Connor is an aspiring television writer and spends his time studying various media works. He also plays video games and listens to music in his free time.

       The aura that surrounded the box that was placed on Mr. Henderson’s doorstep was a strange one. The parcel featured no address. The abrupt plainness and suddenness of this package took Mr. Henderson by surprise, but he assumed he might have just been overthinking. He took it inside his home and grabbed his opener.
              A hesitant slice of the twine, and he paused. Dare I open this? he wondered. He ruffled his moustache and got to opening the top. Mr. Henderson peered inside and found a small, green chest, big enough to hold a grapefruit. Reluctantly, Mr. Henderson removed the chest and took a peek. Inside was a key and a photograph of a bridge.
            Mr. Henderson knew this bridge. It was a small cobblestone bridge that he had to cross over on the way to the bank, where he worked. I wonder what this key opens, and why there? Why the bridge? His mind pondered possible outcomes but none made any sense. Perhaps it was a co-worker pulling a strange prank? Perhaps someone was trying to kill him? The area of the bridge was rather quiet. It could be done.
            He turned the photograph around. Harshly scribbled on the back, the note read, “Come find me.”
            Mr. Henderson took a gulp. He was both frightened and excited about the adventure before him. He could stay home and continue his life, but he would have to cross the bridge to get to work. And speaking of work, it was quarter to nine and he had to leave. With another ruffle of the mustache, he tucked the photo and the key into his suit coat pocket, along with his pistol, grabbed his cane, and fled his flat.
         Walking amongst the people of the streets, Mr. Henderson found himself more focused than usual. He was carefully examining the eyes on him, the way people walked, those who weren’t walking. Suspicious faces passed him left and right. Relax. You’re overthinking. He took his turn to head towards the bridge and as always, it was quiet. The alleyways were darker than usual. He couldn’t find any faces hiding in the shadows, but he did not want to try to investigate. He reached into his pocket and gripped his gun. His steps towards the bridge became increasingly careful.
          With a loud crash, Mr. Henderson gave a small yip of terror and pointed his gun at a flock of pigeons fluttering from an alleyway.
        “Show yourself,” he called, his voice cracking. He waited for a moment for something, but nothing happened. Gun shaking, he crept to the alleyway corner. He took a deep breath and threw himself into the entrance way. His eyes, frantically darting, finally landed on a large piece of sheet metal that had been blown and landed against the opposite wall.
            Mr. Henderson wiped his hand on his face with a deep sigh. After his moment of relief, he readied his pistol once more, and shuffled to the bridge. He scanned the bridge, and its surroundings up and down from its edge and concluded it was safe to continue. He placed his cane on the ground, pulled out the key, and step by step, examined the bridge. No keyhole here. Where does this go? Perhaps, under?
Walking down the moist dirt, he peered around the corner. At first, he saw nothing other than the water, the dirt, and the other opening. But, something caught his eye. A small object, glistening on the opposite side of his. Another chest! How intriguing.
          In his excitement, he rushed to the chest, turned the key, yet carefully lifted the lid. He braced himself, but discovered a small note was inside. He unfolded the paper which read, “You’re late.”
         Suddenly, a flash. Several hearty laughs blurted out. Mr. Henderson turned to see his fellow workers from the bank. He stood up under the bridge, and hit his head.
          “We certainly got you!” one of them wheezed through his boisterous laughter.
            “Yeah! You should see your face!” another said.
            Mr. Henderson’s face went deep red as he shuffled from under the bridge. When he came out, his redness turned from embarrassment to anger.
            “Well, if I’m late, then so are you, you ninnies!” he yelled, waving his finger.
            The men’s faces and laughter went totally flat as they realized their fluke.
            “Now, you destroy that photo and let’s get a move on. Mr. Jefferson will not be happy that the whole of his staff is missing.” Mr. Henderson said with a scoff.
The men mumbled in agreement and shuffled back to the office, leaving Mr. Henderson. He returned to his cane, picked it up, and strutted behind them, a smile hidden under his moustache.
 
 

   Shopping cart rattling down buffed up shiny floored aisle in great big greatest of all toy store in this brand new state of the art wired up and wireless you take your pick shopping complex. Leave for Bern in three more days. Eight years in. Janie eight; just snapped from seven, but no discernable behavior changes. The left front wheel is rattling, the cart is not too easy to push and here and there the steel is rusty. Now, if this store is brand new which it is and the carts were all brand new a week ago when the consumer sucking complex was opened, why are the carts all beat up this this? Why indeed. This really nagged at me Jamed, it kind of seeped in and plugged in and—yes, yes—it was just like some Claymation monster was slowly formed before me and each rattle of the wheel was a command to the monster to throw out a tendril, and plug it deftly into and to the bottom of a pore in my cheek. The wheel rattled and rattled so fast that I finally stopped, because the thicket of twisted tangled writhing tendrils had popped out and plugged in my face and became too thick and bulky and uncomfortable that I had to stop the cart which stopped the wheel rattling which dried up the mass of twisted tendrils and they unplugged from my face and dissolved into thin pink dust all gone even before they were able to land at my feet and mar the perfect nearly new, precisely laid, buffed, swept and polished ceramic very ceramic yes ceramic; the most expensive materials and workmanship the entire complex smelled of the smell of brand-new top-notch building materials knocked nailed and built together to make the great store that had come in  and over and around me and stopped me dead in the toy section devoted to children seven to nine and since Janie is eight, it is the exactly right spot to release the cart handles and slowly take in the items their prices and even maybe to find out that there are some slashes of prices and here and there an item marked down in some deep discount. Yes, let me see look see what look you--
Can I help you ma’am?
   Oh! Turn no turn yes there’s a sweet-faced store-boy of about twenty or around that spiral of ages that range yes see I am a judge of age ought to have taken up guessing ages and weights and all, on the boardwalk for several consecutive summers in a row, developing several consecutive suntans and here and there some very mild twinge-spots akin to real sunburn and--
   Ma’am? Can I help you? You looking for toys? Is this the right age group? Or can I show you to another section if the age group is wrong, you know.
    Oh, yes—I said through my jagged fingertips pressing to the plastic and steel cool of the defective shopping cart’s push handle—Me and my husband and our eight year old Janie are taking a trip to Switzerland week after next, and I want to surprise Janie with some neat new toys to bring along on the flight and also to play with after Ma comes home and then we can get up and go, could even sleep a while in the plane if Janie is busy making little friends attracting them with her neat toys as would some old-school ventriloquism midget of two or three or five days in a row outside laying food traps all rotten and stenchy with maggots hatching and knowing like I do that poor greedy creatures of all kinds will come and grasp and feel, Wow what a sky above and what slimy skunk cabbage below but out parents you know were too careless with climbing their rapidly dissolving to vapor corporate stepladders, to think to plan and do an assessment of anything they were too busy to snag down away from the great thick heavy crushing tsunami of a continuous eternity of the future pouring over now and then back to the wide astonished but unaffected face of the store-boy who had asked if I needed help because, as always in bustling places like this, I stood alone frozen lost and forlorn—having thusly thought his question over, I said to him, Yes, what do you recommend? Toys for five to eight days, some in close quarters like a plane seat or waiting room standing to the side forest green tall garbage cans in the office we need to stop by and visit for a few which is okay because I really am supposed to be in the office now, anyway but this needs to get done get done yes get done now!
    Oh, yes, no problem ma’am. Let me pull a few items from the shelf.  Here.
  He moved as a thin slippery lizard and pulled down a very minor tiny imperceptible slide of colorful small toys in boxes and bags each of which I look at I cannot understand what you so with each one but it seems like kids today are you know they’re—hey! What are these?
    Those? Oh. Those are Koosh balls.
    Huh?
  Koosh balls. Kids love them—and see, you spotted them in the bargain bin, everything in there is buy one get two free. See there?
    What? Oh—yeah. I see that. What do kids do with these?
    Play catch, pretty much.
    Huh? He stood waiting to get an answer but the answer would have to be, God, that is ridiculous you can’t play catch to keep busy on a plane where once in a while they’ll let Janie play in the aisle but where most of the time she’ll be between me and Jamed, plus so what they’re soft and all that, number one; you can’t play catch good with less than a solid hard ball, and, number two; so what they’re soft and won’t hurt anybody they go off course go askew from a bad throw or whatever, nobody in a cramped airplane on an intercontinental flight will take kindly to being pummeled at random intervals by a featherweight yucky little wisp of a ball, no matter how cute the players, because on a long flight everything around everybody turns black-hearted ugly--
    What about it, ma’am? Like the Koosh balls?
   Not sure, spit from my lips, as the final and worse problem with playing ball in tight crowded spaces full of bad air and bad vibes broke all surf-like and foamy, obliterating the store-boy fully, erasing his fairly unimportant question, flowed down and down showing its reason for having appeared to me; yes, it needed to come and tell me, curving down before me like a scroll, upon which words came in great black block letters, yelling up into my face there is one more problem about playing catch for air travel amusement, that being that it assumes you have friends to play with; and no, yes, we don’t know for sure if we will; as stated previously yes stated previously, it’s a not too much of a logical stretch to think her happy manner brand new toys and the smiles her parents, yes her parents, in the real world outside this loopy thought-stream being me and Jamed, will go out of our way to coo and ahh and grin and nod and make the other parents crammed in on the plane sure that their prayers have been answered and here is a way to get a break from the twenty four seven strain of minding unruly children, yes, unruly and slow to learn like unsocialized young adult dogs, a strain to train indeed, and the strain varying by breed and it’s not like choosing a breed at the shelter since people-breeds come out and what you get is the deck you’re dealt, it’s like saying at the pound to the pound people give me a dog any dog any age my eyes are closed I will conceive this child and take the roll of the dice, even though if the possibility exists that I may receive a dog too large too evil non-housebreakable stinky drooling noisy super-shedding hard-to-handle and no good actually at all. Is not conceiving like a Russian roulette spin? Here, we put one in the chamber go on and spin and spin and point to your head and click the orgasmic trigger and hang on through what seems the eternal nine-month wait to see if your head blows off being given a child with the genes of a serial killer, or with the hollow click and the pee-in-your-pants relief that you will give birth to a smart honest healthy trainable maybe even already trained blasted from Zeus’ blood-splattering forehead as-goddess style fully formed and perfectly perfect Athena-like ball of effortless and perfect and no work at all child—you know—the couple in the seat two rows back on the other side of the plane will nod to their perfectly trained Jesus-like superclean in body and mind, child fit to play with Janie, to come over to play.
    Or maybe not. You can’t tell a serial killer at first sight. Love at first sight doesn’t work out, either. Haste makes waste and all that too. The answer is given. The store comes back from the surrounding pondering hard-thinking mist, and I tell the slithery-slick sales associate if I’ll buy the Koosh balls, without looking at his gleaming white shirt whiter than white he looks like he standing at the superhot focal point of the world’s largest new BrightSource solar power plant in California’s Mojave Desert that burns birds down from the sky like some god-damned real life Flash Gordon death ray—sure look it up if you don’t think that’s true, look it us yes up and yes up yes—then for some reason, everything went scalding hot and I recoiled and saw the store-boy  again, and ran for safety in the cool gap between us throwing out words to grapple the cool back and over and around me, to survive. I listened to what I found myself saying as the scalding peeled back away to cool.
   No, I don’t think that’s what I want.  I’m sorry.
   Oh?
   Right—but what else would you recommend?
   Oh, yes, well then right here right here yes here it is yes, wait--
   He grabbed out into the blur around us, and brought out  a hazy item somehow hazed over like people in a true-to-life COPS show get their faces blurred because they are unwilling to be identified for some reason, it was not definable until a surf of words foamed all splashy out over the blur and made it so any footprints in the sand could be seen clearly at the beach, at least until the next wave foamed out over to erase them all—I said the name of the thing in his hand quick, before it would be washed away and be gone, never was, forever.
    Ah, Playdoh. That’s Playdoh. I see. Yeah, that’s a good idea—Playdoh. Only thing is, are you sure that’s not too young for an eight year old?
    Oh, no. It would be fine. And also--
    What also?
   Also, studies have shown it will occupy a child on a plane for at least forty minutes.
     Studies?
     Right.
   Okay, wait a second, let me think; Sure, take your time; I blinked away and pictured little Janie sitting in a cramped airliner seat with a postage stamp sized tray table folded down before her, puzzled as how to get lost in Playdoh-play on a surface almost as small as a three by five card, but my hand went to my face and tilted down, smacking me silly with the sudden sight of a stain in the linoleum floor at the tip of the store-boy’s pointy shiny loafers, shaped roughly like the state of Texas; any thought of how Janie would handle the Playdoh sank onto and into and past the stain until it was gone—the stain was the important thing; one does not see this kind of thing every day; but, roughly the shape of Texas is not good enough, no—as somewhere in a pitch-black compartment way back in a corner of my brain, little Janie continued struggling to play correctly with a dozen round containers of Playdoh, that once the Doh was removed from them, there was nowhere to put them aside to make way for the play with the actual Doh, without them rolling away toward a fall to the floor under the airplane seats. Remember round smooth cumbersome children’s toy items have embedded in their DNA the instinct to not stay where they are put, to always strive for an excuse to fall over, roll away, and drop off the play surface—just as surely as someone with skill and taste and time and tools would have to get down and define underline outline and boldface the stain on the toy store floor, so that not just I, who has been solely quite focused on the stain for nearly a full minute now, would see; like the pain in my belly from trying to squeeze down to reach a dropped object beneath an airline seat with no legroom to begin with and with a seat belt strapped on because round plastic children’s toy items strive always when rolling to come to rest in some jet-black place where it would be an extremely difficult effort to bent down twist around grunt and groan to retrieve them, and—sure enough it hits me again and again like a jackhammer of dismay that Texas being much more interesting a mar in the floor when it’s only nearly shaped that way, is not true at all. The stain yelled at my face, No, yes, pay attention, I have a purpose, yes, I do, yes, I do, I must be known I must be noticed—I must be more a really sharp Texas one glance at me should spear them with Texas—must try to get it where did they roll all but one rolled ugh must bend down pain pain—I need to catch my breath, and I straightened to see a sweating fat bald man’s face above the seatback that said, Ma’am, could your child play with something else? I did not buy a ticket to have little girl’s playthings rolling under hitting my feet and taking my legroom—droplets flew off from his quivering cheeks, I had never seen anyone sweat so much, but it must be made so that every person passing by the stain growing from the airplane’s complaining fat man slinging down his impure string of pearly sweatdrips all spattering the floor, who knows what Texas looks like on a map, would stop and gape and get hit with a club in the mouth to say, Hey! That stain equals Texas! Sure, see there, I was right! That over, good. Yes—and I say back, I am glad you agree; the little cheap Playdoh jars are open and Janie’s smallish but nicely tapering hands worked the dough into some unrecognizably unique shape she had in mind, and—the uneasy need to doublecheck something pushed my hand down an inch from my face again, and up came Texas. Texas! I was testing the concept, and yes; it’s Texas yes, it is yes. It. Is. Woof! 
    But, Ma’am, could your child play with something else?
    No! I shouted back. And I saw the crumbs of what I’d been wrestling with since this odorless and colorless and whitepressed supersinnning store-boy, who probably pleasures himself three or more times a day down in the basement thinking he’s hiding thinking no one knows his secrets; the parents, whose thundering footsteps a mere yard or two above his hiding as he sits in the halfdark quivering and pounding wanting to do it yes but no knowing it really doesn’t need to be done at all, all he needs to do is to ignore the urge, push it down minimized to the right bottom corner of his mind and looks elsewhere at something also most exciting but the physical manifestation of it is perfectly acceptable to be done out in public in the light of day no hiding no rushing the job rushing, ah oh, no rushing which is necessary for any young man ah oh hiding in the basement doing the nasty to himself—ah oh--
    Ma’am, please answer, could your child play with something else?
    No.
    —so the store-boy strives not to extend the time required to complete the act oh ah the time must not be extended to overlap the time required for Mom or Dad to ultimately come down racing to the wide freezer for icy pops for the tinier upstairs children whose pitter-patter stepsounds stitch the floor up with each childlike run this way or that or around and around, et cetera, stitching the always ready to collapse floor and in fact whole building together and tight again and again but no one imagines that when they stop being children the running and pounding noise they make if stopped with cause the house to fall; stop it boy put it in your pants—or you will cause the house to fall oh ah--
    Ma’am, I am being nice, I must ask again. Could your child play with something else?
    No!
    —and boy you get, get no, get and kick back upstairs because if the small ones stop stomping around up above, which they will someday for sure everything dies in the end, it will all fall around you and you will be crushed, and here I am where was I oh yes I’m back now, considering the question of do I want to buy the Playdoh or not and so maybe yes or no--
    Well, Ma’am? What do you think. Want the Playdoh?
   Ma’am, could your child please play with something else? If you don’t answer I will ring the stewardess!
   What? I, uh, no. No. No, I don’t think so, no, as; the safest answer when the last thirty seconds or so of pondering the answer cannot be remembered and thus must be thought over again to make sure, is, in the interim, No.
    Why not? I’m curious to know?
    Ma’am, could your child play with something else? Answer now!
   No, no, not come back again step aside, it is way before we’re behind you flying, let me say let me answer the young man, as, oh, yes, oh yes yes yes; messy much too messy. Plus, there’s not enough space on a seatback fold-down tray on a cramped no-legroom plane to really be able to let loose and play right.  And there’s more I knew but just because I can’t remember what it was doesn’t mean it isn’t true I wish I could tell you, but—the reasons exist. I just don’t know what they are. Understand?
    —Ma’am, for the last time; could your child play with something else?
   Not really, said the young gleaming store-boy, but that’s okay. There’s more ideas I have for you. Wait, let me see.
    He twisted and reached displaying a huge underarm sweat-stain for the first time, but though I used to think him so clean, something somewhere that I’ve also forgotten makes me unsurprised that he is really so unclean. He’s very good at hiding it; he had me fooled good, ‘till now. He repositioned the Playdoh box on the shelf with the other dozen or so, then pounded his hand down through the next shelf down and the next and the next and his hand moved so fast that all the limited non-eagle eyed human self could follow was the Playdoh box transforming into another box of an entirely different color shape and size which triggered the brain above and behind my eyes to slam down on the register right there right then quite noisily with much rattle and roll, and to ring up the word, Lego, which I then repeated aloud, yes thusly; Legos? Oh, right, Legos. I think I’ll definitely buy that. Sure, why not. Everybody’s okay with Legos. I’m too worn out, it’s already a long day, sure what the hell; I’ll take them. What else you got? I need a lot more by the end of the day. So let’s go we got to get there.
 

   I’ve set the trap, but will you spring it? Go to the Morana Warehouse on Lexington. You’ll love what you see.
   A note and a key was all that was inside the small box placed at my doorstep. As soon as I read it, I knew exactly who it was. Memories of countless corpses littered across the state, eyes watching me with pity and disapproval at my failures. Everyone trusted me to save them, but I could never meet their expectations. Now, that would change.
   I crushed the paper in my hands and drove to the location.
   It wasn’t long before I was charging through the front doors. I instantly stiffened at the sight. “Bren?”
   Once I entered the warehouse, I saw a large, glass box in the center of the room filled to the top with water, a single light above it. I recognized the man banging against the glass as my partner Brennan, who I’d last seen a few days ago before he went missing. It looked like he hadn’t slept since then, made obvious by the dark circles lurking under his eyes. A chain was wrapped around his right ankle. He was trying to say something to me, bubbles escaping the corners of his mouth, but I heard nothing.
   “Hold on, man. Just hold on,” I said.
   I scanned the room until I spotted a lone, metal chair in the far back. I ran to it, picked it up, and ran back to the box. I wasn’t sure if he could hear me, so I did a motion with my hands instead. He got the message and retreated to the far corner. Lifting the chair high, I swung with all my strength and, after a few hits, shattered the glass. Pieces came raining down, accompanied by the water that spilled onto the floor. Bren dropped to his hands and knees, coughing as I put an arm on his back.
   He seemed desperate to say something, and I leaned closer to hear his words. “H-He’s here...”
   “You made it.”
   A cold chill ran up my spine at the words that clearly didn’t come from my friend’s mouth. I turned around.
   What I saw first was a white mask with an eery, black grin stretching from cheek to cheek and two black circles for eyes. The rest of his body came into view after, standing behind a door of glass with a lock beside it. His muffled voice rang clear in my head.
   “You cops are very persistent, I’ll give you that. Gold star for finding me. Too bad this is as close as you’ll get.”
   Alastor.
   “To cut to the chase, in approximately ten minutes, this place is gonna go kaboom along with anyone in it,” he said. “Of course, I’ll be long gone. You, however, have a choice to make, Detective Janus. The key I left for you can unlock the door I’m standing behind. Unfortunately, there is no key for the one around your partner’s ankle. Don’t expect bullets to do much, either. So, what’s it going to be? Will you die here with your partner or continue to chase after me?”
   In a blind rage, I pulled the gun from my holster, firing a shot right where his head was. Alastor didn’t flinch at the cracks that spider-webbed across his mask, the bullet buried in the glass. “If you think I’ll let you live another day, you’ve got another thing coming, asshole,” I said.
   “It’s time to let this go, Detective. You can’t win, you never could. Time’s ticking,” he said. Alastor didn’t even wait for my reply as he stepped back, melting into the dark.
   “Bastard.” His words spun around inside my head as I ran my hand through my hair.
   “Go, Jan,” Brennan said. “We waited too long for this. Go after him. Please.”
   Five years. Five years chasing after him and when we finally had him cornered, I’m the one left to decide. Decide between catching a well-known serial killer or saving my best friend who’d been with me long before that guy’s victims were nothing more than small animals.
   Bren tried to reason with me. “More than anyone, I don’t want him to get away‒ not after he made my family one of his victims. If you die too, who’s left to go after him? Don’t add yourself to his body count.”
   In the last five years he’d been active, he’d killed over ten people, trapping them in various contraptions. Who would be next? A stranger? Someone we knew? Or maybe even us, right now?
  “For Christ’s sake, Jan‒”
   Before he could say anymore, I took aim at the chain. Bren angled his body away when I fired. Even breaking my promise, there was no way I wouldn't still try. However, my bullets did nothing to the metal. “Damn it, why?” The lock on the cuff looked too sturdy to shoot and I’d risk blowing a hole in his foot than actually freeing him.
   “We both know what has to happen,” Bren said. He gave me a firm gaze. “It’s time for you to go, partner.”
   It took a long time to answer, time I could have spent getting away from the bomb’s radius or catching up to Alastor, but I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving him here to die. Finally, I sighed with a shaky breath. “Okay.”
   “Good. Hey, at least I get to see my family again,” Bren’s words only made my heart sting even more. “You better catch him for me, Jan. Okay?”
   “I will. I… I promise.”
   I pulled the key from my pocket and put in the lock, Bren watching my every move to make sure I didn’t back out. Guilt curled around my heart and my hands wouldn't stop shaking as I opened the door.
   I ran out, clenching my jaw as I pretended not to hear Brennan muttering prayers behind me, the last seconds of his life swallowed by the explosion.
 
 
 

Keenan Stafford is a thoughtful and outgoing person. When the role of a leader comes to mind, he will be ready and willing to take up such a task. Mr. Stafford has learned to have an open mind on matters, leaving him ready to understand every end of most arguments. Mr. Stafford has taken time out of his way to learn about the various cultures and ways other people see things around the world to get a better perspective of how people may think. 
In his writing, his desires are to pull the reader into a world the reader has never had an opportunity to observe before. He usually aspires to have people perceive sensations and feelings that are troublesome to comprehend, or he simply wishes to take the reader into a world that most people could only dream to be in. In his recent writing, he has thought about putting in deeper meaning within his writing in hopes that people who read his work, will finish reading his craftsmanship with food for thought.

​Alberto Johnson had enough. He never wanted to touch another file again. He wanted nothing to do with any more phone calls from the office and the last person he wanted to hear from was his uptight, irritating, loud-mouthed, boss ever again. Though his life never allowed him to step away from working this job, everyone gets a chance to change things in their life. Today was that day.
The next phone call that Alberto received had an unusual caller. Whoever this caller was, they had a low voice. Just by hearing their voice, Alberto felt like he was being drained.
"Hello there, sir."
"Who is this?"
"I am here to offer you a personal proposition. Your life is becoming duller by the moment. I can tell. I am here to help you."
Alberto sat silently. He seemed willing to listen.
"I am glad that I have your attention, Mr. Johnson. We all suffer horribly dull lives. At the office, there is a 'cheat' that I enjoy using to get by. Arrive at my home at midnight. I anticipate to give you my blessing."
Alberto felt like there was a small bit of him taken away after that call. Though he was thrilled. The thoughts of who he was and why he knew everything melted away. The temptation to escape the agonizing suffering of his life..
Alberto wanted a simple life with a family of his own. He wanted to find a wife, have some children and move on from the job he had at the office. He wanted to become an actor, but it was nothing more than a dream. Daggers were in his throat until money stopped coughing out of his mouth. The job he worked was a horrible chaining that limited his look on life. Joy, Excitement, and Peace, these feelings were as rare as a crazed miner hoping to find a diamond in a coal mine. This may be the chance to finally feel happy again.
Alberto arrived at the house that the man on the phone told him about. The household seemed large but torn apart. The building did not seem stable. Two men in black suits stood at the door, they seemed to be guarding it. Alberto approached the household but was stopped.
"Halt, who are you?"
"I'm Alberto... Alberto Johnson."
One of the men standing next to the door opened up the door while the other one walked in.
"Father Corru has been waiting for you."
Alberto and the other man stepped inside to behind. The man closed the door and locked it, leaving the three men to stand in a dark room. The only light that was present revealed a skinny man in a white suit, sitting on an ebony black throne. He held a burning cigar and a disapproving frown on his face. The smoke had a strong smell in the room, polluting the air.
"Come, Alberto. Before I can give you your blessing, you must hand over all your money."
Alberto was left shocked. He wouldn't hand over his wealth just to receive his blessing.
"What!? No! I won't let you have a penny from me! I won't be sca-"
The old man hit his fist on the arm of his marble ebony throne and a strange purple essence arose into the air. Suddenly, Alberto had a surge of energy and power rush into him. Held the power to do anything. Running across the world and back was a cakewalk. Though in the next second, the buzz that burned within him burned away. All that was left was the pain of desire. His body was screaming for more of whatever Father Corru had.
"You are mine now. You wanted to have your life more thrilling than ever before? You wished to change? You’re pathetic, but now you are mine."
The old man stood up and grabbed Alberto by the throat. Suddenly, he blacked out.
Alberto was hazy when he woke up. Everything felt like it was going in a blur. A fast blur of life that never ended. He saw his mother crying and holding his arms, asking him why. He saw a white room. The last image he saw, was the old man and his men pushing him down.
Water surrounded his body and weights held him down, pulling him into the depths of the pond he was thrown into. His tears were blocked out by the water around him. His life was nearing the end, but in the flash of his life that went by in his eyes, he saw the truth. He saw that the old man, the father of Corru had made him into nothing more than a mindless worker. His family knew that something was wrong, and they wished that they could've stopped him. All they wanted was to have their son bring hope back into the family.
 
 

​ 
He was regretting setting up an interview on his thirtieth birthday.  Instead of stressing, he could have been home, playing PS3 and drinking beer.  With the economy and his lack of confidence on the phone, he agreed to the early-morning interview on his birthday.
He thought, if he had to, he could use his birthday as a way to get sympathy or prove he would do anything for this job.  He had practiced how to slip it into the conversation.
"Yeah, I'm sure you noticed from my application it's my birthday today," he'd say.  "I'd be willing to work on my birthday if it was necessary."
Every scenario had been thought of.  For every question, an answer was prepared.  There would be no curve balls, no awkward silences, because he ran this interview over and over in his head as he tried to sleep.  This interview would be, no, had to be, perfect.
He was far from a perfectionist.  His apartment was a mess.  He usually wore a wrinkled T-shirt and previously worn shorts.  Dishes sat for days or even a week.
But, now, he wore a suit he picked up at the drycleaners yesterday, shoes he polished this morning, even black socks that stayed up, instead of sliding down to the top of his ankles.  He had two copies of his resume, his best pen (a graduation present from an uncle), and a leather folder with a new legal pad inside.  He'd drawn a line down the middle of the first page.  At the top of the left side, he wrote, "Info:  Pay, Benefits, Etc."  On the right side, he wrote, "ASK QUESTIONS!"
His original reason for being so prepared was he needed this job.  He was laid off from his last one, and the severance package was going to end in two weeks.  Two other interviews went nowhere, and one job offer just wasn't enough.  He was being picky, but knew he could go back to Target where he worked during college.  It wouldn't pay enough, but he'd be working.
The current reason he was glad he was so prepared was because of the splitting headache he had.  Since around four o'clock that morning, it felt like a vise was trying to squeeze his temples together.  And a prescription dose of ibuprofen (800 mg) hadn't put a dent in it.
So, he sat in his car, breathing deeply, trying to stay calm and not make the headache worse.  Also, he was 30 minutes early for the appointment.
Okay, he thought, you're more than prepared for this.  Just push the headache back.
He'd make an appointment with his family doctor.  This was starting to feel more like a migraine than a headache.  He'd never had a migraine, so wasn't sure, but it hurt like a son of a bitch.  He hoped he wouldn't puke.
After a few more moments of meditating, he gathered his notebook and pen and started to go inside.  The car was getting hot, and if felt like his tie was choking him.  Sweat was rolling down the small of his back.
*****
One advantage to this company was they had their own downtown parking lot next to the building.  As he walked along employees' cars, a bum came around the corner of the other building next to the lot, which made him pick up his step.
"Hey, can I talk to ya?" the bum yelled.
He kept walking, hoping the bum would get the hint.
"Hey!" the bum continued, "weird tings goin' on in dat!  Ain't right in dat!" pointing toward the building through him.
"Okay," he said, stepping onto the sidewalk, turning toward the lobby doors, never letting the bum get too close.
*****
The office building lobby was very cool.  The wetness on his brow turned cold, but this didn't help the headache.
The receptionist was a cliché, too perky blonde.  She held up her index finger to him as she finished a conversation on her headset.
"That's right," she paused.  "We'll see you then.  Thanks."  A pause.  "Goodbye!"
She reached out and hung up the line.  Her sweater was tight, with a V-neck that revealed tan cleavage.
"Okay," she said, sitting up, "how can I help you?"
"Um," he started, consciously keeping eye contact with her blue eyes, "I have an appointment with Ms. Mullen."
"Let's see," she glanced at the appointment book, "you're Mr. Simon."  Looking back up at him, she said, "Please fill out an application," handing him a clipboard, pen and application.  "Have a seat, and I'll let her know you're here."
"Thanks," he said, turning and walking to a seat.  "You're Mr. Simon."  God, he thought, that beautiful blonde only sees me as "Mr. Simon."
He sat, trying not to think of receptionists or headaches, when he thought he heard, He could be my father, he's so old.
He sat up, feeling sharp pains in each temple.
Did she say that? he thought.  Had she hung up yet?
He rubbed a temple and tried to see what she was doing in his peripheral vision.  Nothing out of the ordinary for a hot receptionist:  doing her nails and answering the phone.  It must have been his anxiety.  He took more deep breaths.
Beginning to fill out the application, he quickly noticed a spot for birth date wasn't included.  He felt stupid.  Of course, a company couldn't ask that on an application.  There's the first curve ball, he thought, filling out the rest of the application.
*****
He finished the final blank in the application.
"Good morning, Mr. Simon."
He quickly looked up, startled.
"I'm Ms. Mullen."  She held out her hand.
He took it trying to be firm, but not too firm, and thought it was odd he didn't hear her walk up to him.  Must be the headache.
"Hi, I'm Stuart Simon, but you know that…" he trailed off, standing.
"Nice to meet you.  Please, follow me."
She turned and began walking.  As he followed, he finally got a view of Mullen.  She was tall, a brunette, with long legs.  He couldn't quite figure her age.  She could have been older than him or younger.  With the trendy eyeglasses, she had a naughty librarian feel to her.
Of course, he followed her without paying attention to where they were going.  Mullen lead him past the receptionist area, a break room, a room of cubicles.  She opened a door to a small meeting room and paused.
"Oh," he said, "after you," motioning her in first.
"Thanks," she said and walked in.
He stepped in and shut the door, checking out her skirt one last time before, thinking about the seating situation.  Her office, obviously, would have been easy.  The only option would have been to sit across from her.  The meeting room posed a different challenge.  The table sat eight:  three on each side and one on each end.  If Mullen sat at the head of the table, he had another easy choice:  sitting in the closest seat at a right angle to her was the only option.  If she sat on a side in a middle seat, that also would be easy as he would just sit straight across from her.  The only curve ball she could throw at him would be to sit on a corner.  That would leave him two options:  first, he could still sit across from her, or, second, he could sit at the head of the table.  Being across from her could indicate the future boss/employee relationship or that he thinks of her as a peer.  If she thought that he thought of her as a peer, it could be a bad start to the interview.  On the other hand, sitting at the head of the table could show comfort with the situation or his attempt to overpower or replace her.  Since he had thought this out, if she picked the corner, he'd sit across from her, potentially causing the least amount of damage.
Mullen walked around the table and pulled out a corner chair.  "Pick a seat," she said, motioning to the seats at the head of the table and across from her.
Is she fucking with me? He thought, taken aback.  He'd obviously spent hours thinking about the seating situation.  He just went through it now.  Did she know?
He stepped forward and took the seat across from her, as he planned.
"Good," she said, sitting.  "Let's start."
He opened his notebook as she opened a manila folder.  He noticed she had his resume and application.  How'd she get that? he thought, shooting her a strange look.
"This is the one you filled out when you dropped off your resume and made the appointment," she said.  "I don't know why Clarisse had you fill out another."
He looked down and saw the application he just finished in the lobby below the copies of his resume.  He moved it and the resumes to the left and opened his pen, looking at the notepad.
"I see you've been out of work for six weeks," she started.
"Yeah," he said, worried about the interview starting this way.  "Laid off."
"Why do you think you were chosen over your other teammates?" she asked, coolly.
He had practiced this answer in the mirror:  "I'm very open-minded and not afraid to say what I'm thinking even if it's not popular.  I feel my boss wanted to keep the 'yes' people, so I was the odd man out."  He started meandering from his script.  "We butted heads over some issues, like, um…"  He realized this could end up being a hole he couldn't dig out of, but went on.  "Like whether to use Adobe Acrobat or a company-developed, web-based system for digital reports."
He finally stopped.  He liked to talk and knew that was bad for interviews.  I've got to keep my answers short, he thought.
"Well, go on," Mullen said.  "How did you handle this issue between you and your boss?"  She moved her hand and pen to begin taking notes.
Either she wants me to dig a hole or really wants to know how I handled this situation.
"Tell me how it went," she prodded again.
He'd just have to make it sound as even-handed as possible.  "As I said, the options were Acrobat or a company-developed system," he started, using nothing he'd practiced.  "I explained to her the pros and cons of each.  Of course, there are more cons to the company-developed system.  No offense to any self-made systems used here, of course."
"Of course," she said and smiled.
"A company-developed system takes time, and IT is always working on multiple projects.  That makes development time long.  They also tend to be more like duct-tape-and-binder-twine fixes than actual systems.  Again, due to IT needing to spend manpower elsewhere, not because of lack of talent, though sometimes because of lack of talent.  With my idea, Adobe Acrobat is relatively cheap and we only needed to purchase six licenses.  Everyone else in the process could download the free Reader.  And, Acrobat has a built in proofing function.  I think it's called 'Review' and something."  He paused.  "Sorry, I obviously still feel very strongly about how it should have been done."
"So, your boss didn't take your advice?"
"Yeah, they still don't have a digital reporting system in place.  At least not when I left," he answered.
"How did you react to her final decision?"
If I was honest with you, I'd say, "Pissed off."
She wrote a note quickly that he couldn't quite read.  Looked like "honesty" was part of it.
"Um, to tell the truth, it was hard," which was true.  "For a while I took only essential questions or issues to her and didn't make small talk with her.  It was business only."
"Why do you think she went with the other system?"
"Politics," he said, thinking, Fuck, I wasn't going to go there.  How is she leading me?
She adjusted in her seat.  He thought she had straightened her back some.
"She was good friends with the IT manager, so she gave them the responsibility to create this new system so they wouldn't need to lay anyone off.  What she didn't realize was eventually any new system would allow the company to lay off data processors and proofers.  At lease with the Adobe solution, the new process would have been in place before lay offs were needed.  And here I am and the department is working with a half-complete reporting system and is three people down."
He rubbed the back of his head.  "That's probably more than you wanted to know.  Sorry."
"No, that's fine," Mullen said, still writing a note.  "It's good to know how you reacted."
He sat, playing with his pen, waiting for her next question.
"The team you might be working on is all women, right now," she started.  "How do you work with women?"
One question he wasn't prepared for.  He'd already made a couple of mistakes in his mind, so he decided to put all of his cards on the table.  Mullen didn't seem annoyed with his long answers or that he was willing to at time butt heads with her.
So, he started, "Data.Com was owned and run by a lesbian."  He paused to gauge the reaction.  None was visible.  "Whether that played into this, I don't know, but there were a lot of women in the company.  I've worked for women, managed women, and even was on a cross-functional team that reported straight to the president.  When I managed a team, I had to present our quarterly reports to her.  So, I guess, I don't have any problem working with women."
But the president was a flannel-wearing, buzz-cut bull dyke.
"She wore flannel shirts to work, didn't she?" Mullen asked.
He almost startled, but somehow kept a poker face.
"Yeah," he kind of sputtered, "and had a buzz cut."
"Sure, I just remembered that there's another teammate here from your old company," Mullen said.  "Sandy Parks.  Did you work with her?"
"Actually, my team was an internal customer of hers," he replied.  "We worked pretty close together when I was a manger, got a lot of stuff done.  Feel free to talk to her about me.  If I'd known she was here, I'd put her down as a reference."
"I will," Mullen said.  "So, why weren't you still a manager?"
"Well," he was ready for this one, "the career path for the management position I was in didn't, um, allow for a lot of growth.  Also, my last boss actively recruited me.  She made some promises that made stepping back a position look good.  And it was something I enjoyed, except the lay offs happened."
"Sure, sure," Mullen said, making more notes.
The rest of the interview was pretty routine.
*****
Mullen closed her notebook.  "Well, I feel good about the fit."
Wow, I thought I screwed it all to hell.
"Though I do have one more interview later this week."  She paused.  "Why don't we go meet the team and show you a bit of the office?"
*****
Stuart Simon begrudgingly attended a picnic with his parents a few weeks ago.  Two reasons existed for his hesitation:  first, he was coming close to having to ask his mom and dad if he could move back in with them, and, second, his mom had told everyone in her family about his current employment situation.  She was trying to use the family for networking, but most of them were retired or in an industry he wasn't qualified to work in.
Getting out of the back of his parents' HHR (also humiliating for a thirty-something), he slumped he head and slouched his shoulders, trying to use body language to keep the relatives' questions and suggestions at bay.
"Hey," his mom said, "maybe Richard can help you out.  He told me he might have a lead.  Come on."
She walked off in front of him.  He shuddered.  His cousin Richard was one of his strangest relatives.  One, most of his mom's relatives were older, so Richard was a 50-something, second cousin.  Two, Richard had to be on the autism spectrum.  His social skills weren't great, and it frustrated Stuart that Richard was hard to read.  Three, the rest of Richard's family was about the same or worse.  His wife was this mousy thing with tons of anxiety (and tons of make-up).  His two daughters were basically clones of him and his wife.  Luckily, Buffy, the one like Richard, had married and moved to New Mexico, and Stella was a single mother and didn't show up to family functions often.
"Oh, hi, Richard," his mom said.  "Hi, Sandy.  How are you?"
They were the first relatives they ran into.
"Fine," Richard said.
"We're doing great," Sandy started.  "I was worried you weren't coming."  She winked at his mom.  "When was the last time we saw you two?"
"I think your thirtieth wedding anniversary party," his mom replied.
"Right, right," Sandy said.  "The girls are doing great.  I still hate that Buffy's out West.  And Stella and little Ruth had other plans today…"  She trailed off.
"We've been good but busy," his dad said.
"Oh, very busy," his mom said.  "And I told you about Stuart…"
As she trailed off, they all looked at Stuart, standing outside of their quartet.  Everything he was wearing felt big.  They looked big.  He felt small.
"How are you, Stuart?" Richard asked with a blank look.
"I'm fine.  I've got my resume online and have some potential openings."
Richard put his hand on Stuart's shoulder.  It felt cool, not quite lifeless.  "Those internet sites are useless," Richard said.  "I'm surprised they're still around."
God, he's stupid, Stuart thought, even though he's an engineer.
"Yep, most of the internet is going to collapse in a few years.  What you've got to do is send resumes to companies you want to work at even if they haven't advertised a position."
"Apply blind?" Stuart asked, surprised, thinking, No one suggests you do that, idiot.
"Try that," Richard continued, not even acknowledging Stuart's shock at the suggestion, "and send one to HR at my offices.  I'll give you a good word."
With that, Richard patted Stuart's shoulder and began walking away toward the picnic tables and the rest of the family, leaving Stuart's mom and dad, Sandy and Stuart to just watch him.
"Um, should we start the surprise party?" Sandy asked.
"What surprise party?" Stuart asked.
"Oh, shit," Sandy said under her breath.
Oh, God, I don't want a birthday party, Stuart thought.  Please don't be a party for me.
His mom gave Sandy a stern look, then turned to Stuart.
"Stuart, we through we'd try to cheer you up with a surprise birthday party," she said, rolling her eyes at Sandy's slip.
"Sorry," Sandy said and went over to Richard.
"So…surprise!"
Thanks, Mom, Stuart thought.  These are some of the dumbest, most inbred people I know, and I get to celebrate a milestone birthday with them while I'm about to move back home.  Thanks a lot!
"Thanks, Mom."  He hugged her.  "But you're two weeks early."
"That was suppose to help with the surprise…"
"That's okay."  He walked over to the tables where everyone was seated or standing.  "Hey, everyone."
"Surprise!" they said together, then sang "Happy Birthday."
His mom brought over the cake.  The only open seat near Stuart was next to Richard, so she sat the cake down there.
Someone, probably one of his cousins, yelled, "Make a wish!"
I need a job, he thought and blew.  Only a third of the candles went out, so everyone nearby started to help until they were all out.
"Thanks," he said, sitting in front of the cake.
"So," Richard started, loud enough for all to hear, "what leads do you have?"
Is he retarded?
"There's a proofing position at Data Marketing Solutions," he said.  "I expect to get an interview sometime soon because of my background."
"Data Marketing Solutions?"  Even though they were outdoors, an indoor voice level would have been appropriate.  Not for Richard.  His voice probably carried all the way to the playground across the parking lot.  "Don't a lot of lesbians work there?"
Everyone gasped at his comment.  He ignored or didn't hear them.
"Um, you know, Richard," Stuart replied, "That was my last job:  Data.Com.  You said the same thing about it."
A few relatives giggled.  Stuart's mom leaned in between Richard and Stuart.
"Who wants cake?" she asked, starting to cut it.
Under his breath, Stuart asked her, "Did you bring any beer?"
"You know we can't have beer around your Uncle Eugene.  But your dad put a case in your car.  Happy birthday, honey."
"Thanks."  Stuart took the first piece of cake and took a bite, intentionally breathing slowly as he chewed.
*****
Ms. Mullen and Stuart left the conference room.  He thought about the interview and relaxed a bit.  Then he realized that his headache was still there, just the adrenaline from his nerves about the interview pushed it back.  Now, it was front and center again, and his vision was blurring some.
The lines of cubes were new to him, even though this set-up was probably the same from office to office.  This added a sort of vertigo to his headache.  Turning left here, right there, he'd never find his way out if he had to.
They walked into another room.  Cubes still in rows, but some open spaces.  The room seemed darker, like some of the fluorescent lights were out.
"This is our proofing area," Ms. Mullen said.  "There are actually two teams.  On the left are the Data Proofers, which is where you're applying, and on the right are the Quality Controllers."
He took in what he could.  The proofing area was bigger.  The QC area looked like work was just piled where it could fit.  The open space divided the two areas, with a big folding table in the middle and a few chairs around it.
"Let's see what the team is doing," Mullen said.
As they walked past two sections of cube walls, he realized he never planned to meet the actual employees he'd be working with.  His headache got worse, beginning to actually feel the empty spaces of his sinuses.
At least it's nearly the end, he thought.
"We're nearly done," Mullen said, as they turned the corner around the last cube.  "We won't bother the team for too long."
"Oh," he said, taken aback again.  "Cool…"
The receptionist and Mullen both had to know what he was thinking to reply, or project, or whatever, like they had.
The proofing area was blurry at first.  His headache even worse, he reached up with his free hand and touched his temple.
"Here," someone on his left said, "it's Tylenol."
He looked, and she came into focus.  He pushed her hand away harder than he should have.
"Sorry, I've already taken ibuprofen.  Thanks though."
Taking her in, she was a mousy, thin girl, probably just out of college with white skin, almost to the point of being translucent.  Her hair was straight, short and jet black.
"So, here's the team," Mullen said, first pointing to the mousy one.  "That's Marie.  In the next cube is Sally.  In the back is Gracie.  She's the team supervisor.  And then next to her is Kelly."
Kelly was the most attractive, thin but with nice curves.  Her straight, brunette hair draped over her shoulders and cascaded over the top of her breasts.
Across from her, Sally was fortyish with blonde, short hair.  She probably had young kids.
Then, Gracie had a grey flattop haircut.  She wore a long-sleeve shirt that was large enough to cover up if she had breasts or not.  The shirt was tucked into khaki cotton pants.  She sat with her knees and feet spread apart, like she had a huge package.
But, what really stunned Stuart was the wart on Gracie's nose.
God, it's got hair growing out of it, he thought, like a…witch's.
"I'd have it removed," Gracie said, "but I've lived with it this long."
"How?" Stuart asked.
"Yer gawking at it."
"Um," Mullen broke in, "does anyone have any questions for Stuart?"
He scanned them and landed on Marie.  She really looks like she's never seen the sun.
"How do you feel about overtime?" Marie asked.
"I'm, um," he paused.  Does she leave after sunset?
"Marie's been working late on a special project," Kelly said.
"Yeah," he replied, "I'd be willing to work overtime if it was needed.  I've even worked Saturdays."
What--
"So," Gracie spoke up in her deep voice, "how do ya feel about workin' with all women?"
"Well," he stammered, "as I was saying to Ms. Mullen—"
The headache spiked!
They aren't lesbians; they're witches, all witches!
"What did you say?" Sally asked, looking like she'd been slapped.
"I'm—" he said, stepping backward, "not interested—" bumping into the folding table "—in the position—" he straightened one of the chairs "—anymore, sorry."
He turned to the other room and heard someone say, "That was odd," and then, "I was going to offer him the job."
He couldn't hear any more as he turned down a row of cubes.
Where's the lobby?!?
A woman rolled a chair backwards out of a cube.
"The lobby," she said, "is that way."  She pointed to a hallway.  "Follow it to the break room and turn left."
He carefully stumbled around her, followed the hallway to the break room and turned left, almost bumping into the desk where the receptionist was answering the phone.
"Hello?"  Again, she held up one well-manicured index finger to him.
Ignoring her, he moved quickly to the doors.
"Mr. Simon!" the receptionist yelled.  "Ms. Mullen wants to—"
"Tell her and your coven they can keep their job!"
He slammed into the door, took another step and slammed into the outside door.  He was in the stale, hot, downtown air and grabbed at his temples – he'd left his notebook and pen somewhere – and turned to the parking lot.
Something bumped into him.  He focused.  The bum looked up at him.  The smell of cheap vodka and vomit almost made Stuart puke.
Don't touch me!
"O-okay," the bum said.
And I don't have any money!
"Hey," the bum gave him a quizzical look, "yer lips ain't movin'."
"What?"
"Evrything ya sed b'fore.  Told ya, tings ain't right in dat."  The old man tapped one of Stuart's temples, sending pain and shivers down his spine.
"No!"  Simon pushed him to the side and went to his car.
Crazy bum!
"Not me!" the bum yelled Stuart's way.  "You're crazy.  Not movin' yer lips when ya talk ta people!  Ain't right, I sed!"
After getting in his car, he started the engine to cool the interior.
Had to set up something stressful on my birthday, he thought, the headache ebbing.  Happy fucking birthday!
As he drove out to the street, he could hear the bum, out of key:
"Happy birfday ta you-u-u!"
 

            They say he and I had been crazy. Well, for my ex and I, maybe for each other at some point, but now just in general. Or maybe we aren’t even crazy-Just two sane people thrown into an insane world. My momma always said I go for the overly enthusiastic ones.
            It was like John and I were magnets. I always pulled away but the harder you pull the closer you come together. For John and me it seemed like nobody else mattered and that it was only us. The world was ours to take and yes, we took a lot.  At this point in mid-January the air was filled with the smell of crisp pine trees and children’s laughter engulfed the streets. John and I sat in the local Starbucks coffee shop to go over plans for this week’s major hit.
            “What about the one on City Avenue?” he said, siring the end of his lukewarm hot chocolate.
            “That was hit last week by Gloria and Benjie.”
            “They always get the best locations,” said John.
            “Yeah, but don’t feel too sorry for yourself John, both are rotting in county jail right now.”
            “We always were better at planning weren’t we, Kitty?”
            “Well, we have yet to get caught.”
            “I’ll drink to that,” John said, gulping down the remaining hot chocolate which was probably cold by now.
            “Okay, so what about the one on Passyunk Avenue. They have never been hit before. Also, I heard the clerk is very lonely,” I said, raising an eyebrow up at my ex-lover.
            “It’s settled then,” John said, smashing his Starbucks cup down onto the tilted table. “Tomorrow Passyunk becomes our bitch.”
            It was early the next morning. I had let John stay over my apartment the night before for practical purposes only. He had slept on my old gray couch while I rolled out of my lumpy queen-sized mattress in the bedroom. I found myself missing John’s company, and I thought to myself: What if we get back together after this? But then I realized that we were better off as only business partners and nothing more, even if I wanted it. We quickly brushed our teeth and put on our costumes to pull off the job.
          I sat in the driver’s seat of my stolen silver Ford Fusion. I was always the driver in these situations. I pulled around the corner to let john out into the street. Confidently, John strutted into the bank. It was almost too easy.  I don’t know why but I had a weird feeling about this job. Like something wasn’t right. I had been in the car for a grueling thirty minutes when all of a sudden, I heard the sound of gunshots and breaking glass. I saw John sprint out of the bank and into the street with the money in his hand. With no time to think I stomped on the pedal of the car and went.  Not knowing where I was going or what had happened to John I sped away never looking back once.
            A few months later I returned to Philadelphia to gather some of my things. I wasn’t sure If I should even go back to see John or if he was going to name me as an accomplice. I was nervous it was going to be payback for leaving him but it was the right thing to do.  After all, we were married once. I walked over the clear Plexiglas and pulled up the dusty phone cord.
            “I’m sorry this happened to you,” I said, touching my freshly painted fingernails up against the glass.
            “What can you do?” he said with a sigh. “Things tend go wrong all the time in our profession.”
            “I never meant for you to end up here. I hope you know that.”
            “I know. I should be out soon. They only gave me four years.”
            “Can I come visit you?” I asked.
            “It’s probably best if you didn’t.”
            “Why not?”
            “I think you should go pay your respects to your mother at the cemetery. It’s her birthday, right?”
            “What does that have to do with anything?”
            “Just trust me,” John said while slowly getting up from his chair. “Say hi to her for me.”
            With that he hung up the phone and the guard dragged him away in chains.  Unsettled, I ran out of the prison into my car.  By the time I had gotten to the cemetery it was dark and empty except for all of its dead occupants.  I walked all the way into the very middle of the cemetery.  Surrounded by a varied number of random tombstones I found my mothers.  
I haven’t been here in years, I thought to myself.  Why would he want me to come here?  Then, I noticed something behind the grave.  It was a navy suit case with the money from the last job.  I quickly picked it up, blew a kiss to my mother’s grave, and got in my car never looking back.  This was no tragedy for John and me, but maybe this was a slow-revealed comedy of trial and error.  Maybe we had something more than just crazy love but extreme loyalty.
         
            
 
 

Ever since Yasmin Daiha was a little kid she has always loved to write no matter what was going on. She was a synchronized swimmer back in high school and ever since then she has tried her best to pursue her career in writing whether it be with internships or working with small newspapers. 
 

   Light brown walls, striped bed covers, dark brown carpet floor. I couldn’t see much because they had a bag over my head but there were holes that allowed me to know at least where I was. I had been to this hotel before with my parents. We were on a family vacation and we made a stop for the night here. It was called La Rose Hotel. It was one of those hotels that you usually came for just a night and left the next day. It was in desperate need of a paint job and there wasn’t much around it, only gas stations and restaurants.
 
       They pushed me on the ground, “Stay there and be quiet,” one of them said. It sounded like a woman. She ripped the bag off from over my head and my eyes were finally able to see my surroundings. It was a man and a woman well into their 30s. The woman was beautiful, tall, and she looked very stressed. She kept moving her fingers and pacing back and forth. The man looked angry. His eyebrows were furrowed and he stared straight into my eyes, not moving one muscle.
     The man slowly took out a knife from his pocket as he motioned for the woman to take the tape off of my mouth.
    “1,2,3,” the woman counted down as if that would lessen the pain I am feeling.
   The man put his finger to his mouth for me to be quiet, still holding the deadly instrument in his other hand. My eyes didn’t move from it once, not even when I spoke.
   “What do you want with me?” I said.
    “Well for right now we need you to be quiet,” the man said.
    He grabbed the tape and put it over my mouth again as I started trying to free myself of the rope they had tied around my wrists. No matter how much I tried, they wouldn’t come off. Their rough exterior rubbing on my wrists, making them burn. I winced in pain as they just watched me like a helpless animal.
   “Alright, enough. Come on,” he said. The man picked me up and took me to the closet. He threw me to the floor and closed it. The darkness filled the entire space. I saw nothing. I heard footsteps and a door sliding open. They went outside.
   I couldn’t hear much but I was able to make out what they were saying.
   “What are we going to do?” the woman said. “We can’t just keep her locked in the closet.”
   “I know. And we won’t. We just have to wait long enough till her parents find the clue we left. Hopefully this’ll make them give us the money they have owed us after all these years.” The man said
    “Don’t you think that this was a bit too much? Kidnapping the girl like this?”
   “Karen. Do you want to continue living out of hotels and fast food? Do you not want to start a life?”
   “Well yes bu—,” she was cut off by a loud knock at the door.
   I couldn’t tell what was going on, there was so much yelling and what sounded like things getting knocked over.
    “Where is she!” I know that voice, it was my dad. “I know you have her.”
    “You are right, we do. Although, we won’t hand her over until you pay us what you owe us.” The man said.
    “We don’t owe you anything,” dad said.
   “If you want your daughter back, then you need to pay us the $15,000.”
   There was a long silence and some movement outside of the door. Seconds later the closet door opened and the man grabbed me once again. In a swift motion, he pulled me up and pushed me towards my dad. The force almost making me fall.
   “Oh my god, Kayla,” my dad said. He struggled to get the tight ropes out of my wrists but eventually succeeded. He took off the tape with one movement, making a wincing around himself, as if he knew if hurt me as well.
   Before we could say or do anything else we realized that the man and woman had disappeared. The only thing that was left in the hotel room was the pain of what had happened. 
​

​Rick Edelstein was born and ill-bred on the streets of the Bronx. His initial writing was stage plays off-Broadway in NYC. When he moved to the golden marshmallow (Hollywood) he cut his teeth writing and directing multi-TV episodes of “Starsky & Hutch,” “Charlie’s Angels,” “Chicago,” “Alfred Hitchcock,” et al. He also wrote screenplays, including one with Richard Pryor, “The M’Butu Affair” and a book for a London musical, “Fernando’s Folly.” His latest evolution has been prose with many published short stories and novellas, including, “Bodega,” “Manchester Arms,” “America Speaks,” “Women Go on,” “This is Only Dangerous,” “Aggressive Ignorance,” “Buy the Noise,” and “The Morning After the Night.” He writes every day as he is imbued with the Judeo-Christian ethic, “A man has to earn his day.” Writing atones.

​How’re you doing?
    How’re you doing, he asks. You really want to know?
    To be honest it was just, you know, how’re you doing, another way of saying hi, hello, you know.
    I hate that. We have all kinds of words and terms and phrases that don’t mean what it says. Like God bless you when someone sneezes but no one really takes a moment, a second even to invoke the energy of the divine.
    Whew, you are on some kind of run. What’s up?
    That’s another one. What’s up...meaning hello, right?
    Not this time. Something got you by the short-hairs and..
    Do you believe in God?
    Hello! Where’d that one come from?
    The second paragraph of the Declaration of Independence says that all men are created equal but that’s a lot of bull shit. Have you listened to our President, the politicians, even some athletes. Come on, some are more equal than others, don’t you think?
    You cut short the declaration. Equal in that they are endowed by their Creator...
But even that’s a canard. Have you spoken to Franky Bones who tends bar at the Green Bag?
Yeah, we just had drinks there last week. He’s a good guy albeit a little light in the smarts department.
There you go!
There I went. What are you saying?
Franky Bones was not endowed as equal by the
 Creator.
    What are we talking about...I’m losing the thread.
    Some people are born smart, some people are born with an overabundance of lack. So maybe we should all stop with that equality rap and just recognize what is. And what ain’t.
Besides all that, what’s up with you? You seem on tilt today.
    I woke up mad. Angry. Pissed times ten.
    Any specific reason?
    Here I am 36 years old and what? I mean look at you. Married, two kids, take ‘em to the park, to the zoo, celebrate birthdays.
We celebrated your birthday last month.
Yeah Green Bag it drinks on you. Different than with kids and wife. Family. That’s where it’s at. But me? What? Still single and accomplished what? No children. No wife.
    Hey, it’s not as if you’re destitute like one of those homeless dudes on the street. Better not be whining with your track record. Come on, bro’, you sold your soft-ware invention, plan, whatever you call it and now have enough money not to worry about enough money. That, my ace friend, is a major accomplishment with no deductions.
    I don’t know. I still feel as if I’m wasting energy, the only gift from the divine, I feel restless, as if I’m reaching for something that’s not there and if I find it, maybe it’s too late, like getting close to unsuitable past this due date.
    Sounds heavy. What due date or are you talking about our mortal coil?
    That I’m still alive and yes, thrive, in this corrupt confusion.
    What particular corrupt confusion or is this just another one of your usual cataclysmic mind-set of nihilism strikes again?
    No, I’m mean it.
    What it do you mean? What are you pissed about? And don’t drop corrupt confusion on me.
    Politicians corrupt our lives, for one. Climate change manifesting in hurricanes, floods, shores in Louisiana are shrinking as the ocean takes over and other areas drought so bad entire countries threatened with...in South Africa, Capetown...
    I’ve been there. Beautiful city. Reminds me of Laguna.  
    Running out of water. I mean dry. You hear what I’m saying?
    Loud and clear. No confusion in that serve.
    The confusion is how to live in a world that’s programmed to self-destruct. And you seem to be okay with that?
    Hey, since I cannot have a needed effectual change on the darks, I choose whatever makes me feel good. Inside ‘n out.
    I feel like a moth peeking out of the cocoon with positive aspirations of butterflying only to be faced with a rebuttal of excretion.
    Your imagery is unique today.
    Perhaps we have to come to grips with the blatant reality of there is no answer.
    What’s the question?
    To quote the Dane, to be or not to be...
Wake up, man, you are a human being with choices.
You’re not getting it. We’ve been sentenced.
Life is a sentence and then we die. It’s over.
Maybe.
No maybes about it. Death is death.
Maybe death is just another passage to
something, somewhere else.
    You talking incarnation.
    Yeah but who wants to incarnate back to this shit?
Well, before we dust off, during our in-
Between period, we can indulge in goodies life offers, doncha think?
    Goodies? They’re just distractions.
    Semantics. Come on, give it up. Live your life and stop whining.
Life’s a catastrophe.
    Nakba.
    What?
    Nakba. Arabic for catastrophe. That’s what the Arabs call Israel. Nakba. And with good reason because the Mossad and Shin Bet, they’ll do their interceptions on an Arabic hint.
    What are you talking about?
    I just read a book about them. Enemies threatening Israel, whew...they call them interceptions...they intercept some Arab and that’s a disposal plan in action. Don’t fuck with lohamim.
Lo ha who?
Lohamim. Hebrew for Warrior. No question why the Arabs call Israel Nakba.
    Well, that’s the world to me. Nakba.
    Turn the switch off. Change the channel.
    And changing my focus will change what?
    We don’t have to change things out there as long as we don’t let ‘em change you in here.
    It’s a tangled web we weave once we decide to deceive.
    Shakespeare nailed it.
    No, it was some dude Walter Scott.
    Look, when you see ads in the paper, TV, what do you do?
    Most of the time ignore them.
    There you go. Choice, baby, ignore or be inundated by the hustlers and drown in their positive white-on-white crocodile smiling teeth usually by a beautiful woman programming you to buy or bypass with an implied guarantee that you’ll live happily ever with a sub-text of do what I say and you get some of this fine pussy. It’s an unending tyranny of feel-goodness if you buy my product. The product being of course your somnambulant covenant of access to their control.
    Easier said than done.
    Doesn’t make it any the less a valid choice. Ergo...
    Er what?
    Ergo...therefore, as Jung laid down...
    Which young?
    Carl Jung, with a J.
    If it’s a J than his name is Jung like in junk.
    Not in Switzerland. You gonna’ let me lay it on you or you gonna’ continue errantly correcting.
    Pulleeze, drop it on this ignoramus.
    Okay, Jung, as in Jung said “I am not what happened to me, I am what I choose to become.”
    That’s a lotta’ Swiss-cheese holy horse shit. If a man’s foot is on your neck and holding a piece aimed at your sorry ass, that’s what happened. Grim reality. No becoming anything other than I am clearly fucked.
    Okay, I get your point but it goes without saying that...
    If it goes without saying then why say it?
    It’s just another way of positing the obvious.
    I deplore those meaningless phrases fouling the horizon with litter of the verbose. Ladies and gentlemen he needs no introduction but...if he needs no introduction then why introduce him?
    You went off the radar on that one. Who are we not talking about?
    You know who Khalil Gibran was?
    Mid-East dude who wrote The Prophet.
    But he lived in Boston and died in New York. So much for Mid-East. It’s all a fantasy on which we base our reality.
    Your point is getting stubbed again.
    It’s just that we’re filled with erroneous garbage and act on false beliefs, don’t you get it?
    You just described the political process. Candidate talks his shit and gets elected and is no more effective than damp matches.
    I’m thinking of getting a gun.
    Where’d that come from?
    The Rabbi.
    Have you forgotten to take your meds?
    I am not on medication.
    Then maybe you should start. The Rabbi. Sure, he said get a gun. Sure he did.
    Not exactly but close.
    Clarification is impatiently waiting.
    Talmud. He quoted the Talmud.
    Which said get a gun?
    It said and I quote, if someone comes to kill you, rise up and kill him first, unquote.
And someone’s coming to eliminate your butt from planet earth?
    If I’m not ready to rise up and kill first, it’s a sin. A gun is like a religious requirement. Can I use your water?
    Go for it. What’s that pill you’re taking?
    It’s not a pill it’s a gelcap.
    For what?
    It’s like using a light-weight sand-paper gently smoothing over the harsh edges.
    Wait a minute, hold up a sec. Doctor’s prescription or what?
    Ahhh, that’s better. It takes about twenty minutes to fully hit but...
    What the fuck are you taking?
    I’m not sure if it’s fentanyl or oxycodone or yo’ mama but in due time, what time is it now, twenty minutes I’ll be grateful.
    And stoned out on...
    No, don’t make a thing out of this. I am and will be totally functioning and responsible but without the...the harsh strident fucked human condition.
    You taking feel-good opioids? Man, don’t you know how dangerous that shit is?
    Oh please, grow up! No hang over. Just a kind of warm hug from the inside that says even in the face of faults everything’s okay.
    Everything is most assuredly and without a doubt not like in big letters N O T okay. Come on, since when are you ...
    Hey, airline pilots, teachers, firemen, Joe Citizen, everybody’s doing it and no harm no foul so get off my case and just refuckinglax!
    Hold up. Take ten. Just tell me straight. What’s up with you? Some medical prognosis that scares you? Blew your money in some stupid investment scam. Talk to me, brother, why are you taking these opioids which we both know is a pandemic in America. Why?
    Because...enough is enough.
    What enough are you talking about?
    Promises never fulfilled.
    Who promised what?
    From toilet training on...do this, don’t do that, pay attention, obey the laws, fit into the picture of good citizen, it’s like a painting done by a half blind artist with cataracts. It’s all an illusion. Or worse yet, a delusion. Don’t you get it? We’ve been sold a bill of goods that ain’t all that good from the get-go. That’s why.
    That why is not good enough.
    Why not?
    All these contradictions, concerns, dilemmas, it’s a package deal, part of the human condition on planet earth.
    Yeah, so?
    So we do what we can to make things better and...  
    And the things we can’t make better?
    Do our best so that those not-better things don’t infect our lives.
    Sounds like a bumper sticker.
    What other choices do we have?
    Ahhh...it’s beginning to hit. A little pill does major nice. No harm, no foul, I can even look at the fun-house mirror of distortion and not even bother to ask why.
 

   It’s time to go in and I am nowhere near ready. The wind wails through the house making it seem too big and the once vibrant colored walls have turned the dull monochromatic grey. My mother no longer hums around the house and I have lost the skip in my step. It has been almost two months and it is clear that we are still afraid of that space. It’s clear that we are holding on to some naive hope that the door will open and then all will be right, that this was all horrendous nightmare.
   For what feels like an eternity there have been countless parades of people coming and going like waves on the shore. They ask the usual questions and we are given the “look” where no one really knows how to construct their face into one that doesn’t look like they will toss cookies any second. I have heard enough of pity choir’s greatest hits “This Pain Doesn’t Last”, “Things Happen for a Reason” and my personal favorite “I Know What You Are Going Through…” to last me a lifetime.  I swear if it wasn't for the swell of patience I inherited from my mother I would have been incarcerated for murder. What they say has the same weight of intelligence of   “How did you get shot? You should have just caught the bullet.” and yes I know that the pain doesn’t last forever but that doesn’t make me feel any less hurt right now. I sometimes just want to hit them with a ten ton truck and then tell them they will heal just to see how they like it. 
   “Come on Ana, we can’t hold this off any longer. We agreed that we would do this together,” she says. She cups my face in her hands and caresses my cheek. She gives me a hug and holds me tight. Her heart betraying an arrangement of emotions with its thundering bass. If only the storm could wash away my guilt about what we are about to do. My only response is a small smile and nod. The hallway begins to stretch and the door pushes itself far back like in the old Alice in Wonderland movie, making it almost impossible to reach. The shadows made from the light of the setting sun seem to tower over us like a titanic wave about to drown us. My uncertainty blossoms and I dig my heels into the lush carpet.
   “You know what mother, there is no shame in just letting the room be. I mean there is more house of us then just this space,” I say. I look at her with my best puppy dog pleading eyes, trying to get her to back away from this cliff because I know that once we jump there’s no turning back. I pull her hand and attempt to seem nonchalant but the meaning of this situation has choked my courage. I can feel my nerves burning and every hair on my body stand on end, everything screams “Get Out”.
   She takes my hand and looks me in the eyes. “Whatever happens you will still have me and we will make new memories, better ones that we can look back on. I know that is this hard right now but one day we will look back and feel no pain. It’s me and you against the world now and that’s okay,” she says. She takes a breath and opens the dreaded door.
   We are greeted with stale air, as if the room itself was holding its breath waiting for us. I take a deep breath and feel tears threaten. I can still smell him. I can still see him behind his desk with a great wall of books surrounding his chair. Images of myself running in after school and sitting on his lap while he holds mother spring to mind. The faint whisper of our laughter still echoes off the baby blue walls. I look to my mother and also see her tears flowing.
   This was not just his space. This was where I grew up surrounded by the love of two parents. This is where he taught me to read and where he would hold me when I was scared. This is where I watched him and mother dance through the cracked door in the candlelight. This is where my happiest memories are placed. The light is gone and will never shine the same again. My father’s vacancy is deafening and the knowledge that he will never again walk through the door is enough to drown us.
   He has been gone for a while now and we are only now getting to his area of the house to gather his things. Although things will never be the same again my mother and I will make sure the other doesn’t falter. We will rebuild and come back stronger, it’s what he would have wanted. It’s time to go into the room and start fresh. I’m ready.
            

​Sandy had to film a Death Reel.
After the late-night broadcast wrapped, she hurried down the corridor toward the station’s lounge, where a cameraman awaited her.
An office memo had ordered that all staff, whether anchors, like Sandy, or field reporters, or off-screen talent, record a “Deal Reel.” This dictum responded to a recent tragedy: a maniac had shot a rival station’s reporter on-camera and its producers lacked personal footage to air about their employee. Sandy’s station wanted to be better prepared. Sandy had suggested a less ghoulish title, “AutoBio Reel,” but no one acknowledged her email.
In the hall, Sandy practiced her diction by repeating the mouth exercise, “Mexican mice shouldn’t shave in sparkly sequins——” and so on. The top broadcasters could annunciate anything. And this, her first professional job, was only rung numero uno on a ladder to stardom.
Surprisingly, a producer named Margot accompanied the cameraman in the lounge.
“There’s our girl,” said Margot. A refined woman, she had trained for the anchor desk, but a three-inch scar on her left cheek had relegated Margot off-screen. Clapping soundlessly, she said, “Nice work on tonight’s broadcast.”
“You’re too kind,” said Sandy, performing an awkward, half-curtsy in the doorway.
Margot eased into one of the chairs arranged around the room. “Sit.” She directed Sandy to the couch at which the camera pointed. Sandy settled into the target of the lens and swept her bangs with her pinkie nail. “Is that a Michael Kors top?” she asked. “Gorgeous.”
Margot winced.
“I’ll email notes about tonight’s broadcast, so we need not nitpick at such a late hour,” said Margot, signaling to Joe, the cameraman, that she was ready. “Let us just dive into the death reel, alright?”
Sandy shivered. “Ghastly name, isn’t it?” Margot regarded her blankly. Sandy’s clumsy fingers checked her collar and she cleared her throat. “Before we start, have you read my email?”
Tiny smile lines fanned around Margot’s eyes. “The three-anchor thing?”
Summoning her sunniest expression, Sandy said, “I hope it wasn’t too presumptuous to offer unsolicited ideas. I just wondered if you’d ever considered a three anchor combination for the 6pm slot.”
Margot sneered, but retained politeness. “Have you forgotten asking the same question outside my office a week ago? I repeat, our anchor teams have always been one man and one woman pairs. Since you included Mike on your email, I’m sure he will corroborate that.”
Carbon-copying Mike, their news director, had been a bold stroke. Sandy bowed. “Forgive me. I merely thought deviating from that old formula might distinguish us from the competition.”
“Are you unhappy on the eleven o’clock news team?” Margot asked, pouting.
“Heavens no,” said Sandy. “Fred and I are developing a rapport.” She paused. “After a year.”
Margot arched like a mantis. “Listen, I know Fred is a dimwit. He begged his way off sports and still has all the grace of a wet sock. But, he is your partner. Our A-Team is Candace Landis and Rod Booster at six o’clock; Sandy Champion and Fred Whimperbottom at eleven. I will confidently stand our line-up against those turkeys at WPNG and WSTV. However,” said Margot, flicking a thread from her pant-leg to the floor, “nothing is permanent. Have you tried field reporting yet?”
Sandy shook her slack face.
“You might find that work stimulating,” said Margot.
“Oh, I’m quite content in my position here,” said Sandy. “My outspoken streak paired with my precocity can make me challenging at times, I’m afraid. But my opinions stem from a gratitude for this opportunity and a desire to strengthen our team.”
Margot smiled cryptically. “Great. So let’s begin.” She signaled to Joe and squared off in front of Sandy. “This is straightforward. I will ask questions about childhood, schooling, hobbies, et cetera. Ready?”
“Willing and able,” said Sandy with her trademark twinkle.
“Alright,” said Margot, sleek as a jungle snake. “Let’s start with your parents.”
“Well, I was born in Plain Rapids, not far from here——”
Margot snapped, “Specificity, dear. Say New York, not, ‘not far from here.’”
“Sorry,” said Sandy. She inhaled and began again. “I was born in Plain Rapids, New York, to Barry and Shirley Wotzitski——”
“Wotzitski?” interrupted Margot. “You’re married?”
“No,” said Sandy. “I changed my name to Sandy Champion. It’s gentler on the ear.”
“Certainly so,” said Margot. She turned to Joe and asked, “Do you like the names Barry and Shirley?”
Joe chewed his gum like a cow and was no great oracle of feedback.
Margot faced Sandy again. “Call them loving parents.”
“But my tongue might turn black and fall out from telling a lie,” Sandy laughed.
Margot’s impeccable eyebrows twitched impatiently. Sandy resumed. “I was born in Plain Rapids, New York, to loving parents,” she said, and her tongue neither turned black nor fell out. She cheerfully explained how a stint on her High School’s yearbook committee had ignited a journalistic passion. She recalled how she’d studied at the Community College before transferring to—--
Margot raised a finger to stop her. Bracing herself, Sandy bit her tongue with her teeth, the corrected versions of Wotzitski chompers.
Margot said, “Let’s skip the community college. Focus instead on your time at Colgate. Four year schools are more respected.”
Sandy’s hands fidgeted in her lap.
“You attended Colgate, yes?” asked Margot.
The women traded a curious flicker, but Sandy said, quickly, “Oh, yes,” and recited a description of Colgate she’d read once in a brochure. Doing so, she rediscovered her groove, hamming up the musicality of her delivery, feeling confident, until Margot asked, “What about a boyfriend?”
Sandy’s face sagged. She said, “Not currently.”
“But there’s an ex,” said Margot. “Can we call him a sweetheart? Pretend he is still around? A handsome girl like you will surely have a new squeeze by whenever this airs——God forbid. Right, Joe?”
Behind the camera, Joe shrugged.
Her eyes downcast, Sandy said, “His favorite film was Saw. He moved to Binghamton. Can’t we just forget him?”
“Our audience prefers people in relationships,” said Margot.
Sandy swallowed, tapped her fingertips against her breastbone, and heard herself saying to the camera, “My sweetheart and I enjoy hiking local trails and practicing yoga together.” She even said, “We like winding down with movies in the evening after hard days at the office.”
Miraculously, Sandy’s tongue remained pink and intact.
After Sandy fabricated an imaginary boyfriend, Margot asked, with specious sincerity, “Why journalism?”
Sandy answered, “To be loved.”
Irritation tightened Margot’s jaw. “Okay . . . but, specifically, why TV reporting?”
“To be loved by as many as possible.”
Scanning the ceiling for help, Margot said, “Well, why not venture into prostitution then? Am I right, Joe?”
Joe grunted.
Margot touched Sandy’s knee. “Dear, we need not such superficial honesty, but the subterraneous stuff. Explain why you chose this profession instead of becoming, say, a zoologist.”
Sandy thought for a moment. Her posture straightened, “I entered the field of journalism with a desire to deliver the truth to the people, to apprise them of events in their community and the world abroad,” she said. “To be a trustworthy voice in confusing and dangerous times.”
“Perfect,” said Margot, purring cat-like. “Was that not perfect, Joe?”
Joe grunted.
Margot rubbed her hands together. “That’s a wrap. Thank you for sticking around after a long day to record this. I think a cohesive piece can be assembled from that material.”
“Credit goes to a great interviewer,” said Sandy, winking. The women stood and straightened their clothes. Joe began dismantling his equipment and, observing him, Sandy said to Margot, “It’s unsettling to think this is even necessary.”
“Journalists get murdered too, you know,” said Margot, giving Sandy’s shoulder a condescending pat.
“Sad but true,” said Sandy as Joe exited without a goodbye.
“Well,” said Margot, slapping her hip. “You have a terrific night.”
Lingering, Sandy said, “There weren’t too many notes on tonight’s show, I hope.”
Margot stepped into the hall. “Some say any is too many.” She laughed, a stilted barking that made Sandy recoil. Margot stopped. “By the way, if you dare email the news director behind my back again, I’ll have your ass.”
***
A week later, Candace Landis leaned her head into the open doorway of Sandy and Fred’s office.
“Got a moment?” she asked in her lilting voice, the auditory equivalent of sunshine-kissed Alps.
Sandy snapped to attention and turned to greet her guest. “What are you still doing here? You guys wrapped over an hour ago.”
Clad in a shimmering blouse and customary jewelry of golden hoops, Candace strode elegantly into the office, saying, “Let’s see what you guys have done with my old room.” She scanned the sports posters on Fred’s side and the framed photos of celebrity newswomen on Sandy’s. The narrow, windowless space was lit by Sandy’s bejeweled lamp, brought from home.
Candace rested her backside on the edge of Fred’s desk. “I like your lamp, very colorful” she said.
“You, Candace, are a lamp for me,” said Sandy. “Studying you, I’ve learned so much.”
“Oh?” asked Candace, while she slid open Fred’s desk drawer and casually perused its contents. “Flatter me more.”
Sandy giggled. “I’d be too embarrassed.”
Candace smiled. “Where’s roomie?” she asked.
“Fred? Probably watching a ball game with the camera guys,” said Sandy.
Candace sighed as if she should have guessed and said, “Well, then, I bring news.”
“You are the news,” said Sandy with an unctuous smile.
Candace wrinkled her nose. She said, “I thought it only polite to clue you in before my announcement.”
Sandy cupped her hand over her mouth. “You’ve won another award?” she asked.
“Not quite,” said Candace, faking a scoff. “I have accepted a job at WSTV.”
Sandy gripped her chair as the room became watery. The news came like a punch.
“I’m nearly as surprised as you,” laughed Candace, delighting in the younger woman’s shock. “I could say I’ll miss everyone here, but . . . money’s the thing.” She leaned forward and capped her knees with her hands. “Of course, I expect you’ll replace me on the A-Team. Guess you won’t campaign for a three-chair newscast now, huh?”
Sandy blushed. Candace flicked her wrist. “I look forward to a friendly cross-town competition. And of course, I expect my ratings to crush yours.”
She extended a lazy hand for Sandy to shake.
***
The gossip that Candace would leave in two weeks flooded the station. Everyone expected Sandy to benefit from Candace’s departure, although the producers confirmed nothing. Sandy found the secret too delicious to contain, however. From the make-up chair at the beauty salon, to her yoga class, to the upscale store where she purchased a new wardrobe, Sandy spilled the beans everywhere. She overspent in preparation for her new gig, because she expected a pay raise to accompany her A-chair assignment.
On Thursday afternoon of the second week, Mike, the news director, and Margot convened an unexpected meeting in the bullpen. Candace stood beside Margot and the assembling staff brought tissue boxes in anticipation of a tearful farewell. Rather than tears, Sandy fought off excited yips. This would be the moment when little Sandy Wotzitski of Plain Rapids was anointed Sandy Champion, first chair anchorwoman. Arriving at the meeting, however, Sandy detected a taut, sour expression on Margot’s face.
Mike raised his hand for quiet. “I regret to inform you that after a decade here, Rod Booster has been let go.”
The whole group gasped. Charlie, the overweight weatherman, swooned and grabbed someone’s arm for balance. One staff writer dabbed her wrist to her forehead. Gathering whispers buzzed the room while everyone reeled from the news.
Margot banged her fist like a gavel on a desktop. “Let this prove our zero tolerance policy,” she said. “Anyone caught with inappropriate material on your computer will receive immediate termination.” Much later, some employees claimed that Rod Booster, that once-respected and tenured newsman, had been soliciting cyber sex from Malaysian minors. What most upset Sandy, however, was the next anvil that Margot dropped: “In light of this devastating incident, Candace agreed to stay on as sole anchor of our six o’clock evening newscast.”
***
Sandy stood with her back against her office door. Her eyes grew wide as she surveyed the slim space. The vein in her temple beat a furious rhythm through her skull. From a desktop cup Sandy drew pens and one by one began to throw them against the far wall, each pitch harder than the last. Next she kicked her chair. Finally, in a lunge, she yanked a plug from the electrical outlet, hoisted the lamp above her head, and heaved it with both hands against the wall.
The lamp made a terrific smash and shattered. Almost instantly, a knock came. From behind the door, Margot asked, “Are you okay in there?”
Sandy groomed her bangs with her pinkie. “Dropped a lamp,” she said. She pressed her back to the door again.
“May I enter?” Margot asked.
“I’ll need a minute,” said Sandy, remaining still.
Margot hesitated and then said, “Listen, I know you expected Candace’s chair. You’re upset.”
Sandy held the base of her head firmly against the door and closed her eyes.
“Sandy?” asked Margot. Sandy heard the click of Margot’s heels as she walked away.
***
After that, everyone at the station, except Sandy, genuflected before Queen Candace. Mike and Margot sent her a bushel of brilliant flowers and awarded her a bigger office. Twice, when passing in the halls, Candace tried to engage Sandy, presumably to make peace. The young woman could barely manage a nauseated smile. Candace wasted no efforts on another try.
Three days later, Candace received a brown package via the station’s mail. Inside the box were a doll’s head, a brittle bouquet of dead flowers, and a jaggedly-penned note which read, “Quit or die.”
The staff learned of the package when shrieks exploded from her office.
Despite her trauma, unflappable Candace anchored that evening’s broadcast artfully. From the wings, Sandy envied Candace for having received the death threat. Successful people were targets for violence. Sandy didn’t rate. She wondered if killers even stayed up to watch the eleven o’clock news.
On the next Monday’s afternoon, Sandy was checking email in her office when Margot brought Steve, a field reporter, to her door.
Steve, a baby-face, awash in grotesque brown freckles, had distinguished himself with coverage of a recent trial. Coaxing him into Sandy’s office, Margot said, “Sandy, Steve will co-anchor with you tonight.”
“What?” asked Sandy, ignoring Steve’s outstretched hand. “Where’s Fred?”
Margot raised her arms stiffly. “Who knows? He’s disappeared. So familiarize yourselves and I’m sure you two will survive.”
Margot left and Sandy shoved past Steve to catch up to her. As the women walked the corridor, Sandy said, “I don’t know where Fred is, but he’s my partner, not Steve, and——please, I should work solo rather than bring in someone with whom I have no chemistry.”
They rounded a corner and Margot stopped, crossing her arms. “Is it the freckles?” she asked.
“It’s the freckles, it’s everything,” said Sandy, flapping like a bird. “You’ve seen him. This is my career——”
“Fine,” said Margot. “Steve!” she yelled.
Steve’s blotchy face emerged from around the corner.
“Sorry, bud. She will handle the news alone tonight,” said Margot. And to Sandy she said, “Do not screw this up for me. Remember: Field reporting.”
But Margot had nothing to fear. That night’s broadcast dispelled any doubts about Sandy’s talent. She conducted herself flawlessly, all alone. At wrap, the night staff applauded her. She basked in the anchor chair longer than usual, savoring the moment, the spotlight.
The glow was short-lived.
Shutting off her computer, before going home, Sandy checked her email once more. A message arrived from Margot, but rather than compliments on a successful newscast, the text read: “Sandy. Contacted Colgate. Let’s talk tomorrow.”
Sandy sat before her monitor in silence for a long time. And then she sobbed.
***
“Bar none, these is the worst month of my professional life!” Margot howled. She bolted across the newsroom and slammed her office door behind her.
It was late in the afternoon and Sandy had just trudged into the office. She stood by the newsroom’s entrance and asked a nearby intern about the commotion.
“Oh my God,” said the girl, chomping gum. “Candace was killed in a hit-and-run. Mike was injured, too. Evidently they were on lover’s lane when it happened.”
Sandy sat in an open chair and set her bag on the floor.
“Who knew Mike and Candace were a thing, right?” the girl continued.
Margot came bursting from her office and blazed a path toward Sandy. She seized Sandy’s shoulders. With crazed eyes, she said, “You’re doing the six o’clock. Get ready.”
Margot marched Sandy by the arm to the prep room. Sandy was unsteady, like a Wotzitski ghost had reclaimed her body. Jostling along, she murmured, “Your email——you wanted to talk to me——?”
“No,” said Margot, shoving her through the green room doors. Her eyes afire, she hissed, “And never shall Colgate be mentioned again.”
The stylist pushed Sandy into a chair and began to powder her face. Meanwhile, a calm voice lofted an inner mantra, “I am Sandy Champion.” And gradually Sandy’s shaking subsided.
When Sandy emerged from the prep room, she wore a neat, powder blue top, and her make-up and hair were competently styled. Margot, pacing the hall, approved. As they hurried toward the studio, Margot handed Sandy the pages that she would be reading from the teleprompter.
“You will start right in with our report on Candace, the copy should come shortly,” said Margot. “And then we’ll roll her Death Reel.”
Sandy slowed, raising her eyes from the papers. A fresh confidence filled her voice. “Can’t we rename that?”
“What do you suggest?” asked Margot.
“AutoBio Reel,” said Sandy.
“Done.”
They passed the open door of an office that could have been a closet. Inside, a plain faced girl was saying to herself, “Amazing aardvarks blow balloon crowns carelessly—”
“Was that Becky?” asked Sandy, still bounding down the hall.
“She’ll chair the 11 o’clock tonight,” said Margot. “Want to say hello?”
“No need,” said Sandy with a wisp of a smile.
Inside the studio, Margot led Sandy to the shadowy perimeter. Joe, the cameraman, huddling behind his equipment, waved a listless greeting that went ignored.
Margot faced Sandy. “This is your time,” she said, as her careful fingers flattened Sandy’s lapel. “Now is your chance to bring the truth to the people, just like you planned.”
“Truth, lies——doesn’t matter, as long as I’m telling it,” said Sandy.
Margot caressed Sandy’s cheek and said, “You will be amazing.” She stepped back to asses Sandy in full and slapped her palms together with a satisfied crack. She asked, “Do you need a moment to call Barry and Shirley Wotzitski about your big debut?”
“Who are they?” asked Sandy, twinkling, and she crossed the studio floor to claim her throne.
Meanwhile, in the station’s parking lot, policeman crowded to inspect the damage on Sandy’s bumper.