The dead rest in his pocket, their brittle wings catching against the fabric like whispered secrets. He’s been collecting them for weeks—the fallen, the forgotten, those that spent their final moments beating against glass.

His fingers move like a watchmaker’s, peeling back the paper shroud to reveal each specimen: a cricket frozen mid-leap, a luna moth faded to bone, a paper wasp with its warning stripes turned soft with time. He arranges them on the sun-bleached bench slats, smallest to largest, a procession of lost things.

“—probably tortures cats too—” A woman’s whisper slinks through the air as her companion tightens his grip on her arm, steering her away. Shadows pass over his collection, a brief eclipse.

He doesn’t look up. Judgment moves in footfalls, in voices pitched low but meant to be heard. His hands remain steady, adjusting a blow fly so its iridescent body catches the afternoon light. In death, it has become something else—not beautiful exactly, but worthy of attention.

The tissue paper crinkles as he unwraps the prize of his collection: a giant swallowtail, wings spread in eternal flight. He’d found it in a spider’s web three days ago, a stained-glass window caught mid-collapse. The spider had abandoned it, leaving him this gift.

More footsteps approach, hesitate, retreat. The whispers bloom and die.

He measures the space between bodies with a ruler worn smooth by touch. Ant to beetle to moth to butterfly—a journey marked in millimeters, in metamorphosis.

In his pocket rests one last specimen: a cicada shell, hollow but whole. Not dead, just abandoned. A ghost of something that climbed out of itself and flew away. He places it at the end of the line, a punctuation mark on his quiet arrangement of small deaths.

The sun sinks lower, soaking the bench in amber light. Soon, he will wrap them again, tuck them away like beads on a rosary, like treasures, like proof that even the smallest lives cast shadows. But for now, he sits with them, a keeper of forgotten things, an architect of this tiny cemetery.

He is fourteen. Strange. Surrounded by death. Yet his hands are careful, his heart steady, beating in time with wings that no longer move.

Above him, insects trace unseen paths through the dying light. Soon, they too will fall. And he will find them. And he will give them this: a place, a measure, a moment of remembrance. Until then, he keeps arranging, measuring the distance between what was and what remains.

The wind howled outside the cabin. The incoming storm rattled rotten remnants of what used to be shutters. Inside, the walls groaned and flexed with each churning of the squall. A single flickering candle cast shadows on the coarse wood walls. They danced quietly to the rhythms of the downpour. Jason sat huddled on a worn and faded rug, gently rocking, his thin shoulders hunched against the chill.

"It's just the wind, Jason," a voice rasped from the corner. "Don't you fret."

Jason didn't reply. He just stared into the flame, his eyes wide and unblinking.

"You should eat something," the voice continued, its words emphasized with a desperate, concern. "You've barely touched your food all day."

Jason shook his head, his lips moving silently.

"I know you're scared, Jason," the voice said, its tone softening. "But I'm here. I'll always be here."

Jason finally looked up, his gaze fixed on the spot where the voice seemed to emanate. But no one was there. Just the shadows, dancing and twisting upon the wall.

"Why are you so pathetic?" Jason whispered, his voice barely a breath.

The voice didn't answer. It just sighed, a sound like wind rustling through wet leaves.

Jason reached out, his hand trembling, and touched the air where the voice originated.

"I'm here, Jason," the voice whispered, its tone filled with a longing that Jason knew too well.

The candle sputtered and died, plunging the cabin into darkness. Jason sat alone, the cold saturating into his bones. He could feel the wind outside, howling its lonely song, the rains began to hammer at the dilapidated roof with renewed vigor, and he knew he was alone.

He closed his eyes, and a tear rolled down his cheek. He wished, with a heart-wrenching ache, that he could just feel something, anything, besides the cold emptiness that consumed him. He wished he could hear the voice again, but he knew, that long lost melodious muse that he missed so dearly wasn't coming back.

Dearest Victoria,

I have found you to be occupying my thoughts of late, as you often have. Though now, on the cusp of achieving what we’ve always wanted, I have found myself lost to bittersweet reverie of a time where we had care for naught but each other and the paths we walked through this world.

Do you remember, per chance, the summer we spent on the coast, in our little shack beside the sea? Though modest in appearance, it was a true bulwark against the worries we had. A place to shed them for a time, as the salted air and cool breeze brought much needed comfort as we were locked in our sweet embrace.

I think often of your smile lit by the sun, as if you yourself were kin to the bejeweled waters we swam within. An angel borne not of heaven, but of the seas.

I know we have not spoken in quite some time, and no words in this world can express my guilt at such an injustice. Though, dare I say, the time has been well spent in giving us what we could never have before.

I write this letter, not to fill you with dreadful longing for a bygone past, but to tell you to hope for the future. The final experiment is tonight. By the time I am finished, our child will live. I hope you will not hold it against me for this, but I have decided to name him Victor. After you, my love. A fitting name, as I am sure that when you meet him he will already be the victor of your heart.

I hope the flowers I had sent have brought some color to what would otherwise be quite dreary surroundings. Allow me to apologize once more for not delivering them in person. But if my endeavors are successful this night, then I shall have you back soon.

Yours for eternity, Henry.

Ashes blew across a barren landscape. Burned out trees stood like stark, black pillars. I walked the dusty path alone and confused. It smelled acrid like an abandoned fireplace. Just a moment ago I was sitting on a green lawn watching the dog walkers and children pass by. The sound of birds and laughing filled the air. Now all was colorless silence. Step after step I continued walking. It was cold. I pulled my hoodie tighter around my body and stuffed my gray hair into the hood as a cinched it tight. The cold was bone chilling and nothing I did warmed me.

Shadows formed at the edges of the black trees. They swayed with the cold wind. I thought I could hear faint singing, but maybe it was just the wind. I kept the shadows in my peripheral vision. They moved closer and closer. I had no emotion. No fear, no anxiety. Nothing. I should be scared, shouldn’t I? The shadows gathered behind me and kept my pace. Musical humming filled my ears. I kept walking and I did not tire.

Gradually, the bland horizon started to lighten. Dark gray gave way to light gray and then to a pale golden light. I was curious and quickened my step. Perhaps I could solve the mystery of where I was. The shadows continued behind me. Walking and walking. I made no progress toward the shining horizon. How long have I been here? Time was not relevant.

My mind drifted. I thought of the man I married and who loved me and how I carelessly threw the love away for a torrid affair. I was not sorry then. He meant nothing me. Now, I could not stop thinking about it. My selfishness. My arrogance and my utter lack of consideration for him. I thought about my sister. How we had not spoken in 10 years. I thought about my father, a cruel man, and how I never defended my mother when he demeaned her in public. Thoughts of all my transgressions flooded my mind. I felt shame and longed for one chance to fix it all. Just one.

Suddenly, the bright horizon was before me. The shadows lost their blackness and transformed into people, bathed in golden light. I could not make out their features. The light blinded me. I walked among them and felt warmth. The cold and ashy land was gone. My eyes were closed. I did not need to see.

As suddenly as it appeared, the golden light was gone. Voices called my name. My eyes snapped open.

What if?

March 06, 2025

My mother came into my room to wake me. She told me it was nearly 5am and I had to get ready for work. She depended on my income since father died during the war. I try not to remind her of that day, so I get up and get ready without complaint.

The work in the fields is brutal on the best of days. I spend sun up to sun down there picking the cotton, beans, and potatoes. By law, I am to do this until my first retirement age of thirty. Then, I can apply to a county school to begin education, so I might get to work in one of the factories or mills in the North. If I am good, I will get my second retirement at age sixty.

I will need it by then.

My mother’s property is hers because the treaty that ended the war said so. If I could read, I would find out exactly where. She is “grandfathered” because she was born in Georgia and lived here all of her life. I, however, was born in Georgia, but lived with my aunt in Pennsylvania. That makes me tainted and subject to the reparations clause. In that, I must pay a fine or work five years for every year I lived on enemy soil. This is how the regional governors raised money to pay off war debts. Those in the North would have done the same if it had not been for the pollution and invasions from the British and the Germans. The colonies of New London and New Berlin (formerly Boston and New York) drained much needed resources from the final year of the war. The North succumbed to the pressures from the South and the blockades from the hostile European fleets, resulting in their surrender. Perhaps it was all for the best, since the death toll began to exceed ten million, leaving the entirety of America vulnerable.

Mother tells me the South was craftier, so the South won. I see it differently, but I don’t speak of it because in doing so adds another five years working the fields.

I can keep my mouth shut. I have to keep my mouth shut.

Sometime around noon, we all break for lunch. Then, I might get to thinking about other places I heard about last summer. My best friend tells of his time out west in California, now New Osaka. He would have remained if the Russians had not invaded from Alaska. I don’t believe everything he says, but I want to.

Why? Because any place else, doing anything else, is better than what I have right now. And as soon as I retire, I might be able to prove it.

An empty abyss. Quiet knowing shadows. 1 door. And a body I can no longer control. Sounds don't exist. Memories come and go in a series of waves, hellos, stories and goodbyes.

Confusion fogs my brain at first then denial sets in for a moment or 2. Slowly as if coming out of a deep sleep I see and spend a moment chatting with memories from not too long ago and realize it's over. No more memories, no more laughs, no more tears, no more sighs and no more… anything.

Just a door, plain and deceptively simple, but it will seal my fate the moment the hinges creak and the door swings. During the walk I reminisce on good old memorise, have chats with moments that hurt but made me stronger. Everything feeling surreal and not quite real. The smoke and shadows seemed to hold their breath as slow dragged-out footsteps carried me towards the plain white door.

My family… I hope they're ok. Promising myself I think, "I WILL watch over them." Guilt hits me like a punch to the stomach. I have left my family and friends to mourn my passing. "How could I? No! Please no let this not be true!"

I wonder what's behind the door as I'm still slowly approaching to knock. I wish I could go back and tell everyone it's ok and I'm fine. I regret nothing though. I don't think I'd redo anything if given the chance. Just maybe say I love you to my family and friends and then fall into the sleep of eternity. They said this was the easy part of life; I've got mixed feelings on that statement.

The door loomed and became larger with every slow, dragged-out step. It finally dawned on me, toe to toe with the door. I'm not going back. The need to crumble, cry and mourn my family and friends takes over my heart. Why? Why did I have to put them through this? I, of all people, the one with the fear of grief and loss had to be so selfish as to put my family through what I feared most.

IM SORRY! The words tear at my throat as my traitorous body ignores me. it raises my hand and slowly brings it down. Tears build against dam walls I wish I could open.

A new wave of guilt pierces my soul and makes me wish that I would just knock already and not knock at all.

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I am so so sorry.

The door opens after a single knock and resignation overcomes me and my mantra of guilt and self-loathing quiets as I take my last breath.

I'm sorry I went first, my friend.

I'm sorry I made you weep for yet another family member.

I'm sorry my body didn’t hang on. I wasn’t ready either.

I'm sorry I didn't know it was over, maybe I would have said I love you one more time.

I'm sorry for being selfish. I’m glad I didn't have to watch you go first. I will be having tea with Papa, and we’ll await your turn. I’ll be the one on the other side. Waiting for you to knock so I can open the door.

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry I had to say Goodbye

When my brother died, the Oxford University flew its flag at half-mast. My ex-wife refused to visit the chapel of rest, not for a cruel reason, but because she held her last memory of him, as a beautiful image of us: shirtless and smiling, after a long day of working in the sun.

The day before he was found, he’d been to a house party. Going by the trace amounts of narcotics they found in the autopsy report, I imagine it was a banger. At his funeral, a young girl told me how they met that night.

As she was leaving the party, he was leaving too. There was a heavy rain, and she stood under the porch, hoping to wait it out. One eccentricity of his was that he tried to always carry an umbrella with him. Honestly, I think he wanted a cane but needed a practical reason to justify having one; thus, umbrella.

The girl told me he asked her which way she was heading, and told her he was going that way, so they could share the umbrella, and keep dry. She said he was kind, funny, and a complete gentleman. He left the umbrella with her at her gate, watched her until she was indoors, and to her surprise, he walked back the way they came.

At the funeral, I told her he lived on the other side of town. She didn’t say a word or cry; she touched my arm and smiled. Every year, his friends hold a free music and poetry festival, and they all have stories like this. They all laugh and smile when they talk about him. They all have these stories that speak of his character.

While they remember him this way, my own memories are less perfect. Our childhood was difficult, and I wasn’t the best of brothers. I wish I had been. I tried harder in adulthood but still fell short of the mark. He was smarter than me. He was a better man than me, and it pains me to be the one who survived instead of him.

But it warms me that people still hold these memories of him. I believe that this life is it. It’s all we get. So, I am thankful that they each keep these fond memories of him. That they keep his memory alive and well in this fleeting world of ours is all I can ask.

Gone, but not forgotten.

The unknown has been a constant source of fear for me. My mind generates varying storylines involving “what if” tangents when I don’t have a clear vision of what’s going to happen. I lean towards pragmatic when dealing with the future by making informed decisions based on past data with the hope it results in happiness. And since Life requires swinging at all its pitches, even the curve balls thrown from time to time, I’m always looking to steal a sign from the first base coach to increase my chances for a hit.

But there are situations that can’t be prepared for by using the knowledge gained from those who’ve already experienced it. Death falls into this category. “What happens when we die?” is a speculative question asked by those who are alive that can only be answered by those who are deceased. And the dead aren’t talking.

That’s why I’m formulating a preemptive approach to kicking the bucket utilizing the limited information gathered from my time spent so far on our glorious planet. This is the rationale for the two explicit instructions I left to the executor of my estate regarding my funeral arrangements.

First, I am to be buried in modest business attire and comfortable shoes with the New World Translation of the Holy Scripture Bible in one hand and a Watchtower pamphlet in the other. This ensemble is a strategic move using other people’s prejudices to my advantage. It’s a last-ditch attempt to nudge redemption in my favor on the outside chance I’m standing at Hades’ threshold after I pass.

Because, if it’s not Heaven’s door that I’m knock, knock, knockin’ on, I’ll do whatever it takes to prevent admission to a neighborhood eternally consumed by fire and brimstone. I’d favor not residing in a community ruled by a satanic HOA requiring the successful rolling of a stone to the top of a hill before I can paint my house any color other than perdition red.

Successfully impersonating a Jehovah Witness might be my ticket out of Gehenna. Because when the Grim Reaper swings open the portal to Hell in response to my incessant rapping, he (or she, don’t want to risk insulting the Angel of Death by misgendering) will see my literature and assume the basis for my visit involves evangelical overtones. Instinctively, this will elicit the curt response of, “I’m not interested” followed by an unrestrained shutting of the door in my face. Just like what’s been executed thousands of times previously by inconvenienced homeowners throughout history.

This burial outfit buys me additional, precious time to avoid Beelzebub’s Welcome Wagon. Getting a delay, even for a few moments, is a last-ditch effort to prove my worthiness. Any spare minutes I get will be used for an appeal to a higher authority. Hopefully, my desire to dodge the Devil will garner a favor from the Man Above, who will appreciate the effort I put forth and then reward me with a Speed Pass to the Pearly Gates.

If I’m fortunate enough to end up in Heaven in the first place, then I’ll nonchalantly tuck the brochure in my back pocket and patiently await St. Peter’s roll call. Either way, wherever I end up, I will finally know what happens when you stand at Death’s door.

The second directive for my memorial is that my coffin has a split lid so it can be an open casket service. But there’s one precondition. While I’m lying in state, the lid over the lower portion of my body is raised while the upper section over my torso remains closed. This has no benefit for me in the afterlife. It’s solely for those who have gathered to say farewell. This configuration would catch everyone off-guard and instill some levity in an otherwise somber occasion.

I accept that the circumstances I went through after dying cannot be relayed the living. But maybe just viewing my legs will give those who knew me another reason to grin or chuckle. And isn’t replacing tears with smiles the gift a departed loved one can bless you with to make an uncertain future a little less daunting and little easier to deal with?

Dr. Becker sits across from Wallace, one leg crossed over the other, a legal pad balanced on his knee. He’s got that therapist look—concerned but not too concerned, nodding in a way that says I hear you without making it about himself. Wallace hates that look, but he’s here, so he talks.

“She used to lock the fridge,” Wallace says. His voice is flat. A practiced kind of flat, like a table that’s been sanded down too much. “Put a bike chain around it. I could hear it clinking when she opened it. Wouldn’t even look at me, just pulled out whatever she wanted and closed it again.”

Dr. Becker nods. “How old were you?”

Wallace shrugs. “Seven? Eight? Old enough to know I wasn’t supposed to ask for food. Not if I didn’t wanna hear it.”

“Hear what?”

“The usual.” He shifts in his seat, runs a hand through his hair, yanks a little at the ends. “How I was a burden. How my father ran off because of me. How she shoulda left me at the hospital when I was born.” He doesn’t look at Becker. He focuses on a little rip in the couch cushion beside him, the stuffing peeking out like it’s eavesdropping.

Becker doesn’t rush him. That’s the worst part. He just lets it sit there, raw and open, waiting for Wallace to get sick of the silence.

Finally, Wallace exhales. “The worst part wasn’t the words. It was how normal it felt after a while. Like, I wasn’t even mad. I just believed her. A hundred percent.”

Becker scribbles something down. Wallace wonders if it’s self-worth issues or possible PTSD. Not that it matters. He already knows he’s fucked up. “And now?” Becker asks. “Do you still believe her?”

Wallace laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “I don’t think I do, but I still feel it. Like it’s carved in me.”

Becker nods again. The same slow, careful nod. “That makes sense.”

“Does it?”

“It does. That’s how emotional abuse works. It wires your brain to accept a certain reality, and even when you logically know better, that wiring stays.”

Wallace rubs his thumb against the couch. “So what, I’m just stuck like this?”

“No.” Becker leans forward a little. “It takes work, but you can rewire it. You already are. You’re here.”

Wallace doesn’t say anything to that. Just rolls his tongue along the inside of his cheek, feeling the old, familiar weight of doubt.

“I want you to try something,” Becker says. “I want you to imagine your mother sitting in front of you right now.”

Wallace goes stiff. His body knows before his mind catches up.

“Imagine she’s right here, and she just said one of those things she used to say. What do you say back?”

His fingers curl into his jeans. His chest tightens.

“I dunno.”

“Take a breath. Try.”

Wallace breathes, slow and deep, but it feels like sucking air through a straw.

He pictures her. The sharp line of her mouth. The way her eyes never softened, even when she smiled. He pictures her saying it, clear as a bell. You ruined my life.

He swallows. His throat feels thick.

But then, something moves in him. A shift. A flicker of something warmer than rage, stronger than fear.

“That’s not true,” he says, and the words feel foreign, but they land solid in his chest.

Becker smiles, just a little. “Good.”

-

The freeway hums under Wallace’s tires, the gray ribbon of asphalt stretching out ahead, pulling him forward like a current. The 405 to the 91 to the 71—familiar routes, roads he’s driven before but never with this kind of weight sitting on his chest. His fingers tighten around the steering wheel, his jaw clenches. The car’s too quiet, so he turns on the radio, but nothing sticks. He lands on some classic rock station, lets it play, lets the guitar riff fill the space where his thoughts are circling too fast.

This is stupid.

His mother isn’t going to change. He knows that. Has always known that. And yet here he is, running the words over in his head, testing them out, trying to imagine himself saying them without choking on them. That’s not true. Felt good in Becker’s office. Felt right. But that was in the safety of that little room with the shitty couch. His mom’s house is different. The air in there is thick, like stepping into a room filled with invisible hands that grab at your throat.

He takes the 91 East. No traffic. The universe is making this too easy.

His stomach twists. His grip loosens, then tightens again. He thinks about turning around, about saying fuck it, about letting it go. But he’s already too far in.

Past the Cerritos Mall, past the hills beginning to rise from the sprawl, he pictures her—sees the look she’ll give him: the tight-lipped smirk, the raised brow. The way she’ll sense the weakness before he even speaks.

The sign for Euclid Avenue blurs past.

His heart hammers.

I can’t do this.

He takes the off-ramp, pulls into a gas station and just sits. His chest rises and falls too fast, his pulse in his ears. His hands feel cold. What’s the point? She’ll laugh, tell him he’s being dramatic, turn the whole thing around until he’s the one apologizing. He knows how this goes.

His thumb taps against the steering wheel. The song on the radio changes.

He takes a breath. A real one this time.

And then another.

And then he backs out of the parking lot and gets back on the damn freeway.

The last stretch is fast. The hills roll into view, green from the last rain. Chino Hills still looks the same—strip malls, wide streets, cookie-cutter houses with big yards and the illusion of peace.

He pulls up to the house. It’s smaller than he remembers. The chain on the fridge flashes in his mind.

He gets out, shuts the car door. Stands at the front step. The frosted glass of the door obscures everything, but he knows she’s behind it. The shape of her. The hesitation.

She sees him. She knows his look.

The pause stretches.

Then the door opens.

She gives him a once-over, then smirks.

“Well. If it isn’t my little martyr.”

Oh, that twinkle in his eye.

That's when you knew Uncle Roy was busting to tell you a groaner of a joke. The instant you finished talking, he would put down his cigar, stroke the stubble on his cheeks, and say, "That reminds me of the time..." And he would tell you an anecdote from his day, ending with a corny punchline and a deep-down guffaw (his) and a snort (his also).

Uncle Roy was larger than life to this kid. Even when he wasn't around, he came to mind when I heard a trite joke.

But as I grew older, I saw Uncle Roy and his family less and less. I had my own family and told my own crummy jokes, but without his signature ending. That part stayed with me, but the rest of his image had faded from memory.

When Uncle Roy passed, I went to his funeral and briefly recalled those stubbled cheeks, the stogie, the punchlines, the laughing at his own jokes. But when I left the sendoff, the faint red light from his cigar ceased to glow. And soon, every shard of Uncle Roy was gone.

Even the snort.