again. But at this moment, I realize that’s not something I currently want. I still want to talk to her.

“Don’t worry, I won’t try to leave. You have my word,” I smile, chuckling as she gives an unconvinced ‘mhm’. She nods anyway, even if it’s a little hesitant, before closing her eyes and vanishing out of thin air. Huh. Still not used to not being the only one who could do that. Okay, let’s focus. I close my own eyes, trying to focus on the feeling I had this entire time when I was with Valentina. The connection, a feeling close to a thrum of a current, almost electric like, is still there. It’s a strange new feeling, and it intensifies as I focus all my attention on it. I let out a breath and teleport, opening my eyes again and staring down into a pair of beautiful hazel eyes. But I’m so close, too close, and we both instinctively and immediately take a step back from each other.

Her expression is bright, and she breaks out into an unexpected grin. “It worked,” she whispers, the volume of her voice not matching her energy level. I can’t help but mirror her smile, amazed by my newfound ability. I can find people. Or, at least, just her. I cross my arms, suddenly aware of what this means. “If I can find you, I’m sure you can do the same to me.” Her eyes falter a little, and she absently messes with a strand of hair.

“Maybe,” she starts, scanning our surroundings. “Let’s test it again, but now you go. Further this time. Try the outskirts of the city, and if I don’t come in a minute, meet me back at the convenience store’s alleyway again.” I nod, quickly shutting my eyes and getting lost in the sensation of falling. Or maybe not falling. Maybe sleeping. My eyes open, and I do my natural location scouting, always second nature to me. I’m in the middle of a grassy field, alone without a soul in sight for a short moment before out of thin air, a girl materializes in front of me. Too close again. Her gaze slowly travels from my still crossed arms over my chest up to my neck, my chin, and finally my own surprised eyes. I feel a shiver run down my spine. There’s only a small space of distance between us, our bodies almost touching and I immediately uncross my arms, trying to widen the gap.

But this time, I don’t try to take a step back. Neither does she. Her expression turns from glee into something I don’t know her well enough to understand. Concern? Whatever it is, I find myself tracing the lines over her face, trying my best to etch the close up details of her features into my brain. Her smooth skin, the shape of her nose, the form of her jaw and the curves of her soft looking…. I peer up from her lips and into her hazel eyes, the concern or whatever emotion it was not there anymore. The only thing that’s there is this strange bond, the connection, the current. Some tethered string between us.

The silence is broken as I dare to say something, my heart beginning to thump faster until I’m sure she can hear the embarrassing beating. “What… what does this mean?” Her face softens, and she searches my eyes for something.

Her voice is sure as she speaks, the words thrown into the breeze that blows through the grassy field. “That we’re not alone.”

****

Outskirts of Seoul, South Korea

Valentina POV

I step back a few paces, breaking the moment and creating a safe distance between me and Ambrose. The ghost. The thief. Allegedly la morte stessa; death itself.

“Pero mejor sola que mal acompañada.” He frowns at my words, but I know he understands my Spanish, being one of the many languages he speaks. It’s a popular phrase in my Mexican culture, about how it’s better to be alone than to be with bad company. I’ve only known Ambrose for less than a day, and even though he was everything I had hoped for in Italy, he’s also not what I expected at all. I still have unanswered questions. Very important ones. He tilts his head to the side, and a smirk snakes along his lips. “Mal acompañada? And here I thought we were getting along,” he breathes.

“We didn’t get to finish our earlier conversation. I just have one question left that truly matters anyway.”

He shifts his weight, peering down at me. “It is your turn. Ask away.”

“Are you using your power to steal?”

Gone is his smirk as he takes his time to respond, probably deciding how much to tell me if anything at all. “Yes,” he says simply, his voice low even though we’re the only souls here in the deserted field. “But I have my reasons.”

“Way to be vague. Care to share them?”

“Can’t. I hardly know you.”

“Mm, true. And I you. But I’d never abuse my ability in that way, so that says a lot about who you are. Hence the mal acompañada.”

He quirks up an eyebrow, his expression posing a challenge. “If you feel that way, that what I’m doing is wrong, are you planning on stopping me?” It’s my turn to take my time to answer. I mill over that idea, and in all the river of possibilities that I see, I make a conclusion. “I could kick your butt, but stopping you would be admittedly difficult. We have the same abilities, and we know where or how to find each other.”

“Hmm. Not even trying to stop me says a lot about who you are,” he teases, throwing back what I said to my face. The breeze has picked up now, and I feel my dress ruffle along with it, the fabric on my arms fluttering against my skin. I tuck flyaway strands of hair behind my ear, and feel the warmth of the sun smiling down on us through pretty white clouds, the morning promising to be a lovely one. I’m not going to waste my day, or at least my night, being angry. I suck in a breath, keeping my voice light. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t try. But I have a different idea in mind than wasting time fighting you and returning everything you’ve stolen from the people of Arezzo.” I don’t even want to think about how he’s also no doubt stolen from other people all over the world.

“I don’t know. I’d kind of like to see you try to fight me,” he laughs, as if the idea of me winning against him is impossible. Oh, I’ll give you something to laugh about. I slip the mask I’ve been holding at my side on again over my face, and take a quick sharp breath as I shift. In an instant, I close the distance between us and pull on his left arm while my right hand snakes around his waist. I position myself against his center of gravity, and throw him over my hip, his body landing on the ground with a heavy thud.

Ambrose lets out a surprised and pained yelp, and as I stand over his body, he takes a moment to slow his breathing before squinting up at me. “Okay. So, what’s your idea?,” he says, his expression turning into something resembling awe. My stomach turns as I extend my hand, helping him up to his feet. He dusts off his coat and I instinctively pluck out a blade of grass from his hair.

“It’s simple. I just have to reform you. You know, stop the stream from the source.”

“That simple, huh?”

“You’ve seen the alternative. I’m sorry about that by the way, but you kind of deserved to be humbled,” I tease.

Ambrose smirks, shaking his head. “I kind of did, didn’t I? What was that by the way, karate?”

“Judo. The o-goshi throw, one of my favorite moves actually. But let’s trail back to my idea. I know I just met you, and I… I don’t know why we’re the same in this way, but I can show you a better way to use your powers.”

He scoffs. “I don’t think I’m interested in becoming some superhero.”

“That’s not what I am, nor what I’m suggesting. I’m only asking you to give me a chance to shift your perspective.” The idea churns in my mind, and I exhale, hoping this is the right decision. “Spend a week with me. If by the end I can’t convince you to stop abusing your abilities, then I… we can go our separate ways. I won’t try to stop you, and you’ll be free to roam around the earth uninterrupted as you were before.” My determination solidifies, and I try my best to show confidence in the challenge.

His gaze bores into mine, sizing up my words and evaluating his options. A week. A week of diverting from whatever his plans were, just one. Then no more distractions, no more me in the way, only freedom. After a long beat of silence something clicks for him, and Ambrose tilts his head up, peering down at me from his nose. “Seven days, and then you’re willing to leave me alone?”

“Ha. Here I thought we were getting along,” I smile, throwing his words against him this time. “But yes, you have my word.” I gather my dress and dip into a bow, mimicking him as he did in Italy. He’s already rubbed off on me, and as I look up at him, he bunches his lips together in slight amusement. Sighing, he sticks out his hand and as I shake it his grip is firm, squeezing tightly. “Deal,” he murmurs just loud enough for me to hear over the wind that grazes past us. Two deals in one day. I wonder if we’ll make any more.

His grip loosens, but his hand lingers in mine, and as we wordlessly stand facing each other, the feeling of electricity, of sensing him runs through me, more intense from his touch. My mind races, sorting through all that I’ve learned in less than a day. The ghost story was true, in a way, and I discovered the second biggest thing in my life of supernatural power, aside from my own. That there is someone like me, that I’m not the only person the universe seems to have granted their gift to.

That his name is Ambrose, and we don’t just share the same teleportation ability, but now we share some special bond. The kind where I can go to him, which is not something I’ve been able to do with a person before, just a place. But also that he might be some villain, or is one, and can use our connection to track me at any time, something that poses serious danger.

For my sake, I have to befriend him, to convince him to sway away from whatever reasons he has to steal, to be someone I won’t live in fear of being connected to. Not that he’s ever scared me. Only one thing has ever really scared me; the understanding that I would never be understood, to be destined for loneliness. And now I have a chance to change that destiny.

I didn’t realize how close I had moved to Ambrose, or what the words were that he had spoken. “I’m sorry, what?”

He smiles, one dimple appearing on his cheek as he speaks softly. “Goodbye, raven. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.” He takes out the black face mask from his cloak's inside pocket and puts it on, his whole face covered again. His hand is still in mine as he raises the back of my hand to his mask’s plastic lips, pressing against it in a fake kiss.

Then he’s gone, leaving me alone to feel slightly dizzy in the field. I force myself to breathe deeply, placing my hand to my heart, feeling it beat loudly against my chest. For the first time in a while, I feel hope surge through me. It’s a new beginning. A new, maybe more-than a friend. A ghost no longer.

(Author's name: CCG)

Jane

I have long fallen in love with my cozy little cottage, sitting just right outside the skirts of a lively, bountiful forest. Softly humming a little tune, I thinly slice the freshly baked loaf of bread sitting on my kitchen counter. The toasty smell wafting in the air summons deep rumbling sounds from my empty stomach. My mouth waters as I spread a generous amount of light, velvety butter on my bread

Just as I am about to wolf down my buttered bread, I hear panicked shouts right outside my door. Slightly disappointed, I snatch a slice and rush out the door.

A young boy, anxiously crouched over the limp figure of what appears to be a young girl, is desperately crying out for help.

Dear god.

Upon noticing that the two children are severely malnourished, I rush forward and crouch down. I am shocked by the cuts and bruises covering their thin, tiny bodies, but I am forced to collect myself to address the most pressing matter at hand.

I look into the boy’s eyes and give him a comforting nod, “Don’t worry, I’m here to help.”

Upon hearing the word “help”, the young boy promptly faints with relief written all over his face.

What a strong, caring child.

With as much strength as I can muster, I carry each child into my humble abode. I slowly trickle some water into their mouths until both of them regain consciousness, “Shh, shh. Don’t speak, please try to stay calm and just eat.”

I use two fingers to pull off bite-sized pieces from my fluffy bread and gently stuff each piece into each of their mouths, one at a time.

“There we go, you guys are doing great!”

At last, the color has begun to flow back to their faces.

I lift the children into my bed, and I quietly tuck them in. The muffled cries of my grumbling stomach and the lonely, half-eaten loaf of bread end up forgotten as, overcome with exhaustion, I collapse onto the ground.

Ren

The body sitting and resting on my back feels as light as a corpse. I’m even more worried about the fact that Em hasn’t said a word for the past few hours, behavior that is drastically different from her usual talkative self. But her silence is understandable, considering our circumstances. Only a few days ago, we both decided to run away from our orphanage without so much as a morsel of a plan in mind.

We may be starving and looking death in the eye but I don’t regret my decision at all, and I’m certain Em feels the same. The “orphanage” was more like a match factory disguised as a home for orphans; the “caretakers” trained all of us how to handle the matches without regard for our safety at all. Em and I would’ve been able to endure it all if not for the horrendous disease that was rapidly spreading throughout the den. They called it phossy jaw. And little Mary was the very first victim. The sight of her violently shuddering on the floor with a swollen, decomposing jaw before drawing her final breath has been burned into my mind, haunting me to this very day. I refuse to let Em fall victim to the same demon. She was my ray of sunshine, my only source of comfort in that hellhole.

Despite the burning pain flaring up from my bony feet, I trudge forward one step at a time, telling myself one step forward is one step closer to freedom. When I see the distant lump sticking up from the ground gradually enlarge as I step forth, adrenaline rushes into my veins and I muster what little strength I have left to sprint towards it. My heart is thudding fast and loud as a drum, and I haven’t had enough water to sweat but I can feel the heat rising to my head.

As I near the door, I pause mid-step.

Wait a second. I don’t feel her breaths anymore.

Up until now, Em’s soft breathing had tickled my neck like a feather, and my notice of its absence sends my heart six feet under. I slowly set Em down on the ground and I check for heart beats, breathing, anything indicative of life. My heart drops even further.

No, there’s no way. We’ve already come so far. It can’t be…

I cry out in anguish and let out a guttural scream, a desperate plea for help.

As if to answer my cries, an angel descends from the heavens and gifts me the comfort of her aid, ““Don’t worry, I’m here to help.”

Please. Please save us. Please save Em.

And my world is suddenly sucked into a pitch-black darkness.

Ren

“Please, Miss Jane, let us help out around the house!,” I plead, “You already let us stay here free of charge, and you refuse to accept so much as a few words of gratitude, the least we can do is pull our own weight!”

Em eagerly nods in agreement, eyes full of energy and brimming with joy, “You’ve taken such good care of us for the past few days, and you’ve even offered us a place to stay, we are more than willing to offer our aid!”

Flustered, but evidently pleased to see the improvement in our health, Jane gives us each a light pat on the head, “Well, if you two insist.”

I grin, “You won’t be sorry, miss, I promise we’ll be useful. We’re willing to do anything if it means we can help you!”

Jane laughs, but I catch a hint of worry in her eyes, “My dear children, while I appreciate your help, you mustn't make such promises to just anybody.”

“Oh, but Miss Jane, you aren’t just anybody!”

Jane affectionately ruffles my hair with a warm, glowing smile, “That’s nice to hear, dear Ren, thank you for your kind words.”

But it’s true.. you saved our lives.

At this moment, I make a solemn vow.

To protect Jane, no matter the cost. To protect every hair on her head, from her cozy, fireplace smile to her cheery little hum.

Jane

It’s only been a year and I’m already used to living with my two little helpers, Ren and Em. They fill my little home with so much life and joy that it feels as though they have been here from the very start. I absentmindedly wrap my fingers around the wooden handle of my pitcher to fill some glasses with water, and end up pouring out some air.

I sheepishly turn my head to look around only to discover that both children have witnessed my embarrassing slip of the mind.

I sigh, “Please forget what you just saw.”

Ren and Em, visibly suppressing giggles, vigorously nod several times and burst out the door with half-eaten loaves sticking out of their mouths. I can hear their giggles pass through the door to dance in my ears like a musical tune, and I can’t help but grin.

I slide a rope through the handle of the pitcher and secure the two ends in a tight knot, then slip on the makeshift necklace.

I call out, “Ren! Em! I’m heading into the forest to refill the water, alright?”

Em rushes back in through the door to cling onto me with a hug, “Miss Jane, why don’t you let Ren and I do it? You should stay here to rest!”

I pat her on the head, “Thank you for the offer, but I can’t let you two do all of the work, can I?”

Upon seeing words of protest beginning to form in Ren's mouth, I quickly hush him, “Besides, it’s quite unhealthy to stay inside all the time. I’d like to get some fresh air every once in a while. Don’t worry, my dears, I’ll be back in no time!”

Jane

Humming, I lower the mouth of the pitcher into a gurgling stream and wait for a rush of cool water to flood in.

I notice some movement out of the corner of my eye but I choose not to pay it any heed, dismissing it as a wild creature or gust of wind.

I should gather some berries for jam…

With more water slipping out than rushing into my pitcher, I set it aside and cup my hands to drink straight from the stream.

The sensation of cool, refreshing liquid blessing my dry throat only leaves it begging for more.

“Nnngh!”

A sharp pain abruptly pierces my chest and my body is thrown backwards into the rough bark of a looming tree. A concerningly dark cloud of smoke is emitting from the throbbing point of pain on my chest and my vision blurs as I start to feel a little woozy.

I shudder in response to a booming voice in my head that shakes my soul to its very core, commanding me to “SLEEEEEEEEEP.”

Em

The light, tapping footsteps approaching the door spark excitement in my heart, and I dash over to the door to greet Miss Jane.

I creak open the door and run, barefooted, through the dirt to throw my arms around her neck, “Miss Jane, what happened? It’s pitch-black outside and we were worried sick!”

A sickeningly sweet voice trickles out of Miss Jane’s mouth, and a shiver runs down my spine, “My sweet, sweet child, there’s no need to worry about me. I assure you, I am perfectly fine. Look, I have the water right here!”

Something doesn’t feel right.

“M-Miss Jane? Are you sure you are feeling fine?”

Come on, Em, what’s wrong with you? How could you even think of doubting Miss Jane?

I shake my head at myself, but I fail to control my shaking limbs.

Miss Jane smiles and puts her hands on my shoulders, “Of course. My dear Em, why don’t you call me mother? I don’t mean to impose but I truly see you as my very own daughter.”

I freeze in shock, and a warm fuzzy feeling starts to melt away at my irrational suspicions, “Miss Jane…”

I hear a soft creak behind me and the smell of Ren’s chicken soup fills the air. Ren must’ve overheard our conversation, because he’s standing in the doorway with his jaw hanging.

*SMACK*

My stinging cheek causes tears to uncontrollably well up in my eyes. The warm, snug feeling that had filled my heart slipped out through the fresh cracks.

I look up in disbelief with a hand on my cheek, “M-Miss Jane?”

Ren put himself between me and Miss Jane, “Miss Jane, please calm down and let us right our wrongs. What have we done to anger you?”

“Please, call me mother,” replies a sugary voice dripping out from a twitching smile.

“M-m-,” Ren starts, but is interrupted by a harsh outcry.

Miss Jane, doubling over as though she were punched in the guts, let out a soft groan, “GO AWAY! GET OUT OF MY SIGHT!”

Jane

I-I can’t control my body. It feels as though I’m a stranger in my own body… and my presence is being forced aside by another one.

This other… “being”... seems to have access to the entirety of my past memories…

The demon in me drags my feet forth while lugging along the increasingly light pitcher of water, leaving a wet trail behind.

Though I remain a spectator of my physical form, I can tell that the perpetrator is becoming increasingly comfortable in my body, a disturbing thought that further alienates me from my own flesh. I can sense the demon’s intense craving for life essence, as the energy is gradually sucked out of my soul.

And then it hits me. Oh god. The children. I have to protect the children. I have to fight for control.

I struggle and try to wrestle down the conflicting presence in my mind, and I must’ve taken it by surprise because, to my elation, I am able to take back control. My excitement and relief is unfortunately interrupted by the excruciatingly painful sensation spreading throughout my body at an alarming rate. My momentary display of weakness gave the devil a chance to snatch back control, and so I am once again a mere witness of my corpse.

I fight with all my might but can only gather enough strength to regain control for mere seconds at a time.

As my home comes into view, I am forced to make a decision.

If I use my short moments of control to explain my situation or tell the children to run away, they will only insist on staying to help me out. I refuse to put them in such a dangerous situation. I must scare them off so they will run away of their own accord.

Ren

Em, with her sweet but wary smile, cautiously approaches Jane with a steaming hot cup of honey lemon tea. The sweet and citrusy fragrant is soothing but also acidic, like the calm before a storm.

“M-mother, Ren and I made this tea just for you!,” Em accidentally trips over a crack in the floor, causing some of the hot liquid to spill over the edge of the delicate cup, into her quivering hands.

“EM! Are you alright!?,” I dash to her side and cradle her hand in mine, “Let’s run it through the cold stream.”

Jane’s head whips towards our direction, “YOU CLUMSY, FILTHY BRAT! You better stay here to clean up the mess!”

Em, slightly trembling, wobbles into my arms and starts to sob, “R-Ren… what did I do wrong?”

“Nothing, Em, you didn’t do anything wrong,” I tightly wrap my arms around her and lightly stroke her hair to calm her down.

What went wrong? We’ve already gotten this far away from the match factory. So why? Why haven’t we been freed? What more must we do to secure our freedom? Our safety?

I should’ve known it was all just a facade. The whole situation was simply too good to be true. I was a fool to think that Miss Jane would be any different from the other adults. She only wants us here to work for her.

Jane

It pains me to see the devastation and betrayal swimming in Ren and Em’s eyes, but I must force myself to harden my heart if I am to save their lives.

I am using every single drop of strength I have to keep the devil in check, but I can feel its growing thirst for the young lives that are constantly within arms’ reach. So far, the devil has resorted to countering my efforts by using honeyed words to convince the children to stay. But such trickery can only go so far. Love and trust must be earned, and once they are lost, they are not easily regained.

The thought relieves me, but it saddens me all the same. It seems I still have a long way to go before I become selfless enough to completely close off my heart. Despite knowing that everything I am doing is for the sake of the children, the selfish side of me just wants to spend what little time I have left in control of myself with them as their mother.

Though, ironically, the idea was devised by the devil to fool the children into staying, I have come to find the idea rather endearing after giving it some thought. Truly, Ren and Em are like my very own children, and I love them with all my heart.

Oh, what I would give just to hear them call me “mother” one time. Just once, for real, and to me.

Sigh…I’m getting weaker by the day. My body is increasingly slipping out of my control… I have to think of a solution before I am forced to give in to the devil…

A little voice that I have long pushed to the back of my mind called out, “Oh but there is a way to protect the children.”

I know… I know what I must do, but I can’t bring myself to do it…not yet… not while there’s still hope.

Em

Snuggly huddled in bed with Ren, I turn to face him, “Ren, I’m scared.”

“Me too, Em, me too…,” Ren sighs, and I can hear the exhaustion in his voice, though it’s too dark for me to see his expression.

“Did something happen to Mi—I mean mother?,” I ask in a shaky voice, “She was so kind and sweet before…”

“No, Em. She was never kind or sweet. It was all an act.”

I try to hold back my tears, but I can’t hide the tremble in my voice, “D-do you really believe that?”

I can hear the regret in Ren’s voice, “Oh Em, please don’t cry, everything is going to be alright, I promise.”

His words of comfort only serve to break my fragile dam, and the falls come pouring out.

To my astonishment, rather than embrace me in an attempt to calm me down, Ren joins me, and we mourn together.

Ren

All of this started the night Jane came back from the forest with the pitcher of water…I wonder what possessed her to show her true colors. Perhaps she felt that after gaining our trust, we wouldn’t dare to leave her side no matter how poorly she treats us. She speaks sweet nothings to us and hands them out like candy, but I refuse to be fooled.

I let myself get lost in my thoughts while drowning in silent tears until I finally drift off to sleep.

My consciousness dissolves into a blinding flash of light and the silhouette of a strangely familiar figure slowly emerges from the curtain of radiance.

“Miss Jane?”

I see Jane comfortably seated in a soft field of grass while affectionately watching Em, who is grinning from ear to ear, jumping and twirling in circles without a care in the world. Em enthusiastically runs into her arms, and giggles in glee, “Mother, why don’t we collect some flowers to make some tea?”

Jane crouches and lightly squeezes Em’s hands, “That sounds wonderful, Em.”

A hooded figure with black feathered wings suddenly flickers into view and wraps its arms around Jane’s waist.

Jane’s eyes widen and she aggressively kicks at the mysterious abductor. The towering wings begin to flap and Em wails as she grips onto Jane’s hand so tightly that her knuckles turn bone-white. Despite her efforts, Jane’s fingers inevitably slip out of Em’s hands. As the two approach the clouds, Jane closes her eyes as though resigning to her fate.

I break out of my frozen stance and yell, “Mother, come back! You’re getting too close to the sun!”

The stygian figure shoots up with Jane in their arms, and the wings burst into flames. In the blink of an eye, the two descend in the form of ashes raining down from the sky.

Jane

I’m running out of time. I’ve been stalling for long enough.

The shimmering, teardrop stars spread across the dark veil over the once sunny skies call me forth, into the abyss.

It’s time…

I wrap my feeble life force around my soul to bind it to my body once more. The burning flames scorching my soul are nothing compared to the feeling of having my heart shattered into innumerable pieces.

I crack the door open as quietly as possible, but pause a half-step out the door. In spite of better judgment, I slip back into the house and step across the floor on my toes to peek into Ren and Em’s room.

They look so peaceful.

I smile melancholically as I watch the bodies slowly rise and fall with each deep breath. And then I notice their tear-stained eyes and soaking wet pillows. The sight of their sorrow tears apart my heart but it also steels my resolve.

Without further hesitation, I step out the door and fall under the mercy of the night sky. In a trance, I return to the home of the devil, heading deeper and deeper into the looming trees. My bone-deep pain continues to grow as I near the stream where I was cursed.

I step into the burning cold of the running water and I follow the direction of flow. It feels as though I am walking on a trail of sharp shards of ice, but each step lifts a ton off my shoulders and lightens the load on my shredded heart.

The devil is fiercely clawing at me from the inside, but I have never felt so at ease. I hum softly with the whooshing water and harmonious chirps that pinch the biting cold of the air and cut through the otherwise dead silence of the night.

I can tell that I’m nearing the end when I start to hear rushing water crash into the rocky earth far down below. The rumbling drums tell me the falls are waiting for my arrival, and I quicken my pace to reach them.

I sprint with the current as I am drawn in by the chasm beckoning me forth. When my feet finally reach the edge, I curl my toes and free my soul.

I jump.

At last, my fallen heart has been gifted the wings to soar once more.

Etta closes the front door quietly, and with a shaking hand she reaches up and gently places the security chain into its receiver. She slides it to the right, and through the small window beside the door she watches as the two who brought her home pull out of her driveway.

The young quarterback and his oh-so-pretty girlfriend.

As the two drive off in Mr. All-American's pickup, a crooked smile works its way across the old woman’s wrinkled face. Her posture changes and she stands much straighter and taller than the hunched and mild-mannered little-old-lady who had fainted at the ceremony. The twinkle in her eye is not a pleasant one.

She crosses the foyer, walking toward the cellar door, and her quiet laughter is swallowed by the yellowing walls; its sinister chill is only heard by the grandfather clock she passes on her way.

"That was easier than I had hoped." This comment is made to herself, or maybe to some other inhabitant only she can see.

She opens the door and peers down the flight of steps which descend into darkness. Pulling on the string which hangs in the landing illuminates a single bare bulb in the small cellar below; her sharp shadow follows her down the stairs.

Gone is the quaint elderly cat-lady who the world above knows as Etta--in her place is a determined middle-aged woman with a cold and calculating mind.

Twenty years she has waited, biding her time. The ancient spell had been performed and the blood sacrifice made long ago.

Ten of them had been there tonight. It wasn't yet enough, but it was a good start.

Her own short-lived time as homecoming queen, and the disastrous prom night which had devastated her life, had been a long time ago.

The class of 1980--her class; the class she vowed to exact her vengeance on--had been grown and twenty-seven of their children had been preparing to graduate the year she had come out of the coma; this had been twenty-one years ago, in the marvelous year of 1999.

She had been too weak back then to do much more than plan, but she had found a way the following year to obtain her revenge. She would punish the bloodlines of at least ten of those who had hurt her. A time-capsule would carry her hate and anger across a gulf of twenty years, and she had planned, even then, to be present when it was opened.

A pentagram is still mostly visible on the basement floor. Painted in blood, it had been fresh back then, and the ten items had been consecrated and returned to the capsule the night before it was interred for its twenty-year nap.

She had paid the price and had been promised those cursed items would be received by the proper hands; earlier tonight she had watched in silent delight as these grandchildren of her torturers selected the items, one by one.

Her prom date in the long-ago year of 1980 had been Milton Frye, and she owed him the biggest payback of all. His son Peter had gone on to be a backup tight end for the school's football team and had donated his championship jersey to the time-capsule.

That jersey was now in the hands of Milton's grandson, Thomas.

Mr. All-American himself.

The thought of him putting on the jersey brings a shiver of anticipation to the twisted woman who kneels before the faded pentagram and lights a black candle.

* * *

Thomas shifts the truck into fourth gear as he climbs the freeway on-ramp. Allison scoots over next to him and places her hand on his thigh. She starts to move it slowly toward the inside of his leg.

"Damn it, Allison! You know I can't until after the game!" He watches a small smile flicker across her perfect lips. She is teasing him on purpose. "Look, you can walk home if you can't stop." Her sly little smile turns into a pout, and she slides away from him.

"Whatever. You'll wish you'd let me keep going later."

He is about ready to end things with her. She's hot, and really popular, but she's also dumber than a box of turnips, as his Grandma would have said. A great body and perfect lips can only let a guy overlook the rest for so long.

She turns on the radio and stares out through the passenger window as she begins to sing along.

Damn! Her voice is yet another reason to end it. She may look like a million bucks, but she sounds like a cat in heat. A suffering cat being forcibly taken by a big old tom.

This thought brings a smile to his face. "Hey, Alli…"

"What." Not a question, but a whiny demand for attention. He is really beginning to wonder what he ever saw in her.

"Who sings this song?"

"Duh. Final Spasm."

"Can we keep it that way?" He tries, unsuccessfully, not to laugh.

"You’re a friggin' jerk."

He takes the exit for the west side of town, where she lives. It isn't as nice as Maple Heights, but then his parents have been here their whole lives; Alli's folks had only moved here a couple years ago.

Thomas leans his head out and looks into the side mirror. "I may be a jerk, but I look good doing it."

"Whatever." Her favorite word.

He stops at the bottom of the off-ramp and thinks about spinning his wheels onto the surface street. Luckily for him, he spots the cop coming down the road and quickly changes his mind.

Allison turns to face him. "So, are you going to feed me, or what?"

Her voice is seriously beginning to grate on his nerves even more. "Sure. You can have the best they offer at the drive-thru window." He knows she hates fast food, but he's tired and just wants to go home.

"Ugh. Just take me home!" The whine has become almost that of a spoiled kindergartner.

"Fine." He congratulates himself on making it her idea as he turns toward her neighborhood. "If that's what you really want."

He pulls up in front of her house and stops in the street with the motor running. The look on Allison's face is priceless. She finally opens the door and angrily climbs out. She spins and faces him with one hand on the door.

"I hate you, Thomas Frye! I hope you die and rot in hell!"

He just blows her a kiss. She slams the door in his face and turns around. She is crying and covers her face as she runs to her front door.

As he pulls away, Thomas reaches back and grabs the jersey from behind the seat. "Yeah maybe, sweetheart, but not today."

* * *

Thomas pulls his truck into the garage and kills the engine. He pushes the button to close the garage door and leans over, picking up the jersey from where it sits next to him. It's still a little amazing he found it.

Holding it up, he turns it around to read the back. There on the shiny blue shoulder panel, bright white letters spell out the name FRYE and below that, the number 17 - his dad's old number. His whole life he has heard stories about the only game his dad ever started in high school. Closing his eyes, he can hear his dad's voice and almost see the game unfold.

--["There I was. The regular tight end, Mort Jacobs, helped get us to the state finals, but his appendix decided to pick this final game of the year to burst. That's why I was on the field that day." Thomas can hear the crowd in the stands and smell the dirt and sweat from the players on the field.]--

Thomas knows the excitement of starting a game, but to start in the game for the state championship--that must have been amazing. He has often looked through his dad's old yearbook at the team photo. His dad, sitting in the bottom row, looked younger than Thomas looks now.

#17 Peter Frye.

--[Thomas watches through his dad’s eyes as the quarterback fades back, looking for a receiver. Oh no! The other team is blitzing! He thinks fast and fakes a move against the safety. Two steps later he is past the only guy between him and pay-dirt. He glances back to let the quarterback know he is open, and he sees him release the ball. It is going to be close. The ball is pushed ahead of his pattern, and he knows that this is it. This play makes or breaks the game.]--

Thomas can feel the adrenaline coursing through his body as he sits in the cab of the truck. He has the jersey scrunched up in his hands and his face is buried in the cloth. With each breath, he inhales more of the past, and he relives it in vivid detail.

--[The score is tied, and the clock is inside one minute. As he crosses the thirty-yard line, he puts on the last burst of speed he has left in him. Turning his head back, he spots the ball. The safety is running hard behind him, but he has at least a four-step lead. The world slows to a crawl, and he tracks the ball as it sails in a perfect spiral toward the spot where he will meet it. It never leaves his line of sight as it floats gently into his arms, and he never misses a step. He secures the ball, clutching it tighter than he has ever held a girl, and looks back up-field. There are only three lines between him and that elusive yellow mark. Mentally he counts off the yards. 15... 10... 5... and then he's there. He breaks the plane of the end zone and the world catches back up to him.]--

Sitting in the quiet garage, Thomas throws his fists into the air. His eyes are still closed, and he is still somewhere else.

--[The state championship, 2000. The Millennium game. His teammates join him in the end zone as the final buzzer sounds. They have won 20-14 and are now the new state champions. Never mind that he hasn't started a single game all year; at that moment, he is the hero. His last second catch for the win will be the highlight of his football career, his high school years and in many ways, the rest of his boring life.]--

Thomas opens his eyes, and they slowly focus on the interior of the truck. This lucky jersey made that trip into his dad's personal history, and now it belongs to him. Getting out of the truck, Thomas gently folds the dirty, torn jersey and with tender, almost reverent care he places it inside his Letterman's coat.

He had been prepared to show it to his parents when he got home, but now he isn't so sure. What if they want to keep it? It's HIS now, and they can't have it!

Thomas feels his anxiety lessen as he zips his coat, knowing the jersey is safe and secure next to his chest.

What he doesn't realize is it is now almost midnight, and his parents have gone to bed. Thomas has been home, parked in the garage, for almost two hours.

* * *

"Frye! What is your major malfunction?!"

Thomas blinks and realizes he has dropped the snap again.

Coach Riley "Bulldog" Barker lives up to his name. The angrier he gets, the more like a barking dog he sounds. "We are playing Turner High this week, and you are dropping the ball like a little girl with an ugly cat!"

Thomas, along with every other varsity player on the team, learned long ago not to try and figure out the Bulldog's similes. They rarely made any sense at all. "Sorry, Coach." Thomas puts on his most sincere face. "I'll do better."

"You better!" The coach seems to gather himself. He walks up and puts his head against the helmet Thomas wears. "Look, Frye, you are my starter; you’re my go-to guy. I'm counting on you to carry this team on to its first winning season in four years. You gotta pull it together, son."

"I will coach."

The problem is he can't seem to focus his thoughts today. All he keeps thinking about is his jersey. He hid #17 in the top of his closet, but he keeps thinking his mom found it, and took it--which is stupid; she hasn't gone into his room in years. Not since that little incident when he was fourteen, and she walked in without knocking, while he was surfing his favorite Internet sites--that's a memory Thomas doesn't care to recall. What if she decided to put away the laundry? She normally leaves it folded on the table outside the bedroom door, but what if she decided today, it was time to hang something up?

"Dude!"

Thomas looks around and realizes everyone in the huddle is looking at him, waiting for him to call the play.

"Uh, Flying G, on 3."

"Huh? Thomas, what the hell? We haven't used that pattern since like third grade!"

Thomas steps back, and signals for a time-out.

Coach Barker is flabbergasted. "Frye! This is a practice! We don't have time-outs in practice!" The Bulldog is beginning to turn red around the collar and his voice has crept upward on the canine meter again.

In his mind's eye, Thomas sees his dad as he decides to go for a run. He starts to tie his shoe, but the lace breaks. Suddenly he recalls Thomas has a couple pairs of sneakers, and they are probably in his closet. Surely, he won't mind his old dad borrowing a pair of laces. And Hey! What is this? Why, it's his old high school jersey! Thomas watches in horror as his dad tries to put on the jersey and rips a seam out trying to pull it over his stupid fat stomach.

He begins to feel nauseous, and while he can see Bulldog is screaming something at him, he no longer even hears the coach. Instead, he turns and throws his lunch up all over his shoes.

"Oh, you gotta be kidding me!" The cords are standing out in Bulldog's neck as he turns around and throws his clipboard at the bench. "This is worse than grandma and her jellybeans!"

The team splits away from Thomas and the steaming pile of what used to be spaghetti.

"Frye! Hit the showers! Wilson! You’re in at QB, so get your hands out of your jock and put on the red shirt!"

As Thomas slowly walks toward the locker room, he doesn't notice the old lady standing in the shadows next to the small stadium's gate; neither he, nor anyone else, sees her malicious grin.

* * *

"Tommy! Dinner is ready!"

Gabrielle Frye turns from the bottom of the stairs and wipes her hands on her apron again as she makes her way toward the kitchen. Her kitchen is immaculate. She has made dinner for her husband and son, and her maid Natasha has been behind her, cleaning every surface she has touched the whole time. Gabby can see her reflection in the front of the stove as she carries the serving tray into the dining room.

Her husband Peter is seated at the table already, his Kindle is standing on its tripod to the side of his plate, and he is reading intently. "Something smells delicious, Gabs." He says this without looking away from the gadget.

Gabby smiles her indulgent smile and sets the big serving dish down on the tablecloth. She loves her family, but she loves her house even more. The table is an antique and the tablecloth itself is 1200 count linen. It is beautiful with sparkling cut crystal glassware, china plates and sterling silver flatware, polished after every use.

She sits down and daintily places her napkin on her lap. "Peter, you are going to have to talk to Tommy. He has been cooped up in his room all day. Something must have happened."

"Nonsense, Gabs, the boy is just being a teenager. He's fine."

As if on cue, the object of their discussion comes through the arched entrance from the hall. This is a very different looking Thomas from the boy she sent off to school. His eyes are bloodshot, there are lines on his forehead and his hair is a complete mess.

"Are you feeling okay Tommy?"

"I'm fine, Mother." This last word is stretched and sounds ugly coming from his mouth.

"Do you have a fever?" Gabby turns her head toward the kitchen. "Natasha, bring the thermometer from the master bathroom. I think Tommy has a fever, and I need you to find out."

"I said I'm fine!" Thomas slams his hand down on the table.

"Now Thomas, really." Peter turns his Kindle off. "Your mother is just being a mom. There's no need to get all anxious, son."

Thomas looks at his father, and the venom in his eyes is obvious to Gabby. She is almost afraid of this version of Tommy.

"Yes, Father." Thomas turns toward her. "I am very sorry Mother. I am fine. I do not need Natasha to take my temperature." His voice is now quiet, but cold.

"Well, good." As Natasha enters with the digital thermometer in hand, Gabby waves her off and she backs out of the room. "Now, Tommy dear, I hope you are hungry. I prepared your favorite." She smiles as she reaches out and lifts the lid from the serving dish. "Spaghetti!"

Thomas jumps backwards, almost toppling his chair in his haste to get away from the table. "You did this!" He screams at both his parents, who sit and stare at him dumbfounded. "You are trying to get me out of the way now, is that it?" Small flecks of spittle are flying from his mouth as he screams, and his eyes have become those of a trapped and wild animal. "Well, it's not gonna work, do you hear me? It's mine! You had your chance, and now it belongs to me! Just leave me alone!" He throws the beautiful mahogany chair at the wall and runs up the stairway, slamming his bedroom door. The click of the lock is the only sound left in the house below.

Gabby turns and stares at her husband.

"See?" Peter gives a small smile and reaches for the spaghetti. "Teenagers! There's just no living with them."

* * *

Thomas doesn't quite know what to do. He has locked the door, thrown the deadbolt and placed his chair in front of it, balanced at a forty-five-degree angle, the back firmly under the doorknob. He checks the window locks again.

They aren't getting in - I should have known it was them!

Sitting down on his bed, Thomas gently spreads the jersey out on the blanket next to him.

I knew he would be jealous! He had his day in the sun; it’s only fair that I get mine too!

He can see himself wearing #17 in the sunshine as he throws the game winning pass. He can even hear the announcer's voice.

--["Frye takes three steps back... scrambling out of the pocket to his right... and... Oh! That was close, the right tackle almost had him! Thomas arcs away to his left... Here comes a huge defender! Frye extends to his left... he spins on his left foot... He pulls back and throws a missile across his body as he goes down!" It's a 65-yard bomb, right at a pair of defenders matching his wide receiver stride for stride. Before he hits the ground, Thomas sees the ball spin its way between the opponents. It finds the only spot it fits, without being batted away.]--

He closes his eyes as the wind is knocked out of him, but from the sound of the crowd, he knows he did it! His receiver tucked it home and rolled into the end-zone headfirst.

The jersey chose ME! Not you!

He glares as he looks toward the floorboard and the people he calls parents.

I used to think you loved me! I finally see you both for who and what you really are. You probably planned this all from the day I was born. I'm not even a son to you, just a means to an end; a way for you to get the jersey back after you abandoned it to that vault. It didn't deserve that!

Thomas rips his tee shirt over his head, picks up the jersey and pulls it on. He scoots back onto his bed and reaches under the pillow.

Let's see them take it from me now!

The blade on the machete--stolen from the gardener's shed--shines bright and clean in the glow of the overhead light. The glow in his eyes, however, is a malevolent and deadly orange.

* * *

Steve Burdwell leans his forehead against the side of the ambulance and tries to breathe. He has been riding around in this meat wagon for fifteen years, and he's never faced a scene like this.

The kid in the back of the police car out front is some special kind of monster. He is just sitting out there, covered in blood and gore; handcuffed, he keeps rocking back and forth, saying what sounds like "Flying G in a tree."

The lights may be on, but Burdwell doubts there's anybody home. Anybody sane, anyway; no sane person could have done what this boy has.

The parents--what’s left of them anyway--are on the dining room table. Parts of the live-in maid are on the stove; more are in the oven.

It's hard to say exactly how long it has been since he chopped them up, but from the insects swarming the place and the dried texture of the blood spatters on every surface in sight, it has been at least a week.

Steve would have been fine cleaning the mess up. He could handle blood, vomit, piss and shit; hell, he could handle almost anything. At least he used to think so. Before he saw bites had been taken out of most of the pieces of flesh... many, many bites.

* * *

Thomas sits quietly on the bunk in the small, padded cell. His arms are tightly bound around him, the straight-jacket buttoned, snapped and tied-up tight. On his face is a slack expression, and there is no light in his eyes now. Over the straight jacket is draped an old dirty jersey. It was the only way they got him to stop screaming.

--[He smacks his helmet hard and joins his teammates as they run out onto the field. Looking up he sees the game clock stands at 1:25, his team is behind 24 - 20, and it is fourth down. Now or never time. He steps into the final huddle and joins his brothers for a heroic last-ditch attempt. They are at their own 35-yard line, and it looks hopeless.]--

"Frye! Thomas Frye!" The orderly gets no sign of recognition from Thomas. The doctors are calling it catatonia. "You better hope you never come back, you evil son-of-a-bitch. This is a death penalty state, and you got three of them to serve."

--[Thomas steps up to the line, and as the ball is snapped, he can hear the announcer's voice: "Frye takes three steps back... scrambling out of the pocket to his right... and... Oh! That was close, the right tackle almost had him!"]--

As the orderly leaves, the tray of food sits and grows cold on the floor of the padded room.

------------------------

©2023 - dustygrein

Cara Davis

Rain gently knocks against the pane of glass separating me from the bustling London street. My toes curl deeper into the soft blanket and my fingers tighten against crisp, paper edges. My traitorous heart tells me this is the story I want. But it can only be the story I read. Besides, true love, any love, leads to pain. Love shreds hearts. It destroys them. So why do I want it so badly? Hadn’t I learned from last time?

I snap the book shut, my heart aching. The scent of cinnamon and vanilla wafts through the air from the small candle on my nightstand. Why do I keep reading this book? It only makes me remember.

Darcy’s words tumble through my mind. I’m sorry, Cara… I thought I loved you…

Love is cruel. Love is a lie. Love shreds hearts and it destroys them.

***

Cara Davis

The quiet fall morning brings peace to my tormented soul. The scent of coffee and freshly baked scones floats from the small shop across the street. People walk up and down the little sidewalk of my apartment. Children laugh, it’s bubbly, and light. They don’t know what pain is yet. Then there are the couples, giggling and holding hands. Why the pretense? Don’t they know love can never last?

The pain in my chest worsens and I tear my gaze from the strangers holding hands. I munch angrily on my croissant. People are so daft. So blatantly daft.

A door squeaks open and shut and I look over my shoulder. My head snaps back. Not him. Not again. My new neighbor had moved in nearly 6 months ago. He claimed he traveled the world and never stayed in one place for more than six months. He was daft, too. Always talking about life and its wonderous pathways to adventure.

“Cara!” he shouts with a grin in his voice. “Cara Davis!”

I hide my cringe as I turn. “Good morning, Andrew,” I say curtly.

The morning sun catches his blonde hair, briefly turning it gold. His grin broadens. “Indeed it is! I’m off to find adventure in London!”

That’s so very American of him. Andrew seems to think adventure is just around the next corner. He is perfectly adorable. But wondrously daft in the noggin.

“Do enjoy yourself.” I take a sip of tea, hoping he’d take it as his cue to vanish into thin air.

“Thanks.” Another grin. I wonder if his eyes are sparkling. I look up briefly, straight into the blue depths. I quickly turn away. Yup. Sparkly. “What’s on your agenda for today?”

I struggle to keep from grating my teeth. “Tea. A book. Cat time.” I steal a glance at him. Cats were always a big turn-off, maybe he’d leave me alone.

Something in his chiseled features soften and I realize I’d made a huge mistake. “That sounds like an adventure all in itself.” He nods his head to me. “I do hope you enjoy it.” He goes to turn away, but then stops himself. “Just remembered something.” Suddenly he looks nervous. “Since we’re neighbors and all, I wanted to give you this….” He sets a slip of paper on the bench next to me. Then he’s gone.

I stare at it a moment before I pick it up and read its contents. It’s his number. My stomach fills with acid. It burns and pushes up my throat. I remind myself of the things I’d learned. It’s the only way to keep myself protected.

Love is pain.

***

Andrew Dunn

Time is ticking away. I’d been here almost 6 months already. Surely, 3 days would be enough time to get her to agree to at least get to know me as a friend. Though I seriously doubt it. Cara had kept her walls up long before I’d come into her life. It isn’t fair. There is so much life to live, so much to enjoy, and she’s missing out on it all. So why won’t she budge? What is she so afraid of?

It hadn’t taken long after meeting her that my “adventure” in London turned dull. The realization that some people simply couldn’t live tormented me daily. I remember once, her slipping and calling me Darcy. It was then that it had dawned on me, that she’d been hurt and simply couldn’t see anyone but the jerk who’d stabbed her heart. I want to show Cara what living is really about. But she's trapped. Too asleep. What would it take to awaken the sleeping beauty?

It’s nearing evening by the time my apartment comes into view. A smile tugs at my mouth.

Cara is draped across the bench, asleep. Her dark, messy braid is flopped out behind her, and whisps frame her delicate features. My eyes drop to her hand which is still tightly clasping her tea canister and I chuckle to myself. That woman was addicted to tea. Then again, so was everyone else in London.

As I walk past her, I come to a screeching halt. What am I doing? This opportunity is way too great to pass up. What’s one more withering glare and British insult?

With a little grin, I slowly step back and swipe a leaf off the ground. It’s time to wake up, Cara Davis.

***

Cara Davis

Something tickles my nose and I brush it away. Such wonderful dreams shouldn’t be interrupted. There’s a low chuckle and my whole body stills.

I’m not in my bed.

My eyes flash open and I jerk upright. My empty canister falls to the ground and Andrew jumps back, thinking it’s full of hot liquid. But he’s grinning.

“Did you ever get around to that book? Or tea? Or cat time?” His eyes are sparkling. I look away.

“I didn’t,” I admit. My eyes drift to the skyline and my stomach drops. It was nearing evening. Or maybe the sky was only dark because of the clouds. Distant thunder rumbles.

“Hmmm,” he muses, eyeing me over. “You don’t get out much, do you?”

“You’ve been my neighbor for how long, again?” I toss him an incredulous look.

He laughs. “True that. I haven’t seen you leave once except to go to the coffee shop for croissants.” Something flickers over his face, and his eyes lighten as though he discovered an answer to something. “Would you be interested in joining me for coffee tomorrow morning? On me, of course.”

My muscles go tight. Painfully tight. I can’t look at him.

“Thank you for the offer, but no.” My lips tighten. If he only wanted a friendship, he wouldn’t have given me his number and then asked me out to coffee on the same day. No. He wanted more than that.

“You’re scared,” he blurts, face completely serious. It suddenly turns crimson when he sees me cringe. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”

I grab my fallen canister and stand abruptly. “No need for apologies, sir. Good day.” I turn briskly and start walking to my apartment. He jogs after me.

“Am I right, though?” he asks.

I grit my teeth. When would he get the message? I fumble for my key as I near my door and he jumps in front of me. For the oddest reason, I’m not the least bit frightened. He had never done anything to make me fear him. If anything, I felt safe when I was around him. I shake the feeling away. He would just be another Darcy. Too cute for his own good, yet in the end, leave me with a dagger in my beating heart.

“Hang on,” he says softly. “I need to know before I make more of a fool of myself. You’re scared anything that becomes of us will leave you hurting. You’re scared to risk falling in love. Like you’re scared to risk a lot of things.”

My heart is roaring in my ears. How dare he make such accusations. How dare he. But I don’t feel angry at him for voicing the truth. I’m left with an empty feeling.

I watch his hand lift and feel him gently tug my braid. “It’s okay, Cara. I understand. If you ever change your mind, you have my number.” He winks and backs away, leaving me speechless.

***

Andrew Dunn

Dude! What is wrong with you? My mind is going crazy. Never tug a girl’s braid. Never. Especially when they’re high on caffeine! The dangers of that were taught to me well before I’d reached the ripe old age of twenty-five. And I’d gone and just yanked it and said something incredibly mushy. I’d been in London too long. It was the accents. It had to be the accents.

I lay in bed, my heart still pounding as I stare up at the ceiling. The truth is… I’d fallen for Cara Davis a long time ago. The moment I laid eyes on her I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my days seeking adventure with her. I just hadn’t realized how hard it would be to get through to her. Not with that shield constantly up. How can I show her the joy of living like there was no tomorrow? How can I show that to someone who only lives for tea, books, and her cat?

A wry smile tugs at my mouth as I envisioned the creature. Fluffy and overloved, it liked to watch me from Cara’s window seat while it bathed itself. Likely it thought I was an intruder who had to go.

The scent of rain drifts through the crack in my window and I bolt upright. Rain? A chuckle slips out of my mouth as I draw closer to my window. Yes! Rain! There is nothing freer than standing in the rain and letting it fall on you. If one looks directly into the sky as it rains, they can truly feel the insignificance of their life. We’re so small in this big world and I want to live my small life to the fullest extent.

***

Cara Davis

A cool breeze slips through the open window, carrying the scent of rain. I sit on my bed, thinking of the day before. It’s okay, Cara. I understand.

My throat tightens. How can he understand? He lives life like it has no tomorrow. My whole body aches to do the same. I long for the taste of that freedom.

Lily purrs as my fingers trail through her fur. My orange and white feline friend seems to be the only logical one. She has no prospects; she doesn’t want any. And she is happy. Why can’t I be happy, too? Why am I the only one struggling to find my place? To find peace? To find love?

No.

Love is a lie.

A clap of thunder shakes the apartment, and Lily yowls, jumping from the bed and out the window.

“Lily!” I shout, rushing forward. But in her mad scramble, she lunges into the yard, fearfully finding shelter under the bench. “Oh, the daft little beast!” I grunt out. Perhaps not very logical after all.

I slip on my house shoes and rush out my door just as rain dumps from the sky instantly soaking me to the core. More thunder follows the first and I shiver. Lily jumps up, darting back into the window. I let out an irritated sigh.

Before I can follow Lily’s outstanding wisdom, I hear a loud, joyous laugh and turn, not surprised to see Andrew standing outside his door.

“It’s raining!” He grins at me, and I’m filled with confusion.

“Your powers of observation are impressive, Andrew,” I call dryly. I try to make my way back to my door without slipping.

“Ah! Live a bit, Cara!” Andrew laughs again, and before I can stop him, he takes my hand and twirls me. For that brief second, the world is frozen.

My body turns hot and then everything speeds up and the rain is pouring harder than ever. I can only stare at him. At his gentle, yet somehow shy, smile. Oh, this confounded man. It is like his one goal in life is to tear away my rules.

Love leads to pain.

But did it have to?

His breath is slightly ragged, and he swallows. “We should go inside before we catch a chill,” he suggests, finally letting my hand go.

I nod numbly and flee. Daft cat.

***

Cara Davis

The water from the shower had warmed me to my core, and now I breathe in the steam from my chamomile tea, letting it swirl through my body. My book sits abandoned beside me. Why must I be like this? Why can’t I let this fear go? It’s consuming me. Drowning me. Maybe Andrew won’t be another broken heart. Maybe he’d be different.

Let this fear go, my heart begs.

No, my mind screams out. It’s not worth it! The gaping hole in my heart from Darcy’s dagger is still there, open and oozing. Another dagger would kill me.

I breathe in more steam, watching the warm glow of my candle dance shadows across my room. The freeness of its flame reminds me of Andrew. I blow the candle out.

***

Andrew Dunn

I pace my small apartment violently. Nothing can calm my nerves. Not even another random adventure in the streets of London. I had twirled Cara Dunn in the rain. In the rain! My heart is still pounding. I’m a madman, aren’t I? Wanting something that’ll never come. She isn’t going to budge. It’s like every time she looks at me all she can see is the pain that might come with a relationship. She’s frightened to take risks. How can I make her see that life is full of risks? How can I make her see that she can never truly live if she doesn’t take risks? Being alive, being safe in a bubble, that’s not living.

In those early months, I’d speak to her of all the places I’d traveled. It had been the most I’d seen her eyes dance. The idea of the freedom I had spoke to the very depths of her soul. I want to share it with her, the adventure of life.

But not today. Today, I’m the creep who dances in the rain.

I let out an agitated groan. I have to do something to get my mind off her. I grab my guitar off the wall and start strumming it. It needs tuning, so I do. After, a little song comes to mind and I start singing by my open window. Instantly, I’m sucked into my own world. But it doesn’t last. As I sing words of adventure, I can only picture Cara by my side and my heart aches to share that world with her. If that was ever going to happen I have to act fast. Time is running out. I look at the train ticket on my mantel. In one day, I’d board that train and likely never see Cara Davis again.

***

Cara Davis

Hot water floods my small tea cup and my tea bag inks the water with its golden hue. It’s raining again. Soft, instrumental music floats from my Bluetooth speaker, and somewhere Lily is pretending to be a race car. I sink into my small window seat and surround myself with plush pillows. When the rain stops, I crack my window open to feel the fresh air on my skin.

Low singing slips in alongside of the fresh air, and my heart skips a beat. Andrew is singing. His words carry like an adventurous river. He sings of the unknown. Life. Loss. Love. It tugs at my soul, and at my heart, making me want to go on a grand adventure. Not just any adventure. An adventure with Andrew.

I can hear him now, all nonchalant, and adventure in his eyes like mist from faraway mountains. “Have you made up your mind yet, love?”

And I can see me, hear my cynical words as my face turns cold, as my heart turns cold. “Love is a jar of forgotten dreams, Andrew. That’s all it’ll ever be.”

I shut my window, getting the sound of his voice out of my small apartment. I squeeze a pillow tightly as hot tears stream down my cheeks. I’m a fool for wanting something so unrealistic. Love isn’t real. It’s not like the books.

Love is cruel. Love is a lie. Love shreds hearts. It destroys them.

***

Cara Davis

It’s early morning when I hear the knock at my door. I quickly slip into my robe and answer the door. Andrew is standing there, hair messy and eyes tired.

“Good morning, Cara,” he says weakly. “I’ve been thinking a lot. I actually didn’t get much sleep last night.”

That made two of us. I hadn’t slept well since he waltzed into my life.

“Oh?” I say coyly. “What have you been thinking about?” My stomach is squeezing, and my heart is doing a strange flutter.

His eyes are pained almost, it’s a strange look I’ve never seen on him. He takes a deep breath like he’s preparing to go to battle. “I’m just going to say it,” he says tiredly, “and you can laugh at me afterward. But here goes.” He takes in another deep breath. “I hate seeing you alive but not living. There’s so much more to life. I want to show you it all. I want to show you how to live. I want to give you the world on a silver platter. You deserve more than what you have. You deserve more than this fear that keeps you bound. Come away with me, Cara. I can give you the world.” His eyes are pleading. Begging.

I don’t realize tears are running down my cheeks until a breeze brushes against them. “Andrew…” My throat is tight, too tight. The gaping hole in my heart widens as a reminder. “Andrew, that sounds… lovely. But the risk of pain isn’t worth it. For either of us.” More tears escape as I watch his heart crack right before my eyes. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, casting my eyes away.

His knuckles are white, but not from anger, not like Darcy. “Love will always be worth it, Cara. Sometimes we get hurt. Bad. But that’s a part of life. You can’t live and not get hurt. And I see it in your eyes, the longing for more. The longing for life.”

My body is completely still. I force myself to meet his endless blue eyes. “You’re right.” My voice cracks. “But the risk… It’s too high. I won’t put myself through that again. Goodbye, Andrew.” I shut the door before I can chicken out. I hear his footsteps fade away and I sink to the ground, covering my mouth to keep from sobbing loudly.

***

Andrew Dunn

The chilly London air bites my skin as I walk away from the apartments. My stomach is in knots. I feel as though I’m forgetting something.

You are, idiot. Cara Davis.

I had been right, of course. She is frightened to the core that I might destroy her heart. If only I’d had more time to show her not all risks lead to pain. But this ticket isn’t refundable. A new adventure is just around the corner. An adventure without my strange, little neighbor. Why doesn’t that sit well with me?

Because she’s a spark to a brighter flame, you giant idiot. You knew from the moment you laid eyes on her.

My heart sinks. I have to remind myself there’s only so much you can wait for someone. There’s only so much you can push. I left her my number. She knows how to call me if she changes her mind.

Don’t be daft, I thought with a strangely British accent. She isn’t going to call. Once I’m gone, she’s going to go to great lengths to forget I’d ever come into her life.

Once I step onto that train, an adventure with Cara Davis will never happen.

***

Cara Davis

The following day I find a note taped to my door from Andrew. My heart sinks as I read it.

I never stay in one place long. I’m leaving. I’m leaving to find adventure. I had wanted to find it with you, Cara. But I can’t force you to change your mind. You have my number if you ever want to find me.

The note flutters to the ground. Like a punch to my gut, my head is filled with memories.

Rain falling in the yard, Andrew spinning me, the look in his eyes. Those sparkling, blue eyes. “Come away with me, Cara. I can give you the world.”

“I’m sorry, Cara… I thought I loved you…”

Andrew isn’t Darcy. He had done nothing but show me what life could be. Darcy was a liar. Andrew… he was true. He was real. And he had offered me the world itself.

But love is a lie… It’s not real…

No!

What I had with Darcy wasn’t love. That wasn’t real. But Andrew… it could be very real. It could be life itself. I just had to make that jump. Without fear. The pain of the past doesn’t compare to the hope of tomorrow. Not even close.

***

Cara Davis

I run as hard as I can through the rainy streets of London. The sounds of train horns fill the air as I near the train station. I push faster. Faster. Faster. I reach the train station doors and burst inside. It’s flooded with people, all bustling about as they head to their destinations. I didn’t know which train Andrew was going to take. I don’t have much time. My heart pounds loudly like a war drum in my chest.

Don’t let him go. Don’t let him go. Don’t let him go.

“Andrew!” I scream, pushing through the crowd. “Andrew!” I call for him over and over. I make it to the trains. People file on board like ants. I’d never be able to spot him.

My heart sinks and suddenly the train station is quiet as the last person boards. The train leaves. Andrew is gone.

“Andrew,” I say weakly. What had I done? What had I given up?

“Cara?”

I spin, and my heart soars. It’s him. He’s still here. Sitting on a bench with his suitcase. Confusion flickers over his features and he slowly stands.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, and I see the slight puffiness under his eyes. He’d been crying.

I make my way to him. I’m wet and wind-blown, and my eyes are far more puffy than his. But I don’t care.

“You didn’t get on the train,” I whisper.

He gently wipes the tears and rain off my cheek with the pad of his thumb. “Some adventures are worth waiting for.” I see the question in his eyes.

“You were right,” I cry softly. “About everything. Because the fact is, it would hurt more not taking the risk. I want to know what it feels like to fall in love for real. To be loved. I want to know about adventure. And living. And I want you to show me. I want you to show me everything, Andrew. I’m tired of being afraid. I’m tired of holding back.” I move closer, taking his hand. “Take me away with you, Andrew,” I whisper. “Teach me to live.”

His eyes are shining with tears, and I feel a tremble in his hand. “Oh, Cara,” he says softly. “You’re awake.”

***

Cara Dunn

It is mine. All of it. Every path we take. Every adventure we choose. It’s mine. This life. This freedom. And it is all because of the man I fell in love with. I took a risk. And he showed me I didn’t have to fear anymore. He took the hole in my chest and filled it with his love.

The wind whips through our hair as we cling tightly to the railing at the end of the train car.

“Live a bit, Cara!” Andrew shouts, grinning at me as he whoops loudly.

With one arm, I cling to him, then throw the other into the air as I let out a whoop louder than his. Why had it taken me so long to realize the truth?

Love is caring. Love is true. Love mends hearts and it builds them up.

Author Name: Charity H.P.

Tên tôi là Giang

Let’s di di mau!

Come on, let’s fucking di di mau

—-

Robert Lindsay woke up on the carpeted floor of room 103 at the Super 8 motel. A couple hours of restless sleep plagued by bone chilling nightmares of artillery fire and burning hooches, was still the best he’d managed since returning home five days ago.

The night had been for ambushes, and the day for shut eye. He'd been nocturnal for so long that rising and setting with the sun was proving to be a difficult task. One thing about boot camp was that they knew how to program folks into killing machines, but by God, they didn’t offer a hope and a prayer when it came time to reintegrate them back into society.

You’re a gook killing machine! A gook killing machine!

A lot of good that did when the gooks were seven thousand miles away. A lot of fucking good.

Robert got up, laboring his right leg that had taken shrapnel during a mission deep in A Shau Valley, and made his way to the small breakfast hall, where he poured himself a lukewarm cup of coffee and nibbled on a stale bran muffin.

Weighing heavily on his mind were his folks and Jenny Fitzgerald. In another life, another time, he stood stone faced in front of his old man, filled with piss and vinegar. Standing tall, chest puffed up with pride, as his father told him the stupidity of the decision he was making, and the lasting effect it would have.

You’ll never be the same, boy. No matter how hard you try to be normal, you’ll never feel right again. And for what? A losing war? Do you even know why you’re going over there in the first place? You think this is some John Wayne Gung Ho shit? You could die. Jesus, son. I went so that you wouldn’t have to. I sacrificed so that you wouldn’t have to!

Despite this, Robert hopped the Canadian border and volunteered in Plattsburgh, New York. A friendly recruiting officer shook his hand and told him about the importance of the decision he was making. He told Robert that a lot of Americans were defecting and crossing the border into Canada to avoid active duty. And that it was nice to see the reverse happening, too.

A Canadian fighting a war that wasn’t his to fight. Well, from what he was told, the damage of Communism spreading was a global threat. And last he checked, he was living on this spinning rock, same as everyone. So why wasn’t it his fight?

But now, he knew all too well how frighteningly right his father had been. Even after a few days, he watched out the window of the motel as folks carried on with their day as though their brothers, sons, cousins, friends, fellow human beings weren’t being blown to bits halfway across the world. Kids who weren’t even old enough to have a beer or place a bet were coming home in body bags. Old enough to die, but too young to live. He remembered Danson writing that on his combat helmet.

He couldn’t look at his father. He couldn’t look for fear of what he’d see looking back at him. Dead man’s eyes. That’s what Rickshaw and Devin called them back in Nam. And he knew he had it because once you saw the things you saw, you couldn’t unsee them. You couldn’t unfeel them. You couldn’t unbreathe them. You couldn’t wash them away like a great baptism. Those images, those thoughts, were projected out through your eyes. They were tattooed there like permanent damage.

Instead of going home, he walked down Main Street and stopped at Anderson’s Antiques. The proprietor of this dusty rank smelling antique shop was an old pal of his father’s, Reggie Anderson.

Inside the shop were old chipped rocking chairs, milk crates of vinyl records, toys, sofas, paintings, and at the back left-hand corner was Reggie, smoking a cigarette and reading the paper.

“Well, as I live and breathe. Ain’t you a sight for sore eyes” he said, coming around the counter with his arms spread out. He wrapped them tightly around Robert and followed the mauling with three hard slaps to the back. “A bona fide hero, in my little antique shop. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“It’s good to see you, Reg. I was thinking of the apartment upstairs. Could I rent it out?”

Reggie let out a long laugh before telling him his money was no good here. “Look kid. The apartment is yours, free of charge. A soldier’s discount. Mind you, the place is falling apart a little. But it’s fine to rest your head for the night. What are your plans anyway, now that you’re back in town?”

“I appreciate it, Reggie. And to be honest. I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

“Taking er a day at a time. Ain’t no sin in that. Have you been back to see the old man?”

“Uh, no. Not yet. I will though, soon.”

“Yeah, yeah, no doubt,” Reggie said. “You can take this here rocking chair, kid. There’s a mattress up there but nothing to sit in. We’ll get you a sofa too, in due time.”

He slapped Robert’s back again and held his hands there for a few seconds. “It’s good to have you back, kid. It really is.”

Robert looked at Reggie, whose hair was thinning and graying. His back was beginning to hunch. And he thought about coming into this shop with his father when he was a kid. How they would laugh and laugh, and even though young Robert hadn’t a single clue what they were talking about, he’d join in. He’d join in because they were men, and as a kid, all he wanted to be was a man. A strong, working class man like his father. Like Reggie.

The two of them would tousle his hair and Reggie would say, “You got yourself a good kid there, Billy. A real good kid. He’s going to do great things,” and his father would look down at him with a face filled with pride. A slight rise of the left side of his lip was all it took for the inside of Robert to feel like it was filled with a thousand butterflies that could lift his body off the ground.

And when the war came along, Rob watched his father eating his supper on his La-Z-Boy, bitter rage forming creases on his forehead. Walter Cronkite talked about the carnage in a place he’d never heard of. There were explosions, gunfire, grenades, and yes, there were body bags, too. But Rob was too young to think he could die. And now he realized that was how they got so many soldiers. Young kids who didn’t believe death would ever come knocking. But boy, did it ever.

Billy told the family how ridiculous the war was. How Ho Chi Minh wasn’t planning on taking over the world. How colonists had their foot on the throat of that country for so long that they were fighting back. That we would act the same way if colonists came into our country and tried to have their way with us. It was just Goddamn Lyndon Johnson who was in so deep that he couldn't pull them out now for fear of making him look weak.

He made a good point, but Robert didn’t want to serve for political ideological reasons. He wanted to serve because it was his time. And after his band The Freaks played The Dollar bar to a crowd of exactly three people, he wandered over to the closed antique shop and knocked on the door. Reggie answered, and there on that quiet evening, he told him he had to serve.

Reggie said, “Of course you do, son. It’s in your blood.”

That seemed like a million years ago.

How he wished he’d listened to his father

—------------------------------------------------------------

That evening he dreamed of the village in Quang Tri. How he looked around in disbelief that this was 1967, and not 1867, or 1767. These lives were so primitive, they were so simple.

There's a young woman named Giang, “tên tôi là Giang,” she says while offering a plate of rice. Robert gently waves his hand and shakes his head slowly back and forth. Schwarmy and O’Brien laugh as O’Brien slaps the plate out of her hands.

“Heeyyyy, Charlie. Come out. Come out, wherever you are,” Schwarmy is yelling with both hands cupped around his mouth. He puts his hands down and places them on the AK. He points it at women and children.

“Are you VC? What about you, kid? Are you VC? Hey O’Brien, do you think this little gook fucker is one of them?”

“Could be. They all look the same to me.”

They both bellow evil laughter. Robert is looking at Giang, who is attempting to pick up each individual grain of rice out of the dirt. By God, she’s beautiful, he thinks. And at that moment, he wonders if he’s on the wrong side of this thing.

He gets down on one knee to help, and she shrieks in fear. “No, no. It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you.” She nods her head quickly, then resumes, not wanting to lock eyes with this man. Not wanting to trust him.

They clean up as much as they can, and she stands up, brushing her long black hair out of her face and holding the bowl tightly to her chest, fearing that at any moment, this soldier, who is playing Mr. Nice Guy, will knock it out of her hands and join his soldier friends for some laughter at her expense. But he doesn’t. He looks at her and smiles, and in the distance he can hear O’Brien, and Schwarmy calling out for VC.

They’re telling villagers who don’t understand that they’re about to get zapped if they don’t disclose the location of the Viet Cong that are hiding somewhere in one of these hooches.

His rucksack feels like a thousand pounds on his back, so he takes it off and rests it against a hooch that he believes to be Giang’s. Inside there are two children running around, chasing each other with little pieces of bamboo, and Robert thinks of the beauty of childhood wonder. How kids could find the good in anything and how he wished that one day you didn’t wake up to find it all gone. Never to return. That warm feeling replaced with aching worry, anxiety, and a deep hatred for what you allowed the world to do to you.

He follows her inside, and she turns around. She thinks for a minute about what she’s going to say and then tells him in English that her grandfather worked in California. She struggles to get it out, but he’s happy. Her English is much stronger than his Vietnamese.

“He says there’s gold in the hills and the water sparkles like diamonds”

Robert says that’s beautiful. He’s never been to California himself but once thought about it. Like many kids who are called good-looking one too many times in school, he thought he could go to Hollywood and make it in the movies. But here he was, a long way from those corrugated steel letters that overlooked the La-La Land.

Outside, the sound of artillery fire shakes Robert from his daydream in horrific fashion. Giang jumps and looks behind her to shield her children, except they aren’t there.

She shouts with a primal screech that makes Robert feel like vomiting, and if he had anything more than half a C-ration and a couple sips from his canteen, he’s sure he would have spilled it all over the hooch.

Bianh! Dihn! Bianh! Dihn! Bian! Dihn!

Giang runs outside, Robert follows closely behind like a shadow. He fears the worst, because in his four months of humping through mountains, swamps, and fields of grass that grew far above his head that had to be cut with a machete, the worst that he could imagine happened. In many cases, it was even worse than he could imagine.

Now is no different as he looks at two lifeless bodies in the center of the village. They’re piled on top of each other in opposite directions, like a human X. Their bamboo sticks next to them. Schwarmy is standing next to the bodies, a smug smile draped across his face, and Robert has never wanted to take the life of another human being so badly in his entire life.

Giang is running to them, her hair flowing behind her as Robert watches, lifeless like a statue. O’Brien has a zippo lighter that he took from the Reverend when he fell on Hill 106. The Zippo says, Jesus Saves, and he’s burning the hooches with it. The dry heat erupts the homes in seconds. Clouds of pitch black smoke rise like a dark omen. As Robert watches the clouds of smoke and sees O’Brien winking, a homemade cigarette dangling loosely from his mouth, two more gunshots echo with the screaming of villagers. Robert feels his body, he’s rubbing up and down his chest, his neck, face, and back to make sure that the bullets aren’t lodged in his body somewhere.

He isn’t hit. But Giang is lying with her children. Still. Robert can feel the salt from his tears stinging his sweating face. He runs over to Schwarmy, eyes of hatred and blood that’s boiling so hot his entire body is in danger of combusting.

With the butt of the AK, he smashes Schwarmy’s nose. And climbs on top of him, delivering blow after blow to his face.

Behind him, he can hear O’Brien and the rest of the platoon. Walker, Cross, Frankie, and Lem, yelling out as the village goes up like Pompei.

Let’s di di mau

Come on, let’s fucking Didi Mau

There’s no VC here. I repeat. There’s no VC here. Let’s go. Come on, let’s go!

He takes one last look at Giang and the children, before he’s pulled off of Schwarmy by Walker, and his head keeps replaying her voice again, and again.

Tên tôi là Giang

There’s gold in the hills and water sparkles like diamonds.

Robert screams her name, and downstairs Reggie looks up at the ceiling with a somber look. It’s 3 in the morning, and he’s already on his second cup of coffee. He’s dusting and reorganizing. Moving a chair from one dusty corner to another. Piling the jigsaw puzzles of beautiful landscapes into perfectly neat stacks.

Robert is still screaming.

Reggie thinks about his time in the service. A little cafe in the south of France. A cute little nurse named Marie. Reggie, smiling so much that his face hurt. Marie laughing at all of his strange Canadian jokes, and strange Canadian humor. He remembers a small birthmark just above the right side of her lip that looked like an apple. Her smell. Lavender wafting off of her and into his nose, calming him and making him fall in love with her.

Then the tanks. The explosions and Marie.

He can’t go see Robert because there’s nothing to say. Nothing with any form of truth, anyway. He’d love to go upstairs and tell him that it will fade, and she will be forgotten, whoever she is. But it wouldn’t be true. No, sir. Not true at all, Reggie thought as he took another sip of his coffee. Smelling lavender, and thinking about the apple shaped birthmark.

—------------------------------------------------------------------------

Robert came down the stairs at a quarter past nine. Reggie was showing an old woman some China from the 1920s. She seemed interested in the floral designs on the aged white cups, and Reggie was closing in on the sale. A little flirting, touching her shoulder, and laughing like she was the funniest person on earth. Her cheeks were flushed, and she was waving her right arm at him saying, “oh would you stop it?”

Robert smiled and snuck behind the counter where a half-empty pot of coffee was sitting on a burner. There were paper cups next to it, and he poured himself one. The coffee was old, no doubt, but he still went back for a second cup.

After a few minutes, the old lady left and said she’d return with her grandsons, who would help her carry it all. Reggie said, “fine by me, ma’am. Looking forward to seeing you.” Again, she blushed and left as the bell above the door dinged.

“You’re a natural,” Robert said, raising his paper cup and smiling.

“Did you see that diamond necklace? The old broad has money. That’s when old Reggie has to turn on the charm.” He winked. “Say, what are your plans for the day, soldier?”

Robert knew what his plans should be, and that was to visit his father. But he was scared, something that Reggie read on his face instantly.

“Look, kid. I’ve known your father for a long time. And I don’t know what you’re expecting to happen when you see him, but he’s just going to be happy that you’re home. He’s going to want to crack a cold beer with you. And you won’t have to say a word about the war, kid. Not a word. Your old man and I have sat at The Dollar for over twenty years now, drinking, laughing, sometimes talking and sometimes sitting in silence. But always, always knowing that we understood what was floating around each other’s brains and knowing that just having someone who understands is a lot better than trying to forget it, kid.”

“I know, Reg. I do. But every time I’m about to head over that way, I think about the way we left things. Him screaming, and me standing with my chest puffed out like I knew a fucking thing about anything. He knew, Reg. He knew.”

Reggie placed his hand on Robert’s shoulder and said, “Of course he did, kid. But you know what? Your father stood in front of his old man too after Pearl Harbour and told him he was enlisting. Your grandfather spent two years in muddy fucking trenches. He had words for your father. Being young, kid. Being young means being full of pride. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to serve your country. Not a thing at all. And your old man understands that, kid. I promise you he does.”

And with those words, Robert left the shop. His father was likely working, so he’d wait until the evening to go pay him and his mother a visit.

—————————————————————————

That evening, as he headed down Main towards his folks’ home on Union, a cool fall wind blew, massaging his face and making him feel good for the first time in a long while. He passed the embankment that overlooked the freight yard, and he remembered parking his old man’s Ford and kissing Jenny deeply. Kissing her and thinking that life couldn’t possibly get any better than that moment, and now, he was sure that was right.

Jenny was off to college, and he remembered her Dear John letter. The one that said she loved him, but time didn’t stand still because he wasn’t around. The world kept moving; it kept spinning, and her life couldn’t pause. She was going away, and if he wanted to visit her when he returned, he was more than welcome. But it would be as friends. Not as lovers. And she had attached a picture of them, standing on his front lawn, getting ready for prom. Jenny’s long blonde hair, and big smile. She had to get braces the week before, and he remembered her crying because of it. And when she came to his house to show them off, her eyes puffy and red, he thought she had never looked more beautiful.

A grunt buddy named Damien had looked over his shoulder, and said, “you got yourself a beauty there, Jordan. Don’t let her get away.” And he responded, “I’ll try, brother. I’ll try my best.”

Every block formed a memory in his head about childhood. Bike rides, and comic shops. Georgie Flannagan’s little malt shop on the corner of Evangeline and Mill Haven. The candy stripe swirling in front of Paul’s barbershop. He thought about going in there with his old man to get a haircut. His father went first and when Paul asked what he wanted, he told he wanted the “Daddy Cut”. He laughed, and so did his father. They walked out that day looking like twins, and he’d never felt so much pride in himself, in his family, and in his town.

Before he knew it, he was crossing up Union Street. Maggie’s German Shepherd, still barking behind a chipped white picket fence. “Hey, boy,” Robert called, “How are you, boy?”

The dog responded with a couple of happy yips and yaps, and Robert thought he would like one and wondered if Reggie would let him bring a pup to his small bachelor pad.

Then he was standing in front of his childhood home. The three story, old Victorian that was built in 1890. Faded auburn Cape Cod siding, and brown shutters on his bedroom window. The garden stones that formed a snake formation up to the three steps that led to the front door. His mother’s garden of beautiful blooming flowers, bright purples, and pinks, whites, and yellows, all sitting neatly in a bed of red mulch.

Robert stood, unable to move for a few moments. Then he heard voices coming from behind the house. He recognized the sound immediately as Bob Collins, doing color commentary for the Red Sox game. His father was back there. He knew the old man was sitting on his favourite patio chair, with a cold beer in his right hand, and a cigar between the fingers on his left, or hanging from his mouth.

Robert’s heart was beating madly as he walked past his Ford truck, where he and Jenny loved each other, and talked about the future. And as he came around the corner of the house, he saw his father staring out at the river and the Appalachian mountain range in the distance.

He had a pair of jeans on, and he was still wearing a dirty work shirt. Robert walked up the deck stairs, and his father looked to his right and saw his son, for the first time in almost two years.

“I heard you were back in town,” he said. And Robert nodded. “You lost some weight.”

“Haven’t been eating much.”

“Looks it.”

Then he reached into the cooler that was sitting at his feet and hauled out a beer, placing it on the arm of the chair next to his. He didn’t say a word.

Robert walked slowly to the chair and sat down. His first beer with his old man. How many times he had asked to have one with him when he was a teenager, and his father replying that once he was old enough, they could drink beer and listen to ball games all night. But not a drop until then.

He popped the tab and took a long drink, nearly downing half the can before he took it off his lips. He let out an exasperated, “Ahhhhh,” and placed the can back on the arm of the chair.

“How are the Sox doing?”

“Down two runs in the seventh. We have two outs, but there’s a man on first and third. Johnny Curtis is pitching. Needs to stop throwing that damn curve. His fastball can’t be hit.”

“Who are they playing?”

“Milwaukee. Damn Brewers are streaky, but when they’re hitting, boy are they ever.”

“Yeah. It’s been a while. I’ll need a refresher course.” He swore he could see a hint of a smile form on his father’s weathered face.

“You came to the right place. Your mom is at Bingo with Wendy Alton, and Becca Sherman. Should be back in an hour or so.”

“Okay.”

Then the two sat in silence for a while. Every time Robert’s can was empty, his father grabbed him another one and placed it in the same spot.

In his head, he could still hear the voices of the 103rd, but this evening they weren’t as loud. He looked over at his father and knew that inside his head there were voices, too. Good ones. Bad ones. There was always a war waging inside his skull, as there would be for him. But sitting there, he realized Reggie was right. He didn’t need to discuss what had happened, and his father didn’t need to tell Robert what he saw. The point was they had both been to different iterations of hell, and they both returned.

Robert looked at the view. The sun was a brilliant orange flame that was setting behind a mountain range that he had taken for granted his entire childhood. Smokestacks billowed from the paper mill as the water sparkled.

tên tôi là Giang

tên tôi là Giang

There’s gold in those hills. And the water sparkles like diamonds in the sun.