by S. J. Bass

It was much later in the day and Greg noticed darkness creeping up behind him. It had been hot until now, but he couldn’t seem to remember where the sun had been even though the sky had remained cloudless all day. Nobody looks at the sun, he thought, people go blind staring at the sun. Those were his mother’s words. The straight flat road that stretched infinitely ahead of him vanished into a slurry grayish black filled with wavy heat lines. Cars passed him by and suddenly a big-rig truck hauling building materials almost blew him off his heels.

He’d been standing alongside this road for what felt like thirty minutes, or maybe it was over an hour by now. He wasn’t sure of the exact time, but he was thirsty, this he knew. Each time his parched tongue licked the inside of his cheeks he tasted a terribly gross staleness. A few feet ahead of him, he could make out a green sign supported by two poles with white lettering. It stood between him and the cactus-filled wilderness off to the East.

An air-dried blanket of raw chill wrapped around his body. He shivered and hugged himself.  Winged things flew high in the sky, but he could not perceive what the dark animate things were. Meanwhile he kept his right thumb pointing skyward. Glancing back at the sign, it read, “What on Earth are you doing?”

“I’m not sure,” Greg said aloud to the sign, hoping an answer would follow. Maybe one would if he waited long enough.

Abruptly, a vehicle screeched to a stop a few feet past him and hugged the road’s shoulder. It was a classic 1970 blue Yenko Nova coupe 350 SC–seeing this beast made Greg smile. He whispered under his breath, “My dream machine.” A two-door with eight desirable cylinders of magnificent grunt, this one had white-walled tires and a white top. In that moment he heard the driver yell out the passenger window, “You need a ride out of here?”

The driver sounded kind and inviting. This persuaded Greg to quickly move toward the door, open it, and slide into the passenger’s seat. Closing the door behind him, Greg placed a seatbelt over his lap and turned to face his new travel buddy while they gained speed to merge onto the two-lane interstate highway.

Greg’s mouth went half-numb. “You’re a rab…”

“I’m a what? OH! You mean, a rabbit? I completely forgot to warn you because you were especially excited to see my Nova.”

“Yeah. About that!” Greg started to shake a little bit from shock and amazement. Under his worn clothes, his skinny body lacked enough meat on his bones to fend off the increasing frigid air that blew into the Nova. This made him shiver doubly so. Music played on low, a song from Creedence Clearwater Revival—Bad Moon Rising.

“Yep, Walter’s my name, Walter Rabbit. And you are?”

Walter held out his furry white paw with pink pads and grinned at Greg with a human-sized rabbit face, but not human enough. Although, he thought, maybe this is a guy in a rabbit suit. But Walter’s grin–a half-odd and half-cute sort of smile–traveled past his teeth and into pink gums that turned darker around the edges of his mouth. Too real, Greg thought, it’s too real. This led him to stare into Walter’s red beady eyes. Demonic looking, he thought. The rabbit kept smiling while keeping his left hand locked on the steering wheel at ten o’clock. Straightaway, the whole spectacle frightened Greg, but what could he do? He was strapped in for the ride like a wingless bug sitting on a lily in a small pond surrounded by hungry frogs.

Eventually he introduced himself because it was all he could do. “I’m Greg,” he said as he held out a trembling right hand. Walter’s right paw gripped Greg’s. His soft fur invited scratches as if it were the head of a friendly neighborhood cat. After a firm handshake his stomach rumbled, and he realized how hungry he was. Hungry and thirsty.

Walter reminded him of Edward, a pet rabbit he once owned back in Louisiana before his mother had moved him and his sister to California. Before their cross-country move, she made him release Edward into some nearby woods because their new apartment didn’t allow pets. He knew that if his father had been around, he would’ve been able to keep it.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you Greg. I really hope we can be friends.” With this, Walter placed his full attention on driving. His hands gripped the wheel at ten and two. Occasionally he glanced at Greg and studied his condition. After a few minutes, he turned on the heater. “Comfy now?”

“Yeah,” Greg said, still astonished a rabbit knew how to drive, let alone talk. His senses returned, giving him a need to break this unshakable awkwardness. “How can you talk and how did you learn to drive? Is the DMV giving out licenses to everyone now?”

Walter grinned. “I’ve never taken a driver’s test.”

Greg turned away to see what was outside his window. He thought all this was very strange.

Not taking a driver’s test concerned him. Walter seemed a capable driver, and, after having experienced his fair share of psychedelics at sixteen, which might’ve been yesterday–or maybe it wasn’t–seeing this human-sized rabbit wasn’t entirely unusual. Had he taken drugs lately? He concluded that he must have. The words, “just enjoy the trip,” slid through his frontal lobe.

Greg shook off his worries. “Where’re we headed?”

Waiting for an answer, he glanced at the backseat for signs of anything strange. Stranger than a rabbit who could drive of course–a dead body perhaps–but then he thought a giant bag of carrots would be hilarious. He peered at the floorboard behind Walter and blinked in disbelief. He did indeed see a large half-empty bag of organic carrots with a cute white rabbit on the labeling.

“We’re going home, Greg.”

“I don’t want to go home.”

“We’re not going to your home, we’re going to my home.”

“But, don’t you live underground?”

Walter frowned. “Rabbits don’t always live underground Greg. We only do that during the winter.” Walter went back to smiling.

Greg looked down at his feet. His shoes were disheveled with soles in need of replacing. “Sorry, I didn’t know.”

“You didn’t, and it’s all right. Because it’s not true.” Walter chuckled. “Yeah Greg, that’s right, I don’t live underground, never have.”

Nodding to show he understood–not that he did–Greg eyed the passing landscape. The hillside held a strange green and purple hue like the brilliant northern lights of Iceland. A breeze carried a scent of roses that filled his nostrils and with this perfumed air, the mental image of a woman crept into his mind. Faceless at first, Greg found himself caught in her delicate spell. The scent jump-started his memory to that of his mother. The thought of her made him frown. They had fought daily before he drove away from home with the hope of never returning. Leaving her yelling at him from outside their front door, Greg never cast his eyes homebound. He wondered how long had it been now? A year perhaps?

Staring outside, Greg eyed a desert scattered with cactus and rolling tumbleweeds. Winged things filled the air always, feathered, and otherwise. Greg rolled down the window. Extending his arm outside to feel the breeze, there was something about the way it curled and licked at his fingers.

Glancing up at the sky, new white-winged web-footed creatures replaced the dark feathered sort.

Walter turned to Greg. “We’re in bat country now, so be careful with your arm outside my window.”

Taking Walter’s advice, Greg retracted his right arm and rolled up the window until only a few inches remained. A shriek cried out past the Nova alongside Greg’s window. This startled him enough to flash a worried glance at Walter. The rabbit avoided his gaze and kept handling the Chevy. Unshaken, he continued past the screeching demons. Greg wondered to himself, was life always this way, or is this the end of times? Deciding life was always both, depending on the month, he rubbed his eyes hoping to wake up from this dream. Why are these white bats suddenly reminding him of a surgeon’s gloves?

“Almost there,” said Walter as he exited the highway. Meanwhile, an utterly dark night had descended upon the land with an odd quickness.

Greg expected him to live in a suburb with rabbit neighbors just like him. Walter parked his rumbling Nova in the driveway of a pale brown and green one-story house. Under the streetlights he watched neighbors walking down sidewalks. There were indeed a few rabbits, while others were humans. Some held hands.

“Follow me,” Walter said, “my front door is around back.”

Not wanting to be rude, but still cautious, Greg followed him with hesitation around the side-yard. Stopping at doors planted at the base of the house, Walter opened it and stepped down. Greg examined the opening and saw a short set of stairs leading under the house and into a dimly lit hallway.

His eyes widened. “So, you do live underground!” he said.

Walter turned to look at him from the base of the stairs. “So I do!” He motioned for Greg to follow.

He stepped down and a lamp came alive, giving Greg a clear view of old paintings and piles of books stacked all about the place. Peering into what seemed to be a living room, Greg was amazed at all the books piled in corners and on top of furniture.

“Please, take off your shoes,” said Walter while moving past Greg, “and place them by the door. I like to keep a tidy house.”

Not tidy at all, Greg thought. Removing his shoes, he exposed his socks. These were worn with holes, but mostly clean. He washed them at least once a day at service stations. After his car had broken down months ago, all he did was walk.

“I love how you have so many books. Are you a collector?”

“Not as such,” said Walter as he removed some books from two chairs and sat in the one wrapped with burgundy leather. “In fact, I don’t read this book anymore. The author hasn’t written anything truly new for most of this year. It’s always the same boring journey that goes nowhere.” He motioned for Greg to sit across from him in a white leather chair.

Greg eyed the chair for a moment. It was a bright white leather, unused it seemed, and it gave off a slight glow. He sat, and the leather arms of the chair were cold under his forearms. He glanced from painting to painting while Walter lit his fireplace. For Greg, these paintings held a familiarity, reminding him of his life. With the fire lit, Walter sat down again.

Greg asked, “Did you say, ‘this book’, as in just one book?”

Skipping over Greg’s observation, Walter stood up again. “Do you want a cup of green tea with toasted brown rice?”

The sound of toasted rice–brown or not–in tea seemed completely wrong to Greg, but he accepted the gesture without hesitation. Walter then disappeared into the kitchen where he could be heard filling a kettle.

From the kitchen, Greg heard him say “If you feel like turning on my TV, go right ahead.”

In a corner now lit up by the fireplace sat an old black-and-white TV set. It reminded Greg of the one his father once had. As his mother had often complained, “That abusive bastard never paid attention to anything else over that damn TV and his favorite shows.”

He left after Greg had turned nine. But as the years passed Greg concluded that both his parents instigated their raging arguments. His mother always claimed different after his father left for good. She told Greg their squabbles were all his father’s fault. Staring at the TV brought him to an angry place, urging him to smash it. Another moment passed, and a deep sadness replaced his anger. He started to cry softly to himself.

A whistle blew, signaling that the tea was almost ready.

While the tea steeped, Greg’s gloomy thoughts circled inside his head and turned into an F5 tornado. He knew he never wanted to go back home to the chaos, but for reasons he couldn’t figure out right now, he started to miss his mother. She was a banshee, always yelling at him for ridiculous reasons. She even slapped him around sometimes when he mouthed off to her. But she also hugged him when he was sad and had kept a roof over their heads. After he could drive, he thought he was a man. Now he’s seventeen, at least, he thought he was seventeen. His birthday had silently passed as if his life were a lonely insignificant ant, squashed in the dirt below some tall grass. He wiped his eyes.


Greg twitched in surprise, making him cough a little. So deep in thought, he hadn’t heard Walter approach him. Regaining his voice after coughing enough to clear his throat, he looked toward the Rabbit. “Yes, Walter.”

Walter handed him tea in a flowery golden-rimmed cup. Greg smelled and sipped his tea. “Perfect,” he mumbled.

“What’s that, Greg?”

“I love this tea,” he said slightly louder. “I never thought toasted rice in tea would taste so perfect.”

“It’s an exciting world out there and people miss out on wonderful things by staying lost.” Walter stared at him for a moment while sipping his tea. “You know, it’s not about what happens to us on the outside, Greg. But it’s the truth of who we are inside ourselves that matters most.” Walter paused and watched Greg sip his tea, “Where were you headed back there when I picked you up?”

“Anywhere but home.”

Walter raised a floppy ear, “Why Is that?”

“Home is hell to me.”

“I see.” Walter took one step toward the TV and clicked the switch. With the channel resting on a medical drama, he sat down while Greg wondered why the comatose patient resembled him, and how the lady crying over that patient appeared to be his mother, only with a kinder face than he remembered.

Greg shook his head. “Can you please turn that off?”

“Someday we all have to face the hard truths in our lives. But you don’t have to face yours alone. I’ll always be around to help.”

“I should go. I can’t deal with this right now.” But as Greg got up to leave his curiosity overtook him. He was compelled to ask a burning question. “How are you doing all this?” Walter said nothing, instead he pointed to one of the many books scattered about.

He picked it up and flipped to the last few pages. On those pages Greg read his last moments, racing away in his beater two-door Honda after that terrible argument with his mother. In his anger he misjudged a corner, lost control, and crashed his car into a large oak tree, miles away from home. This had sent him into a coma. He remembered wanting to die that day. Back then he had no friends, nobody to talk to, and he missed his father. But he didn’t want to die anymore. “I understand Walter, I want to wake up now.” With his hands trembling and tears in his eyes, he dropped the book and said, “Tell me how to wake up!”

Walter handed Greg the keys to his Nova and explained to him, “Listen, you take my car and drive to the end of the highway. There, you’ll meet a short man. He’ll let you take a hot-air balloon ride. But you’ll need this ticket.” Walter handed him a red ticket: good for one ride. “Ride that balloon until you reach a small dark hole in the sky. It’s just small enough for you to fit.”

“And then what?”

“Then you get your life back.”

With the keys in his right hand, he thanked Walter and said, “Will I ever see you again?”

Walter pointed towards the door, answering, “Only in your dreams. Or if you happen to take psychotropic drugs.”

Greg laughed, and without further delay he rushed outside the house where he got into the Nova. The surrounding night had turned an even darker tar black. He started the engine and gave the Chevy a little gas. The potential power rumbling underneath his butt and at his fingertips made him grin.

Backing out, he screeched off down the street. All roads were closed except the one leading to a two-lane freeway at the mouth of an overpass. Taking this road, he drove for what felt like two hours. Time was uncertain because his confused mental clock screwed with his perception of it. Alongside the road, signs pointed in the direction he was headed. Each sign read, “Balloon Rides”, with the stated mileage decreasing the further he traveled. Above him no moon shone, no planets glowed, and stars were nonexistent. The road never curved.

Greg’s eyes started to blink from exhaustion. He almost missed an end to the road. A reflective orange sign seemed to appear out of nowhere. Stomping on the brakes he skidded to a stop. Through the smoke it read, “Balloon Rides to the right”. This led him to a dusty unpaved road, and as he turned, bathed in headlights and red dust, a three-foot-tall man in a colorful Christmas sweater stood before him. Behind the Short Man was a blue and white striped hot-air balloon attached to a wicker basket that floated a few inches off the ground.

Greg shut off the Nova but kept the headlights on and stepped out.

“So, you’re finally ready to take the ride,” said the Short Man while scratching the back of his head. “Do you have your ticket?”


“Yes,” he said as he handed the Short Man the red ticket and walked past him toward the balloon. Stepping up into the wobbly open doorway of the wicker basket, he pulled his body inside and turned to face the Short Man. “What now?”

“Now you go up.” The Short Man closed the basket.

A tall blue and yellow tipped flame licked the air at the mouth of the balloon. The Short Man untied several weights and upon letting go of the last one, he smiled and waved goodbye. The balloon floated up into the sky, losing itself in the darkness. Eventually, a deep calm surrounded Greg, making the sky seem unreal.

When the balloon had lifted higher and nearer to the wispy clouds, an occasional white bat flew past him. Greg ducked behind his basket’s walls. Giving the flame more juice, the balloon gained altitude. More bats followed and continued to gather. They circled his basket only a few feet away, their albescent skin creating a gleaming white ring around his balloon.

Greg searched the sky for that small dark hole, but only a black sky misted by clouds met his hopeful blue eyes. “This is just great!” he yelled, “Where is it, Walter?” Desperate, Greg lashed out at the bats with his fists, but he couldn’t reach them. He yelled at them to go away.

The white hoard paid no heed to Greg’s demands. Quickly rushing the balloon, each white bat sank their razor fangs into the balloon’s ropes. He stared at their hungry beady red eyes and pink gums exposed by blue-gold flames. Each bat he knocked away was replaced with a fresh one.

They continued chomping at the ropes, easily cutting them as if their teeth were scalpels. Only a few thick threads remained attached. These snapped, and Greg cried out. Tumbling out his basket, he threw his hands up toward the darkest of skies.

When he awoke, Greg lay in a hospital bed. Outside the window, the night sky was a misty darkness filled with stars stuck in the ink of time. Rain fell in blustery sheets and thunder rattled the glass. Lights from life-monitoring machines gave him glimpses of the room. His body had changed into something unfamiliar–skin and bones from atrophy and a liquid diet, he realized. He glanced around and rubbed his eyes for more clarity in the dim. Fixating on a shadowy corner across his room, he thought he made out Walter Rabbit sleeping in a hospital chair. Greg sat up to get a better look. A pink-gummed toothy smile formed under the whiskers. But then, quick as a flash, it wasn’t Walter anymore. His mother! She was dressed in all-white, her blue eyes widened, and she beamed a smile at him – all pink gums and giant white teeth.

Greg’s door opened, and a nurse entered from the bright hallway outside his door. At first, she appeared angelic, with fluorescent light draping the entire outline of her body. She turned on the lights and all illusions vanished. “You’re finally awake! Welcome to the real world,” she said. “This might come as a shock, but you’ve been in a coma for the better part of a year.” She looked him over as if waiting for a response, but Greg only blinked. “Do you have any family? Because we’ve looked and had no response. I’m sorry that a stranger has to tell you this, but nobody came for you and I’m not sure anyone will.”


Making the Move

by Rollin Jewett

Robert knew this was it. The night. He and Susie had been dating for two long months now and here he was: alone with her in his dad’s car, miles from nowhere, with the stereo playing his favorite make-out playlist.

Tonight was the night, boy. It had to be. She was his all night and he was ready. He had planned it to a tee. He’d even got the expensive ribbed condoms that advertised they were “for her pleasure.”

All week, he’d bugged his dad to let him use the car and his dad finally, reluctantly agreed. After Robert had washed and waxed it, that is. Small price to pay for what he felt he was about to receive in return for his hard work.

All week he’d told the boys he was gonna make “the move”. He was moving beyond the kissy-feely stage with Susie and that when he took her out on Friday night, it was put out or get out. A little harsh perhaps, but Robert felt he’d laid the proper groundwork these last few weeks to let Susie know what he had on his mind. More or less.

He sat there with his arm around her shoulder and she looked at him shyly and smiled.

“What are you thinking?” she asked and moved closer to him, “You’ve been so quiet tonight.”

Robert loved her voice. She had that melodic sing-song southern accent that he found so sexy. He remembered when he had first heard it – at the beginning of the year, on the first day of class. He’d seen her and plopped down right next to her because he always made it a point to sit next to pretty girls in classes that he thought would be boring. It gave him something to look at and think about when things got too slow. It was American history, his least favorite subject, so he spent a lot of time gazing at her from the corner of his eye.

She was never called on, so Robert hadn’t heard her speak until the day she dropped her book on the floor in class. Robert quickly picked it up and handed it to her.  She smiled her pretty smile and said, “Thank you, sir” in a soft melodic drawl.

Robert laughed. No one had ever called him “sir” before. Especially not someone his own age.  Must be a southern thing, he thought. He was smitten right then and there.

And now here they were. Robert gave her what he hoped was a sexy half-smile.

“Oh, I was just thinking about how pretty you look tonight and how good it feels to be alone with you.” She smiled, moved closer to him and narrowed her eyes. Robert knew this was her signal that she wanted him to kiss her. He did and she put her hand on his chest like she always did when they kissed in the car. He loved it when she did that. It made him feel strong and protective, like she was his baby-girl and needed and loved him. They hadn’t said the “L” word to each other yet, but he was definitely feeling something strong. Something…almost a yearning. He’d never felt it before. Then Robert remembered what he’d planned to do that night.

He broke from the kiss and looked out the side window at the crescent moon. Then he turned back to her. She gazed steadily at him with a puzzled, slightly hurt look on her face. Her eyes were shiny, her lips slightly parted, and her honey blonde hair was blowing ever so slightly from the breeze through the open window. Holy Christ, this is like a scene in a movie, he thought. He was momentarily paralyzed by her fragile beauty in that instant.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, and she moved a little away from him. Robert didn’t really know what to say. He really liked this girl and he didn’t want to blow it. Tonight had to be the night. Who knew when he’d get a chance like this again?

He smiled at her slyly, making up his mind. He pulled her close to him and whispered, “Why don’t we get in the back seat? There’s more room back there.”

She didn’t say anything, so Robert stepped out the driver’s side and got into the back seat. After a moment, she joined him. Robert leaned in for a kiss. She seemed a little nervous, but not unreceptive. He began kissing her with as much meaning as he could, to try and almost subconsciously relay his passionate message — to signal unmistakably what he was after. She kissed him back nearly as passionately. He could feel there was a want in her almost as strong as his and he was a little frightened of it. He wasn’t terribly experienced in lovemaking and had only been with a girl twice before. He tried to quell his doubts by kissing her even harder.

He began caressing her whole body gently, insistently. She offered absolutely no resistance. He started to take off her blouse. She didn’t lift a finger to stop him. All the time he was thinking, “She’d better stop me now if she’s gonna stop me at all.”

Things were going just as Robert had planned. He didn’t ever dream of it being this easy. She must really like him a lot if she was willing to go along with this. But then, thought Robert, if she’d let me come this far she must have let someone else come this far, too. Robert started feeling very jealous of this other guy whom he imagined must’ve been there first. I guess it doesn’t really matter, though, he thought. Someone had to be first, right?

He had taken off her top and was struggling to get her jeans down when he noticed that she was simply staring at him while he labored — neither helping nor resisting. Robert stopped.

“You okay?” he asked. She paused a moment.

“I’ll tell you what,” she said, “I’m pretty new at this.”

“What do you mean?” Robert asked.

“I’m brand new.” she said. “I’m about as new as you can get.” She smiled almost apologetically. Robert was puzzled for a moment. He hadn’t really considered she might be a virgin. They were both eighteen and Robert just figured that by the time you’re eighteen hardly anyone’s a virgin any more. Nobody he knew, anyhow. He slowly leaned back, gathering his thoughts.

“Why’d you stop?” she asked after a moment.

“Did you want me to keep going?” said Robert.

“Only if you wanted to.” She replied. Robert looked at her and was suddenly ashamed. He thought about what had been on his mind all night. All week for that matter. What an insensitive jerk he was. This was a beautiful and genuine soul, not someone you just steamroll for your own selfish desires. Yeah, he was disappointed in a way. But he was also kind of relieved. Deep down, he realized this was really not the way he wanted it to happen after all. He looked at her and kissed her softly on the cheek.

“Naw,” he said, “that should happen with someone you love.”

They were both quiet for a moment. She put her top back on slowly, as one song ended and the next came on. It was a love song.

“I love this song,” she said softly, breaking the tension.

Robert nodded. After a moment, he reached over and took her hand. It was warm, a little damp, but he felt her give his hand a squeeze. The moon was high in the sky and in the light, he could see her smile. It was radiant.

Robert knew in that instant… he had definitely made the right move.


Rock Bottom

by Kari Anderson

Peter opened the car door, taking a deep breath of fresh air. As a kid, he had always loved the outdoors: there was something about endless miles of forests and mountains that could make you lose yourself. And yet now, he couldn’t seem to calm the beating of his heart and the whirring noise in his brain.

“Are you sure about this?” asked Ella, gripping the steering wheel. She was looking at him, but his eyes were stuck on the vast forest ahead of them.

Peter nodded. “I’m sure.”

Ella still looked skeptical. “Look,” said Peter, trying to ease her worry. “I’ll be fine. I have everything I need, all ten essentials.”

“You have plenty of water?” she responded.


“A map?”

“Two of them.”

“Is your phone fully charged?”

“Charged it this morning.” Peter pulled a sleek cell phone out of his pocket, then turned it on as proof. “And I know the exact point where the cell service gets spotty, and I have signal flares just in case.”

Ella relaxed her grip on the steering wheel slightly. “I will be back here at exactly 10:00 tomorrow morning. I’ll probably be early. Don’t be late.”

Peter took that as a cue to get out of the car. “I won’t be. I’ll see you at 10.”

“On the dot.”

Ella was giving him an odd look again, a mixture of worry and pity. He flashed her another smile before swinging his backpack over his shoulder and heading towards the trail.

“Peter, wait,” Ella shouted through the open window. He turned around.

“Be careful,” she said. “Please.”

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll be careful.”

She rolled up the window, pulled the car into reverse, and backed out of the parking lot. A part of him wanted to scream at her to come back, but she was already gone.

He began the trek down the trail, passing landmarks that had once been familiar: the cluster of ferns, the moss in the shape of a heart near the base of a tree, the winding creek that tripled in size after every heavy rainfall. Peter couldn’t seem to calm the sense of unease that had plagued him since he had first decided to return to the mountain. It had been a spontaneous thought that had turned into a careful decision, and then had quickly spiraled into a month of constant planning and rethinking and gathering supplies and checking supplies and re-checking supplies and re-checking supplies again. His parents had thought that he was going crazy. Even Ella had confronted him multiple times, trying to figure out what was going on.

“I haven’t lost my mind, I promise,” he had said after she asked for the tenth time why he was pursuing this. “I just need to do this. For closure.”

Ella had given him another sad look, the kind that had become tiresome over the course of the past year. “At the very least, you don’t have to tough it out by yourself,” she’d said. “Let me come with you.”

“No way.”

“What, you think I can’t handle it?” Ella had said, indignant. “Just because I’m your little sister doesn’t mean I can’t protect you, ok?”

“No, it’s not that,” he had cut in quickly. “I just…I have to do this alone. You weren’t there when…”

He had choked up suddenly, out of the blue, the way he used to right after it had happened. Ella took one glance at his face and understood. “At least let me give you a ride,” she had said. “I can drive you there and pick you up. So you at least don’t have to spend two hours in the car alone.”

Peter had agreed. At the time it had felt like the right option, a way to compromise, but as he passed the third trail marker, he couldn’t help but wish that he had let Ella win the argument, so that she would be walking next to him right now.

Peter took a ragged breath before veering right, his feet hitting dirt instead of gravel. It had been a spontaneous decision to leave the trail. Now, even after all his careful calculations, Peter couldn’t understand why they had been so stupid.

The hike up to the cliff wasn’t too bad. Peter found himself catching his breath with every stone that came loose under his foot, every slight trip on a root, every small slip on the coarse vegetation. As he rose above the trees, he kept his eyes on the vast sky and let himself feel small and lost. He pulled out his map, comparing his location to the black star marking his destination.

“Almost there,” he muttered out loud, jumping a bit at the sound of his own voice. Deep breaths, he told himself. He hadn’t felt this jittery in ages.

The weather was starting to turn by the time he reached his destination. The sun, which had been shining when he’d exited the forest, was now hiding behind the bank of clouds that had drifted into its path. The temperature was beginning to drop in preparation for an inevitable rainstorm. Peter shivered as a cool breeze blew straight through his core.

This was the exact spot, he thought.

He set down his backpack and began pulling out the packable tent he had bought at the nearest outdoor equipment store, along with everything else he had brought with him. Although he’d been hiking forever, Peter’s family hadn’t ever been big on camping.

Ironic, he thought bitterly.

He couldn’t remember the exact moment when the storm had started, only that it had caught them by surprise. Later he saw the thunderstorm warnings, but for some reason, perhaps a cosmic joke, he hadn’t even checked that day. It had seemed so peaceful when they had left, and he’d had no reason to believe that anything would go wrong. But then the rain had kept falling, and falling, and they’d realized that they were trapped on top of a mountain in a lightning storm, with no supplies and no way out.

Peter pushed through some of the brambles until he found the mouth of the small cave and entered. He unrolled his tent and began the process of putting it up, occasionally consulting the paper instructions.

Several minutes, two nearly broken pegs, and one crumpled instruction sheet later, Peter stepped out of the cave, running his fingers along the smooth edge.

“I never thanked you,” he whispered to the cave. “For saving me back then.”

His echoed whispered back to him. Then…then…then…

Peter walked out of the cave into the pale pre-dusk sunlight, finding his way towards the edge of the cliff. He took a moment to take in the vast cliff, the horizon in the distance. Then he sat down, carefully keeping his balance despite the uneven surface, gripping a tree root with his free hand to make sure he wouldn’t fall into the void. He kept silent for a while, trying to relax with the sound of the wind whistling through his ears.

“Hey, Jake,” he said finally, breaking a long silence. “It’s been a year now since we came here, and I just thought…I wanted to come out here. To talk to you. I think there’s still a stupid part of me that thinks that you might be down there in that chasm, alive, somehow. It’s dumb, I know. I guess I still can’t believe that you’re gone.”

He could feel the tears building up. A while ago, he would’ve tried to repress them, but here he could let them come. There was no one here but him and the mountain, unforgiving but not one to judge.

“I tried to wait for you, you know. After you fell I screamed your name probably 100 times, and I waited for you to answer. I just stayed out in the rain, waiting for you. I forgot that there was lightning and I knew we had lost cell service, but the absolute last thing I wanted to do was leave to call 911 and end up missing you saying something back. I waited for hours. I was praying the whole time that you would ask for help or tell me to say something to your family or anything like that. They told me later that you probably died on impact, and that even if you had said something I wouldn’t have heard it over the storm. But I still waited. They never found your body and for all I know, you managed to survive somehow and you’re living in the forest with amnesia or something like that.”

Peter let his eyes slip out of focus. “No,” he said bitterly. “I can’t keep thinking like that. Because you’re gone. And it’s all my fault. We should have never come out here, but I was feeling impulsive and stupid. And then there was the lightning, and my ankle had gotten screwed up, and even though we were fine in that cave for a while you still wanted to go out and get help but it had been raining so much and it was way too slick to be safe—”

Peter felt the choking feeling in his throat, restricting his breathing and making him feel like he was dying. A panic attack. His first one in ages had been about a month ago. That’s when he knew that he needed to come back, to apologize.

“I’m so sorry, Jake,” he said, choking out the words. He let the tears out, letting the cluster in his throat slowly, ever so slowly dissipate. “I screwed up, got reckless, and you died because of it. I should’ve stopped you from going or I should’ve caught you when you went over the edge or something. All year I’ve been killing myself over this. I need to tell you…you were the best friend I’ve ever had.”

The clouds, which had so recently been threatening rain, suddenly drifted away and let the sun break free. Peter squinted in the sunlight that had appeared out of nowhere. He smiled, in spite of himself, the panic starting to fade away. He checked his watch: 7:23 p.m. There was still some time before he’d make himself dinner and go to bed.

“Life’s been shitty without you here, to be honest,” said Peter, rolling a loose stone between his fingers. “I bet things are a hell of a lot better where you are. Still, if you’re listening somehow, I have some things to say.”

Peter reached into his backpack, full of essentials. His fingers closed around a small notebook.

“I talked to some of the people from home and they wrote down some messages for you,” he said, opening the notebook to the first page. “They thought I was crazy for coming out here, by the way. I got a lot of weird looks. They just don’t get it. They never will.”

He took a deep breath, then looked out to the crevasse below. “Ok, here goes.”

And he sat in the warm sunlight, gazing out over the vast landscape and talking to his best friend.


Peter woke up at 6:33, blinking as he adjusted to the pale light filtering through the tent. He unzipped and unsheathed himself from his sleeping bag, putting on a jacket and his shoes before venturing outside the cave.

The sky had painted itself with reds and oranges, the clouds soft. And in a single, spectacular moment, the sun broke the horizon.

“I hope you’re watching this, Jake,” he said out loud. “Wherever you are, I hope you have a front row seat.”

He let his gaze linger for a few more minutes. And then he turned around and prepared the trip back down the mountain.


Ella was leaning against her car by the time Peter made it back to the parking lot. He checked his watch: 9:58 a.m.

“Hey,” she said timidly. Peter couldn’t tell if it was obvious that he had been crying for most of the night, but he didn’t really care. Ella would understand.

“Hey,” he said, walking up to the car. “I’m right on time.”

Ella let her mouth curl up into the smallest of smiles. “You are, I’m so proud.” She hesitated for a fraction of a second. “How are you?”

Peter thought about the question for a moment. “Fine,” he said. “At least, I will be. Eventually.”

And he wasn’t sure if it was the anniversary of his friend’s death, or the fact that he had been alone all night, but something made him pull his sister into a hug. Ella stiffened at first, surprised, and then sank into it. How long had it been since he had hugged his little sister? Five years? Eight? Ten? How long had it been since he’d told his family he loved them? Maybe never.

He didn’t realize how long they had stayed like that until he felt Ella pulling away. “You ready to go then?” she said, opening the car door.

Peter took a final glance around at the forest and the mountain, a place that he had once loved and then feared and now had such a complicated set of feelings about that it would take hours to disentangle them. Then he finally nodded. “Yep,” Peter said. “I’m ready. Let’s go.”



by Lazaros Zigomanis


As soon as Dad’s van pulled into the drive and came to a stop, Keene yanked open the door, jumped out, and bolted for the house.

“Keene, close the door!” Dad yelled after him.

Keene streamed up the veranda, right fist clenched tightly. Bunch waited by the front door, tail wagging. The border collie barked and reared onto his hind legs. Keene slung open the screen door.

“Mum! Mum!”

Keene ran down the hallway, footsteps echoing on the hardwood floor. He slid into the empty kitchen, Bunch skittering to a halt behind him.


“In here!” Mum called from the dining room.

Keene slipped through the adjoining archway into the dining room. Mum stood at the upright piano, tidying a stack of sheet music and placing it into the piano stool. She closed the stool lid as Keene rushed forward to hug her.

“Guess what I got you!” he said.


Keene opened his hand. Nestled in his palm, as gold as honey, was a crystal pendant shaped like a teardrop. A fine leather cord ran from its eyelet and was secured by a bronze clasp.

“I got it from the school fair!” he said. “The woman said that the crystals make it so you don’t get sick! Put it on!”

Mum held the pendant up before her face, studying the way the light bounced off the crystal. Her eyes grew misty, the way they did sometimes when she was happy. Then, as if to prove it, she smiled, and fastened the pendant around her neck. It hung over her heart and sparkled in a way that made Keene think that Mum was shining.

“Thank you, Keene,” Mum said. She hugged him and kissed him on the cheek as the screen door clattered and Dad came into the dining room.

“Keene, what did I tell you about the car door?” he said.


“It’s still open. Go close it. Now.”

Keene nodded, grinned once at Mum, and left the dining room.



Keene kicked his legs back and forth. There’d been a lot of doctors lately. He was tired of waiting rooms and hospitals that smelled the way the floors did when Mum mopped them.

“Can I get you anything?” the receptionist asked him from her seat behind the counter. She was young with a pleasant, round face, and thick, pointed glasses.

Keene shook his head. Everybody was always trying to be helpful.

“There are some toys in the box over there.”

Keene had already seen the toys – a mishmash of trucks, dolls, and plastic animals. He’d played with them in the past, but that’s when Mum and Dad had been out here waiting with him. Then they’d all go in to see Dr. Ward together. This time, Mum and Dad had wanted him to wait here. He didn’t like that.

“I’m sure they won’t be long,” the receptionist said.

Keene nodded. He was thankful when the phone rang and she had to pick it up.



Keene lay on his bed, hand hovering over a line of colored pencils. His picture of himself, Mum, Dad, and Bunch standing in front of their house was almost complete. He just needed a yellow pencil to color in the sun. The question was, what sort of yellow should he use?

He peered out the window, shielding his eyes with one hand. The sun was a fiery ball so bright that it had frightened away every cloud and all that was left was the blueness of the sky.

Something rose above the trees that rimmed their backyard. Keene sprang abruptly to his feet – Bunch, curled up in the corner, jumped to follow – and bolted to the window. Beyond the yard, gum trees unfolded for as far as he could see and there, at the very end, billowed plumes of black smoke.

‘Mum! Dad!’

Keene shot from the bedroom with Bunch close behind him. The kitchen was thick with the smell of scones baking, Dad was seated at the kitchen table as Mum sewed a loose strap back onto his overalls.


“What?” Dad said.

Keene dashed down the hallway as Bunch barked behind him. He burst through the screen door and onto the veranda. A large gum tree shielded their yard like an umbrella, its branches intertwined with another gum tree standing misshapen amongst the rim of trees that surrounded the house. From here, there was no sign of smoke.

The screen door opened, but Mum and Dad had no sooner come out onto the veranda when Keene charged past them – beating the screen door as it swung close – and back into the house.

‘You can’t see from here!’ he said as he vaulted up the stairs.

He ran into his bedroom and to the window. Even Bunch jumped up, resting his paws on the sill. The smoke had blotted the sky. The stairs creaked as Mum and Dad hurried up after them and into Keene’s room.

“Keene, what’re you doing?” Dad asked.

“Look!” Keene pointed.

“Keene, if this is a game …” Dad’s voice tapered away.

“Oh my,” Mum said, as she put her hands on Keene’s shoulders. “If that turns …”

“My phone …” Dad patted his pockets. He ran from the room, feet pounding down the stairs. It wasn’t long before he could be heard shouting on his phone.

“What do you mean ‘if it turns’?” Keene asked.

“If the fire comes this way,” Mum said, “we might have to leave – just in case.”

Dad came back into the bedroom. “Small fire,” he said. “Already contained.”

“What does that mean?” Keene asked.

Mum nuzzled her face against his until their noses were touching. “It means we’re safe,” she said.



The front door opened and an elderly couple entered. The man was hobbling on a cane and leaning on his wife’s outstretched arm. They approached the receptionist and introduced themselves. The receptionist smiled at the elderly couple and focused her attention on them.

Keene hopped off his chair and started toward Dr Ward’s door. He closed his eyes, and inched his face towards the door, hoping to hear something – anything. If he could hear things were all right, he could wait. But there was no sound.

He reached for the doorknob. It was cold under his fingers. He moved his ear closer to the door.

Then it swung open.



Keene and Mum kneeled by the flowerbed that lined the front of the house. Bunch sat behind them, muzzle resting on his paws.

“What do you think?” Mum asked.

The roses smelled nice and a deep, velvety red spread through their petals, but their stems had thorns. Keene had stubbed his thumb once and cried. Now, the rose bushes tangled into the veranda’s spindles.

Keene shrugged.

“Think it’s a mess?”

Keene nodded.

“Remember that. Okay?”


There was a pair of shears shoved into the soil. Mum plucked them out and put them in Keene’s hand.

“Close your eyes,” Mum said.


“Close them.”

Keene closed his eyes. A wind cut across the yard and tickled his naked arms. Something wet hit his cheek. Mum’s perfume filled his nostrils, or perhaps it was the roses. It made him giddy.

“Try to imagine, in your mind, how we can tidy up the roses,” Mum said.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Think about your bedroom when you leave your toys out. That’s how the roses are, aren’t they? A mess?”

Keene nodded.

“Now think about how you would tidy them up.”

Keene pictured the roses contained into a neat square.

“Now open your eyes.”

As light rain began to spatter, Mum guided his hand and they clipped away the wayward stems.

“Gentle, gentle,” Mum said. “They’re alive.”

Keene nodded, concentrating until Mum’s hand fell away. He rose on tiptoes to trim the heads of the roses until their roof was a straight line.

“You have a green thumb, Kee.”

Keene looked at his thumb. “No I don’t.”

Mum laughed and hugged him. The rain grew heavier. The screen door opened and Dad came out onto the veranda, beer in hand. Bunch leaped up the stairs to join him. Dad stroked Bunch’s head.

“You two are going to get wet,” Dad said.

Mum took the shears from Keene’s hand, and shoved them into the dirt. “It’s only water,” she said.

“It’s foolish to stand out in the rain.”

“Is it?” Mum held her hand down to Keene. “Kee, will you dance with me?”

Keene stared from Mum to Dad and back to Mum again. Bunch barked, perhaps in encouragement. Keene held out his hand and Mum hoisted him up and held him close as she waltzed around the yard, humming Mozart’s Eine Klein Nachtmusik into his ear. Dad’s scowl was so greatly overdone that it was almost silly, and it made Mum laugh. Keene laughed with her and threw his arms around her neck.



Dad almost trampled Keene as he emerged from Dr Ward’s office. Keene jumped out of the way. Dad thrust out his hand.

“Come on, Kee,” Dad said.

Mum emerged, stooped, face white, as if she’d powdered it with the flour she used to make her Sunday scones. She walked past Dad and Keene like she hadn’t seen them, then pivoted, kneeled, and threw her arms out.

Keene ran to her and, in the instant before she folded him into her embrace and pulled his face to her shoulder, he saw her eyes were moist. Her right arm slid under his backside and, with a groan, she lifted him.

“Deidre,” Dad said.

“It’s okay.”



Keene’s fingers stumbled across the keyboard of the upright piano. His eyes narrowed at the sheet music – Mozart’s Piano Sonata 16. Mum, seated next to him and swaying in time with his playing, turned the page. Keene struck the wrong key and the sound jarred through the dining room.

“It’s too hard!” he said.

Mum put a hand on his back. “It’s okay if it’s hard,” she said. “It’s all right to mess up.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Of course it is.” Mum turned back to the first page. “Who said it isn’t?”

“Dad doesn’t like when I mess up my reading.”

“Dad can be impatient. I’m not. We have all the time in the world. Try again.”

He tried and tried until the music flowed and he and Mum rocked in unison on the piano stool. When he was done, she laughed and kissed him on the head.

“That was excellent!”

Keene grinned. “Really?”

“Really. Do you like playing?”

Keene shrugged.

Mum put an arm around his shoulder. “Kee, I like to watch you play. You’re very good. I think you have a gift. But you don’t have to play for me. I want you to play for you. Okay?”

“Okay,” Keene said.



Mum buckled Keene into the backseat of Dad’s van. Bunch, who’d been waiting in the passenger seat, jumped into the back with Keene, and Mum latched his harness to the adjacent seatbelt.

“What’s happening?” Keene said.

Dad closed the side door and moved to help Mum into the passenger seat. Mum glowered at him, buckled herself in and closed the door. She idled through a stack of CDs in the glove compartment, chose one, and slipped it into the CD player. Dad got in behind the wheel and started the engine. Music filled the van – slow and sad, with a simple piano accompaniment. Keene frowned. He should recognize it, but it didn’t sound like Mozart. Beethoven maybe?

“Mum?” Keene said. “Dad?”

Dad pulled out of the parking lot and onto the road.

“Why isn’t any—?”

“Keene!” Dad said. “Please.”

The rest of the drive was quiet, but for the music.



“Keene!” Dad’s voice boomed from outside. “Are you ready?”

Keene pulled his shorts out of the drawer. “Just a minute!” he said. He put on his shorts and sandals and hurtled down the stairs. Bunch waited at the bottom and barked. Together, they ran from the house. Dad and Mum – Dad in shorts and a shirt, and carrying a picnic basket, Mum in a summer dress, a bag slung over her shoulder – waited under the branches of the gum trees.

“About time!” Dad said.

“Shh, Nolan.” Mum held out her hand and Keene reached up to take it.

“Come on,” Dad said.

They crossed the yard and plunged into the trees, sunlight now just flickering shafts of light through rustling leaves. The smell of gums was thick in Keene’s nose. He gazed around, hoping to spot a bird, or maybe even a koala, but there was nothing

“You know never to come in here alone, Keene,” Dad said.

“He knows,” Mum said.


“I know.”

“You get lost in here, you could be lost forever.”

Dad led them until they reached gums that were charred, their blackened branches naked. Keene gaped. This was where the fire had been. Soot filled his nostrils.

“When will the trees grow back, Mum?”

“It could take a long, long time.”

“Maybe next week?”

Mum laughed.

“Longer than that, Kee,” Dad said. “We’ve been walking for a while. You tired?”

Keene nodded.

“Come on.”

Keene released Mum’s hand and jumped towards Dad. Dad lifted him effortlessly.

It wasn’t long before they emerged from the bush and onto a plank bridge that crossed a gentle river. On the other side, gums rose up and up over mountains towering into the clear blue sky. The sun hung over the peak of the nearest, so close it might’ve been set there, like an angel on top of a Christmas tree.

“Wow,” Keene said. “Mountains!”

“No,” Mum said. “They’re just hills.”

They crossed the bridge and followed a winding path up, Mum puffing, Dad sweating. When they got to the top, they took a rest and had a drink. Mum gave Bunch some water from a bottle they’d brought just for him.

“Ready?” Dad said.

The other side of the hill flattened into a field of rainbow-colored tulips, unfurling into a scattering of towering Myrtle Beeches that embraced a shimmering lake. A river twisted away and hair-pinned around several other hills.

“There it is,” Dad said. “Miller’s Pond.”

Keene squirmed until Dad let him down. Together, they ran to the bank. Dad dropped the picnic basket, kicked off his sandals, pulled off his shirt, and took an old tennis ball out of his pocket. He bounced it once. Bunch looked up sharply. Dad threw the ball into the pond. Bunch splashed into the water, Dad diving in moments later.

Keene pulled off his sandals and drifted closer.

“Kee!” Mum said. She pulled some floaties from her bag.

“Mum!” Keene complained.

“Humor me, please,” Mum said, as she guided his hands through each floaty.

Then she rose and pulled her dress over her head. Underneath, she wore a red one-piece swimsuit. Keene gaped.

“You’re going in, Mum?”

Mum nodded.

“But you never go in!”

“Life is about trying different things, Kee – not doing the same things over and over.” Mum unclasped the pendant Keene had bought her. “Let’s put this somewhere safe.” She hung the pendant on the low branch of a white tree – a Candlebark, Keene thought to himself – where it gleamed as it swung back and forth, steady as a heartbeat. “Come on,” she said.

Keene took her hand and they started for the pond.



When Dad pulled into the drive, they sat silent for a time. Keene unbuckled himself, then Bunch, and waited for somebody to speak.

“Come on,” Dad said. He escorted them from the car and to the house, unlocking the front door. “Kee, go watch some television.”

“What’re you going to do?”

“Just go, please.”

Now was not the time to argue – Keene knew that well enough. He traipsed into the dining room as he heard Dad and Mum go upstairs, then their bedroom door close. Keene turned on the television, but instead of sitting on the couch he kept ducking into the hallway to look up the stairs.

It was dark outside by the time their door clicked open, and they started down. Keene jumped onto the couch – Bunch hurdling after him – and focused on the television as he heard them go into the kitchen.

“Kee!” Dad called, moments later. “Could you come in here please?”

Keene got up and went into the kitchen. Mum and Dad sat at the table. Dad patted the chair opposite Mum and Keene clambered up. Bunch curled on the floor under Keene’s swinging feet.

“What?” Keene said.

Dad and Mum exchanged a look. That wasn’t good. Keene folded his arms on the table and rested his chin on them.

“You know we saw Dr Ward today?” Dad said.

Keene lifted his head and nodded. Mum laid a hand on his forearm.

“We’re going to tell you this because you’re getting to be a big boy,” Dad said. “Okay?”

Keene straightened up. “Okay …?”

Mum’s hand clasped his wrist. “Mummy’s a little bit sick,” she said.

“Sick?” Keene said. “How? Like when I had a cold?”

“It’s more serious than that, Kee,” Dad said.

“But we’re going to do everything to make me better, okay?” Mum said. “We’re going to do everything possible.”

Keene didn’t like how serious they were. If they were this serious, it had to be bad. Mum’s eyes filled with tears. Keene’s own eyes grew bleary.

“When will you get better?” he asked.

The tears streamed down Mum’s cheeks. Dad put a hand on top of Mum’s and Keene’s.

“When?” Keene said.

Still Mum didn’t answer. Whenever Mum didn’t know what to say, Dad would take over, but even he was quiet. Mum wasn’t shining any more. She was dark. Like a shadow had fallen over – a shadow of dark and cold.

“When?” Keene said.

Mum leaned over and hugged him, and although she was warm and safe and he could feel her love all around him, all Keene knew was the darkness.


History Lesson

by Rie Sheridan Rose

“Take your seats, please. Everyone sit.” The robo-teacher pointed to the desks before it, and the children filed into place. “Today, we will be studying the end of Mother Earth and why no one lives there anymore.”

Axton Peters whined, “Do we hafta? No one goes there. No one can go there for millions of years.”

The teacher hummed, and a hologram appeared before the students. The text at the bottom of the page read: Central Park, New York City, New York, USA. People flitted through the park, laughing and playing. Children flew kites. The carousel spun with its gay music.

The children gasped, leaning forward in their seats, mesmerized by the hologram. Excited whispers filled the room—quelled by a flash of the robo-teacher’s lights.

“What is that?” Marjean Carlyle asked in wonder.

“That is what is known as a park. People would go there to relax,” answered the teacher.

“Like the rec room?” Neider Matthews guessed.

“Yes, but they were outside. Not on a station or in a ship. This is what Old Earth was like.”

“That wasn’t everywhere,” Axton scoffed.

The teacher’s head dipped. “Indeed. There were also places like this.” Another hum, and another hologram appeared.

This one was a bleak landscape littered with trash. The blue sky had been replaced by an atmosphere tinged with yellow and green. No people were in sight, though—as the children watched—a single figure bundled up in a big orange jumpsuit and wearing a gas mask hurried across the field of the hologram. Even through the heavy visor, they could see his bald head, covered with weeping sores. Several of the children raised their hands, but before the teacher could call on someone, it was interrupted.

“That’s why we left,” Axton blurted triumphantly—never one to wait for her acknowledgement. “Because things were more like that than that stupid park.”

“That is the park,” answered the teacher. “Twenty-five years after the first holo. Ten years before the final ship left for the colonies. Today, the only figures that move on Earth are robo-techs engaged in cleaning up debris and replanting vegetation.” Another hum from the robo-teacher, and another holo flashed on the screen.

The image was somewhere in between the pleasant parkland and the bleak desolation. The area was still empty of inhabitants, but there was a green tint to the landscape, the rebirth of nature, and the piles of trash from the previous holo were nowhere to be seen. A clunky robot wheeled into view, staking a single piece of paper and binning it in a compartment in its chest.

“This is the park today. It can be reclaimed. It is being reclaimed. If the work continues as it is, humans may be able to return to Mother Earth within your lifetimes.”

Marjean breathed, “Would it be like the first holo?”

“Not at first. At first, it would be a minimal existence. Robo-techs can only be programmed to do so much. They clean, they plant, they reclaim—but they can’t nurture. They can’t make the world a home again. Only you can do that.”

“Us?” Neider asked quizzically, glancing around the room at his classmates.

“Human beings. This is what we are working for. A return of humans to Earth.”

The dozen or so children were all quiet for a moment, letting the words sink in.

“Why should we return?” asked Axton—the perpetual skeptic. “We have the stars. The colonies are growing and expanding. Earth is just a tiny speck…and not a particularly good one.”

The teacher hissed out a sound that was almost a sigh. “That isn’t the lesson. Can anyone tell me what the lesson is?”

Marjean raised a tentative hand. “The way the Earth was left will be a problem on any world as long as we don’t change our attitude. Right?”

“That’s closer.”

“The Earth was our home. We didn’t take care of it, and we’ve had to have someone else clean up after us.” Neider said. “That isn’t right. We’ve already started spoiling the colony worlds. We can’t just use them and move on forever…”

The robo-teacher’s head nodded. “Well done, Neider. Well put.”

The teacher wheeled through the rows of students, printing out flimsies from its chest and distributing them to the students. “Your assignment today is to formulate a project plan for making sure that the destruction that occurred on Mother Earth won’t happen in the colonies.”

“That’s stupid!” Axton protested. “No one will care what a bunch of kids think about anything.”

The hissing sigh again. “Axton, who do you think will be in charge of the colonies when you become adults?”

“That will be forever from now.”

Marjean’s head was bent over her flimsy, stylus flying over the sheet. “You’re such an idiot, Ax. The point of the lesson is that we’ll be the ones to make sure that the worlds we go to will be better than the one we left. The reclaiming of Earth is an important step, because we shouldn’t have used it up and then thrown it away like trash. Don’t you get that?”

“You’re such a teacher’s pet, MJ,” Axton growled, sticking out his tongue at her.

“Grow up, Ax,” Neider said, rolling his eyes. “You can be such a tool. What was that thing they used to say, Teacher? Something about making the same mistakes in history.”

A click, a whirr, and then, “‘Those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it.’”

“Right.” Neider turned to Axton. “You get that?”

Axton huffed. “Whatever.”

“Some people will never learn, Neid,” Marjean sighed. “How’s this?” She handed her flimsy to the teacher.

The teacher fed the sheet into her grading matrix. “Well done, Marjean. You’ve got some good ideas.”

A buzzer sounded.

“Time for rec period, children,” the teacher said. “As a special treat, the holo system has been set for Central Park today. See what it was like.”

The children filed out of the classroom, chattering excitedly.

The robo-teacher’s head swiveled back and forth over Axton’s flimsy. It was covered with doodles. Some lessons would never be learned and some humans could never be taught.


The Edge of the Bed

by Laura Borrowdale

Henry’s eyes are clamped closed, but this doesn’t stop him from seeing them. The fingers that creep along the edge of his mattress, feeling for him, have think tufts of black hair growing out of the knuckles. The nails at the end of the fingers are bird’s claws; curved, black and sharp. They click together gently as the fingers move their way up and down, searching. The fingers pause, as if


“Henry, Michael. It’s nearly bed time.” Their mother’s voice calls up the stairs and Henry obediently gets to his feet. He stacks away his Legos, puts his car in the toy box at the foot of his bed and pulls out his Superman pyjamas from under his pillow.

“Aww, Mum. It’s only quarter past eight.” This happened every night.

“You know the rules, Michael. Get ready for bed.”

Henry takes off his pants and tugs his jersey over his head. He stands in his singlet beside his bed, pulling the blue and red flannelette over his legs.

“Mum, it’s a baby’s bedtime. It’s Henry’s bedtime, not mine.”

“Michael, we’re not going over this again. You share a room, you share a bedtime. It’s not fair otherwise.”

“But Mum,” Michael whines. His side of the room is a mess; cars crashed into the bed legs, books, face down, scattered around, cups piling up on the bedside table.

There is no answer to his complaint. Henry knows his mother can hear him, but she has this discussion every night, and right now she’ll have her head back in her book, about to take another sip of her gin and tonic, while she waits ten more minutes before checking up on them.

He hears the ice tinkle in a glass downstairs, then the click, click of the glass being put on the table.


listening. When they start moving again, they don’t work side to side like before, but rather they start to creep toward the center of the bed, toward Henry. He holds his breath. Scabs ooze on the fingers, mingling a dirty sheen of liquid with the dark hair. Henry’s eyes are still closed, but that doesn’t stop him from seeing it


Henry’s brother smiles, the hole in his front teeth black in his mouth.

“And, then, when you’re not expecting it, they’ll reach up from under the bed and grab you.”

Henry stands next to the bathroom basin, looking up at his brother, his pajamas wrinkled around his elbow. He is brushing his teeth, except he’d stopped the actual brushing part shortly after his brother’s story had begun. Now he just stands with the toothbrush clamped between his molars, his stomach liquid at his brother’s story, his feet freezing against the cold tiles.

“Isn’t there one under your bed too?” he says.

“Nah, I’m too old,” Michael replies. “Your flesh toughens up, they’re not so interested if you’re old like me.”

Flesh. Henry feels a shiver around his neck when Michael says that word. It sounds bloody and cold, like something you might find in a butcher’s shop. Maybe flesh is the name for meat that comes from little boys, thinks Henry.

“Why don’t we just tell Mum?”

“Don’t be stupid, there are rules. Man, I can’t believe no one’s told you all of this before. I’m surprised you haven’t been eaten already.” Michael turns back to the mirror, smirking at his gap-toothed reflection.


grope its way toward him. Henry remembers the rules. Don’t move. Don’t turn on the light. Don’t tell Mum. Never let any part of yourself go off the edge of the bed. If you play by the rules, it might touch you, but it won’t know you’re there.

Some of the hand’s scabs have flaked off against the blankets and now there are spots of blood appearing in the white sheets. Henry wonders if opening his eyes counts as moving but decides he can’t risk it. He takes a breath, drawing the air in as shallowly as possible. He can hear the nail clack louder as the hand gets closer and there is the sound of breathing like slurping the last of a milkshake through a straw. The hand gets closer, and finally it touches


“Right, you two. Finished with your teeth? You still going, Henry?”

“Yeah, Henry’s a real slow coach tonight, Mum, maybe you’ll have to skip tucking him in.”

Henry looks around wide-eyed at his mother. She laughs and rests her hands on his shoulder.

“It’s okay, Henry, you know I’d never do that. This monster on the other hand…” and she ruffles Michael’s hair. “Okay, let’s get into bed. Rinse your mouth, Henry, those teeth are shining beautifully.”

Henry holds her hand as they walk down the hallway to the bedroom.

“Are you sure it’s our bedtime, Mum?” he says.

“You too now, Henry!” she laughs. “Yes, I’m sure.”

“You don’t want me to stay in your bed while Dad’s on the night shift?”

“I’ll be okay, love. It’s more important you get a good sleep, and that means in your own bed.”

His mother pulls back the covers for him. On the other side of the room, Michael is sitting on his bed, his earbuds in and a comic in his hand. He isn’t watching, so Henry says, “Are you really sure? I don’t mind.”

“Good night, darling. Stop worrying about me. I’ll see you in the morning.”

She kisses the top of his head and pulls the covers up under his chin.

“Michael, ten more minutes. That’s all,” she says, then she pulls the door closed and her shoes clatter down the wooden stairs.


the bulge of Henry’s elbow under the bedclothes. It gropes at the lump, its nails ripping into the blankets, feeling the nubs of bone and skin. It follows the shape of his arm up to his shoulder, and then to his neck, then


In the semi-darkness, Henry can see Michael get under his covers and open a book. He can hear his father saying goodbye and picking the car keys out from the bowl by the front door. He can hear the door swing closed with a bang, and Michael putting his book away.

“Night, Henry. Don’t forget the rules.” He sniggers. “Don’t let the monsters bite.”

Michael clicks off his light and Henry curls into a ball. He lies on his side, his back to the wall, his knees at his chest. Don’t move. Don’t turn on the light. Don’t call Mum.


it reaches for his face. Henry can smell it. It smells like the damp leaves that Henry sometimes has to rake out of the corners of the garden. He can’t bear it any longer. He opens his eyes into the darkness


but there is nothing there. No hand, no blood on the sheets, no smell. He looks over at Michael triumphantly in the gloom. It isn’t completely dark, some light from the street lamp outside creeps through the buffer of curtains and he can see Michael asleep, one knee bent, and one arm flung over the side of the bed. Maybe he’ll tell him in the morning that the thing didn’t get him.

As he watches, he notices something moving near the bottom of Michael’s bed. It’s a hand. Along the ridges of bone, there are thick black tufts of hair, and Henry can see the trail of blood it is leaving on Michael’s bedclothes as the hand works its way around the edge of the bed, past the place where Michael’s tented knee has pulled the covers away, past the place where their mother folded back the top sheet. When it comes to Michael’s arm, it stops, then grips his wrist tightly. The it starts to pull.

Michael doesn’t seem to wake up; his eyes stay closed at least, but he is definitely aware of something. He starts to thrash in his bed, and his mouth is opening and closing as though he is screaming, even though he isn’t making any noise. There is a rip as his pyjamas are pulled away from his body. Blood starts to appear around Michael’s shoulder, as though the skin is starting to give way. He flings his body around and, as one foot slips over the edge of the bed, another hand reaches out to grab it. Henry doesn’t think the two hands belong to one body, rather that there are more than one under Michael’s bed, which means there could easily be another one under his bed.

The hands start to work their way further up Michael’s limbs; getting a good hold, then tugging hard to pull Michael closer to them. His face looks frantic now, but his eyes are still closed. The hands are holding his bloody shoulder and his hip, and they give a final pull. Michael tumbles out of his bed. There is a thump as he hits the floor, and Henry thinks he hears a groan, but that is soon followed by crunching and snapping and sucking. He isn’t sure if the groan was Michael’s.


Henry lies in bed very still. After all, there are rules. Don’t move, don’t turn on the light, don’t tell Mum, and most of all, don’t go over the edge of the bed.


Lego Mona Lisa

by Michelle Templeton

He was ugly and Sarah couldn’t understand why she kept looking at him.

They were at the breakfast table. Sarah had slept at Elizabeth’s house and now she was staring at Elizabeth’s ugly older brother Carl.

He was heavy. Not fat exactly, but big and spongy. His skin was pale and his hair straight and dark brown, almost black. Constellations of tiny red bumps covered his cheeks and there was a film of sweat at his hairline. Sarah noticed he was wearing the same Star Wars t-shirt and stained jeans he’d had on yesterday.

Carl ignored the girls. He’d brought a book to the table. Sarah couldn’t see the title, but it was a paperback with yellowing pages and tiny print. Carl squinted at it over his bowl of Cheerios.

“More cereal, girls? A drink?” Elizabeth’s mother asked, gesturing with a pitcher of orange juice.

Elizabeth kicked Sarah under the table which meant the same thing as rolling her eyes.  Both girls smiled, shook their heads, almost laughed. Sarah took a bite of cereal to regain her composure.

Carl looked up and caught Sarah’s eye. He held her gaze a moment then twisted his mouth slightly and went back to his book. Sarah looked into her cereal bowl; a puddle of milk at the bottom with a single O floating in it. Had Carl sneered at her? Was that his attempt at a smile? His gesture had been fleeting and she couldn’t tell what he’d meant by it. Why should she care anyway?

Elizabeth whispered in her ear, asking her what she wanted to do now. They had two hours before Sarah’s mother would pick her up.

“Let’s go do something in your room,” Sarah said. “I want to get dressed.”

Elizabeth’s bedroom was the exact bedroom Sarah would choose if she was given the choice of all the rooms in the world. It was small, almost square, with cream-colored walls and white trim.

The wall behind Elizabeth’s bed was painted with a mural of a forest. The trees at the edges of this forest were big and they got smaller toward the center of the picture to give the impression that the trees were numerous, the forest deep enough to get lost in. The greens and blues were infused with a sense of sunlight and warmth. Like Narnia, Sarah thought, and she longed to climb into the painting and have an adventure.

Opposite the mural, on the other wall, Elizabeth had a desk and a bookcase. She had all the Nancy Drew books, The Lord of the Rings series, and lots of books about horses.

Sarah pulled a clean pair of jeans and a yellow long-sleeved t-shirt from her backpack.

“Let’s work on a new story,” Elizabeth said.  She sat at her desk, flipping through a spiral notebook.

“Okay,” Sarah said.  “That sounds good.”

She turned her back, slipped on fresh underwear, her clean jeans and shirt. She balled up her pajamas and stuffed them into her bag. Then she sat on the floor and looked up at Elizabeth who was still turning pages.

Elizabeth picked up a ballpoint pen and put the cap-end between her teeth. She gazed up at the ceiling and assumed a pose of deep thought. Sarah repressed the urge to roll her eyes; Elizabeth was so dramatic about everything.

Sarah reached for the notebook.

“Let me start,” she said. “You always make the story about horses.”

“Okay,” Elizabeth said, shrugging. “Go ahead.” She handed Sarah the pen and sat back in her chair, looking at Sarah, challenging her silently.

Sarah felt Elizabeth’s eyes on her. Sarah knew Elizabeth thought she was the inferior writer; the inferior everything in fact. She needed to write something good; something that would make them both want to keep working on the story.

The Forest, Sarah wrote at the top of the blank page. She smiled. This was a story she’d wanted them to write for a long time; the story of a girl who stepped through Elizabeth’s wall mural into the forest.

The pen made a scratching noise as Sarah wrote. She began a second paragraph.

“Almost done?” Elizabeth asked, sounding bored. Sarah nodded without looking up.

“I’m going to take a shower,” Elizabeth said. “I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.”

Sarah nodded again. She’d have to stop soon. She couldn’t write more than three paragraphs; that was their rule. Three paragraphs, then the other person got a turn, then they’d switch back. They’d been writing stories like that all year.

Elizabeth gathered up some clothes and a towel and shut the door behind her. Sarah finished the last few sentences and set the notebook down, her three paragraphs finished. Now she’d have to wait for Elizabeth to get out of the shower.

She went to the door and opened it part-way. She heard music. It sounded like the radio, mistuned so there was static mixed in with the notes of the song. A murmur of voices came from the kitchen. She heard Elizabeth turn the shower on.

Directly opposite Elizabeth’s bedroom door was a floor to ceiling bookcase. Sarah went out to the hall and examined the shelves. The shelves were crammed with books, two rows deep.  Regency romances with swooning, ball-gowned ladies on the covers, science fiction books, Shakespeare plays and other kinds of poetry, an old set of World Book Encyclopedias.

Sarah couldn’t see the titles at the very top but she sat cross-legged on the floor to look at the books on the bottom rows of shelves. More romances, a few detective novels and, horribly, a tall paperback with the title The Joy of Sex. Sarah felt her face flame and she stood up quickly.  As she turned toward the sanctuary of Elizabeth’s room, she heard another door open to her right.  It was immediately slammed shut.

Sarah paused. That was Carl’s room. He must have opened the door and then, seeing her in the hallway, slammed it shut again.

Irritation swept Sarah’s embarrassment aside. What was with Carl anyway? Why should he slam his door and change his mind about coming out of his room just because she happened to be standing here?

Urged on by adrenaline, Sarah walked up to Carl’s bedroom  door and knocked loudly.

No answer.

She knocked again, louder.

Carl opened the door. His bulk filled the threshold and Sarah took a step backwards. His looming physical presence was strange and gave her a queasy feeling.

He started to close the door again but Sarah put her hand on the door as if holding it open, though she knew she couldn’t really keep him from slamming it shut if he wanted to. From the bathroom at the other end of the short hallway, she could still hear the shower running.

“What?” Carl said.  It sounded like a bark.

Now that she was face-to-face with Carl, Sarah didn’t know what to say. She didn’t really want anything. She just hadn’t liked that he hadn’t wanted to be in the hallway because she was there, but she couldn’t tell him that.

“What do you want?” he said again, his voice impatient.

“Um…,” Sarah said, her mind searching itself for something to say.

At that, Carl seemed to give up. He went to sit at his desk, adjusting his desk lamp over some kind of project. Sarah looked into his room, realizing she’d never seen it before. Her eyes were immediately drawn to the wall on the opposite side of the doorway.

“You have a mural too,” she said.

Carl sighed. “Will you go away if I let you look at it?” he said.

Sarah nodded, her eyes on the mural. It was also a forest but where the forest in Elizabeth’s room was full of light and sun; this mural was a wood lit by moonlight, full of dark shapes and shadows. There were vines trailing from branches, dark trees of chromium red and purple. Deep greens and midnight blue; the milky moonlight falling through the canopy to the forest floor.

“There’s a bird,” Sarah said, as if to herself. On the branch of one of the trees near the center of the mural sat a painted black bird, a tiny white dot shining in his eye. A crow, Sarah thought, or a blackbird. She remembered a Beatles song her mom sometimes sang:

Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these sunken eyes and learn to see

She wondered if Carl knew that song. Sarah knew he was waiting for her to leave. As she turned to go, she noticed that the wall opposite his bed was covered in framed art.

“What are those?” she asked.

“Just my Lego art,” Carl said, looking at the carpet.

Sarah saw that the pictures were made of different colored Legos arranged to recreate famous paintings. There was one of that girl with the big pearl earring. Another was a seascape with choppy, white-topped waves. There was a pirate that Sarah recognized as a famous illustration from Treasure Island. Her father had read that book to her so many times, she’d know that picture anywhere. There was a sort of abstract one with red and blue squares connected by straight yellow lines; and one that looked like a portrait from the front and the side at the same time.

“Where did you get those?” Sarah said.

Carl looked up.

“I made them,” he said.

“No way,” Sarah said. “How?”

Carl gestured toward his desk with his head. Sarah walked over and saw it was covered with a Lego painting that wasn’t quite finished. Sarah recognized it at once, the Mona Lisa.

Carl had mostly finished Mona Lisa’s face and hands and was working on the background. There were tiny Lego pieces scattered around. A 12-drawer cabinet next to the desk had several open drawers. They were full of Lego pieces, sorted by shape and color.

Sarah stared at the image and at the Legos. If someone had told her they made art out of Lego pieces she would have thought that sounded silly. But standing here, in Carl’s room, she was moved by how detailed the work was, how intricate. The Lego paintings were complicated and beautiful.

“That’s amazing,” Sarah said.

“My mother frames them,” Carl said. “I’ve told her a thousand times that the whole point of Legos is that you take them apart and make something else, but she won’t listen.”

“I don’t blame her,” Sarah said. “They’re incredible.”

Carl shrugged but he was looking at her now.

“You can put a piece in if you want to,” Carl said.

“Really?” Sarah said. “I do want to.”

“Here,” Carl said. He picked up a light grey piece, flat with two nubs on top. He put it into her cupped hand, and she felt his fingers linger in her palm a moment longer than they needed to. A tremor of something run up Sarah’s arm.

“Put it here.” He pointed to the space where the Lego fit and Sarah carefully pressed the piece into place.

They stared together at the Lego painting. Sarah let her fingers rifle the tiny pieces in one of the open file drawers. Then she heard Elizabeth’s door open and shut. Elizabeth was out of the shower and would be reading what Sarah had written; picking up the pen to add her own paragraphs. Sarah knew they’d somehow manage to be about horses.

Sarah felt Carl’s eyes on her.

“Thanks,” she said, meeting his gaze.  She felt strange, looking into his eyes; like she was revealing too much of herself.

Carl turned back to his desk, running his fingers over the Lego Mona Lisa.

“No problem,” he said.

Sarah left Carl’s room, feeling his eyes follow her. When her next turn came with the writing notebook she knew she’d keep writing about the woods, but now her woods would be the moonlight woods from Carl’s room. The half-illuminated mysterious woods she might never have seen if she hadn’t knocked on his door. She put her hand in her pocket and felt the tiny piece of Lego she’d taken from Carl’s drawer and went to find Elizabeth.


Orange Bowler

by Jacob Butlett

The man started across the lawn to the front door where my mom, bedraggled from working all morning in the back garden, stood waiting. I watched the man from the top of my mom’s apple tree, the same tree that produced the fruit she used in her cider. He caught my eye not because he was carrying a duffel bag or because he was whistling to himself. It was his bowler hat, with its thin taper and brim, squat crown, orange hue—especially the hue.

It was 1960. I was eleven, just a kid at the time: proud, naïve. And so, in my mom’s apple tree, I reasoned that the man with the duffel bag was queer. No man here, on the outskirts of the city to the north and the rapids to the south, would wear such a bright hat.

He stopped at the stoop and shook my mom’s hand. I descended the tree and started toward them. I overheard them talking. Proud of her flowers, my mom gestured toward the pink chrysanthemums in the front yard. When my dad moved out a week ago, my mom devoted more time to her flowers than to anything or anyone else. If she wasn’t a housewife, she would’ve been a florist or a landscaper or a botanist.

On the stoop, she wiped her thumbs along the sides of her yellow gypsy top. From several yards away, I could still see dirt on her fingertips. She removed her pink sun hat and wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of a hand. When I finished my walk across the yard, the man turned around to face me. I was hoping he’d check out the spare bedroom, say no, thank you, and leave, allowing my dad more time to come to his senses and return home. The man looked down at me with a grin and revealed a straight set of teeth. In the shade of the plastic awning right above the front door, the man’s green eyes seemed to glimmer on their own.

“Robert,” my mom said, “this is Mr. Jon Deerborne. He’ll be renting the spare bedroom for the next three months.”

Thunderstruck, I stared at her, but she made no attempt to explain. She cleared her throat and opened the door. The smell of fresh apple cider and cucumber sandwiches wafted outside. She asked me to show Mr. Deerborne to the spare bedroom, which I did without complaint. Then I went to the kitchen, where my mom was pouring cider into three glasses.

“Why are you so happy?” I snapped. “You’ve been depressed all week.”

She looked up from the cider. “We need the money,” she said. “And Mr. Deerborne was nothing but gracious over the phone last night.”

“He called?” I demanded.

“Tone, sweetie,” she said, and began to set the kitchen table for lunch. “You were outside when he called about the room. With your dad gone, he won’t be able to support us as he normally would.”

“But this man can’t be here for three months. What would Dad think?”

She evaded the question with a headshake.

“He has the right to know,” I said. “Another man is living in his house.”

“He won’t mind.” Her voice was low. “Now change out of that undershirt and put on something more formal.”

“Three months is a long time,” I said. “What if he invites a friend over?”

“A friend?”

“A male friend.”

She eyed me. “He’s not queer, sweetie.”

“I’m not saying he’s a bad person, but how do you know?”

“I just know. Now get dressed.”

“You should’ve talked to me last night.”

“About what?”

Him. Orange Bowler. I live here too, you know.”

“Don’t call him that,” she snapped. “That’s rude.”

“All I’m saying is—”

A glass dropped from my mom’s hand and shattered on the hardwood floor, cider spilling under the table. I gasped. Shards lay in the liquid like ice shelves. As I knelt and started to pick up the pieces, my mom grabbed a dishcloth from underneath the kitchen sink. When she returned, she crouched beside me, panting. Her cheeks bright red, she plucked the pieces I’d just picked up out of my cupped hands and ordered me to go.

“I was only trying to help,” I said.

Orange Bowler hurried into the kitchen. “Is everything all right?”

“It’s fine,” my mom said. “Robert, get dressed.”



I wanted to help her pick up the pieces, but I left. When I returned wearing a polo my dad had bought me, my mom was sitting at the table, talking to Orange Bowler. He said something funny and she laughed with tears in her eyes. I sat down between them and listened to my mom ramble on about her garden. Orange Bowler was listening attentively to her analysis of the local mulch varieties. Suddenly,  he glanced at his watch with a panicked expression, stood up abruptly and said he needed to return to work. He said his goodbyes, then strode away. That was when I noticed it: my mom hadn’t picked up all the shards of glass from the floor.

When Orange Bowler left the room, she poured herself another glass of cider.


Two weeks ago, at night, from my bedroom, I overhead my parents arguing.

“I work in the morning,” my dad said. “I need my sleep.”

“Don’t change the subject,” my mom said. “I found the letters.”

“What letters?”

“You’re planning on leaving me.”

“Leaving you? What are you talking about?”

“What’s her name?”

“Whose name?”

“The woman in the letters!”

My dad didn’t speak for several seconds. Then he said, “I work tomorrow.”

“Tell me her name.”

“Evelyn, go to sleep.”

“I read the letters, Adam.”

“I don’t know anything about these letters. I’m tired. I work tomorrow.”

“You’re planning on leaving me, aren’t you? Tell me. Just tell me!”

“Good night, Evelyn.”

The next morning, I found my dad’s secret love letters in the trash.

My dad stayed in the spare bedroom until a week ago, then moved out with his travel bag. Since then, the spare bedroom had been unoccupied, the smell of my dad’s aftershave lingering in the air. Today, just before Orange Bowler arrived, I’d stood in the spare bedroom and pictured my dad lying in a coffin. He wasn’t dead, but without him physically at home, it didn’t matter. He was gone.

After my dad moved out, my mom became aloof. Yesterday, the day before Orange Bowler showed up, I’d called out her name in the back garden several times. It was one in the afternoon and she hadn’t made anything to eat. Several hours earlier she’d promised a big lunch—apple cider, cooked ham, mashed potatoes, and boiled carrots. All morning and early afternoon, she had worked incessantly in the back garden, sowing more seedlings, clawing out the weeds that had almost dominated her lavender bush, organizing mulch and fertilizers into different pots and plots of moist earth. When she finally heard me calling her name, she looked up. I told her I was starving. As if in defeat, she ambled to the kitchen and made me a bologna sandwich, which I could’ve made myself. She didn’t even wash her hands before getting the bread: she’d left dirt prints all over the sandwich.

Too hungry to care, I ate my lunch and noticed her staring at me from the sink. The sun filtered through the kitchen window and submerged her wavy auburn hair in a corona of light. As she looked at me, her face turned red with grief. She began to cry silently. I could taste the dirt prints in my mouth, so I tried not to gag.

“Are you happy?” she asked.

I wondered what she meant but didn’t want to think too much into it. I shrugged. “I’ll be happy when Dad moves back in.”

“I’ll be happy then too.” She wiped the tears from her face with her fingers, leaving dirt smears beneath her eyes.


When Orange Bowler arrived to check into the spare bedroom, my mom no longer seemed depressed, mostly content, as if she felt important having a man in the house again. It had only taken a day with him for her mood to change.

She prepared spaghetti with meat sauce for dinner. At the kitchen table, Orange Bowler removed his hat, revealing a bald head covered with liver spots, which looked like coffee stains on a white tablecloth. He couldn’t have been a day over fifty-five. He was rotund, his lips curved into a constant smile. While we ate, he told my mom and me about his life as a bank teller, how he loved conversing with bank patrons, counting money, balancing the sheets. He talked about his past, which my mom prompted with leading questions:

“Where are you from again?” Gary, Indiana.

“What did you do there?” Owned a haberdashery, but wanted a fresh start, so I joined the banking industry.

“Are you married?”

My attention piqued, I looked up from my plate.

“Yes,” he said, “but Emily and I are separated at the moment.”

My mom glanced at me, her way of saying I told you so. She addressed him again. Her voice softened. “I know how you feel. Adam and I are currently separated.”

“It’s good to know someone who understands,” he said. “Emily didn’t even want to look at me after the incident. It hit her so hard. So suddenly.”

“What happened?” I asked.

My mom kicked me under the table. I winced and apologized.

“It’s okay,” he said. “I’m an open book.” His voice softened. “I’d gone into work early when I received a telephone call from my wife: she’d lost Rupert, our unborn son, during the night. I didn’t know what to say, so I sped home and found her still clutching the phone, crying. No man wants his wife to suffer through a thing like that. It’s devastating. It’s unimaginable.”

“I’m so sorry,” my mom said.

I didn’t know what to say either. How does a woman lose her own child if it isn’t even born yet? I didn’t want to look naïve, so I continued eating. Two years prior, my mom had lost me while we were at the supermarket. I’d wandered to the deli department by myself, and when she found me, she picked me up and squeezed me until my arms went numb, she was so worried. Now, drinking my cider, I suspected the incident at the supermarket was nothing compared to what happened to Orange Bowler’s wife.

“When a woman loses a child,” my mom said, “it’s like a piece of her soul disappears.”

“It’s devastating,” Orange Bowler added, then after a beat: “Evelyn, what led to your separation? If you’d rather not say, I’d understand.”

“It’s—fine,” she said.

“It isn’t,” he said, backtracking quickly. “I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

She brushed her hair away from her face, then picked through her spaghetti with her fork. I suppose she wanted to look nonchalant, but she fidgeted and glanced repeatedly at the floor, as if searching for an escape hatch. So, I spoke up, hoping that would mark the end of dinner: “My dad slept with another woman.”

My mom dropped her fork onto her plate. Orange Bowler and I flinched at the loud clattering of the utensil. She kicked my leg again and I apologized without earnest, too perplexed. She ignored me.

Dinner was over minutes later. I began to collect the plates. Orange Bowler rose and touched my shoulder. “Give it time, Robert,” he whispered. “We’re all going through a lot.”

The phone rang. My mom went to the other room to pick it up. A good distraction, I reasoned. While I picked up all the plates, Orange Bowler collected the glasses and silverware and followed me to the sink. Once there, he started to wash the dishes.

“You don’t have to do that,” I said.

He smiled. “I want to contribute.”

“You won’t be here long. I mean, three months will go by fast.”

“I might stay longer.”

“Shouldn’t you be with your wife?”

“Maybe, but she asked me to give her some space.”

I shrugged and considered telling him how I really felt about him but feared he would overreact. Adults overreact too much, I thought. My mom overreacted by banishing my dad to the spare bedroom and my dad overreacted when he moved out. At school, my teachers always taught us the importance of forgiveness, so why were my parents, my mom especially, making life so much harder for themselves?

“Why do you wear that hat?” I asked.

He flashed me a grin. “Emily bought it for me,” he said. “I like to stand out.”

“No kidding.”

He lifted his hands from the water before finishing and looked at me raptly. I thought he was going to scold me for my quip, as my dad usually did. His gaze paralyzed me. I was not frightened, but mystified, so eager to hear what he had to say that I almost didn’t hear the backdoor opening and shutting in the adjacent room.

“I like you, Robert,” he said. “You remind me of me when I was a kid: bold, childish. I can respect bold and childish. Keep that moxie, but don’t be afraid to grow as a person. Not everything in life is so straightforward.”

“I know.”

“You don’t. You really don’t. But you’re bright. You’ll figure things out.”

Not long after we returned to cleaning the dishes, we heard a scream from outside. Without hesitation, we ran out to the backyard and found my mom yanking out her lavender bush. She yelped with each pull, the moonlight gleaming in her teary eyes, a spectral shimmer. For a moment I thought she was possessed. I touched her shoulder, but she pushed me back and dug out more roots, soiling her shirt and pants. She muttered under her breath, fast and derisive and panicky, not sounding human at first: It’s not right, it’s not right!

Orange Bowler wrapped his arms around her waist and dragged her into the house. She kicked and slapped him, but to no avail. I followed him to the living room. I was shaking so hard, I was breathing so hard, I thought I would faint. I considered calling for help—either my aunt or another family member. But I stayed in the living room, watching Orange Bowler restrain my mom in a tight hug. Then she rested her head on his shoulder. He carried her to the couch, where he lay her down and covered her with a wool blanket. I touched her forehead: it was on fire. Orange Bowler touched her forehead too and left the room. I knelt down beside her. She looked past my shoulders, as if too embarrassed to look me in the eye. Orange Bowler returned with a blue icepack, wrapped it in a towel, and set it on her forehead. I was about to speak when my eyes and hers connected.

“He just called, your dad,” she stammered. I’d almost forgotten that the phone rang before. “He wants to eat breakfast with you tomorrow.”


“He said . . .”

“What?” I said. “What did he say?”

“He wants,” she said, “he wants a divorce!”

I fell silent. Orange Bowler and I stayed with her for the rest of the night.


When our omelets arrived, I finished telling my dad what had happened yesterday, from Orange Bowler’s arrival to my mom’s panic-stricken episode. He tucked his napkin under his collar and began to cut his omelet into equally sized pieces. I waited for him to respond, wondering if I’d told him the story clearly enough. After the first bite of his breakfast, he looked at me and nodded, a sign that he retained every detail. Then he replied, more to the restaurant table than to me, “That’s nice. She’s renting out the spare bedroom?”

That wasn’t the response I’d anticipated. I nodded and turned to my breakfast.

A half hour earlier, my dad had picked me up in his old car, which sometimes backfired like gunfire, and while we pulled out of the driveway, I looked out the passenger window at the sycamores that lined the block, foliage like plumage rising above the houses. Though it was early summer, spring lingered in the rain puddles on the sidewalks. Sometimes deer would cross the street, and I’d follow them to the southern rapids, where I’d look over the edge of the sandstone cliffs and gaze at the sun-soaked whitecaps. Then I’d close my eyes and nap.

It wasn’t hard for me to guess why I preferred living outside the city: I loved the quiet among the trees, the lullaby of the rapids. I never understood why my dad preferred the city, with its colossal buildings, its clamorous businessmen. Before I learned about my dad’s desire to leave, I believed my dad hated living outside the city because he detested the smell of wet earth. That would’ve explained his aversion to my mom’s garden. I couldn’t recall a single time he’d stepped into the garden. Every woman needs a garden of her own, he once told me. The garden was her territory.

At the outdoor café, I expected him to express more interest in the fact that another man had just moved into the house, that Mom was beginning to act erratically, that our family seemed to be drifting apart. I knew he’d ignore my concerns if I shared them explicitly, the way I truly wanted to. He’d call me emotional, not a real man. But I didn’t want our conversation to end. It had hardly started.

I said, “His name’s Orange Bowler.”

“Who?” my dad asked.

“Mr. Jon Deerborne. I call him Orange Bowler because he wears an orange bowler hat, a gift from his wife.”

“Men don’t wear bowlers anymore.”

“That’s why I thought he was queer.”

“He might be. Even queers marry women sometimes.”

“I guess you’re right.”

“I am right,” he said. “Takes all kinds.”

I wanted him to tell me more about the divorce he mentioned to my mom last night. All I knew about divorces was that they were rarely spoken about in public.

My dad removed the napkin from his collar and leaned back. Out of respect, I leaned back too. I copied him whenever I wanted to impress him. I followed his gaze to the street, where trucks honked by, where car exhaust seemed to slither up the skyscrapers, blinding white in the sun. He and I looked at the female passersby, women in espadrilles or ankle boots, sundresses or blousons. The wind was hot like summer, then cold like spring. My dad and I wore matching blazers. Now it was getting hot, so I took mine off. He left his blazer on, his eyes trained on the women. When they passed, he turned to me. “I first saw your mom in a crosswalk.”

He’d told me the story before: he’d been on his way to work at his uncle’s law office when he started a random conversation with a woman who’d later be my mom. He made her laugh and soon dated her. A year later, they got married.

“You’re still in love,” I said. “That’s what marriage is. Love.”

“It’s not so straightforward, sport.”

“You already have Mom—and me.”

“I’ll always love you. It’s just, things change.”

“Like what?”

He paused. “Sometimes people fall out of love.”

“You’ll move back home, right?”

“The divorce won’t be finalized for another month.”

“But you will move back,” I pressed.

“It’s not that easy.”

“Why not? It’s our home.”

“It’s not so straightforward, sport.”

“Why not!” I stood up. People at neighboring tables glanced at me. Some even gawked. My dad gestured for me to sit, but I remained standing. “If you’re not getting back together with Mom,” I said, “then what’s the point in talking?”

“Sit down. I’ll explain everything. A divorce is when—”

“I know exactly what a divorce is!” I lied. I wanted to run away. At the nearby intersection, several cabdrivers honked their horns at pedestrians in the crosswalk. The air suddenly smelled sulfurous, but I realized most of the stench came from the omelet taste at the back of my throat. “What’s the point?” I exclaimed.

He pounded the tabletop and the silverware rattled off the plates. I jumped back. He slammed a twenty dollar bill on the table. “We’re leaving.”

I put on my blazer and followed him to the sidewalk. I’d never cursed in front of my dad before. As he hailed for a cab, I came up with a million ways to apologize. He’d spanked me once for tracking mud through his study. Defying his authority in public and cursing were probably worth several spankings. I opened my mouth to speak, but he squeezed my arm and forced me into a cab. Instead of climbing in with me, he slammed the door shut from the outside.

“Where to?” the cabbie asked my dad.

He handed money to the cabbie through an open window and told him our address. When the cabdriver pulled into traffic moments later, I was too afraid to look at my dad through the rear window. During the drive, I didn’t think I’d ever stop crying.


Alone in the kitchen, I walked to the full body mirror next to the refrigerator and checked my eyes – still red from my weeping. I practiced smiling in the mirror, a proud grin, the kind other boys and men use to hide their pain. Then I walked outside to the garden and stopped several yards away from the mutilated lavender bush. Kneeling side by side, their backs to me, my mom and Orange Bowler faced the bush. I couldn’t see their faces, but I pictured them frowning with dismay. He wore his bowler. She was hatless. I considered skulking away, but a part of me wanted to stay. This was the first time a man other than my dad had ever visited my mom’s garden. I remained silent, unnoticed.

“You’ll grow another one,” he said. “Better than the last one.”

“Don’t patronize me.” She preened her hair in the sun. “It’s not right,” she mumbled. I remembered the same line from last night, but not knowing what it meant. “Jon, it’s not right.”

“Everything turns out right eventually,” he said. “In fact, my wife telephoned me an hour ago. She said she’s feeling better.”

“That’s wonderful, Jon,” she said. “You know, I’m glad you showed up in my life. With everything going on, it’s comforting to speak to someone who understands me.”

“You’ll feel better.”

“I hope,” she said. “I tend to my garden, but it still doesn’t look right. I accidently overwatered my petunias and tulips, and I still need to move the sunflowers away from the shade—they’ve already began to droop. I feel like I’m drowning.”

He patted her shoulder softly. “You still have Robert.”

“I don’t want to lose him too. It’s just . . .”


“It’s just,” she said, “I don’t know what to do.”

“You know what to do. You’re his mother.”

“A horrible mother.”

“Evelyn, don’t say that.”

“And why not?” she demanded. “Every child needs a mother and a father. That’s what God intended.”

“Life’s not always that simple.”

“Jon,” she said, “I don’t think I have what it takes. I just don’t. I’m a horrible mother and I’m scared. I feel so stupid.”

“Don’t say that, Evelyn,” he said. “Don’t say that.”

I backed out of the garden, then ran among the trees beyond the neighbors’ houses. I ran until I reached the rapids. Balmy breezes seemed to emanate from the water. I inhaled its freshwater scent—the damp aroma of limestone, algae, moss. Lying on my stomach, I looked over the edge of the cliff and tried to peer through the water’s frothy surface, my mind wandering, lost to the sonorous beating and slapping of the whitecaps against the cliff. I envisioned jumping over the edge and landing on a bed of foam and wondered how far the rapids would carry me before I drowned. The idea exhilarated me at first: my body purified in the water, a large water font. Then the image horrified me. I’d never thought of anything so disturbing. I left quickly.

When I made it back home, I found Orange Bowler drinking beer in the kitchen. My mom was in the kitchen too. I looked at her with the same smile I practiced earlier.

“How was your time with your dad?” she asked.

“Fine,” I said. I feared she’d see right through the smile. “Just fine.”

“That’s good,” she said noncommittally, and walked back to the garden. In silence.

Orange Bowler leaned against the refrigerator and took a sip of beer. “It’ll take time, Robert,” he said. “It’ll take time.”


The next day I spied on my mom talking to my dad over the telephone. From the living room doorway, I could tell she was trying her best not to cry: preening her hair one moment, biting her nails the next. She spoke calmly, though, but raised her voice whenever she said my name: “Robert is just a boy,” “Robert is staying with me,” “Robert can make his own choices.” I had never heard her sound so eager, so anxious, saying my name before. It pleased me yet scared me. I always assumed moms were supposed to be level-headed, but with the separation, that assumption started to sound like a lie. I went back to the kitchen, where Orange Bowler was reading the paper.

My mom came in a short time later with her coin purse. “Robert,” she said, “I need you to pick up some gardening supplies from Mr. and Mrs. Anderson. They’re expecting you, so change into something nice.”

“What’s wrong with my overalls?”

“The Andersons are old-fashioned, sweetie. If they see you dressed up like a farmer’s son in this neighborhood—”

“What do you mean?”

“The Andersons are old-fashioned,” she repeated, and turned to Orange Bowler. “Mr. Deerborne, do you have plans?”

Orange Bowler lowered the paper. “I don’t work today.”

“Would you mind helping me reseed my lavender bush?”

“It’s been a while since I last gardened,” he said, “but I’ll be happy to help.”

She handed me her purse and told me to take a wheelbarrow with me because the items she wanted were heavy. I changed into a blue polo and gray slacks, then walked to the front yard, where a red wheelbarrow lay. I wheeled it down the street to the last house on the right—a house with green shutters, with matching green flowerboxes in the windowsills. A green lawn out front. A white picket fence enclosing the property. I found Mrs. Anderson in the front yard, near her mulberry bush. Dressed in a starched shirtwaist, her silver hair pulled back, she waved me over.

With everything happening in my life, I considered turning around and heading home without saying hello to Mrs. Anderson, without the supplies. I loosened my hands on the wheelbarrow, prepared to abandon the rickety thing, when Mrs. Anderson ran up to me and pinched my cheek. A disillusioned stakeholder in my mom’s request to get her damned gardening supplies, I followed Mrs. Anderson to the backyard, where her garden, much smaller and less vibrant than my mom’s, encircled a stone patio. I said hello to Mr. Anderson, who was reading the paper at the patio table.

I first met Mr. Anderson last year at a luncheon held at my house. I remembered him talking about golf all throughout the luncheon, impressing my dad with his vast knowledge. Mr. Anderson tried to include me in the conversation, but I knew nothing about golf. He asked me about school; I gave a forgettable response. He asked me if I was starting to court girls; I shook my head. He asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up; I said the first thing that came to mind: a professional gardener. He told me I could do better, and at the time, I agreed, regretting not saying something more expectant, like fireman or businessman.

At the other end of the patio stood a workbench rife with gardening supplies. I helped Mrs. Anderson stock the wheelbarrow with seed packets and thin plastic pots and bags of mulch. Mr. Anderson called me over. I paid Mrs. Anderson, who then told me she’d put the rest of the supplies in the wheelbarrow. I didn’t want to look awkward or indifferent in front of Mr. Anderson, so I thought of some talking points on my way to the patio table. When I sat down across from him, my mind went blank.

“How are you, young man?”

“Good, sir,” I said. “You?”

“I sprained my wrist playing golf. The doctor, however, says I should be good to go by next week.”

“Good to go?”

“To golf, of course. Unless I’m mistaken, your father plays golf.”

“He does.”

“He never telephones.”

“Not to you, I suppose.”


My hands started to sweat. I cleared my throat. “He just moved out of the house.”

“Is he all right?”

“He’s fine.”

“Then why did he move out of the house?”

I wondered whether he was curious or nosy or both. I heard Mrs. Anderson walk over. “Tea, gentlemen?”

“No, thank you, Mrs. Anderson.”

“Give him a cup,” Mr. Anderson said. “He’ll appreciate your mulberry tea.”

“And cookies?” she asked me.

“No, thank you.”

“I made apple pie.”

I relaxed a little. “My mom makes cider from the apples she grows.”

“That’s wonderful,” she said. “I could give her my apple pie recipe in exchange for her apple cider recipe. I’ve never made apple cider before, but I have baked apple streusels many times.”

“Dear,” Mr. Anderson said, “Robert doesn’t want to listen to you talk about apples.”

She blushed and apologized to me and went through the patio door to the kitchen. Mr. Anderson collapsed his paper. He even grunted when he moved his sprained wrist too fast. I crossed my arms at the table and he eyed me. “May I ask you a question, Robert?”

I nodded reluctantly.

“Well,” he said, “on my way home from work yesterday, I saw a man outside your house. He was picking apples in your front yard.”

“Was he wearing an orange bowler?”

“Yes. It was a strange sight. I didn’t know people wore orange hats.”

“There’s a lot we don’t know about a lot of things.”

He eyed me. “True, but who is he?”

“Mr. Deerborne. He’s renting the spare bedroom while my dad’s away.”

“So, your dad is all right.”

“I don’t know when he’s coming back.”

“Back from where?”

“Don’t know,” I said.

“You don’t know where your dad is when he isn’t at home or work?”

“Not for the last week.”


“It’s sort of personal.”

He looked disappointed. “I understand.”

“No, it’s just, I promised my mother I wouldn’t mention the divorce.”

It took me a moment to realize what I’d just said. I should’ve lied, kept the truth to myself, should’ve restrained my anxiety. He muttered divorce under his breath, as if the word had left a bad taste in his mouth, a rotten apple taste. He grimaced, then smiled, incredulous. “Good Christians don’t divorce,” he said.

“I didn’t mean divorce. I meant—”

“Lying’s impolite, Robert.”

“I wasn’t lying, sir. My parents aren’t getting a divorce.”

I could tell from his eyes that he knew the truth, that I couldn’t do anything to retract my confession. Not even an avalanche of lies could mask the scorn across Mr. Anderson’s face or extinguish the shame burning in my gut. We sat there quietly until Mrs. Anderson returned with apple pie. “I hope you’re hungry, Robert,” she said.

I wanted to say no, thank you, which was the truth. I eyed the wheelbarrow, then Mr. Anderson. My mom was right: the Andersons were old-fashioned.

“It’s time for Robert to leave,” Mr. Anderson said.

I got the hint. I stood up.

“You sure?” she asked me. “I can show you around the garden before you leave. It’s not much, but I think you’ll like it. I’ve started to grow nasturtiums.”

Mr. Anderson stood up. His wife and I looked at him in silence. “It’s time for him to go. Is the wheelbarrow loaded, dear?”

She looked confused. “Yes.”

“Good. It was nice talking to you, young man.”

He went into the house, leaving his wife and me at the table. When he closed the patio door behind him, I walked over to the wheelbarrow and looked around Mrs. Anderson’s garden: the perfectly arranged flowers in their perfectly straight rows disgusted me. My mom’s garden was more impressive—more chaotic and colorful, but authentic. I started toward the front yard with the wheelbarrow.

“You don’t have to go, Robert.”

“Thank you, ma’am, but I think I should.”

“Was it my husband? Don’t mind him. He’s usually very sweet.”

“I understand, but my mom’s expecting me. Goodbye, Mrs. Anderson.”

I left. I didn’t look back.


While I sat at the kitchen table eating dinner with my mom, Orange Bowler was already in bed. I tried to picture my dad across the table, a reminder of his presence in my life, in our home. But my mom kept talking. I looked up.

“I haven’t seen you since you left to pick up the supplies,” she said.

“I went to the rapids when I got back,” I said.

“You should’ve told me.”

“I go to the rapids all the time.”

“That’s not the point. I barely see you anymore.”

“That’s not my fault. You’ve been hiding in the garden.”

“I just want to know where you are. That’s all.”

“Sure,” I mumbled.

“I don’t want to lose you.”

“Like you lost Dad?”

I wanted my mom to know what I saw in the back garden when I got back from the Andersons’. But I didn’t want to remember the nausea and contempt I had felt hours earlier.

Pulling the wheelbarrow up the street had taken a lot of strength. My mom’s new pots and new bags of mulch and new bundles of plant seeds weighed me down like a caboose pulling me backwards. I made it to the backyard and hoped to spend the rest of the day in my bedroom or daydreaming in the apple tree in the front yard. Then I saw them, my mom and Orange Bowler, on the large mound of dirt that her lavender bush once occupied. I assumed they had fallen on top of each other, struggling to get back up. I was about to run over and help them when I heard a moan. Then another. Then another. Then I noticed it: Orange Bowler’s pants were down and my mom’s pants were wrapped around her ankles. An act not rooted in love, but something else—something sinful, something perverse. They weren’t making love. They were fucking.

I didn’t know what to do, so I left the garden and sprinted down the street, past the Andersons’ house and out of the neighborhood. At the rapids I collapsed on top of a limestone cliff and listened to my heart thundering in my ears. I needed to cry, but instead, I closed my eyes and fell asleep, hoping by the time I woke up, everything decent and loving and pure that had disappeared would return.

I slept for many hours, but when I awoke, I felt the same: confused, hurt.

At the kitchen table, my mom covered her eyes. Her hair fell over her face like a curtain. I apologized for bringing up my dad, then hated myself for all the apologies I’d given since the problem began, with my mom’s gardening obsession, even though I feared the problem started before then, even before my dad left, maybe before I was born. She brushed back her hair and wiped the tears from her eyes. “Your dad telephoned,” she said suddenly.

“What?” I exclaimed.

“He’s stopping by tomorrow morning to pick up some paperwork. You’re not meant to disturb him.”

“Not ‘to disturb him’?”

“Try to understand.”

“Understand what? I spoke with Mr. Anderson earlier today and he made me feel awful because of the divorce. And now I can’t even begin to understand how I’m supposed to be feeling!”

I ran off to my bedroom. For the rest of the night I stayed in bed, hoping my solitude would last forever.


But I did get up the next morning. The sky was sunny, the air warm and smelling of sycamores. Then by midday, thunder broke out and the sky darkened. Now as I reclined on a high branch in my mom’s apple tree, I feared it was going to rain. I didn’t want to return to the house with my mom and Orange Bowler nearby, I didn’t want to see them commiserating with each other about their imperfect marriages, and I didn’t want to catch them fucking again, although last time I checked, she was in the back garden, he in the spare bedroom. I closed my eyes. The breeze played with my blazer, the one that matched my dad’s. I was waiting for him. It was already noon. I thought of what I might say to him: I’m sorry for upsetting you the other day, I’m sorry I don’t understand how divorces work, I’m sorry I didn’t defend you in front of Mr. Anderson, I’m sorry I didn’t telephone you to say I caught Orange Bowler with Mom in the back garden, I didn’t know what to think, I didn’t know what to do.

I thought it thundered again, but when I opened my eyes, I noticed my dad’s car. It had backfired as he pulled up to the curb. Leaving the engine idling, he started toward the front door of the house. He was dressed as usual: blue suit, teal tie; his hair oiled back, his patent leather derbies clicking quickly on the walkway. I wondered why he was in a hurry to get into the house, but before I could climb down and ask, he reached the front door. When I reached the stoop, the door was open. He wasn’t there.

“Are you the boy?”

I turned around. A woman stuck her head out the passenger side window of my dad’s car. She gave me a quizzical look, then got out. For a moment I assumed she was a Hollywood starlet, like all the women in my mom’s magazines. The woman wore a white capelet on top of a blood red sheath dress. Her shoes, white kitten heels, also made quick clicks down the walkway. She stopped a few feet from me and pulled out a cigarette from the purse. While she smoked, my eyes were trained on her voluminous blond hair and cleavage. I didn’t want to look insensitive, so I extended my hand and she shook it.

“So,” she said, “you’re Robert?”

I nodded. She blew a ring of cigarette smoke at the gray clouds overhead.

“Coming with your dad and me?” she said. “He just bought a condo in the city.”

“Why did he do that? Isn’t he moving back home?”

She chuckled. “That’s not how divorces work.”

My stomach sank. “Are you the other woman?”

“I’m your dad’s girlfriend.”

“He’s married.”

“I know.”

Another drag, another ring of smoke.

“Is he going to talk to me before he goes?” I said.

“You’ll have to ask him.”

“You don’t know?”

“Listen, son, I’m just waiting for your dad.”

“Don’t call me son,” I snapped. “You’re not my mom.”

I wanted to curse at her, pull the pristine capelet off her shoulders and throw it in the mud. But instead, I hurried into the house. I paused in the doorway to my dad’s study. He was filling his attaché case with paperwork. I cleared my throat and he stopped, eyes fixed on me, his breathing gruff. He gestured for me to speak.

I cleared my voice again. “Sorry I was rude to you.”

He said nothing and went back to his case. I hated my apology because my dad deserved more. As his son, it was my responsibility to follow his example. But how could I have understood him at that moment, me in the doorway to his study, he snapping his case shut? I didn’t know how to appease anyone, but I knew I had to try.

“I need to talk to you, Dad.”

He started toward the hallway. “You just did, Robert.”

I blocked the doorway. “Please.”

“We can talk next week. I have a business meeting.”

“It’s serious. It’s about Mom and Mr. Deerborne.”


“The man who’s living in the spare bedroom. I saw him and Mom together.”

“Together?” He looked away for a moment, frustrated. “Get your trunk.”


“Your clothes,” he said. “We’ll talk in the car on our way to our new home.”

“The condo?”

“Did Joanne talk to you?”

“The woman in the car? Yes. She told me everything.”

“We’ll see about that.” He nudged me into the hall. “Get your clothes.”

“Am I going to live with you?” I would’ve said anything, done anything, for just five more minutes with him.

“I wouldn’t invite you if I don’t want you,” he said, and started toward the front door. “I’m driving away in three minutes!”

Before I could rationalize what I should do or needed to do, I ran to my bedroom and filled my plaid travel trunk with random articles of clothing: undershirts, overalls, socks.

When I got to the front door, though, I heard a crash, not loud like thunder or my dad’s car, but sharp, like glass shattering.

I hurried outside and witnessed the middle of a fight: a smashed ceramic pot on the walkway, my mom throwing a pot at my dad’s head, my dad rushing to his car, the other woman in the car looking on in terror. I thought it was a hallucination, a nasty trick of the mind; that I was still daydreaming in the apple tree; that my dad hadn’t yet arrived to pick up the paperwork. I ran to my mom.

“You’re crazy!” my dad shouted from the car.

“Why are you doing this?” my mom screamed. “You’re my husband!”

“Go away!” He looked at me. “Get in the car. Now.”

My mom finally noticed me. “What are you doing?” she demanded. “You’re not leaving me too, are you?”

I wanted to stay, but I needed my dad to listen to me. My heart thundered, my palms perspired. I almost dropped my trunk, but I held on to it as if my life, everyone’s lives, depended on it. I took a step forward.

“You can’t go!” she cried. She reached for the trunk and I fell back. I pictured her picking me up and carrying me away, far away from my dad. I told her to go away. She seized the trunk handle and we started to yank the trunk in opposite directions.

“Hey!” my dad called.

She seized the trunk and threw it at my dad, who was rushing toward us. The trunk missed his feet by inches. She grabbed my left arm and began to drag me to the house. My dad grabbed my other arm. I thought they were going to rip me in half and keep a half of me for themselves. I started to cry.

“You’re hurting him!” they shouted in unison.

I was about to scream at them to leave me alone; that I no longer loved them; that no real parents would harm their son. Then my dad’s car backfired. My mom and my dad flinched, dropping their guard. I extricated myself from their grasps and ran to the top of the apple tree. My mom followed me, but since she couldn’t climb well, she waited at the bottom, as if I were a cat stuck in a tree. I watched my dad return to the car and he didn’t look at me or my mom as he drove off. On the sidewalk, I saw two older people gawking at the broken pots on our front walkway. Avoiding my mom, I jumped from the tree and ran up to the gawkers. It was the Andersons.

“We heard fighting from down the street,” Mrs. Anderson said.

“Everything all right, my boy?” Mr. Anderson asked.

Every part of me raged with indignation, anger burning inside me like a fever. I scowled at the Andersons and they looked at me wide-eyed and scared.

“What are you looking at?” I shouted. “My mom and dad are getting a divorce and they hate each other and I hate you two phonies so fuck off!”

Stupefied, their mouths agape with bewilderment, they took each other by the hand, then hurried away. They rushed up toward their perfect, little house. They gave me several cold, backward glances, but I didn’t care. Not anymore.

It started to downpour. I trudged to the stoop, where Orange Bowler stood.

“What happened?” he asked. “I heard—”

“Shut up.”

I shouldered him out of my way and returned to my bedroom. He didn’t follow me. Not even my mom followed me. And for the rest of the day, I stayed in bed and listened to the rain.


The next morning I walked into the kitchen, expecting to find Orange Bowler reading the paper. Instead, I found a note on the table.


Thank you for allowing me to rent your spare bedroom. However, I think it would be best if I return to my wife. I shouldn’t have left her when we lost Rupert.

I’m sorry it ended this way. You’re a good mother. Everything will turn out fine.


Jon Deerborne

I left the letter on the table and went up to the spare bedroom. The bed was made, the air still smelling of my dad’s aftershave. I was about to head back downstairs, relieved by Mr. Deerborne’s sudden departure, when I noticed something peeking out from under the bed. I picked it up. The orange bowler. It probably fell under the bed while he was packing his duffel bag last night or this morning. The hat was larger than my head. I considered tearing it apart or throwing it outside in the mud. But I took the orange bowler with me into the backyard.

The sky was gray—no sun, no breeze. I walked over to my mom sitting near the patch of dirt. Her head craning toward the earth, she gripped a packet of lavender seeds and a trowel. She didn’t acknowledge me. Not until I sat down and showed her the bowler.

“He’s gone,” she said, her voice scarcely louder than a whisper. She took a deep breath, her face drained of color, deep wrinkles beneath her eyes. “Robert, I shouldn’t say this, but Mr. Deerborne and I—”

“I know,” I said. “I know.”

“Know what?”

“I saw you two in the garden. Where the lavender bush used to be.”

She looked away for a moment. “I need companionship, Robert.”

“I think I understand,” I said. And meant it.

“I need to be loved, Robert. Is that too much to ask?”

“No, it’s not.”

I wrapped my arm around her shoulder and cradled her head against my neck. She didn’t cry. She didn’t sob.

“I destroyed my bush,” she said.

“So we’ll grow another one.” I scooped dirt into the orange bowler and told her to open the packet of lavender seeds. “We’ll grow the best lavender bush in the world.”

She chuckled. “Why in the hat?”

“Because why not?” I said. “It’s our hat now.”

She opened the packet of seeds and scattered several into the bowler. “It’s not big enough for an entire lavender bush,” she said.

“I know,” I said. We filled the remainder of the hat with dirt. “But we’ll make it work.”


Taking Flight

by Nathan Elias

Before I died, I was just trying to be a normal teenager. While a lot of the kids at Toledo Technology Academy went to the Robotics Team after school, my best friend Athen and I preferred to mingle at the Westfield Mall with girls from other schools. The only four girls in our grade at TTA dated upperclassmen. Desperate to find girlfriends, Athen and I perused the food court and hip stores to gain perspective on the regulars. They were mostly from public schools and they stuck together in their respective cliques—preppy, sporty, religious. But then, there were the outsiders. The nerds and the artists, vocational school girls on the fringes of normalcy. I was most drawn to the art school crowd, dressed in all black, wearing concealer and pearl powder. Athen and I were still in uniform, green polo and khakis. There was a part of me that knew I would fit in better with the art kids than I ever could at my own school. I had no place studying robots at the technology academy. Art was in my soul. I envied those other students who learned to create art, not machines. I wanted to infiltrate their space, become one of them.

Being dead is like binge watching an adaptation of your life story. All you do is watch this other person say all of the stupid or meaningful things you said. My adaptation begins when I met the girl who changed my life. It was the third week of September, sophomore year.

“Three o’clock,” Athen said. “Theatre kids. New girl. She’s definitely a man-eater.”

I snuck a three-quarter-turn look her way, making eye contact from across the packed dining area. She had fair skin, ash brown hair that met her shoulders, and green eyes like a forest at sunset.

“She’s looking right over here,” I said. “If I don’t make this girl fall in love with me, I’m going to die.” Isn’t life ironic?

“You’re the most dramatic person I’ve ever met,” Athen said, shaking his head. “It’s just like you to steal a girl right out from under me.” As we walked toward the group, the girl looked up at me, and then looked away just as quickly. I could see her telling her friend that we were coming over.

“What’s up, everybody?” I said, trying to be casual. “You go to the art school, right?”

“How’d you guess?” her friend asked, pointing down to her shirt that had Toledo School for the Arts printed above a graphic of a jagged hook and pirate ship. She was the taller one of the two, with jet-black hair and a nose ring.

“Cool,” I said. “We go to TTA, but I was thinking about transferring to your school. I really want to be an actor, see.” I glanced down right at that moment to take in a perfect, slightly crooked smile on the face of the girl I had made eye contact with. It wasn’t just her natural beauty that drew me to her. I was equally entranced by the other things I had noticed about her, like her white Chuck’s, stained with sloppy handwriting in what looked like quotes and lyrics. I wanted to crawl down on the sticky mall floor and read every word on those shoes.

“Not just anyone can get in,” Nose Ring said. She nudged my future lover with her elbow. “You actually need to have talent.”

“How’d you get in?” I said to my new crush. “What’s your talent?”

She looked up, shocked, not quite registering the fact that me, the really handsome guy with shaggy hair, a cool studded belt, and custom Vans was standing in front of her asking personal questions. Or at least, that’s what I thought. I was so full of myself back then—when you’re dead, you really see your old self through a new lens.

“Sylvia’s got more talent in her pinky than you have in your whole body,” Nose Ring said.

“Oh yeah, well my pinky knows Romeo and Juliet better than your entire theatre department,” I said. “I’m a poet. Poetry is the art of moving language and it, like any other art, can be… performed!” I thrust my arms out in a grand gesture, mimicking so many actors I’d seen on the stage. Athen let out a sigh.

“There are puppets and there are actors,” Sylvia said with her palm facing me, as if to reject my dramatics. “Puppets are controlled by the world. Actors have choice and free will. Right now, I’m thinking you’re more like the former.”

The girls and Athen all stared at me, waiting to see if I had a comeback. Not only was I absent of words, I’m also pretty sure I wasn’t even breathing. I looked to Athen who was too caught up smoldering at Nose Ring with his eyebrows arched. Sylvia’s words burned through me. Puppets are controlled by the world. I’d found the perfect woman.

“I just met you, and I know we’re both super young, but I would totally be down to marry you like right this second.”

Sylvia stood up from her seat and looked me square in the eye. “I wouldn’t lift a finger to save your life, let alone marry you. Let’s go, Doris.” Her stride parted a group of football players in line for pizza.

Nose Ring stood up to follow her, smirking at Athen and me. “Don’t take it personally,” she said. “Not every princess can envision themselves in your perfectly rehearsed high school fairy tale.”

“You don’t understand,” I said. “I just met the girl I will devote my poetry to for the rest of my life. Like, you may very well be my muse, Sylvia!” I called after her. “No pressure, or anything. But, would you prefer a sonnet or a dramatic monologue?” My beckons rang unheard as she walked away. The girls faded into the swarming crowd.

“Look at this,” Athen said. He picked up a handbill from the bench where Sylvia and Nose Ring had been sitting. I snatched it from his hands, reading the large decorative font.






“That’s it. I’m going to audition for Peter Pan and win her over,” I said. I folded the flyer up and shoved it in my pocket.

“You probably can’t audition,” Athen said. “You don’t even go to that school.”

“I guess we’re just going to have to crash the auditions.”

Athen laughed and patted me on the back. “That is the worst idea you’ve ever had.”


After meeting Sylvia, I paid little to no attention in class. I read and reread the Peter Pan novelization and play. If the teachers caught on to my lack of attention and forced me to participate, I would find a way to dedicate my work to Sylvia: in Automation class, we were assigned to program traffic lights to turn from green, to yellow, to red. Instead I programmed them all to blink red in a heart-shape. Inside the digital traffic light heart, I spelled S-Y-L-V-I-A with stop signs. In Materials Processing, we were supposed to build a mousetrap-powered car and I named my pink contraption The Sylvia 7. It won the class race. In typing class, while everyone else hammered away in unison the keystrokes F D S A SPACE J K L SEMICOLON SPACE, I utilized my time to compose a twenty-page doctrine of love for Sylvia. To you who captivated me in the food court, it began I promise my undying devotion and tenderness. You make my otherwise dull world glow with your radiance. You are the only burning star in my heart’s vast sky.


The morning Athen ran lines with me before the audition was the first time I looked to the sky and considered the possibility of flight. Peter Pan could fly with the help of fairy dust from Tinkerbell. Whenever I thought of Sylvia, a buzz coursed through me and amplified every step I took, every breath I drew. If Peter Pan could fly, why couldn’t I? Love would be my fairy dust. Walking through littered downtown Toledo, the Maumee River beneath us, I believed that if I leapt off the Cherry Street Bridge something magical would prevent me from hitting the dark, dirty water. I took the cold steel rail in my hands and hoisted myself up. With the wind grazing my back and the sprawling river before me, I felt like if I took a single step I’d be suspended above it all.

“Watch out for Tick-Tock the Crocodile,” Athen said, deadpan. “But seriously, please don’t fall. I don’t have the energy to save you.”

“You should audition,” I said. I climbed down from the railing. “You practically have the part of Captain Hook memorized.” I unsheathed my Styrofoam dagger from my backpack and went for his throat.

He evaded the lunge and disarmed my dagger like a true pirate. “I don’t think acting is really my thing,” he said.

“Come on, bro,” I said. “It’s something we could do together. I bet you’ll meet all kinds of girls. Maybe you can hang out with Nose Ring.”

“Nose Ring? Her name is Doris, which you might have overheard at the mall if you weren’t so in your head all the time.”

“I’m still not sure how I plan on asking Sylvia out,” I said, reaching for the dagger and steering the topic back to my most pressing concern. “Our first encounter was pure—spur of the moment, completely spontaneous. This time, she’ll see me at the audition, recognize me, and know that I’m there for her. To make her see me.”

“She didn’t seem to be that into you at the mall,” Athen said, forfeiting the dagger. “What if she sees you and thinks you’re desperate?” It struck me that Athen might have been jealous because I went after Sylvia right away. But who was he to stand in the way of true love?

“I know you saw her first,” I said, starting to cross the street. “But I don’t want this to come between us.”

“Despite what you may think, Sam—” he stopped in the middle of the intersection. Cars zipped around us. “—the world does not revolve around you.”

When I was alive, I thought Athen envied my bravado and charisma. If envy were possible in death, I might wish I had had more of Athen’s sensibilities: candor and realism. It wasn’t until after the accident that I understood what he meant that day on the bridge.


The Toledo School for the Arts looked more like the sarcophagus of an industrial building in the heart of downtown Toledo than an educational institution. The closer we got to the school, the more I feared I’d throw up. Sure, I kept cool on the outside, but inside, I was a wreck. I kept imagining Sylvia and the rest of the art kids laughing at my pathetic attempt to audition. I told myself to pretend I was as cool as James Dean in Rebel Without a Cause. I adjusted my beanie, threw my hands in my pockets, and walked through the doors like I was a real Hollywood icon trying to be modest.

The inside of the school smelled like oil paint and sweat; it was alive with creativity. We meandered through hallways with walls covered with art for a good ten minutes before we found the right room. I wondered if any of the art was Sylvia’s and tried to find a sketch of my face among the portraits. I could have wandered those dingy hallways forever, looking for my reflection on the wall. Finally, we saw the flyer with the pirate ship and jagged hook. I expected a desk where I’d fill out information, but it was one giant black theatre room with a bunch of kids sitting on metal chairs watching the one on stage who was delivering a monologue. The door slammed behind me and everyone shot around to look at us. That’s when I saw Sylvia sitting there, in the same outfit from last week. I could barely keep myself from running over to her and reciting an excerpt from my love doctrine. When she registered who I was, she flipped her hood to cover her face and slunk down lower in her chair.

“To what do we owe this pleasure?” a gray-haired woman in a black dress called from the first row. I assumed she was the director of the play.

“I’m here to audition,” I said. “Is there a signup sheet, or—”

“I have never seen your face before in my life, child,” she said. “Do you attend the School for the Arts?”

“That’s the thing,” I said. “On the flyer for the audition, it didn’t say anything about being a student here.”

“Well, I’m afraid you must be registered at this institution in order to perform.” She lowered her glasses back down onto her bony, forlorn face and turned to resume the audition. Before the actor on stage began again, I stepped forward.

“But this isn’t a private school. Students from all over the city go here, right?”

“Correct,” she said, turning back around. I could see Sylvia trying to become invisible. Why would she be embarrassed by me when, just the other day, I so valiantly confessed my admiration for her?

“Then, like sports programs, students from other schools should be able to try out, right?”

She flipped her hair, eyeing me up and down. “And what institution do you attend, child?”

“Toledo Technology Academy, ma’am,” I said. The students chuckled, which only fueled my need to show them what I could do.

“Do you have any experience in the thee-ay-ter?” she asked.

“I acted when I was a kid, and I know this play front to back.”

“Oh, so you were a child actor,” she laughed at her own joke. “Then you must be eager to dazzle us.” This made the students laugh harder. I noticed Doris sitting a row away from Sylvia, snickering.

“You are in for it now, Romeo,” Doris said.

“Well, child,” the director proceeded. “If you are so inclined and inspired to interrupt my audition because you lust for thee-ay-ter—then by all means step forth and grace us with your magic. Light up this room with your symphony. Show us what you got.”

“Right now?” I said. I looked up to the guy on stage whose audition I botched.

“Well, go on,” the director said. “You’ve already altered the aura of the room with your paper-thin machismo.”

“Seriously, Mrs. Chabbock?” Doris pleaded. “You’re going to allow this pretentious faker to waste our time?”

“Even fools deserve a chance,” Mrs. Chabbock said. I could see Sylvia tightening the cord of her hoodie until it scrunched around her face. I walked past the grid of metal chairs, jumped up onto the stage, and took the place of the guy before me. It felt as though my heart was hammering against my rib cage. With the stage lights beaming in my eyes, all I could see were the vague silhouettes of the kids in their chairs and Mrs. Chabbock across from me, her eyes wide and wicked as if she expected me to summon the devil.

I turned around to face the curtain. Even then, I knew how cliché I looked—a know-nothing actor. But I had once seen James Dean do it in a documentary. To get into character he would turn away from his audience, close his eyes, and return as someone new. When I pivoted back to face the audience, I felt my body detach from my soul.

“Yes, Wendy, I know fairies!” I cried. “But, they’re nearly all dead now. You see, when the first baby laughed for the first time, the laugh broke into thousands of pieces and they all went skipping about, and that was the beginning of fairies.” I looked across the audience, not breaking character, so that I could gauge their response. Just like I thought—cold silence. “So, there ought to be a fairy for every boy and girl. There isn’t of course. You see children know such a lot now. Soon as they don’t believe in fairies, there is a fairy somewhere that falls down dead.” At this point, Peter Pan realizes he can’t find Tinkerbell.  But something came over me. I changed the line so that Sylvia would know once and for all what this was really about. “I can’t think she is gone. Sylvia, Sylvia, where are you?”

Then, as if Peter Pan had taken complete control of my body, I leapt off the stage, flying toward Sylvia, and landed with a half-roll to my knees and into a bow. When I stood up and looked toward the crowd, I expected them to explode in applause, but all I heard was Doris saying, “Please, somebody spare me.”

Sylvia bolted up and stormed out of the dark theatre, Doris chasing after her.

“Sylvia!” I cried. “Wait!” I ran across the auditorium and through the door.

“They can’t be far,” I said to myself.  I started sprinting through the hallways, those makeshift galleries of student art, but didn’t see Sylvia or Doris anywhere. I went outside and looked for them, but the streets were empty.

“She’s gone,” Athen said, coming up behind me and gasping for breath.

The decrepit downtown buildings surrounded us like the walls of a maze. I called out Sylvia’s name as loud as I could. Nothing. Nothing but the sound of my own voice reverberating back.


I was feeling depressed until I got a call the next day from Mrs. Chabbock. “You, my child, are Peter Pan!” she wailed into the phone. “Of course, I had to bend some rules because you are not a part of this institution. No matter. You will lead this play with Sylvia Pryor as Wendy. You will not let me down. Rehearsals begin in a week.” She hung up before I could respond. We both got the leads. Peter and Wendy, Sam and Sylvia.

I showed up to the first rehearsal in green tights and a tunic. “This isn’t a dress rehearsal,” Doris said from the stage. “You look like Mary Martin on the poster for the 1950s version of the Broadway production.” The rest of the cast and crew snickered. Beside Doris, Sylvia looked like she was about to vomit. I felt embarrassed for her. Nobody else was in costume, just tee shirts and sweat pants.

“There he is. My Peter Pan.” Mrs. Chabbock embraced me and eyed my clothes. “A little over-prepared, but I wouldn’t expect anything less from an actor with such intense emotions. Partner with Miss Pryor. Run act one, Peter’s entrance.” She nudged me toward the stage. It was the moment I had been waiting for—one on one time with Sylvia. When I walked onto the stage Doris yawned in my direction, staring at me while sanding the side of the pirate ship. I wasn’t about to let her attitude ruin everything.

“How are you?” I asked Sylvia, ignoring Doris. “How is school going? Hey, do you have a boyfriend?”

“Is he serious right now?” Doris groaned.

“It’s fine, Doris,” Sylvia said. “Can we just get on with the lines?” She tied her hair back and avoided eye contact. It was my first time being so close to her, within arm’s reach. Her scent, cigarettes and sugarplum, were enough to make me feel drunk. But I had to suppress my intoxication. This was my shot. I had my lines memorized, but Sylvia had imbued the entire script into her being. She finally gazed into my eyes as we circled the stage. The rest of the group gathered around us, unwilling to break our momentum. Once we got to the part when Peter teaches Wendy and her brothers to fly, everyone—even Doris and Mrs. Chabbock—was speechless.

Mrs. Chabbock stepped forward after an electric silence and faced everyone but Sylvia and me. “That is all for rehearsal today. We meet again next week.” As everyone headed toward the exit, Mrs. Chabbock turned to us. “Your chemistry is undeniable. I know that I have cast the right performers. But do not let me catch one of you trying to upstage the other again.” Her eyes jumped to Sylvia as she said this. “Theatre is a communal art. You will learn to view each other with respect.” She stepped down from the stage and exited the room. Sylvia darted for the door. I tried to stay near her, like a shadow.

“Did you hear that? Our chemistry is undeniable.” She kept walking with no response. “Sylvia—if you ever feel like rehearsing more, I wouldn’t mind coming to your house.”

She exhaled deeply. “School is just fine.” I followed her down hallways lined with portraits until we were both outside. She rushed to an old, rusted blue Buick idling across the street. The guy behind the wheel huffed on a cigar that looked too big for his rodent-like face. I wasn’t sure if he was her father or what, because from a distance he looked maybe ten years older than us. I wanted to walk up to the car and introduce myself. I wanted to learn about her personal life. Once she was inside, she slammed the door and covered her face with her hood. It looked like the driver was yelling at her and laughing. I couldn’t make out the words, but I started toward them ready to ask him what his problem was. When he saw me standing in the middle of the street staring at them, he hocked a giant spitball out the window and blasted his radio. The tires screeched as he pulled away.

Sometimes I pause the adaptation of my life’s story here. I rewind and watch this guy spit at me again. In this instant replay, I notice a smirk on his face and a faded tattoo on his neck. I can’t tell if it is the top of a question mark, or the pointed end of a hook. What would have happened if I had followed Sylvia that day? Maybe it all would have been different. Maybe I wouldn’t have died. Either way, I had no way of knowing how important this moment would be. I felt that something wasn’t right, but I didn’t act on it. I was too busy in my own head, like Athen said, too concerned with myself. I was still that puppet from the first day that Sylvia and I met. If I had made a choice to act, then maybe I could have saved myself. I wish I had a way of knowing if I saved her.


Seeing Sylvia every week for rehearsal became the highlight of my existence. When we finally got to the scene where Peter Pan teaches Wendy to fly, Sylvia and I were both hoisted up by our harnesses. The equipment was heavy, clunky. While Sylvia retained perfect mid-air balance, I teetered from side to side, forward and back, in my struggle to glide over to her. When I finally reached her, I took her clammy hands in mine. As the stagehands tried to figure out the dolly, us suspended above everyone’s heads, I kissed her fingers. She slapped me hard across the face.

After they pulled us down, the cast and crew chastised me for going off script. I stepped aside, trying to ignore their heckles while they reset for the scene I had ruined. That’s when the pink pill bottle caught my eye. It was across the stage, in the darkness beyond the spotlight. When I was sure that no one could see me, I walked over to the shadows and put the bottle in my pocket. I couldn’t really say why I did this. Curiosity, maybe? To whom did it belong? What kind of pills did it hold? I surveyed the theatre, but nobody, not even Doris, looked like they had just lost something important.

That night I had stayed late to rehearse my monologue when Sylvia wandered into the theatre.

“You look lost,” I said from the stage. She jumped, releasing a sudden shriek.

“I could kill you,” she said.

“I found something on the stage. It was right where we landed.”

“What did you find?” The chasm between us amplified her voice, as if she knew how to manipulate the acoustics of the auditorium.

“Pills. A bottleful of different kinds.”

“Did you take one?”

The bottle was still in my pocket. “No,” I said and held it out for her to see.

“Did you want to?” she asked, taking the pill bottle and twisting it open.

In the void of the auditorium, I couldn’t resist her. I would have given anything to share a moment with Sylvia. She plucked a pill, half black and half purple, from the bottle, placed it on her tongue. She gave one to me. I wanted to ask what the drug was, but I didn’t want to spoil the moment. For the first time outside of rehearsal, the eye contact she made with me felt inviting, as if I didn’t need her permission to look back. When she swallowed the pill dry, no water, I mimed her.

“So what’s supposed to happen?” I asked. She took me by the hand and guided me up the steps of the giant, fake pirate ship. I looked around at the set—the clock tower, the hollowed-out trees of Never Land, the massive papier-mâché crocodile—and wished that all the make-believe could be our real life. Alone in the theatre with Sylvia, I felt as if we were trespassing and embarking on a true adventure.

“Now we can learn what it really means to take flight,” she said. Once we were aboard Hook’s ship, she released my hand and made her way toward the mast. Her grace and agility on the set made her look more like Tinkerbell than Wendy. This was a different Sylvia, one I hadn’t even known existed until this moment. “Follow me and we can get lost long enough to forget.” She smirked, a glimmer of mischief in her eyes.

“Forget what?”

“Forget that in here we’re safe and that out there,” she pointed toward the theatre doors. “Out there, we’re nothing.” She smiled, ascending the rope ladder up the mast. Once she reached the second level she looked down at me, dangling her feet. “What, are you scared?”

I took the rope into my hands, followed up after her. A sensation pulsed through my body—first through my skin and then in my neck. It seized my heart. I thought it was love until I realized it was the pill. When I took my place next to Sylvia, we looked down on Neverland and London sharing the same stage. “I thought that I’d never get a chance with you.”

“Love is bullshit,” she laughed, loud and from her belly. “And then I go and meet you. You think that you’re charming but you’re not. I want to hate you.”

“I don’t believe you think love is bullshit,” I said. “And you don’t hate me. If you did, you wouldn’t be sitting here with me right now.”

“I’m sitting here because I have nowhere else to go.” She turned toward the darkness, hiding her expression from me. I thought back to the guy in the car and his nasty cigar. I wouldn’t have wanted to go back to that either.

“That guy in the car, was that your dad?”

She sniffled, then laughed. “No, not my dad.”

“Uncle? Brother? Boyfriend?”

“It’s complicated, Sam.” It was the first time I’d heard her speak my name.

“Did he give you the pills?”

“I really don’t want to talk about it.” Her voice went hoarse as she dangled her feet over the cardboard ocean waves. I put my arm around her and she jerked away at first, but finally let me settle in. I trembled. It felt so good being that close to her.

“For what it’s worth, I’m here for you, Sylvia.” I felt like a walking cliché, but what else could I say to her? I restrained from reaching out to hold her hand or kiss her on the lips or embrace her tighter. I can still feel the enclosure of that silence. The high from those mysterious pills. The expanse of the theatre. That blurred line between reality and make-believe on that stage… It’s the same thing I felt when I realized I was dead.

“Are you ready?” Sylvia asked.

“Ready for what?

“To fly,” she said, taking my hand as she began her free fall from the mast. We plummeted toward the stage, fingers entwined. I envisioned us breaking our bones, shattering into pieces, scattering like fairy dust. But we never touched the ground. She led me up into the rafters, swooped around beams, and glided above the rows of empty seats. I still try to look back and understand the science behind all this, but the only thing that really matters is that for that one night, we flew.


With opening night in a week, I started to get behind on my homework. I should have studied harder for my midterms, put some effort into the steel miniature windmill that counted for half of my Materials Processing grade, and not cheated on my trigonometry test by inputting answers into a secret file on my TI-83 graphic calculator. Instead of studying, I either rehearsed for the play or composed love poems for Sylvia. Otherwise I’d spend the nights tossing and turning, worrying about her, the pills, and the fact that even though we had flown hand in hand that night, we had not yet defined the terms of our relationship. I wanted Sylvia to see that I could be her real Peter Pan. I wanted to fend off her Captain Hook, the creep from the car. I wanted to love Sylvia freely. Good form—in the novel, Peter Pan didn’t even know he had good form. Only Hook could see it, and he was nothing but jealous of Peter’s ability to exist, fight, live, and love with no effort at all. After our night together in the empty theater, Sylvia didn’t speak to me outside of rehearsal. She acted like us flying together never happened.

Opening night was a total disaster. Backstage, a little before the curtain would rise, I saw Mrs. Chabbock questioning Sylvia, the pink pill bottle in her hands. Someone must have found it on the pirate ship. Sylvia was crying, drops of mascara-tinted tears staining the top of her blue dress.

“They’re not hers,” I said, stepping forward. “They’re mine.”

“My heart is broken,” Mrs. Chabbock said mournfully. Sylvia’s eyes found mine. I prayed that she wouldn’t contradict me in front of Mrs. Chabbock. “I can’t let you do the play. I have to call your parents and tell them about this.” She guided me to her office, sat me down, and said, “Where did you get the pills, Sam?”

“I found them,” I said. All I could picture was Sylvia’s face. Would she even care that I wasn’t there to do the play?

“Such a shame,” Mrs. Chabbock said. “Such a waste of talent.” She filled out paperwork without speaking and then called my parents. I didn’t care what consequence I would face if it meant that Sylvia wouldn’t get in trouble.


My parents took me home and lectured me. It was time to make some necessary life changes: commit to my school work, pull my head out of the clouds. I stayed home from school the next day because I was facing expulsion. I spent the whole day online, staring at Sylvia’s profile pictures. My sister Zoe came home, took one look at me, and said, “You need an intervention.” We got in her car, drove to Tom’s Famous Lemonade, and smoked cigarettes in the parking lot, an offer made only in case of an “existential crisis”. I told her about the night that I flew.

“I would like you to know that I think this is all a load of shit,” Zoe said. “None of this adds up, and now you’re up a creek”

“I don’t care about school. I don’t care about the play. All I care about is Sylvia. I got the pills from her, and I have no idea where she got them from.”

She passed me a fresh cigarette.

“I’m taking you to her,” Zoe said. She started the car and barreled out of the lemonade stand parking lot. “The play should be letting out in ten minutes, right?”

“They banned me from the premises,” I said.

“Maybe so,” she said, “but they can’t ban you from loving someone.” Her cigarette dangled from her mouth as she drove. The breeze from the Maumee River blew in through her windows and carried ashes past my face. We sped down Bancroft Avenue, the empty warehouses and neon bar lights swirling past us in a blur. Zoe pulled up to TSA with a screeching stop. From outside the school, I heard applause and whistles. Peter Pan was a success—my understudy kissed Sylvia, and the crowd probably loved their chemistry. I bet nobody even realized that I was gone.

“Go get her,” Zoe said. I stepped out of the car and she peeled off down the street. I listened to the applause fade away and waited for Sylvia, knowing I’d see her hood-covered head trying to escape the area unseen. When the theatregoers exited the school, I spotted her patched hoodie moving briskly through the crowd, her eyes glued to the sidewalk.

“Sylvia!” I yelled. She didn’t slow down, so I ran. When I caught up to her, I could see mascara running down her cheeks again. I took her by the hand and guided her across the street. Her hands were cold from the winter breeze drifting by way of the river. I put them to my face.

“I wasn’t sure if I would see you,” she said and pulled her hands away, burying them in her hoodie pouch.

“I got a misdemeanor and probation,” I said. “It could have been a lot worse.”

“I’m sorry you can’t do the play,” she said. Her eyes began to glisten in the glow of the street lamps.

“I only did the play for you,” I said. A car pulled up beside us. It was the rusted Buick, its headlights gleaming in our eyes. The same guy sat at the wheel, a lit cigar clenched between his grinning teeth. I tried to keep her there with me, but she pulled away and got into the car without another word. My heart devolved into something less palpable than muscle, more tenacious than rock.

As the Buick rolled down the street I began to sprint. The guy behind the wheel didn’t see me chasing until they came to a stop sign. I lunged forward, grappling the edge of their fender in my hands. He turned the corner and I hit the pavement, tumbled to the curb. As I fell, my gaze caught an image of him laughing and Sylvia’s horrified face. I stood up and sped after them. I was afraid I would lose her forever. If I could fly, I’d be able to catch up to them. I needed the magic from that night, but the pills had all been confiscated. In pursuit of Sylvia, I leapt over hydrants, puddles, and steel grates. Each time, I thought for certain my body would catch the wind just right and the Buick’s taillights would once again be in arm’s reach. No matter what, I wouldn’t let Sylvia go back with that man. I imagined him taking her to some trailer park, smoking cigarettes while she cooked dinner. The streetlights above me flickered each time I passed beneath one. A domino effect of lights blinking out followed me en route to Sylvia, like stars on the road winding into an earthbound constellation on the way to Neverland. “Second star to the right, and straight on till morning!” The faster I went, the more indistinguishable the road became from the sky. Suddenly a singe of heat coursed through my body, the same feeling I got from Sylvia’s pills. Maybe the chemical was still in my system. I jumped into the air and didn’t stop until I was side by side with her. She rolled down her window, her hair flailing in the riverside breeze.

“I won’t let you go,” I said. I held on to the Buick, one hand on the passenger side mirror, one on the door handle. My legs hovered, parallel to the vehicle. She unbuckled her seat belt, leaned her head out of the window, and kissed me. Suspended in air, our bodies developed their own gravitational pull. Flying above the Maumee River, we defied the logic of love, reinvented the laws of physics.

This is the last moment of my life I can review—my body soaring above the Maumee River, hand in hand with Sylvia. If I ever hit the water, I have no memory of it. The split second between life and death felt like when I auditioned for Peter Pan, stepping away from the curtain and into the character, soul detaching from body. Now I’m trapped here in death, watching myself meet Sylvia and leave her over, and over, and over again. Peter Pan never wanted to grow up, so he flew away to Neverland. I, on the other hand, never wanted to be out of love with Sylvia and now, I never will be.


The Spider and the Honey Bee

by Kassandra Flamouri

My sister always said she would be famous. She said she would be the best in the world, and I said she would anger the gods with her arrogance. Remember the stories, I told her. Remember Bellerophon, remember Icarus. She would only shrug irritably and return to her loom.

Arachne thought I didn’t believe in her, but I did. Even as a child, I had never doubted her. But her talent made me afraid. Every time a new admirer came to bring her presents and praise her skill, it made my neck prickle.

The townspeople begged Arachne to work her spindle and loom in the open, where they could watch. I pleaded with her not to make a spectacle of herself. She told me I was a frightened, foolish child.

People came from nearby towns and faraway lands I had never heard of, all drawn by tales of the girl who made magic with her hands. Even the nymphs of the forest and fountain paid her homage. Everywhere I went, Arachne’s name was whispered in awe or shouted to the rooftops in celebration.

One day, a nymph asked me if my sister’s talent was a gift from Athena. Arachne overheard and tossed her hair angrily.

“My talent is my own,” she said coldly. “It was no gift.”

Arachne’s lip curled disdainfully, and she turned away, dismissing the nymph with a flick of the hand. The nymph scuttled away, her eyes wide and tearful. I followed after her and gave her a gift of candied figs to apologize for my sister’s rudeness. She smiled warmly and invited me to share the treat with her.

“You have your own magic,” the nymph observed, licking the sticky glaze from her fingers. “You are as skilled as your sister, in your way.”

“I just like sweet things,” I replied, though her words made me flush with pleasure.

Even though I used more care and better ingredients than anyone else and even though everyone in town came to me first to buy pastries and jams, no one ever gave me more than a passing glance—they only had eyes for Arachne. The nymph’s praise was more welcome than I could safely admit.

I hastily suppressed my pride and added, “Whatever skill I claim comes from the gods’ good favor.”

“Wisely spoken,” the nymph said. “Your sister would do well to follow your example.”

But my sister did not follow my example. She basked in the attention, preening outrageously and blowing kisses to the young men who came to watch her spin. Every day, I prayed that Arachne would somehow escape the gods’ notice. But I knew it was only a matter of time.

“An old woman screeched in my ear today,” Arachne informed me one evening. “She sounded like you. ‘Beware your pride, Arachne. Respect the gods, Arachne. Oh, repent, repent!’”

Arachne laughed, shaking her head. I bit my tongue and returned to my work, stirring honey into a pot of milk simmering on the hearth fire. Her words stung, but—as always—I was afraid for her. I muttered a prayer for forgiveness on my sister’s behalf and reached again for the honeypot. Such a blessing, this sweet pool of gold. Honey wasn’t only good for cooking but for creams and salves. If only the salve worked as well for the sting of a sister’s cruel tongue as it did for scratches and burns, its utility would be all-encompassing.

Early the next morning, a woman appeared at our door, leaning heavily on a staff as gnarled as she was. I didn’t recognize her, and it worried me. I knew all the elders of our village, and I couldn’t imagine such a frail old thing traveling over the mountains to reach our village. Who was she?

“Your health, Aunt,” I greeted her. Arachne didn’t stir from her bed, though I could tell she was awake. “Please, come in—”

“Arachne,” the woman rasped, ignoring me. “The gods are merciful. Temper your pride, honor them as you should, and you will be forgiven.”

Arachne sat up and crossed her arms, glaring at the old woman.

“Forgiven!” Arachne sneered. “My hands are more skilled than any other’s, mortal or god, and I won’t apologize for it. Athena herself couldn’t best me.”

The old woman sighed sadly—and unraveled like a skein of wool until there was nothing left. My gasp of horror was lost in the howling wind that suddenly raged through the house, blowing out the hearth fire and stripping bundles of drying herbs from the rafters. While I cowered on the ground, Arachne stood tall with her fists clenched and her chin raised.

“I’m not afraid,” she shouted. “I only speak the truth.”

“Come and prove it,” the wind hissed. “Come out and face me, Arachne.”

Arachne stalked out of the house without hesitation. I ran after her in the vain hope that I could convince her to show some humility before the goddess. I had no doubt that it was Athena who summoned my sister.

I watched, helpless, as Arachne challenged Athena to a contest. Please lose, I thought desperately. Perhaps then Athena would show mercy. But I was afraid, because I knew Arachne would win.

I tried not to watch, but I couldn’t look away. Athena was magnificent: taller than any man and radiant, as if she stood under a sun that shone only for her. Athena spun her thread from storm clouds and mist and went to work, showing us how the gods punished foolish mortals.

Apollo and Artemis, their faces beautiful but stern, shot gold and silver arrows into the hearts of Niobe’s fourteen children. Cassiopeia wept as Poseidon’s sea monster came for her daughter Andromeda. Actaeon fled in the form of a stag, only to be devoured by his own hounds. Each picture, I knew, was a warning to my sister.

Arachne didn’t heed the warning, or perhaps she was provoked by it. As her tapestry took shape, I saw scene after scene of the gods tricking and abusing mortals. I watched as the poor women preyed upon by Zeus came to life under her hands. Europa, Io, Leda, Alcmene—their heartbreak and shame blazed from the cloth for all to see.

When Arachne finally stepped away from her loom, the crowd let out a collective sigh of wonder. This was Arachne’s best work, the most beautiful thing any of us had ever seen. It was simply  miraculous. Athena held Arachne’s tapestry in her hands, her head bowed. I held my breath. I’m going to lose her, I thought. Finally, Athena spoke.

“This for your insolence,” she said softly, and tore my sister’s tapestry to pieces. She flicked a few drops of liquid at Arachne. “And this for your insult.”

Arachne screamed, doubling over in pain. I ran to her and stood helplessly by her side. Tears of despair ran down my cheeks as her face turned black and monstrous limbs sprouted from her body. She screamed and screamed until, all at once, her voice disappeared. I reached down and gently took into my hands the spider who was once my sister. I turned and looked into Athena’s eyes, though I could barely see through my tears.

“You’re a monster,” I sobbed. “I hate you, I hate you.”

I spat at the goddess’s feet, my lifelong caution and piety swept away by grief. I braced myself and closed my eyes, preparing for death. Dimly I heard a voice pleading with Athena. It was the nymph with whom I had shared my candied figs. She begged Athena to spare me, to make allowance for my anguish. Athena brusquely ordered her to move aside. I bowed my head, waiting for Athena’s spear to pierce my heart.

The pain came softly, more like a chill than a spear. I moaned and cried and clutched my arms to my body, curling in on myself until I was resting in the nymph’s palm, just as my sister had rested in mine.

“Athena was merciful,” the nymph whispered, setting me on a flower. “Instead of taking your life for herself, she has given it to me. She has pledged you to my service.”

I buzzed my wings and went to work, bobbing clumsily from flower to flower in search of nectar. It brought me a strange sort of comfort to know that I would share my sister’s fate. But where Arachne’s name would be preserved in legend, mine would be lost. Such was the reward for my humility. I resolved to take a new name, after the nymph who saved me.

I named myself Mélissa.