​ 
Do I look like a rapist or something? I stroke my mustache, which I trimmed earlier this morning. Maybe I should have just shaved it off--headlights! A Prius is approaching from up the road. I hold my sign up and try to steady my hands so the driver can read it clearly. The hybrid vehicle slows as it grows nearer to me. I smile, and the driver squints as she tries to read my sign. Eventually, she chuckles and smiles back at me before pulling away.  Disheartened, I watch her drive a little farther up the road and pick up a different hitchhiker whose sign reads Denver, a city that’s one hundred and fifteen miles away. I scoff, I’m not asking nearly as much and yet she’s the seventeenth driver to pass me up today. Dammit, what am I doing wrong? I step outside of myself for a moment to assess my situation. I’m wearing an all-black suit, black undershirt, black dress pants, and classic oxford shoes - which are also black. People may be having trouble seeing me but I doubt it. I chose a bright red tie to help get spotted. A semi-truck barrels past, clearly going over the speed limit. The gush of wind that lags behind it hits me and brings me crashing back to reality… It has to be the mustache.
The little hand on my watch rounds eleven for the third time since my wait out here began. I sigh as a minivan with a crack in the front window drives past me before stopping roughly a quarter of a mile past my section of the road. The minivans back door slides open and I watch an older woman and a child I assume to be the woman’s daughter climb in. Before the door slides shut the woman tosses her sign on the side of the road. The door then shuts, and the minivan sluggishly accelerates away. I walk over to the section of the road now littered by this woman’s sign. It reads Newcastle. 220 miles away, far too much to ask of someone.
The sound of obnoxiously loud music gets me to turn back towards the road. A young man in a Mustang that was clearly handed down to him sits, parked, with his window down. He stares at me, the familiar tune of AC/DC’s “Highway to Hell” straining his vehicles speakers in the background. “Where you trying to go?” he asks, trying his best to achieve a decibel higher than that of the music. I hold up my sign. He reads it and breaks out into hysterics. Between laughs, he mutters, “Yeah… right!” and then revs his engine before speeding away. I suppose, given the context, it was kind of funny.
A coyote howls, the sound emitting from a distance that would be far too close for comfort were I anyone else, but I didn’t care. I had been staring at the silhouette of the driver of this Mitsubishi Chariot since the little hand on my watch struck midnight ten minutes ago. He had driven past at first but had slammed on his brakes and reversed to me after I held up my sign. I’ve been trying to hold it steady for him but after eight minutes my arms began to get shaky. “Please.” I whisper to the driver, knowing he can’t hear me, “I’m so tired...” The car begins to move and my heart sinks as I expect him to pull away, yet to my pleasant surprise he does half of a three-point-turn which has now positioned him directly in front of me. His headlights now shining directly on me, rather than on the road. He revs his engine, and I extend my thumb. He begins driving straight for me, the light coming from the Chariot enveloping me as he speeds closer. Finally, I was beginning to think I had misspelled Heaven.
 

The raven-haired, hotel clerk picked up my passport, and flipped it open. She glanced at the photo then back at my face, then at the Cuban Visa. The Visa was a removable paper on the second page. Convenient for me, a US citizen who’d entered the country, via Belize, without first getting permission from the State Department.
She tapped a few keys on her computer. “Your room is ready, Mr. Crain,” she said in English. “I see that you signed up for the five day scuba package. They meet at the dock behind the hotel at eight every morning.”
            “Thank you. It’s late. I’m going to sleep right away. Can you give me a wakeup call at seven in the morning?”
“Yes, sir.”
I followed the bellman and my gym bag to my room on the first floor. Once inside, I handed him a US dollar. He seemed happy when he left, closing the door behind himself.
I dumped out my gym bag on the bed. Among the jumble of clothes were two small bottles. Two drops in one ear and a spray in my throat. In moments, my tongue burned. They said that if I repeated this daily, the tissue would become inflamed.
The next morning I walked out the hotel’s back door, across the wide sunlit lawn to the dock jutting into the sea. Seven people in shorts and T-shirts were already waiting. One with a black shirt on which ‘Dive Master’ was printed, smiled at my approach.
“Woke up with a sore throat,” I croaked out.
A middle-aged blond guy stepped forward and said in English, “I’m a physician. May I see?”
I opened wide.
One quick look, and he said, “You can’t dive today.  Better see the hotel doctor.”
The dive master nodded. “Sorry, Sir. Maybe tomorrow.”
The doctor shook his head. “At least a week.”
The hotel doctor ushered me into her office just off the lobby. She looked into my ears and throat and nose with an Otoscope.
“Your throat and right ear are inflamed, possibly an allergy, or a virus.” She handed me a small box of pills. “Take one of these every four hours, and rest. Definitely, no diving. In three days if it isn’t any better, come back and see me.”
I went directly to the hotel Concierge and dropped my Cuban airlines ticket on his desk.
“I need to change this reservation. Can you get me on a flight to Belize tomorrow?” My voice cracked.
He was able to get me on a seat on the next day’s afternoon flight.
I had a smoothie for breakfast. The cold pureed fruit felt good on my raw throat.  Then I went for a walk on the streets of Havana. It was fun strolling through this lovely old city, and the reconnoiter accomplished two tasks. I found locations with features, which would be useful later. Also, I got to watch the body language of Cubans in this city. Even from a distance, street vendors can identify a foreigner. The differences are subtle but real.
By the time I got back to my hotel, the sun had slid behind buildings and the city’s lights were coming on. I emptied the two bottles of irritant into the sink, washed them out, and lay on the bed. It seemed like moments later that the morning sun flooded the room. My throat and ear were almost healed and I was hungry.
I put on a dark blue, loose fitting long sleeve shirt and tan cotton trousers, and slipped on a battered pair of gray sneakers. Now, I was dressed like most men in Havana.
In moments, I was seated in the hotel cafeteria. It was almost empty except for a few tourists, recognisable by their plumpness as compared to most Cubans, and of course cameras dangling from straps around their necks.
A German couple and their two children were at the next table. When the waiter approached, I ordered what they were having. After a nice meal of coffee, scrambled eggs, two sausages and toast, I paid for the breakfast and went into the lobby and sat on a couch pretending to enjoy reading a paper I found there.  My real goal was to detect if anyone had followed me. People came and went with no hangers on. While in Cuba, if you are an American, it’s reasonable to assume someone is always watching.
I ambled down a wide hall, and looked at paintings and photos displayed on the wall between the doors to the conference rooms.  Two men were doing that same thing. They could be my tail. The hall, which I reconnoitred the day before, took a ninety-degree turn and a few feet further were the restrooms, and an unmarked door which lead to the outside loading dock.
A glance back, they hadn’t turned the corner yet, so I ducked out to the loading dock and walked down the street. To appear more like a local, my stride was shorter and I didn’t swivel my head, or swing my arms much.
Another block and I entered a narrow alley, and looked back. They didn’t seem to have followed. Two blocks later, I stopped at a three-story apartment house, went in, walked down a dark hall and knocked on a wood door.
Someone inside the apartment said in Spanish, “Who is there?”
“Manuel Garcia sent me,” I replied in Spanish.
A very old man, barely five feet tall, opened the door a crack. “My son sent you?”
In English I said, “He is my neighbour in Miami and a friend. He asked me to look you up when I got to Havana.”  
His deeply wrinkled, ninety-seven year old face contorted into a lopsided smile. “Manuel is well?” he said in English. The door opened wider. “Please, come in.”
We sat across from each other at a ragged wicker table on which sat two glasses of tepid water. I’d already refused coffee. I noticed the fragrance of a cigar.
“Mr. Garcia, your son told me about your misfortune in 1958.”
“I have not spoken about that in sixty-years.”
Six months ago, over drinks in a Miami bar, his son told me that his father had been one of General Batista’s pilots. Everyone thought the pilot died when the plane disappeared over the Caribbean Sea. The plane sunk in three hundred feet of water. This man, wearing a cork and canvas life vest, barely made it to shore. Because the Communists put a price on his head, he hid in the jungle for ten years. Meanwhile, his wife and young son escaped to Miami.
I laid a dozen photos and a three-page letter on the table. “These are pictures of your son’s family. You have four grand children.”
The old man’s hands shook as he picked up the photos and held them close to his thick-lensed glasses. He wiped tears from his eyes and read the letter, then gently laid it down.
 “They called me a counter-revolutionary criminal. Now I am so old, they leave me alone.”
I placed my cell phone on the table and touched an icon. The app would make electronic eavesdropping almost impossible.
“Mr. Garcia, your son told me there was valuable cargo on the crashed plane.”
“Did my wife have a good life? I know she passed away years ago.”
“Yes. She loved the grandchildren and your son’s spouse and they loved her. She went to God in her sleep at eighty years old.”
It’s uncomfortable to see an ancient man cry, but this was a special occasion.
“The cargo?” I said.
“Furniture and one hundred twenty-five kilos of gold bars,” he whispered. “I hoped my son could retrieve them someday.”
“His letter and photos are only part of why he asked me to visit you. He said you might have the coordinates to the location of the plane.”
He smiled. “Of course, I am a trained pilot and navigator.” 
He pointed to a framed photograph of Fidel Castro hanging on the wall. “Bring that to me.”
When I handed it to him, he took the frame apart. On the back of the photograph were ten columns of hand written numbers.
He laughed softly. “The fifth column is the coordinate. The gold has waited there for General Batista since 1958. But he is gone now. It is fitting that my son has it.”
I went back to my hotel, and entered through the loading dock as I’d left. I’d been gone for less than an hour. While finishing coffee and apple pie in the cafeteria, I noticed the two guys who had followed me earlier. They probably thought I had never left the hotel. Time to go home.
On the flight back to Belize, a sunburned American sitting next to me said, “Pleasure Trip?”
“Yes. Scuba diving. In a few months, I’ll rent a boat and come back.”
END

Jesus Carrillo-Alonzo is a Venezuelan student from Full Sail University. He is right now studying his second degree in Creative Writing, after already graduating from Computer Animation. He is proficient in the Office programs like Microsoft Word and PowerPoint, in animation programs such as Maya and Z-Brush and editing programs such as Adobe Photoshop and Adobe Illustrator. He is an avid writer and story board artist, who works towards the creation of several animated films. He has worked alongside fellow students in the creation of short films and animation projects, in the writing and pre-production area. His contact information is (484) 986-8990 and carrillojesus810@gmail.com. You can find him on on Twitter @Shuva9744 and on LinkedIn as Jesus Carrillo-Alonzo.
 

​Paul was finishing his morning coffee when a big sound came from the door. Immediately, Paul got up and took the gun that he always had by himself and pointed it at the front of his house. He saw a quick shadow running through the window, but he couldn’t see exactly who he or she was. He started moving slowly and carefully to the door, with the gun up, he didn’t want to make a sudden move because he didn’t know if somebody was waiting for him outside. He opened the door little by little, and saw a little box a few inches in front of him, presumably there because of the strength it was thrown against the house. He quickly took the box and came right back to the inside of the house. With his heart pounding, Paul ran to the kitchen and opened the box, just to see that he had received one of the worst messages a policeman could receive. Inside the box there was a hand with a really nice watch on it, without the thumb and with a note under it. Paul immediately knew what this was all about, but he decided to read the note first: “I’m out,” Paul said .
Suddenly, all that surrounded Paul became blurry, and he started to relive the exact moments of three months ago, the crying, the chases, the Madman with the gun and the knife, his signature, the broken families, everything. Paul, was one of the heroic policeman that finally catched the Madman, a serial killer that terrorized the city for almost a year. The Madman killed almost 25 people in that year, and always with the same operandi, killing with the gun, cutting the hand and leaving it without a thumb, and taking the rest of the body and throwing it into the sea. It was a gruesome serial killer, and it was a battle for the police department to catch him over three months ago. Paul came back from the daze and look into the hand again, this time focusing on the watch that it had. He saw that the watch in the hand was the same exact same one that the Chief of Police had, so he assumed the worst, and with the head spinning, he didn’t notice that the phone was ringing.
“Hello?” Paul answered.
“Paul, is that you?” a woman responded.
“Yes, Sharon, it’s me.”
“Paul, I have terrible news, the Chief is dead,” Sharon said, sobbing.
“Yes, I know. He sent me his hand in a damn box. Now, he’s after me.” 
“What?! Paul, get out of there! Come to the station as fast as you can. You’ll be safe here.”
“I think I have to do this alone, is long time due this encounter, we need to see who kills who once and for all,” Paul said determined.
“Don’t say crazy things, Paul! He is one of the most dangerous serial killers in history, you can’t do this alone!” Sharon said, sobbing even more.
“Sorry, Sharon, I have to go now, don’t worry it would be fine.”
“But….”
“Bye.” Paul shut the phone as fast as he can because he heard how the key lock from the front door was being forced. He took the gun and pointed it to the door. When the lock cave in, man came in, with a knife in one hand and a gun in the other one. He looked taller and even more menacing that from three months ago.
“Hi, Pauly, long time right?” the Madman said with a deep voice.
“Hi, Tom.”
“You know this the end right? Either you or me die today, but only one is coming out of here.”
“Yes, I know,” Paul said with fear.
“Well, bye my dear friend.”
The Madman throw himself into Paul, that with the surprise of this sudden movement, couldn’t aim the gun well and the shot flew just a little centimeters away from Tom’s forehead. Paul ran and slide down the kitchen floor, still shooting to the nowhere, but shooting expecting to keep the Madman away from him. Tom laid down in the floor, and crawled to hide behind the couch in the living room next to the kitchen. He started shooting to the table, but with such poor sight from the living room, the shots didn’t come near the policeman. Paul knew that time, that to end finally with the Madman, he had to leave the good position that he had, and with a lot of courage, while the Madman was still shooting, he stood up and started shooting back to the couch. When he was a few steps away from the living room, dodging as fast as he could all of the bullets, the Madman stood up and fired, as well as Paul. The room became dark, but in a few seconds the colors and the light came back to Paul’s eyes. He noticed a great pain in his stomach, but with what little strength he had left, he saw the big body of the Madman in the floor, dead. With a sigh of relief, Paul closed his eyes, hoping that the sirens  arrived quickly to save him.        
 
 
 

Brian wrote a few short stories while in college and immediately after graduation put the pen down. He promised himself that he would resume writing some day in the future never believing that day would ever come. The day arrived in 2006, thirty years after graduation, when he began writing short stories about art, refugees, and marriage among other topics. When not writing fiction, Brian spends his time hiking in New Hampshire's White Mountains, playing guitar, and volunteering as a grant writer at local non-profit organizations.

​“Did you set the alarm, dear?” asked Martha, making sure the house was safe.
“I did. I always do. You don’t have to ask.”
“Just checking. That’s all. Let’s take the Mercedes. I’ll drive. I think you’re too excited to drive.”
“Okay. I guess you’re right, but only if you promise to move along. I’m already late.”
“They won’t start without you. You’re the main attraction.” She said trying to allay his worries. It’s just down the road; only one traffic light to go through.
“Okay, dear. We’re off and running. Buckle up.”
“Just move along, Martha, okay?” Frank said with angst in his tone.
“I should have drove. We won’t get there until next month.” He said almost under his breath, but loud enough for Martha to hear.
She winced. “The traffic is light. I’m doing the speed limit.”
“Okay. Okay. Sorry. But you don’t have to drive the speed limit you know. There are no cops around. St. Peter’s not watching.”
“You don’t have to set on me. It’s not my fault you’re late. Look, we’re almost at the traffic light. It’s just ahead.”
“Just drive.” He scolded, shaking his head and looking out the windshield.
“Martha, look at those dirty, wretched can people over there taking cans out of that bin next to the post office. There’s no hope for mankind. None what-so-ever. Why do they always wear sweats? Don’t they know how they look?”
As they approached the red light, she slowed the Mercedes to a stop and watched the can people out of the corner of her eye. “Dear, look. They’re putting cans into the bin, not taking them out. It’s a fund raiser. The sign says Donate to MS.”
Martha watched them for a few seconds. The man emptied a trash bag full of cans into the bin, while the woman reached into the back of the pickup truck to grab another bag. He balled-up his empty trash bag and hook-shot it into the back of the pickup.
“Martha! Come on! Hit the gas; run the red light. There are no cops around. Come-on!”
Martha blocked-out his demand, and watched the can people. The can man turned, and put his hand on the woman’s back. She pulled the bag of cans to her and looked up at the man. She puckered. He kissed her and held her for a second. She beamed at him.
Frank banged his fist on the dashboard. “Come-on come-on come-on! Let’s go, Martha. Why are you watching those wretched, lost people? Let’s go! You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you. Go go go!”
Martha shook her head and uttered under her breath, “Oh, for such a kiss as that!”
“I don’t know why I put up with this,” he barked. “Why do I do it?”
“Take a deep breath, Frank. The yacht club can wait for their commodore. They’re all drinking anyway. You don’t want to be agitated when you give your speech. Breathe easy, dear.”

​"A ship?"
"No."
"Another lighthouse?"
"No."
Then what? Surely not. The island was uninhabited. "Another - person?" 
"No."
But this "no" was different. As though he was intoning a "yes". I was very aware that he was avoiding eye contact. Outside, the rain got heavier. The window pane rattled.
"Don't want to tell me where the reply comes from, do you, Mack?"
Mack said nothing. Looked out into the fog. Not looking at me.

When the Fog Horn finally sounded, this fragment of conversation was still going around my head. Mack and I been drinking since early this morning, when we were both very probably also still drunk from the night before, but when the Fog Horn finally sounded I was already half—sober because of the memory of this particular exchange. Rain carried on pelting the window, the loud music kept on playing, and it seemed as if I alone had been affected by that extraordinary sound.

The Fog Horn. A drawn-out, lingering, broken sound. 

And when the reply did come, as the Monosyllabic Mack had given me the half-impression it would (which was about as much as anyone would ever get out of the stoic old sod), I could but stand and stare out at the grey and try to picture what thing could make a sound so empty.

I feel now that at that point, some part of me actually already knew where the reply was coming from. This notion just popped into my mind no reasoning involved, as would the words "copious amounts of alcohol" when writing a list of things Mack and I would pack for a weekend in a lighthouse on this remote Scottish island. My head hurt.

Standing there, looking out at the lashing rain, Mack lying on the sleeping bag next to his breakfast, my mind in its search for answers went back to the previous night. 

We started off with with a bottle of Faustino and a few sloppy games of Starcraft 2, broke off for a smoke and ended up in a stupid argument which started about my recent renouncing of Catholicism and ended up about the lack of phone signal on the island. Mack likes to make a big show of saying "three's a crowd" and turn his phone off when we're together. Apparently it's a big deal for him. Fine. I get that he doesn't like me messaging other people while I'm with him, but I don't get at all why I can't have my phone on in case people want to contact me. Micro-cheating, he calls it. Angry, I called him a misanthrope. We opened the Laphroaig and decided to play best of fifteen to settle the argument. When I messaged him from my room at about 4.30am to call his Zerglings pitiful and there was no reply, I went to find him asleep with his head on the keyboard. 

His screen showed a large horned Ultralisk standing in the middle of a lake of grey ooze, entirely cut off from its kind, awaiting instructions from an overseer that it had unknowingly been disconnected from while the world around it warred on. I remember standing there, feeling the most peculiar kind of empathy towards the monster, this clutch of pixels, no more substantial than the fog that now swirled outside, no more real than the sound of the Fog Horn, like I understood it in a way that I would never understand Mack. 

The Fog Horn came again. Moments passed. Feeling like an actor, I performed a prelude to action by knocking back the rest of the Special Brew I was holding, crushed the can, did a sort of drunken pirouette, threw it overhead across the room where it clattered onto the pile of cans in the corner near the sink. Great. Then stood there uncertain. Moved. Doubted. Stopped. Shuffled over to the stairs. Hardly knew what I was doing. Opened the door. Went upstairs. Needed the handrail. Went to the panel near the window. Opened it. Cold. Two rows of buttons. A red one and a green one to one side. Lifted hand. Pressed the red button. Turned off the Fog Horn. Waited a while. Nothing happened. My breath made clouds out on the stairwell. I relaxed a little. Nothing happened.

And then something did happen. Something extremely big and extremely heavy hit the building and made a huge noise and made everything shake and I cowered down in the corner of the stairwell. Embarrassed as I feel, I will admit that I stayed there in that position without moving until the raging and braying and banging eventually stopped. As I sat there, huddled and screaming, I thought of the Ultralisk. Stupid as it might sound, it was hard to maintain focus on anything else. As though my brain was not going to permit me to think about anything more complex or demanding than that daft wee monster sprite. It felt like days. Banged and clashed and roared. When I next moved, my muscles felt entirely unaccustomed to movement, felt brittle. I had soiled myself.

Never been so glad to get on a boat. As we drove away from Skerryvore on the rescue boat, I got the impression that the tall, scabby-faced boat captain lived alone. Made up for things by talking to anyone he could find willing to listen. Tried hard to make conversation. Kept talking. Had all these theories about the hidden powers of the seas. 

I was done with talking. Mack and I staring out either side of the boat. My phone started to ring yet again but I hadn't even taken it out of my pocket that morning, even to let my friends and family know I was safe. We looked out at the slick grey expanse stretched out around us, neither looking towards where we were going nor where we had come from, while the rubble-strewn island grew smaller in the hazy distance.

​Keith Burkholder has been published in Creative Juices, Sol Magazine, Trellis Magazine, Foliate Oak Literary Journal, New Delta Review, Poetry Quarterly, Scarlet Leaf Review, and Birmingham Arts Journal.  He has a bachelor's degree in statistics with a minor in mathematics from SUNY at Buffalo (UB).

   Connor doesn’t believe in God.  However, last night he had a great dream about heaven in his mind.
                The dream felt so real to him and it made him feel amazing.  The dream lasted for about an hour.  At least it felt that way to him.
                Connor dreams a lot and loves to dream in general.  When he is alone in his bedroom he daydreams to himself to clear his mind.
                Heaven can be envisioned differently by different people.  When people hear the word heaven, they usually think of a peaceful place.  They think of clouds, maybe harps, and even angels in the mixture.
                Connor’s dream of heaven made him even smile to himself.  He felt as though he was in heaven with angels.
                Heaven is a place that is either believable or not.  Connor is an atheist, but really couldn’t understand how heaven was in his mind in this dream.
                He will leave the dream as it was.  However, he couldn’t understand why it felt so real and genuine to him.
                He dreamt he was sleeping on a cloud and had no distractions in his life.  This is just how it was for him in this dream.
                This dream was also a real escape for him.  Connor has had a rough week at work.  There have been so many deadlines he has had to reach.
                His boss has been so demanding, and this dream let out a release in his mind.  He was happy this took place for him.
                The mind is a unique organ.  In this case, it was truly this way and the dream was something he will never forget.
                Dreams can make people happy or even scared stiff.  In this case, it was a total escape and it brought happiness to him.
                Connor believes his dreams will always be unique in nature.  That is the mystery of a dream.  They come and go in one’s life.
                Connor wonders what dreams he will have in the future.  They are hard to really predict, but he feels they will still be unique in their own way.
                His dreams are really his own business.  He has never discussed them with people.  He has tried analyzing some of his dreams, but they are history once they leave his mind.
                This is how dreams are.  Enjoy dreams all that you can.  They can have meaning or just figments of one’s imagination.  This may have been the case for Connor.  As time passes, enjoy how they affect you or make you happy.  For these are dreams and their mystique will live on.
 ​

​At ten years old, Ryan Thorpe was a master of illusion.  With fast hands and a contagious smile, the budding magician could easily amaze anyone.  The magic act had given Ryan a new identity, a way to connect with people.  His mother often said that it made his shyness disappear.  Ryan was now a star attraction at birthday parties, performing for small but enthusiastic audiences.  Everyone was dazzled as the magician made pencils levitate and handkerchiefs knot themselves together.
He could not wait to perform at the church talent show next Saturday afternoon.  With more than one hundred people watching, it would be his largest audience to date.  The magician spent countless hours practicing for this momentous event, possibly the most important day of his life.  His mother was continually amazed at his dedication, wishing only that Ryan would give the same attention to his homework.  He wanted to wave his wand and make his homework disappear, but that was one power he did not have.
Ryan also did not have the power to make the unpaid bills disappear.  A magician never reveals his secrets, and Ryan was hoping that nobody in school would learn about his mother’s growing debts.  Yet, when he attended school in thrift shop attire, the truth was difficult to hide.   Bullies Keith and Scott showed up Monday morning on their flashy new bikes, and Ryan could tell from the smirks on their faces that trouble was brewing.
          “I hear that you make coins appear out of nowhere,” said Scott.  “What about dollars?  Can you make those appear, too?”
          “Your mom can’t pay the bills,” said Keith.  “Why don’t you conjure up money for her?  Don’t you want to help her out?”  Keith and Scott continued to pester Ryan about paying the bills with magic.  He tried his best to ignore them, but it was not so easy.
“Hey, Ryan, I know why you can’t conjure up money,” said Keith.  “It’s because you don’t have any real power.  You’re a phony.”
          “Is that true, Ryan?” asked Scott.  “Is it all phony magic?”  Before Ryan knew it, Keith and Scott had devised a brand new chant.  “Phony Ryan.  Phony Ryan.”  Their friend Josh joined them as they repeated those words over and over again.  Ryan had never felt so furious.  He could not wait for school to end so he could get away from those jerks.  Nobody would be able to bother Ryan in the peace and quiet of his home but, even when he was alone in his bedroom, the words continued to echo in his head.
          Ryan tried to practice for the talent show, only it was becoming harder to focus.  “Phony Ryan.  Phony Ryan.”  The voices of his enemies remained quite vivid.  Ryan wished that he could wave his wand and make Keith and the others disappear, but that was not possible.  The ten-year-old knew that he would be facing Keith and the gang again tomorrow.  Ryan would be facing them every day at school until the talent show.
He tried to clear his mind of painful thoughts and kept reminding himself that his act was already a proven success.  Ryan recalled performing at one party where half the audience did not know English.  It was barely an obstacle for Ryan, as magic was his language.  Some children wanted to try on Ryan’s top hat, thinking it would give them magical powers.  Suppose they found out that the hat was a prop?  “Phony Ryan.  Phony Ryan.”  Those dreadful words crept back into Ryan’s head again.  There must be some way to remove them.  The magician hated his classmates with such passion.  Two years ago, Ryan had suffered severe pain after breaking his leg in a bicycle accident.  He wished he could wave his wand and inflict that same pain on Keith and his gang.
 
It was Friday afternoon, one day before the talent show.  “Phony Ryan.  Phony Ryan.”  Those words were still lodged in Ryan’s head.  The magician had been fighting a losing battle with anxiety.  How many people in the audience would see him as a fake?  More than ever, Ryan wished he had real magical powers and did not need to rely on tricks.  He was on his way to his room when his mother pulled him aside.  She was probably going to remind him about his homework.
          “Ryan, is everything okay?” Mom asked.
          “Everything is fine.”
          “No, everything is not,” Mom replied.  “I’ve been watching you these past few days and I can tell when something is wrong.”
          “Nothing is wrong,” said Ryan.
          “Do you know what I enjoy most about your magic act?  I enjoy that great big smile, but this week, I’ve been watching that smile disappear.  I know that something is wrong.”  Ryan took a deep breath.  He wished his mother would leave him alone.
“Are Keith and Scott bothering you again?” she asked.  “If anyone is bothering you, I need to know . . .”
“Nobody is bothering me!”
“Are you sure?”
          “Yes, I am sure.  I just wish we had more money.”
          “I know, Ryan,” Mom replied.  “I know it’s been hard.   Just remember, we’re not the only people struggling right now.  Our country is going through a rough time and many people are unemployed . . .”
          “When will the jobs be coming back?”
          “I don’t know, Ryan.  I don’t think anyone knows.  But our country has gone through rough times before.  Remember, your grandparents had to live through the Great Depression.  It was worse than this, but America recovered and the jobs came back.  You need to be patient and have faith.”  Ryan wanted so much to have faith, but it was becoming harder each day.  Money was becoming increasingly scarce, and now his mother was struggling to pay for groceries.  Ryan wondered if they might be eating in a soup kitchen soon.  The very thought made him tremble.  If people saw him at the soup kitchen, they would know that he was a charity case and had no real magic.  Ryan could forget his whole future as a magician.
          That night, Ryan dreamed that he was a superstar performing before thousands and thousands of people.  He was able to saw people in half and walk through concrete walls, although the audience was unimpressed.  Everyone was shouting, “Phony Ryan.  Phony Ryan.”  It seemed as if the world had nothing better to do than heckle him.  Their yelling was so loud that it almost made the magician deaf, but it was soon drowned out by the ringing of his alarm clock.  Ryan woke up to the morning sunlight, relieved that it was all a nightmare.  But could this nightmare become a reality?  In a few hours, the magician was expected at the church to prepare for the talent show.  He had never felt so terrified before.  Ryan was not sure if he would be able to perform.
          Mom kept telling Ryan at breakfast that he had nothing to worry about.  She insisted that his act would be a huge success but that he needed to smile.  What would it take to bring that smile back?  The magician donned his top hat and looked at himself in the mirror.  He always looked so sharp in that hat.  Before Ryan knew it, it was time to leave for the church.
          “I can’t remember the last time I’ve been this excited,” Mom said.  “You never know who might be in the audience . . . Ryan, why are you standing there?  It’s time to get in the car.”
          “Yes, I know,” Ryan replied.  “Just give me a moment . . .” The magician wanted so much to get into the car, but this one simple action had suddenly become impossible.  “Phony Ryan.  Phony Ryan.”  He was breathing very hard.
          “Ryan, are you okay?”
          “I can’t go on,” said Ryan.
          “Yes, you can . . . you’re going to be the star of the show . . .”
          “I’m not doing the show!”  The magician went to his room and removed his top hat.  All those hours of hard work and practice had gone to waste.
 
Ryan and his mother were having their first dinner at the soup kitchen.  It was such a crowded place.  The ten-year-old could not believe how many people were out of work.  Since missing the talent show last week, he had not touched any of his tricks.  Ryan was no longer going to waste his time pretending he was a magician.  So many families were struggling to get food on the table, and phony magic was not going to help them.
Ryan was finishing up his meatloaf when he felt someone grabbing his arm.  He recognized the culprit as six-year-old Michael.  The last time Ryan performed at a party, Michael had been sitting only a few inches away.
          “Are you Ryan the magician?” asked Michael.
          “Yes.”
          “Can you perform some magic for us?”  Ryan took a deep breath.  “Can we see some magic?” Michael asked again.  “Please!”
          “I’m really busy right now . . . I’m sorry.”  A look of sadness emerged on Michael’s face as he walked away.  It was quite a large frown and would keep Ryan awake all during the night.  He had never imagined that he could hurt someone so much with a few simple words.  Why was he so cold towards Michael?  What should he have said?  How could he explain to Michael that he was no longer a magician?  These questions continued to torment Ryan hour after hour.
          Ryan remembered the birthday party where he first met Michael.  The six-year-old was not much of a talker, but his gigantic smile was hard to forget.  As Ryan remained a prisoner of insomnia, he could not help but feel a longing to see that smile again.  Perhaps he could entertain Michael with a few magic tricks, but where could he go to perform for Michael?  The soup kitchen was definitely not a good venue.  People there would see Ryan as a charity case, not a magician.  Ryan kept telling himself that Michael still saw him as a magician and that was all that mattered.
         
          The next evening, Ryan showed up at the soup kitchen wearing his top hat and carrying a bag of tricks.  The crowd was larger than yesterday, but he had no trouble spotting Michael eating with his family.  As Ryan was walking over, someone else caught his eye.  Keith was eating with his parents only a few tables away.  The magician had never expected to see him at the soup kitchen.  “Phony Ryan.  Phony Ryan.”  Those terrible words were in Ryan’s head again, but he must not let them take over.  Magicians must always be stronger than bullies.  Ryan took one last look at Keith but quickly shifted his eyes back towards Michael.
          “Ryan the magician reporting for duty,” he said.
          “You’re wearing your hat today!” replied Michael.  “Dad said that you couldn’t perform yesterday because you didn’t have your hat.”
          “Your Dad was right.  But now I have my hat, my wand, and my bag of enchantment.  If you can just follow me to the corner there, the show is about to start!”
          Michael and his friends watched with amazement as Ryan performed one incredible feat after another.  Before long, other people from the soup kitchen were gathering around to watch.  They were all mesmerized as Ryan made pencils levitate and handkerchiefs knot themselves together.  Ryan himself was amazed at how quickly his audience grew.  He wondered if Keith was watching but did not see him in the crowd.  Instead, all that the magician could see were many families exhibiting enormous smiles.  He never imagined that he would be the star attraction at a soup kitchen, but the reason was becoming very clear.  Ryan had the power to spread joy, and that was certainly no illusion.

​ 
The heat was the worst of it by far.
 
That was the one thing Ashley kept thinking about. Sure, it wasn’t the only thing bothering her; there was the hard, wooden floor she’d been sitting on for hours, and the grumbling in her stomach. There was the awful music the driver liked to play. Seriously, the Worst country music she’d ever heard in her life. Can’t a stowaway sneak a ride in peace? She wanted to say. And maybe, just maybe worse than the heat, she sometimes thought, was the backpack full of water she couldn’t take her eyes off of.
No, she told herself, growling a little for emphasis as she got up and shifted once more. Thank whoever was out there for the ventilation shaft at the top of this damn thing; she’d probably have died of heat stroke if not for the little draft of air it provided. (and once again, a voice in the back of her mind chided her for sneaking into the trailer without checking for one first; stupid, stupid, stupid!) But man, would it hurt if she could get just a little more breeze from it?
As she pushed herself up, Ashley took in the mess of furniture she found herself trapped with; mattresses, chairs, drawers and boxes. Lots of boxes. There has to be a softer place to sit and still get a breeze. C’mon, Ash. The mattresses were propped up on their side, too high and too slim; no help there. The chairs were comfy but tucked in a sweltering corner of the box. Her mind went back to the backpack, and the 6-pack of water bottles she’d kept in it. Just a sip and she’d… NO!
With another burst of anger, she pushed herself away and started making her way through the maze before her. Once again, the voice in her head berated her for already going through half of one of the bottles, and the day wasn’t even over yet! Who knows how long the trip would last? She might be stuck in here for days! A short spike of fear gripped her. She had enough food for a week, if she starved herself to one meal a day. She knew she could handle that. A short period of nearly anorexic dieting she’d tried in the past proved it, though she wasn’t looking forward to it again at all. Surely the trip couldn’t last more than that. Right?
She needed to distract herself. Muscling her way past the mattresses and boxes, Ash came close to an office desk that was strapped between the beds and some metal toolbox. With a sigh she felt her hair move a little. The breeze was stronger in this spot, but there wasn’t anywhere to sit unless she plopped herself on the table. When she first snuck in she hadn’t wanted to risk it breaking if it proved fragile, but now she was definitely reconsidering.
Then, something new caught her eye. One of the drawers built into the desk had come loose. She wondered, hadn’t they all been locked? But she didn’t wonder long; she was bored, thirsty, hot, and scared. Anything to take her mind off of those things would help, so she bent over and started trying to force the drawer open enough to see what was in it.
It was hard; there wasn’t much room between it and the mattress, and she couldn’t push the whole desk the other way to make additional space, so Ash had to elbow the mattress as hard as she could to make just enough room for a few more inches. Once she’d done that, she brushed her hair back and leaned over.
Let’s see here... a stapler. Ugh, please don’t just be office supplies. Umm, I see a box of pens, pencils, some sticky notes. Nope. There’s, oh, is that a phone?! No, wait, that’s just a calculator. Shit, looks like there’s nothing in here. Come on…. Oh, oh! Is that… what the?
There was a small package at the back of the drawer. A short struggle later, and it was out and in her hand. To Ash’s eye, it looked like a box of playing cards, only with a huge eye inside a pyramid pictured on the front instead of a spade or whatever. No words either to say what was in it.
Weird, she thought, opening it up and sliding the cards inside out. Yes, these were not ordinary playing cards. On each of them were pictures, of a cup, of a lady, of two ladies, of some guy with a sword. After a few moments staring at them, she suddenly remembered what she was looking at.
Tarot cards. Like in that Robert Downey Jr. movie I saw. Old fortune-telling. Tilting the rest of the box out into her hand, a folded piece of laminated paper came out as well. She placed the cards on the desk and opened it. At the top of unfurled sheet was the title, A Quick Guide to Tarot Reading. There, in what looked like microscopic print, was more info about how to predict the future with a bunch of pretty pieces of cardboard than she’d ever wanted to know.
Now it wasn’t like Ash was ever into all this hocus pocus occult stuff. Nor that she really liked reading and learning all that much. But as she looked at all the cards listed and started reading what each of them meant, the water bottles lying back in the car faded further and further from her mind. Before she knew it, she was sitting cross-legged on the desk, the cards waiting beside her as she squinted at the page.
Just a few months ago, Ash had been going to school, skipping class with her friends. A few months ago, she’d been pleading and screaming at her dad. Crazy how fast things could change, wasn’t it?
 
Is this the biggest mistake of my life, or the best idea I’ve ever had? Where do I even go from here? … well, I’m not going back now. Not for just a bottle of water. So tell me, big fancy mystic forces of the universe. What happens next?
She drew her first card.

Eamonn Mckeon is an English Literature student at the University of Warwick, UK. He's fantasized about writing eerie and weird fiction since discovering the likes of Stephen King and H.P. Lovecraft during his school years, though he's never completed a short story until now! When he's not thinking about writing stories, he spends his time boxing, exercising, and putting off Uni work. He hopes this is the first of many stories to come, and cannot feel grateful enough to be featured.

​1
 
Scruffy was the nicest dog you ever saw. He was also one of the cleanest and most well-groomed, in spite of the name. He was a border collie cross - what he was crossed with I can’t tell you, but whatever it was certainly helped balance the boundless energy associated with the breed. He was gentle but not lethargic, loving but not overbearing, excitable but not overwhelming, and protective but not aggressive. My wife was in love the moment she saw him: their eyes locked in a moment of pure unison, promising a long and tender relationship. I still see his eyes now, sometimes.
 
In other words, Scruffy seemed to be the perfect dog. Our child, in a way. We could never have kids because Laura couldn’t get pregnant, and so I was glad we found a dog to fill the void. I was worried resentment would become a seething presence otherwise, festering beneath our superficially stable marriage, threatening to break the vow of normality we’d mutually taken. And Scruffy was like a child, anyway. He was adventurous, and a tad mischievous, in his youth, but it was nothing we couldn’t handle and it was nothing we didn’t welcome. He was also fairly clingy, but it was endearing rather than a nuisance. I remember how he’d delicately scrape our bedroom door on some evenings, begging to be let in. We’d try to be resolute but eventually we’d give up - the look on his face when we finally opened the door was priceless. Such a gleaming smile of ecstatic joy, a joy of which I think only children and dogs are capable. We’d heard horror stories about puppies being out of control, and I know that worried Laura, but Scruffy caused us no such problems. His rebellious ‘teenage’ streak was largely inoffensive; any particularly rough moods could easily be qualmed by some extra food or a snuggle on the sofa.
 
But nothing on earth is perfect, as we soon came to realise. And nothing is as disquieting as your perception of the world being undermined. You think you have things under control, that you’ve established some kind of logical order over this numbingly bewildering existence, until it’s all crushed in a damning moment of senseless randomness, a cutting reminder of human futility.
 
I trusted that dog. Hell, I loved that dog, probably a lot more than I loved most people. Close friends tend to come and by, slowly inching away from you, before the drift is so substantial it’s like you never even knew each other. That hurts, but in the way that a minor bruise will hurt. It’s there, and it aches, and it wears you down a little, but you can’t summon the energy to fret about it. Other things are more important.
 
But when a friend betrays you, man, that shit hurts. Like being punched in the gut. It’s an explosion of pain that leaves your whole body charging with wave after wave of electric torture. It brings you to your knees, forces your head into your hands, and makes you question everything. Makes you hate yourself, more than anything. How could you be so wrong about something?
 
Scruffy was fourteen. Quite an old dog. Very calm and composed at this age, and a lot more independent. He didn’t run with the same vivacity. Trips to the vet were becoming more frequent; arthritis was wearing him down. It was painful for Laura and me to see, but we were seeing it in each other too. Old age. It’s life’s most devious tactic. It tires you out, makes you feeble and too drained to fight back, wrenches you to your knees before delivering the final knockout blow.
 
This is why we were so surprised when, on a relaxed summer’s evening, we heard Scruffy scraping the bedroom door. He hadn’t done that in nearly ten years. It startled us, to say the least. Laura put her paperback against her chest and gave me a tentative glance. I got out of bed and opened the door.
 
Scruffy pounced on me. I barely saw him before he’d launched himself onto my chest, his claws firmly sunk into my shoulders. He looked rabid. Thick, gloopy saliva drooled and spasmed from his jaw, which was snapping violently as he barked madly at me. Laura was screaming. But she was in some distant place at that moment. For those few seconds, I could do nothing but stare into those eyes, once so precious and innocent, and now tainted with primal, bloodshot rage. He was thrashing wildly, but I couldn’t move. I could only hold him against my chest and study him, like I was analysing some specimen safely behind glass.
 
He lunged his teeth at my throat. He was insanely strong, seemingly possessed by an energy I hadn’t seen in years. I had enough forethought to swing my body to the left, and so avoided those fangs sinking into my jugular. I would have bled out there, sprawled on the floor and drowning in my own blood, and he’d then go for Laura and we’d watch each other die. In hindsight, maybe that would have been a better way for things to go.
 
But right then I was simply happy to have regained some semblance of rational thought. Yes, he had shot his foaming jaw into my right shoulder, but I knew that wouldn’t kill me. He was furiously shaking his body with his teeth still inside me, a predatory method usually employed by Great White Sharks, rather than beloved family pets. It was a perverse, senseless affair. But, in that hideous moment, I garnered the sense, and the strength, to hurl him off of me.
 
Laura was still shrieking. I told her to shut up. Scruffy had landed on his feet like some majestic athlete. He growled and rumbled through gnashed teeth, slowly pulling himself into the ground to catapult himself back at me. It was a standoff, but I was prepared. I caught him mid-air as he jumped, and wedged his head between my elbow and body. I dropped to the ground and  choked him to death. Laura sobbed manically. Scruffy shot out a leg, whimpered, before resigning himself to the darkness. He lay peacefully on my knees. I caressed his beautiful fur and yelled in inarticulate rage.
 
Things with Laura didn’t last long after that.
 
 
2
 
Laura blamed me and I blamed her. Deep down, I think, we knew that neither of us were really at fault. I mean, neither of us saw it coming. Scruffy was a lovely dog. But perhaps it was all just a pretense, something we could seize upon to release the tension and contempt that had always been lurking between the two of us, humming quietly in the background while we performed our tedious roles of an ostensibly happy marriage.
 
She thought I was wrong to kill the dog. I told her that I had no choice. He would have been put down anyway - in the minute chance he’d be allowed to live, there’s no way we could trust him in our house. The endless uneasiness that would create would only intensify the trauma that now defined our relationship. I tried to explain all of this to her, but it landed on deaf ears. She was insufferable. I resented her a lot in those few horrid weeks. The contempt that had existed before now filled the void that had emerged in Scruffy’s absence.
 
Any excuse to reproach me she would take. She chastised me for Scruffy’s sudden turn in behaviour, claiming that if I’d spent less time at work or at the pub, maybe I would have noticed a downturn in his personality. That pissed me off a lot - I’d saved her life, for Christ’s sake, and was now nursing a pretty nasty infection on the shoulder, where he’d bitten me.
 
She also brought up the whole ‘kids’ issue. She said I wasn’t spending enough time with her and that she was lonely. She thought that, given that we had no children (and I could tell she blamed me for that), I ought to dedicate myself more adequately to her. She wanted me to take her out to fancy dinners and shows. I told her I didn’t have the money. She said I had enough money to spend on booze and cigarettes - maybe if I bothered to get a better job, I’d have more to spend on her. Back and forth we went, suspended in a spiral of mutual dislike.
 
I felt little love for her anymore. People like to think that love is a spiritual thing - that it’s about two souls becoming inextricably intertwined, locking together in a magical alchemy of deep-rooted passion. But that doesn’t mean the physical reality isn’t important. And I think that if someone is, deep down, in the fundamental recesses of their selves, a bitter and spiteful and poisonous person, then it’s reflected in their exterior. We were both in our early forties. We’d somehow entered the decade that we thought would never come. When you’re young, old age really is a foreign country. You tell yourself it’s a realm of being you’ll never enter, not really. But before you know it, life’s slipped through your fingers, and with it the dreams and hopes and expectations and impossible memories of youth, fading into nothingness like grains of sand settling into the sea’s effervescence, ready to be swept away by time’s oncoming tide.
 
Although only forty-three, Laura was fast becoming a veteran of time’s assault on youthful beauty :her face was lined with sharp wrinkles that accentuated the animosity permanently etched on her face; her voice was strikingly masculine, and her body was degrading into a crooked and contorted parody of what was once angelic and supple.
 
Soon after the whole thing with Scruffy, I packed my stuff up, took (my) money from the safe, and left. Laura had run off to stay at her sister’s place for a few days. She’d done it before. She’d come back and act as if we’d never fought, though her presence would be tinged with a smug superiority I simply couldn’t stand.
 
This time, she’d come back to an empty house. How’s that for lonely, I thought, as I stroked the carpet where Scruffy had died, the dark red residue still faintly visible, before taking one final glance at the place before leaving for good.
 
I’d no idea where I would go, but I didn’t care one bit. The freedom to move, to travel, to explore, felt glorious.
 
I’d liberated myself from tyranny. I’d see no more Laura, no more of that ill-fated house, no more blood-stained carpet.
 
I’d see more blood, though.
Plenty more blood.
 
 
3
 
I walked alone down country roads for a hundred eternities. I wasn’t driven by a need to get anywhere in particular. Nor was I concerned with my wellbeing. I barely ate, I drank when I could, and I slept every few days. It was a warm, dry summer, so I much preferred nestling amidst the sparse bushes within the vast, tangled forestry that surrounded those narrow roads to checking into a bed and breakfast. Of course, when the weather was particularly harsh, I had no other alternative. Dampness is a killer, afterall. But, for the first time in my life, I felt at peace with nature and with the universe. I know it sounds stupid, or like I’d gone through some kind of mental breakdown, but unless you’ve experience true solitude like that, you wouldn’t understand. I may not have been in prime physical condition, but mentally, I felt more harmonious than ever. Balanced is the right way to put it. That spell of walking and sleeping and reflecting, devoid of any human contact, stabilised my soul, I believe.
 
Occasionally, of course, a car or two would drive past as I walked along the side of the road. I never looked at who was driving - didn’t want to break the vow of solitude - but I could sense them slowing down to get a look at me, the mysterious stranger ambling along in the middle of nowhere. And it was a very rural area, and I was edging further and further into deep country.
 
Like I said, I had no destination in mind. In truth, I didn’t know where I was most of the time. I just walked along those lengthy stretches, occasionally turning left or right into another road when they came along (which was rarely), yet I didn’t feel lost. No, not at all. Because I felt assured that there was an inevitability to all this - that something would happen that would end my travelling and bring about a new chapter. It was that sense, that inkling, that drove me forward, day after day. Something would happen.
 
And it did.
 
Most cars, as I said, would merely slow down, if that, before speeding up rapidly, anxious to get away from the suspicious man. But during the semi-dark of one evening, a car slowed to a halt. This caught my attention. My apathy had disappeared; I sensed it dissipating as the car approached. It was all black and had tinted windows, and was driving towards me. I stopped and squinted, trying to gauge its details as it intruded upon the quiet and hazy greyness characterising a late summer’s evening. As it stopped, about six feet away from me, I felt a sudden spasm of nervousness skitter across my abdomen, charging my heart into overdrive. As its engine stopped, I realised that my trepidation was justified.
 
On the roof of the car was a pale white sign reading TAXI.
 
You don’t get taxis in a place like this. The nearest house was miles away; the nearest business even further. In my fifteen years living in this part of the country, I had never seen a taxi. The urbanity it symbolised was in complete disparity to the time-warp that enveloped the area it was currently in - to the overgrown greenery and endless farmland, to the quaint villages that interspersed the forestry, and to the very air itself.
 
I could read this in several ways. I could either be terrified of the occurrence, and flea in panic like some hysterical idiot, or I could be excited. Indeed, terror and excitement essentially refer to the same bodily processes; what it comes down to is how your mind perceives them. And was I not, like the taxi, out of place in some sense? And had I not been waiting for some kind of sign? I may have been sleep-deprived, hungry out of my soul, withered and gaunt beyond belief, dehydrated and weak, but there was no confusing the feeling that screamed within me at that moment. I felt, somehow, that I was being beckoned, and that I could not, for the life of me, refuse this inexplicable call.
 
I got into the backseat and closed the door. The dull thud it made broke the evening’s pervasive silence, but only momentarily. A hundred questions swirled manically at the back of my mind, but none had the unique ferocity to surface, and so I remained silent for what felt like an immensely long time. The evening’s greyness descended into blackness, and I could only see the vague silhouette of who was driving. Average build, average shape - average looking. That’s all I could discern.
 
“Nice evening for a walk, I suppose.” He sounded surprised himself, to interrupt the silence. “Though you’re a long way from home.”
 
The well-spoken, faintly whispery voice indicated a certain maturity and self-assured wisdom. He seemed old - his short, snowy-white hair gave that away -  though I couldn’t put a finger on the age. As he spoke, I saw his eyes move and lock onto mine through the rear-view mirror; they were a gleaming blue, even lighter and more oceanic in colour than mine, and I could sense, distinctly, that profound depth and reverence lay behind them.
 
“Yes,” I croaked, shocked at how frail I sounded. I cleared my throat and tried to muster some vocal strength, like an anxious schoolboy trying to make a good impression. “I really am. Though, I’d assume, that you are too?”
 
“I’m never too far from home,” he said, with a striking swiftness. “‘Home isn’t just a place, you know. But enough with pedantics, before you set me off on a ramble. Perhaps you ought to introduce yourself.”
 
It was like I’d been summoned to a meeting. Formality, and all the awkwardness and tension that comes with it, was the overbearing mood. It was as neither of us could dare point out the absurdity of our situation, for fear of undermining the strange fiction we’d created. Why would I introduce myself? Surely I should tell him my destination - this was a taxi after all. But I didn’t have a destination. Then why did I get in the car?
 
I tried to shake off the resounding feeling that, perhaps, the taxi was my destination. Like I’d been forcefully guided here by some higher power. Nonsense thoughts. But unsettling nonetheless. I tried to compose myself.
 
“I’m Holden,” I said. “Holden Parker.”
 
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Holden”, he said. “I’d rather not disclose my own name, not least because it’s not important at the moment. There are more pressing matters at hand. I hope that doesn’t offend you.”
 
“No,” I said, trying to appear nonchalant when in reality slightly unnerved, particularly by the mention of ‘pressing matters’. What if this was all a big set-up? What if he was police, catching the lunatic who’d been walking and starving himself for days in the country, frightening drivers and disturbing wildlife?
 
“I was hoping you’d say that,” he said, switching on the engine and locking the doors. No escape now. “Did you have anywhere in mind?”
 
“No,” I said. No point in lying. I was too curious to fear for myself.
 
“Good,” he said, driving now. “You probably have a lot of questions, but don’t worry. You wouldn’t have got into the car unless you were meant to. That probably sounds silly, but it’s the truth.”
 
I didn’t say anything. He took my silence as a prompt to carry on, to elucidate after spouting so much ambiguity.
 
“Look,” he continued. “A lone taxi driver, in the middle of nowhere, comes across a lone man, who looks dishevelled and disoriented. You’re not saying that seems a little odd? A little like we were supposed to find each other? To help each other out?”
 
I didn’t really know what to say. In my peripheral vision, I saw him make prolonged eye-contact with me, as if frustrated. It hurt me a little, like I’d let him down.
 
“I don’t think it means we were supposed to find each other,” I said, after a painfully long silence. “It’s odd, I’ll give you that, but it doesn’t necessarily mean anything.”
 
He chuckled and braced up in his seat, as if happy that I’d finally offered a reply.
 
“You’re not religious, are you?”
 
“No sir,”
 
“Well neither am I,” he chuckled. “Though I do believe some things. Or at least, I let myself believe certain things because I enjoy the fun. Now, some would say that it’s funny that I’m a taxi driver. What to taxi drivers do? They take people to places. Maybe, my role here is to take you to the place you need to go.”
 
“Then what’s my role? In this, whatever ‘this’ is?” I said, offended for reasons I couldn’t quite understand.
 
“To let me take you.”
 
And so I sat there, slowly sinking into the seat as I realised how exhausted I was, and how wonderful it felt to be in a secure, enclosed setting. I felt my muscles  loosen as the gentle vibration of the car and the quiet hum of the engine delicately sent me into a blissful dose.
 
4
 
 Half an hour had passed when the car slowly came to a halt. I awoke shortly after we stopped, dazed but unmistakably refreshed. I rubbed my eyes and stretched, letting out a little groan.
 
“Sorry to wake you,” he said. “You were sleeping like a baby back there.”
 
By now it was pitch-black outside. Only the subtle swaying movement of the nearby bushes could be seen through the windows; their whispering chorus faintly echoing in the otherwise silent summer’s night.
 
“Oh, don’t worry about it,” I said.
 
“Listen,” he said, slightly tilting his body towards me. “I should probably tell you what the hell I’m doing here. Where I’ve driven you too.”
 
What concerned me was not how long he had taken to reveal his intentions - why exactly he had picked up a stranger in the middle of the road - but how insanely indifferent I was to the whole thing. Perhaps it was the sleep-deprivation, but part of me did feel completely powerless. Like everything had been meticulously set up for me, and that I had been robbed of any autonomy in the process.
 
“I don’t know if I was meant to find you,,” he continued. “That does, admittedly, sound quite silly. But I do know that I’m very glad to find someone. I’ve been driving around this area for a while - the past few weeks, in fact, and you’re the first real person I’ve come across. When I say ‘real’ person, I mean the first person I’ve properly spoken to.”
 
He spoke with an almost unquestionable authority. His oratory was fortified with such immense conviction and purpose that his words, rather than sounding strange and bewildering, were resonant and convincing. I was not a reserved person by nature, but I felt slightly nervous in his presence, as if I wasn’t worthy of his rather regal persona. And though I may have been rather imposing in stature - even in my middle-age - his presence in the vehicle was palpable in its raw physicality. I wasn’t intimidated, but was rather readily prepared to give my trust and allegiance to this enigmatic man.
 
“How come you’ve been driving around here for weeks?” I asked, with genuine curiosity, “There’s not exactly much to see.”
 
“You speak from experience,” he chuckled.
 
“I guess you could say that,” I said, with a slightly embarrassed smile.
 
“What have you been doing?” he said, ever-so-slightly interrogative. “You look like you haven’t seen civilisation in a long time.”
 
“Walking,” I replied. “Just walking. Messy fall-out with the wife. I couldn’t take it anymore. Took my money and left. I headed towards the wilderness and haven’t looked back.”
 
“Hmm,” he said, seemingly entertained by my predicament. “You’re clearly somewhat unhinged, unstable, confused, lonely, angry, upset. Not in balance. I wish I could say the same. I wish I could say that I’ve been driving endlessly around this strange terrain because I’m completely mad, since that’s less terrifying than the alternative. No. What frightens me is that I think I’m onto something big here.”
 
I can’t say I wasn’t offended by this description, but it wasn’t strictly false, either. Besides, I was more interested in what he’d said after, and so could afford to put my sensitivities to one side.
 
“What do you mean, you’re onto something big?”
 
“I believe a sickness lies upon this place, ” he whispered, as if anxious not to alert the evils that lurked outside of the car and in the forestry beyond. “Whether it takes the form of a person, or a number of persons, I don’t know. But this span of forestry is not right. The air is putrid.”
 
My heart was quickly thumping hard in my chest. I could sense genuine fear in his voice. After a brief pause, he continued.
 
“I was working in London, doing my night shift, when an elderly woman offered me a grand to take her home. She’d been visiting family but had somehow lost them, and was frightened and desperate to get back to her own bed. I told her I’d take her home for five-hundred. Home was a village not far from where we are now. It took four hours to get here, even with no traffic, but I enjoyed the drive. It was therapeutic, and it was nice to see the country.”
 
Though this part of the ‘country’ offered none of the edenic charm one typically associated with rural England. I enjoyed my solitude with nature, but in spite of the landscape itself, rather than because of it. Overgrown shrubbery spilled itself onto the roadside, and trees leaned menacingly forward, enclosing the roads in a fortress of decayed forestry. The air was not rich with the natural fragrance of summer flowers; instead, the trees emitted the stench of their decay and the sadness of their degradation. Time had rendered them tired and weary. They drooped and collapsed in on themselves, their ugly contractions a freakish parody of their former beauty. Birds had long vacated the area. It was a world that God had abandoned, the only tangible presence being the silence - the painful silence that consumes a place once ravaged by war and then suddenly forgotten, left to contemplate the horror and destruction it had grown so used to.
 
“At first, I should say, it was nice to see the country”, he continued. “But I soon came to realise that something was terribly wrong. Warped. Sick. Call it what you want. But I can tell you feel it too: the sense of anguish. As if the forest has been witness to so much horror that it has renounced its duties and neglected life. Part of me wanted to justify my dread. Prove to myself that I hadn’t gone crazy - that the creeping, urgent sense of foreboding occupying me  wasn’t a sign of some kind of paranoid schizophrenia. After about five hours of driving, I stumbled across this. This put any doubt to rest.”
 
I jolted as he suddenly opened the car’s door and got out. He then opened mine, its metallic clunk startling in the way it interrupted the deafening silence of the place. I was  taken aback by how cold it was outside, as the icy air pricked and stabbed at my cheeks. The limp trees were still whispering as they swayed lazily from side to side. I felt like I was intruding.
 
I then saw what he was talking about. He was aiming a flashlight at what first looked like a messy clump of leaves on the roadside, but as my vision adjusted, I realised that I was staring at something far more grotesque. A fox lay sprawled in a circle of dried blood. Its head was gone; the decapitation a clumsy mess. Its legs were crudely twisted and contorted in the most unnatural positions imaginable, and jagged shards of bone splayed out of its joint segments. The grass was a rancid yellow under the beam of the driver’s flashlight, the colour mingling with the deathly red of the fox’s mangled flesh.
 
I could scarcely take my eyes off of the horrific site. But while I was disgusted by the abominable cruelty, I was confused as to how this substantiated what the driver had been saying. Yes, the fox had died an unusually nasty death, but a dead fox by a country road is hardly a starkly aberrative thing to stumble upon. As if sensing my reservations, he broke the silence.
 
“This fox was killed by a man,” he said, kneeling over and examining the body, squinting with concentration.
 
“It was probably hit by a car,” I said, knowing that this didn’t explain the decapitation, nor the fact that the head was nowhere to be seen.
 
“No,” he said. “A car could certainly decapitate a fox, but the head would still be close to the body. Unless the driver decided to move the head. But why would he think to do that?”
 
“Maybe it was killed by another animal,” I said, noticing that I was playing devil’s advocate, rather than espousing any genuine beliefs of my own. I could now tell the fox had been killed by a human. Don’t ask me how. But the longer I stared at it, the more my doubts seemed to dissipate.
 
“I can’t think of an animal that could inflict this much damage to a fox - at least not an animal you’d find in England. Nor can I think of an animal that would mount the head on a pike.”
I swung my head to look at him, totally aghast. He continued staring at the fox for a moment, before looking up at me grimly.
 
“Follow me,” he said.
 
5
 
We trekked into the forest for about a quarter of a mile. The terrain was so tangled and overgrown that I thought a machete would come in handy, as I had to resort to swatting away the barbed branches and shrubbery that impeded our entrance, assaulting us at every turn. Eventually we reached a circular area that was relatively open. When the crunching sound of the driver’s feet against the blanket of dead leaves came to a stop, I realised he’d found the place.
 
As promised, in the centre of the circle, was the fox’s head, its exposed, bloodied neck resting on a sharp branch that had been stuck into the ground. Its expression was stupid and pitiful; its mouth gawked open and its tongue, already dried and rotting, draped out over its teeth. A mist of flies were assaulting the flesh. Their droning hum drowned out the sound of my roaring heart.
 
Whether it was some kind of sacrifice or offering, or simply a depraved act of cruelty, it was clearly meant to be found by someone. That was the pleasure of the kill. I couldn’t help but be reminded of a book I had studied in school called Lord of the Flies, where boys stranded on a desert island stuck a pig’s head on a stick, a symbol of their descent into savagery. It made me angry - that someone could not only do this to a living thing, but could also garner so much pleasure from the ritual. I thought of poor Scruffy, and how the fox’s terrified face reminded me of his.
 
The driver and I hadn’t said anything for the whole journey, and all he said now, as he let me take in what was in front of me, were three ominous words.
 
“It gets worse.”
 
I looked into the darkness beyond, the silhouettes of the tree trunks barely visible, knowing that I’d have to venture further. I couldn’t tell you what time it was at this point, nor how long I’d been with this strange man. All that consumed me at that point was ardent curiosity - terror, yes, and a hell of a lot of confusion - but also a numbing need to know what lay in the forestry beyond. Without saying anything, I began the first step forward, and soon passed the fox’s head without looking at it. The driver followed close behind, directing me at certain points.
 
It wasn’t long before we found another circular area, but I saw what the driver had been talking about before I even reached it. Even in the haze of blackness, what I saw was unmistakable, and as my mind registered the site, every iota of my perception slowed to a halt; time had slowed and I felt burdened with a heavy pressure, like I was deep underwater.
 
Hanging loosely from a tree branch was a human body. It swayed gently in the breeze, in harmony with the leaves and the branches, as if now part of their landscape.
 
It didn’t take long to realise that the cause of death was not the hanging. No; the killer had displayed him there postmortem - after all, had he left the corpse on the ground, leaves and falling shrubbery may have rendered it invisible, entirely defeating the point of the murder. As with the fox, this was a premeditated act, designed to shock the unlucky souls who’d stumble across it. And it was shocking. Beneath the layers of dried blood, I could see that the man’s neck had been hacked open by some kind of instrument. While half of it was splayed open, the other half of intact muscles and tendons desperately tried to fight gravity to ensure that the head remained attached. His outfit was now entirely red. He must have been stabbed and sliced dozens of times. I hoped that the mutilations, like the positioning of the body, occured after his death, though I wouldn’t have bet on it, given that the perpetrator clearly relished in the sadism of the act. Only his hands were spared the torture: they dangled loosely by his side, untarnished and smooth, a hallmark of the youth and life now destroyed. He couldn’t have been much older than thirty.
 
I don’t know how long I stared at the body, taking it all in. But after a while, I managed to speak.
 
“Why,” I said, trying to repress the trembling in my voice, “Are you showing this to me, and not the police?”
 
“You want to know the truth?” he said, now facing me, forcing my gaze away from the body. “I’m terrified. Because I know that this isn’t the only body in this part of the woods. That’s one thing. And the other: if I were to go to the police, who do you think would be the prime suspect? Me, obviously. A lonely taxi driver decides to travel all the way to the countryside? And he just happens to find a dead body?”
 
“But you didn’t do it,” I said, angry not just at the irrationality of his reasoning, but also at the way the terror in his voice began to shatter my image of him. “There could be fingerprints. Or another suspect. You don’t know anything about this area! About missing person cases, about wanted criminals. You’ve stumbled across the body of a man who has likely been murdered. Phone the police. Or I will.”
 
Something seemed to dawn on him then. Maybe it was the notion of me calling the police - then he really would become prime suspect -  or maybe he just needed someone to shake some sense into him, rock him back into reality and convince him that he wasn’t dreaming about all of this.
 
He agreed to phone the police once he got back to the car and found some reception. Meantime, he would take me to a nearby hotel to get some much needed sleep. I wasn’t ready to see Laura yet, though I can’t say that I didn’t miss her, despite everything. I took one more look at the poor man, grimaced, and walked back to the car in silence.
 
It had been a strange night to end a strange couple of weeks. Though somehow, it had taken a night of profound depravity to help me see sense again. Walking around the backwoods like some drugged-up idiot. After a good night’s sleep, I thought I was ready to say goodbye to the forests and the taxi drivers and the mutilated corpses, and go home.
 
But at the same time, I was captivated by what had just happened. The whole sequence of events. After seeing the corpse, I couldn’t help but feel a slight mistrust, a slight suspicion, towards the taxi-driver. Part of me desperately wanted to work out what the hell was going on. Was he involved in the killings? Was I meant to be his next victim - had he simply lost his nerve and failed to go through with it?
 
And if it wasn’t him, then who was it? These questions spiralled in my head as I sunk my head into pillow, the first pillow I’d lain on in an eternity, before fading into the hazy whirlwind of beautiful, beautiful sleep.
 
6
 
I awoke far earlier than I had intended because I could hear panicked voices in the corridor outside my room, the reverberation of their shouts and the clamour of their agitated footsteps shaking me out of blissful unconsciousness and wrenching me into reality. I glanced at my bedside clock. 7:03. Irritated, I put on my gown and opened the door.
 
The small crowd stopped their bustling when they saw me. I studied the people who had so selfishly woken me up, since they were presently locked in a convenient freezeframe. Fellow guests, it seemed, and they looked respectable enough. So why were they making this racket? Reproachfully, I asked them.
 
“You must not know.” A slim woman, perhaps in her forties, was the first to answer. She was looking at me with the expression of a doctor about to inform their patient that they have a terminal illness. “They’ve found two bodies in the car park. A mother and daughter. Sue’s just phoned the ambulance.”
 
My mind jolted into shock. Without thinking, I put on some clothes and barged my way through the crowd. I soon made my way to the car park and saw the dismal scene. A crowd had gathered around the two bodies, with several attempting to give CPR. But it was clearly in vain. The two of them had been dead for at least an hour, and had been killed in much the same way as the man we’d found hanging. Butchered. From the few moments I could bear to look at the two corpses, I could at least decipher that: they’d been killed by the same guy, and he’d made a public show of it.
I swung my neck back and looked at the pale white sky, the distant sound of sirens ringing in my ears. I was embroiled in this. I’d found the first corpse. I prayed to God that the taxi driver had phoned the police, or else we were in deep shit.
 
Speak of the devil: his car was now across the road of the car park. He motioned me to get in.
 
7
 
We drove to an area of forest overlooking a beautiful lake. It was completely empty, though wasn’t tainted with the decay and neglect that characterised most countryside in this area. Admiring the dazzling sparkle of the lake as it reflected the subtle beams of the morning sun, I thought that it was one of the loveliest sights I’d seen in a long time.
 
The circumstance that had brought us here was clearly of a very different tone, and indeed, during the short journey here, we hadn’t spoken a word to each other. I broke the silence.
 
“Tell me you phoned the police last night.”
 
“Of course I did,” he said. “Of course.”
 
“And?”
 
“They said they’d investigate it.”
 
“And have they?”
 
“I’d assume so, Holden.”
 
“Christ,” I said, crossing my arms, as I was struck by a strangely wintery breeze. We weren’t looking at each other, and the tension was palpable. I noticed that I no longer respected him anymore. Maybe it was the night’s sleep that made me see sense, but in my peripheral vision, I only saw a haggard, subdued old man.
 
“They’ll be contacting me soon, I expect,” he said. “After what’s happened.”
 
I shuddered at the thought of those two poor people, their corpses sprawled on the concrete like animals, left to marinate in their own blood and permanently scar the poor bastard who would discover them.
 
“You got a cigarette?” I found myself asking, surprised that it had come out; I hadn’t smoked in years.
 
“There should be a pack in my jacket,” he said. “In the boot of my car.”
 
As I made the short journey to the taxi, I noticed that little pin-pricks of rain were jabbing at my skin with increasing velocity. I stopped at the boot, and once more marvelled at how out of place this taxi was, parked in the middle of nowhere, far from the urban sprawl it called home.
 
The stale, faintly smokey smell of the car was not the first thing to hit me as I opened the boot. Nor was how unkempt the taxi’s interior looked from behind. No, what immediately hit me, before the boot was even in full extension, was a small, slightly stained piece of cloth, casually placed to the side of his jacket. The stain was a musty red. Overcome by the feeling that I had seconds to spare, I reached for the piece of cloth, realising that it was wrapped around something. I unravelled the layers with a childlike excitement, conscious that I had spent a suspiciously long time at the boot, and found the bloodied machete.
 
Two things crossed my mind at that moment. One, that I should be cautious not to get any fingerprints on what was almost certainly the weapon used in several homicides. And two, that I should act as though I never found it. For a short while, at least.
 
I returned with the pack of cigarettes. The driver was still gazing at the lake, so deep in thought that I doubted he’d noticed my fairly long absence.
 
“Cheers,” I said, lighting one. “Been a while since I’ve had one of these.”
 
We looked at each other, and I studied his eyes once again. They were a pair of enchanting beams, giving radiance to a face otherwise cut by wrinkles and tainted by old age. I scolded myself for not realising sooner; for not organising my muddled thoughts and rationalising my faint suspicions, since the source of it all had been staring me in the face the whole time, feeding me false stories and entangling me in its twisted game.
 
“Did you enjoy it?” I said, exhaling before relighting my cigarette, trying to stifle the sudden urge to cough.
 
His face darkened with grim realisation.
 
“Enjoy what?” he said quietly. Not really a question. Merely reading the script, obliged to play the part of an innocent man. But his performance was crumbling. The wall was breaking. I was trembling with rage, my mind flooding with the imagery of the last twenty-four hours.
 
“Was it part of the thrill, showing me?” I continued, stepping closer to him.
 
“Holden,” he said, on edge, and on his toes, ready to make a break. I wasn’t going to let that happen.
 
“See, that’s the part that confuses me,” I said. “What was my role in all of this? Why didn’t you kill me? Was I just your guinea pig? The vulnerable man you could use in your homicidal experiment - see how much confusing, fucked-up shit you can expose a man to before he breaks?” I could feel my face reddening as it swelled with rushing blood.
 
“Holden, you need to calm down,” he said, putting his hands up in defence. I swifty swatted them back down. “You’re not thinking rationally.”
“Or were you planning to kill me? You thought you could kill me?”
 
I punched him then. Left-hook, right in the jaw, and it made a satisfying crunching sound as I made the connection. I may have been old, but I’d done a fair bit of boxing in my youth and could still pack a fairly devastating punch.
 
He staggered back, lost his balance, and landed on his back. Looking down at him then, breathing heavily through gnashed teeth, I knew I’d reached the point of no return. I was overcome by a crushing urge to put things right; to restore a sense of balance, justice, harmony. As if realising the futility of his situation, he was suddenly struck by a moment of calmness and clarity. He slowed his breathing and braced-up, as if preparing to give a prestigious speech, and managed to restore some dignity, despite his prone position.
 
“All I wanted to do, Holden,” he said, with a voice of delicate acceptance, “Was show you what you needed to see. To show you things you’d otherwise want to ignore; the horrific elements of human existence that you’d rather brush away into the deep corners of your mind where they’d fester and grow. I was trying to help you, Holden, but it’s clear you’re beyond help. I’m sorry.”
 
I let his words hang for a few seconds before stamping on his skull once, twice, three times, and then I crouched down and hammered my fists into his cheeks, twice with the left, twice with the right, cascading his features into an unrecognisable mess of blood, before dragging him by the shirt and then gripping the back of his neck with my right hand and using my left hand to plunge his head under the shallow water, turning the stream into a red pool of seething simmering screaming death before it dwindled into docile bubbling and finally faded into calm nothingness.
 
The rain was now heavy as it infused the air with its trademark greyness. I left his face submerged in the water, sat by his body, and cried
 
8
 
Holden,
 
It’s been over a week since you left, and I can’t accurately describe how I’ve felt in that time. I’ve rewritten this letter dozens of times because I want you to fully appreciate what you’ve put me through - and what you’ve put yourself through - when you finally manage to read this. I’m not sure I’ll ever get the real ‘you’ back, and to be completely honest, I’m not even sure what the real ‘you’ is, or if it ever existed. Because I cannot for the life of me equate the things you’ve done, and likely will do, with the conception I have of you in my head; I didn’t think you had the capacity for such evil and malice in you, but since you do, I feel it’s my duty, having known and loved you for so long, to try and make it right.
 
I still don’t understand why you killed Scruffy. Amidst all the things you seemed to passionately hate in life, I always thought Scruffy was the one beacon from which you garnered a sense of happiness and satisfaction. Perhaps I should have identified the signs, but can anyone blame me for not? What signals do people tend to give before sinking their teeth into their beloved dog’s neck and tearing out its windpipe? I don’t know if it was a sudden switch into madness or the inexorable culmination of the growing stress and frustration that seemed to so persistently wear you down. I don’t know if it matters. I’ll never wipe the picture out of mind; the way you had him pinned down, lashing at his throat, ignoring his sobs and wails and the dreadful pain of betrayal in his eyes - its indelibly etched in my mind, and I can only blame you for that.
 
You left Scruffy dying on the carpet and sprinted out of the door. And for reasons I can’t explain, I didn’t phone the police, or even attend to Scruffy. I wasn’t scared of you, in spite of what you’d just done, and so I followed you in my car as you sprinted manically toward the country. I’m sure you know the rest, Holden.
This morning, I got a call from my sister telling me that a double-homicide had taken place at a hotel not far from here. A mother and her daughter, aged thirty-five and seven respectively. It’s frightened me a great deal Holden, but I’m determined to make it right.
And so I’m going to find you, and I know exactly where you’ll be. Your favourite spot. Because, despite everything, I refuse to believe you’re the monster that your actions would indicate. If anyone can get through to you, I believe it’s me.
 
Hopefully you’ll read this in a few years to come, having received the proper treatment for whatever affliction is currently burdening you, and thank me. But I’m only doing my duty.
 
Your loving wife,
 
Laura.
 
 
 
 
 
9
 
Holden
 
I’ve been sitting here for a while now. My mind is completely focused on the tranquility of nature as I watch the the lake and the wildlife that exist in and around it, all to the calming soundtrack of birdsong intertwined with the gentle hum of the wind as it meanders its way through the shrubbery behind me. I haven’t looked at the driver once. I’ve blocked his existence out of my mind entirely, and hence I’ve absolve myself of any guilt threatening to creep into my conscience. I simply submit myself to nature, letting the edenic air seep into my body and enrich me with its vitality, and admire the beauty of the horizon.
 
A voice interrupts my meditation. The voice of my wife.
 
“Holden,” she says. I don’t turn around. Try and pretend she’s not there; I don’t want anyone sabotaging my tranquility. “I’m alone, Holden. It’s just the two of us.”
 
This surprises me somewhat. “Why wouldn’t you be alone?” I say, still not looking back.
 
I can feel her edging closer, though for some reason she’s on tiptoes, walking as if she’s trying not to wake anyone up.
 
“There are a lot of people looking for you, Holden,” she says. “I wanted to speak to you before anyone else does.”
 
I try not to be startled by her claim that people are looking for me. Why would they be looking for me? Had the driver been reported missing? Had they found my prints on the scene of the hanging man? While trying to stifle a creeping sense of panic, I also tried not to be irritated by her. She was speaking in an annoyingly soft, condescending tone, pronouncing her words slowly as if I were a child, but I didn’t want to let any frustration show; I was, now I was thinking about it, happy to see her. I didn’t know how I’d explain the driver’s body, however.
 
“Why are they looking for me?” I say, turning around now and meeting her gaze. She looks terrified.
 
“You’ve done some...very bad things, Holden,” she says, leaning down, her hands pressing against her knees. I notice that she hasn’t looked at the driver’s body, not even once.
 
Now I’m panicking.
 
“Look, Laura,” I say, standing up. “I haven’t done anything wrong. I know it looks bad, but I haven’t done anything. I went away for a while, to get my head straight, and I was in a bad place, but I’m back, now, ok? I’m back.”
 
“Holden,” she says, trying to be stern, staring deeply into my eyes. “I saw you kill that man. I was watching you the whole time.”
 
I pin my hands to my head, looking down at the ground, trying to control my anger. “You don’t understand!” I shout. “He, he had it coming. If you knew the things he’s done, you’d understand. Jesus, Laura!”
 
“He did nothing wrong,” she says, her face contorted with confusion. “I saw him, Holden. All he did was get out of his car to stop you from attacking the fox. How did he have it coming?”
 
“Fox?” I said, thoughts and images exploding in my mind. “Fox? There’s no fox! That was...yesterday. I didn’t kill the fox! I didn’t kill anybody. He, HE, killed the fox. That man over there. And he’s killed more, too. That’s what I’m trying to tell you! For God’s sake, Laura, please, you have to believe me.”
 
I’m pointing manically at the driver’s body, but doing so only serves to make her more bewildered. She’s shaking her head, her eyes wide and beginning to swell with tears. She seems on the brink of hysterics.
 
“Holden,” she says. “There’s no one there.”
 
I don’t register the words at first, but they echo and reverberate in my head with increasing speed and clarity. Thoughts spiral in my mind and make me dizzy, and my vision starts to blur. I screw my eyes shut, but find no remedy seeing the strange lights that emerge in blinking darkness. I spin my head forward and open my eyes with savage urgency.
 
“No.” I say, quietly. “No! Don’t FUCK with me, Laura!”
 
She recoils and lets out a cry, and the tears are streaming down her face now. I try to gauge what she’s just said; I try to entertain the possibility that she’s right, but to no avail: with each second I stare at the driver’s body, the reality of his features only becomes sharper and more defined - the creases on his shirt, the dips and crevices in the ground that have formed around his corpse, the distinct ripples of water passing indifferently over his bloodied head - I refuse to accept any differently. I wonder why she’s deliberately trying to manipulate me like this. Whether it’s some kind of psychological torture. Vengeance for what I’ve put her through.
 
“Are you trying to tell me,” I say, “That there isn’t a body lying next to me?” I kick the driver’s corpse in the side. “Are you?”
 
She’s trembling and gives no verbal reply, but the look on her face is enough to read her. The troubling thing is, she doesn’t look as though she’s deliberately lying. It dawns on me then that perhaps she’s blocked the body out of her mind, as she doesn’t want to accept that I’ve killed a man - she’s never seen a dead body before, after all. Maybe this was a common phenomenon in people exposed to things too shocking for them to fully grasp. But that doesn’t explain her claim that I killed the fox, or that I-
 
“Look,” I say, trying to take a more consoling approach. “His taxi is right over there. He drove here in it, for goodness sake.”
 
She looks back at the taxi, then at me, gazing at me with those curious eyes.
 
“I know you don’t want to see this,” I continue.
 
“Holden,” she says, after a long pause. “That car isn’t a taxi. That car belonged to the man you killed - not today, but last week. I’m sorry, but there isn’t a body on the ground. It’s in your head. Whoever you think is lying next to you - they never existed.”
 
“No,” I say, seething with anger now.
 
“Yes, Holden!” she says desperately. “I’m sorry you’re going through this, Holden. But you’ve done some terrible, terrible things and I’m afraid you’re going to have to answer for them. The police are going to be on their way. We can get through this, Holden. But you have to be willing to get help. I promise, I’ll be with you, every step of the way. You’re paranoid. Hallucinating. But you can get help.”
 
She’s stroking my shoulder as I look down at the ground, shaking, but I quickly push her away, my face spasming with anger once again.
 
“He did those things!” I say, pointing at the driver, whose blood is still oozing out into the stream in a pink mist. “He showed me the body of a man, and the fox, and I think he’s killed more, and, Christ, I found his machete in the boot of his car! Jesus fucking Christ, Laura!”
 
“That’s your mach-”
 
“And,” I say, tilting my head, squinting at her, “And, and you call the police on me? You have the audacity to try and punish me? You fucking bitch.”
 
“You’re not seeing things clearly,” she says, bellowing with tears. “Please.”
 
“No,” I say, once more. “No.”
 
I pounce on her. Tell her to shut up, because she won’t stop crying. I’m on top of her and I swat her scrambling hands away and clasp my hands around her neck and push down with all my weight. I look deeply into those evil, deceptive, traitorous eyes as I squeeze the life out of her, one iota of pressure at a time, enjoying the way her eyes start to bulge and swell and redden and darken as they become shrouded by the mist of death. She splutters and chokes but I keep pressing down, years of grinding resentment coming to one final conclusion. I let go. Her last expression - one of pain, sorrow, and regret - will be etched on her face forever, and of that I’m glad.
 
It’s time to go now. Life is becoming heavy. I can hear the faint shriek of sirens in the distance, beyond the trees, and they make me realise that I only want the noise to stop; the deafening noise of existence, relentlessly blaring inside my skull. I drag Laura to the car and sit her in the front seat. I key in the ignition, and take one final look at the horizon, its beauty stained by the driver’s corpse. Before stepping on the pedal, I notice that a tune is playing in my head. Words begin to form amid the melody. A song I must have heard, somewhere, about time, and wishing, above all else, that it was insignificant.
 
I let the haunting song fade out into nothingness. Sirens getting louder now. Drunk with fatigue, and tired - oh, so tired -  but I have life in me for one more fete, one well-executed closing ceremony. I kick down on the accelerator, slamming myself back into the seat.
 
I watch the lake get larger and prepare for its warm embrace. So fast, so fast I’m moving, I feel defiant, like I’m beating time; my chariot hurls through the air and flies majestically into the water. No need to think about the taxi driver, or the men and women that fell at my hand. I don’t need to think about anything anymore, and that means I don’t have to fight.
 
I smile as the water consumes me.
 

​Professor Emeritus Leonora Kohan lived life with "brio" an Italian word from the 18th Century describing vigor, gusto, zest, enthusiasm, vitality, dynamism, spirit, and energy. She was my teacher, mentor, friend, and I loved her.
Leonora was one of few female students of her time enrolled in graduate math courses and overcame overwhelming odds rising from Assistant Professor, Professor, and awarded the prestigious title, Professor Emeritus of Mathematics.
I was honored to be named the custodian of her personal effects within her will. It was bittersweet to box up her belongings within her large cozy corner office with beautiful bay windows overlooking the Charles River. The office included a fireplace, sitting room, and wall to wall bookshelves.  The beautiful office was a perk associated with being a Professor Emeritus of Mathematics at the most prestigious university in the United States. She suffered from metastatic breast cancer and succumbed to the disease just as my mother and her lover, Deidre.
The story of Leonora’s life was depicted in her photo album and extensive vinyl record collection ranging from classical to bebop, folk, and “British Invasion” rock. Her bookshelves were lined with volumes of mathematical titles with a special shelf reserved for an impressive collection of poetry including Browning, Dickinson and Bronte bequeathed to her by Deidre who taught literature. Leonora’s photo album revealed her parents fleeing Poland from the Nazi’s and settling in the lower East side of New York. Her father sold rags from a push cart and made his way into the fabric business. Her mother taught classical piano to the gentry of New York. Leonora excelled in mathematics and was a stellar student admitted to our Alma Mata at seventeen where she received her bachelor’s, masters, and doctorate degrees. Towards the back of the photo album, I find photos of Leonora and Deidre traveling the world together and attending anti war or women’s rights protest marches. The photos also include them happily at home in Martha’s Vineyard.  I developed an undergraduate’s crush on Leonora and she was my inspiration and mentor as I studied mathematics as an undergraduate and graduate student. I was invited by Leonora to join her small clique of female professors and graduate students meeting regularly to enjoy tea, book readings, dinner parties, and music.
 
 
I thumbed through the LP record collection finding an album by Simon and Garfunkel which was one of her favorites. I carefully removed the shiny LP from its album cover and carefully placed it on the turn table. I watched the stylus gently raise, glide over the spinning vinyl album, and landing on, “The Dangling Conversation”: 

​It's a still life watercolor
Of a now-late afternoon
As the sun shines through the curtained lace
And shadows wash the room

​Leonora was a tall thin woman in her seventies with salt and pepper long wavy hair. She had beautiful green eyes. Leonora spent her career studying the application of mathematics to economic markets to better understand how they function. She was an instrumental and only female member of teams earning Nobel Prizes which required her intellect but kept her out of the limelight as the awards and accolades poured in. She never complained or expressed resentment. Leonora was soft spoken and sensitive but was also a no nonsense woman not suffering fools especially men.
I grew up on a farm growing wheat and raising cattle in the Midwest.  I knew each of our farm animals by name. My wardrobe consisted mostly of a pair of overalls and work boots. I was an only child and my father treated me like a son never failing to introduce me to something others might find beyond the reach of a girl.  I drove tractors, birthed calves, and repaired farm equipment.  Dad always placed his large hands around my shoulder and say “good job”.  I felt his love and pride radiate through his strong arm. My mother was petit but strong willed. Neither of my parents finished high school but had common sense intelligence with strong work ethics and an unbending sense of right and wrong. I wasn’t interested in boys. I found them to be dirty, crude, and uninteresting but I didn’t resent them because they were simple farm boys. My mother never expressed doubts about my sexuality nor did she force me to act girly but encouraged me to pursue my intellectual pursuits. I was a problem solver, interested in making farm work easier and more efficient. I spent my spare time star gazing with an old pair of binoculars. The expansive star filled sky made me feel insignificant in the grand scheme of life yet I was hopeful I could make important contributions eventually finding my own little place within the universe.
School came easily to me. I won the National Merit Scholarship and was invited to attend the most prestigious university in the US at no cost to my struggling parents who could only afford to send me to state college with the hopes that I might study agricultural science and return home to work the farm. I entered a State high school science competition and my project involved the application of Euclidian geometry to farming. Applying Euclidian geometry to a myriad of farm parcels of differing sizes, irregular shapes, and arriving at more efficient harvesting maneuvers was the challenge. I was able to test my hypothesis because my father had a friend on the County road crew who gave me a crash course on surveying and lent me his surveying equipment for the weekend. My father utilized my hypothesis by following my handwritten route in which to drive his tractor which saved time, fuel, and generated a greater production of wheat harvested. I wrote a computer program which I tested with a satellite image of our farm validating my computer program and hypothesis. My computer program was not only applicable to wheat harvesting but any crop utilizing equipment or human labor. My entry to the State high school science competition was titled, “Efficient Harvesting Hypothesis” and was awarded first prize.
I was invited to enter the “Super Bowl of Science” for high school students known as the “Regeneron Science Talent Search”.  I knew the competition would be stiff. 1800 papers were submitted. Later that year, I was notified that I was one of forty semi-finalists and flown to Washington, D.C. where I was interviewed by the judges including Nobel Laureates and Leonora Kohan. The judges were exacting in their questions always seeking to validate the hypothesis and science behind the projects submitted. The judges were tough in their questioning but fair. My entry made it to the top ten finalists. My nine competitors were formidable and I believed my entry involving farm work would be dismissed summarily. First Prize was awarded to an all male team from Massachusetts who had completed compelling mathematical and computer programming work on the foundations of early crypto currencies. I was genuinely happy for them and was rebuffed when extending my congratulations. I was awarded Second Prize and was dumbfounded. When I phoned home to tell my parents, my father answered but became too emotional to speak handing the telephone to mom who congratulated me and assured me the award money would be placed in my scholarship fund.
At the conclusion of the award ceremony, Leonora introduced herself and extended her congratulations confiding in me that she voted my entry for first prize. She told me the first place team included the son’s of the academic elite, genius prep school students, and Massachusetts was perennially one of the top ten states with finalists in the competition. She apologized for the winning team’s arrogance but warned me that women in STEM should learn to accept and gain strength from the misogyny. Leonora urged me to accept her prestigious college’s offer of admission and extended an invitation to become my advisor should I major in mathematics.
When I returned to high school, I was a celebrity to the faculty but still an unpopular “geek” to most of my classmates. When the Senior Prom arrived, mom sewed me a prom dress but I received no invitation. My father took me to the Prom. As my teachers approached, they complimented me on my brilliance informing us I was the only student from my high school and possibly the only student in our state’s history to achieve a perfect score on the SAT and science achievement tests not to mention the only student in our state’s history to win second prize in the prestigious “Regeneron Science Talent Search”. It was ironic that the Prom Queen was required to read a letter from the Governor of our state congratulating me for winning second prize and making the citizens of the state proud.  The Principal approached the podium and announced that I was named Valedictorian of my high school graduating class. There was only scant applause from my fellow students. At that moment, I decided to accept the offer of admission from the most prestigious university in the Country. Soon after, Leonora called me to congratulate me on my decision and took the opportunity to speak with both of my parents assuring them I made the correct choice. She later forwarded me papers she wrote concerning the “efficient markets hypothesis” and suggested I consider serving as her research assistant when I arrived on campus in the fall.
The “efficient markets hypothesis” holds that competition in financial markets creates equilibrium prices and strategies to “game” or beat stock, bond, or currencies markets are futile. Leonora’s research centered on methodologies minimizing the uncertainty in financial markets and increasing the opportunity for profit. Her strategies, if proven, would provide valuable tools for investors.
I spent the summer working on the farm but with a keen eye on our cattle herd with Leonora’s research in mind. I’d watch the patterns of the cattle at feeding time and ask why “outliers” (cattle) would not follow the pack racing for the feeding bin at feeding time.  Were they employing a strategy as if being last to the feeding bin would offer a competitive advantage?  Did their strategy include avoidance of competition for a better position at the bin and the opportunity to graze upon the tastier oats and hay which lie at the bottom of the feed bin? I became fascinated with the outliers who wouldn’t follow the herd and began a journal with my speculations on the outliers feeding strategy.  
When I arrived at the university, I was competing with the best undergraduate minds in the world. I majored in mathematics and computer science and was one of only few female students in the courses. Many brilliant mathematicians are capable of performing complex calculations and deriving ingenious solutions to mathematical questions but doing complex mathematics elegantly is genius which exemplified Lenora Kohan. Leonora and I met twice weekly discussing my subjects, tutoring, but most of all, receiving her encouragement to keep persevering in a largely male, highly competitive, academic discipline. Leonora and I established the WSSN-
Women’s STEM Support Network which met weekly and the camaraderie was instrumental in my success as an undergraduate.
My four years as an undergraduate raced by. My parents took a bus to Cambridge for my graduation. They met Leonora who told them I was the “most promising student she ever had” with “boundless” career prospects. Since I was selected Valedictorian, my parents sat in the front row proudly wearing their “Sears finest” alongside the President of the United States who delivered the commencement address. As I delivered the Valedictorian address from the podium to my undergraduate peers, I suggested they seek a job over the summer which would get their hands dirty, make them sweat, and they would feel the satisfaction garnered from a hard day’s work molding them in many positive ways not the least of which would be greater appreciation for their future educational and professional endeavors. I saw my father, the strongest man I ever knew, weep and my mom holding him closely with tears flowing down her face.
Graduation would be the last time I saw my mother who died of breast cancer. At the reading of mom’s will, I was informed that she spent a portion of my Regeneron Science Award money and engaged a top patent lawyer to legally protect my Efficient Harvesting software. I phoned my father every Sunday when I knew he had returned from church. Although he sounded like the strong and determined father I knew, something in his voice told me he wasn’t the same man without my mother. He died of a heart attack within a year of mom’s passing. I returned home for the final time to bury my father alongside his beloved wife and sell the family farm. I placed the sale proceeds in a trust fund for a future use.
I proudly accepted the offer of admission to the graduate school at my university where I would earn both a Master of Science and Doctor of Philosophy degree in mathematics. I was invited by Leonora to collaborate with her on her efficient markets studies. The Master of Science degree would require only one year to complete and involved taking graduate level courses in mathematics and serving as a teaching assistant. The most important task to be completed within this year was to arrive at a thesis for my doctoral degree. Leonora was encouraging me to work with her on efficient markets study which would become the basis of my doctoral thesis but I was intrigued by the burgeoning field of “crypto currencies”. Crypto currency is an electronic or digital form of money not consisting of paper or coin. It permits users to make transactions between each other anonymously without a central bank. Instead of a central bank keeping track of payments, crypto currency uses an electronic ledger called a “Block Chain”. Transactions are communicated to the Block Chain through software “nodes” which are updating the block chain continuously.
I was inspired by the outliers feeding strategy on our farm. It was my hypothesis that embedding the nodes with software capable of tracking and predicting even anonymous users spending habits was possible. My doctoral thesis would be the creation of software which tracked the outliers on the crypto currency “farm” and incentive them to join the “herd” by spending crypto currency.
When I met with Leonora to present the thesis for my doctorate, I wasn’t met with the disappointment I expected in not choosing to engage in Lenora’s efficient markets studies but encouragement. Leonora was aware of crypto currencies and said she would complete some “due diligence” on her own before approving my thesis.
About a month had passed and I was invited to Leonora’s office. She approved my doctoral thesis and informed me a team at the prestigious science university across the Charles River was already hard at work on a crypto currency. This team was creating software designed to be embedded into the block chain to track demand, anticipate it, and raise prices accordingly which would have great value to investors. The team was backed by funding from an investment bank which formed a joint venture with the team and university. Leonora and I agreed that my creation of software to identify and attract the “outliers” had as much potential because the outliers are future customers with a massive population. Leonora had a keen business sense she inherited from her father. She suggested that I keep my study independent of outside investors and involve the University only when my software was tested and ready for publication. Leonora informed me that the team across the Charles River was comprised mostly of the same arrogant boys who won First Prize at the Regeneron Science competition besting my entry. Leonora and I shared an intense desire to win “First Prize” this time.
My doctorate study required four years of intense full time effort. I was under a great amount of time pressure because not only did I have to prepare my doctoral thesis but Leonora informed me that a peer review conference was to be held by the competing team just prior to the release of a paper revealing their crypto currency. If we had a better crypto currency, it would be best to present it immediately after the peer review.
The success of my thesis wouldn’t have been possible without Leonora’s strict adherence to empirical study. She challenged me to prove each of my hypotheses and the mathematics backing them more than one way so that each could be defended leaving no doubt regarding their correctness. Leonora exercised “tough love” as she guided me through the completion of my doctorate. She had an extraordinary mind for mathematics with the unique ability to do complex mathematics elegantly with the fewest of steps; each step a logical conclusion from the previous. Had she the opportunity to enter the field of mathematics in more progressive times, she would have earned a Nobel Prize.
Deidre contracted breast cancer. Despite the emotional toll on Leonora, she never missed a beat arriving on campus each day, completing her work, and collaborating with me on my thesis. Although Deidre received the best cancer treatment at the most prestigious medical school in the Country, Deidre died from the same metastatic breast cancer which killed my mother. Leonora was heartbroken. Deidre died on a Friday but Leonora was back at her desk on Monday. I admired Leonora’s ability to grieve but compartmentalize her pain and keep moving forward.
I was contacted unexpectedly by a prominent national trade group consisting of corporate farming conglomerates inviting me to present my Efficient Harvesting software at their annual meeting in Kansas City. Watching my parents struggle on their small family farm, I grew to despise corporate farming conglomerates that were responsible for the demise of family farms and decided to ignore their invitation. Leonora urged me to attend the conference because my software had the opportunity to increase crop production around the world and it was my moral obligation to reveal my software which was legally protected by the patent my mother obtained years before.
 I presented my findings to the trade group. Soon thereafter, I was contacted by the legal departments of the largest corporate farmers in the US with offers to purchase my software. Leonora suggested that I tell them I wasn’t ready to discuss a sale as I was busy completing my doctorate noting these offers would increase with my rebuff. The conglomerates weren’t patient and their CEO’s were extending opportunities to meet with me in person. Leonora suggested I tell them that I’m too busy to travel but I would arrange a single day for all interested companies to meet with me in Cambridge. I scheduled a day of back to back meetings with the CEO’s of each company who were uncomfortably aware of their competitors waiting in the hotel lobby for their turn to present an offer.  At the end of the long day of meetings, Leonora met me at the hotel bar. I needed a glass of wine to relax because my head was spinning with offers to purchase my software at prices so large any Wall Street investment banker would be impressed. I was a simple farm girl who watched her parents struggle and never could imagine being so wealthy. Leonora savored her wine basking in the delight of watching the alpha males of corporate agriculture trip over each other to buy a woman’s ingenious solution to efficient farming. She told me time was on my side and to focus on completing my thesis because the offers would increase in value.
I completed my doctoral thesis in three years just in time to present it immediately after the peer review conference held by the competing team. In defending my thesis to the committee composed of the brightest minds in mathematics and computer science in the world, each criticism or question had already been anticipated and explained through the use of the elegant mathematics I learned from Leonora. My thesis was lauded and my doctorate awarded. Leonora confided to me that it was the briefest doctoral thesis defense she ever recalled. I cried the day I received my PhD in mathematics because my parents weren’t there to share it with their loving daughter, Briana.
My thesis became the topic of increased interest by the Chairman of the mathematics departments at both universities, the university Provosts, and the competing team’s investment bank. Enormous pressure was placed on Leonora to get me to agree to join the competing team.  The competing teams tactic to get me to join was that our conclusions weren’t as “strong or valuable” but a crypto currency including my outlier tracking software would “add value” to the competing teams “superior” crypto currency. Leonora dismissed their argument as an old alpha male negotiating strategy.  She suggested I ignore the investment bankers who were really driving the joint venture proposal. Leonora told me she was convinced my crypto currency outlier software was indispensable and the investment bank would capitulate leaving me to pursue my own crypto currency or be forced to make me a better offer. Leonora believed my independence would create a bidding war and told me to tell the investment bank I was “entertaining other offers”. 
The pressure from the Chairman of our mathematics department and the university Provost increased and had Leonora not been a Professor Emeritus, the university may have threatened her tenure and withdraw my post doctoral fellowship forcing me to capitulate. The Women’s STEM Support Network had grown to over one hundred women at our college and the science university across the river. WSSN arranged a party to celebrate the awarding of my PhD. Word spread throughout the members about the pressure from the university administration and both universities were peppered with criticism and condemnation about their treatment of a brilliant female STEM PhD. The investment bank ran for cover not wanting a national scandal with negative publicity as did both university administrations.
Without Leonora’s encouragement and experience working in a male dominated field, I don’t believe I could have stood up to the alpha men on the competing team, the Department Chairmen, Provost’s,  investment bankers, and corporate farmers all whom were formidable and employing a “winner take all” approach to negotiation. Leonora told me that had I agreed to join the competing team backed by the investment bank, they would have taken all of the credit and most of the profit leaving me only with “crumbs”. Leonora suggested the lesson to be learned from this experience is that as women; we can harness the arrogance and the “winner take all” strategy of the male and use it against them by introducing more “bulls” to the negotiations. The strongest ‘bull” will emerge and if women control the negotiations, they’ll reap the profits of the competition between the “bulls”. The irony is that the victorious male will think he was the “winner”. I appreciated Leonora’s cattle herd analogy.
Leonora was becoming fatigued earlier in the day and appeared weak. She missed her first day of class. I was informed she had been admitted to the medical school hospital. Leonora was connected to multiple IV lines and was happy to see me. She reached for my hand but her grip was week. She told me she had contracted a particularly aggressive form of breast cancer and her prognosis was fatal. My best friend and mentor died within two weeks. At Leonora’s traditional Jewish funeral attended by a small group of close friends and family, I decided to move forward with my crypto currency software and name it “The Brio”.  If it became a bit coin or a paper currency, it would have Leonora’s effigy on it.
I accepted a position as a post doctoral fellow which enabled me to continue my crypto currency studies with generous pay and benefits. I was contacted by the investment bank funding the competing team’s work who admitted the addition of my outlier tracking software would make for a better crypto currency. They asked me to sell my software to them.  I remembered Leonora’s cattle herd “bull” analogy and knew that the addition of more “bulls” into the negotiations increased my negotiating leverage. I told them I was reviewing competing proposals which placed the smug investment bankers on their heels. With the assistance of a business school colleague, we placed a discrete “request for proposal” to a handful of the top investment banks in the world. It didn’t take long for multiple offers to purchase my software to arrive. The competing team’s investment bank capitulated not only offering me the highest price but agreeing that if a crypto coin or paper currency was produced, it would have Leonora’s effigy on it and would be called “The Brio”. The price I accepted for the sale of my software was staggering and eclipsed even the purchase offers put forth by the corporate farming conglomerates. The money was placed within the trust fund I established with my Regeneron Award money. I was a very wealthy woman and was resolved to use my money to create educational programs encouraging girls to enter STEM and agricultural science courses. I also decided to generously fund breast cancer research programs.
I reviewed the proposals to purchase my Efficient Harvesting software from the corporate farming conglomerates and employed the same strategy I utilized with the investment bankers. I introduced more “bulls” into the “herd” which drove up the price of the offers. I was already a wealthy woman and didn’t need their money. It was distasteful to see these corporate farming conglomerates fight and claw to purchase my software without any concern for feeding more people but solely making money. I told them I’d reach a decision in thirty days.
The contemptible greed I encountered with the investment bankers and corporate farming conglomerates made me long for the simple life of farming. I contacted the mathematics department at the state university not far from my parent’s farm and was offered a tenured professorship in mathematics. I purchased a small cattle and wheat farm which would permit me to farm part time as I longed for the rich soil caked on my boots, sweat on my brow, and the satisfaction which comes at the end of a full day of work on a farm. I eagerly awaited the opportunity to star gaze through the old binoculars I kept and find my tiny place within the universe.
I sold the Efficient Harvesting software for $1 to “The World Food Program” (WFP) branch of the United Nations addressing worldwide hunger provided the UN agreed to license the Efficient Harvesting software to the corporate farmers and utilize the enormous royalties to feed the hungry throughout the world for the life of the patent. I was humbled when I was awarded the “World Food Prize” which is the UN prestigious award recognizing individuals who increase the quality, quantity, and availability of food throughout the world. I accepted the award on behalf of my parents, Ralph and Judith.
I close the last box of Leonora’s personal effects. Rain pelts the window of Leonora’s office and I notice the Varsity crew team is in rare form as they sail down the Charles River despite the pouring rain reminding me of Leonora’s “brio” like a sleek scull sailing through life as the lyrics to Leonora’s favorite song end:

​And how the room is softly faded
And I only kiss your shadow, I cannot feel your hand
You're a stranger now unto me
In the dangling conversation
And the superficial sighs
The borders of our lives