Search Results

From the diary of Cassandra Austen, sister of Jane Austen I have a choice, one which I fear may attract some consternation and regret. Circumstances dictate that I must make a decision soon, as time pushes me on like an angry mother lamenting filial disobedience. I have in my possession many letters written in your fair hand; my dear, departed sister. They hold within them much that is secret; secret and steeped in venom, the venomous barbs with which only you knew how to pierce. You were private, and you confided in me many things too dreadful to see the light of day. You were not in the habit of withholding your scathing understanding of the very darkest edges of the human condition. And as I walk through the winter of my life, I fear that there will come a day when the world seeks to know what was hidden in the private chambers of your heart. But what right do they have to speak of your heart? What claim can they make upon your laughter and your tears? You and I shared more than your novels, more than your stories and your imaginings. You let me in, utterly, and between us we made a pair, which some struggled to tell apart. I was always there, the useful sister, bidden to a bedchamber of childbirth, chained to the scrubbings of a dirty floor. And I was content to do it, to be the ‘sensible and pleasing Cassandra’, my head always ‘full of joints of mutton and doses of rhubarb’, so that you might be everything that your talent would create. You called me a phoenix once, and I have kept that image close to my heart, even now, after all of these years. I am old, and increasingly of little good to anyone, but I remember what you said, and I sincerely hope that there will be another rising once all is sunk into the ashes. Not for myself, but for you, dear sister. For you and your blessed children; the brilliant works you left behind. It has been my privilege to care for them and help them to their proper place, and now I am tired. I busy myself in my garden and I knit calmly by the fire, but I am lonely. All have left me, and I am burdened with the oppressive hours of a life now spent in painful isolation. I find the hours have leant me great means of reflecting on your words, and I imagine how others may feel and judge without understanding the real nature of who you were. Your tongue and your talent were tied together; one did not exist without the other, though I fear this will not be recognised if your ungenteel utterances are laid bare. I feel honour bound to protect you as I prepare to follow you into the unknown; to follow you as you once followed me to school, because you could not bear to be separated. You have been gone these many years, but I love you still, and I know in my heart what I must do. This will hurt me, but it will hurt you more if I do not act. I have given them pieces, but the masterpiece that was the true Jane Austen shall remain with me. I have shared your work, but I will not share you. I will commit your letters to the flames. I have made my choice. I had truthfully made it before I even took up my quill, and I take this action now, not out of pride, or selfishness, or jealousy. My dearest Jane, forgive me. This is an act of love. Esther Byrne is a writer from Yorkshire, UK. She has had short stories published with fiftywordstories.com, Toasted Cheese and Secret Attic. In 2021, she was runner-up for the Val Wood Yorkshire prize. She lives with chronic illness and is passionate about encouraging people with disabilities to express themselves creatively. You can see more of her work at estherbyrne.com.

She liked doing it to music. It relaxed her, she said, helped her focus. “On what?” I asked. “The situation,” she said. The niche between her fingers looked like it was missing a cigarette. *** “I’m not a performer.” “I can tell.” She reached for her phone. The side of her face changed color as she scrolled. “You don’t feel like you’re onstage? Exposed?” “Isn’t that the point?” She laughed as her eyebrows turned orange. *** “What about an instrumental? No words—just atmosphere.” She turned her phone so I could see. I squinted at the display and shook my head. “I have awful associations with that album. With everything she’s done, actually.” “But she’s just playing piano. You don’t even hear her voice.” “Doesn’t matter. It’s still her.” She crossed her legs and sat up. The side of her shirt rippled over a wedge of skin. *** “Did you know singers save their voices sometimes? Like if you go to a matinee, the leads will be onstage, walking around and doing all the poses and gestures. But someone else sings their part from offstage?” She nodded. “I didn’t know that.” Her eyes traced the crawl of text near her feet. “Of course they try to hide it. When we went for school, the singer was in the pit. You couldn’t see him or his microphone, or the stand he was using to turn pages. But once you know, you know.” She typed something and set the phone down. “I never liked theater after that.” “That’s understandable I guess,” she said. *** The traffic outside bore with it a song that for months had been inescapable. It was playing in the café where we had agreed to meet. I watched her from the table where I sat, early for once. She glanced from booth to booth as her mouth moved around the words of the chorus. *** “I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s just—” Her phone chirped and trembled, then came to rest. Its silver edge formed a perfect parallel with the nightstand’s edge. She ignored the noise and uncrossed her legs. The room around us receded into vague shapes. I could see her eyes roving the wall opposite from behind a scrim of hair. “Your eyes are green,” I said. We both liked doing it in the dark.

We talk a lot about process—not outcome—and trying to consistently take all the best information you can and consistently make good decisions. Sometimes they work and sometimes they don't . . ." --Sam Hinkie, General Manager of the Philadelphia 76ers, 2013 Concession Fighting his way from the concession stand, Josh saw her pass. He stopped, turned, unthinkingly called out: “Liza!”—the woman he still thought of as the future mother of his kids. Boys. Two of them. Sixers faithful all the way. She looked good, and he said so. Could he see her again? Next Saturday? There was this awesome new sports bar in Manayunk. Turned out she was quite busy—would be, in fact, for the foreseeable future. He did his best to insist. “Josh.” She cocked a hip. “No offense, but you are the spitting image of a first-round exit.” He winced as if struck. “It’s splitting.” “What?” “Splitting image.” A lanky teen in an Embiid jersey preened by, saying, “Dude, you couldn’t be more wrong,” before bouncing with friends up the concourse ramp. Liza smirked. Josh looked down to see his Yuengling had already lost its head. “Fair enough,” he said, his words mostly trounced by the announcer’s rousing call for the crowd to stand for the anthem. “I’ll give you—” She rejected his response with a hand. “Whatever you have you can keep.” Someone bumped him from behind, and beer splashed upon his Nikes. Defeated, he tried to take solace in the sight of her walking away. Those crazy thin heels, that flimsy crimson blouse, the tight white leather pants. So hot. The colors, in fact, of the Heat. And still, despite this evening’s outcome, he held out hope that they might someday be a team. Obsession Beads of sweat were leaving streaks in the white paint around his temples. Davey hadn’t anticipated the heat of the Wells Fargo Center lights. And the rage radiating off his wife certainly didn’t help. “Of course I care, honey. I—excuse me,” he said, rising with his fellow die-hards. “What are you doing! Get after it or get gone!” he shouted as the Sixers played catch around the perimeter. “Yeah, get after it!” A nearby dad of two mimicked, winking in Davey’s direction. “See, he understands!” Davey threw arms in the direction of the man so hard that the faux red mullet almost slid off his head. The section cheered in agreement. “Hit me up at the half, man. We’ll get a pic for the gram.” “Hell yeah!” The man gave his eldest an exuberant high-five. Davey sat back down. In tears, his wife asked, “Are you serious?” “I know it’s not easy being married to the Sixers Superfan, but we wouldn’t be able to pay for your hormones without it.” He rubbed her arm. “Let’s make a TikTok. It’ll cheer you up.” She pulled her arm away. “Hardly feels worth it. Not like you’d be around.” Davey watched her watch the clock run down to zero. Already down by sixteen points, catching up for the Sixers would be as difficult as this damn IVF. Or getting back into his wife’s good graces. Regression The sound of his father’s hand hitting his own was so loud that it drew the attention of the fans heading for the stairs for a stretch and snack. “I can’t believe it!” his father shouted. From his seat, Knox could see the slot in his mouth where a missing premolar should be, ejected by an elbow in a pickup game of hoops during the old man’s “glory days.” It reminded Knox of Ricky Sheetz when he got his tooth knocked out during an after-recess scuffle. He rolled his eyes. “It’s not that big a deal, Dad.” “Not a—are you kidding? The OG superfan is a legend, and he wants to take a picture with us? It’s the epitome of cool. Can’t wait to tell the boys.” He stared into his phone, not noticing how his son winced at his embarrassing use of slang. Knox pulled the plate of nachos off of his father’s lap to avoid spillage. Things had been different when his father first brought him and his brother Michael before the pandemic. It was a fun family outing, picturesque in its wholesomeness. After two years of watching reruns of games from afar, however, his father seemed to have forgotten how to behave. “Suck my farts!” his father shouted as the second half began. Knox snapped back to reality in time to see the Heat’s point guard bounce one off the side of the backboard. His father went berserk, fumbling his beer into the aisle after making a particularly rude gesture in mockery of the miss. At this rate, Knox thought, pulling down the brim of his cap, he’d have to drive them home. Suppression Sasha’s stomach dropped through her seat as the ball clunked off the rim. “It’s okay,” she said, clapping politely. “We still have time.” Anton looked at her. “You’re more optimistic than me, baby girl.” “I just think we should give them the benefit of the clock. Miracles do happen.” And she believed that. At least, she wanted to. It felt so good to be back watching sports in real time again. She was already dreading the long, lonely summer. What was she going to do? Watch baseball while eating overstuffed, juice-leaking brats? No way. Basketball season couldn’t be coming to a close already! The Sixers could still turn it around and win it all. They had before, although not in many years. There was Wilt in ’67. Dr. J. and Moses in ’83, over the Showtime Lakers no less. And in 2001, with Iverson—The Answer—well, second place was still a tremendous achievement. “It’s not all about miracles, you know. It’s about hard work…” Sasha didn’t know if Anton was being sarcastic as usual or sincere, so she ignored him. Besides, it’s not like she wasn’t trying. Intimacy was a process. It took time, not unlike confidence in the home team’s ability to get the job done. It could be frustrating, downright discouraging, but that’s what made it all worthwhile in the end. Anton of all people should get that. It’s not like he was sinking emotional baskets left and right. “I know you think I’m crazy,” she said, patting his knee, “but we’re due for a championship. It’s the law of large numbers or statistics or whatever. We’ve been losing for so long, something’s got to give. Right?” “I suppose.” She locked eyes with him. “It’s called believing,” she said, leaning over to kiss him on the temple. Digression He stepped back to the charity stripe, received the bounce pass from the referee. The first attempt had been an air ball. Behind the stanchion, fans turned rabid. Merciless. Online, they’d been going on about his game. His free throw troubles. His three-point percentage. His inept passing. His Swiss cheese D. Someone said something nasty about the Insta babe he’d dated for a week. He dribbled three times, bent his knees, saw a cut out of his face bouncing directly in his line of vision. After all, the stakes were mighty high. If he missed this second shot, the fans would win some shitty fast food. His release was flawed, and the ball grazed the front of the rim. The fans went mad. It was as if they’d won it all. Laughing, he backpedaled down the court. Let them have their victory feast. All that mattered was taking the home team down. Expulsion Even before the Beard jab stepped and shot a brick, it slipped out—effortlessly, as if it had come from his father’s mouth. Cameron winced, knowing what came next. “What did you just say?” His mother towered over him, eyes brighter than the white trim of her Sixers jersey. His father turned, soft pretzel crumbs still in his beard. “Did you hear what your son just said?” Cameron pulled the neck of his sweatshirt over his nose as his mom cupped her hands around her mouth. His father tried to hide his smile. “Oh no,” he said, “whatever shall we do?” “He’s only fourteen.” “He’s becoming a man!” Relief flooded Cameron. Dependable Dad. His mother spat, “That’s it? He just gets a pass? What about next time? What about shit or damn or twat!” “Calm down.” “You did not just tell me to calm down!” she shouted, before letting out a streak of profanity so startling, nearby parents kept their children’s ears covered long after the security guard ushered Cameron and his parents out of the arena. Concussion Their power forward went down. Blow to the head. Time was called, and referees gathered at the monitor. Miami’s coach approached, foaming at the mouth. He seemed completely unhinged. Flagrant one? Two? Was one of the game’s brightest stars going to get tossed? Slouched in a seat a friend couldn’t use, Octavius thought of all the blows he’d received in recent months. Elsewhere, striding, head and shoulders bobbing in the distance, was the MVP Octavius, the one who always won when it mattered. The one who would have not only been able to get that Boeing job, but also would have been able to keep it. To rise in the ranks. Players milled around the court, waiting for the verdict. The sad fact was he did not ask to be an Octavius. Normal people made lists, tried to find common ground. They considered current trends. His parents must have been seriously impaired. Drink, drugs, a fetish for ancient Rome. What the hell was with them? My God, if his parents were so keen on having an emperor, why not Julius? As Philly fans, wasn’t that the most obvious choice in the world? How different school would have been. Kids would have taken to calling him The Doctor. Dr. J. He would have cultivated this mystique, this air of grace and cool when the heat was on. He saw himself soaring now, pedaling his feet, extending his arm for a highlight reel dunk. Cameras flashing. The crowd going wild. Quickly—too quickly—he came back down to earth, reality as painful as a high ankle sprain. The truth was, whatever his name, school would still have been a disaster. Because there were winners and losers and although the NBA probably was not fixed, life almost surely was. When alone—when free from all the bullies—he could be man enough to accept this unfortunate truth. Perhaps later, if it was not too late, he’d call his parents and confront them about the name at last. Perhaps it would free him from the him he was right now. Through some miracle or another, he could be if not that MVP self then at least a key player with some useful, specialized skill. He nodded, conjuring an image of himself, feet planted just outside the restricted circle, smiling, stone still, waiting for the blow that would come with the charge. Depression Danny, Matt’s on-again off-again friend since first grade, said, “Grief is a process.” “I’m going to ask you kindly to fuck your motherfucking process.” Danny shrugged. “Hey, it’s not mine. It’s that one psychologist. Keebler something?” “What? The elf?” “Huh?” “You know—the stupid cookie guy.” “No, no, it’s Kubler. That’s right. Kubler…Ross!” At the light, Matt asked, “What the hell were we talking about?” “Sara. Your daughter’s not dead, but losing custody has got to be the next worse thing. There are steps you need to go through in order to heal.” “I’ll buy your beers if you’ll shut the hell up.” “See. That’s one of them—the steps. Bargaining.” “Enough!” “And there’s Anger.” “Does it count if it’s aimed entirely at you?” They pulled into Tom & Jerry’s for their traditional post-game nightcap. Inside, it was loud, Blaze of Glory just starting their second set. Matt drank in silence, brooding over the sad state of affairs. He was embarrassed by how many Bon Jovi lyrics came so readily to his lips. “Don’t worry, bro,” Danny screamed in his ear. “We’ll get ’em next year.” “Yes—of course.” Matt downed his beer, unable to keep from thinking about The Process—the bloated contracts, the piss-poor fits, the top picks who couldn’t shoot to save their lives. “Christ,” he shouted, “they could have done better by drafting out of a hat!” “Now you’re back at anger. Think that means you lose your turn.” On stage, the singer was living on a major off-key prayer. Still, Tommy and Gina were going to make it. “Let’s do shots,” Danny screamed. Shots. Matt had taken a few and missed them all quite badly. Now, all he had to look forward to was a weekend with his daughter twice a month. Decompression At the kitchen table, Josh poured another. Why did his steak look so suddenly sickly in its roll? He took a bite—cheesy, greasy glue. Checked his messages. No Liza. No surprise. Clicked game highlights on the phone: a pretty floater here, a poster dunk there. A role player sealing the win with a parking lot trey, adding insult to injury by making goggles with fingers and thumbs all the way down the court. Josh swiped greasy lips with a sleeve. Life was sad—the loss of Liza was ample proof of that. But, ever the optimist, he was determined to find solace once again. He sat back, breathed in and out, in and out. Closed his eyes, conjured up a celebration: shower of confetti, tears of joy, the foamy spray of champagne. In the end, someone was going to have what it took to win the whole damn thing. To be number one. And that, he allowed, would have to be more than enough. Jillian S. Benedict is a creative writer living in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. In her free time she enjoys yoga, reading, and listening to music while people watching from her stoop. Her work can be found in Feels Blind Literary, Schuylkill Valley Journal, and on instagram @writerwithoutacause. Michael Cocchiarale's work has appeared in online journals such as Fictive Dream, The Journal of Compressed Creative Arts, South Florida Poetry Journal, The Disappointed Housewife, and Roi Fainéant.

Hel is perched in the large bay window of Hemlock Tattoo Removal. Her serpentine tail curls around her, flicking in time with the sound of distant thunder. She cleans her front paw with a sandpaper tongue, lulled by the storm outside. Her owners move about the shop, readying for the day’s appointments. All three beings are unaware of Hel’s impending death. Mimicking her Norse namesake, the fur on Hel’s face is split between creamy orange and obsidian black. Her eyes are similarly mismatched, golden-yellow on one side and piercing blue on the other. Her owners often joke that she’s two cats in one body, either bounding with lively mischief or lounging in subdued repose. Currently, she’s chosen to engage in the latter. Hel stops cleaning her paw and flops onto her side, her back to the window. She stretches in feline satisfaction, readying herself for her morning nap. She’s soothed by the sound of rain pattering the glass. Her eyes drift closed. A BANG reverberates against the window. Hel leaps from the ledge, scurrying behind the reception desk. Her owners jump, their preparations briefly halted. The woman walks to the front of the shop, cautiously peering out the rain-streaked glass. She gasps softly. “It’s a bird...” “Seriously?” Her husband moves to join her at the window. “Yea, look.” She points to the sidewalk. A large black crow lays on its back, wings splayed. “Is it alive?” “I don’t-” The bird twitches, then flutters to its feet. “Huh, must be disoriented from the storm.” The crow looks around, then flaps its wings and flies out of sight. The woman shakes her head. “Weird.” After a moment, they both return to their morning activities. Hel peers out from behind the reception desk, eyeing the window suspiciously. Her ears perk up when she senses movement along the far wall. A needle-like tail flits out from beneath the radiator as a creature darts amongst the shadows. Forgetting her fright, Hel crouches low and slinks slowly around the corner of the desk. A small black mouse with fiery red eyes pokes its head into the light, whiskers twitching. Hel stops just beyond the desk, plotting her approach. Before she can move, the mouse darts beneath the radiator again, disappearing into a hole in the floor. It’s a dissatisfying start to the day, but Hel is undeterred. She leaps to the top of the desk and finds a comfortable position in a basket of papers, where she finally naps. The rest of the morning passes in a blur of soggy people and buzzing machines, all relatively typical for Hel. She’s sleeping on the lobby sofa when one of her humans returns with a paper bag clutched to his chest. He deposits the bag on the reception desk before walking towards the treatment rooms in the back. “Anna!” he calls. “Lunch time!” There’s a sound of a reply, but Hel doesn’t hear it. She’s already trotting silently towards the desk, following the scent of fried chicken. Once at the bag, Hel spots the tip of a golden-brown wing. Without hesitation, she lunges, sinking her teeth into the warm, crispy flesh. She draws back, pulling the wing with her, but it’s bigger than she anticipated. The wing catches, causing the bag and its contents to topple toward her. “Hel, no!” her human calls from the doorway. He starts towards her and Hel leaps from the desk. There’s a loud SQUEAK as his wet shoes slip and he falls backward. Hel’s other human steps out from an adjacent room. “What-” She trips over her prone husband, causing the stack of files she’s carrying to fly forward. Hel drops her prize and scampers away, narrowly avoiding being crushed as the stack crashes down onto the stolen chicken wing. Hel freezes, watching her groaning heap of humans. Her eyes flash to the pile of folders and papers that now harbor her fried loot. As she contemplates her second robbery attempt, the small black mouse with red eyes skitters across the floor in front of her. Hel doesn’t hesitate. The mouse screeches and zigzags between the toppled folders. Hel’s paws slip on the spilled pages, but her eyes remain fixed on the demonic rodent. Hel’s humans are still trying to right themselves when the mouse scurries through a gap in their legs. Hel bounds over the pile of limbs and tears after her prey. “Hel!” the woman calls, but Hel is already gone, chasing the mouse down the corridor. The mouse turns abruptly into a side room and Hel follows without missing a step. Backed into a corner, the mouse tries clambering up the wall. Hel slows, stalking forward on liquid limbs. The mouse turns, eyes and head darting. Hel pauses for an instant then pounces. Instead of running away from her, the mouse leaps with one final screech and latches onto Hel’s leg. There’s a burning sensation and Hel yowls in pain. She crumples into the corner and instinctively bites at the mouse, ripping it from her flesh. She tastes blood. It should be sweet and metallic, but Hel only tastes foul sulfur. She drops her prey, retching in vain as the blood slides down her throat. Hel’s throat is closing. Her little heart races as her lungs starve for air. She collapses, wheezing and twitching until her small body can fight no longer. This is how Hel dies. “Hel?” a woman’s voice calls from the corridor. Hel is dead so she doesn’t hear. “Hel?” a man’s voice this time. Silence echoes in response. “Where’d you get to?” Hel’s eyes flash open, revealing fiery red irises. She shudders and blinks slowly. There is no rise and fall of her small chest, but there’s a hunger deep in her belly. “Hel? Come on out sweetie.” This time Hel hears, and her hunger roars. M. Rose Seaboldt (she/her) obtained her engineering degrees so she could study structures and fire science. She writes so she can explore characters and the trials they endure. Find her on Twitter @boldtsea.

Shoveling Out Dust haloed, scratcheyed, kneedeep in grain, we shovel toward the buried shriek of the auger. Our masks press sharply into our tear ducts as we slowly heave forward, exposing the rough concrete you laid the summer that boy beat up your brother and you got suspended for threatening him on his home answering machine. You spent June helping Grandma fix fence, haul hay, dig, mow, and sweep, walking the pasture out back, becoming patience in the empty, finding a milkweed there, bursting loose, unable to contain its own entropy, and knowing the warning of that. When we slow up, exposing the drill, the grain bin rings with mechanical crows, and, as we snort, scratch, and tumble out, wheat pours from our shoes like old blessings. Cemetery Mower after Ted Kooser The sun rose up at 6:15 today. I’d already primed the mower by then, drank half my coffee, the painted glaze chipped into my mouth as I rolled out of my truck. I spit & cough the night’s bad humors away. The clients don’t seem to mind. They don’t pay me to pull away the bindweed from iron crosses, to wipe bird scat from the gazebo railing. Nope, just to mow, shearing the grass with the loud metal teeth, the petroleum breath and oil sweat rising acrid above the many dead and the one living. Wind sprays the coarse irritant grass on my legs and I hesitate to pinch a dusty snot bubble out from under my nose, afraid I’ll only make my upper lip dirtier. No one is here to judge me, and I try to do the same, but when a stone catches my eye and I notice how small the years are between dates, I wonder why. I always wonder, when the granite reads “Our Angel” or the ceramic photo looks too damn young. A boy’s Senior photo catches me cold and I nearly crash into his grandmother, the mower’s deck grazing her stone like an eager calf nicking fingers held through a fence. This is the only red prairie grass I cut, all of it too close to the names. I course correct and return to my duty, the only one here who can’t yet escape their shame.

yes, i’m the heat of a promise of snow. my friends think i’m a Vegetarian, so i lie and say i am. if only i could have black sunglasses, cross my knees and stare into a horrifying use of contrast (white jackets mean a blizzard for sure). i don’t even drink hot, so what difference will it make? still, i keep putting off roasting some heavy meat, watching air run off—an inverse precipitation. pick me, the slight jostle of a woman getting shit done. my nose is running, but—validation for validation! eating gummies is the closest i can get to ham: touch my neck please. i’m not needy! i’m a Vegetarian; i’ve got something for patience. Aaliyah Anderson (she/her) is a junior majoring in Literary Arts at her high school in Petersburg, VA. She's obsessed with storytelling.

I've been stacking rocks. Igneous, metamorphic, sedimentary—I don't know. We learned that in school last year, yes, sure, but I don't know what kind of rocks these are. And I don't remember what it even means for a rock to be one or the other. I just know my rocks are rocks and I’ve been stacking them. Some are brown and some are black and some are white. Some are as big as a shoebox and others as big as a fist and others as big as a, like, paperclip and others as big as an ant. Obviously, the biggest ones go first. I stand in my backyard and stack as many as I can until they fall. When they fall, instead of being one rock on top of another in a big skinny tower, they become a layer of probably like fifteen rocks, and then maybe another layer of like ten, and then five, and blah blah blah. You know what a pile looks like. It’s much harder to knock down the pile than the tower. If you want to knock down the pile, like make it one single flat layer, you really need to kick it and push it and do some serious work. And the more rocks I start with in the tower, the harder it is to knock down the pile. Also, I forgot to mention, sometimes my friend Jack comes over and pushes down the tower to fuck with me, and then I punch him in the arm. My English teacher explained a few months ago that Curley's wife wears red in Of Mice and Men because it represents danger, and that when you read a book the happenings are not just the happenings but represent things and allude to things and you can analyze them like that. Like also the farm George and Lennie talk about going to is not just a farm but independence. And so, after class last week, after all the other students left, I told my English teacher about how I stack the rocks and how they fall and how I think this means that in life if you develop good habits and traits and skills and other such things, then even if you fall on bad times those developed traits and things become a big pile that’s hard to knock down completely. And I told him my friend Jack knocking down the tower means that sometimes others might wrong you and cause you to fall on the bad times, but that punching them or, like, you know, seeking revenge or whatever, doesn’t put your life back together. My English teacher said it was a nice thought, but that you can't analyze life in the same way you can books. I asked why not. He said the reason you can talk about books in that way is because someone created them and they’re art, but life doesn't work like that because it isn't art. I asked why something needs to be art to be analyzed. He started to sweat. Probably not because of our conversation, he just often sweats. He is a short, fat, often sweaty man who once told our eighth-grade class that he got into poetry because—being a short, fat, often sweaty man—it was his best chance to attract women. I don't know why he told our eighth-grade class this. He then wiped his forehead with a napkin and said, "That's just the way it is, I guess." Which was another way of saying what he had been saying, which was nothing. Angry, I asked again, and he started organizing his papers while mumbling more words that still meant the same thing. It was the end of the school day and he was trying to brush me off and wasn’t answering my questions and couldn’t just admit he was wrong. This made me mad, but I wasn’t going to punch him in the arm or anything, because it was my teacher, you know, and so instead, like it was an essay assignment, I just said in our Honors English class way, I said, "Can we not make the case that you wiping the sweat from your brow moments ago, can we not make the case that that wipe represented not just the wiping of sweat, but also your desire to rid yourself of the negative externalities of your actions?” Barely listening, he said, “Let’s talk about this another time,” and started stuffing his papers into folders and his folders into his messenger bag. I slammed the classroom door shut. He turned to the noise. “What are you—” “Yes, yes, yes,” I said, stepping back toward his desk, “and can we not say this stuffing of papers is merely a symbol for your attempt to keep hidden what cannot be hidden? To keep hidden what is causing the externalities in the first place!” He started sweating more than normal. He looked surprised, guilty even. I pulled a chair up to his desk, stood on top of it, and pointed down at him. “The sweat! The sweat! A manifestation of dread! A symbol of nervousness! Lest, yes, I say it, lest! Lest! Lest we forget the lessons of The Tell-Tale Heart, that physical things, no, no, more precisely, furthermore, moreover, physical phenomena can represent spiritual and mental ruin. Lest! You have been sleeping with Mrs.Gladis, have you not?” “What?” My English teacher jumped up from his desk, his hair now looking like he just got out of the shower and his face looking sad. This made me happy, but not happy enough. I jumped down from the chair. I stepped toward him and he stepped back, closer and closer to the window. “Yes, how wonderfully ironic. A perfect example of literary irony! That a man who by his own admission has had extraordinary difficulties with women has now attracted two—not only his wife, but also Mrs.Gladis! And that this would be his undoing!” “How do you—” “But can we also not say,” I continued, “can we also not say that your steps, your steps right now, can we also not say that these are a symbol of your want, your wish, your hope to move backward in time, to reverse what you have done. Or perhaps, they’re a metaphor for how you have backtracked on the agreement implicit in your marriage. Implicit and explicit! Or, furthermore, it may conceivably be, perchance, an allusion, yes, an allusion to Bob Ewell in To Kill a Mockingbird, who also will not admit his guilt, and who also steps! Irregardless, all are damning symbols of your infidelity and your guilt!” Looking like he was about to cry, he bumped up against the window. He turned and pulled it open, then climbed out and into a shrub. “An open window,” I screamed after him while he ran, “Oh boy, an open window! Need I say anything else!” The power of good analysis was made clear. Obviously you can analyze life in that way and obviously I was right, because it worked. I felt a little bad about my outburst but figured it was probably just a representation of the early-teen angst that affects all youth. We’ve had a substitute teacher each day since he ran out the window last week. I think that may represent he’s thinking through his wrongs and becoming a new man. Anyway, the most rocks I've stacked up is forty-three. Forty-three rocks! Tyler Plofker is a writer in NYC. His recent work has appeared or is forthcoming in Identity Theory, Roi Fainéant, Maudlin House, Idle Ink, Defenestration, Bear Creek Gazette, and elsewhere. In his free time, you can find him eating sugary breakfast cereals, laying out in the sun, or walking through the streets of New York City in search of this or that. He tweets badly @TylerPlofker.

Love Poem to Myself, Number Five Forty-two. That’s how old you are when you finally put down the knife aimed at your own chest. That’s how old you are when you finally begin to love your own precious body. You’re not quite sure what did it, but suspect that seeing disease winnow and wither your weight away tore your eyes wide open. Made you see what marvels had been there all along. You even love the pocket of abdomen fat that droops below your narrow waist now— have looked it straight on in the mirror as you change, and smiled, patted your little kangaroo pouch. (When I say narrow, I mean compared to the rest of you. You are all hourglass, the inward dip of your waist feeding right back into full hips. Your breasts are pendulous and large. Delicious.) This year, the year you finally begin to love yourself, is also the year you can’t stop wearing orange. Orange velvet wiggle dress; rust orange swing dress; skirt rung round with delicate fruit. You begin to associate orange with self love— dying streaks of tangerine into your pink hair, smearing on gleaming orange liquid eyeshadow, sliding orange daisies into the raspberry and russet of your hair. It only turns into a bit of a sitcom episode when you decide you really need an orange jumpsuit. When you look them up, you’re shown mostly Halloween costumes of people as prisoners. Perhaps you’ll hold off this once. But not for long. Soon you’ll find the next perfect orange thing. And you’ll look into the mirror as you put it on, whispering just this, over and over: I love you. I’m sorry it took me so long. Sometimes orange is hard to come by. I love you. I’m sorry it took me so long. You’ll cradle your little kangaroo pouch, then glide your brave, thick body into something orange and satin and sweet. I love you. I’m sorry it took me so long. The Kind of Woman I’d Write Poems About She’s the kind of woman I’d stay up all night talking with, her giggle a balloon animal. Inching my own joy closer to the ceiling, where hers wiggles its tail happily. She’s the kind of woman I’d buy blue velvet dresses for, chain daisies through her rainbow of soft hair. We’re both pale, voluptuous. Small hands, chipped nails. I want to take her to Rehoboth in Autumn, when the season is just dying down. When there are still boardwalk fries, but no boardwalk people. I want to show her the blue and white hotel with the prints of seahorses on the walls. I want to leap through waves with her, barefoot and cackling, glee hooking to pink clouds that swirl above us. Sanderlings darting between our toes. She’s the kind of woman who loads up her cuddly hatchback with snacks and luggage, when you fall ill and desperately need to see a small heap of doctors. It’s literally life and death— she eases in beside you. Grips the wheel, phosphoresces. Fends dirge-dark away. She’s the kind of woman who asks questions; who actually cares about the answers; who talks in rushes of bubbles, but always leans in to listen as well. I tried to tell her how I feel tonight, as we sat across from one another in a crowded sushi restaurant, and we both nearly turned to tears. Ever since Kat and Heather died, I’ve thought I would never love friends that way again. She’s the kind of woman who makes me think I’m wrong. She glows in the dark, human turned constellation, and doesn’t even know it. I’m not falling in love with her, but there’s a trail of pink calla lily petals leading from my heart to hers. Friendship is its own sort of falling when you do it right. I don’t mourn the dead less tonight, but I do sleep more soundly. I memorize the downbeats of her laughter, the alabaster arc of her cheeks when she smiles. It’s past one a.m. when she finally leaves my room for her own, next door. Her pearled nails are glittered newly teal, and she scoops up a slice of cheesecake our server gave us for free. Even in black, she’s so colorful, the room undulates. I turn my bedroom lights off, squeeze my eyes shut, practice glowing in the dark like Clara. First Christmas in Baltimore CW: Sexual Assault We crunch through mounds of grey-soured snow, arms linked loosely, on our way to the corner hardware store. Every year, you throw a Christmas Party for those who would otherwise spend the holiday alone. You need white twinkle lights. Need a sturdy shovel to clear your front walkway. A bag of rock salt. More than once, you catch me at the waist when I slip on a smear of ice. We have known each other for twenty-two years, and I trust you more than anyone in all of Baltimore. Still new in town, I spend too many late nights alone, eating Indian takeout, cross-legged on a blue velvet couch from the sixties. In the hardware store, there’s an enormous orange cat named Gingerbread. A suspiciously festive name. You gather twinkle lights, shovel, light bulbs, all while I pet Gingerbread. You going to steal that fat cat?, you whisper into my ear. I startle, then laugh. Shrug. I’m considering it. We stop to get frothed cups of hot cocoa on the way back to your home, cupping them close to our cold-bitten lips. I remember urging perspiring cans of Mug Root Beer from the rickety vending machine at YMCA camp. Offering them to you, rose-faced, stuttering like a broken metronome. Now, twenty-two years later, you usher me into the warmth of your yellow row-home. I have something for you, you smile. My hands leap to startled lips. I thought we’d said no presents. In the corner is a two-foot tall, light-up tree that matches my pink hair precisely. I glimpse my reflection in tinfoil branches. I don’t come to your Christmas party, but we have regular take-out Korean nights at home. Watch sci-fi classics, and even once, the newest Pee-wee Herman movie. We sit in the sun, eat spicy corn fritters and brie cooked with jam. We cuddle, but it never goes beyond that. Your friendship, you promise, is worth far more than sex. Soon it’s the day after New Year’s, and I’m drinking vodka alone. My first drink in a decade, but for no reason more than curiosity. You call me, insist on coming over. Don’t worry, you say. I don’t mess with drunk people. I just want to take care of you. I am giggly. Woozy. We curl under the oceanic swells of my teal comforter. I just want to be two sleepy cats. From there, my memory is hollowed out, is mostly holes. A worn-out loofah or a hunk of cratered black rock. I have snatches of hazy recall— a tongue on my nipple, teeth at my hips. I hear the crinkle of condom wrappers. Our calls stop after that night. No more good morning messages. It takes me two years to call what happened what it really was, and takes you four to confess and apologize. I don’t take your confession letter to the police. Consider that payment for the pink tinsel tree crammed in the back of my deepest closet, which I somehow still can’t bring myself to throw away. Robin Kinzer is a queer, disabled poet, memoirist, teacher, and editor. Robin has poems and essays published, or forthcoming, in Kissing Dynamite Poetry, Blood Orange Review, fifth wheel press, Delicate Friend, Anti-Heroin Chic, Rooted in Rights, and others. She’s a Poetry Editor for the winnow magazine. She loves glitter, Ferris wheels, vintage fashion, sloths, and radical empathy. She can be found on Twitter at @RobinAKinzer and at www.robinkinzer.com

I. Prologue/Epilogue The image of a screaming head, its mouth stretching, crackling like a splitting vine, the strands and follicles of flesh, hair, and expression prying vastly pulling over the top of the cranium like a cozy shirt.. The song of terror, an enigmatic soliloquy, known only to a monster. A music box upon the mantle in a tower… II. A True Night Story Ego, she hopes. Something she knows she must hide, and hide from. Seems like everything these days. Give me another chance. Promise I won’t choose this again. Her arm points at the wall, southeast. An old rooster weathervane. Her extended arm, covered by a sheet. Concealed as the hulking thing enters. It doesn’t see her limb. She knows this as best as she can know anything in this moment, in this room. A result of other moments, other rooms. Down the dim lit limb of the hall. Threads off into other rooms, going on forever. Veins of some immortal enlightened body. Seems like everyone these days. A history she can remember as intricately as she can, given all there is—said history, anxiety, etcetera. Last time, nothing happened when it came. We’ll see, she thinks, hopes, prays, grieves. That hunched back full of crawling wounds bleeding through the sheet. She hates this thing. That upward bumpy slope. She has seen rickety carriages climb this topography, the squeaking and creaking keeping her up all night. The bumpy road leads into a horse-shaped head. Red splotches where the eyes are, dark gray in the lightless room. Please keep going, she thinks to herself, like a joke she tells. Like the farce children know the world is before they are stolen. People become colonized hunks of land eventually. They are exhausted into compliance. A dance they’d never find their way out of. Being young is the slow dilapidated acknowledgment that other rituals always seem to tie back around into this grotesque one. She’d go until the truth glinted off the theatrical stage covering up Nature. This is the cover-up the confounded shriek about at the present era’s trendy altars. She’d go until everything she knew would be forgotten. That recognition of the moment, of the time. It emerges like a leech’s sucker drawing blood. Horror is the story collapsing in on itself. The process of shriveling, physically, spiritually, and what is revealed would be what is. The narrative is that youth inevitably starves into a tragic ending. Please don’t turn. Please don’t groan. A question mark would result in her presence, the answer she does not want to become. The knowledge would become Now eventually. She would know the thing she feared next —that moment the prior one leans into. The hulking thing sinks, groans downward like a crippling staircase. A scrunching accordion squeeze box. This is its music. The creature is an undiscovered hull, a mountain breaking and falling. It is a thing warting and snaking off of its previous thing. The era following the destroyed Before. The result of Now. It leans into her body, removes the pillow covering her arm. She watches its eyes through the sheet, through the gray. Based on a true story, she knows it cannot see her arm. She feels like that very source of fodder she and her friends once saw the world as. She feels her eyes inside of it. She believes for a moment she is seen, yet the fog of Unseen hovers about the inside of her head like vague hope, like its own falsehood’s tiny, unknown segment. So as according to her narrative, what is the probability..? SNAP-CRNNCH-SPLLICK. Its mouth un-crinkles, creak-slides open, like a body falling down stairs. As smoothly as a rug, the bulk of the mouth is a sight to behold: a whorl of fungal shadow, fermentation gusting out. A death wind. It hangs open like the bottom of a trunk. Unhinged, dangling in the dark, swaying like a porch swing. A foul, penduluming moan of satisfaction. The squelching rawness odorizes the room, the pith of its mouth, esophageal chamber, worldly innards, massages the space, suckles upon the broken, gnashing arm. And into permanent ruin. Iron and rot stain the walls, consumption fills the gullet of this once-sacred room. But sacred is synonymous with starved in some cultures, and often meets the definition at some point following more civil and undefiled words. They happen eventually. Stringing off and meeting down the line with this hulking thing. Its innards uncoil like a faltering cumulonimbus tower through the open mouth, flesh splaying like wings to aid the birth. As comfortable as a shy youth in a trusted friend’s basement. She thinks about her people, horror movies, and cheap beer. Every century is another dime. Payment and collection. A meat hook descends like a prize-fight microphone. It curves, swings, and fishes into the puss-warted terrain of the hulking thing’s back. It rises, a seer over all, returning to its panopticon tower. The hulking thing licks its many flittering, inter-lapping chops. Unholy mouths devouring their miniature meals. A recent rough-hewed cold sore spittles its oppressive bacteria. A newborn infection that inspires the name of a planet. Based on a true story: From its presiding position, the hulking thing awaits the next rueful dreamer. III. Epilogue And as adrift as an outsider through town, yet so intricately apart, an existential pulsation, a piercing song soars the scape like an ethereal limb reaching, calling to every true story before and after… The depraver holds its trembling, frightened guts. Attempts to reach for the music box upon the mantle. Its insides heave out of the orifices. Its unkemptness, splayed in a collage along its living room. It will not make its tower shift… Andy studied writing and film in college while working at a library. He also helped develop scripts and reviews for the college radio station. He has since worked jobs at all hours. He has been published in Dark Entries Journal, State of Matter, A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Hungry Shadows Press, and has work forthcoming in Anterior Skies Anthology, Vol. 1. Writing has been an invaluable path, helping bring ruin to the most vile of monster-dom: our lord depraver, Status Quo. He is grateful for Godspeed You! Black Emperor, goofy friends, and horror movies. He currently works at a library in Iowa.

On a balcony overlooking the parking lot of the El Capitan Resort Casino, Rodney and Tatiana shared a cigarette while a red glow crept over the mountains. They’d been inside for hours, pulling slots and learning which waitress arrived fastest. Within the breast pocket of Rodney’s favorite flannel sat a small felt-lined box, and within this box lay an engagement band, a hoop of gunmetal titanium he’d purchased the week previous. He touched it nervously, glancing toward Tatiana when she looked away, the little plumes of smoke billowing into her black curls. Their room was paid for one more night, but that night was ending fast. “We’re floating even,” she said, “nothing lost, nothing gained.” “We still have time,” Rodney said. The resort sat within a mountainous bowl. A thin road wound between sheaves of granite and live oak, cresting a pass before descending onto the minor plain upon which the casino sat like a castle from olden times. It was flanked by an executive golf course, several pools, and the neon spike of a hotel. This sprawling compound was in turn ringed by sharp hills and canyons that ached for water in summer but summoned waterfalls in spring. Ranches dotted this landscape, and on some patches of flat ground crops would grow. Rodney didn’t care for any of that. He’d ridden a horse once, but the act had terrified him. What was to stop such a massive animal from kicking a person to death? Combustion engines were much more agreeable. “You haven’t done well,” Tatiana said. They stood among a party gathered outside, a ragtag collection in all manner of dress and affect. Truckers, vaqueros, and homecoming queens paying dollars on the cent for drags. Over the growing clamor, Rodney said, “Not really,” but Tatiana did not respond, nor did he repeat himself. Earlier that evening a peculiar crowd arrived, a band of crewcut Marines, chisel-jawed and dopey, attending their annual soiree. They’d floated between craps tables and buffet lines, many holding a cavalcade of spectacular women hooked on their arms, dates for the military ball, girlfriends and wives and all manner of escorts. Others of the men sat by themselves, draining cocktails by the tray, and others still butted heads in the parking lot outside like stegosauri. All those big faces and crisp uniforms put Rodney on edge. Tatiana ashed onto the shoulder of his favorite flannel, the one she'd bought him. She did this when the background noise of their quarrelsome love went quiet. “You know,” Tatiana said, “I’m not having the worst time.” By then it was deep midnight, and the military ball was in chaos. They watched the brawny young men stalk the parking rows, squawking each other down. “Why is the sky red like that?” Tatiana asked, lighting another lung dart. The night clouds above their private wargames were tinting rose. Two leathernecks tackled a third. Rodney had been drinking, that weekend and throughout his life. It took a moment to pivot and comprehend the crimson glow illuminating the valley, a burn some distance away that would surely spread. Smoke, apocalypse. A torrent of fire engulfing the land. With each new calamity, he maintained a tally, in continual anticipation of the gambler’s fallacy, that long stretches of bad luck prophesied a turn towards the good. “If it’s a wildfire,” Tatiana said, “should we go? Are the roads still open?” “I bet we’re safer here,” Rodney said, “surrounded by concrete.” She smirked. “You bet? Aren’t you just trying to watch what’s left of your money burn?” There was a time when this might have angered Rodney: her wanton disregard, her vocal contempt. Instead, he’d come to accept such treatment, even to love it. Tatiana, his junior by a decade, was much like a woman he’d known many years before: headstrong, irresistible, prophetic. The two women sometimes became confused in his dreams, a body from one angle suddenly turning to have the other’s face, or voice, or some other bizarre mutation of features, eyes instead of nipples, disembodied limbs, patches of wildly colored hair. He’d met Tatiana during his longest and most recent upswing, a clearheaded time of intentions and early mornings. At first, he’d a sense he could do no wrong with her. Things fell into place that should never have worked. During their first dinner together, a waiter carrying a platter of banana splits tripped and hurled them across the room. A single cherry, spiraling through the air, landed neatly among the fine-edged ice of Tatiana’s rocks whiskey. She sipped and said ahhh. It took Rodney a long time to realize she was the lucky one, not him. “Well, if we’re staying put,” Tatiana said, “we may as well get back to it. Last one inside is a –” “Sack of shit,” Rodney said. *** It soon became obvious that fire was bearing down on the valley. The roads would be thick with killing air, the surrounding ranches scorched in a deadly conflagration. Hill-dwellers rich and poor came to El Capitan with their animals in tow, as if in flight from an enemy army. All were welcome in that place of worship. Telephone poles burst into flame behind them. There was a nervous row of horses on the casino floor, heads wrapped in T-shirts and towels to keep calm. Rodney considered sprinting down the line, snatching each covering as he went. What a sight it would be, the beasts kicking loose from their handlers, rearing above the nitwits hunched over the blackjack tables, the flailing hooves launching chips in great flurries like thrown roses. Instead, he dropped another coin into the slot and pulled the machine’s long brass lever. The reels spun like turbines, and Rodney saw a bindle of grapes, a woman's face – the fierce Knave of diamonds – and the letters B, A, R, written in cartoon red beside the clanging lights. Nothing, bust. The dazzle played across his graying visage like the reflections on a grotto wall. He pulled the lever again. Somewhere, a shrieking animal stamped its hoof, the bloodshot eye circling. Within his head fought two impulses: the heroic and the cowardly. The hero in him wanted to continue his string of rash decisions and present the engagement ring to Tatiana, his friend, lover, and sometimes-enemy. The coward in him winced at every improbable success she wrenched from the world and wanted desperately to give up and sink back to nothing. He didn’t think he could bear her refusal, if it came. Rodney counted at least four valid reasons his plan had already gone awry: the fire, the military ball, the fleeing horse ranchers, their thinning pocket change. And the more he counted, the more reasons he found. Who's to say what that first reason was? Maybe the day in third grade when Rodney discovered a rip in his pants, standing before the class presenting a diorama on the historic Mission San Luis Rey. The monks of Capistrano could not save the Luiseños from their freakish illness, nor would the children of Lakeview Elementary stifle their honking laughter. Or had it occurred even earlier, in the unremarked dreamtime of young childhood, and Rodney had long forgotten the moment which soured his life? A dropped ice cream, maybe, boiling on the asphalt, or a balloon floating skyward? Not that it mattered. A taupe stock horse clopped behind the slot machines. Rodney wouldn’t look. He finished the last salty gulp of martini and glanced around for a waitress, a lonely olive resting within the crater of glass like a meteorite. “They’re so calm,” Tatiana said. “It’s amazing.” She ashed into the tray between them, watching the horses, the nest of her black curls now trussed within a lilac kerchief. The whole room reeked of smoke, from many years of tobacco abuse and from the brush fire raging in the hills outside. “This is the one,” Tatiana said and confidently pulled her slot. The machine erupted into a fever of bells and flashing lights. The digits ticked up, nearly two thousand dollars. What luck. Her jumping and laughing startled the animals. Rodney held his head in his hands. The ring in his pocket was something so insignificant it might have been undetectable, just another quivering electron. A waitress approached Tatiana’s blinking machine, alongside a spindly casino concierge with a mustard tie. In this, the age of gold, Tatiana’s tray overflowed with ducats. “Mr. Champagne-taste here,” she announced, gesturing toward Rodney, “would like a glass of your finest bubbly to celebrate my victory. And I would like something... maybe with Chambord? On ice, with mineral water.” Rodney accepted this new insult without remark. Instead, he considered everything he’d seen in movies that spooked horses. Snakes, loud airplanes, sudden gusts of wind. Perhaps if he threw his empty martini glass the entire caravan would stomp like monsters across the floor, clearing the last patrons from their perches and giving him victorious solitude. One by one, the line of snorting beasts disappeared into an adjacent ballroom. Each of their handlers looked drag-assed and grim, not unlike chimney sweeps. Rodney envied the horses their humility. “We hear you’ve had the beginnings of a lucky run,” the concierge said. “I have your winnings here.” He held, curled within a bundle of irregular knuckles, a stack of hundred-dollar bills. “And I have something else to offer,” the concierge continued, making a sweeping gesture in reference to the surrounding bedlam. “As you can see, we have a full house tonight.” “Good one,” Rodney quipped. “The roads are closed,” he said, “and no one will be leaving this evening. We believe the lucky deserve reward, and are offering a suite, free of charge, all-inclusive, for the night, and for as long as your luck holds.” “You won’t let us leave?” Rodney asked. “I’m afraid that time has passed,” the man said. “The fire department is laying a perimeter now. We will be completely surrounded soon, if not already.” Rodney watched the final horse’s shivering rump disappear into the ballroom’s double doors. Its tail whipped one last swish, as if waving goodbye. “What about the jarheads?” he asked. “And the ponies?” “The military ball has concluded,” the man said, twitching at his mustard tie. “And the livestock will... have to make due. Please, my friends, we insist. Accommodations have been arranged, here in the hotel. The room is ready for you.” “I hope you’re prepared for us to move in,” Tatiana said, “because my luck… Honey, my luck is going to hold.” The man bowed, very slightly, just as another slot machine began to panic, and during this chaos he slipped away. The waitress returned now with their drinks, handed a tumbler of carmine fizz to Tatiana, and to Rodney, a flute of golden-straw effervescence, only the finest bubbly. He took a slurp, quickly, and nearly shot the liquid from his nostrils, so sickly sweet it was. Whether through ill-will, or confusion, the waitress had brought him a glass of sparkling apple cider. Perhaps she was new to the job and distressed by the circumstances. Or perhaps she disliked him too and wanted to make abundantly clear the extent and severity of his many failures. Rodney briefly considered shattering the long-stemmed glassware on the paneling of his slot machine and using the shards to gouge from their sunken sockets his own eyeballs. How they itched in this weather. Instead, he tilted the flute back until the cider was finished, dramatically wiping his chin with a greasy sleeve. “Are we ready to see the room?” he asked. *** When he first began calling after Tatiana, Rodney was conscious of himself as an older man, perhaps as a man who’d once been broken but had found some sliver of moonlight to illuminate his path. He was proud of that, to have emerged onto new plateaus. He’d felt lucky to visit her sometimes, where she worked as a hairstylist, and knew the other women who worked with her were examining him closely. Just who was this Rodney? Where did he come from? Where was he going? He hadn’t minded then. He was happy to be an object of interest once more, flattered. He’d brought bouquets and smiled broad smiles. In the dim halls of the hotel, however, whatever flattery he’d once felt, judged beside this woman, became a miserable doubt. Here she was, resplendent, exuberant with riches she’d summoned, as if by sorcery. And him, a husk, a simpering shuck of a man, contemptible, deserving of scraps, maybe. He scurried behind her. They navigated a labyrinth of near-featureless corridors, punctuated by octagonal mirrors and thin tables supporting singular ferns. Whatever powerlines ran through the Cuyamaca Mountains had melted, and the casino was now operating on reserve generators. In the half-light, groups of frenetic Marines passed with their dates, many of them still blitzed into a hooting frenzy. Molten rage boiled within Rodney when a particular gaggle of men whistled at Tatiana as she rounded a corner. He stopped to confront them, both fists balled; he’d struck men before; he’d held his own. But once he squared his shoulders, they were gone, around another corner, whisked away on legs of hooch to whatever mysterious destination they could possibly be seeking. The hallway before him curled toward ominous, empty places. An alarm meeped somewhere, like an itch. “Rodney!” Tatiana had opened a door down the hall. “This is it,” she said, hanging on the frame. “Come inside!” They had been promised a suite and, strangely, were not disappointed. Two beds, a separate nook with a dinette set, a deep bath, jetted and seashell pink, portents for an evening of romance. Tatiana flung herself onto the striped sheets while Rodney headed for the window. There was a warmth behind the curtains, not unlike what transpires during a summer’s day spent indoors, shutters drawn, in retreat from a world of burden and woe. Rodney pulled the heavy linen back, only slightly, and in the shimmering interplay of darkness and gleam beheld the mayhem outside. Whorls of sparks rode a murderous wind. He hadn’t expected to see flames, but there they were, taller than buildings, lashing at the night. The casino complex, its radiating concrete, for parking, golf, and lounging poolside, was an island within a sea of fire. Yellow figures passed to and fro before the glass, firemen with axes and masks. A line of them broke from the building carrying a length of hose toward a fenced structure some distance into the lot. Rodney noticed the peaking white domes of tanks filled with propane or natural gas. “There’s no point,” Tatiana called. “Why watch that stuff? We’re safe in here.” Lugging their hose like a massive boa, the firefighters wove between rows of sedans and pickups. They looked like scouts advancing into an alien dimension. Rodney had once seen a propane tank flare, though it had been much smaller. A friend had set a twenty-gallon tank onto a campfire in a fit of drunken bravado. From afar, they’d watched it gas off, sending a torrent of pinkish flame into the evening sky. “In all seriousness, Rod,” Tatiana said, “we’ve been very lucky today. Wouldn’t you like to celebrate?” He glanced at her in the window’s vague reflection. She fished a bottle of sparkling wine from the minibar and cradled it with both hands. For a long time, she rocked on her heels, holding the emerald vessel. Rodney sighed and closed the curtain. “Okay,” he said, “let’s celebrate.” Tatiana smiled. She snatched two tumblers from the dinette table while Rodney popped the bubbly, carefully withdrawing the cork. It launched from the bottle and rubber-balled off the ceiling with a fwap, ricocheting below a cabinet. “Leave it for the cleaners,” she said. “Do you think we could order room service?” At this, Rodney nearly laughed. It welled from the core of him, like a thermal spring, but at the point of emission, he tamped down the indulgence. He carefully poured each glass, the liquid perfectly even between the two, and set the chilled bottle on the tile floor of the dinette. Tatiana raised her drink. “To our luck,” she said, “today and for the rest of our lives.” “To our luck,” Rodney repeated, and they clinked. Within the pocket of his flannel sat the ring, waiting. Sometimes he felt the little nub of pressure on his chest, dizzying with possibility. At this moment, a searing explosion rocked the hotel wall. A burst of heat filtered from the window, the room's corners shook, and thunderous drumfire from an enormous combustion rollicked the structure. The tanks had caught fire and detonated, mushrooming burning gases into a hellish world. Tatiana dropped her glass. Rodney watched its turning, the liquid spilling as the tumbler tilted, the thick glassware shattering, spreading a rash of tiny fizz as wine pooled on the tiles at their feet. Tatiana screamed and sat into a dinette chair. Rodney knelt before her, watching rivulets slipping between tiles. Would he reach into his pocket and withdraw the little box? Could he focus enough to slip a titanium ring onto her finger? There were already so many reasons to quit. Would there be a better moment? Rodney took a sip from his own glass. Yes, he thought, there would be a better moment. “We need to go,” he said. Tatiana wiped her nose with the back of her hand, smearing lipstick. “Our bags,” she said. “What if we need to evacuate?” “We need to be ready to leave. We’ll get them.” “We can’t drive through fire,” she said. “No,” Rodney said, “but we can’t say here.” *** Through the halls they went, lost among wrong turns and windowless stretches. Strange sounds echoed around corners, distant howls and malfunctioning electronics. Beneath all of it growled the ominous rumble of the fire outside, the sound of a gargantuan consumption, millions of tons of drought-stricken flora converting into a stinking cloud of fumes, visible from the moon. They searched for the old room, but casinos are built like mazes on purpose. At a dead end, where not one but three ice machines sputtered, Rodney held Tatiana by the shoulders and said, “There’s something I need to tell you.” The box in his pocket pressed against his heart. “Please,” she said, “we have to get through this.” “It can’t wait much longer.” “We’re almost back,” she said, “I’m sure of it. Just a little farther.” He chased after her, sprinting halfway across the vast casino floor. Both were short of breath when they stopped, lost again. The front door was only a few steps away, but what lay beyond? As elsewhere, the lights were dimmed, and the machines deactivated, disappearing into the gloom in even rows. Dust hung in thin bands of tangerine glow creeping from the edges of pulled curtains. Rodney put his hand to the brass handle of the great double doors leading outside. “This way,” Tatiana said, gesturing toward another wing of the hotel. He’d expected the handle to sear his hand, as if the fire were immediately outside, but the brass was oddly cool. He pushed it open, just a crack, and gazed upon a world ablaze. Everything beyond the parking lot had caught. A column of light pierced the room. The heat was unreal. Nothing could survive that. A sudden drumming filled the chamber, echoing wildly from the broad walls and many metal surfaces, followed by a brazen, toneless hooting. “Now what exploded?” Rodney asked. A naked man, head-shaven and muscular in the manner of military servitude, galloped toward him on the back of a jet-black American quarter horse. Spitting and laughing as he spurred the animal onward, his penis flapped like a severed tongue. With one hand he wielded a dice stick, the hooked baton used by craps dealers, and with this saber swung at poor Rodney, scourging him, striking a glancing blow. Rodney ducked below a roulette table, a welt rising across his face. He began crawling across the aisle, toward a line of poker tables forming rows too narrow for a steed to navigate. The rider circled back, urging his mount onward again. He would ride poor Rodney down before he could reach sanctuary. From across the room, Rodney watched Tatiana grab an ashtray the size and shape of a tea-saucer. Without hesitation, she hurled it over the gaming tables toward the oncoming assailant. Cigarette butts spun from the glass in powdery spray as it whirled across the room like a frisbee, and in this moment it occurred to Rodney that she’d meant exactly what she said, about luck, that they could be lucky together. The projectile, heavy as a stone, struck the side of the rider’s head, knocking the failed cavalier to the ground and leaving the great black horse to gallop off, back into the depths of the gambling den. Rodney couldn’t think of anyone he would be luckier with. *** Minutes later, after they’d found their old room, Rodney slid the magnetic key into the lock and watched the light flash green. He pushed the door open. “Help me pack,” Tatiana said, heading for the closet and their bags. “Hold on,” he said. “Slow down, for a moment.” “Rodney?” He went to the windows and threw the curtains open. They watched the fire, that inconceivable thing. It had already taken so much. Heroic or foolish, there would never be a better time. Rodney went to one knee. From the breast pocket of his favorite flannel, he produced the little box. Coyly, he opened its tiny hinge. With the steadiest voice he could manage, he asked Tatiana, in all her splendor, if should would like to marry him. “Rod,” she said, “you really do pick the perfect moments. Of course I will.” Matt Knutson is a graduate of the University of New Orleans Creative Writing Workshop. He's been a resident at the Sundress Academy for the Arts and his work has appeared in Cola Literary Review, Expat Press, Bat City Review and elsewhere. His manuscript "In The Hills" was a semi-finalist for Iron Horse Literary Review's 2022 Chapbook Contest, and his story "So Far Behind I Thought I Was First" was a finalist for Bridge Eight's 2022 Summer Short Story Prize. Originally from San Diego, he now lives in Portland, Oregon with his wife and cat. Find him at mattknutson.net and @mattknuts.

after working like one of those first social work jobs after having just got married head over heels madly in love on school st. in newport rhode island spending the whole day driving back & forth over that long narragansett bay bridge to the boys group homes & shelters in providence due to kids pretty much being abused & neglected, deserted & abandoned & when the day at last is finally over that blinding sun in bumpadabumpa lowers its dome & sluggishly head back home where i feel from a sixth sense experience previous existence someone on my shoulder eventually getting ticketed & taken off the road by this rookie cop boasting how he's been following me since the highway as if he was so proud of himself & some kind of hero (you wondering who's the real criminal) having no idea how you've been working all day with hurt kids trying to hurt themselves & others until i now have to absurdly cautiously paranoid exhausted watch my back & return back home down that dark gravely country road where my new young lovely wife is just waiting for me with the light on in the kitchen having had made me supper expressing how worried & concerned she was & kept it warm & what went wrong as took me so long & blood shot down on my luck just sick of it all didn't even know where to begin as just like those battered kids feeling numb dumb all over simply knowing it just never ends. Joseph D. Reich is a social worker who lives with his wife and teenage son in the high-up mountains of Vermont. He has been published in a wide variety of eclectic literary journals both here and abroad, been nominated seven times for The Pushcart Prize, and his books include...If I Told You To Jump Off The Brooklyn Bridge (Flutter Press) A Different Sort of Distance (Skive Magazine Press) Pain Diary: Working Methadone & The Life & Times Of The Man Sawed In Half (Brick Road Poetry Press) Drugstore Sushi (Thunderclap Press) The Derivation Of Cowboys & Indians (Fomite Press) The Housing Market: a comfortable place to jump off the end of the world (Fomite Press) The Hole That Runs Through Utopia (Fomite Press)

"Hello Katie, I hope you're well rested after your well deserved week off! Sorry to be sending you one like this so soon but I have your next assignment. Your next assignment is Ben Crenshaw. He worked for Transport for London (TfL) and he was instrumental in saving a lot of people during last year’s outbreak. Details and the rendezvous location are attached as usual. Best Wishes Anna" The sun had begun to set, bathing the hills in a deep orange glow that a photographer might call golden hour, a priest might call proof of god's love, and a cynic would call a waste of a £3000 camera. I smiled as I drove on the road that wound its way through those golden hills, wondering what I might call it and how somebody would judge me. I’d probably just call it ‘pretty’. There's a joy in simplicity, in just appreciating the moments and not thinking about their brevity. Too many good things are robbed from too many people by constant, anxiety-fueled overthinking, chipping away at everything simple and good until every situation’s eventuality has been squeezed out, predicted and reacted to. To just enjoy what's in front of you; now that was a luxury. One that few people got to enjoy anymore. I drove up the hill and turned off on a steep dirt track, slowing my speed to little more than a crawl. The jagged loose rocks covered the road as much as the mud, and my car jolted noisily in protest. This is going to kill my suspension... Maybe if I showed this to my boss they would let me borrow a tank instead? At least the drive was pleasant. Trees on my right covered the road in a cool shade whilst an overgrown grass field stretched out on my left, flowing down the hill and out of sight. Eventually, however, I saw the single greatest sign my bruised behind had ever seen. A single red X, spray-painted on a wooden board which had been tied to a fence post. It wasn't much, but it was all the sign I needed and even better, there was no one else there. It was perfect. I was early. I stopped the car and got out, stretching my sore limbs and turning my face toward the sun with a sigh. Today was perfect picnic weather, and I wasn't going to let a thing like work stop me from enjoying the sparse sunshine this part of the world got. I opened the boot of my car… Fuck, been meaning to clean this for about 6 months. …and retrieved a stack of wooden pallets. I looked around for a convenient and hidden spot to put them. I know they're a vital part of the job, but it's a bit awkward to have it on show! A small marker stone on my right, embedded in the wall, caught my eye. Looking over to the overside and THANK GOD a small ditch. I arranged the pallets behind a marker stone in the wall separating the road from the field, before heading back to my trunk for a small collapsible table. Walking a short distance down the road, I found a relatively flat patch of ground to set up the table, followed by 2 chairs, a tablecloth, wine glasses, a purple candle and a vase with flowers. The tablecloth was freshly washed, still smelling of "Summer breeze" apparently. I placed the tablecloth with equal fabric on both sides and arranged my purple candle side centrepiece and personal wine glasses for both of the diners. My god, I'm awesome at this... the world of fine dining could never afford my talents! By the time I heard footsteps trudging up the road in front of me, my dinner date setup was complete. I smiled down at my work before looking up towards the source of the footsteps. Immediately my smile faded. A skinny, bedraggled man stumbled his way towards me. His clothes looked three sizes too big for him as they hung off his thin frame, and were stained by what I hoped was just mud. His sunken eyes, slack jaw and greying skin only added to his ‘fish out of water’ look. His appearance would be comical if it wasn’t for the spray of dried blood across his shirt. "Hello there!" I waved over to him. He stopped suddenly as I spoke, staring blankly at me as I smiled back at him. "Erm, are... are you who I'm supposed to meet?" His eyes immediately went to his feet, his shoulders hunched. He almost looked like he was about to cry. "If you're looking for Katie, then you're in the right place." I smiled, but then tried to suppress it a little as he froze. Maybe my cheeriness was making him nervous, and I'd already been to the gym today. I really didn’t want to deal with another runner. "Ah then, yes, I'm Ben." Of course, I knew that already. Ben moved forward with his hand outstretched and then instinctively stopped himself. "Sorry... am I supposed to get near you? I've never really done this before." "I'd be surprised if you had! You're allowed to shake my hand although... one moment." I turned back towards my car, opened the passenger side door, and reached into the glove compartment to retrieve a small snub-nosed revolver. I didn't know much about guns, but apparently, a revolver jams less than any other pistol so it was great in this line of work. I opened up the cylinder and grabbed the box of bullets from the passenger seat. Oh, fuck... The box felt very light in my hand as I recalled the note I'd had pinned to my fridge and forgotten about for the past week. I took the last 2 remaining bullets into my hand, making sure it was out of Ben's view. More than I expected to need but 4 less than I'd like. I quietly loaded the weapon and tucked the revolver into a holster behind my back and returned to Ben, my hand outstretched. "Hello Ben, I'm Katie." He took my hand with a weak grip and an even weaker smile. He smelled strongly of chemicals... probably disinfectant. "So is it... what are we going to do up here?" He was already looking around nervously. Getting them to relax was a vital part of any Completionist job and I had a tried and tested method in mind. "Well Ben, firstly we're going to take a seat and enjoy a lovely bottle of wine." He was taken aback. "Wine? Here?" He frowned as he recoiled. I rolled my eyes. Come on Ben. It’s not hard. It’s getting drunk! You put liquid in your mouth until you chill out… or like me, until it’s Sunday and you’re a disgrace to your family. "Yes, I have a 2002 Merlot and a crate of what passes for beer these days." "Bloody Merlot? Out here? What..." I glared and lifted a hand to silence him. He sputtered a bit, but the desired effect worked immediately. "You've been sent to me so we do things my way.” He still looked panicked, so I smiled again. “Besides, all of this is nice! Why are you complaining? How often do you get the chance to just relax?" Ben paused for a moment before taking a seat in front of me. I took the seat opposite, already uncorking the wine and pouring us two generous portions. I could see Ben staring with an incredulous expression as I circled the wine around in my glass under my nose and ignored him. I smiled as I took in the cherry-smelling liquid. Sure the job has long hours and a few downsides but I can't fault a good Merlot on a sunny day. It was the little, simple things in life one had to savour. Few people could do that anymore. I raised my glass towards him."Cheers!" Ben, still with the confused look on his face, cautiously raised his glass. Our glasses met in the middle with a clink and I took a quick sip of the cool red wine. Oaky but also fruity... turns out I have a new favourite. Ben's hands were shaking so badly he barely drank anything, even though I’d specifically brought a wine I knew he’d like. He took the smallest of sips before carefully returning the glass to the table and resting his hands in his lap. "So Ben." I rested my glass on the table with a smile. "As I said, my name is Katie and I'm a Completionist. I don’t know how much they told you, but I hear about important people and the life-changing work they've done, and I make sure to record it so people will know." Ben's mouth fell agape. "Life-changing work? I managed train routes... are you sure you've got the right person?" Another line I’d heard before. Ben that is precisely why I get out of my king-size dream machine every day. For people just like you. "Well then, I guess I've choo, choo, choose..n the right person!" I laughed. Ben frowned and then visibly recoiled away from me, face clouding in confusion and maybe anger. "Not a shitty joke guy?" I didn't let him answer. I didn't want him to ruin all the hilarious jokes I had lined up for later. "No worries then. So you are: Ben Crenshaw, born 1992 in Reading, went to school locally, started a Business degree from Suffolk University…” Did he just wince? “...but dropped out 6 months later. Started working for Transport for London a few years back, so why don't we start there?" He stared down for a second before leaning back in his chair. I matched his posture, pen in hand. I'd read somewhere that mirroring posture helps people trust you, but God knows if that's true. "Um.. yeah sure. So, I was um.. at a loose end, nothing left for me in Reading so I decided to head to London. Now even before all this mess, London was a mess itself you know, it's not a British city anymore…” Oh god please don't be racist. “It's an international city.” Ben continued. Phew… maybe. Doesn’t completely rule out racism but I’m not here for that. “There's like a thousand different parties and communities all working side by side mostly without knowing each other existed. Like it's a…” Ben paused. “Um, multi-layered jigsaw puzzle and somehow it all fits together without anybody realising how it works." "And where did a young man from Reading fit into that?" I grinned at the opportunity for a jigsaw pun. I internally cheered when I saw Ben smirk a little at that. I took another sip and grabbed my notepad and pen. "Well, I needed a job, so the first place I fit was in the Transport for London department at the Ministry of Transport in Stratford. Making sure all the timetables run smoothly, and if they weren't due to unavoidable circumstances or malfunctions, then delaying or cancelling trains." I looked down to hide my frown as my pen flew across the page. "Ah, so you're the reason my 7:38 train to Kings Cross was cancelled so often!" Ben laughed as I remembered the hour I had to wait in the middle of January for a train that never arrived. "I'm sorry but probably yes, at least that was me cancelling them, but I can promise you it was for good reasons!" Bastard. "Alright, I believe you so far, but you're on thin ice..." He grinned at the mock-serious face I was trying to put on. I say trying, I've seen myself in the mirror, I don't think I could intimidate a fly. That was part of the reason I was so good at my job. "So what's it like working at a place that leaves incredibly hilarious and attractive women waiting at stations for an hour before cancelling the train? Is it like some interesting high-tech nerve centre?" "If by high-tech nerve centre you mean ugly windowless basements where the walls are mould coloured so you can't tell what's growing on them, then yeah. It's just like that." I laughed as he finally began to sit back and relax. He grabbed his wine, steadily this time, and took a soothing sip. Regardless of whatever posture does, nothing makes people relax more than making them think they're hilarious. "Okay, I'll lower my expectations. So this train controller basement bunker, what was it like as a first job?" "Well originally you walk into a darkly lit room with no natural light, smell stale air and then see about 20 pairs of dead eyes staring back at you from desks surrounded by various screens and you want to get out of there as fast as you can but after a few days the place kind of grows on you." "Not just the mould then?" He laughed at that. "No, not just the mould. You're surrounded by fun people who know the job is dull so they do absolutely anything to make it fun. Weekly nights out, the most terrible jokes you can imagine. After work, once we stayed and hooked up one of the screens to a router outside so we could watch a live stream of the Rugby world cup!" I wasn’t interested in hearing about the rugby. Terrible jokes, however… "Terrible jokes? Like what?" "A horse walks into a bar, the barman says "Why the long face?" The horse says "I've been struggling to find a stable income." A twist on a classic. Hilarious! The laughter died down and I took another sip of wine and went back to my notes. "So, now we're caught up with the old days.” I began, readying my pen. “What happened to you about a year ago? When everything kicked off?" "The same as everybody else around the world, I guess. I was actually working from home on the 22nd of April when, all of a sudden, my phone buzzed and there's a notification talking about a bioweapon attack in London, saying that everybody should stay inside. Then my phone didn't stop buzzing as a whole bunch of cities around the world seemed to be reporting the same kind of thing." I nodded and began to quickly write down some notes. Everybody has a different story but everybody remembers the exact same moment when the news went from pointless celebrity bullshit to terror. Weirdly enough, I was on a train out of Kings Cross when it happened. Maybe on a train managed by Ben. My phone didn't stop buzzing for about an hour. It was just a constant stream of news alerts and people messaging me to make sure I was okay and that I managed to get out of London. "And then..." Ben paused for a moment. He looked off to one side and shifted in his seat. "Those um... Zombies. Wait... we both agree on zombies, right?" I rolled my eyes internally. "Absolutely. I'll accept Zims or Zombs as a shorthand but everything else is dumb." "No bullshit, walkers or shufflers or clickers or the Walking Dead?" I laughed, exasperated, as Ben was listing names. Every marketing department after the outbreak wanted to have their own unique name for what were, essentially, just zombies. Even as the world seemed to be ending some Marketing Executive would try to make money on that if we all survived it. Capitalism gonna capitalism, I guess. "I never even got shufflers. It was such a dumb name, especially since they sprint at you!" "I know right? The best I heard was shitters because they make you shit yourself when they just appear." I laughed. Shitters... nice. I've never heard that one before. "So what did you do when all this went down? "Well I got a call from David, a guy from work, well my supervisor really, but it was a relaxed kind of place to work. He basically said ‘Have you seen the news? Get dressed for work and get something ready, I'm going to be there in 5.’ So I rush on my work clothes and I grab this crowbar and kitchen knife and in 5 minutes he's outside. I get in his car and he's already on a call with Charles Delane, the Transport Minister at the time." I raised an eyebrow and readied my pen in interest. We were finally getting to the good stuff I hadn't heard before. His eyes wandered from mine to out in the distance. "I'm speeding in a car with David and after saying hi and stuff, The Transport Minister basically says, there's been bioweapon attacks spreading a fungus that makes zombies out of people in various big cities around the world, including London. We had to evacuate everybody and for that, we needed the trains to be running. The automated system is down so the infection couldn't spread outside of London on the trains and…” Ben dropped his gaze and began scratching at his chest. I kept paying attention but that wasn’t a good sign… “...We can seal the drivers in their cabins for the trips in and out but they need people to run the lines. I thought he was joking at first, we didn't even know how this spread back then but then he explained if we didn't get the trains running then people would have to walk out of central London and it would be chaos. 7 million people trying to escape a city on foot or by car with this thing chasing after them and spreading from there to infect the rest of the country. Everybody's lives were at stake and I had this strange feeling. Like I was probably going to die but..." He shuffled again in his seat and dropped his gaze. "...But we had to do this. Like it was important or something. Quarantines were being set up outside of the city for everybody to get to and the Army was already at the stations in the city and setting up roadblocks so we just had to get there." "Yeah, about getting there. How did you get there?" My Dad had taken a four-hour detour around London after the shutdown as all the roads were blocked up. The country was in panic mode like it was the COVID-19 pandemic again and we all had to stay inside, hoping we weren't going to die, except this was less of a silent killer and more of a screaming one. "So they took us to this airbase where David and I met up with Steve and Rahul from work. The four of us were given these yellow biohazard suits and chucked into a helicopter with some soldiers and they flew us into the city. Honestly, it felt so surreal, like we were in some action movie or game. Like I have never seen London so devoid of life as it was outside. There were no cars or people outside. We saw a few of those things chasing the helicopter from the ground and that was it." My pen was sprinting across my paper, making my handwriting look like a spider having an asthma attack. Ben's tired eyes cycled slowly between me to my notepad and then off in the distance. He grabbed the wine and inhaled deeply before taking another sip. "So they drop you down on this building..." "A hospital, actually. It was the only place nearby with a landing pad." A hospital? Really? Damn, they must have been desperate. That's the last fucking place I'd wanna be. "Well, that must have been terrifying." "A horror movie. Seriously, they had sealed all these rooms to isolate people. They all looked up at us from their beds with these big sunken eyes. Most of them were screaming for us to do something. I don't know what they wanted us to do, but by how half-dead the staff looked, I don't think there was anything that could be done." There had been posters describing the symptoms plastered all over for a year now but from when Ben mentioned the sunken eyes, there wasn't a huge amount that could be done for those people. The posters always mentioned the 5 stages in big letters: Stage one: Rapid fat loss. Resulting in loose skin and sunken eyes Stage two: A grey rash forming and covering the skin Stage three: A burning pain, spreading from the source of the infection to the entire body Stage four: Hyper aggression Stage five: Loss of mental capacity At stage five, the infected patients would scratch and break the skin of uninfected people to spread the pathogen most effectively, but people could also catch it from sweat or the infected breath, effectively aerosolising the pathogen. "There was this tiny little girl, she couldn't have been older than ten. Her skin was already turning grey and her eyes were wide like a puppy. She didn't scream like the rest. She just stared at us through the window and my god, the image of her staring up at us is seared into my memory. Just..." Jesus... that poor girl. Fuck, just... Fuck. I don't think I'd ever get over that. Ben's breathing began to shorten. He grabbed his wine but his greying hands were trembling enough for him to quickly rest it back down on the table. I instinctively grabbed a tissue from my pocket. He waved it away. Instead, he took a deep breath and wiped his eyes with his fingers. "Just fuck, you know? It was just really messed up. She didn't deserve to be there. She was just a child." I nodded and stared down at my glass. "Yeah, I know. It's awful and to see that happen to someone so young is... is horrible. Especially in the early days when they had nothing set up and just rooms for people to wait and die in. I can't imagine working in London right after it all kicked off." He nodded quietly for a bit, his eyes beginning to wander anywhere but towards me. I nodded and frowned, keeping to my well-rehearsed phrases and looks. I could feel my heart wanting to sink in my chest as Ben slumped over once again in his chair, trying to restrain himself. "It's okay. This is a zero judgement zone." What a classic, 100% true phrase. These kinds of stories used to really affect me but over time I learned how to reframe it in my mind. This moment was for Ben. These were his feelings and emotions. They deserved respect and attention, especially now. "Yeah just... give me a minute" I nodded and smiled. I grabbed my wine and looked around once again at the landscape, trying to find a distraction to allow Ben time to process his emotions. Golden hour was well and truly here, and my god it was pretty. I could sit there for hours. We sat in near silence for a bit as he tried to get his breathing under control. "Look if we skip past the hospital." As much as I appreciated that listening to trauma was part of the job description, we were on a schedule. "What happened when you made it to the control centre?" "Sorry, yes let's move on." He smiled apologetically and I smiled in return. "Nothing to be sorry for, this is your story. I'm just trying to tell it." He relaxed back into his chair. From here, I could see his trousers swamping his legs and even the chair. His brown leather belt had three new holes unevenly stabbed through it. "So we were led down into the basement where the soldiers left us all... basically boxes with oversized dog food sachets inside which were apparently supposed to be fit for human consumption but if you've ever tried the grey tasteless mush that comes out of them, then you'll know that's up for debate. They then gave us some water purification tablets, which made everything taste like a swimming pool and said if we make it, they'll come to resupply us in a few weeks and good luck. They barricaded us from the outside and we locked the door from the inside and we got to work." "What was going through your mind then?" "Nothing profound or interesting at that moment I'm afraid. To be honest we were 4 people doing the jobs of nearly 30. I didn't really have time to think much. It was much later on when things were running and you had a spare second or two, and I would just stare at the pallets of food and water purification tablets. Basically counting the number of days we had left until they either resupplied us or we were going to starve. We didn't have access to the wider news then which probably made things a little better." "Oh trust me it did. I kept doom scrolling through the news on my friend's sofa because I couldn't go back home and so instead I just kept staring as the numbers rose and I got more and more depressed." He nodded along solemnly. "Yeah, screw that. We didn't need anything distracting us." My face screwed up as a thought popped into my head. "Wait... How did you guys wash and stay clean?" "Erm... Well, we kind of didn't" … Gross. "They gave us wet wipes but there wasn't any running water or a fresh change of clothes. We began to have a bowl of soap and water to wash our underwear which, if I'm honest, is what we went down to wearing." “Well, I'm sure nobody will mind if not EVERYTHING was written down.” I smiled coyly and took another sip of wine. "Moving swiftly onwards: How did it work down there?" "So we were supposed to take 16-hour shifts, in rotation. I'd do eighthours with Rahul then eight hours with David and then I'd sleep for eight hours whilst Steve took over from me but after a few days, it all went to mush. We did as much as we could for as long as we could. There was one time I was working with Steve and we'd both kinda stared at each other..." Might be funny? Sure. Completionist worthy? Probably not. "I meant about your work and what exactly you did during the pandemic?" "Oh of course. So we were in constant communication with the platforms and the train drivers on the radios. Making sure each train took the correct lines to the quarantines that could handle extra patients and sending the trains and the drivers to rest points when they needed it." "How were the drivers handling it?" "Honestly, worse than we did. At least we had each other. Some of them were sealed in their train cabins alone for months. Every stop they made, they were passed through a parcel of food and water into their cabins by this airlock. Half of the time I wonder if we were there to keep most of them sane." "Wow... I thought you had it bad but being a train driver must have sucked." Ben laughed and nodded. "Yeah, I mean compared to them we had space to move around and isolation. There was this one guy who used to buzz us every time he ran over a zombie. There was this one day in the second week where every couple of minutes he was radioing to say he'd hit another one and another one and another one. We cheered him on every time like it was a high score for a game." I could feel myself frowning for a moment before I pushed myself back to my professionally neutral face. "Jesus, that's dark." "It was a dark time, as I'm sure you know." Ben looked down at his feet again. "I know we shouldn't have. Each one of them was once a person we were just... I guess... So desensitised by that point. It's awful now I look back at it but for some of those drivers, locked in their tiny cabins for months. It was the only thing that got him through the day. You know actually, afterwards I met up with that train driver at the pub a few months ago and it was like meeting a good old friend, despite having never met him in person. After a few drinks, we started talking about it and he nearly cried as he thanked me for just being there for him and interacting with him." It was my turn to look down at my feet awkwardly. Maybe I shouldn't jump to judge so quickly. I had a relatively comfortable last year, writing from a sofa about the state of the world. A couple of days of what they'd been through would have been a life-changing trauma for me and many others, and yet they kept it up for months. "No, I completely understand. You guys were dealing with it every day. Whatever got you through that was important, even if it seems really dark by pre-outbreak standards." Ben considered it for a moment with his wine glass in hand but seemed to accept it. I looked down the margin in my notepad to see the next topic underlined twice in red pen. "So on this note, I'm very sorry but I've been told to ask you about the Liverpool Street incident about a month into your work." Ben took a deep breath and looked away again awkwardly. "It's okay if you don't want to discuss it. Whatever it is, I was only given a name and told to ask you about it. There doesn't seem to be any other official mention of what happened." "Really? No official mention." He sucked air through his teeth and his leg began to bounce. "That's infuriating. They seriously mentioned nothing?" I shook my head as my hand slowly went to the pistol on my belt. I quietly opened the holster and curled my fingers around the weapon. "That's such bullshit. Of course, the government would try to cover that up. It's never about how incompetent they are, just how much incompetence they can get away with!" "Tell me what happened then. The Liverpool Street incident means nothing unless we tell people what happened." Ben took another couple of deep breaths and he began to calm down. My hand went from my pistol back to my notepad. "So there was a train going from Liverpool Street to near Stansted airport where the runway had been turned into a quarantine camp. Somebody had been let through the checks at Stansted despite having grey skin and literally shaking from the pain. They let them through and they were packed into the train with a few hundred others. Well on the way this person turned and they began scratching and biting everybody on the train. The passengers mashed the infected person's head in with a fire extinguisher but by that point, it was too late. The entire train was exposed and probably infected. When the driver told us, we knew they couldn't be allowed to go on to Stansted, they would infect everyone. We told the government guys and they told us to find somewhere isolated for them so we found an old industrial station just outside of London where we expected them to be left until a proper cordon could be set up.” Ben paused. All of a sudden he looked exhausted. Slumping back in his chair with an exasperated expression on his face. “Instead, the government called in 2 RAF bombers with firebombs and they burnt the train and everybody on it alive. They didn't even tell us it was going to happen. We were actually talking to the driver just as the bombs dropped on the trains and the screams echoed across our room. Eventually, Steve just muted the radio and we all sat there in silence..." Jesus Christ... fuck. How does nobody know about this?! Can I even write about this? I could feel my eyes widen. I had to make a conscious effort to make sure my mouth didn't fall open. "I... wow. Look Ben... I mean... in your defence, if that train had reached Stansted then it could have been so many times worse." Ben shrugged his shoulders. "I agree, it could have been but looking logically at this doesn't wipe the blood off of my hands. I was still the one who got them to an isolated place so they could be burnt. Afterwards, we were congratulated and told we'd kept the country safe, but honestly, I felt sick. If you want to know what I was thinking then, then well... I realised we'd essentially helped commit a mass murder." My mouth was open now. I had to stop writing as my mind immediately flickered to what that must have been like. All the screaming writhing bodies on the train, which Ben and his team had set up. He didn't fire the gun but he sure did load it without knowing. "I.. I'm sorry, Ben." I genuinely didn't know what to say. I mean what the hell are you supposed to say to that? "That's alright. You didn't know. Nobody told us that it hadn't been reported on. After that, the work began to take its toll, at least on me mentally. We did our best to keep our spirits up. We celebrated David's birthday by putting a candle on a screen behind one of our food pouches and played 'throw the pen in the cup'. It just became a lot. We couldn't really talk that much as one of us was sleeping nearby and after having a few weeks' worth of grime and dirt build-up on you alongside the guilt which we couldn't talk about. It became very hard for all of us. One night Rahul and I passed a note between us where we just checked in with each other. We started talking about the Liverpool street thing but we both quickly changed the topic. Nobody wanted to complain because we knew what was at stake but I could see it on the guys' faces, we were all getting tired." "I'm so sorry it got that dark but, if I can, I'd like to tell you the impact of your sacrifice. Maybe make things a little lighter on your shoulders. Do you know how many people you ended up saving in those weeks?" Ben shook his head. "About 2 million people." "Wow." "Yup, a quarter of London managed to get out because of you and the others in that basement. After working for twoand a half months with 18-hour days, you managed to get out a large percentage of London which wouldn't have made it without you. For the thousands lost to the zombies you managed to save millions and stop the infection from leaving London. It could have been like Seoul or LA but you and many others worked 150% to get people out. Then you have the audacity to tell me you're just 'some guy' who directs trains. Brag a little, will ya?" He smiled and took some of his wine while I left him in silence to contemplate it. God, I hope he appreciates it. Two million people is difficult to imagine. I can't even imagine how many would have made it without him. He smiled to himself and took a good mouthful of his wine. "It's not a bad bit for a few weeks of work, I'll give you that." He chuckled to himself and I grabbed my pad and pen again. "What happened when the four of you were finally able to leave?" His smile dropped and his head lolled to one side. He shuffled in silence in his seat. "Three of us..." "Oh no..." I knew only 3 of them made it out. Nobody had written down whatever had happened down there but I'd seen the discrepancy between the report of who went in and how many came out in the rescue. However, asking that bluntly never gives as good of an answer as letting it emotionally fall out with all the details. "Is it okay to ask what happened?" I'm going to ask anyway, might as well make him feel like he's in a position of control. Ben shifted uncomfortably. "Yeah, of course, It's fine. Um.." Filler words... he's feeling the heat now "Yeah so um.. We were down there and the food was running low so we knew they had to come and get us out soon and I don't even know what happened. To be honest we were just messing around, trying to find something to do so we started playing around with the pistol they gave us. Then Bang, it went off. I have no idea how anybody in action movies has any hearing left because it was so unbelievably loud!" He's getting off-topic, time to focus him back on the subject. "Oh god, did somebody get hit?" "No, No, we were lucky. It just hit the concrete wall but a few seconds later we could hear the screams from outside. A lot of those horrible screeches they do to attract the others. Then it was just fingernails constantly trying to claw at the metal door. It's then we realised that there was another door which led to a fire escape door which hadn't been sealed shut, at the other end of the room. We found that out because a zombie managed to claw its way inside. David, being the er.." Ben sighed deeply. "...the man that he was, sprinted in with my crowbar and bashed the things brains out but by that point, it was too late. He's been exposed. We barricaded the door from outside and David did the same on his side." I sat back and brought my glass up to my face and took a sip to hide my expression. I knew whoever didn't make it out would have been a bad story, a very personal story, but foreknowledge never prepares you for it. "Oh... I'm... I'm so sorry Ben." He took a deep breath to steady himself. "It's um... it's okay." I left him in silence for a few moments as he stared uncomfortably at anywhere but me. I only gave him a moment of quiet, there was no point letting him think his way into misery. "What happened next?" "We um... we all knew what was going to happen. We made sure one of us took the time to keep speaking to him for the next couple of days. You know he didn't tell us anything amazing or profound, he was just telling us about his life. Everybody who was important to him and whose memories he wanted to share. He told us about his Dad who had Alzheimer's at the time but still loved the Piano so they took him to his cafe which had a musician with a keyboard out front every Saturday. His son, Aaron, who had his 16th birthday whilst we were in that basement and he was locked down at home. His daughter Julia who used to climb all over him whenever he got home. With me, he was giving me advice about women." Ben was frowning as he began to chuckle. "It's absurd, right? He was dying but he was talking about how to treat women and how I should act on dates. How he was with his wife, Suzanne. How they fell in love. You know, he met Suzanne on a boat tour in Greece. He took her out for dinner, they spent the holiday staring into each other's eyes, for them to realise they only lived 15 minutes away. He got back to the UK and he immediately booked a table for two to a Greek restaurant. They still go to that restaurant for their anniversary because it was always a reminder for him." I smiled and I quickly jotted it down in my notepad. It wasn't absurd, not to me. It felt like David was trying to create a legacy in the last few moments he had left. We always think we have more time. That change and important or scary things can always be done later. When that is limited to a couple of days, as David had, then people will rush to make an impact on the world. Ben paused for a moment. He shifted uncomfortably again, rubbing his stone grey nose, his sunken eyes still glued to the floor. "He went on like that for a few days. We made sure there was always someone there until he started to get angry and he started screaming about how we'd been left there to die. We all knew what was happening. So one time when I was asleep and the two other guys needed to work, he left. Afterwards, we found out that he'd blockaded the fire door by driving a car into it. I mean that's just the kind of guy David was, he was a good person in the truest sense of the word and so... even in his last moments... he was such a fucking hero." Such a fucking hero. I nodded as a pang of guilt grew in my stomach. Davids story was important to the story of this country too. If he hadn't acted and run out to defend his colleagues then the trains would have stopped and London would have been a cemetery. "Wow... I'm so sorry for your loss. Look, I'll make sure David's sacrifice is recorded. He deserves to have his story and sacrifice remembered just as much as yours. His wife and children should know as well." I didn't care about the extra workload. "Thank you. They deserve to know." Ben nodded. It had clearly been difficult for him to tell the story. I wonder if he feels any loss or responsibility. With how vague he described the gun accident, I'm guessing it was his fault. "Don't worry. I made sure to tell David's family when we finally got out. That was a day of... very difficult moments." "I can imagine... Let's drink to having no more difficult days." Ben's smile was tinged with sadness as he raised his glass to touch mine. He wasn't going to have any more difficult days. He drank heavily, draining his glass whilst I took just a few sips. I never really got downing alcohol. Arguably I've never tasted anything worth drinking that quick, especially wine. Wine is something you slowly enjoy. If you want to down something then drink something worse. I rested my glass back down and grabbed my pen again. "So what happened when they were finally able to get you guys out?" "Well to be honest by that point we weren't even sure they were coming. David dying was well... terrible. For me at least it put it really in perspective. We had no idea how bad the outside world had gotten... We didn't even know if anybody was coming." "Oh, of course. Without the constant news updates, you had no idea what was happening in the rest of the world." "We could only speak to the train drivers and they were sealed in their cabins. Anyway, after um..." He shifted uncomfortably again. "David... we started to ration out the remaining food we had. We figured that with our current food levels we could make it last for at least another week or two before one of us needed to head out. Instead, a few days later we had a knock at the door and a muffled voice which we could barely hear. We knocked back and put on the same yellow biohazard suits we'd left with as they began to dismantle the barricade. All around us, there were gunshots and it was kinda crazy actually. Like by the time we got out, there were zombie bodies everywhere. Anyway, they opened the door and we suddenly had a whole bunch of guns in our faces and people screaming at us. I'd like to say they were being cautious but I smelt my clothes when I got back..." "Ah so just from the smell they probably thought you were dead already." "From experience, I can tell you that dead people smelt better than us." I laughed with him. "Anyway when they realised we were still alive. They removed the barricades and they took us out and put in eight more people from my old team. It was surreal, I hadn't seen these guys in months and we just had a brief moment to say hi and then they were locked in as well. We were taken by helicopter to Stansted where we were isolated for a couple of weeks." "Is that where you met Astrid?" Ben smiled. It wasn't a smile out of humour or friendliness, but by the way, he looked down and tried to stop himself from grinning, it was a personal smile. The kind which I felt like I was intruding upon to even witness. "Astrid was a nurse who'd volunteered to come over from Austria to help out anywhere in Europe. It just so happened she got posted to the UK. Even more fortunate that she was treating me for those entire weeks. We spent those 2 weeks together and then afterwards I promised to take her out for a drink. She said sure and so we spent possibly the longest date of my life together and afterwards I just thought... Damn. I could do that again." "Did David's advice help?" He looked down for a moment. Oh shit, have I just ruined his happy memory? A moment later the corner of his mouth curled into a smile. "You know, I hadn't really thought about it but absolutely. I pulled the seat out for her. I complimented her. It seems basic but I followed his advice and I think it set us up for the night." "How long was this world's longest date?" "Seven hours." Jesus okay that is pretty long. I think mine was five and that's including sleeping with him. "Wow, she must really like you." "Well I expect so, we've been together ever since. It was crazy how fast we moved but I don't regret it for a second. We're expecting a little baby girl." Well, that's adorable. I can't hate on love! "Awww, that's adorable! I'm always glad when things work out." I was smiling but I felt a pang of sadness. I already knew the rest of the story and how it would end. No reason to go over it here with him. "Now Ben. I have a surprise for you." Ben looked confused. "A surprise? Out here? How are you hiding it?" "Well I'll be upfront now, it's not a Lamborghini. It's actually small enough to fit behind the marker stone in the wall there." He looked over to the stone wall with a small chuckle. "You've had it hidden there the whole time?" I smiled and nodded. "The weather is nice and this isn't my first rodeo. I need only one thing from you. Step onto the stone wall and close your eyes. I know the view over the field is pretty good, but I need to get something from my car for the reveal." Ben still looked confused but he laughed. "Okay, so I just stand on the wall?." He walked over whilst I grabbed the car keys from my pocket. "Yup just stand on the wall and close your eyes!" "Okay, okay I'm going." He stepped onto the wall whilst I grabbed a small plastic petrol can from my car. "Is there a way I'm supposed to be facing?" "Um, maybe out to the field so you can open your eyes and look down at it." He faced the woods and shut his eyes as I walked behind him and unclipped my pistol from my holster. "Okay.. I'm doing this. What are you setting up back there?" I pulled the trigger. The gunshot sound bounced off of the surrounding hills and echoed its way back to me. Ben slumped forward. His body landed directly onto the pile of pallet wood I'd left there earlier or at least I hope it did. I couldn’t be bothered to get out my gloves to drag him on top of the pallets. Dead bodies weighed. I re-holstered my pistol, headed back to the table and grabbed what remained of my wine. I took a deep breath then followed by a sip. My hands used to shake so badly after shooting but now... nothing. Just an empty, grim feeling in my stomach. A therapist is going to have a field day with me at some point. I took the time with my glass until my pulse had lowered. I walked back over to the stone wall and Yes! He'd landed perfectly on the stack of wood. My heart lifted for a moment before feeling disgusted at myself for my momentary callousness. I raised my wine glass in the air and left it there for a moment. "To Ben. Your life was lived well. You'll be missed by all who loved you. In the hearts of people who have heard of you and remembered by millions who'll never get the chance to thank you for all you did." I tilted my head back and drank the rest of the glass. Damn, that's some good Merlot. I mean nobody likes drinking anything alcoholic quickly but if you have to then I know what I'd prefer. I took a moment to stare down at Ben and to take in the scenery before pouring petrol over Ben's body. Once soaked, I lit three matches together and threw them down. Watching as the fire quickly burst forth. Talking about his love and his child seemed a good point to end on. Nothing else that interesting happened to Ben until he was travelling around inside one of the cleared areas in London which apparently had been a lie. Something attacked him and Ben killed it. Thankfully his family wasn't around. They stuck him in isolation at Marlborough Hospital. He spoke to his family through the glass for a week, when he began to rapidly lose weight. The skin around his eyes was already turning grey. He had to say goodbye to them through the glass to make sure he didn't infect them too. There was no reason for us to go over that part of the story. It was better he died with a smile on his face than the depressing reality of what's next. I grabbed the rest of the bottle and poured out another glass as I watched the fire take hold to make sure all of Ben was cremated. In his final moments, I hope Ben knew he mattered. Sure he wasn't the Prime Minister, or a scientist that helped combat the crisis but even then without him, it would have ended so much worse. He gave so much energy and time so that so many could survive. We didn't go over when he kept on working with Astrid nearby at Stansted Airport station to keep supplies flowing to London and the refugee camp there or when there wasn't a bus to a nearby family stuck inside, so he stuck a week’s worth of food into a wheelbarrow and a rucksack and carried it to them. Ben mattered. Which is why I think he got sent to me. He was just a good guy who by fate or luck saved millions. A Completionist’s job is to complete somebody's life. To make sure that the heroes who helped us through this crisis are remembered by generations to come and also to make sure that they're not subjected to an undignified, horrible death of watching themselves slowly turn into a zombie. Ben and many others will be remembered for what they've done and their stories will be added to the tapestry that was the bio-weapon outbreak. I walked up with a long stick and I pushed Ben's, now crackling body, into the centre of the fire. With that I waited and drank as the sun rose high in the sky, making sure every part of him but his legacy was turned into dust.