Adelaide Literary Magazine No.22, March 2019

‘Well… I wouldn’t worry if I were you. Your 7
perception and maturity are something unique
as for your age. And they do work out of ‘That was exhausting, wasn’t it?’ asked
context.’ Maddie, laying her body down on the edge of
the sea and the land.
Alan blushed, shyly contemplating the pleasure
another of Maddie’s compliments gave him. Alan did not reply, fascinated by their
achievement; the sandcastle was indeed
‘But with me… you see, my parents wanted me impressive. Not only was it nearly Alan’s
to become like them, with a secure well-paying height, but it had a certain style that none of
job. Yet my dream always has been becoming them has encountered before. Mixing the
an actress... whatever it takes.’ Arabic architecture Alan was so used to and
Maddie’s quite loose take on London modern
‘You’re an actress?’ he asked excitedly. buildings gave an astounding effect.

Maddie smiled, charmingly. ‘That’s where we’re going to live when you’ll
be my wife?’ asked Alan, lying next to Maddie.
‘You see, Alan, with this kind of things, you
actually rarely ‘are’. In most cases, you’re They looked at each other lovingly, forgetting
‘becoming’ or ‘on your way to be’. Although I about the huge age gap between them.
had a pretty nice breakthrough, recently. That’s
why I came here, with my own money, to show ‘I thought it’s only a project… for something
them I can do make it, after all.’ bigger’ she laughed.

She was spectacular; Alan missed such a pure Alan just loved the way she did it and could not
honesty in the world of lies he had been resist coming closer.
surrounded by since his early childhood.
‘Of course, it is.’ he said.
‘I’ve always wanted to be a photographer,’ he
admitted after a short moment of silence. ‘But I Before the boy had a chance to think twice, he
doubt my dad will approve.’ impulsively kissed Maddie on the lips.

Maddie shrugged her shoulders as if it did not The high tide that just came touched their
matter at all. bodies but neither of them paid any attention
to it.
‘It’s your life, Alan. Your choices. And maybe…
you know, parents. They don’t approve at first 8
but then, when you eventually succeed, it’s like
I’ve always known he’ll make it. Just do what Alan kept waiting at the reception, exactly at
you want, the best way you can do it.’ the same spot where he and Maddie had
always met. But she was not there and nothing
Maddie smiled and Alan did the same. seemed like he would see her again. Maybe it
was too much, the kiss. Maybe it was not
‘Can we build a sandcastle?’ a wild idea exactly what she meant when they used to tell
suddenly came to his mind. each other the little stories about their future.

Instead of replying, Maddie drew a huge The clock mercilessly showed that the time
square in the sand and then proceeded with that has passed was clearly beyond casually
digging in and shaping the first pieces of the running late; Maddie simply did not want to
imagined building. see him anymore.

Alan willingly joined her, glad to reclaim Alan, disheartened, started wondering how to
something that he seemed to have lost a long apologise. He remembered the times when his
time ago.

father was not yet as arrogant and when he Alan’s cheeks slowly turned into the colour of
had done something wrong, he used to bring Maddie’s dress. He took a sip of water to cool
flowers to Alan’s mother. himself down.

Alan took the newest version of iPhone from ‘But apart from that short incident, my time
his pocket and started googling the most here has been full of pleasure. I’d love it to last
amazing flower bouquets; when he finally forever… if only not the fact that I have to go
found what he wanted, he ran to the back to London soon.’
receptionist.
Alan froze as if he has forgotten that it was a
‘Could you please send these flowers to hotel rather than a large house.
Maddie Khan’s room?’ he asked, showing the
picture to him. ‘And please include a dinner ‘If you want to, you can stay for longer,’ he said
invitation’. quickly. ‘In case you don’t have enough money,
I can ask my dad if…’
The receptionist smiled politely.
‘That’s not necessary, Alan,’ Maddie smiled at
‘I will do what I can, Sir Fletherty Junior.’ he him sadly. ‘I’m an adult girl, you know. It’s high
replied, taking up the phone. time to start taking responsibility for my life
choices and other things I do so carelessly.’
9
The last part she said with a kind of self-
Alan, dressed in a tuxedo, kept impatiently contempt as if she hated herself for something.
sitting at a romantically set up table in the Was it, again, about the kiss the day before?
poshest part of the restaurant, dedicated only
to the VIPs. If this was not enough for Maddie, Alan wanted to say something but stopped
what will be? himself before he uttered a word.

Fortunately, after what felt like an eternity, he ‘When do you have to leave, then?’
spotted her entering in a dusty rose dress,
showing her invitation at the door and coming ‘The day after tomorrow is my last one’ Maddie
to Alan’s table. replied, playing with the end of the knife.

Alan stood up and went towards her. Maddie Alan froze.
smiled, seeing him.
‘But I thought… people usually stay for the
‘I’m sorry if I insulted you yesterday’ he said, whole two weeks.’
moving back a chair for her.
‘When they can afford it, yes.’
‘It’s alright, I’m not innocent either,’ she
winked, continuing to be the playful, exciting Alan gathered himself.
and lovable Maddie.
‘I really mean it when I say we can make you
Alan breathed a sigh of relief and took his stay for longer.’
place.
‘Would you like me to?’ asked Maddie, looking
‘How was your day?’ into Alan’s eyes.

‘Quite sad, I must say,’ she admitted. ‘Actually, ‘It would mean the world to me, Maddie,’ he
just when I noticed how terribly I had been heard his own voice speaking before he
missing you, the flowers arrived. That’s so kind actually thought over what he wanted to say.
of you.’
Maddie smiled at him and went straight to
studying the menu.

‘You’re not hungry?’ Qatar… we could go there. Together. And
neither of us will have to prove anything.’
‘I know it by heart.’ said Alan.
Maddie smiled, visibly touched by the
Maddie smirked at him. sweetness and naivety of Alan’s words.

‘You’re often inviting girls for dates here, Sir ‘You really think there are no things to prove to
Fletherty Junior?’ each other in a relationship?’ she asked and
laughed.
Alan looked at Maddie, not liking the sudden
change of her tone. Alan blushed, confused.

‘Actually, it’s the first time I had a chance to.’ 10
he said honestly and looked down at his empty
plate. The candlelit dinner continued; despite the
earlier ambiguous elements, it seemed to Alan
‘I’m sorry,’ Maddie instinctively took his hand. that everything was getting better rather than
‘I was just thinking… maybe I’m not the best worse.
choice for you.’
‘So, you’ve been to all of these places?’
‘How come?’
Alan nodded.
‘Maybe I just remind you of your mum or…
anyway, forget it. It’s not very nice of me, ‘Yes, we moved here from Doha around a year
either.’ ago.’ replied Alan, slowly eating his spaghetti
Frutti di Mare.
Alan waited for it to sink in.
Maddie took a sip of her wine. She glanced at
‘Whereabouts do you live in London?’ Alan’s lychee juice.

‘Marylebone.’ she said with a smile. ‘Why don’t you want to try some wine if they
keep proposing it to you?’ she asked, genuinely
‘We used to live in Chelsea.’ interested.

‘Wow. I thought my family was posh…’ Alan shrugged.

Alan shrugged his shoulders. ‘I guess it’s something between me and dad.
It’s him who wants me to do it and I know it’s
‘I don’t think money brings happiness. I’m not wrong.’
happy here, to be honest.’
‘Powerplay then, inspiring,’ said Maddie,
Maddie glanced at him briefly from above the observing Alan intensely. ‘So the two of you
menu. don’t have a lot in common?’

‘But I know it helps some people to be Alan looked down.
financially reassured,’ he continued. ‘I know
people like that. Many of them come to this ‘Only a few memories. When mum and dad
hotel to prove themselves they can afford it, were still married.’
even if it’s not the case.’
Tears slowly appeared in Alan’s eyes and he
‘What do you mean, Alan? Are you suggesting rubbed them off, angrily.
that I am here to prove something?’
‘But that doesn’t matter any longer, does it?’
‘I’m only saying, we should use these lucky he said, his voice changed, more mature.
circumstances that we’ve found ourselves in.
Dad has other hotels, in Oman, Bahrain,

Maddie gave him a quick reassuring smile. ‘Oh, Alan, tomorrow’s another day,’ Raphael
winked at Maddie. ‘You will have enough time
‘It does, Alan, obviously it does. You can’t just to play with Maddie. But now it’s time to go to
throw your memories and feelings away, you sleep, son.’
have to deal with them the best way you can.’
Alan’s fists clenched, but he felt helpless.
‘I’m sorry, Maddie,’ said Alan, standing up. ‘I’m
just going to pop into the loo, I won’t be long.’ ‘Your dad’s right, I’m afraid,’ Maddie suggested
gently. ‘It’s almost midnight, isn’t it?’
‘You okay?’ she asked, caring.
Alan, defeated, dragged himself out of the
‘Yeah’ Alan nodded, although his swollen eyes restaurant. The boy turned just once again to
expressed the exact opposite. see his father embracing Maddie and pouring
some more wine into her glass.
He turned away and headed in the toilet’s
direction.

11 12

Alan slapped his own face, trying to piece Next morning, Alan approached the reception
himself together. He felt absolutely ashamed of counter.
being such a crybaby in front of Maddie.
‘I need to know Maddie Khan’s room number.’
On the other hand, he just loved the way she he said.
cared. But did he not actually provoke her to
behave in such way? The receptionist looked at him.

Alan left the bathroom, ready to apologise for ‘I don’t think I’m allowed to share this kind of
his sloppy behaviour. He headed to the table, information, Sir Fletherty Junior.’
only to notice his father sitting next to Maddie.
Alan sighed.
Alan stopped mid-step, shocked. He glanced at
Maddie, laughing at something Alan’s father ‘Please, call me Alan. And, in regards to
just said. Maddie, it’s important. I can’t find her
anywhere.’
Alan gathered himself and approached the
table. The receptionist looked at the screen,
considering.
‘Oh, Alan, there you are!’ said Raphael
Fletherty, giving his son a fake charming smile. ‘If you can’t tell me, would you please call her
room and let me speak to her?’ begged Alan.
Maddie looked at Raphael and then at Alan,
considering. The receptionist nodded and took the phone.

‘Maddie and I were just eating a supper’ ‘That I can do.’
replied Alan, seemingly casually.
He typed the number and waited for a short
‘A nice friend you have, she’s a wonderful girl,’ while on the phone, only to put it down.
Raphael smiled at Maddie and she did the
same. ‘But don’t you think it’s a bit late, Alan? ‘I’m afraid she’s not picking up, Alan…’ said the
You’re usually asleep by this time, aren’t you?’ receptionist, apologetically. ‘Is it a girl from
London, with big grey eyes, very beautiful,
Alan felt that he was boiling inside. around ten years older than you are?’

‘Not at all. We actually had some plans…’ Alan nodded straight away.

‘I think I saw her going in the swimming pool’s
direction,’ he whispered.

‘Was she alone?’ Before he answered, Maddie gave it to him.

‘I think so.’ ‘I was looking for you.’

13 Maddie shrugged.

Alan, now redressed in shorts and with a towel ‘You could have simply come to my room,
in his hand, exited the Oasis hotel. He hid couldn’t you?’
behind his Oakley sunglasses and started to
explore the surroundings. ‘That’s the thing, Maddie. I didn’t know the
number.’
Rich people of various age and coming from
different parts of the world rested in the Maddie reached her bag.
shadow of palm trees. Many of them decided
to cool themselves down in a packed tear- ‘Here it is. You can have the second card.’
shaped swimming pool; others enjoyed
cocktails at a nearby bar. But where among this ‘You’re sure?’ Alan, surprised, looked at the
crowd was Maddie? 1803 room card.

Alan spotted familiar hair; the person was Maddie nodded.
sitting back to him. Being certain it must be
Maddie, he approached, only to see a guy ‘Definitely.’
coming to her and giving her a Piña colada; the
girl showed her profile. It definitely was not Her voice had changed a lot since the day
Maddie. before; she seemed more confident, mature as
if she undertook a decision that cannot be
Alan continued his quest, avoiding inflatable changed.
dinghies, children running around and waiters
collecting used glasses. After three rounds ‘You okay?’
without spotting Maddie, the boy sat on the
edge of the swimming pool and put his legs She nodded, clearly thinking about something
into the water, moving them purposelessly. else.

Suddenly, he noticed Maddie on a deckchair on ‘I just need a bit of time for myself to figure
the opposite edge of the pool. Impulsively, things out, that’s all.’
Alan jumped into the water and started
swimming in Maddie’s direction. ‘What kind of things, Maddie?’

If Alan ever cared about how fast he swims, he ‘I got a proposition,’ she uttered quietly. ‘I’m
would have definitely set his record on that just wondering if I should take it.’
day, reaching another side in almost no time.
‘Is it an acting proposition?’
He put himself up and sat on an empty
deckchair next to Maddie lost in her book. ‘Kind of.’ she replied and looked away.

‘What are you reading?’ Alan tried to make a ‘Is it better than what I asked you to do?’
conversation.
‘It’s just different.’
Maddie looked up from the book, noticing his
presence for the very first time. Alan nodded, not making anything out of it.

‘Oh, Alan, you’re all wet, do you want my ‘Maybe we can go to the beach, build another
towel?’ sandcastle and talk?’

‘Honestly, Alan, I think I just want to be alone
at this stage.’ said Maddie, going back to
reading her book.

Alan looked at the cover. It read: Handbook of
Acting Techniques.

14 The boy instinctively felt someone’s presence
inside the room; he walked towards the quiet
Despite it being the middle of the night, Alan breathing he heard. But instead of Maddie on
could not fall asleep. He turned impatiently to her own, he saw two people, both naked and
his other side and looked around his luxurious embracing each other in an intimate way.
en-suite, wondering how it is possible to have
everything one could ever dream of and yet be Alan blinked a few times, seeing his father on
so dissatisfied and helpless. top of Maddie. No matter how much pain it
caused, the boy was simply unable to stop
He closed his eyes, only to open them and look looking, until Maddie’s eyes opened and
at the bedside table. The card to room 1803 lay recognised his face.
there, tempting Alan in the moonlight.
‘Alan,’ she whispered, still in a moany way,
After a brief moment of hesitation, Alan unable to switch so quickly to her casual voice.
reached for it and stood up; if Maddie was to
leave tomorrow, it was his last chance, anyway. She pushed Raphael away, but Alan could not
see that; he was already running away, his eyes
Alan left his apartment quietly and went full of tears, only his broken heart capable of
straight to the lift. He took a deep breath and making him move outside of the hotel, in the
pushed the button taking him to the direction of the beach.
eighteenth floor.

15 16

At this point of the night, floor eighteen was Alan kept speed walking along the beach, the
very quiet. Alan made a few cautious steps sound of night waves mixing with the
towards Maddie’s room and stopped in front of conversations inside his head.
it.
The moment when they met at the reception.
The door was soundproofed well; he could not
hear any kind of movement inside. Alan When he showed her Dubai for the first time.
gathered courage and knocked on the door
delicately. The joyful dinner together.

No answer. The corridor seemed just as dead And…
as the moment ago.
Building the sandcastle.
‘Maddie, it’s me.’ whispered Alan, putting his
lips close to the door. Alan stopped abruptly, looking around. It
should be somewhere over there, but…
Again, no response.
The only shape he could differentiate in the
Alan automatically touched the card to darkness was something which used to be a
Maddie’s room, up to this point lying safely in beautiful sandcastle, but now the waves made
his pocket. He tried knocking once again; and a ruin out of it.
then, before he thought about doing it twice,
the card already touched the magnet and the ‘I thought it’s only a project… for something
door to room 1803 opened. bigger’ Alan heard Maddie’s words in his head.

Alan entered, following the discrete beam of He himself thought so, too. But now all he
the bedside lamp. wanted to do was just lie alone on the
deserted beach, a broken soul next to the
‘Maddie?’ destroyed sandcastle.

About the Author

Kamila Stopyra is MA Screenwriting alumni of
The London Film School. Her screenplays were
highly acclaimed at festivals and contests in the
UK, Israel, Mexico, Canada and the US, inclu-
ding the prestigious Creative World Awards
(Finalist) and Finish Line Script Competition.
Kamila specialises in character-driven family
dramas that resonate with the viewer and con-
vey meaningful, universal truths. You can find
more information on her website: http://
kamilastopyra.wixsite.com/writer

FROST

by Phil Mershon

For the next nine years he wandered from one the unremitting damp ice that lay just beneath
ranch to the next. The old man had long ago his skin.
gone to whatever final rewards he'd had
coming, leaving George to embrace solitude in His reputation preceded him, of course.
that singular way that only a man who has This was the man, after all, who had placed the
murdered his own best friend can do. barrel of a gun behind the ear of his best and
only friend. This was the man who had spent
The Big War had rid the ranches of the the better part of his life--better? Ha!--taking
young help, so George found himself in high care of the noble giant, only to squeeze a
demand. With so much work to do--hoisting trigger and splatter the man's brains into the
bales, commanding the plows, throwing soulless pond rather than allow the men at the
fertilizer, harvesting bare-handed--George ranch to string him up.
discovered the nightmares had slipped away.
All he had left, besides the old and baggy This was the man who had--through neither
clothes in which he worked, was a glorious fault nor nobility--become a walking legend as
sense of emptiness, with nothing he drifted from one work ranch to another,
approximating a future anywhere in his mind. never begging for a job, merely standing
Bouncing bundles of wet straw onto the bed of outside the gate with his hands buried deep
a flat truck one humid afternoon, he stopped into his pockets until the foreman or someone
to stare into the sun, sensing for the first of in charge recognized him and told him to come
many times that the past had slipped away, on in.
leaving him with nothing much to think about.
All he could feel was the frost that had seeped While the other men--and women, too; let
into the tanned wrinkles of his arms and hands. us not forget that with the Big War going on,
That damned frost just would not leave George many women had to join the older men in the
alone, no matter how committed he was to the fields--would bark and cackle and bitch and
labor at hand. curse, George seldom spoke, even to himself,
even inside his own head. Had anyone been
Even working road construction in the ignorant enough to have asked George "Why
south Arizona desert in July, with temperatures so glum?" he would have taken action against
pushing beyond one-twenty, he shivered from that person with a swiftness that would have
left the others blissfully speechless.

No one on the ranches made the infantryman. This man, who called himself
connection between George's appearance Hainey, had thrown a hand grenade into a tent
there and the disappearance of various where his Lieutenant had been sleeping,
malcontents. Spider Cooney, a big bastard of a blowing the man into several bloody chunks.
worker who had been sweating alongside The War Department had decided that since
George at the Albert Yantee farm in Nogales, this Corporal Hainey had previously been
wasn't missed by anyone, least of all by Albert responsible for capturing twenty-seven
Yantee. Spider, a round and robust man, had Japanese saboteurs, that the Lieutenant might
been the first person to decide, on his own and be expendable. Still, they did feel the need to
unprovoked, to speak to George about what dishonorably discharge this Hainey character.
had happened years earlier. Albert Yantee And so the soldier had walked the streets of his
overheard and told George not to worry about native Phoenix, always in full uniform,
it, that Spider had more fat cells than brains. blathering incoherently to any and all. What
Two nights later the frost fell across George. He the military had not known--and would not
rose from his bunk, somnambulant and have cared much had they known--was that
unafraid. He tapped the snoring Spider Cooney the dead Lieutenant had been Corporal
on the arm, motioned him outside and offered Hainey's best friend. Even with that piece of
the man a home-rolled cigarette. The two men information, the mystery of the Lieutenant's
walked together, saying very little, Cooney's murder would have remained just that, a
long and hairy arms glistening in the mystery, one that not even Hainey himself
moonlight. Spider had to have known on some could have solved. All he knew for certain was
level what was going to happen, but if he felt that he walked around outside with a terrible
the urge to resist, he did not let on. Once the chill that he could not disgorge, no matter what
two men made it as far as the dry wash, the heat of the sun and sidewalks.
George reached out with one damp and very
cold fist and struck the taller man on the right George met Hainey while the two men
temple, dropping him dead before his loitered outside a Salvation Army camp where
unshaven face landed in the dirt. volunteers gave out free cups of coffee and
one cold donut to all takers. It had required all
The buzzards had disemboweled Cooney of Hainey's mental inertia to approach George,
before sunrise. With all the reports of Hitler to greet him with a semblance of a smile, to
and Mussolini scratching through the radios actually form the words "Good morning, sir."
and with so much work to be done, nobody Something about the other man's blankness
ever got around to worrying about it. After all, had registered with the Corporal. Speaking to
Spider Cooney had been a royal pain in the ass. him had been akin to smiling into a mirror.
When George responded with a curled lip and
Thirteen other men had gone in a similar a mock salute, Hainey had laughed. He had
fashion as George made his way back and forth laughed simply because of a lack of
along the southern United States. By 1947, the preparedness for such a reaction. People
Big War was now a thing that people knew tended to shy away from Hainey.
mostly from the movies, a certain unreality
taking hold of the population. As the men The Corporal recognized this reluctance in
returned to the fields, the women returned to others. So when he chose to speak to someone
the kitchens and cat houses. George continued --rare as those occasions were--people
walking, screaming without sound, embracing invariably responded "Good morning" right
the frost that would not go away. back, an uneasy smile holding their faces in
place as their eyes looked for somewhere else
It was a few days before Christmas of that for their feet to be. No one had ever sneered
year when George encountered a former and mocked him. So he had laughed.

George balled up a fist and smashed Hainey About the Author
across the temple. The force of the blow
rocked the soldier back on his heels, but he did Phil Mershon is a writer and web designer
not go down. Instead, he recovered his vision from Phoenix, presently living in Alderson,
just as George was readying himself for a West Virginia. His writings have appeared in
second fierce blow. Hainey drew a pistol from Training & Development, Perfect Sound Forev-
inside his jacket, jammed it in George's belly, er and elsewhere.. He knows how to have a
and shot the shorter man dead. good time.

He accepted the coffee and donut from the
terrified Salvation Army volunteer.

Two days later Hainey tried to turn himself
into the police in Phoenix. No one had time to
expend on a shell-shocked psychopath. The
police were far too busy piecing together the
remains of the mystery of the fourteen men
murdered over a nine year period by a drifter
named George. The police investigators were
working around the clock to determine what
link, if any, existed between the fourteen dead
men and this recently deceased George
person.

The Maricopa County Coroner stated in his
report that, in addition to the fatal gunshot
wound, George had been suffering from an
inexplicable case of hypothermia, a condition
most unusual in the desert southwest.

THE ARTIST AS AN
OLD MAN

by Benjamin Haimowitz

For eleven years since the shaking caused by Steven’s dim view of his only grandfather (his
Parkinson’s disease made life at home with him mother’s father having died before he was
impossible, Steven’s grandfather had been in a born) was hardly the boy’s own creation: his
facility for the chronically diseased uptown in parents had never made a secret of their dis-
the Bronx. The old man, bent, emaciated, dain for grandpa Jacob – all the more now that
hands trembling, fly half-open, stains on his disease had so thoroughly undone him. There
cheap, wrinkled cotton pants, his speech re- would be stories over the dinner table of oth-
duced to a toothless mumbling that even his ers who had faced Parkinson’s with courage,
wife and son deciphered with difficulty – Ste- even continuing to work at their jobs, where
ven was too young to remember anything be- grandpa had become so demoralized by his
yond that pathetic figure. For sure the weekly shaking that he quickly became impossible to
Sunday visits with his father to the chronic- live with. Tales came back of visitors flocking to
disease facility were the low point of the day, the apartment with chocolates and books and
and, for that matter, the week, but his father pep talks only to have their good intentions
never gave him any choice on whether to go or met with moaning, tears, and outright insults.
not.
And this was only the most recent instance of
Underlying the basic unpleasantness of a place life-long moral failings. He had never held a
where everyone was sick and almost everyone job, and, aside from the pittance earned from
was old was an uneasiness centering on his his books and articles in the Yiddish press, and
grandfather himself. Here was the dismal cul- occasional winnings at cards or chess, he never
mination of a morality tale, the bitter fruit of a made anything resembling a decent living. In-
life spent in the pursuit of fame (limited though stead he was content to be supported by his
it was) and pleasure, with little regard for the wife, who toiled long hours at garment-district
welfare of his family or perhaps for anyone sewing machines, and his son, who managed
outside himself. To the extent that young Ste- all manner of jobs while attending high school
ven had sinned – and there were sins aplenty – and tuition-free CCNY.
the weekly visit to his grandfather only served
to amplify whatever guilt or disquiet he might Still, Steven’s father was able to summon up
feel on his own. some measure of wry humor in describing

what was once grandpa’s typical day. Wife and “I overheard you telling pop that you’re editing
son would have been on their way for hours some translations of T.S. Eliot, Mr. Friedman,”
when he would rise and, after a leisurely break- and Mr. Friedman would gratefully leaf
fast, take out an old hand iron and press his through the newspapers and magazine he had
suit on the kitchen table along with a shirt he brought until he found the one with the T.S.
had washed the day before. He would then Eliot translations, and would then point out
wash and hang up yesterday’s shirt for the where he had encountered difficulties because
morrow, polish his shoes, and dress. Sometime of the translator’s uncertain knowledge of Eng-
around noon he would collect the change his lish and would watch solicitously as Steven’s
wife had left for him and head for the down- father, whose knowledge of Yiddish was some-
town El, procuring on credit the Yiddish paper what patchy and of T.S. Eliot even patchier,
from a corner newsstand. It would often be would struggle through a translation.
long after wife and son had retired for the
night that he would return home, if he re- Grandma Sonya, whose Yiddish was not at all
turned at all, for there were days and some- patchy but to whom T.S. Eliot meant nothing,
times weeks when he did not. was invariably very deferential with the literary
gentlemen, making much ado about getting
A favorite joke of Steven’s father was of Ortho- chairs for them, or, if there were no extra
dox Jews on their way at daybreak to morning chairs, yielding her own. Hardly had they left
prayer who happen to look through the win- when she would arrange the newspapers and
dow of the Café Aristocrat, a favorite down- magazines in a little pile and bury them in the
town haunt of grandpa’s, where some men are old man’s bottom drawer with all the unread
playing cards. The Orthodox prayer-goers newspapers and magazine from previous visits:
shake their heads in wonder. How amazing, that expressed her view of them. Still, there
one of them says, that men would get up so would be other visitors a month or two later,
early in the morning to play cards. and they would always pay homage to her hus-
band in a way that she should not help but find
Thus did humor help lighten the Sunday visits pleasing. They would ask Steven if he was go-
to grandpa. And sometimes acquaintances ing to be like his grandfather when he grew up,
from what was left of the Yiddish downtown and Steven’s father would say he hoped not,
world would visit. They would bring oranges and they, genuinely surprised, would ask why,
and chocolates and a pile of recent Yiddish why. So would admiration for the old man
newspapers and magazines, and they would sometimes come to dominate these after-
pull their chairs up close to grandpa, and, lean- noons.
ing in so that their lips almost touched his ear,
convey the latest news and gossip. But except Of greater help in leavening the visits was the
for an occasional inquiry about someone they hospital’s day room with its big black-and-
mentioned, the old man had next to nothing to white TV, where Steven could catch bits of the
say. Then it would be over. They would have Sunday ballgames, and helping too was the
told him whatever there was to tell, and he had prospect of better hours ahead. For at 3:30 or
shown little interest, and now there was noth- thereabouts Steven’s father would seek out
ing for them to do except sit around with a the Rumanian nursing attendant Hugo, whom
faintly embarrassed air for the rest of the after- grandpa had been pestering him all afternoon
noon. It was Steven’s father who came to their to tip, bestow on grandpa a parting kiss on the
rescue, not merely out of politeness but be- cheek, and prepare for departure. For Steven
cause he was genuinely interested in their this meant the second of two rituals that de-
work. fined these afternoons. The first, at the start of
the visit, was satisfying grandpa’s desire to feel

his muscle, and the second, at parting, was the ven found himself drawn to, a pencil sketch in
handshake. Grandpa’s grip would tighten on color of a castle, the gates and moats and tur-
Steven’s with surprising force, and, Steven rets and flags all depicted with precision but
would try to free himself, but, as he pulled aery as a dream, the castle occupying only the
away, the grip would tighten even more, the central third of the paper and all else left
old man’s lean jaw elongating into a wolfish white, a whiteness that the artist must have
grin, as, shaking with silent laughter, he drove considered as worthy of display as the castle
Steven to summon the will to press back. It was itself.
as if the old man had saved up all week for that
handshake. In sum, the room was a little museum that for
the past eleven years had lacked the presence
Then they would take their leave, the three of of the man whose works, literary and artistic,
them walking the several blocks to the small were on display here and whose current condi-
apartment that had been home since the fami- tion was a far cry from their creator’s.
ly moved from Harlem a few years after the
birth of Steven’s father. It was a tidy, though Of his talents there were no doubts. Whatever
small, three-room unit on the ground floor of a he tried he did well – whether writing or draw-
tenement, at the end of a narrow hall so dimly ing or tailoring or playing chess and pinochle or
lit that one had to grope the last few steps to just making talk. According to Steven’s father,
the apartment. The door opened to an almost the closest he ever came to a real job was in
equally dark vestibule, but beyond that was the the old country, where his father had a tailor
brightness of the biggest of the apartment’s shop and put him to work early on. In addition
three rooms, the kitchen, with its dense array to whatever tailoring skills the father pos-
of house plants on a table by the window. sessed was a talent that his son evidently in-
There were no rugs or carpets, the floor cover- herited – an ability to palm off work on others
ing of the entire three rooms consisting of lino- – for, when the boy quickly showed a facility at
leum. To the left was a small bedroom and to tailoring, his father began handing over jobs to
the right a somewhat larger living room with a him that customers were under the impression
featureless, narrow bed along one wall where he was doing himself. As much as anything, it
Steven’s father had once slept. Behind an arm- must have been this exploitation that deter-
chair and floor lamp was a glassed-in bookcase, mined him to break out, added to the fact that
in which almost all the books, including, of his mother had died when he was a toddler,
course, those written by grandpa, were in Yid- and his father having remarried, he found him-
dish. On the wall were some sketches, one a self in a household of stepbrothers and stepsis-
loosely drawn pen and black ink of grandpa by ters. Escape came via marriage to grandma
one of the downtown crowd and the others Sonya, whose family was even more peasant-
pencil portraits that grandpa had done, pre- like than his own but harbored plans of leaving
sumably of one or another of that crowd, for for America, to which at the start of the new
there were none of Steven’s father or grand- century they embarked.
mother. They were all so sparsely drawn that Perhaps because it was the closest he ever
when Steven stood in the center of the room came to a real job or because it was so tangi-
and looked from one to another, he could ble, grandpa’s tailoring skills seemed to im-
hardly distinguish them, but moving closer press Steven’s father more than any of the
would suddenly bring the subjects’ features to talents on display in the living room. Grandpa
life. There was also a striking photograph from would come home with a suit he had bought
the old country of young people posed not as a downtown and would proceed to remake it
group but as individuals, as was the custom in right on the kitchen table. No matter that he
those parts, and finally there was one that Ste- never put those same skills to work on behalf
of his wife’s or son’s garments; to Steven’s fa-

ther the sartorial transformations he witnessed “Now you’re asking questions.”
on that kitchen table seemed to rouse his won-
der more than anything else the old man did. “Don’t you remember?”

But what about the books? There they stood “I’d have to go back and reread it, which I don’t
behind the glass door of the bookcase in dull intend to do.” Then an odd little smile made its
brown bindings with gold letters in a language appearance and with a lilting sarcasm, he add-
Steven didn’t have a clue about. What kind of ed: “What I do remember – and you won’t
books were they? Were they any good? The want to let this out to your friends – to Tommy
little Steven knew about grandpa’s literary Dolan or Bernie Farrell or Jimmy Walsh – is that
tastes was that he had a liking for Dumas, so the book takes a rather sympathetic view of
that his father was eager to keep the old man Judas Iscariot.”
abreast of Steven’s enthusiasm for The Three
Musketeers trilogy and The Count of Monte Judas! The Biblical name that popped up more
Cristo, to which grandpa would respond with than any other among Steven’s friends. He cer-
nods of approval. As for grandpa’s own books, tainly wouldn’t let this out!
of which there were about a half dozen, Steven
gathered that they were a mix of novels, sto- Not that the hour or so Steven and his father
ries, and essays. Early on, grandpa was associ- spent at grandma’s following the weekly visit
ated with writers that collectively were known to the hospital was taken up with discussions
as the Yunge whose work focused on life in the of grandpa’s works and days. Mostly it was
New World and represented a break with the grandma fussing over the two of them, as they
Old World focus of earlier writers. devoured walnuts and almonds and pecans
and other nuts Steven didn’t know the names
What fascinated Steven more, though, was of followed by cookies and tea. Maybe there
that grandpa had written a historical novel hav- would be a few hands of casino with grandma,
ing to do with Jesus, which, to a Jewish boy and then they would leave, heading west six or
growing up in a largely Irish neighborhood, seven blocks to within a few blocks of the
seemed very strange. While feeling the sting of Grand Concourse, where Steven’s other grand-
anti-Semitism only rarely, Steven was always ma lived, and where his mother would meet
aware of a gap between him and his friends. them. This was no cramped little apartment at
Adding to it was the fact that, much to his re- the end of a dark hallway but a handsome, two
gret, they all went to parochial school instead -family house where grandma and mom’s sister
of the public school that he attended. and brother-in-law occupied the ample top
floor. There would be cousins to play with and
Given the gap, given the difference, why would watch television with, all of it culminating in an
grandpa write a book about Jesus? It seemed ample dinner leaving Steven stuffed and a bit
very strange, almost a betrayal. woozy as he ambled with mom and dad to the
Grand Concourse and a cab home.
Questions about grandpa’s career always
seemed to irritate Steven’s father, who forbore Thus did Sundays end on a high note.
enough to explain that it wasn’t really a book
about Jesus, who is only seen at a distance, but This year, though, was different.
was mainly about Jews who lived in the holy
land at that time. First grandma Sonya got throat cancer. The
voice became a rasp, and she complained
And what was the point of the book? about the pain, and, once it became clear this
was cancer and not just some stubborn laryngi-

tis, Steven’s father moved her out of her apart- father, though he could be as harsh with his
ment to live with them. The year before, they parents as his wife was, took strong exception.
had left the rapidly deteriorating Bronx for a It was not revenge or anything like it. If any-
three-story house on Long Island; Steven gave thing it was the opposite: she had too much
up his bedroom on the second floor for the respect for her husband to lie. She knew he
solitude of the third so that grandma could stay wouldn’t believe her and that she would dis-
in his room. credit herself by it.

Their family had been among the last on the In any event, the debate didn’t go on for long:
block to own a television set, Steven’s parents a few months after grandma came to live with
holding out in protest against the overwhelm- them, she succumbed. And a matter of weeks
ing amount of junk on TV, but now they relent- later, grandpa suffered a fall that almost killed
ed out of necessity. Grandma would come him.
down in the morning, as well groomed as ever,
as if she might be going out to shop or visit a Steven had not seen grandpa since then, hav-
friend, and would proceed to watch that whole ing been away at camp over the summer.
succession of situation comedies and quiz Grandpa had recovered enough from the acci-
shows and soap operas and panel shows and dent to be sitting in a wheelchair, although he
old movies, stolid and unmoved through it all, was no longer able to get out of bed by himself
until it was time to go to bed, and she would and had to be lifted out by attendants. Had he
rasp an almost inaudible good night and go up looked that bad before the summer? Those
to her room. fleshless cheeks, the slumping of his head as if
As for her husband, where for years she had he no longer had the strength to hold it up: the
visited four or five times a week, now she de- fall had taken its toll, and, still, he had survived.
clined to visit at all on Sundays when the family In a private room just off the ward, Mr. Fein-
would make its usual rounds in the Bronx. Ste- berg, much younger and formerly a lot more
ven’s father tried all manner of persuasion, vigorous than grandpa, was lying in an oxygen
from imploring her for the sake of grandpa to tent. Grandpa had survived all the original oc-
condemning her for her stubbornness, but to cupants of the ward, had survived most of the
his bafflement none of it worked. Even granted visitors who had pitied him, and now had sur-
that she could have derived little comfort from vived his wife. Was it luck or lack of it that kept
a feeble old man who looked forward to her him alive through the summer? Or was it that
visits mainly for the dollars she would give him luck was only secondary and that with every
to tip the hospital attendant, there was still diminution of strength, solace, or whatever it is
something to be said for to getting out of the that is supposed to keep a man alive, he held
house for other than a doctor’s appointment. all the more tenaciously to – what?
She had kept up her appearance, and the rasp
could always be explained as laryngitis. Sam Loeb was visiting this afternoon. Mr. Loeb
had been a waiter at the Café Aristocrat in its
Steven’s mother, who had little love for her heyday and had worked there until the day it
husband’s family, put a predictably negative finally closed. He used to visit grandpa with
construction on her mother-in-law’s refusal. some frequency, but it had now been over a
After all the years of slaving away at sewing year since his last visit. He’d had a heart attack,
machines in the garment district to maintain Mr. Loeb explained. Still, he had recovered
her husband in the style to which he had grown enough to make a trip to Israel.
accustomed, she was now having her revenge.
If bitterness at all those years had finally caught
up with her, who could blame her? Steven’s

“I have always wanted to go there,” Mr. Loeb heard about it last week. Then urgently, in a
said. “My doctor was against it, but what was I near-whisper, “Have you told your father about
to do, just sit on my fanny?” He turned to Ste- it?”
ven. “Your father knows that there were many
Zionists at the Café Aristocrat; I thought I’d Steven’s father frowned and bit his lip. He
look some of them up. I met Mendel Bernstein shook his head.
in Tel Aviv; he’s living there with his son and
daughter-in-law. You remember him, Jacob, “Ah, you haven’t.”
eh? Mendy Bernstein?” Grandpa, absorbed in
trying to dig ice cream from a dixie cup, nod- “I’ve been telling him she’s on vacation,” Ste-
ded vaguely and grunted. “Your grandfather ven’s father said.
wasn’t much of a Zionist,” Mr. Loeb said to “I see, I see,” said Mr. Loeb, considering this for
Steven with a smile. a moment. “And does he believe it?”
“I don’t know what he believes. At first I told
“So now I have seen the promised land,” Mr. him that she was sick and then that she was
Loeb continued. They sat in a close circle about taking a long vacation to recuperate and could-
grandpa, Steven’s father now helping him with n’t come. He took a bad fall this summer, you
his ice cream. “God has been good to me. How know, and for a while the doctors didn’t think
many men have recovered from heart attacks he’d live. And, of course, she didn’t visit him all
as bad as mine? ‘Sam,’ I said to myself, ‘it may that time. He’s asked for her. Last week he sud-
not come out so well the next time. God is giv- denly tells me it’s their wedding anniversary.
ing you this chance to go.’ I tell you, every Jew ‘Where’s Sonya, it’s our anniversary.’ Anniver-
should see it – the work, the spirit – every Jew. sary, my pop! Can you imagine that?”
If I could, I would write a book about it. Maybe
I can, eh Jacob? Maybe being around writers all His voice breaking, he turned away from Mr.
my live, some of it has rubbed off on me.” Loeb. He had barely managed to get the last
words out. Mr. Loeb made a gesture toward
Steven could not remember a time when Mr. him, but he was already leaving to bring his
Loeb talked this much. Before this, the sigh of father back from the bathroom.
grandpa trembling in his chair seemed to hold
him in solemn silence. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t have been here this
summer,” Mr. Loeb said. “What a hard time it’s
Grandpa finished the dixie cup, and Steven’s been for your father. You are very lucky to
father threw it away, wiped his chin and have a father like that. All men should be as
wheeled him to the bathroom. Mr. Loeb put good to their parents as your father has been
his hand on Steven’s shoulder. “I heard about to his. I myself have never had any children,
you grandma’s death. Terrible, terrible. She but I know it must be a great comfort to your
was such a young-looking woman. She always grandfather to have a son like that in his old
took such good care of herself.” He adjusted age.”
his rimless glasses and shook his head gravely.
His hand, which had tightened on Steven’s For all his solemnity, there was a deadpan
shoulder, fell limply. quality about him. His face, small, flat, leathery,
seemed to preclude the possibility of emotion
A patient from across the aisle called to Steven registering on it with any force.
to light his cigarette, and, when he returned,
his father was coming back from the bathroom. Steven’s father wheeled grandpa back from the
“I was telling your son how terrible I feel about bathroom, and Steven took the chance to get
your mother’s death,” Mr. Loeb said. “I just outside the ward. The three daughters of Mr.
Feinberg were in the hallway, the two older

ones engaged in what appeared to be an ur- and he began to run. The brilliant September
gent conversation, the youngest seeming ab- sun leaped and danced among the parked cars,
stracted. It was she whom Steven had seen a wild, blinding dance.
visiting the most, and he waved to her, but she
failed to notice him. “Ah, there he is now,” said Mr. Loeb. He was
How strange that his father’s voice had preparing to go, having already put on his hat
cracked. It was the closest he had ever seen his and the topcoat he had worn despite the mild-
father come to crying, a man who always ness of the day.
seemed to have a sharp answer for everything.
Even religion: Steven’s mother once joked that “Mr. Loeb wants to say goodbye to you,” Ste-
the loudest sound she ever heard was of her ven’s father said.
husband sinking his teeth into an apple on Yom
Kippur; yet, he now trooped to the local syna- “But he didn’t have to run for that,” Mr. Loeb
gogue every Saturday to say kaddish for his said. “I don’t know if you will ever be a waiter,
mother. my boy, but one learns always to go at one’s
pace, even when people are trying to rush you.
Outside, Steven shielded his eyes from the God bless you, my boy.”
brightness of the September day. It was a time
of year that made him uneasy. He began to feel He patted Steven on the head and turned to
it in the last week of camp, a sense of time slip- the old man. “And, you, Jacob, I’ll be seeing
ping away. Even though he was just a boy with more of you now, don’t worry about that. I’ll
his whole life before him, time slipped away, be writing my memoir now – ‘My Years at the
took its toll. A few blocks away was the little Café Aristocrat.’ What do I have to lose, eh?
apartment where grandma Sonya would fuss Maybe I was a writer all along without knowing
over them every week, and now it was empty, it. I would just like to see this through, Jacob.
and he would never go there again. And up- I’m getting to be an old man, older than you
stairs grandpa, having lived by his own lights even.”
and no others, a life that visitors to the old man
held up for Steven to emulate, now hung on to With that he reached out to shake the old
the final bare threads. man’s hand, but the old man pulled his hand
back. And suddenly a loud gargling sound rose
Having cleared out the apartment over the in his throat, as if he were trying to expel
summer, his father had expressed chagrin over something that was stuck there, and the sound
decline in the neighborhood, and now Steven grew louder and became like a groan, though
became aware of it as well – a burned-out not exactly because there was rage in it, and
building here, “for rent” signs in many stores. It got louder and angrier until people in the ward
was hardly a surprise. His own family had seen turned to see what was going on. Only when
the same signs in their neighborhood and had the old man saw the attendant Hugo hurrying
headed for the suburbs. over from another part of the ward did he
stop. He reached into his shirt pocket and
Where exactly was he now? All the times he pulled out bills Steven’s father had given him
had been here, he had simply followed along for tip money and waved them at the
with his father and grandma Sonya, and now attendant.
his surroundings suddenly seemed unfamiliar.
Paying little attention to where he was going, The attendant chided grandpa for making all
he seemed to have wandered some distance this noise and then took the dollar bills, thank-
from the hospital, where they might be won- ing the old man with exaggerated politeness,
dering where he was. Momentarily he was not as if the bills were not real money. It was their
sure of the way back but thought it was uphill,

little game, the attendant’s smile said to Ste- About the Author
ven’s father. To show that there were no hard
feelings, the attendant told them how glad he Benjamin Haimowitz, a graduate of Columbia
was that the old man had recovered from his College, has worked as a public-school teacher,
fall and that he was usually a good patient but editor, and public-relations consultant. His fic-
they still had to keep an eye on him because tion has appeared in New Directions and Ara-
there was pep in the old boy yet. rat, and other writings have been published in
Smithsonian, New Leader, and Journal of Read-
Then the attendant and Mr. Loeb, whom ing. He lives in Brooklyn, NY.
grandpa’s outburst seemed to have puzzled,
were gone, and it was time for the two of them
go too.

“Say goodbye to grandpa,” Steven’s father
said. “He was asking about you before. Tell him
about your paper route and see if that makes
him carry on.”

Steven bent down to tell his grandfather about
the newspaper-delivery route he’d taken over
since coming back from camp, how he was
making some decent money at it but how it
sometimes got boring, and the old man mum-
bled something he couldn’t make out. He bent
in closer, and the old man mumbled it again,
but he still couldn’t make it out and so moved
in so that he ear was almost touching the old
man’s mouth and he could feel his labored
breathing.

“All jobs are boring,” grandpa said, his hand
suddenly tightening on Steven’s.

“Okay, grandpa, thanks,” Steven said pulling
away, but the old man held fast.

“All jobs are boring,” the old man repeated,
grinning his wolfish grin.

“Thanks, grandpa, thanks,” Steven said, trying
to get loose, and still the old man held fast, not
just grinning but shaking now with laughter,
until shame swept over Steven, and he pressed
back.

TOMORROW

by Naethan Pais

His eyes opened rather swiftly for a man his unironed sheets gave the room a minimalistic
age. It was painful. The sudden overload of feel. Not really my style, he thought. The space
information flooding through, rendering his had the vibe of a man down on his luck, trying
surroundings as smoked glass. His frail frame to pull his life together, and still be among the
rose up, painfully, registering the environment. elite of society. A man who still wanted to live,
His heart was still beating, face was still but couldn’t. While the old timer might have
sweating. Beside him lay the forbidding silhou- forgotten himself, his brain hadn’t. His instincts
ette of a gun, smoking, with the faint smell of took over as his well- trained eyes skipped the
gunpowder emanating from it. He appeared to obvious, and saw the underlying, morbid de-
be on a vast rooftop. The man unable to recall tails. The cold, impersonal touch, the lack of
any memory, stood motionless against the un- family photos and hundreds of little implica-
familiar backdrop of buildings reaching for the tions scattered throughout. Oh God! He saw a
sky. What am I doing? he asked himself. police badge, with a gold rim and faded blue
design. A little blood splatter corrupted the
Stumbling around, vaguely aware of any- otherwise beautifully sculpted piece. Blood
thing, the poor soul managed to get on the splatter. Looking around, he saw several notes
streets of the bustling city. and books filled with orderly writing, no space
left untouched by incomprehensible equations.
My name? Am I Joseph, Tobey or Rick? Or
God forbid, Jim. Rummaging his pocket, he The only evidence alluding to the modern
found a well-worn wallet. age was a laptop with a dim screen. Several
videos playing simultaneously, contributed to
Couple of coins. Not enough for a meal. the growing sense of dread. Because, from
Following the address, the man found himself everything in the room, the old man conclud-
in a remote area, far from the city. It was an ed… he was a murderer. For a second, the man
intense quite. Smoke and morning mist hung thought of turning himself in. He didn’t re-
around as he waded through and arrived at a member any crimes he had committed. After
ramshackle old place. With his joints screaming hours of research, the man found out, he was
for relief, he steadily scaled the winding stair- the most wanted man on the planet. The com-
case and eventually arrived at a meticulously puter held detailed records of every single one
arranged office. The classic, musty smell of of the three thousand murders.
books was predominant. Paint-speckled old
chairs, a table with its three legs splayed out After surfing through, he came to two fold-
under the weight of books and a tidy bed with ers. Original Timeline and Altered Timeline.

Reasonably confused, he opened them. And ened up and came face to face with a young
stared. No…no, this shouldn’t be possible…I lad. The boy had the air of ambition around
can’t kill...please...no. Time waits for no one. him, bright, full of life. His face had the emo-
Until now. The man saw it firsthand. Billions tion of fear, surprise and a hint of curiosity.
have been saved. Countless crises have been Unlike the old man. But… this was the old man,
averted. Because we have found a way to twenty years younger… The boy, unbeknownst
move through time. The ones above us, the to him, was staring into the face of the man
ones who rule us have been altering history to and monster he would become.
save billions. He was stunned. All of his sup-
posed three thousand victims were still alive. A He was wearing a badge with a name on it.
single, bittersweet tear cascades down, a sym- The old man eagerly read it. The boy’s name
bol of the renewed hope in him. This is a was beautiful, poetic. Finally, the man had a
chance to restart his life, save everyone. Wait… name to call himself…
how are they alive? He drags the little, arrow of
pixels and clicks on the Altered Timeline fold- Jules Henderson. Their name is Jules Hen-
er. His weak eyes skim over and he leans back derson.
into the rickety chair. This was exactly what he
feared. The rulers altered the timeline by ar- The coffee had just hit the critical spot,
resting him before he killed anyone. He had where it was beginning to cool down and was
been in jail for a miserable twenty years. Twen- still warm enough to drink. It brought out the
ty years. He sighed, a long drawling one. Then, bitterness, nearly offending the tongue, and
how could I be on the rooftop? The gun. There’s giving a distinct sweetness that could be felt
still gunpowder residue. Did I kill someone? The along the throat. Jules loved it. The older one
man had been incredibly prolific in his grue- did. The younger Jules ordered a chocolate
some career. He had been trained to think, to shake, hammering home the vast growth be-
get out of any situation, to improvise and live. tween the two generations. The café provided
The old body suddenly jerked to life, full of raw a warm, familiar environment which was im-
emotion. He stared for one, two seconds slow- mensely helpful for the young boy to prevent a
ly analyzing the idea. With a relishing smile, he mental breakdown. Jules thought that this was
pounced upon the machine and worked like a a relatively simple task. Prevent the younger
maniac. version of himself from going down the path of
a deranged slaughterer. Simple. Now what? Do
Three days later, the nameless man was I come across as a fun guy…or...Talking to him-
ready. Even with no memory of his life, he self was way more complicated than Jules ex-
knew that right now, his heart was beating pected. Is this conversation going to make him
faster than ever before. He raised his sweaty a murderer?
palms and rotated a rough, handmade dial to
the number twenty. With a bony finger he “This is really unexpected” the boy softly
pressed the button that would change his life. began. “Time travel is real? Did I invent it?
The button lit up and the man was gone. Please, tell me I did. Do I become a scientis-?”

He had gone back twenty years in time. “Yeah, sure! You…You’re really…famous!”
Before he killed and sinned. Before his life Jules felt his eyes avert.
went to hell. When he still had control. The
man landed on the hard, grainy asphalt. Noth- Jules spent the rest of the day listening to
ing significant had changed. His knees creaked the brat narcissistically talk about every single
under the weight of his own body. He straight- one of his supposed achievements, while he
sat nervously fiddling with his fingers.

“We have got to give you a nickname. It’s

getting ridiculously confusing. Something like Jules had been living with Julius for a month
…” said Jules, trying to get on friendlier terms. now. Throughout this period, he had been
Nicknames always lighten the mood. Right? functioning more as a machine that a man. The
remaining time was spent in constant surveil-
“Julius” said the boy “Julius is fine. Pa loved lance of Julius. He had to be there when the
the name. Mama didn’t. So…” boy snapped. Jules had to stop himself from
killing. Julius seemed fairly normal for a hyper-
Great, Jules thought, murder runs in the intelligent young man. He carried on with his
family. After re-christening the boy, Jules pro- work and mostly kept his head down, waiting
ceeded to interrogate Julius. for a major breakthrough. Jules, meanwhile,
had gained valuable insight into how every-
He always had been the genius. God-gifted. thing pieced together. In the present day,
Ambitious. Too ambitious. He had problems in Epostimi Sue had become famous as the per-
school, no friends- a typical intellectual out- son who invented a method to journey through
cast, misunderstood by the world. Traits of a time. Where am I? Jules wondered, I should be
future psychopath. Jules was utterly shattered. the one who discovered time-travel. All that
The future is already set in stone. Swallowing the brilliant, well-aged mind could think of,
hard, his ears were oblivious to the innocent were two options, both of which Jules was in
chatter of Julius. I should tell him. I shoul- complete denial of.

“-Epostimi Sue.” He had met Epostimi Sue and she seemed
to be a nice woman. Plain, simple and no defin-
“… What?” the name instilled an unexplain- ing characteristic other than her outrageous
able cold fear in Jules. Something clicked. name. She definitely did not resemble the type
“Pardon, who is that?” of woman to betray a close confidant. Julius
got along fairly well with her at school and they
“Epostimi Sue. Smartest woman in the both were similarly obsessed with the idea of
world, in her opinion. Kind of repulsive, but she time-travel. But, Jules knew that he had to ex-
gets the work done. Barely put up with her. pect the unexpected. So, continuing to be vigi-
They’re all the same, these so-called geniuses. lant he kept a close watch on both of them.
Always so…” Until he found Epostimi, fervently searching
the notebooks of Julius.
Epostimi Sue…Jules remembered her. Yes!
Yes, she was on the videos on the computer… Time to come clean, thought Jules. He was
Oh no! desperately coaxing himself. This was the day
that Jules would tell Julius everything.
“Julius, what exactly is your relationship
with her. This… Epostimi.” Jules tentatively The coffee tasted more bitter than usual. It
asked. had lost all of its earthy flavor and descended
to a cold liquid. After three hours of stammer-
“She was my high-school teacher.” ing his way through the truth, Jules sat in ago-
ny as he watched the painful reaction of Julius.
“No, what is she now…tell me everything, Jules could very well relate to the confusion of
Julius. I am you…do you trust yourself?” finding out you are a killer. Julius finally raised
his eyes and stared deep into the ones of his
“She… is my partner. We are working on a… older counterpart.
theory for time travel. Imagine the billions we
could save…imagine…” Julius droned on for an
eternity. Jules, however, was thinking. He must
tread carefully. Something wasn’t right. His
instincts pointed to this woman. Epostimi Sue.

“Just answer, no running away. Epostimi furthest corner of here cramped room. The
really stole my work? Don’t try to weave your door threatened to break under the continuous
way out of this. Answer” Julius seemed more hammering. Julius was going to kill her. She
annoyed than confused. Jules took a moment was sure of it. Julius was furious. He had
to recover and answer. This is very bad… grabbed the sharpest object in the room and
was slowly chipping away at the wooden door,
“Yes.” No use trying to hide the truth. But relishing the picture of the woman behind the
why was he more concerned about Epostimi, door. He patiently worked his way through.
than the fact that he would have three thou- The door would eventually open.
sand victims? Jules just couldn’t comprehend
the human mind. He suddenly became aware Meanwhile, Jules ran to Epostimi’s house,
that he was talking to himself. “In the future, slipping and sliding all the way as the first
billions have been saved because the govern- drops of rain hit the road. The cold and heavy
ment altered history. Epostimi did it. Not you… body of the gun in his hands comforted him,
I’m sorry, I tried to be better.” Jules realized he reassured him. He was going to stop himself
had been hanging his head. He saw the dead from murdering. Even if he was going to kill
eyes of his younger self as he stormed out of Julius to do it. His life would mean something.
the quaint, peaceful café. The coffee was un-
drinkable. Julius was halfway through turning the door
to scraps. A policeman with his bright, radiant
Julius loved the color blue. It symbolized badge came around the corner, a brave beacon
peace, calm and tranquility. Right now, it was of hope. Seeing Julius, the guardian ran over.
anything but that. His mind currently resem- Julius went borderline insane at this point. He
bled his room more than ever. An unorganized, heard the menacing cry of justice and stopped.
chaotic dump. He stared at the ceiling until it His eyes were dead. No light. He seemed to
had lost any meaning and was a whirlwind of blend in with the gloomy mist that hung
color. His life was over. No hope, nothing. He around the city. His knife caught the solitary
felt a jab of pain run up his leg. Glass pieces. ray of sunlight as he lifted it, and rammed it
Blood all over the floor. A broken picture frame into the innocent man.
was under his foot and the newly printed pho-
to greedily absorbed his blood. It was a great “I never killed anyone… Epostimi!
photo of his high school days. Life had infinite EPOSTIMI!” the paranoid voice of Julius cried
possibilities until your dream becomes your out, cruelly ironic as the silver blade pierced
nightmare. At the corner of the lovely, pictur- the policeman and snuffed out all hope. Jules
esque photo stood a plain, simple girl with no arrived at the scene, breathless, heaped on
defining characteristics… adrenaline, ignoring the pain of his rusty joints.
He took aim, right at Julius’s head. So, this is
Jules considered it against his moral ethics how it ends he thought. Julius dies and Jules
to leave a depressed young man alone. Howev- would cease to exist. It would be a wonderful
er he had a horrible dread that he would dras- redemption. His finger slid into place. Forgive
tically change the timeline if he interfered too me…he dragged the trigger. And stopped. On
much. That was until; he came home and saw that day, Jules went on the path of a killer and
that Julius was missing. The genius level mind Jules let him live.
finally understood. Today was the big day. To-
day was when everything was going to change. Jules finally understood the human mind.
He would truly find forgiveness when he placed
Epostimi was terrified. She had locked the the needs of others first. Everything fit into
door in every conceivable way and hid in the place. On that day, Jules let the young boy live

and murder. He finally understood… the time sound in his ear grew louder and the world
machine was built to save Jules. Jules watched toppled over.
as Julius began his murder spree. He watched
silently, as Epostimi, determined to save Jules The buzzing hadn’t stopped. He could smell
built the time machine. Jules placed the needs the sour odor of vomit as his eyes opened ra-
of others in front of his own. By sacrificing his ther swiftly for a man his age. It was painful.
good life, he would let the time machine be The sudden overload of information flooding
built and billions more would be saved. He re- through…
alized that if his own life did not go to the far-
thest depths of hell, Epostimi would not build THE END
the time machine. This was the painful truth.
Using the time machine, Jules watched with
bittersweet pleasure as the government from
the present day prevented the deaths of three
thousand by arresting Julius and finally fulfilling
the timeline.

The one upside to all of this was that Jules About the Author
got to relive his life. Each day was torture, as
he contemplated the idea of visiting himself, Naethan Pais is a 14 year old author and artist,
rotting in jail. He surprisingly enjoyed the anon- whose head is figuratively in the clouds. He
ymous life he was living. Messing with time had aims to subvert tropes present in all genres and
given him a new chance. Each year passed by, spends the rest of his time pulling his hair out,
silently, as twenty years lapsed. frustrated at the fact that everything has been
done before. Naethan made his debut in the
Jules was rudely roused from his deep Adelaide Literary Magazine and hopes to sur-
sleep, by an endless orchestra of beeping nois- pass Shakespeare in the future. Not joking.
es. Julius had escaped jail. Realization woke
Jules up unlike anything ever before. Grabbing
a gun, he sluggishly made his way up to the
terrace of his flat. Everything was coming to-
gether. After twenty years, everything made
sense. He jumped from rooftop to rooftop,
following the sprinting figure of Julius. With a
superb aim and using every last bit of his dwin-
dling supply of willpower, Jules pressed the
trigger. The gun recoiled with astonishing force
as the bullet raced by. A soft sound was heard
as the lifeless body of Julius hit the muddy
ground.

Jules stood on the rooftop, surrounded by
buildings reaching for the sky. He stood there,
as his body tried to push out last night’s lavish
dinner. The sight of Julius-himself, sprawled on
the ground while a red mess spilled out around
him was the last thing he remembered. It was
truly a wonderful redemption. The buzzing

TWO THOUSAND

AND EIGHTY-SEVEN

by Trevor Love

You have two thousand words, two thousand One thousand and eight hundred and
and eighty-seven words to tell a story. Can you eighty-five.
do it? Two thousand and sixty-five. Two thou-
sand and sixty-one. Can you do it? Can you do People say life has no meaning. Nonsense.
it in such a way as to make the reader think, to It’s whatever I can make two thousand and
make them cry? Can you? Because you’re run- eighty-seven words mean.
ning out of words. You best get on with it.
Four months ago, I went to the doctor. They
Two thousand and twenty-one. say check for lumps. Watch out for chest pain,
headaches. Err on the side of caution. But my
Hurry. visits were routine. Until they said it was termi-
nal. Until they said I had a year to live.
Before the words run out.
An entire life reduced to a single sentence.
My name is—No, scratch that. People call
me Pete. I have a daughter and a son and a dog “By our estimations, Mr. Monroe, you only
named Panther. He’s a black lab rescued from have a year.”
a shelter. Three legs. That’s all his previous
owner left him. Three legs to hobble around A year until I die. A year to live large
on. Three legs to run and play and show more enough as not to feel cheated by death. One
affection than his two-legged owners showed year. Three hundred days and only two months
him. more than that. Two thousand and eighty-
seven words.
In addition to my son and my daughter and
my dog, I have a wife. A beautiful, charming “Is that without treatment?” I asked.
wife who kisses me goodnight and pours me a
cup of coffee every morning. She’s my north “That’s with treatment.”
star. Someone once phrased it as “navigational
mainstay.” I prefer that. My wife’s name is Re- “And without?”
becca. And she’s my navigational mainstay.
The feeling in my hands faded. Arms, cool
This morning began like all others. to the touch. The skin on my neck felt hot. Nev-
ertheless, I was cold, my vision blurred and

darkening. As though my body were preparing “What’s cancer, Daddy?” my little girl
me for what was to come: the darkness and asked. Melissa, smiling and laughing and youth-
the cold. ful Melissa, now forced to face the effects of
disease and loss.
“Without—maybe six months.”
Rebecca’s eyes watched mine, the bottoms
“And the pain?” welling with tears, the lines around her mouth
showing just how much dread a person can
“Excruciating.” hold. “Pete?” The words slipped, escaped her
lips in a whisper. “Tell me you’re joking. Tell me
One thousand and six hundred and ninety- you don’t have cancer.”
nine.
One thousand and three hundred and sev-
I returned home, expecting the paint on the enty-five.
walls and the color of our living room sofa to
be dulled, diminished by the overwhelming Three months and two weeks passed to two
sense of my known demise. Mortality. Death. weeks ago.
However, I was pleasantly surprised when they
looked the same. Everything looked the same. “Melissa. Max,” Rebecca called out. “Come
Perhaps life doesn’t change knowing it’s lim- have a seat. Daddy and I need to talk to you
ited. Knowing when its shift is over, when to about something.”
punch out. One thousand and six hundred and
thirty. “Does it involve Dad dying?” Max asked.

Perhaps life is best suited without wasting a Rebecca’s hair thin and fraying, dried like
second thought on it. On the remainder. Just tinder. The creases deepened daily around her
find your children and give them a hug and tell eyes. Her smiles distanced themselves from
them, “I love you, Melissa. I love you, Max.” one another like stars among the eons.
Perhaps life is best suited to find the ones you
love and grab onto them and hug into them I weighed thirty pounds lighter. Re-notched
and kiss them and tell them, on repeat, that “I my belt every Monday.
love you, Rebecca. More than the day I met
you. And more than the day I married you. And “Yes, it is about Dad dying.”
far more than yesterday. And tomorrow I’ll
love you more than today.” Max walked over, falling onto the couch.
His legs draped over the arm rest. Grabbing a
“Pete,” Rebecca said, fearfully looking at pillow, he held it over his face. Melissa fol-
me—into me—as if she had already learned lowed Max into the living room and sat in be-
the answer but needed to hear my reaffirma- tween me and Rebecca.
tion. “What’s going on?”
“As you know,” Rebecca braved, “Daddy
“I have cancer,” I said as forthright as I isn’t getting any better. The treatment hasn’t
could. Melissa and Max overheard and paused worked and his life, from now on, will be very
the game they were playing. The silence re- painful. Each day will be more painful than the
minded us of what’s to come. previous.”

Nothing. Nothing. And nothing. “What’s Mommy saying, Daddy?” Melissa
asked, reaching for my hand. My fingers bony
“Dad,” my boy said. Max’s young, innocent, and thin. The backs veiny, speckled. The liga-
and untouched voice cracked. He’s eleven, far ments and knuckles protruding far enough out-
too young to have to understand what death is ward making them appear alien.
and what cancer does.

“She’s saying that Dad is going to die,” Max I’ll miss when we play dress up.
said. His voice fractured, breaking over the
bluntness of my death. I’ll miss when we play action figures.

“What Mommy is saying is that there is a I’ll miss you making me smile.
procedure the doctors can perform.”
I’ll miss you making me laugh.
Melissa smiled. I nearly cried.
All the movies we won’t be able to see to-
“And it’ll make the pain go away?” gether, Daddy. All the books I’ll have to read to
myself.
Max drew a swift breath, gasping, choking,
attempting to avoid tears. All the times I’ll need advice, you won’t be
there. I’ll miss that the most, Dad. That you
“Yes, I suppose it will make the pain go won’t be there. That I can’t just find you and
away.” talk to you.

“Melissa, Daddy’s life isn’t going to get any Yeah, me too. I’ll just miss you, Daddy. I’ll
better. And he’ll spend the rest of his life— just miss you.
what’s left of it—in really bad pain. This proce-
dure will shorten the amount of time he has to Don’t go, Dad.
suffer.”
Yeah, don’t go, Daddy.
“What does she mean, Daddy?”
Eight hundred and fifty-four.
“She means,” Max said, rising from the
couch, eyes red from rubbing them dry, “that I was born in Salem, raised in Salem, my mem-
Dad is choosing to die.” ories are of Salem, and, now, I’ll die in Salem.
Life is measured by firsts: the first step you
One thousand and sixty-two. take, the first tooth you lose, the first day of
school, your first friend, first crush, first kiss,
On the way home from getting ice cream: first love. Now, my life is measured by lasts. It
One thousand and fifty. gets that simple. Seven hundred and ninety-
one. This is the last car ride with my children. I
But who’s going to teach me to shave? said goodbye to Panther. One last time. He
made his way over to the door—all three legs
Who’s going to show me what a good man working hard, making up for the one he lost—
is? and licked my hand and my face, my tears, as I
knelt to hug the good boy one last time.
Yeah, Dad, who’s going to show Melissa
what a man worth loving looks and acts like? Seven hundred and thirty.

Who’s going to show me how to throw a Soon, I’ll hug my children one last time. Tell
curveball, Daddy? them I love them one last time. Kiss my wife
one last time. And take one last look at those
Who’s going to show me how to chop wood I’ll leave behind before taking one last breath.
or change a tire or throw a good punch? One last heartbeat, one last thought before the
world fades to black. And my family will leave
Me too! How will I learn how to punch that room. Leave my body behind. Six hundred
someone? Like Phillip from school. Daddy, and sixty-six. Nurses will throw a sheet atop
teach me how to punch Phillip from school. me, covering my face, plunging me into the
dark. Others will bag up my body and carry me
How will I ever learn how to drink whiskey,
Dad?

until they can lower me down. Into the ground. her arms laid across her chest as tears crawl
A funeral. A good week for tissue sales. Long down her cheeks.
nights for those who loved me. Long lives for
those who were closest to me. Rooms will feel “Melissa,” Rebecca says, “come say good-
empty. Conversations absent. All because—five bye to Daddy. Come give Daddy a hug and say
hundred and ninety-seven—in life we lose. goodbye.”

But not at the same time. Three hundred and twenty-nine.

Never at the same time. Melissa wipes the tear streaks away—or
tries. She stands and walks, now aware. While
Five hundred and seventy-eight. she approaches, I tell her I love her and will
miss her. In these seven words, her shoulders
The building is sterile and clinical, haunting. curl inward. Her posture falls. She’s broken.
Even the exterior—no, when words are run- But she runs toward me. One last time, toward
ning low, don’t waste time on describing a her father.
building. Five hundred and fifty-one.
Two hundred and seventy-four.
We enter the room. A bed and some chairs.
A nurse with a resigned smile and a doctor to “Don’t go,” she says, sobbing into the stom-
administer the “medication.” ach of my jacket. Her voice beaten, defeated,
shattered into infinite pieces of what it used to
I have a seat and the doctor explains the be. The softness gone. Her sweetness soured.
procedure. Cognizant of the children. The inno- Her voice shrill, harsh, as hostile and severe as
cence they’re about to lose as they see life exit the misfortune that’s befallen our family. “I
their father. Five hundred. don’t want to say goodbye, Daddy. Daddy,
choose not to die. Say no. Tell them no. I need
Once the doctor leaves, Max walks over to you. I love you.”
me so we can say goodbye. Four hundred and
eighty-two. He’s trying hard not to cry. Being I tighten my hug.
what he thinks a man would be. Because he
thinks he needs to be the man now. “Daddy, was I not enough for you? Was I
not nice enough to you? Have I not been a
“I—love—you—Dad,” he says, pausing after good girl?”
each word. “I’ll—make—you—proud.”
May I have more than the remaining one
“You already have, son. So much so.” hundred and sixty-nine words? I know it’s how
it works, but may I please have more?
He hugs me. He squeezes me so tightly that
pain forks, fractalling like lightning through my “Melissa,” Rebecca rubs her right hand over
body. But he needs this hug. This hug may last the part of our daughter’s back uncovered,
him, carry him through trying times. My pain is unhugged by my arms. One hundred and thirty
about to be over. -four. Her other hand holding mine holding our
child.
I grin, bear it.
“Melissa, we talked about this.”
That’s being a man, Max.
Rebecca dabs at her eyes.
And, that’s being a woman, Melissa.
“We talked about how there wasn’t a good
Three hundred and seventy-nine. decision to make. Just one better than the rest.
Daddy is in pain. He will be in pain until the
My little girl, my little baby, only seven cancer gets him. It isn’t fair to make him—"
years old, sits in the chair in the corner with

“I’m just a little girl,” Melissa cries, sniffling.
“I need a dad. I need you, Daddy.”

Sixty-one.

And now I say goodbye to my wife. Fifty-two.
She kisses my lips and then again. She kisses
the top of my forehead. Thirty-seven. Nothing
is more sensual. Nothing is kinder—twenty-
nine—than someone kissing you on the fore-
head. Twenty-one. And now I say goodbye to
you.

Goodbye.
They inject the contents of the syringe.
Five.
Cold.
Three.
Ice.
One.
Nothing.

About the Author

Trevor Love lives and works in Charlotte, North
Carolina with his dog named Rooster and his
wife not named Rooster. His debut novel is
titled Will You Marry Me, Brittany Rose? Find
more of his short stories, poetry, and other
oddities by visiting trevorlove.com.

THANK YOU FOR
YOUR SERVICE

by Jeremy Townley

Look at all them ingrates. I mean, just look at They’re both gnawing on Grade-A sirloin,
’em. Stuffing their fat-pig faces with prime rib grilled up just right. Mister’s working his over-
and red wine like the world owes them some- sized fork and steak knife, so I cut me a piece
thing. Ain’t even four in the afternoon! off with my survival number and eat it from the
When’s the last time any of ’em was the least blade. Dee-lishus! I say. Then I do the same
bit appreciative for everything they got? Por- with the lady’s baked potato. All the butter
sche convertible, house in the hills, bank ac- and cheese and sour cream makes quite a
count big enough to swallow Saudi Arabia. mess, but it’s well worth it. Hot damn, that’s
Plus, they ain’t stuck in a wheelchair, nights good! I holler.
plagued with hauntings of makeshift bombs in
the desert heat. Both of ’em force a laugh, like just cause I
ain’t got the use of my legs, I don’t know when
I roll on over to this couple sitting on the somebody’s faking it. Couple plastic frauds,
patio-terrace in the spring sunshine. Probably you ask me.
early-fifties, well-heeled and uppity. Mister’s
got designer sunshades and a tailored shirt I flash my choppers right back at ’em.
unbuttoned to show off his fancy chest hair. Mine’s a bona fide grin, cuz it’s a beautiful day,
Missus has her some fake hooters bursting and I can’t remember the last time I tasted
from a top too skimpy for somebody her age. something so tasty. Now here’s what I’m gon-
Faces stretched tight across their cheekbones. na do, I explain, letting my survival number
Paid somebody for that. Freaky-looking. They glint and dance in the sunlight. I’m gonna call
both do that thing where they pretend I don’t over your waitress, give you both a chance to
exist, but I get carried away and ram their table express your gratitude. And that ain’t attitude
with my chair. with a grrr in front of it, if you take my mean-
ing.
Sorry bout that! I say. Damn thing goes hay-
wire sometimes. Now wait just a minute! says Missus.

Disgust ripples across their manicured fac- No time like the present, says I.
es. Missus bats her lashes and waves me away,
all but clawing my eyes out with them snazzy We don’t want any trouble, says Mister.
pink fingernails.
No trouble at all! I stash my blade and wave
over the closest blondie. When she sashays up,

I say, Scuse me, sugar, these folks have some- minute to catch my breath, and today ain’t no
thing they’d like to tell you. different.

The cutie gives us a confused, expectant Emmett, one of my buddies who lives be-
look, fiddling with her wine key. Can I get neath the Burnside Bridge, sits at a shady table
something for you? she asks. Another bottle of at the Sunset Bar & Grill, nursing a draft beer.
Catena, perhaps? He watches me with them big, buggy eyes,
ashing his Camel in a cracked plastic ashtray.
Yes, thanks, says Missus. That would be Ain’t nobody else in sight. Wonder who spotted
lovely. him a cold one?

Mister nods and says, Thank you very I catch my breath and brush the hair outta
much. You’re doing an excellent job. my face. Emmett, I say when I feel him eye-
balling me as I rifle through a swanky purse and
Blondie gives ’em a look like they’ve both men’s leather wallet.
lost their minds.
What you got there, Benny-boy?
I feel my grin stretch from ear to ear. Now,
tell me, says I, was that so hard? Ah, you know, I say. The usual.

Couple blocks down, I park in the middle of the He takes a long drag, then grinds out his
sidewalk, collecting donations from the hordes cigarette butt. Uh-huh.
and masses. Got my cardboard sign strapped
to my chair: IRAQ TOKE MY LEGS ANYTHING I leave the car keys and credit cards but
HELPS GOD BLISS. You’d be amazed how gen- palm the bills. I lick my thumb and forefinger,
erous some folks can be, specially when they then count them like a real live bank teller.
see a war vet in a wheelchair. Guilt gets ’em Eighty from the purse, three hundred from the
right here. Then out come those ladies’ wal- wallet.
lets, and they pinch crisp singles and flutter
them in my face. Fellas might pitch a fistful of Woo-ooh, says Emmett, wiping at his fore-
change into my Army surplus combat helmet head.
or, if I’m lucky, a crumpled pack of Marlboros
into my lap. I’ll take what I can get. People ain’t always bad as they seem, says
I.
Today most of them lousy ingrates won’t
even look at me, much less make eye contact. You can say that again.
Even when they jostle me, nobody says, Sorry
or Scuse me or Thank you for your service. Some of ’em’s downright generous.
Freedom ain’t free, but they take the fact they
ain’t locked up in a gulag for granted. Don’t Ha ha!
they know who’s sacrificing, body and mind, so
they can sport distressed designer denim and This ugly SOB in tight highwaters and pointy
high-dollar Italian loafers? shoes struts past, giving us the dirty stink eye.

But I got patience and plenty of practice, so Mind your business, I growl, and his stick-in
it ain’t long fore I got quite a haul. I zip up the -the-mud pace quickens.
street a couple-three blocks, then around the
corner. Wish I could say my motor whines the Emmett high-fives me, then I cut the stack
whole way, but I got what you call the base of bills in two and pass him the smaller half,
model, so the only one doing the whining’s along with the purse and wallet. He weaves up
yours truly. Panting, too. Always takes me a half a block, then pitches them into the bed of
an old pickup covered in leaves. When he finds
his chair again, we call out the cocktail cutie
and order whiskey shots with beer backs.
Nothing like a cold one on a warm afternoon in

springtime. We toast our good fortune. I, for most out the door, and when I try to maneuver
one, am thankful—and a little surprised—I’m past the tech nerds, tattooed hipsters, and
still alive and kicking. The pay dirt’s what you mommies with strollers, nobody budges. Not
call icing on the cake. even when I holler, Veteran coming through!
Hard to be grateful for a wheelchair, but it
Insides burning and bloated, I wipe my makes a helluva weapon if you know how to
mouth with the back of my hand. That’s it for use it right. I flatten people’s toes and ram
me, I say. I’m out. ankles, shins, and knees, repeating, Afternoon,
and fake-smiling the whole time. My left leg
But you just got here! might spasm a couple times, too, giving the
boot to thighs, butts, and groins. Purely an
Have one on me, Emmett. I flag down the involuntary thing. Them ingrates get their
cocktail girl. When she strolls out, I pass her panties in a wad for a minute: Hey! and Ow!
my empties and a pair of twenties. Another and Watch it, pal! But that’s nothing to me.
round for my buddy. Not one of them acknowledges that the only
reason they can stand in line for six-dollar
Oh, I get it. You going to see your old lady. coffee in the first place is the sacrifices of our
servicemen. Think the world owes them some-
She’s got a name. thing.

Same as before? asks the cutie. I park right in front of the counter, waiting
for all of ’em to place their orders. There’s no-
He nods. Veronica, ain’t it? where to sit, so they better get their haughty-
taughty single-origin soy cappuccinos to go. I
It is not. brought my own chair. I’ll sit wherever I god-
damn well please. Right now, I keep a safe dis-
Lynette? Ha! tance from the caffeine-crazed hordes, right in
front of the shiny espresso machine. I study the
You know very well they’re what you call odd red lettering: La Marzocco. Not because I
whores. The cocktail girl gives me a snide look, care one single iota about some place in Mo-
shaking her head. Hookers, I mean, scuse my rocco or what have you. It’s just that, from this
French. angle, I can’t see my angel. Not all of her, at
any rate, just the top of her head, her brown,
Emmett’s yellow grin glistens. Then what’s wavy hair bobbing as she grinds coffee beans,
her name? packs filters, and lines up little cups under the
spouts. Room fills with the whir of steaming
Them hookers? milk, clank of little spoons on crockery, growl of
some indie rock crap with a strange, lurching
Naw, the one over to the coffee place. rhythm. Somehow, nobody seems to mind.

Liz. My turn comes at last. A couple spins, and
I’m right in front of the register guy. I give him
He chuckles. Well, you tell Liz hello for me. a warm, boozy smile.

I look at the cocktail girl, who won’t stop He sneers. What can I get for you?
staring. Nothing for me, says I. And keep the
change. He’s an impatient SOB with no respect for
his elders, vets, or men who sacrificed the use
The girl’s smile could light up the night, if it of their legs so he can wear a ring through his
was dark out and not daylight bright. Appreci- nose, three-day scruff, and tattoos of Chinese
ate it, handsome. characters down both forearms.

I grin right back at her. Thank you for your
service.

Common Grounds is a mob scene. Line’s al-

Usually, I just get a cup of normal coffee a better angle. It’s still not great, given how
and linger. Place is so jam-packed today, I fig- low I sit, but at least I can see that lovely face,
ure I might need an excuse. What takes long- her high cheekbones and milky complexion.
est? I say. Blue eyes like sunlight through a glacier. She
labors away on my libation. It takes forever,
You mean—what do you mean? and a couple-three orders pile up, but nothing
fazes my angel. The indie rockers wail. I’m
Most time to make. buoyed by the humming espresso machine, the
growling blender, the rise and fall of voices.
You’re kidding?
My angel sets a frosty pint glass on the
I slap a twenty hard on the counter. That’s counter, then adds whipped cream and choco-
what I want. late sprinkles. Voilà, she says.

Register boy’s eyes go beady. He steps I roll up and reach for the chilled beverage.
away from the counter to confer with the She’s garnished the glass with a red-striped
barista. A sharp laugh cuts through the stagger- bendy straw and long-handled spoon. I nod,
ing rhythm, then she peeks around the ma- struggling to keep my toothy grin in check.
chine.
Don’t you even want to know what it is?
Hi, Benny.
I make a show of studying the drink she’s
Afternoon, beautiful. concocted.

Her blue eyes shimmer in sunlight dripping A frappuccino shake with coconut ice
through the windows. So what is it you’d like? cream!

I give her a wink and say, Surprise me. I give it a taste and almost go into sugar
shock.
Register boy mutters to her beneath the
screaming guitars. He manipulates some Well?
buttons, breaks my twenty, and deals grubby
bills like a poker hand across the counter. Dee-lishus! I say.
Twelve bucks is your change.
She tosses me a satisfied smile and starts
I brush some hair outta my face. That’s for steaming milk. Enjoy, she says.
you, I say. Thank you for your service.
I wheel over to my usual spot in the back
He rolls his eyes, but don’t think for a sec- corner. I still got a view, though it’s not exactly
ond he leaves that cash to wilt into somebody’s unobstructed, what with all the yuppies and
else’s pocket. Not that I care one way or the hipsters trying to ignore each other. Still, I
other. After today’s windfall, I got more jack make out her dark locks bobbing behind them
than I know what to do with. When he thinks ingrates’ humongous heads. And even if I can’t
I’m not looking, he scoops up the cash and see her the whole time, I’m just glad to know
drops it in the tip jar. she’s there.

One by one, those ungrateful customers get I work through my coffee shake, a little
their drinks, and not one of them mutters a closer to a diabetic coma with every sip. De-
single word of thanks. At least they make manding, ungrateful jerks come and go. The
themselves scarce, crowding around little ta- song changes five or six times. The light filter-
bles, wedging into wooden booths, lingering on ing in through the windows softens.
the sidewalk terrace with paper to-go cups and
Marlboros. Gimme some space already! Not to I’m slurping the dregs through my straw
mention my angel, a hardworking barista with when a gravelly voice cuts through the dull
all the skills in the world. I roll back a bit to get roar. Some ingrate at the bar is blocking my

view with his broad back and shoulders. A flash years younger than me and looks like a soap
of sleeve tattoos from his tight black t-shirt as opera star. How is this your business?
he waves his beefy arms. Above the buzz and
clatter, my angel’s voice. You sure are an ungrateful SOB.

I roll up beside the guy, an even bigger slab Excuse me?
of meat than I realized, and slide my glass
across the counter. That was dee-lightful, I say I’d knock your teeth out if I weren’t in this
in a loud voice. What can I do? I gotta make chair.
myself heard.
Now the brawny ape looms over me. Listen,
My angel forces a smile and gives me a crip, I will end you.
quick nod.
That’s enough, Darryl. You really need to
We’re talking excellent, I say. And you know leave. Now.
me, Liz, I ain’t easy to please.
That’s right, Darryl, I say. Have a good one!
Glad you liked it.
He pats me on the cheek, really more of a
What’d you put in that thing? slap, and tousles my hair in a tear-it-out-by-the
-roots kinda way.
Her face looks pinched. I never noticed
them crow’s feet. Her chin quivers. Not now, Will you just get out? says Liz. Please?
Benny.
Once he’s gone, I hang around for a little
The knuckle-dragger glances down at me while, hoping to strike up a conversation, but
and smirks. It was just a milk shake, buddy. Liz won’t even glance my direction. Maybe
Now have a good one. she’s just trying to keep it together. After a
while, I place another order, just so I don’t
I flex my jaw. Is everything okay, Liz? seem like a creeper. By the time I’ve doled out
another grimy twenty, Liz has disappeared. It’s
She sniffles and wipes her cheeks. We’re slowed down. Maybe she went on break. Reg-
just, you know, talking. ister boy pours me a lackluster cup of normal
coffee. I wheel over to an empty table and sip
That’s not what it looks like. at it for a while. But Liz doesn’t reemerge from
the backroom in her usual cloud of weed
Who the fuck is this guy, Liz? smoke, and my gut begins to churn, so I decide
to call it a day.
There’s a line at the counter. The register
boy hollers, Coconut cappuccino!, and gives my The sun’s turned the sky to tangerines. The air
angel a nasty look. smells of ozone, though it hasn’t rained for a
couple days. My arms are rubber, and I don’t
This is not a good time, Darryl. have it in me to navigate my way back down-
town to the Old Saint Francis, so I wheel to-
It’s never a good time. ward the nearest trolley stop. The street’s
teeming with yuppy ingrates. Can’t hardly push
You’re gonna get me fired! through without throwing an elbow here, an
involuntary leg spasm there, just to help clear a
You can’t keep avoiding me. I want you path.
back. We’re good together.
Though it’s outta my way, and I shouldn’t
Decaf soy macchiato! shouts register boy. have to make compromise one for all those

I’ve gotta get back to work.

Give the lady some space, Darryl, I say.

Now he turns my direction. He’s twenty

sorry SOBs who don’t have the first clue about You’re a fucking moron, aren’t you?
duty, honor, and sacrifice, I’ve had it up to here
with their vintage fashion and holier-than-thou Nope, Private First Class. U. S. Army.
sneers, so I head a block east. It’s all sprawling
oaks and twittering birds. I make the corner Ha! A grunt. Shoulda known.
and head north again. I can see the trolley eas-
ing down the street, and I consider picking up I nod, cuz what’s there to be ashamed of?
the pace, till I come to my senses. Ain’t no way If there’s one thing my time in the U.S. Army
I can make it without some kinda superhero musta taught me, it’s discipline and respect for
effort. Where’s the payoff? I’ve still got half a things you got no control over. A squirrel barks
block to go when the trolley slides away. Then at me, then scampers along a stone retaining
from somewhere behind me, I hear my name. wall and up the trunk of a fir tree. I fidget with
I glance over one shoulder, then the other, but my wheels, puzzling over an escape route. I
there’s nobody. Next thing I know, that Nean- come up with diddly-squat.
derthal from the coffee shop stands in front of
me, blocking the sidewalk. Point is, I say, we both appreciate straight
talk.
Outta my way, asshat, says I.
He gives me a skeptical look, or maybe
He kicks at my footrests with his black biker that’s just his normal ugly.
boots. Thought you wanted to knock my teeth
out, soldier? Fact is, me and Liz are just friends.

No one passes by on foot or bicycle, in car He tries to crack his knuckles again.
or bus. A hummingbird flits around the bright
pink bougainvillea. But that’s more than I can say for you.

Darryl forces a laugh, though it sounds Fuck you say?
more like hacking. He leans toward me, clutch-
ing at my armrests, blowing rank garlic breath You completely blew it with her!
right in my face. Now I don’t know what’s go-
ing on between you and Liz. I mean, look at Now Darryl crowds my chair, but I don’t
you, you’re a goddamn gimp. But I can tell you scare real easy.
this: whatever it is is gonna stop. He gives me
his ugliest intimidation face. And I mean now. Try gratitude next time, says I. And get
Got that? some Trident. Your breath stinks like roadkill.

I wait while he flexes his pecs, lats, and His first punch makes contact with the side
trapezoids. Seems to go on forever. Eventual- of my head just above the temple, knocking me
ly, he straightens up and cracks his knuckles. from my chair to the sidewalk. I take fists to
His tattoos swim in the evening light. the cheek and mouth and nose, followed by a
series of kicks to the guts, crotch, and ribs. In
You were in the service, right? I say. the near distance, someone screams. Darryl
drags my chair out from under me, hoists it
He steps back, eyes going squinty. Marines, into the air, and brings it down onto the edge
First Battalion Seventh. Helped take Bagdad. of the curb. The crunch of steel on concrete.
The slap of footsteps. The screech of a familiar
Oorah! I say. voice. A kick to the chest, another to the chin.
My vision’s blurring when I hear my angel call-
No shit? Where were you stationed? ing, Benny?! Just before the lights dim, I spot
her beating on Darryl’s chest. In the near dis-
Same desert as you. Nothing but sand tance, sirens wail.
dunes and homemade bombs for miles.
I come to in an antiseptic world of white. I’m a
bundle of bruises, swollen and tender and sore

all over. They’ve got my right arm in a sling, back in the hot desert, trying to outrun my fu-
though I don’t have a clue what happened to it. ture. I expect tubby in his ill-fitting tweed to
Nurses and doctors bustle along the fluores- come chasing after me, but I make the door,
cent corridor. I work my jaw and wiggle my then I’m out to the curb and down the block.
toes, wondering where to aim my appreciation.
Trolley car’s waiting at the next stop like
A nurse comes by, a kind-faced woman of we’re in cahoots.
indeterminate age. Then several times more.
The doc eventually graces me with his pres- Hang around the homestead for a couple days.
ence, but I’m groggy and he’s a blowhard, so I Ain’t blown all the dough I earned from my
don’t pay him much mind. Not five minutes good looks and charming personality, so I can
later, here comes a dumpy guy in a bad suit, afford to take a personal day or two. Every-
cozying up to my hospital bed like he’s my fa- body deserves a little R&R, especially after
vorite cousin. Asks me a bunch of fool ques- getting dry-gulched by a maniac ex-Marine.
tions bout how do I plan to pay for my little Course, that ain’t easy at the Old Saint Francis,
stint in the ER. His hints ain’t real what you call I’ll grant you that. The Ritz-Carlton, it is not.
subtle. Full of drug-addled rapists and murderers and
ex-cons with scores to settle. Still, it beats the
He gives me an oily smile. Just doing my alternatives. Could be living in a sloppy tent
job, sir. next to the Interstate or, like Emmett, in a
cardboard box under a bridge. Or try a bed in
How do you think you have the freedom to one of them so-called shelters. Good way to
pursue the American Way of Life in the first get your throat slit.
place?
So I’m lounging around one afternoon, just
SOB stares at me like I’ve gone off the deep minding my own business, when somebody
end. bangs on my door. Ain’t expecting no visitors.
Ain’t in the mood for none, point of fact. So I
Veterans like yours truly! I say. crack the door with some what you call reser-
vation. Hard to tell just what may come at you
I see, he says in his ugly tie. Then you bene- in this place. Only, lo and behold, it ain’t some
fit from veterans’, how shall we say, benefits? buffed-out lunatic hell-bent on revenge.

Damn straight! Ain’t you a sight for sore eyes, says I.

Very well, sir. He gives me a ridiculous little Lynette lets herself grin, unless her name’s
bow over his tented fingertips. Veronica. Can’t keep ’em straight. Lord only
knows why they make the rounds in this place.
Right back at you, says I. Must be whatever Guess they’re hard up like the rest of us.
they got me doped up on, cuz I’m too slow.
He’s already gone. You gonna invite me in, Benny?

I sit there staring at that off-white wall for a Don’t ask me how she knows my name. I
while. Don’t ask me how long. Too long, al- ain’t seen her but a couple-three times. I pull
most. Then I realize I need to get gone my own open the door, slapping her backside as she
self. So I’m up in a whirlwind, yanking out the passes. Quick glance, left-right-left, then slam
IV, pulling on my grubby jeans and t-shirt, no the door and throw the deadbolts, two chains,
mean feat given the state my arm’s in. I don’t and a slider. Not that them things is much
even bother with my military jacket, just drape good. Somebody wants in, wouldn’t take a
it over my shoulders like a cape. Stuff my steel-toed boot to kick through the cheap
hooves into my combat boots, then take it on wooden door.
the heel and toe. Lightfoot it past the nurse’s
station and intake desk, quick-stepping like

Lynette or Veronica makes herself comfort- Benny? says Liz.
able, slipping outta her spike heels and pulling
off her slinky dress. Not a stitch on under- I feel all exposed, like my soft underbelly’s
neath! Guess undergarments just slow down showing. Which it is. I shuffle back a couple
the whole process. steps, grabbing for my sweaty t-shirt, though I
don’t put it on. Sling and all.
One thing leads to another, as you might
imagine, specially with me being flush and all. She gives me a once over, shaking her head.
Given my bruised-and-battered state, I let her Her eyes goggle. I can’t believe it!
take the initiative. She’s a professional. Not
two minutes after I hit my high note, Lynette or What’re you doing here? I say, stepping
Veronica’s already slunk back into her slinky around her to close and lock the door. This
dress and donned her spike heels. She’s reap- place ain’t exactly wholesome.
plying toxic watermelon to her Botox lips.
You haven’t been into the coffee shop
I dig in the pocket of my grubby jeans. Here since—
you go, sweetie. A twenty for your trouble.
How do you even know where I live? I light
She gives me a dirty look. This ain’t the flea a joint, and a dank weed funk fills the room.
market, Benny. You can’t haggle. When I offer it to her, she wrinkles her nose.

I laugh, pulling on my pants. Lynette or Ve- A nurse at the hospital, she says, studying
ronica ain’t even smiling. me with them gorgeous blue eyes. Are you
walking?
I’m just getting your goat, sugar, I say,
swatting her fanny again. Here’s your other How bout that? I take another puff. Won-
thirty. der of wonders.

She snatches them bills outta my hand lick- Oh, she says and gives me a funny look.
ety-split. Then she grabs her little pink fringed
purse, stuffs her cash inside, and turns to go. I keep waiting for the slap-in-the-face, the
spit-in-the-eye, the knee-to-the-nuts. The in-
What’s the rush? I say. sults and accusations will follow, lowdown dirty
thief and lying cheating SOB, all of ’em true,
Why? You need something else? but she don’t say word one. We stand there in
what passes for silence around this dump.
No, I say, but you do. That’s when I lay it on Cackling next door, shouting down the hall,
her: a crisp hundred-dollar bill. buses growling in the street. I don’t embarrass
real easy, and I ain’t embarrassed now. It’s
When she sees it, her little makeup- something else, something I ain’t never felt
smudged face lights up. What’s this for? before, this gnawing, clawing, queasy feeling in
my gut. I don’t think I’m gonna puke, but I kin-
I grin. A job well done. da wish I would. Maybe I’d feel better.

She shrugs and shoves it in her purse. As My angel steps forward and puts her hand
she saunters out the door, I lean against the on my shoulder. You okay, Benny?
wall.
My eyes get all watery. Something furry in
Thank you for your service, I say. the back of my throat. Face feels like it’s being
squished for lemonade. Listen, Liz, I—
Them words are still hanging in the stale air
when a gal with dark, wavy hair wanders up. But before I can say what needs saying, she
Takes me a minute, but I put two and two to- hugs me. Don’t matter that I reek of weed and
gether. I oughta retreat and slam the door sweat and Lynette or Veronica. She just wraps
shut, but I can’t budge an inch, like I really am a
gimp.

her arms around me, leans in, and squeezes. I
stand there, stiff as a statue, for a long mo-
ment. What’s going on? I can’t understand it.
Why ain’t she breaking my nose or jabbing out
my eyes?

But soon enough, I’m hugging her right
back, best I can with one arm. I don’t deserve
none of it, only for once in my life, that don’t
seem to matter. Now I feel this welling sensa-
tion, and before I know what’s happening, I
start weeping like a little girl. I’m so sorry, I
sob, I’m so sorry, like them’s the only three
words in my entire vocabulary. Maybe they
should be. Shhh, she whispers, it’s okay. Which
ain’t true in the least. But I’m willing to go with
it, right here and now, cuz I’m ailing in a big
way, and this is just what the doctor ordered.

It can’t go on forever though. She pulls
away and gives me this look full of what you
call pity. It burns now, that nasty feeling I got,
and I want to tell her about all the lying and
stealing I done, all my pretending to be some-
thing I ain’t and never will be, like she’s some
kinda beautiful priest. Only the shame, that’s
what it is, the shame hangs heavy round my
neck like one of them giant seabirds. I can’t get
my wind. Now Liz pats me on the arm and gives
me a warm smile, then steps to the door and
unfastens all them locks. Before she disappears
down the musty hallway, she looks me dead in
the eye and, serious as a heart attack, says:

Thank you for your service.

About the Author

J. T. Townley has published in Harvard Review,
The Kenyon Review, Prairie Schooner, The
Threepenny Review, and other magazines and
journals. His stories have been nominated for
the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net award.
He holds an MFA in Creative Writing from the
University of British Columbia and an MPhil in
English from Oxford University. To learn more,
visit jttownley.com.

LIVING MACHINES

by Reece Braswell

My Grandma was eighty-six when we admitted be strong,” or, her favorite, “You look lovely
her to the hospital. There, rubber-gloved hands today, Ms. Crow.”
cared for her, piercing needles into the walls of
her veins and connecting monitors to her I was so young, then; too young to
heart. It was like that for a year, machines understand most things like death, or
encroaching on her dilapidated muscles like machines, or old age. But I’d still bring her
she was a specimen under scrutiny; something drawings from kindergarten, or a card that had
she never deserved. all its words misspelled, because I knew it
would make her smile. Her voice, a severed
She’d take her medications every day, like wing, she’d utter, “Oh, Brandon. That’s so
she was told to do; I don’t really remember sweet. So sweet.” Other days, though, her
what medications they were, but I think she spider-silk hair would stick out from her skull
took around seven, daily. Early mornings and and she’d stare vacantly at the flies beating
late afternoons, she watched the news on a their little bodies against the sun-oppressed
small T.V. in the corner, even though my window.
mother insisted “that garbage will rise her
blood pressure.” She’d still speak to me, though, even if it
was difficult for her; it was usually little words,
Nurses would come in three times a day to or small sentences. Whatever she could get out
deliver food from the mess hall, and promptly that took the least amount of effort.
three times a day my grandma would reject
said food and they would have to feed her One of the topics she’d go on about was
through a tube. Grandpa; how he was going to be there. She
never really specified what ‘there’ was but,
Everything correlated together so clean-cut, looking back, it was probably some version of
it was almost as if that hospital was the heaven she’d created in her mind.
embodiment of a constant surgery, its
organization an incision on the white-washed She said one day, soon, it was just going the
walls and skin-colored tiles. two of them; they would have a nice little
picnic next to a stream, the kind five-year-olds
I know she must’ve hated it; the uniformity, venture to nab tadpoles with little nets, in
the child-like polka-dots that littered her night which they were going to talk about the
gown, her skeletal form, and the phrases weather, about their aged souls, and how they
nurses eased off their tongues like, “Ms. Crow, were young again.
please sit up,” or “Ms. Crow you have to eat to

She said they would get married, then; the “He’s just a bystander.”
reception would be at night, in which celestial
bodies could hover over their love and witness A week later, we buried her.
their vows as they sixty years ago, and the way
they hold each other like they’ve never held My mother didn’t shed many tears at the
another human being. funeral, gripping my hand the whole time like a
rubber glove. When the casket began to make
I told her I wanted to be there for it; softly its decent into the ground, her fingers
laughing at my request, she turned her face in tightened and her bones began to shake within
my direction and said, “Of course, honey, we’ll her skin. But she kept silent.
wait for you.”
I take another drag of my cigarette, and
She meant what she said; she always did. blow its toxins into stiff air of the bar.
She said until I got there, she would talk to
grandpa about leaf patterns, or the variety of It’s only a white sheet in my memory, now;
shapes a pebble can have, as their feet slid the hospital. The funeral. My grandmother.
along moss-covered rocks in that thin stream.
My gray eyes sweep over the bar’s patrons
My grandma was like that; she could always as they watch another football game on the
talk about the natural world like it was another box T.V..
appendage of her body. At the hospital, she
would share the dreams she had; dreams she’d “What the hell am I doing?” I question,
wake to in the middle of the night where wiping the counter with a wet rag. My quiet
meadows opened her chest and guided her outburst receives a dirty look from one of the
down some withered path to the hills, where old bastards sitting at a table, and I shoot him a
she’d traveled, barefoot, dirt-toed, through glare; his piggish eyes bore past me and he
long strands of grass and fluttering pink goes back to his whiskey. I grimace, placing my
flowers. vision on the particles sprayed across the
counter.
She’d tell me these things as if she believed
them to be true. Disgusting, I think, cleaning the table with
more vengeance.
She spent days searching out her grimy
windows for those dreams; observing clouds The bar closes late that night, and when I
that grazed across the sky like they were tuffs get home, Jesse is already in bed.
of white manatees. It didn’t compare to the
ones back home, but she still saw something in I shed off my uniform and throw it into a
New York’s bog that gave her happiness. chair, curling up next to her thin body, making
sure not to wake her.
She told me it was all she wanted when she
died; everything that made her feel something. I place a cigarette in between my lips and I
Shifting from her vegetative position, one day, light it, gently pulling her close as I put my arm
she encased my small, pudgy hands in her above her head.
grasp.
Then, in that moment, everything is still. I
Staring up at the ceiling, she said, “I prayed breathe in the smoke and blow it out, drooping
to drift away in a dream. But they forget, my eyelids at the familiar habit.
Brandon; God can’t do everything.”
“Put it away, Brandon,” Jesse says from
Her blue eyes lingered to my startled, under me.
chubby-cheeked face, and her lips attempted a
smile, but it only became elastic over her I look down to find her luminous green eyes
jawline. staring at the cancerous material in between
the nook of my index and middle finger.

“Put. It. Away,” she says again, all slow-like “What do you mean? I thought she passed
to highlight how stupid she thinks I am. I glare away, like, forever ago.”
at her, turn away, and take another drag.
“Thirty years ago, actually. And that
“I’ve had a rough day,” I mumble. doesn’t mean anything,” I say, retracting my
arm from her and wringing my hands over my
I look down at her again and her eyes are stomach.
lax; an unreadable softness that always makes
me feel surrounded. She wraps her arms “My… my Grandma told me a lot things
around my torso. before she died. Doctors said it was all
delusional, but I’ve never been able to forget
“What’s bothering you?” it.”

I move my gaze away from her. That look; Jesse reaches for my hands, melting their
those words. She’s corning me. tenseness with hers like putty.

I glance at our apartment; at its miniscule “It’s okay to be confused, or frustrated; you
living space racking up over nine-hundred were only six.”
dollars a month in rent, and then towards my
stained uniform that backbends over a foldable In that moment, I feel splinters seep into
chair near the bathroom door. my stomach, erecting my spine; I see the
bodies dance faster.
“Nothing.”
“But I’m not confused. Or frustrated. I
My voice is hollow; so weak and feel… incomplete. Does that make sense? It’s
unconvincing. I discard the butt of my cig into a like she was telling me all these beautiful things
styrofoam cup. and left me here… it was about heaven. Her
heaven. She told me what it was going to look
The moon is blue this evening. It shrouds like, what she was going to do; she said they
the room in a colorless hue that reaches across were going to wait for me; her and Grandpa,” I
the bed like a tired body, dancing in the say, my voice shaking.
corners of the room and jumping over disabled
pizza boxes and empty bottles of Coors Light. “I thought you didn’t believe in God?”
It’s a ghost, I think. But I don’t know them.
She rests her head on my chest and my
“You’re lying,” she murmurs, and I know, body slacks. I take a breath.
then, she has me. It’s the shadow in her face.
“I mean, I guess. This isn’t really about
“It’s not like telling you would change it,” I that.”
say to her, reaching for a half-empty bottle of
beer. It’s taste is flat against my tongue, and I “It’s about heaven? Are you worried over
want to gag, but I would do anything to distract whether you’re going to – ?”
this situation, even if it means opening up
another argument about my drinking problem. “No. You just don’t understand, Jesse. What
But the pale light from the open curtains am I doing with my life? I work at a bar, and I’m
passes through my face, and I know I look paid by old geezers who need cabs to take
terrified. them home because they’re so wasted. Don’t
you get it?” I seethe.
“What do you mean by that, Brandon?”
“I don’t like your job either, Brandon,” she
I sigh, putting down the beer. She’s says.
cornered me.
“Thanks, because I didn’t know that, did I?”
“It’s my Grandma,” I say, lowly, wishing I
hadn’t wasted that perfectly good cig. She shoots me a heated stare, “Why are

you so angry? What have I done to you? You About the Author
came home in a bad mood. I’m doing the best I
can!” Reece Braswell is currently a Junior in high
school attending Douglas Anderson School of
I grit my teeth, “I know! I know… I’m sorry. the Arts in Jacksonville, Florida and have been
God, I’m sorry. It’s just… you know… a part of the creative writing program for three
sometimes I just… I just want –“ years. She writes as a form of therapy to con-
nect with herself, others, and the world around
“What?” her.

“I just want to leave, Jesse. To go to the
place my Grandma spoke of.”

Then there is silence; only the hum of the
ceiling fan whipping the air comes through.
Jesse folds into me.

“And yet,” I laugh bitterly, “I don’t want to
die.”

Jesse runs her finger up and down my
rumbling chest.

“You don’t have to die to be happy.”

I sigh, “I know.” I begin to tremble. “I
know.”

I don’t cry; every fiber in my being yearns to
cry, but I know I shouldn’t be sad. I take a
breath. The bodies drop their dance and
recede within the walls.

A lull casts over us, stiff from words and
cigarette smoke.

“I miss her, Jesse,” I swallow, draping an
arm across her small shoulders and gripping
her tightly.

“Every part of her that left me here in the
dark.”

AN ATTACK ON SCHOOL
PREMISES

by Andrea Taylor

They gathered the entire staff in the auditori- They would give us more information as
um after dismissal and told us about the sexual they could.
assault that occurred in the staff parking lot
early that morning. The unnamed victim was a Please go in pairs to the parking lot as you
staff member. She was hospitalized due to stab leave. Try to in the morning as well. We need-
wounds, but the wounds were non-life- ed to pick buddies like the kindergartners when
threatening. There had been a knife involved. they had to go to the bathroom.
And force. The attack took place in the victim’s
car. The attacker got away. They could share Some people can handle news like this.
little other details at this time due to the sensi- They don’t have ghost-like images imprinted in
tive nature, but there would be an investiga- their brain every time they close their eyes. My
tion. coworkers all had blank faces as they listened. I
wondered if my expression looked as horrified
If anyone has any information or saw any- as I felt.
thing, please let us know. We will be looking at
camera footage. The principal, Mr. Fletcher, did most of the
speaking, but he was flanked by the two assis-
We’d noticed the police cars that day. Any- tant principals. Mr. Craig stood to his left
one could see the white vans if they glanced frowning. Ms. Schmidt stood to his right in a
out a window, and if they happened to avoid pea soup green pantsuit. Next to the two men,
windows all day, they certainly heard about it she looked so small.
at some point, if not from another teacher,
then from a student. My friend Bryan found me after the
meeting. Terrible news, right? Who do you
Ms. Dawson, why are there cops outside? think it was? Can I walk you to your car? We
had been told to leave early, to go home and
Is there an active shooter in the area? be with our families or alone with our fright-
ened thoughts. I took Bryan up on his offer.
Are they doing a drug search?
Outside the air was cool. Staff members
We all looked around the auditorium to descended on the parking lot in pairs, everyone
find familiar faces as the administration spoke talking in hushed voices to each other. How
in their somber tones. Who was missing? Who could something like this happen?
was the victim?

I glanced around the lot for cameras and well. Or I thought I knew well. Could they be
didn’t see any. I asked Bryan if he knew where capable of something so horrid?
they were. He shrugged. I watched Bryan for a
second as he walked beside me. He could nev- Certainly, it couldn’t be Mr. Hu, the photo
er rape a person. Bryan and I had both started teacher with a kind demeanor and mannerisms
teaching at the school at the same time. He that reminded me of my father. Was my father
was a passionate history teacher with a hobby capable of raping someone? He couldn’t be.
of comic book reading. What about my brother? He was in law school
and went out drinking with his lawyer buddies
I was hit with the unsettling thought that I’d often. What if he got too drunk one night, and
walked through the staff parking lot in the ear- a woman told him no?
ly morning. Had I walked past her car? Could I
have helped her, but because I was glancing at That night I had a dream that I was walking
my phone hadn’t noticed an attack happening through an endless parking lot full of cars. The
next to me? cars were all empty, but I kept peering into
each one, afraid of what I might find. The sense
We made it to my car, and he asked if I of dread I felt told me I would eventually find
would be okay. Sure. Going straight home. something.

What does a rapist look like? The next day, I And I did. A car that looked like mine had a
wondered this every time I passed by a male shadow in it. As I neared, I saw that the shad-
coworker. Teddy, the custodian who greeted ow was a man. He wore all black, and he had
me with a happy hello every morning in the no face.
teacher’s lounge as I poured my coffee was a
big man. He had to be at least 6’5”, 250 lbs. At The victim was Victoria Perez, third grade
least. Is that all it took to rape someone, size teacher. She was a young, petite woman who
and brute strength? was the life of the Elementary School happy
hours according to her friends. She would be
But there had been a knife involved, so taking a leave of absence and would need a
maybe not. Maybe the attacker had been sub until further notice.
small. As short as Mr. Werner, the music teach-
er, or as skinny as Mr. Abrizzi, the health teach- I tried to imagine what she’d gone through
er and cross country coach. I was the same size in those early morning hours. I tried to imagine
as them though. I felt I would surely be able to being raped. I don’t know if I would ever feel
fight them off. like myself again. My insides would feel as if
they weren’t my own, as if they no longer be-
I stared at my male coworkers’ hands all longed to me.
day. Some were larger and stronger-looking
than others. How do you measure a rapist? Ms. Dawson, is it true a teacher was raped?
Maybe it’s not something physical, maybe it’s
something deeper, something you can only see Where did you hear that?
in the eyes.
My mom saw it on the news.
We had not yet heard if the attacker had
been identified, if it was someone on premises My eighth-graders found out everything. I
with a pass to get into the staff parking lot or told the student it wasn’t anything she needed
someone random who had scaled the fence. I to worry about. She was safe. But was she? I
knew it couldn’t be Bryan or Muhammed or resumed reading aloud from Of Mice and Men.
Francis. Those were the male coworkers I knew We were nearing the end, and I wasn’t sure if I
was going to be able to get through it this time.

The next morning, I headed into the teach- God, the poor thing. I can’t even imagine.
er’s lounge to fill up my coffee mug. Teddy, the
custodian greeted me with his usual hello and We should get her a card or something.
big smile. As I stepped further into the room, I
spotted Mr. Rawlins, the phys ed teacher talk- I leaned back against the brick wall of the
ing with Bryan and Mr. Craig. They all looked school and smoked harder and faster as I
up as I entered. stared into each car I could see from this dis-
tance, searching for something, a shadow, a
There was no one else around, just me and knife, a woman’s face filled with terror, a man’s
these four men. I acted like I forgot something face filled with malice. I saw nothing.
and slipped back out without pouring coffee. I
willed myself to be smaller, so small I would Ms. Ryan, Adam took my jump rope.
disappear.
Adam, did you take Kaleigh’s jump rope
The camera footage was useless. Apparent- from her?
ly, the cameras hadn’t been working for some
time, but no one had noticed because no one It was my turn. She wasn’t sharing.
had any reason to watch them. They were old
cameras anyway, and from my conversation Okay Kaleigh, you have had the jump rope
with one of tech guys, even if they had been all recess. It feels good to share, remember?
filming, it was highly unlikely the quality would
have been good enough to see anything. I stamped out my cigarette on the brick and
dropped it into the sand bucket, glancing once
We learned one more piece of information more at the parking lot. Nothing stirred. I shud-
in the following week. The cops estimated the dered. Maybe it doesn’t always feel good to
time of the attack to be around 6:45 a.m., share. Maybe instead of teaching kids to share,
about the time I arrive to work. I felt sick when we should be teaching them to own.
I learned this and decided I needed a cigarette.
I sought out my friend Maria, the eighth grade They never did find the attacker. It turned
math teacher, and bummed a cigarette from out he had been wearing a mask, so the victim
her. couldn’t even identify him. We had one more
meeting in the auditorium where the police
The smoking area outside faced the staff explained what they knew, which wasn’t much
parking lot, and I’d forgotten this until I got more than we’d already heard through rumors,
there. I hadn’t smoked in years and hardly ever and one of the school psychologists spoke
at school, so I barely went out there. I stood about how to discuss rape with students in
facing the lot, staring at all the cars. Was some- case the topic came up.
one being raped right now, and I couldn’t see
or hear it? What if that same attacker was out After that, new gossip began to take over
there somewhere in the bushes surrounding the old gossip, and the school days chugged on
the lot, waiting. in their incessant way. No one spoke about the
incident anymore, aside from the day we
I smoked hard and fast. The smoking area learned that Victoria Perez wouldn’t be return-
was also adjacent to the playground, and the ing. There was talk that day.
elementary kids were at recess. I could hear
their excited shrieks and blissful voices. I could God, I can’t blame her.
hear the teachers on duty talking.
I don’t know if I’d ever be able to come
I went to see her, and she’s a mess. back.

Can you imagine?

Though my nightmares have died down, I
still see images when I shut my eyes, imagin-
ings made worse by the unknown. And some-
times still, as I pass by a male coworker in the
hall, I fold into myself a little, shrink, try to
make myself small.

About the Author
Andrea Taylor is a Columbus, Ohio-based writ-
er who has been published in The Blue Penny
Quarterly under her maiden name, Andrea
Kline. She freelance writes for the local Colum-
bus magazine, (614), and she is currently pur-
suing her MFA at Lindenwood University while
working in technology.

GRAND DESIGN

by Steven Markusen

An insistent voice brought me out of the void risen 8,000 feet above the valley floor. The
and darkness. range provides an awe inspiring view for travel-
ers who pass through the valley each summer
“What is your name? Where are you?” on their way to and from Yellowstone National
Park. On this day in August, tourists stopped at
My eyes opened to see a chiseled face with turnouts to snap pictures of the Grand Teton,
furrowed brow. Pain stabbed my side. My summit wrapped in clouds, unaware of the
head, arms and legs were covered in blood. drama unfolding high on the mountain.
Every time I breathed my chest made a soft
whistling sound. The date was August 8, 2014. The story had
begun the year before. My life was in crisis
I spoke softly, giving my name and our location mode: my business was failing, my marriage
as the Grand. was falling apart, and I was a defendant in a
U.S. Securities and Exchange Commission civil
The air was thin, cold, and damp. The beautiful lawsuit.
blue sky of morning had been replaced by lead
grey clouds. The climbers huddled over me on I dug deep for courage, quit drinking, closed
a 6-by-4-foot ledge on the edge of the Exum my business and got divorced. In the settle-
Ridge, 400 feet below the 13,775 foot summit ment, all my assets went to my wife and five
of the Grand Teton. I had fallen, and by some kids. I left the lawsuit uncontested.
miracle, stopped on this sloping ledge just feet
from a 1000-foot drop. We were 7000 feet As I sought to remake my life, my path led to
above the valley floor. It was a place offering Grand Teton.
no shelter, exposed to cold, wind, rain, and
snow. I had left the warmth and light of my car at
2:40 a.m., stepping out into the cool darkness
The dramatic Teton Range and the valley of and damp smell of Lupine Meadows. I moved
Jackson Hole are home to Grand Teton Nation- quickly up the familiar six-mile, 5,500-foot ver-
al Park. The jagged peaks of the Tetons are tical approach to the Exum Ridge. The first time
sculpted from an enormous westward-tilted I hiked this trail was with my father in 1969.
fault block of ancient metamorphic and igne- Over the last 45 years, I have hiked this ap-
ous rocks that are part of the central core of proach 16 times and climbed the Grand by sev-
the continent. Over the last two million years, en different routes.
the north-south trending Teton fault block has

I reached a diagonal, sloping ledge named Wall above me, set an anchor and belayed Chris
Street at 9:00 a.m. Most parties rope up here who climbed over to my ledge. Chris got me to
and use technical climbing gear to ascend the lay down, anchored me to the rock, put me in
Upper Exum ridge, 1400 vertical feet to the an orange down jacket, and wrapped me in a
summit. My plan was to free solo the route. I first aid blanket. I have no memory of any this.
had done this twice, but never alone, not from They contacted emergency services, reported
the valley in a day, and not at 60 years old. the accident, and were joined at the scene by
the Boston firefighters.
There is a six foot gap between the end of Wall
Street and Exum Ridge proper: the infamous It was approximately 11:30 am when I regained
Wall Street Traverse. You cross this gap with consciousness. It was the Boston firefighters
nothing but 500 feet of air below your feet. with me on the ledge. The face belonged to
Feeling calm and confident, I made quick work Keeghan O’Brien, a U.S. Marine with tours of
of the exposed traverse, each move thoughtful duty in Afghanistan and Iraq. With him were
and precise. Emerging from shadow to bright Mike Aylward and Ryan Hackney. They did a
sun, I soaked in the warmth. professional assessment of my injuries: multi-
ple lacerations, possible internal injuries and
Above was a party of three on the Golden Stair, fractures, unable to move, but alert and talk-
a 100 foot vertical wall. They were firefighters ing. Keeghan later told me he knew I had punc-
from Boston, on the Grand for the first time. I tured my lung; it made the same sound as a
asked permission to climb through, gave them lung with bullet hole. It is a miracle that the
some suggestions on route finding, and headed Wind Tunnel climbers, and the Boston climbers
up the sun-washed granite. Higher up, in the with their emergency medical and wartime
darkness of a steep groove called the Wind experience, were willing and able to help. They
Tunnel, a party of two was climbing a chimney. gave up the summit, stayed with me, and
I nodded and passed on a less obvious step to saved my life.
the right. The next difficult section is the Fric-
tion Pitch, the 200 foot crux of the climb. Here Nick Armitage, Jenny Lake Climbing Ranger,
a party of two women and I exchanged was hiking in the northern Teton Range when
greetings, and they, too, told me to climb he got the call: climber with extensive injuries
through. The rock was warm to the touch, pro- stranded high on the Exum Ridge. He immedi-
tected from the wind and baked by the sun. ately headed back to the trailhead and drove
Climbing alone, unencumbered by rope or to the Lupine Meadows rescue cache, the com-
gear, was pure joy. mand and control center for all national park
rescue missions. A rescue mission in the Tetons
Pausing at the top of the Friction Pitch to drink is like a military operation, a serious affair with
and eat, I noted with concern dark clouds many potential bad outcomes.
forming below me. The weather the last week
had been stormy. The pattern was changing for Around two in the afternoon, a helicopter un-
the better, but there was still residual moisture der contract to the National Park Service lifted
in the valley. I snapped some pictures and off from Lupine Meadows to ferry climbing
started up the final 400 feet to the summit. My rangers and equipment to a staging point at
last memory is of climbing the easy slabs to the 11,000 feet. Then a reconnaissance flight was
exposed so-named “V Pitch,” at 10:00 a.m. flown to assess the accident location. Given the
low cloud base, the helicopter could not see or
The Wind Tunnel party, Chris Casciola and Bri- reach us. A team of two rangers, Marty Vidak
an Carver found me after I fell. Brian later told and Darren Jernigan, left the staging point to
me I was standing on my feet and wobbling/ climb 2000 feet up the Owen Spaulding Route,
swaying and kept repeating, “I don't know traverse over to the Upper Exum Ridge, and
what happened." Brian climbed to a ledge

then descend the ridge to my ledge. If I could Jeff Parrish carefully lifted us off the ridge.
not be airlifted to safety, they were equipped Clear of the ridge he put the nose down, and
to haul/carry me up the route and lower me with his package hanging 100 feet below, he
down the mountain. blasted down to the warmth and safety of Lu-
pine Meadows.
I remember hearing the sound of a helicopter
several times, but saw only clouds. Slipping in It took a big team to effect a rescue like the
and out of consciousness, I felt the creep of the one I required. There were thirty people in-
insidious cold and heard the whistling sound in volved, eight of them were actually on the
my lung with every breath. There was a de- mountain or in the helicopter. A key player was
tached flap of my nose in my peripheral vision. Jeff Parrish, the helicopter pilot. That day, Jeff
It bugged me. I asked Keeghan if he had any performed perhaps the highest helicopter
tape. He produced a roll of gray duct tape and short-haul insertion and one of the highest
carefully taped the flap of skin back over my short-haul extractions performed in Grand Te-
nose. The three stared at me, and we all burst ton National Park. It was his willingness and
out laughing. Most of all, I remember being ability to sneak in there between storms that
grateful not to be alone. made it possible to get me to definitive
care. Within 15 minutes after we were airlifted
After five hours on the ledge, with tempera- to safety, the Exum Ridge was again shrouded
tures in the 40’s, I became hypothermic. First in clouds. The two climbing rangers, the Boston
my body shook; then the shakes subsided as it and the Wind Tunnel parties, all made it down
began to shut down. I said to my companions, safely.
“I’m not going to make it.” The thought oc-
curred to me that some people would think my At the rescue cache in Lupine Meadows they
fall a death wish or suicide. Nothing could be detached me from the helicopter and hauled
further from the truth. I climbed solo to experi- me into the makeshift emergency room. They
ence the joy of life. I thought of my kids. They cut off my clothes, climbing shoes, and har-
needed me and that gave me strength. I forced ness. An IV was stuck in my arm and I was cov-
my mind to relax and let my body fight to live. ered in a heated blanket. Taken to the emer-
gency room of St. John’s Hospital in Jackson, I
Around 4:30 p.m., roused by the sound of the was found to have three broken ribs, a punc-
helicopter, I opened my eyes to the welcome tured lung, a lacerated spleen, and lacerations
sight of blue sky. Into my field of vision came a that required 42 stiches and staples. Two days
bright yellow helicopter. Attached was a short later, with the aid of a walker, I walked the
haul line, and hanging 100 feet below was a halls of the hospital. My eldest son Max flew in
stretcher, and park ranger, Nick Armitage. from San Francisco, packed me in my car and
drove me home to Minneapolis.
The next 15 minutes were a blur of action. The
two rangers, Marty and Darrin, who had My accident changed me. I was inspired by the
climbed up from the Lower Saddle over the top sacrifice of the Boston climbers and the risk the
of the Grand and down the Exum, helped de- rangers took to rescue me. Before my accident
tach the stretcher and Armitage from the short I was adrift, without purpose. Working on my
haul line. The three of them put me in the personal physical recovery, I decided to be-
stretcher where breathing became difficult due come a health and fitness coach. My life is sim-
to the pressure on my right side. The helicopter ple and meaningful, dedicated to helping peo-
returned. Attaching the stretcher to the short ple become stronger, recover from injury or
haul line, and himself to the stretcher, Nick illness, and lead healthier lives. The third of the
said to me, “Don’t forget to breathe.” To the Twelve Promises of Alcoholic Anonymous is,
Boston guys he said, “Make sure you detach us “We will not regret the past or shut the door
from the rock anchor when we lift off.” Pilot

on it.” Humans make mistakes, and failure is a Two days later, I guided Max and Charlie up the
way to move in a new direction. Exum Ridge. At the top of the Friction Pitch, we
stopped. My return to the scene brought no
A month after my accident I received this mes- recollection of what had happened, only
sage from Keeghan O’Brian, leader of the Bos- dreamlike memories my chest hitting and des-
ton firefighters: “Please don't be sorry that we perately trying to grab a hold of a ledge. Initial-
did not make the summit. I am just happy that ly, I thought I had been hit by a rock, but it is
we happened to come upon you. If you had not a place you would normally see rock fall.
not helped me out with route beta, who knows My best guess is that being fatigued, I lost con-
where we would have been. It was truly a life centration, stumbled and fell.
changing experience to witness your strength
and resolve in such a dire situation. Things Describing my accident, I was filled with love
happen for a reason, and everything worked for my kids, respect for this mountain, and
out that day. I witnessed the power of the gratitude for life.
mountains, and the power of the human spirit
and I will carry these lessons with me for life.” Max said, “Dad, promise you will never free
solo this again.”
Ten months after my accident, I asked my son
Charlie what he wanted to do for his 18th “I promise.”
birthday. He said, “Climb the Grand.” Perhaps
he knew I needed to go back. My son Max Charlie put me on belay, and I led up the slabs.
joined us in Jackson.
Steve Markusen lives in Minnesota, and is a
writer, personal trainer, climber, paragliding
pilot, and skier.

About the Author

Steve Markusen writes creative non-fiction. His
articles have appeared in national magazines
and on his website, crooked-thumb.com. For
over 50 years, Steve has been pursuing high
risk adventures. He is an expert rock & ice
climber, ski mountaineer, and paraglider pilot.
In addition to writing, Steve works as a person-
al trainer and nutrition coach. He currently
lives in Plymouth, Minnesota.

SHAPING BEHAVIOR

by Isabelle Runge

I pressed my foot firmly into the gas pedal, to the doorway with my materials, placing a
maneuvering in and out of lanes at an anxious quick knock on the tall wooden door. There
pace. With one hand on the wheel, I reached was a faint sound of a child calling out from
my other into the backpack on the floor and behind it, and little hands moved blinds to peer
pulled from inside of it a folder marked “Client out at me. The door opened and a woman
Information”. stepped out, dressed in colorful flowing clothes
with hair pulled back tightly, tucked into a hi-
“Alright, who do we have today…” I opened jab.
the folder, darting my eyes between the road
and the papers in my lap. “Aamna Seyed, age “Hello,” she greeted me, “I am Rina. Aam-
eight. Diagnosed with Autism Spectrum Disor- na’s mother. It is very nice to meet you.”
der and Anxiety Disorder.”
“Hi Rina, my name is Isabelle.” I smiled,
I scanned hastily over her medical history reaching for her hand and shaking it. “I’m here
and list of given behaviors as I approached the to work with her today.”
final stretch of the drive, turning into a distin-
guished neighborhood and stopping at the “Wonderful, come in. Aamna was just
gate. here…” she glanced behind her as we entered
the home, the sound of bare feet hurrying
“Who are you visiting today?” a man against tile floor echoing down a hallway. “But I
peaked out of the security booth. believe she has decided to hide. Let me go get
her for you. And if you wouldn’t mind taking off
“I’m here to see the Seyed family? I’m their your shoes?”
therapist for the week.”
“Oh, of course. I’m sorry. Not a problem. I
We quickly exchanged identification. The will come find you two in a moment.” I re-
bar lifted and I smiled at the gentleman, pulling moved my shoes and placed them alongside
forward to find just where I was meant to be. I other pairs by the front door.
glided through the streets around curves and
turns, scanning mailboxes and doorways for As Rina disappeared to find where little feet
the given address number. The houses stood had run, I made my way to an open bathroom,
tall and white, checkered with red brick and shutting the door promptly behind me. I stared
rock, grassy green yards lining the sidewalks. in the mirror, now made incredibly aware of
my form fitting choice of uniform. There had
I pulled into the driveway of the beautiful been no note or word from the office of tradi-
home, assessing my appearance in the rear tion or modesty. I pulled at my black leggings
view mirror and grabbing my things. I hurried frustratedly, removing my jacket and tying it