My mother is a zombie.

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"I wish I didn't have to sit next to Joe," winked Alicia, nudging him with her elbow. As usual, the attempt got buried in his incessant frown. Everyone continued eating.

"Pass the turkey," said Mike. 

"Pass your mom," said Alicia. 

"She's your mom too, dumbass," said Mike, grabbing the turkey and glancing over at Joanne.

Joanne looked up sharply at Alicia. Her dark brown hair contrasted with her daughter's red, and their personalities had a similar discrepancy.

"I wish you wouldn't make those kinds of jokes, dear," said Joanne, trying to smile. Joe -- her favorite -- caught her eye for a moment before looking down quickly at his plate.

"I'll do the dishes," he said, rising from his chair. But Alicia grabbed his arm before he could leave.

"Sit down, Joe. Why can't you just be part of this family like a normal person?"

"Fuck," said Mike, "Just let him go."

"No!" shouted Alicia, tipsy from red wine. "Ever since we were little he's been like this. Distant as fuck. I'm your goddamned sister, you know that?"

Joe froze. His face turned red and began to contort strangely, like he couldn't decide what to say. 

"Joe --" started Joanne.  Mike opened his mouth to say something.

But before they could intercede, Joe blurted it out. "You're not my sister!"

The table went silent. Alicia froze. Mike put his head in his hands. 

"Joe," Joanne said softly.

"Fuck, man," said Mike.

Alicia let go of Joe's arm. "What's that supposed to mean? Of course I'm your sister."

More silence.

"Leesh, we meant to tell you," pleaded Mike.

"Tell me what?" Alicia snapped.

Mike looked around the table, until Joanne spoke up softly. "Mike, it's ok. I'll explain,"

She sighed. "Alicia, I'm sorry. You're not my biological daughter."

Tears came to Alicia's eyes as she opened her mouth, for once without words.

"Your father left you with me, just like he left the rest of us. We're family now. But I am not your birth mother."

Alicia stood up and turned around, rubbing her eyes. Joe sat back down slowly, hands shaking.

"I have to go," Alicia said quietly, voice muffled by her hands.  She picked up her purse and walked slowly toward the door.

Before reaching for the doorknob, she turned back toward the table where her adoptive family sat in stunned silence.

"Thanks for dinner," she said, and walked out the door.

The neighbor's grass was greener than mine. I used to fiddle with all that fertilizer stuff, but I had gotten lazy and let the dandelions take over. Now his lawn was an exquisite emerald expanse, while mine was nothing but an ugly yellow patchwork. I salivated every time I looked over the fence.

One day, as I watched his Rottweiler take a poop on my hideous lawn, I was struck by the most ingenious idea. I didn't have to just sit here, powerless, forever longing for green perfection. I could have it for myself.

That night, I took a knife and a shovel and crept over the fence. The delicious smell of grass clippings blew up into my nose; the delicate blades tickled my bare ankles.

I worked all night. When the sun rose, I showered, put on my bathrobe, and went out to drink my coffee on the front porch.

The weedy monstrosity I had once called "lawn" was no more. In its place was the most brilliant of green, placed in a perfect symmetry of freshly cut squares. The sprinkler ran, sunlight glistening off the blades of grass like tiny diamonds.

My neighbor opened his front door to take the beast for its morning walk. I smiled and waved, watching his face waver between shock and despair as he stepped his way through his dandelions and crabgrass.

I smiled and sipped my coffee. It was going to be a perfect day.

I am eating snapper caked in sea salt and potatoes in paprika oil while a fat man dances to Shakira. The waiters all laugh and give each other knowing looks. I smoke a cigarette (because I am bored, and I have one) and tap my feet to the rhythm coming from the boombox.

Five years ago I swear this street was full of prostitutes and thieves. A few grungy hostels stood nearby, residents clutching their purses during the short walk to the walled city. I remember wandering through this same plaza hastily taking photos of abandoned houses, courtyards crumbling into chunks of plaster and wires, feral cats lounging in the wreckage. Now the walls are covered in art. Young bohemians sell jewelry to tourists who lounge under streetlamps drinking cheap cans of Aguila.

This is how a city changes. It isn’t that we love the old Cartagena with its shifty looks and stray dogs; but the passing of time goes so much faster than the ever-dragging heart. Never again those hot and musky streets that I find in my dreams, nor the woman selling arepas chanting “niña” with vacant eyes. Toda la ciudad vieja es seguro, say the taxi drivers with pride. All of the old city is safe.

Tomorrow I will be another tourist with my indigenous-made mochila, earned not through knowledge, friends, or work, but through money alone. I will laugh at the fat man dancing and say no, gracias to the hat vendor as I stumble through the walled streets of the old city.

The fat man, now dressed only in a skirt and bikini top, turns off his boombox. Shakira disappears. In her place is a potbellied beggar who shuffles from table to table, eyes fixed on the ground. I place a few sorry coins in his can: 500 pesos, the equivalent of 22 cents. 

My snapper is reduced to bones. The gringos with their Aguilas are getting drunker by the minute. The fat man gathers his clothing, pulls up his skirt, and slowly wheels away.

The three towers came crashing down the day I was inaugurated. The Pandorum was a flurry of calls, meetings, and sessions. A week later, Congress voted to go to war. But first, I was to meet the enemy leader -- the so-called Raktishik -- to give him one final chance to leave our planet.

When I stepped off the craft, Raktishik was standing there, skin glowing bright blue. As I shook his hand, he leaned toward my ear and whispered: "Welcome back, son."

I looked down in terror just in time to see the blue glow fade from my hand.

I awaken on a boat floating silently down a dark river.

I am on deck staring out at the surrounding jungle, waving away rabid mosquitos. The trees drift by in slow monotony. We have been on this river forever, it seems to me. 

Suddenly, I see a flicker of movement: a face in the distant trees. My heart beating, I turn around.

There it is again! 

One by one, faces flicker and begin to appear all around me. But there is something strangely familiar about them. Those familiar eyes, skin; that familiar hair falling wrecklessly to the ground. 

I have seen this face before: it is my own.

Yes, I am surrounded by myself. Everything -- the trees, the water, the mud -- are all mirrors. All of the world is nothing but me. I will be on this river, endlessly drifting, forever.

But suddenly, the river begins to widen. Crowds of people stand on the shore waving, shouting, and cheering. I wave back, weeping happily -- I have finally escaped!

But then, I notice a child staring solemnly from shore. I gasp -- the child's face is mine. All of the faces begin to change, one by one. I fall down, screaming silently; everything goes black. 

I awaken on a boat floating silently down a dark river.

I am on deck staring out at the surrounding jungle, waving away rabid mosquitos. The trees drift by in slow monotony. We have been on this river forever, it seems to me.