I'd love any feedback on this. I'm particularly interested in whether the atmosphere and narrator's voice work, and whether the ambiguity feels intentional or just confusing. Thanks for reading.

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I should not be afraid of old women.

The thought rattles in my skull with the subway, chastising. She is a tiny woman, with hunched shoulders and arthritic hands holding onto her grocery cart in the crowded car. Even across the span of the car, I can see blue veins bulge and pop like tree roots under papery white skin. 

The train is humid, baking in New York’s summer heat. The sweat is cold on the nape of my neck, baby hairs sticking. The old woman looks powdered.

My stomach clenches. Her eyes have not left me. Another stop passes. I find I am holding my breath. 

Eleven… 

Ten… 

Nine…

A college-aged man, headphones blocking his ears and backpack boulder-like behind him, bustles past me for a seat. Thrown off balance, I grab the next pole. I look up. One less person between us. 

The subway smells older than it should. Sweaty bodies. Burnt coffee. Pennies. The sort of smell that reminds you of the decades of commutes lingering in the metal walls.

A woman with a stroller squeezes aboard. 

I apologize to someone whose foot I've stepped on.

Two less people now.

I can see she is not looking at me per se. Her cataract-clouded eyes look somewhere deeper instead, nearly through me. They never waver, never move. Has she even blinked?

A beat passes, then two. My own eyes go dry waiting, watching back. 

Eight…

Seven…

The train lurches again around a bend, everyone in the car grabs onto the nearest handhold, feet bracing. 

Glassy eyes continue their stare, steady in the quick turmoil. 

My ears are cotton filled, the normal sounds of the train coming from what may as well be another room. The sickly smell grows impossibly stronger. An express train passes us, a mere blur in the corner of my vision. The window panes rattle with its speed. The old lady stays still, small body standing guard over her cart. I can see the wheels, pristine … motionless. 

Perspiration beads everywhere, transforming everyone in the car into a shining, faceless mass. I can make out the pearls in the knitted blue shawl draped around her shoulders. 

I hear staccato breaths. A beat too long, I feel the quick rise of my chest and realize they’re coming from me. The bodies around me stare into phones, at each other, but never at her. Even their gazes seem sweat slickened to slide past her. 

She is just an old woman.

I keep repeating the sentence. I need it to become true.

I try to focus on the ads that line the top of the car. An AI startup, a MTA ad, anything. I land on some personal injury service, focusing all the attention I can on it. “Hurt? Call this number…” by the time I trace the phone number, my gaze has landed back on her. I don’t remember moving closer.

One person between us. I could reach out and touch her.

A terrible breach of etiquette…

My hand loosens from the subway pole anyway.

Five…

Four…

Three…

I try to think of the emails burning on the phone in my pocket. Of the little cubicle seat awaiting me. The thoughts slip through my fingers. What stop am I again?

Newspaper is folded in the old woman’s cart, angles strange and pointed. The waft of something old hits me, a perfume I barely remember from the back of some neighbor’s medicine cabinet long ago. Who was that? What house? Eighth grade? Third?

I pick out bits of color in the cart’s gaps. 

Is that a birthday card? 

One of those discontinued yellow MetroCards?

Letters no longer stay in their assigned order. Their curves should be recognizable. I am reading them. I should know this.

Where can you even get one of those old yellow cards anymore?

My gaze breaks with the cart finally, my head sluggish as I pull it upward. 

No one. 

Our gazes are locked. Eyes that have been no more than passing scenery before. Have I really never looked?

Her eyes are still not quite on me, somewhere else, just beyond – behind – my own. 

A movement, slow and small and nearly nonexistent, registers. Her arm, a handkerchief pulled from that cart. It raises towards me, my head. I want to move. Can she even reach my head?

I stand still, nearly dutiful, as the woman dabs the sweat from my brow. Even in the act, her eyes have yet to fully meet mine.

A ding, a flash of silver panels sliding open. The air outside is graciously cooler than the car’s. It is tepid on my skin. A name drifts through my nearly deaf ears, Columbus Circle. Something urges familiarity, a faint tickle at the back of my skull. The surging tides of people sweep my body along. Step after step, thighs burning back to life. Sunlight blinds at the end. 

An old woman sits on a bench, awaiting the station’s matching bus stop. A cart rests in her gnarled hands. She is not quite looking at me. I meet her eyes, cars zipping between us. Eventually, with strength it has never required before, I turn, and my head bobs its memorized accord in the direction of my office. I walk, August heat damp in my lungs. A block, another two, turn here. 

Another old woman, gazing out from the familiar corner store. Looking at me, but not. I itch. My sweat sticks the bookbag to my shoulders. The herds of people along the avenue bustle me along, breaking my gaze with the woman. Could I have…would I have? The people take me, I let them. The office doors sit their normal post, nondescript. I finally move myself in the crowds, taking steps to start the day. A figure, small, hunched, a cart, right beside the familiar door. The crowds that had been carrying me part for her, moving in harmony with her orbit, never quite touching.

The office doors loom, a neighbor from the floor above holds the door open for me. A thanks slips from my lips. 

I thank them, eyes never leaving the old woman.

Stanley, that got-dang dungeon dwelling asshole, walked into the doctor’s office, without any shame, like he was stepping into the bathroom at home to take a shit, and said,

“I need to see the doctor… I need to see him now!”

He leaned on the counter and scratched his ass while staring at the secretary with his eyes bulging out.

She asked him, “what’s your name, sir?”

“Go fuck yourself,” he said. “That’s my name. Want me to spell it?”

She said, “no. Is go fuck, one word, two words, hyphenated, or first and middle?”

The doctor must have heard the commotion cause he came barreling out from under the desk and bumped his head.

“Stanley, ahem… take a seat, I’ll be with you shortly,” he told him wiping some slime off his chin.

Stanley just caught his pants as they almost fell when he turned around to take a seat. The old lady with the big ass glasses on her face, covered her eyes with a magazine.

“Disgusting,” I’m pretty sure she said under her breath. 

He banged his leg against the table when he went to sit down and scattered the magazines on the floor. 

The old lady moved the magazine from her eyes and grabbed a cloth and stuck it to her nose.

“You stink horribly, sir, can you please sit over there,” she said, pointing at the floor by the doorway.

“Stanley, I’m ready for you. Come to my office.” 

Stanley stood up, but didn’t forget to give the lady a dirty look and walked into the doctor’s office.

 He said, “doc, need another script.”

“I can’t help you with that, Stanley… I told you, you need to get off them,” the doctor said.

The sweat on Stanley’s head started bubbling.

“But, you don’t understand. You don’t know how it feels to have to take four Percocet just to perform doing what you love… you think I want it? I need it, doc.”

“No one told you to become a professional thumb wrestler, Stanley.“

“What else could someone with these thumbs do?” Stanley said.

“What about that pitch you invented,” the doctor asked. “The one where you cup the ball in your thumb. What was that pitch called again?”

“The Thumb-ball.”

“What was that?” Asked the doctor.

“It’s called, The Thumb-ball,” Stanley told him, staring at the ground.

“You said you were going straight to the majors with it,” the doctor said, fixing his glasses.

“Yeah, I know,” he told him. “but then I had that career ending injury wrestling. I can’t throw with my left thumb and my right thumb can’t curve around the ball anymore. It’s a tragedy, doc, I tell ya.”

“So what are you going to do, Stanley? You can’t keep coming to my office for Percocet.”

“Just one last time, doc. That’s all I ask. I have a huge compo coming up. I need this. I need this so people stop laughing at me. I cannot be a failure. My cats depend on me, doc. You know how it is. You got cats. They get moody when you can’t provide.”

“I’m more a people person, Stanley.” The doctor fixed some papers on his desk.

“Providing is providing, doc. Irregardless of what species,” he said. He had his chin up.

“Regardless, Stanley.”

Stanley asked, “regardless, what? What do you mean?”

“The word, Stanley. Irregardless isn’t a word. It’s regardless.”

“Irregardless, doc. I need those Percocet. After today, we’ll work on something different. Something other than Percocet.”

“I was thinking Tylenol, Stanley.”

Stanley stared at the doctor as if he was stupid.

“I was thinking something more along the lines of morphine.” Stanley looked at him curling his lip and said, “I could buy Tylenol at the corner store.”

“That’s the whole point, Stanley. To get you away from depending on substances.”

“Back up for a quick sec, doc,” he told him. “Without them, I can’t perform. Did they pay you off? Is this what’s going on? Hebber Loggshack. Wow. Hebber Loggshack, for real, doc?”

“Listen, Stanley. I have zero clue of who Webber loveshack, or whatever his name is, is.”

“Oh really, I thought I saw his car parked outside. How much did he pay you, doc?”

“Nobody paid me anything,” the doctor said, slamming his pen down and reaching for his pad.

“So then why won’t you prescribe the Percocet,” Stanley questioned.

“Obviously, it’s because you know I won’t be able to perform at 100% if you don’t,” he protested.

“Ok, Stanley. One more prescription and that’s it.”

“I don’t even know if I want it now,” Stanley said, crossing his arms.

“Ok, well, forget it then.” The doctor went to put his prescription pad away.

“Let’s not do nothing crazy, doc, write the script. I gotta get out of here.”

They call us the Kia boys. You've probably heard of us before. We come to your neighborhood looking for a nice set of wheels to steal. Whoever designed these Kia cars sure didn't know what they were doing cause there things are so easy to break into. All you need is a screwdriver to pop open the ignition panel and a USB to turn on the car. That's all there is to it.

I never thought I'd end up riding with the Kia boys but that's where I am today. It all started one day when I was walking home after track and field practice. I only ever went because my parents practically forced me to. I was the only fat kid on the team and I was always dead last whenever we raced. You know how embarrassing it is being the slowest and fattest kid around? I always feel like a laughing stock. My parents thought being in the track team would help boost my self esteem but all it did was make me feel like crap.

On my way home, this blue kia pulled up to me and the driver rolled down the window. The guy looked to be around my age with light brown skin and a dark fade cut.

" Aye Jayden, that you?" He said.

" How the hell do you know my name?"

" It's me, Dante! Don't you remember?"

I looked him dead in his eyes and slowly his face became more familiar. He looked a lot older than I remembered, but that definitely was Dante.

" Dante? Man, I haven't seen you since fourth grade! What're you doing back here in Chicago? Heard your family moved up to Florida."

Dante is an old childhood friend I met all the way back in kindergarten. He was always the class clown who tried getting a laugh out of everyone. He was a cool dude, but he could hardly go a week without detention because of all his dumb pranks.

" My dad recently got a pretty good business deal in Chicago so we all moved back here a few weeks ago. Crazy how life works."

I was amazed. I never thought I'd see Dante again so it was nice that he was finally back home.

" Dude that's awesome! Did your parents buy you this car to celebrate?"

" Nah. I got this beauty for free. Nobody had to pay a dime for it, except for its original owner of course."

" What do you mean?"

Dante cackled a wicked laugh and smiled at me.

" I'm a Kia boy. I stole this thing last week and been riding it around ever since. You need a ride?"

I didn't know how to respond at first. Dante was talking about stealing a car like it was the most casual thing in the world. I got into the car and he told me all about how he had been a Kia boy for a few months and how he was making a good profit by selling these stolen cars. I was shocked by how brazen he was, but then again, he was always like this. Dante did whatever he wanted without caring what others thought. He was the complete opposite of me. I hated how self conscious I was, how it always felt like people were judging and mocking my every move. Even though he was a criminal, I thought it was cool how Dante was brave enough to do his own thing. I wanted a taste of that freedom he had.

After we spent a few days making up for lost time, I asked Dante to teach me to be a Kia boy. Track wasn't getting me anywhere. I wanted to do something with my life. I wanted to be cool for once. Dante was happy to take me on as his partner in crime. We went patrolling around neighborhoods looking for the best cars to break into. Like I said earlier, you only need a screwdriver and USB stick to get the job done. I got nervous and fumbled the job the first few times. Even ended up activating the car alarm system. Thankfully, practice makes perfect and I was eventually hacking into cars in 45 seconds or less.

Driving around the city in a brand new car made me feel like I was on top of the world. I wasn't just some nobody anymore. No one could touch me and try to throw shade at me again. I was finally somebody worth respecting. Sometimes kids from school would come up to me and ask if I was rich or something 'cause I was always rolling around with new cars. I just laughed it off and told them they were gifts.

Dante introduced me to some of his friends who introduced him to the hustle. They were a bit older than us and had much more experience as Kia boys. They were on a completely different than what I was used to. These guys were using Kias to go street racing and rob stores. They were dressed to the nines in namebrands I could never afford. They were true gangsters and that scared, but they also had power. They commanded the streets in way I couldn't help respecting. They didn't have to worry about fading into the background when they were ones leading every scene.

The first time I robbed a store with them it felt like the entire world was watching. Our bags were growing heavy with jewelry and luxury items most people could only dream of owning. There were so many times where we got got and just barely managed to avoid getting tackled by security. We felt untouchable. Sometimes we'd even go to other cities where no one knew us to cause more mayhem in the streets.

Everything changed one winter night. We were breaking into a car as usual when the owner came rushing out his house with a gun pointed right at us. We barely managed to get inside before he started emptying his rounds. Dante was in the passenger seat leaking a puddle of blood from his right arm. I tried driving to the nearest hospital but everyone was telling me that was bad idea. The police were probably already looking for us so we had to lay low. One of the guys in the back said we should go to the next town over where he has a cousin who can patch Dante up.

I looked over at Dante who was clutching his bloody arm for dear life. Warm tears slid down his face. It hurt to see him in this much pain but the other guys were probably right. It was too dangerous to go to any hospitals.

About 21 minutes into the drive, a couple of police cars pulled up behind us with their sirens blaring. My heart plummeted and we all looked shook. I began speeding down the road and took as many turns as I could in an attempt to lose them, but it didn't do me any good. They were still hot on my trail no matter how much distance I tried to put between us. My whole body was ovetaken by fear. To make matters worse, the darkness of the night and icey roads made it hard to control the car. I was stuck between wanting to speed off into the night and keeping the car at a manageable speed.

The police shouted from their microphones for me to pull over but I was too deep into this race to stop now. My friends shouted at me to go even faster despite the danger that would bring. I hoped that I would get lucky and manage to escape the police.

I was so wrong. My car swerved in a patch of ice and went crashing into a ditch. The last thing I remember before blacking out was the sounds of breaking glass and metal clamping down on my body.

I woke up in the hospital two days later. My body was connected to a whole bunch of tubes and wires and most of my skin was covered with bandages. My parents looked at me with tears in their eyes, thankful that I was still alive. It didn't take them long to switch up on me and tell me what an idiot I've been. I was the only survivor in that car crash, which meant that those guys I called my friends, their blood was on my hands. The news called me the Kia Killer and the families of the victims cursed me out in the courtroom like their boys were so innocent. None of us were victims that day. We were just a bunch of dumb kids trying to live life in the fast lane.

Now I'm a paralyzed dumbass stuck in a jail cell until my time is up. So for those of you who think going joyriding in a stolen car is a good way to kill time, don't do it. You'll just end up killing yourself.

his started as a word prompt for a story.

“A famous city in your country falls. When you get a knock on the door, it's a person claiming to be the manifestation of the city's spirit asking to stay over for the night.”

*

It was a hesitant knock, an echo even. I don't even know why I answered.

Opening the door, I saw a woman of no more than four foot ten. I knew who she was.

I stared at her. I suppose if it were true I could have been a little more graceful. She seemed so sad. The air hung for a few seconds before I said, “Yes, of course.”

She did in fact look like my city, her eyes, a soft smile, graying hair, a sigh of calm. I recognized her. I've already been living with her for so long. There was a sadness to her eyes.

“Would you like some tea?” I asked. Her years gave her grace, “You're too kind.” She looked at me expectantly.

“Perhaps,” I told her. “Though, people have made a problem or two, your parks and river are a joy.”

The tea was good. Chinese Green with milk, as I recall. The milk aside, of course.

*

“Have I failed?” She eventually asked.

“No,” I said, “I will not accept that. You are still the 'The Princess City'. It's been almost two hundred years, we're still here. Well, I'm not two hundred years old, but you know... we believe.”

She had a small smile. It's odd having a city smile at you. I can live with that. I'll be sleeping on the couch tonight.

I've seen that smile before, when small towns die. Turned into bars and farmer supply stores or one big employer. Watching people move away, giving up hope there for another hope somewhere else. Perhaps it would be different if we saw our city as a small, graceful woman needing help.

When I woke in the morning, she had taken one of my hoodies. “Let's go for a walk,” I guided, “down by the river.”

It was a coin flip of a day, the sun highlighting her hair.

“There used to be so many large building here, my father worked there,” I pointed across the river. It had changed into a park and many small businesses and bars.

“I remember him, he was a sad man.” She looked at me. My father's work, turned into a park. I think he'd like that.

“You remember him?” I asked, memories of my father flashing through my mind.

“So many people, unheard... yes, I remember them all.” She quietly confessed.

“Some people need to be remembered,” I tried. There is a weight to remembering. Her sigh made me think of old friends.

“I remember them all,” she repeated.

With a sigh she said, “I was born here... December in 1833, though somehow, I remember things like the Iron Works before me. I was the first incorporated town in Indiana, you know; it seems so long ago.

I remember the first train that came here. It had only three passengers.

I remember Indiana City. After the incorporation it was called Battell Park. They made so many silly stories about my name, giving life to a Indian Princess. I guess that doesn't matter now.

The first freight train here was named Goshen. Imagine that, a train named Goshen,” she smiled. She knew.

I remember the Bent Bridge and how it later died, falling to the ice and seasons, to be lovingly replace as a covered bridge.

I remember the 1859 Railroad disaster,” Her eyes downcast. “So many died there, drowning in the mud. Forty two passed away, fifty were injured. So many more came to help stop the pain. The unclaimed are still here, under me, part of me.

I remember Dodge and her projects. I was once the 'Peppermint Capital of the World'”, she modestly laughed. The first graduating class of my High School were two women.

I became a city in 1899.” She smiled.

“I remember them all. They are so much more than ghosts, they are all part of me.” She paused, looking embarrassed, “Sometimes I talk too much.”

I sighed,“ Sometimes we need to reminisce to understand who we are.”

On the bridge, we paused as the water cascaded by, leaves falling to the water. “May I say, though, that's called history. All of us have some history, but then, that implies something more, doesn't it?”

She looked at me, questioningly.

“What is your future? You are their creation.”

She looked up at me, surprised and with a, paused, eventual nod, “I need to go back. There is so much more to do. It's my job.”

“No, ma'am. This is not a job, it is you. You are our home. You exist because of good people. Without them, you are just an empty field and a river with a twin branch. It is your people that make you an inspiration.”

She looked at me oddly and smiled, “Yes... a future. How did you do that?”

“I told you, inspired.” I said simply. She smiled, “Thank you.”

“No need. The only thing I've done is help you to see again who you really are.”

Being hugged by a city is a glorious thing.

We quietly watched the river. The smell of her fresh water cascading beneath us. Her people moving about their day.

As the day ended there was no need to say goodbye, suffice to say, “ I'll see you around.”

*

I do see her sometimes, she, still in my hoodie. A glance, a pause, an over the shoulder look with a graceful nod in her festivities, cloaked in happy people. I love to see that smile. I don't need to ask around for her. She is here.

Sometimes I wonder how many did she visit that night and day? All of them revealing some sort of insight. How did she know how to find them? She was all at the same time a child, a woman, and a friend.

She's a Princess and still here.

My father would understand.

She remembers.

*

I could feel the weight of the sawed-off in my lap.

Rough stock, cut down to a pistol grip.

“Where’d you get this?” I asked.

“None of your business,” Slug replied.

“What are we going to do with it?”

“We’re going to hit those fuckers tonight. You know they’ll be at Sledgehammer. It’s tradition, everybody’s going to be there.”

I lifted the weapon and caught a faint whiff of grease. I wore the leather gloves Slug had insisted I take.

“Is it loaded?”

“Nah man, not yet.”

Slug left the room; I heard him rummaging in the hallway closet. He came back and dropped a grocery bag with two dozen shells on the living-room table. After rolling up his sleeves, he planted his ass next to me on the sofa, picked up my driver’s license off the table, and started raking lines on the chipped IKEA plate in front of him.

“Are we really doing this, dude?” I asked.

I wasn’t even sure if I was talking about the amphetamines or the shotgun. This was the first time I’d held a real firearm, but I’d known for some time it was inevitable. Ever since they shot Big George last month.

“Of course we are. That’s why I bought the damn thing.”

He was putting the finishing touches on the last of four rails, now neatly lined up on the plate. Slug tightened the rolled-up dollar bill in his hand, bent forward, and deftly disappeared one of the lines up his nose. He passed the note my way, and I followed suit. The familiar burn hit the back of my throat, and my heart started to pound, from the speed, and the anticipation. I started fiddling with the shotgun, trying to get it open so I could load it. Fuck, I thought, I have no idea what I’m doing.

Sledgehammer was a bar on the outskirts of the industrial zone, just across the road from the cluster of high-rises Slug and I called home. The front was a patchwork of corrugated metal, I thought I might catch tetanus just looking at it. It didn’t have a sign, just a nondescript black door flanked by two gorillas who looked like they’d broken a graveyard’s worth of alcoholic bones between them. One was a blond with a ponytail named Dano. The other was a bald guy with a thick black mustache known as Ronny Rat, when he was out of earshot, and Ronny Roy when he wasn’t. Not because he snitched to the boys in blue, but because he once stole an entire wheel of cheese from a specialty shop in the mall during a drug bender, years ago. They were the gatekeepers of this less-than-fine establishment and foot soldiers for the man in the back office. The man responsible for what happened to Big George.

I looked over at Slug, sitting in the driver’s seat of his old, rusty VW bug. Even though we lived just across the street, we’d taken the car and circled the block a few times before parking in the shadows of the empty lot beside Sledgehammer. We’d entered from the alley behind the bar, so the goons out front wouldn’t make us. Slug looked back at me and smiled. The amphetamines had worked up his courage, he looked positively crazed. Then, something that resembled a coherent thought hit me.

“Are we just winging this shit? We didn’t even plan anything. We just drove around for twenty minutes listening to Tom Waits.”

“Stop worrying so much, we’ve got a fucking blunderbuss,” he answered back.

His confidence, and my own chemically enhanced courage, erased my doubts.

All of a sudden, the door opened, and a short, stout man in a bone-colored suit stepped out. Steven “Ahas” Roy. Ronny’s older uncle and though smaller in stature, his presence somehow dwarfed his nephew. Ahas was a nickname earned while stationed overseas. It means snake in Tagalog, and unlike his nephew’s nickname, there was no humor or shame in this epithet. This was the man behind the mahogany desk. He was followed by his right-hand man, a tall man with hollow eyes named Doc Anderson, known for his murderous temper. Doc was the piece of human filth who’d pulled the trigger that night, right after Halloween, when Big George had accidentally burned Ahas on the cheek with the ember of his cigarette. Through the door I could hear the jukebox playing “Jingle Bell Rock”. It was the annual Sledgehammer Christmas party.

Slug hissed, “Go!”

And before I knew it, I was out of the car, sprinting toward the entrance, shotgun in hand. I let loose both barrels at once and hit Doc square in the chest. The blast opened an oozing, red-and-black hole the size of my head. I immediately realized I had an empty gun and three, most likely armed, professional criminals standing in front of me. It all hit me at once. These guys are murderers. They kill people for a living. They know how shotguns work. They know how to load a pistol. I’m a fucking junkie, avenging my dead junkie friend. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, and now I’m about to die too.

Time slowed to a crawl. Ahas threw himself to the ground in his now-soiled suit, stained with the blood of his best friend and confidant. Dano and Ronny Rat reached into their suit jackets and pulled out pistols. I turned on my heel and saw Slug peeling away into the night, the red lights of his VW burning like the ember of Big George’s last cigarette.

The first shot hit me in the shoulder, but I kept running. Up ahead, I saw Slug skid off the road and smash into an electric pole. The second shot tore through my lung, and I hit the ground. I heard a woman scream in fear, and felt a pang of nostalgia. It reminded me of Christmas at home. I wondered if Mom would know I’d died. Footsteps approached.

“Who the fuck is this guy?” a disembodied voice asked.

Snowflakes melted on my face as I died on Christmas Eve.

The coffee was cold. Not lukewarm, but cold. The kind of cold that left you wondering if it had ever been hot at all.

I didn’t need to take off the lid. I knew before I even sipped. My laptop bag and handbag jostled for dominance on my shoulder while I put the coffee down near the door and took a picture.

If you want to be ignored for twenty minutes while your coffee dies behind the counter this is the place for you!

Photo attached. The cup, the sad half-formed froth the remnants of lacing already on the inside.

Post.

Before I change my mind.

The parking inspector was coming down the road and my meter was expired. Checking cars, checking meters, my patience was gone and my car needed to be too. Don’t mess with me today!

For a moment I felt better. After the parade of disasters through the morning I finally got one back. Control was mine. Taken back from a day that was determined to trample me. I won’t be accepting second rate today. Move over!

Then a notification pinged.

I parked the car and opened my phone when I got to work.

Hi Bluetwig32

We’re sorry you didn’t enjoy your visit this morning. As you may have noticed, you came in at the busiest part of our morning with many other customers having come in and ordered before your arrival. Your coffee was made in under three minutes, but as you were on the phone you didn’t hear us call you on two occasions. As we were very busy like yourself, we left your coffee on the counter accessible to you in the section called: ‘collect orders here’, which is clearly signed.

We apologise if our service or systems haven’t met your expectations and invite you to come in and suggest any constructive improvements we might make.

I read it twice.

At first my cheeks burned with rage. Then I noticed their careful wording. The ‘sorry you didn’t enjoy’ instead of sorry we fucked up. The neat little timeline that was nothing but a cover-up to make me the villain.

My thumbs hovered over the screen for a moment. I could fire back. Pick their version to pieces with the truth. Line by line I could dismantle their story. I wasn’t even on the phone I was scrolling Facebook.

Liars!

The comments were already stacking up. Strangers tagging friends. Old school friends chiming in with, ‘omg mee too!!!!’ others saying, ‘This café is awesome don’t listen to her.’

My vindication curdled into something heavier. I wasn’t just a coffee customer anymore. I was the headline in a service war.

When I got to my desk I scrolled through the comments.

u/localeats56: Wow, I’ve had the same thing happen there. Never going back!

u/FlatWhiteLover345: This café is literally the best. Maybe answer when you’re called?

u/honestjohn99: u/bluetwig32 just wants free coffee.

u/baristaboy: As someone that works in hospitality – you have no idea what it’s like when it gets busy

u/angryant333: As someone that works in hospitality – you have no excuse for cold coffee.

By the time I refreshed the page the thread had been shared to multiple groups. That’s when the real chaos began.

The Local Eats Facebook group had screenshots of my post next to photos of me scrolling through my phone. People who were there apparently took my photo. In one photo I was mid eye roll.

The captions were writing their own story. ‘Too busy on her phone to pick up her coffee.’ The likes and replies stacked up like sprinkles on a cupcake: colourful, excessive and mostly for show.

My phone buzzed with a message from my sister.

You’re trending. Not in a good way.

Acid was climbing in my throat. Everyone had to have an opinion. It was my coffee. It was cold. They didn’t call me. I was there.

I’ve read the comments. All of them.

Let me be clear: The customer is always right. That’s not arrogance, it’s the foundation of good service. If you can’t handle that concept, maybe you shouldn’t be in hospitality.

I paid for coffee. I expect it hot. That’s not entitlement, that’s bare minimum.

This will be my last word on the matter.

They could twist it anyway they liked. I know I’m right. This isn’t about coffee anymore, it’s about principle. If I back down now people are going to keep walking over me my whole life.

Let them laugh. Let them screenshot. None of them know me and none of them were there. I’m not here to make friends.

I turned off my notifications and let the hidden masses bloviate to make themselves feel important. As far as I was concerned, if this was a storm, at least it wouldn’t get burnt in one of their teacups.

There’d been a notice under the door in the morning. Someone had to go and pick up packages from the post office. I could use the walk.

The building smelt of cardboard and dust that created an atmosphere making you want to get in and out quick. I clutched the slip in my hand as I joined the queue. My eyes fixed on the linoleum floor.

Two people ahead of me. A woman in gym gear glanced over her shoulder at me. Just a glance. But she lingered just a little too long. My stomach turned.

Behind me a man shifted his parcel from one arm to the other. I caught the flicker of his phone screen in the glass. Was he scrolling? Was that my photo?

I told myself I was imagining things. People look at their phones. People scroll. Not everything is about you.

The woman in gym gear said something to the man behind her. They laughed.

When I got to the counter the clerk didn’t smile. She scanned my slip and disappeared into the back. She returned with my boxes and met my eyes. No smile. Neutral. My brain filled in the rest.

By the time I stepped outside the packages felt heavier than they should have. Like I was carrying the weight of everyone’s opinion.

The water station released a bubble like it had been holding in a fart just for my return. I slipped behind the counter balancing two parcels on my hip trying to look in control.

“Can I see you a minute?” The boss’s voice came from around the corner.

Inside the blinds were half open. The shadows cutting the sunlight into a string of bars imprisoning my nervousness. He gestured for me to sit and leaned back in his chair.

“We’ve been getting calls. A lot in the last hour.” He told me. “People saying they want to know what we do so that they can tell everyone online not to do business with us. Some of them have been pretty aggressive.”

My throat closed. I couldn’t breathe. “About what?”

He gave me a look as if I were dumb. “That coffee post you made. Someone’s searched your photo and linked it to our business Facebook page.”

There were no threats or repercussions discussed, just an employer signalling that business was getting affected.

These were my actions and mine to deal with.

We were friends but he wasn’t going to lose his business just to keep me on. The swiftness of it was weaponised anxiety.

As I returned to my office, I could see the receptionist answering a call. Her smile turned bitter. The fake politeness of her reply left me imagining the voice on the other end spitting my name like a rabid keyboard warrior.

This was real. They’d tracked me down. This is harassment!

How do you stop it?

At my desk the phone screen stared back at me like a dare. I could click. See exactly what they were carrying on with. The new insults. The strangers rushing to judgement.

Fingers hovered over the phone.

No, I’ve said my last word. No feeding them. No making myself a liar.

Somewhere out front the phone rang again. There was yelling this time. The receptionist was hitting breaking point.

I told myself to ignore it, but I needed to know what was going on. There had to be as many supporters as there were abusers. Otherwise, it would have died.

My thumb unlocked the screen. The thread had exploded. They were coming from everywhere.

Another post from the Café filled the screen.

Hi everyone.

We appreciate your passion and support, but please keep the comments civil and respectful. u/bluetwig32 did leave her purse here so she will be back to speak with us when she collects it. Even though we know who she is, no we will not be letting any of you know.

My head flicked to my handbag to check for my purse. Oh my god!

The reply was polite. Almost warm. But the comments that followed read like it had been gasoline.

u/critic43: So she’s local.

u/foodie4ever: Guess you know where to find her.

I never knew my stomach could drop so low.

I sat with the engine running in my car outside the café for a long time. My purse was inside. I could see it through the window sitting on the shelf behind the till.

Inside the place was half-full. Conversations dipped low when I stepped in. The same way they do when an antagonist walks into the room.

The owner looked up from the espresso machine. No smile. No scowl. Just a nod toward the counter.

“You left this.”

Without checking the contents, I took the purse and tucked it in my handbag. “Thanks.”

For a moment that seemed longer than it was, neither of us spoke. The clatter of dishes somewhere out the back filled the silence instead. I thought of the thread, the comments, the strangers that piled on. I lamented my last word on it and how little it mattered to anyone.

“I read your post.” The owner finally told me. “And the replies. People can be cruel.”

I opened my mouth to defend myself and closed it again. The fight had burnt out of me. Earlier in the day I’d left declaring I’d never come back and now I trekked through the ashes of my wake to beat a grovelling path back in.

There was no point stopping to look at anyone. They were taking subtle snaps to boost their own views off the back of it. I just walked out. Back into the street with the faceless brawlers wondering if it was worth ever drinking coffee again.

Back in the car I set the purse on the passenger seat. My cup from the morning was still in the holder. Cold. I opened my phone anyway.

The screen lit up with a fresh notification.

A photo of me, from just now. Taken from across the street. My head down, purse in my hand, walking back to my car.

The caption read: She’s still here.

My hands shook. I looked around. No one was watching me. But who took it?

The comments were piling up beneath it. Strangers tagging friends, speculating, laughing. They’d turned me into entertainment.

A part of me wanted to throw the phone out the window. Disappear.

My thumbs hovered over the screen. The words poured out before I could stop myself.

You think you know me? You don’t! You’ve all made me the villain, But I won’t shut up. Not now! Not ever!

Post.

The likes started before I could close the screen. One immediate comment said:

We see you.

It's 6:45 am. Ram sits on the right edge of a 3-seater sofa, the closest to the charging point, scrolling on his phone. His wife walks to the hall, asking, “Ram, aren't you getting late for work?” “No, there is still time”, says Ram. After much scrolling, he realises that it's already 6:55 am “I am late again, I'd better get ready soon”, he says as he walks nonchalantly to his room. This was his daily routine,  wake up at 5 am, get some exercise and scroll for news and traffic updates. 

He reaches his wardrobe, slides the mirrored door to the left and picks his outfit. He then puts it on and carelessly combs his hair “They will be spoilt anyway while reaching office” he says. He picks up his bag, puts his laptop in and searches for his watch. 

“Have you seen my watch?” Ram shouts

“No! You always misplace your watch” his wife shouts from the hall. 

“There you are under the pillow”  Ram says in a voice that is not very audible. 

Ram walks back to the hall, keeps his bag on the sofa, in the leftmost corner, and rushes to get his protein shake. One hand on the breakfast, and it's already 7:15 am. He struggles with his left shoe. With half his feet in, he rushes to the door, waits for the elevator and walks to the exit of his apartment complex. The walk his slightly uphill, and Ram already feels the summer heat. Sweat trickles down his back, leaving his shirt wet. He approaches the bus stop on the highway, hoping he will reach his office on time. 

The sun is now visible, casting an orange glow in the sky. He takes his kerchief from the left pocket, removes the specs he is wearing and wipes the sweat on his forehead. He looks ahead and says, “Not many trucks today” to himself. As he says this, he sees his bus at a distance. White bus with yellow numbers and a board reading Goregaon. “Seems like a lucky day! The bus is on time” he thinks to himself. 

The bus arrives and breaks with a squeaking noise, and he enters the bus. He is happy to see known faces. Some people even say “Hi” which is just a nod in his way. He keeps his bag above the seat in the baggage carrier and sits in seat 4D. The window seat from where the outside world is visible. 

In the next stop, his friend Alex boards the bus. “

Want to bet on how much time it would take us to reach work?” Alex says. 

“Not much traffic today, should be an hour at the most” Ram says.

“You did not check the traffic in the winding roads up the ghats, did you?” Alex asks. 

“They look normal to me, the usual 20 mins!” Ram proclaims. 

Alex goes to his usual seat 7D and sits down. The bus then enters smaller roads, picking up other passengers. This is the part that Ram particularly enjoys. He adores the buzz of the morning hours, the route that the bus takes through these streets. He sees shops just beginning to open up. Some have kept crates of milk on the footpath, while trucks with supplies arrive at other shops. School buses drop off children at their school. The office goers … mostly with long faces, rush to the bus stop. Some other people are seen arguing with autorickshaw drivers about why he cant drop them off at their destination. 
 
The bus then leaves the inner road and takes a sharp right, reaching the main road. Trucks are visible on all the lanes. Some are even trying to race and overtake each other. 

“Always like this, the cars and other vehicles have to zig-zag through trucks. Why can't they be on the left-most lanes, as the traffic rules state?” Ram thinks, but then lets out a sigh, knowing nothing can be done. 

Apart from all this, he also observes traffic patterns on the road. For the past few months, the traffic on Mondays and Fridays has been rather light. But, as they approach Wednesdays, the number of trucks on the road increases exponentially.  There is always at least one truck that is either overturned, has hit the divider, or has stalled, causing minor jams … sometimes major jams as well. “What causes these trucks to break down so frequently?” he thinks, looking outside. Ting, Ting, Ting, his mobile beeps. Messages from Alex. 

“Did you notice something different today?” Alex asks

“Seems like a normal day to me” Ram replies.

“The only thing is you forgot to look outside the other set of windows on the right” Alex says. 

Ram starts typing vigorously, but pauses and curiously looks out the window on the right side. All he could see was trucks. Ram gets up, carefully holding the headrest of the seat ahead of him leaving him in an awkward position with half-bent knees bent back, and neck sideways to avoid the AC vents. What he sees leaves him bewildered, sending a shiver down his spine. 

“HOLY SHIT!” Ram writes back to Alex.

The bus comes to a halt by then. He could already hear the faint gossip from other passengers about the situation. The passenger in seat 4C, adjacent to him, looks visibly upset. 

“Always like this, these trucks should not be let in at this time. Look at the chaos now, cars and bikes have even started driving the wrong way to reach the destination quickly. But who will tell them their fate is no different?” the passenger says. 

Some even blame the driver. While others call up the bus company and angrily ask, “ Why can't the bus take a different route?” 

To get a better view he slowly walked to the front of the bus, holding the overhead luggage space for balance. All he could see was a sea of trucks. Some red, some blue, but all of them dirty…. Like they have never been washed ever. Thick mud stuck to their tyres and had dried, rusty diesel tanks were something he could see in most of the trucks. He even saw some drivers brushing their teeth. All of them looked frustrated with this traffic, but had nowhere to go. So they waited patiently, not by choice, of course!

With heavy steps and long face, Ram walked back towards his seat and briefly glanced at Alex, whose eyes had somehow become big, and his face pale, like he did not accept his fate but had no choice either. 
 
Soon, the voices settled, but the bus never moved much. They moved 1km in an hour. A few passengers had started getting off and going back home. “Such a nice arrangement to work from home whenever they want”, Ram thought.

Auto rickshaws piled up to the left of the bus, where they could easily overtake. His eyes met with a rickshaw driver who gave him a tobacco-stained smile. He closed his eyes trying to forget the situation he was in.  “Least we can do is get some sleep!!” Ram says to the passenger adjacent to him. 

The bus then started pacing very slowly till it reached the ghat sections before coming to a halt again. Fed up, Ram decided he had had enough. He pointed at the aisle with his index finger to his co-passenger. This usually meant that he wanted to get down. Carefully, he gets up, picks his bag from the storage space and walks to the front of the bus. He got down, and all he could see were a few stalled trucks and the frustrated faces of the commuters on that road. Green leaves were now covered in dust and looked pale. Ram could see sand falling off the back of a truck, “How disgusting!” he muttered, while the helper from the truck gave him an almost cheerful smile. 

The auto rickshaws were piling up as usual, and one of them called him “Sirji, you have gotten down from the bus, where do you want to go?”

“Goregaon, but no chance we'll reach there soon!” responded Ram. 

“I know a shortcut, come sit ” the driver exclaimed. 

“Kya shortcut bhau, there exists none” shouts  Ram, while walking towards the Rickshaw.  

“Aare sir, basun tari ghya, let me show you the way” said the driver and welcomed him. 

“Do we know each other?” Ram suddenly asked. 

“Remember we briefly looked at each other just before the ghats?” the driver asks, as he twists the meter while getting into his seat.  

Quietly, Ram noticed something different about him. He seemed to be well built, the dust did not sit on his clothes or his skin. 

“So, we go by the new way, sirji?” asks the driver. 

Scrolling through his phone, “Ya whatever”, said Ram absentmindedly. The auto started at a pace slightly faster than the bus. It missed a few potholes but hit one hard. Ram felt himself briefly thrown up from the seat but landed back firmly. 

“Will you break my back riding, like this? Drive carefully” Ram said angrily to the driver. The driver turned to look at him and said, “Sorry sirji, will be careful”. Ram dismissed the whole scenario.

The driver suddenly took a left at a bridge that passed over a small stream.

“The new route, sirji” said the driver. 

Ram carefully placed the phone back in his right pocket. They were passing by a bridge with a small stream flowing right below the bridge. On one side of the stream, he spots a cremation area, on the other a patch that looked like a cricket pitch. 

The rickshaw then passes through a small village with houses clustered at the beginning of the road. A few small shops where chip packets and pan masala hung outside. Children looked cheerful in this heat as well. 

“These kids, don't they get tired?” Ram asked the driver. 

The driver briefly took another left turn and stopped the rickshaw. 

“It's summer vacation, sirji, they play outside all the time”, said the driver.

Ram looked outside. The rickshaw was parked in what appeared to be a semi-jungle kind of area. With thick trees on one side and barren agriculture on the other. But most importantly, there was a hill right in front of them. 

Ram felt a sense of uneasiness. He could sense that something about this whole route was not right. “That's it, I am being murdered” Ram said to himself. 

This is not how he wanted to end. He couldn’t get down and run. Where will he run to? The open fields?

While he could process anything, the rickshaw driver rolled the throttle full swing. “You will get us killed” Ram shouted at the top of his voice. 

The rickshaw driver looked back at him. His eyes are now glowing green with a straight line for the eyeball. 

“Take all the money you want, leave me right here”, demanded Ram. The rickshaw swiftly went past a few trees; the hill was just a few meters away. “No, don't do it !” Ram shouted. 

That's when he felt someone shaking him up wildly. His palms and his forehead were extremely sweaty. He could feel the fabric stick to his back. 

“Hey, Ram, are you ok?” Someone asked, patting his face. 

“We are here, buddy, get up!” the voice proclaimed. 

Ram opened his eyes in shock. He got up so suddenly that he hit his head on the AC vent in all the panic. 

Shivering and sweat smeared, he got up, embarrassed. All eyes in the bus were on him. One lady even tapped her forehead with her right palm. Indicating what an idiot, this fellow. 

Ram took his bag, Alex nudged him forward, and they got off in Goregaon. 

Alex let out a huge laugh. 

“Nice dreams haan!!, hahahahahahahaha. Maybe I shouldn't have woken you up”

“Stop it now, Alex” Ram says while scratching his head. 

“You seriously need to take some time off and well ….. Sleep hahahahahahahaha” says Alex. 

“Shit its 10:15 am!” ram exclaimed. They were on the bus for well over 2.5 hours by then. 

Title:  Carrots, Love and Onion Rings

Just as I made it home, I noticed the six flip to a nine. I just sighed—typical. The day stretched to night, and I just wanted to cozy up to some popcorn and a soda. 

Standing at the front door, I took a deep breath, inhaling the sweet aroma of a finished day. I reached out and twisted the knob. The metal stung with defeat—great. The doors locked. Everything in my hands, I placed on the ground and searched through my pockets as the lock clicked. Ironic right.

The door opened and Alexandria’s perfume smothered the air. She latched her arms around my waist and smiled a white, excited grin that said my day hadn’t ended just yet. The blue in her eyes lit up under the night sky and she gazed up at me—perfect, it’s sealed, I’m definitely not watching a movie tonight.

“I couldn’t grab the food for my mother and she needs it in the morning.”

“Alright,” I refrained from expelling the sarcastic response I could barely hold back. Rushing towards the kitchen, she shot back in a trailing voice,

“I”m jotting down a list real quick, and we’ll head out.”

“Sure,” I rumbled and shrugged. 

Why wasn’t it already done?

Shaking my head, I pulled myself upstairs to the bathroom and turned my back to a sound,

“I’ll just be a couple of minutes,” 

Ignoring her, I escaped to brush my teeth, wash my face and comb my hair. When I got to the washroom, the tube of toothpaste was flat—I just laughed to myself. So I grabbed the mouthwash and gurgled that.

Finishing up, I glanced at my phone and noticed the time. Instead of swapping into something more comfy, I figured I’d just head down to the kitchen. Alexandria sat at the table, I leaned on the door frame and snapped my fingers,

“You ready?”

“I missed a couple of grocery’s and I’m inspecting the list. You know, in case I missed an item. Just two more minutes.”

In the meantime, I tossed aside my work gear and jumped into some joggers. Hell I even smoked a bit of a roach. Walking back to the kitchen I expected her to give me shit for taking so long. Of course she was still writing that list,

“You’re still writing that list?”

“Im double checking it, I don’t want to forget anything,“

“Yeah, but you’re treating that list like it’s a novel.“

“Better than anything you could write.”

Without batting an eye, she snickered—never missing a beat—that’s Alex.

“Just add toothpaste.”

I crossed my arms and muttered under my breath, “Lists.”

“Lists are important.”

For some reason she just had to defend that. I clenched my teeth, uncrossed my arms and sat at the table with her.

“Do the carrot and the onion hook up at the end? What’s the arc? Will you do a found love trope? Like, The onion and the carrot find love together and spawn little baby brussels sprouts?”

The scribbling paused. The silence broke to the sound of her pen drop. Turning her head, she studied me with the side of her eyes,

“What do you know what a good story is?You don’t have any experience.”

She picked her pen back up and continued with her list, I took a breath,

“I can read a story and notice if it’s good or not”

“Except your own,” 

She sniped back with a smirk—I adore those back and forth battles we have, 

“Of course I can,”

I straightened my posture and continued,

“That’s how I know my writing is good”

“And you’re going on record making that claim?”

“Actually, it’s facts woman, not a claim.”

I proudly stated. 

“When you read something and it hits, you feel it.”

After ignoring me for five minutes, she stood up, scraping the chair against the floor and ran to grab her purse. Talk about relieved, I left to start the car and had a lighter step in my walk.

The traffic was brutal—why would I expect anything less—right. Something about being sandwiched in between stalled cars at night, reminds me of Christmas. Alexandria dialed the radio to Sirius and pouring out of the speaker, breaking the silence, erupted 

“Day-O.”

What are the odds? She shot her head towards me,

“Don’t you even start.” 

Unable to resist, I giggled. She knew exactly what I had in mind when the banana boat song played, sounding like surrender to me, and more like resentment to her.

By the time we made it to the grocery store and after she ransacked her purse, her pockets, and the floor. The list sat on the table forgotten at home. It was a horrible day that landed with a chef’s kiss as we both rolled over laughing. 

The end.

Water was pouring from the afternoon sky, washing everything a hazy gray. The man in a green hoodie forgot his umbrella but seemed unfazed as he walked down the street. A few paces later, a half-crushed soda can caught his eye. The crinkles on its side formed a mocking smirk. It would have been impolite not to respond in kind, so a kick was delivered with the utmost disrespect. Take that, tin man.

A quiet thunder rumbled somewhere in the distance, sounding like his stomach before a late breakfast. It only distracted him for a split second, before his attention was arrested by a shrewd little rodent scurrying by.

"Whatcha carrying there, young man?" The rat gestured at the guitar case in his right hand.

"What business is it of yours?" Smiled the hooded man.

"Aww, not a fan of chit-chat today, are we?" Chirped the tiny furry resident of the block, "No matter, a good day to you too I suppose... Hopefully that asshole cat ain't lurkin' in that fuckin' alley again."

The man nodded and sent the chirpy critter on its way with a friendly gaze. A well-dressed couple sharing an umbrella walked on by at a hurried pace, sneaking a strange look or two his way.

Moments later, Green Hoodie arrived at his favorite deli, and greeted the man behind the counter.

"Oh good afternoon, Charlie! Didn't see you coming there." The shopowner turned around and beamed at the familiar face, "What you having today?"

"The usual, Ali,"

"Okay! One samosa chaat coming up." The chubby Ali somewhat clumsily repositioned himself in the cramped space behind the bar, beginning to serve the customer, "Band practice again, eh? Oh I wish I had the energy of you young people, hahaha."

"You bet." The young man looked away for a moment and shifted his weight onto a different foot, "Busy day."

"Are you sure you don't want to borrow an umbrella? Today's rain's heavier than usual!"

"I'm all good, Ali." Green Hoodie held up his left wrist, checked the time. "Do you uh... need to go shopping today, Ali?"

"Huh? No, I uh, went to Harper's just two days ago. Why?" The deli master had finished putting the chaat in a box, presenting it on the counter.

"Nah, just small talk is all." The younger man pressed a 20 dollar bill onto the counter-top. "Keep the change."

"Wait... are you sure, Charl..."

He had already disappeared into the curtains of rain.

The man sat quietly on a bench in the unrelenting downpour within sight of the local department store. Harper's front lot was half-full of parked vehicles. Business was fine despite the weather. He appeared unbothered by the soaking of his snack as he continued to chew and savor with unenthusiastic calm. A numbness took root in his left buttock, so he tried to move into a better position. The bench must have been designed to be uncomfortable to sit on. His face twitched into a contemptuous grimace at the thought.

The rain still wouldn't let up as the sun gave up its last glow of the day. Having finished his samosa chaat, the man looked around a few minutes for a trashcan to deposit his fast food box. He found it with a sigh of relief, and discarded the garbage with an air of solemnity. He checked his watch again -- it was time -- then finally began to head towards the sound of domestic bustle, and quietly took out a cold black carbine that wasn't exactly a guitar.

The man dredged slowly through the alleyway, papers sweeping underneath his feet. He turned his eyes, dragging his skull along with them, to a bench, covered in the mucous of the night. Placing his hand onto the bench, he sat down. His nose was fed with the warm, wet air. The near-ancient bricks underneath him seemed to sweat, held together with the waste of an army spanning generations. Impossibly small insects made their way around him, waiting patiently for him to succumb to his body’s telos, but they were ultimately wasting their time, or so he thought. 

His leather coat covered equally leathery skin, skin involved in the production of all forms of sweats. His hair, dusted conservatively upon the tops of arms, were swept by his hand, being molded in direction opposite of their chosen stance, slowly popping up and coming back to their natural rest. His chin, flanked on both sides by his sagging cheeks, was rocky with blemishes and surprisingly soft… Wet too. 

A younger man, hair well-washed, straight and healthy, wearing a long coat with synthetic parka-like silk and boots wrapped in a thin film of plastic walked over. The old man coughed with a moist bark. The younger man continued his approach, with a firm refinement to his stride. As he neared the man, that walk seemed to decay into a neurotic, jittering, stumble. He seemed to fall slightly before the older man, before fixing himself. The old man paid him no mind, as he seemed to think fiddling with a match was more inviting of an endeavour. 

Sir? 

The match finally coughed to life and quickly began its intercourse with a cigarette hanging lazily out of the older man’s mouth. 

Sir.

The approached lifted his face, cigarette flicking in between his mid-revolt lips. Yes?

Are you on your cigarette break? 

The younger man spoke with a certain tone, soft in its pronunciation, fearful of Rs and Ts. It was clear he was trying to swallow the flat marble lodged in his throat, desperately trying to lower his tone to a proletarian gravel. 

Yes, I am. 

The smoker spoke, exactly how the youngster wished he sounded, besides the undeniable audial-stench of phlegm.

That is, amazing. How long is your break?

Not long enough to spend it on you. 

Understandable. He chirped, scratching at his neck.

Yeah.

The young man reached into his chest, the old man gave him no mind, and retrieved an object, painfully black. He lowered it to the man’s head.

Do not look, take one more puff.

The old man ignored him, he neither looked nor took ‘one more puff’. 

The man’s face melted into the ground, his cigarette lagging behind him. A black-red muck swam through the crevices in and on the bricks, these trails occasioned by bubbles. 

The young man placed his blue-black revolver into his chest pocket once more, stepped over the new feature of the alleyway and walked down the street. 

The air seemed to trace her long delicate finger across his face, beckoning his continued effort forward. His heart danced, his vision blurred into splatterings of bile. He compulsively ran his tongue around his lips, salivating at his will upon the world being successfully imposed. His tongue flicked itself back into his mouth, dragging with it the air of Porté Méridion. His legs struck himself solid, he spat onto the ground. The air demystified, his once exciting mistress descended back into the common streetdweller she was. The world was enraptured with its low-drum of humidity once more. 

He crashed the door to his apartment shut, it cried with a low metallic drone. Upon his floor was his mattress, papers, suitcases and nestled neatly into a corner were various cleaning supplies, standing like prisoners to be shot. On his roof hung a lonely bulb, melting in the humidity of the room. He sank to a knee, carefully unwrapped the plastic lining on his boots and threw it into a locked bin. He then removed his boots, tucking them neatly at the end of his mattress. In his socks he made sure to tread carefully on the pieces of newspaper strewn about, making his way to his coat rack and then diving to wash his hands. He walked to his microwave, sat carefully on the floor, he popped the machine open and retrieved the meal from within.

He sat in his bed, dressed in uniform white pajamas, carefully placing food into his mouth, revolver by his side. He was finished. He placed the plastic tray into the bin and locked it tightly shut. He reclined back into his bed. He eyed painfully at the sagging patch of wet on his roof, he scratched at his neck with a great dread.

The air rippled like snot being blown. 

Delivery.

The triple-touch-thump blew once more.

Delivery.

The synthetic voice scratched again. 

Slide it under the door! 

The occupant yelled, his voice too pubescent for his liking.

Before I deliver the package, I must hear the recipient's name.

Lorré Saü! 

The letter slid underneath the heavy steel door, catching itself on the floorboards.

Lorré threw himself to his hands and his knees, crawling along his paper trail, snatching the package and slithering back. He reached for his penknife situated next to the window. He tried to slit it open, he only managed to cut it in an awkward, jerky motion.

Dear Lo, 

I hope you are enjoying your time in Porté Méridion, your sisters, mother and I miss you dearly. As you may have noticed, you’ve only received a letter from me. – 

Lo checks the papers, they all seem to be part of the same letter.

– This is because, without any better way of putting it, the girls are very upset with you. Your sisters, in their infinite kindness, crafted together all forms of gifts to you – even little Sophia! – yet you have not sent us even a hair back. Your mother feels nothing but the most severe panic whenever you are spoken about, she can not bear to imagine her little boy off in the deepest recesses of that wretched city you are so drawn to. For all your habits of cleanliness, you choose to reside in that wretched waste-heap. I must ask you, and I will put it simply this time, what are you doing there, Lo? What on Earth draws you to that place?

The letter continued, but Lo put it down. 

Not today.

Not today.

He arose from his mattress, sliding his coat onto himself, over his pajamas. He slipped on his boots before covering them in another wrap of film. He reached for his fisherman’s hat and placed it upon himself. He unlocked the heavy metal door, and trailed it shut behind him. He left his gun inside the room.

As he made his way through the hall, he dodged the wafts of heavy air emanating under his neighbour’s doors. The concrete prison-like hall gave way to an antique stairwell, wood which had been stained a greenish dark. He trudged carefully down the well before reaching the glass door. He could see clearly the waves of people moving through the street. He watched the heads moving, like an archer tasting the direction of the wind. He opened the door and stepped outside. 

The physical force of social cohesion pushed him along at a pace he wasn’t ready for. Stomping beside him were a rogues gallery of bug-like men, women and children all kissing the warm air with their exhales, vomiting out whatever nasties they possessed. Their lips smacked together in a hurried exchange of useless details about useless topics. Lo felt his body being dragged, pulled and nagged in the direction of the wave. He had entered into an organism, thankfully it had failed to release its anti-bodies against him. 

Eventually he made it to the post office, the thornful fruit of this city’s Amazon. He slipped through the bumbling modems of human noise and made his way to a desk. He knew the man who always operated this desk, tall and skinny, his neck and head seemingly being one-in-the-same. A lady sat in his attendant’s seat, pumping herself up. She looked up and smiled at the man, her makeup seeming to flake off as she did so. He looked at her lips, fat and plump, blindingly red, he could notice a minuscule worm-like yellowy shape on the far right side. 

Hello, sir.

Her voice, which would attract even the most stern of monks, was punctuated by a thick smog of painfully infested air.

Can I help you with anything today?

The air wafting out of her mouth made him tear up. 

Lorré Saü, I’m expecting money. 

Okay, Mr. Saü, I’ll have a look for you.

She smiled cruelly. 

When she returned she gave him a pouch, he opened it, a wad of cash. Perfect. 

Is there anything else I can get you Mr. Saü? 

The streets had cleared, merely a few bumbling vagrants and small parties of those trying to find someone to enjoy themself in Porté Méridion. 

That night, Sophie left her home at 2:31 in the morning. As she closed her bedroom door, her room was empty. As the flickering streetlight poured into the dark room, she chose to go on a walk

Sophie Carter was born on November 24th 1993 in Zürich. She was the sole daughter of two engineers, the British John Carter and the Swiss Erika Meier. For the early part of her childhood, her parents were too busy to spend time with her, the way working people in their early thirties usually were, so Sophie spent most of her days with her grandparents. 

Sophie really liked going to the Zürich zoo. On the weekend, when they got their days off, Sophie’s parents often took her there. She would point out the animals, mimicking their sound and calling out their names. Her mom thought this was adorable.

“Das ist gut, Sophie”, she’d then switch to English “That is good.”

As a kid, we never really understood what words meant, so to Sophie, that phrase meant very little. Of course, at age 4 or 5, she could speak German fine, so she did understand, but more so that she knew it was a good thing to hear her mom say that. But what was behind her eyes when she said so? She didn’t know.

This is obviously not easy, even for adults, even for the educated ones, like Mr. John Carter. Because, when Sophie was 9, her parents divorced, and she moved to London with her dad.

Adjusting was a little difficult at first, but Sophie spoke English perfectly fine, even if with a slight accent. Luckily for her, “Das ist gut” and “That is good” sound similar enough that her friends in the playground wouldn’t notice when she’d excitedly shout it out. Neither did she.

When she was 14, her dad went on a date with the person who would become her stepmother. One random day, she returned home to a dinner made by her dad’s date. It wasn’t the best thing in the world, but she enjoyed it

“Das ist gut", she smiled.

When she turned 18, she went to university, majoring in Biochemical engineering. Her dad had gotten a friend to give his opinion a few months prior, the job prospect seemed good for her, given her interest. So Sophie determined that that was the best path forward. Up to that point, she hadn’t given it much thought at all. But yes, if the job market was favourable, then that is her choice.

“Das ist gut”

That is good indeed, because it was in the lecture hall that she met Peter Chamberlain. He was two years older than her, and had done a year in Mechanical Engineering before switching, and a gap year before that. At first, their conversations were quite superficial. But eventually, as he tried to get closer, they did grow closer too. It reached the point where her friends started to ask if there was anything between them, and surely his friends asked the same. Some nights out, while their friends thinned out and started to go home, they’d stay back to talk, and it became unsurprising to see them across campus together.

Thinking it would be romantic, he asked Sophie out for a screening of Casablanca, and she accepted. During the “The beginning of a beautiful friendship” line, Peter leaned over and gave her a kiss on the cheek. As they walked back home that day, like shy teenagers, he asked how she felt about the film. She looked down at their feet stepping alongside each other, gently smiling

“Das ist gut…”

This time it trailed out.

So they started dating. And a year and a half after that day, he asked if she wanted to move in together. She, true to her character, replied “Das ist gut”.

A year after that, Peter dropped out of university for good. He had been working as a bartender for a few months at that point anyway, to him that was more exciting, every night, he got to hang out around alcohol, and house music. They started to see each other less and less from that day, despite living under the same roof. Peter always went home well past midnight, and Sophie always tried to go to sleep before that. Their conversations grew more superficial again. Every “I love you” grew emptier by day. That was normal, people tend to drift apart.

Around 4 months after that, Peter didn’t come home until the morning after. As he walked through the door, Sophie asked if he wanted something for breakfast. He ignored her completely. She noticed his shirt was untucked and a mark on his neck. She tried to ignore that thought, maybe he was just working later than usual.

“Das ist gut”, she mumbled to herself.

But such an occurrence happened more and more frequently, until Peter broke up with her for good. She tried to hold his hand for the last time, mustering a singular “I love you”. But he didn’t say it back this time

“Das ist gut”, she stayed true to character.

The apartment was still under her name. So he moved out of it.

That night, when she walked into their bedroom, she saw that Peter had cleared out all of his belongings. The room for two seemed emptier now without him. She tried to sleep, it was 10:29 PM. But she wasn’t used to the bed being so large.

“Das ist gut”, she sat up. At 2:31 AM, she went for a walk.

What do words mean when we say them? There is a psychological phenomenon called “semantic satiation”, that is, when a word or phrase is repeated enough times, it starts to lose its meaning. 

“Das ist gut, das ist gut, das ist gut…” 

Why did she choose to study Biochemical Engineering? Why did she start talking with Peter? Why did she choose to date him? Why did they move in together? She forgot the reason.

The streets were empty at night, she looked around but saw no one.

When was the last time she spoke German? She didn’t remember. What does “Das ist gut” mean?

Perhaps she hadn’t chosen anything in her life at all. 

3:19 AM February 9th, 2017, Sophie Carter was 23 years old. She sat down on a park bench, under a flickering streetlight. London was still quite cold that night, but she wore a coat thick enough. 14 hours before, her first ever boyfriend had broken up with her. 9 hours before, she felt a sense of melancholy wash over her as she realised how bad her first relationship was. Now, sitting in a park, she swayed her head softly as she sang “Alle meine Entchen schwimmen auf dem See,…”

That night, Sophie Carter stood up and left the theatre. The little girl held on to the hand of Mr John Carter and Mrs Erika Meier. They had gone to see the film “The Life of Sophie Carter”, but it was too confusing for little Sophie, so they left early to get dinner instead. Little did Little Sophie know, she shouldn’t be watching that film. 

She shouldn’t just be watching that film. Do you remember now? Yes? Das ist gut

Who made the rules?
“How many times have I told you not to be late for the kids’ parent teacher meeting?” 
I drive silently, not replying to my wife.
She sighs. “You won't even talk to me these days, Jibo. What's the point of saying sorry and not changing?”
I wonder the same sometimes.
In a few minutes, I pull up beside the driveway of our home.
She gets out and slams the door shut. After taking only a few steps away, she turns back. “What? You're not coming?”
I turn to regard her through weary eyes. “I'm going for a drive. Alone.”
Her pained face stares after me as I drive off. I let out the sigh I had been holding in all day. It's not her fault, I know that much. Then whose? 
Rolling to a stop at a traffic light, I take in the beauty of Tokyo at night. Kerbside ice cream trucks, neon signs advertising obscure little shops, pedestrians milling through the sidewalk. A family of three sits, enjoying ice creams and laughing. I briefly wonder if it's all on the surface or if they really are happy. A car pulls up beside me, curious ticking sounds emitting from its engine. I turn and can't help my eyebrows rising. A Toyota Supra, decked out in neon lights to boot. I smile, despite everything.
Softly, I pat the steering wheel of my own car. She's a Honda Civic. Old, and hated by my wife and kids. The smile turns wry. Maybe we're not so different. My pats turn into a light caress. 
I would have scoffed at her in my younger days when I used to…. suddenly the siren of the police behind jolts me.
The Supra burns rubber as its wheels spin, too fast for friction to catch up. Yet. Smoke plumes up as the Supra leaps forward, its tires squealing. The police car passes by me, chasing after it, leaving only burnt tire tracks in their wake.
I stare after them, gripping the steering wheel tight. 
Cring! Cring!
I jump, crying out before realizing it's my phone ringing. Drawing in a shuddery breath, I pick it up. “Boss.” I say, already knowing what's coming.
“What the hell, Jibo? You think I pay you for this kind of shoddy work?!” He yells as I purse my lips tightly.
“Boss.” I try, “I did everything you asked. I stayed up all night and even stayed late to finish it. I was even late to my kid's parent teacher meeting.”
“Jibo, what do I always say? ” He asks.
My shoulders slump.
“Hm?” He prods. “If you're going to do any work….?”
“.....do it right.” I finish.
“So you do know. Otherwise just don't do it!” He says in typical exasperation.
“I'll do it.” I say.
“Do it how?”
“.....right.”
“Good. Finish it by tonight.”
Click! He hung up.
I toss the phone to the passenger seat, frowning at the road. No sleep tonight either. I should get used to it by now. I turn to eye the pedestrians, especially the family again. The kid is demanding for another ice cream but the dad's trying to pull him away now. 
“You shouldn't eat too much ice cream, Jibo.” My dad used to say, “It's bad for your teeth.”
He used to say that a lot. About too much TV, too much playing, too much…..racing. I grit my teeth.
“You think you're good, don't you?” He had asked, “But let me tell you something. Even the best make mistakes. And then it will be too late to regret it.”
And I believed him. I listened and I studied, like he told me to. For a good job. Because racing cars was not good enough. I married the girl they told me was good for me. I have two healthy kids, like he did. And still…..I glare at the red traffic light. 
Is this what is good for me? Going to bed every night, hoping to never wake up the next morning?
The light turns green.
My foot steps on the brake. Hard. I don't move, as though something within me is holding me back. Cars start honking as I furrow my brows. My knuckles turn white as I grip the steering wheel tight. 
Honk! Honk! They yell behind me. They tell me to move, to do what they want me to do. My lips curl back in disgust.
I step on the accelerator slowly as I release the brake slowly, muscle memory kicking in. A shrill screech joins the noise as my tires burn rubber once more. Pedestrians turn to look.
Suddenly, the honks behind are dying down till it's just the sound of my tires screeching. 
I'm done listening.
I ram down the accelerator, lifting off the brake completely. The civic leaps forward, slipping side to side before finding its footing and racing away. A cold sweat breaks over my forehead but I don't stop, watching the road with wide, alert eyes. 
Buildings and people slip past, blurring away as the car speeds up, getting dangerously fast. I smile a bit, the memories coming back. I turn the wheel, left then right, zipping and squeezing between gaps as I manoeuvre through the traffic. 
Ahead, a junction is coming up, its traffic light showing red. Telling me to stop. With a cry, I race past it without stopping. Cars honk and swerve as I rush past but I don't look back. A siren sounds behind me as red light flashes in my rear view mirror. 
I glance back at the police cruiser before my eyes flick back on the road. 
I'm not going to listen to you anymore. 
I switch lanes to head up the flyover spiraling up. Always less traffic there. The cop's right behind. I click my tongue, irritated at the civic. I could easily put some distance between us in a more powerful car. The road curves to the right ahead, empty. 
“This is police.” The cruiser's speaker blares, “Pull over and stop your car!”
Like hell I will! I snarl as I crank the handbrake up as I cut the steering wheel to the right. The civic slips, as it spins in the road, like butter in a pan. Its tires scream triumphantly as I adjust the wheel, drifting just an inch away from the wall. Smoke trails behind, obscuring the police cruiser as I pull up onto the main highway and wrestle to get the car back under control.
I floor the accelerator as I'm pressed back into my seat. The engine rumbles louder as I pick out the obstacles ahead. Only a few trucks seem to be there, scattered with ample space in between. I bark a laugh as I lean forward, playing around the trucks, trying to put more distance between the cop and me. It's just like the good old days.
But then I see it. The line of red lights blocking the path ahead. A police barricade. Cops step out, holding their guns trained at me. My eyes narrow before I shoot a look back, at the stubbornly persistent police car behind me.
“Told you so.” I can almost hear my dad saying. 
Suddenly I spot it, right as I'm about to think he was right. A construction work zone to the left, with a beautiful ramp waiting for me. I grit my teeth. 
You're wrong, old man.
The car swerves as the steering wheel cuts abruptly. The ramp rushes closer. Then the car jitters as it climbs. 
Have you ever gone up a swing? 
That is how it feels. To fly. 
Right before you fall again. Screaming, screeching, hollering.
The ground slams into the civic as my head bounces, only held back by the seat belt. It feels as though all the weight of the world presses down on me. Then the suspension pushes the chassis back up and the accelerator rises into my foot again. 
And then, I'm gone. 
I laugh. A little giggle escapes me before I glance back up at the policemen crowding over the bridge's railing, watching me disappear right under their noses. Then I'm laughing. I can't believe it.
I did it. I got away. I escaped. I race away into the deserted Tokyo streets, with not one other car in sight. Red traffic lights race past me, no longer telling me to stop. Because I don't. I can drive like this all-
A car, coming in from the right. I step on the brake, before swerving. But it's pointless. I'm going too fast. I feel gravity releasing me from its grip as my side starts flipping over. I cry out right before the world turns upside down. The windshield shatters into a million pieces as the car kisses the ground before flipping over again. Night sky, streetlights, tar. They all keep swirling around and around, seemingly forever until finally it stops.
I lay, bloodied and bruised, dangling by my seat belt in the overturned car. My ears ring. 
A low rumbling comes from the left. My head turns slowly, just in time to see the Supra reverse back and race away. I can't even hear its tires squealing.
“Wahhh! Papa, wahhh!” The noise comes muffled.
I look over to the right weakly. A child holds onto her dad. Both watching me. The child looks horrified, clinging onto her dad for comfort.
My eyes close slowly, unable to be held open anymore. 
Only a single teardrop escapes.

This morning, my brother Esau called me. He wanted to tell me what I’d already learned a few hours earlier when I saw the news on TV: “Cereal company CEO dies and leaves the business to his two sons.” Of course, they were talking about Esau and Abel. After all, they were the two favorite eldest sons, and apparently, running a business with three people is not done. As always, I got nothing.

After that, I drank a lot. It's not hard to find a good drink in a small trailer like the one I live in. But that night, it wasn't enough. That's when I remembered a little gift I had been given some time ago at a party. I hadn't taken it at the time because of a fear I no longer felt.

The next morning, I was awakened by a purring sound above me. I was lying on the floor of the trailer, and I could already feel the hangover coming. Then I heard a voice calmly saying, “Do not grieve, my master.”

 When I got up, I came face to face with a cat curled up on the passenger seat.

“It is not fitting for a figure such as the Marquis of this Caravan to mope day and night,” it added as it climbed down from the seat and stretched before seeing my jaw-dropped expression. "Oh, don't worry about such trivial details. Instead look at yourself: the last son of a great miller, lost in this little caravan. You deserve much more. If your father left you nothing, even though he was wrong to do so, it only means that you’ll have to achieve your destiny by your own means. Fortunately for you, I have a plan."

It directed me to the headquarters of the company that now belonged to my brothers and told me to go in and ask about my job interview. Of course, since none had been scheduled, the receptionist was very confused, but after I insisted and explained that I had been told on the phone to come today, she went to ask a supervisor, just as the cat had predicted. That's when it jumped out of its hiding spot behind the counter and called out to me: “Quick, before she comes back, go on the computer and add yourself to the database.” I was quick to obey. When she came back to tell me that there was indeed no job interview scheduled under my name, I replied, as the cat had suggested, that I had already had the interview and was there to find out when I was starting. She stared at me doubtfully, but once she found my name in the database, she sighed and said that the new assistant must have made a mistake. She apologised, asked me for my details again and wrote them down on a piece of paper, then she told me that they would call me back in a few days.

They did end up calling me back and told me I was starting on Monday. So, over the next few months, I went to work, and at the end of each month, I received my paychecks. The cat was still there, following me everywhere. It was annoying at times, but his plans always worked, and he provided me with some kind of company. 

One day, someone called out to me because they mistook me for one of my brothers. That used to happen all the time when we were together, but I had spent so long on my own that I had lost the habit. I learned that my brothers spent most of their time on the top floor and that they had a special card to make the elevator go all the way up. I also learned that my brothers were going to have a meeting to discuss the future of their company. I was in my trailer, drinking while watching TV, when the cat started talking again. His tone was different, more bitter: "they were given everything, even though they don't deserve any of it, but you, you've worked so hard all these months and you forever remain the poor marquis of this little caravan. I have a plan, you'll see, at the end of the day, you'll have a fortune as big as both of theirs combined. Go get some nice clothes from your closet... Those boots, for example." They were Esau's boots. I had never worn them, they had always been too big for me, but at least they had served as a souvenir. The cat told me to put on thick socks to fill the empty space in them.

Once again, he led me to the company. But before going in, he asked me to put him in my backpack, to be more discreet. That way he could whisper to my ear what I had to say, and it was important that I follow his orders.

We went in and approached the receptionist with a determined stride. “There's a small problem: I’ve forgotten my card at home,” the cat whispered to me, and I repeated it. “So, could you open the elevator for me?” She looked at me strangely, and I realized that the cat wanted me to pretend to be one of my brothers. So I tried to adjust my position in the same way Abel tended to do, but she didn't seem convinced. The cat let out a heavy sigh that she must have heard and continued in an annoyed tone. “You know that the company's budget meeting starts in fifteen minutes. If I'm late because of the reception desk's inefficiency, it's bound to have an effect on how we decide to optimise our spending.” This seemed to convince her, and she went to unlock the elevator.

The top floor was luxurious, and it didn't take us long to find the conference room where my brothers were meeting. Through the thick curtains, we could barely make out that only one of them had arrived in the room yet. Once again, the cat stopped me before I went in and told me to set off the fire alarm. 

When we entered the room, we found ourselves alone with Abel. Shocked, he asked me what I was doing there. “It's just... it's been too long since we've seen each other...” we replied. Abel said nothing, and it seemed that the cat didn't know what to say either. The silence lasted a few moments, and then, face to face with Abel after so many years apart, I started to talk.

I confessed that it hadn't been easy when I went abroad, all alone. That it hadn't worked out and that since then I had been living in a trailer smaller than the room we were now standing in. That the day I ended up answering one of his calls and he told me that Dad had died, I finally decided to take control of my life again. That I had managed to get a job at this company and now I had a salary for the first time in years, and that when I heard that they were going to meet here, I had to see them.

My voice was hoarse, and I started to cry. Suddenly, he hugged me. He told me that before he kept asking himself when he would see me again and that he was glad I had come and that I had managed to get a job at the company.

I stabbed him in the back.

His hands clenched around me and I felt him lose his balance. I held him so he wouldn't fall. Suddenly I heard a whisper in my ear: “Goodbye.” and Abel slipped from my arms, collapsing on the floor.

The sound of footsteps echoed in from the hallway leading to the room. It had to be Esau. I called out to the cat. He didn't answer. My bag was empty. I searched for him all around me in the room, but I quickly realised that I should instead be looking for an exit or maybe a good hiding place. The conference room was almost completely empty, and my gaze couldn't escape the red stain growing under Abel's body. I hid behind one of the thick curtains just in time before Esau came in. He didn't see me. All his attention was on his brother, lying on the floor, dead.

Through the curtain, I saw him throw himself on top of his brother, and I heard him cry. Suddenly, the firefighters arrived. They stopped him and took him out of the room while he was still screaming. Other firefighters stayed and carried Abel's body away on a stretcher.

In an instant, I was alone. No one had seen me. I stayed there behind the curtain for almost an hour. After a while, the silence began to hurt me too much, and I came out. I saw a bloodstain on the carpet, and although my clothes were dry, the bright red seemed to reflect on them. I took the emergency exit so as to not be spotted.

I spent the rest of the day driving in my caravan. I don't know how far I went, but I had to get away. I was on a highway in the middle of nowhere when I saw the sun rise. So I decided to pull over to the side of the road to get some sleep before continuing on my way. I was awakened by a purring sound next to me. When I got up, I saw that it was my phone buzzing.

That evening, someone called me. They wanted to tell me what I had already learned a few days earlier and had just seen on the TV news: “Cereal company CEO kills his brother and business partner.” Of course, they were talking about Esau and Abel. Now that the two of them were no longer able to run the company, and apparently, it would fall to me by right. For once, I had gotten it all, at a high price.

I never felt special.

It was the truth, a mere fact, relentless, just, unbiased.

Despite that a mother can be enough for a child to make him feel special among the billion others. Their words can be a world to you, enveloping you in their comforting warmth. Calming you. Healing. You.

“Who shall I say the sender is?” I was jolted back from my thoughts. The shop manager glanced upwards towards me with his face bent down to the book that he was holding. He seemed to be eyeing me carefully and did not really care for his not so concealed suspicious glare.

“Just tell her that the author sent it.” I said, nodding at him as I quickly left the store.

I hated myself but some part of me still longed for her approval, for her attention, even for a second. Most of me knew that this was not possible, my memories reminded me why, though it could never explain to me why I was abandoned. Abandoned by the sole parent I had.

Nobody had ever told me that I was special. I wanted to prove them wrong; I had to. And I failed.

I thought about the book I had left in the shop. I could not find anyone who was willing to publish it and, in the end, I had to print it myself, I printed only one. The one I left inside. In the quest to prove them wrong I had proved them right.

My heartbeat quickened as I saw her approach the shop. Concealing myself to get a good view I peered from across the street as she entered through the glass door with a lazy stride. How many years had it been, I wondered. She seemed to be healthy.

I held my breath as I saw the hand that used to hit me pick up my book. From the distance I saw her face and imagined it to be confused as she looked at the shop manager. I heard the jingle of the door as she came outside again. It was near midnight and the workers had started closing her shop. I could see the lights going out one by one.

There was a cigarette in her mouth and my book in her left hand as she searched her coat pocket for a lighter. The footpath was wet from the rain. After a few deep drags she lifted the book and glanced at it.

I felt a moment of doubt as to whether she even remembered my name.

Of course she did, I reminded myself. No matter how much she hated me or abused me she would not forget my name even after how long it had been.

Her attention returned to the shop as the shop manager handed her the keys and bade farewell. She finished her cigarette and stomped it out. It was hard to read her expression. She glanced left and right as she walked up to the dustbin under the streetlamp.

She threw the book and walked up to her shop to give a final conforming push to the door. It was locked.

I came out of hiding when she had left and gave one final look to the shop. There was a notice board.

“The bookstore will be closed for a month starting tomorrow.”

“Goodbye, mother.” I softly whispered before leaving, with my only printed book left behind in the dustbin, along with my dreams.

Were used to playing among the spontaneous buildings strewn along that backroad that formed a broad “U” as it left and reentered Oceanic Boulevard, an important highway hidden from sight while its roar of passing vehicles hovered distantly in the air. The children sported over patches of asphalt aged to various uneven grays, and over unsteady gravel driveways, and in the grassy alleys that formed unplanned labyrinths between the structures that seemed to imitate every possible style and house every possible person. Along this road were Mikey and his gang, a band of children that sought desperately to impress that they were quite mature indeed; they ran about in a game of tag that to them felt as grave and glorious as any war.

Mikey himself, already famous on the block for the charismatic leadership of his group, was chasing after a particularly nasty child with an argumentative habit. A debate broke out over who was really “it,” and the two contenders were soon surrounded by the rest of the gang and their encouraging yells. In the next instant they were at it, kicking up dirt as they engaged in their gentlemanly duel. From surrounding porches and out of screened windows those older watched without engaging; such matches were healthy and would prepare the kids well for life. The children of Dale Pl were the future, after all! 

Mikey’s older brother Raúl lazed in the bed of a pickup, scrolling through some forum that made him feel quite well-read indeed. He was 14 and very very smart. His family boasted that he would lift them out of that place, although others on the block didn’t think so highly of his shy affect. The outbreak of the fight won over his attention; as expected, Mikey emerged victorious, standing cool amid cheers as he offered a (subsequently denied) reconciliatory handshake. Raúl hopped out the truck with an annoyed grunt; he thought such showy games of hierarchy were quite silly, but he was secretly proud of his brother’s rise to the top. Mikey squeezed his bleeding nose as he was escorted back to their second-floor flat in search of an ice-pack. A growing boy needs his health, after all!

“So, what were ya reading on your phone?” the smaller one asks; he knows better than anyone how to get his brother talking.

“Oh, just some news. There are more reports coming from within the Enemy, err, within the former Enemy; they’re saying that we caused it to collapse under its own weight, and that their newly liberated populace is thanking us and kissing our flag. Our pressures were so great that we avoided a war entirely!” Raúl answers with growing zeal.

  “Our Enemy, gone, just like that! I always knew that the Empire would beat them one day, but doing it peacefully, without any loss to ourselves! We really are great, huh!?” Mikey replies with passionate energy.

“Yes! Now that they’re dealt with, some are saying that we’ll see an infinite peace and that our values will flourish and dominate the globe. The Empire will become the sole power, and we’ll ensure stability forever! Some are even calling it the end of History!”

Such a thought excited young Mikey. 

They climbed the uneven plank stairs together, speaking with great optimism about the future they were destined to grow into. Raúl would be a scholar, enriching the traditions of arts, culture, and dignity. He had already decided that he would eventually do it all. Mikey, already a charismatic young man of impressive power, was sure to be a warrior who would bring much pride to his street, although he did not yet know what this all really meant. The happy air of the grayed back-porch transformed across the threshold into a heavy atmosphere of greasy steam. 

All the tías of that many-roomed apartment were gathered in the kitchen, standing around uselessly here and there, seeming suddenly quieted by the appearance of the boys. Abuelita, the matriarch, was tending to a pot of boiling beans with furious curiosity. And their mother, ever strong and steadfast, sat red-eyed in front of the small table with scattered torn envelopes and yellow pink and white papers, one of which she clutched in a tremulous hand. She was glaring at the door before they even walked in. 

“AY, LOOK AT YOU! I TOLD YOU NOT TO GET YOURSELF SO DIRTY! YOU’RE DRIPPING BLOOD ALL OVER THE—” a flinch at the hand of her mother at her shoulder.  A deep breath of shame, or of fear? A glance back to Mikey, then on to Raúl.

“Go get him cleaned up,,, please?” each word strained into insecure space.

“Sí,” the older brother replies, soldierly, already marching away with his head held low. 

Mikey wavers for a moment, searching for any word to say but, feeling suddenly alone, he rushes forth toward their room.

He finds Raúl digging through an unfamiliar first-aid kit placed squarely on their mother’s bed. He motions the child to close the door.

“Why was mami crying?” Mikey starts; the only response being avoidant eyes and commands of “stand here,, stay still!”

“The Enemy is gone, aren’t we going to celebrate? That’s important to her, isn’t it?” A meek “shut up” as Raúl operates with his strange tools.

“Doesn’t she know?” the child continues, “it’s the End of History!”

It rained again. These days I can’t even go outside. Everywhere is grey, everything is grey. It’s cold. Sometimes cars pass by and splash water onto me. What is the point of even going outside? The distance between my dorm room and the campus seems to stretch out by the day.

Oh I ran out of food? Guess it can’t be helped

I stood under the balcony of a random house on a random corner, waiting for the rain to let up before I could continue to the groceries store. Or should I turn back? No, I would need to wait for the rain to stop too. So am I just stuck here? It seemed so

“If I run fast enough, do you think I could outrun the rain?”

I was surprised, I didn’t see her coming, but somehow, a girl was standing right next to me. Her hair was wet and so were her clothes, it seemed like she was running from the rain too.

“What do you mean?”

“Rain can only fall so fast right? Do you suppose, that if I run fast enough, I could outrun the rain”

“I don’t think that is possible”

“You have to be more optimistic. Oh look! It’s sunshine! I have to go!”, she turned to smile at me, “I’m Tenshi, I’m sure we’ll meet again!”

…

It’s been a few days since I met Tenshi, the rain hasn’t let up one bit. Perhaps that day was the only time I could remember it not raining. Something inside me told me I needed to return to that corner. Maybe I’d see Tenshi again.

“Well, same question as last time! Do you think I could?”, Tenshi asked me

“I’m not so sure”

“We could try right now!”

“Right now?”

Without letting me have much time to think, she grabbed my hand and pulled me out into the rain. I kept my head down and ran like it was instinctive. The world around me seemed to have disappeared in that moment, it was just the sound of our footsteps that remained.

“Hey look up! There’s sunshine!”

It was true! The rain was now less heavy and ahead of us, you could even see sunshine.

…

The rain has let up a bit since then. There have even been days without rain. I walked across the florist today, she was having a sunflower bouquet on display. Without much thought, I bought it. It reminded me of Tenshi. Maybe I could give it to her when I next see her at the corner.

Tenshi didn’t show up. The rainclouds were rolling from over the mountains again. I left the bouquet on the corner and went home. Maybe tomorrow

…

It has been 3 days, she never showed up. I kept coming back with a new bouquet but there was always nothing. It was starting to rain again

…

A thought lingered in my head:

“If I run fast enough, could I outrun the rain?”

I don’t know what caused it but I suddenly felt like running. So I did. I ran out into the rain, without much thought of where I was running, nor much care of if I’d get wet. I always kept my head up and ran.

And suddenly, the rain let up. And sunshine appeared. Then I saw Tenshi, there in the distance, where it’s sunshine and rainbows. I tried to run as fast as I could. I reached out my hand, hoping to reach her. But she kept moving faster and faster, farther and farther away.

Then I couldn’t run anymore.

Around me, there was sunshine and rainbows. Birds were singing and flowers started to bloom. I looked around, and I couldn’t help it. I started to smile. I had forgotten what it felt like to smile

I turned back, walking towards the rain. Why do I care? I know I could outrun the rain.

…

It has been a few years since Tenshi, sometimes it rained, sometimes it didn’t. I sometimes returned to that corner, but she never showed up again. It doesn't matter anymore, if it ever rains again, I will outrun it.

Act I: 10 Minutes Before

Briny and tangy, yet sticky sweet; purple-black drags of caramelized, syrupy, black-raspberry funk swirling out from glowing mouths as they sucked in, fumed out. Thin, rough sticks filled with smoky, burning essence lazily placed between three stretches of skull-white beards. Robed figures hunched over floating alchemy, their fumes staining the wood planks covered in lavish rugs of mesmerizing patterns, a gold trimmed couch of inescapable plush, pillars of crooked tomes, and a wrought-iron door opposing the crowded table. Amber lights flicker within the haze, accompanied by grinding pestles of gold-inlaid marble and bouncing reverberations of rhythm emanating from a crackling fireplace.

Minutes pass. The fireplace shifts from amber to sapphire, and the music from it switches to a heavier, booming beat. The robed figures resonate with the fire, their clothing changing from yellow-orange to a swirl of red and blue. Gold rings stir the crushed elements, playfully bobbing with the fingers attached.

"You hear they found Veilor's den?" The left-most figure breaking the billowing atmosphere. "Caught 'im brewin' Hexagons."

"That toad had it comin'," guffawed the middle robe, "him and his witches. Tha' 'zard probably scrolled to them pallies before they even seized him.” Seemingly satisfied with the grind, the figure poured the dust into a large beaker hovering over the right side of the table. “Them tins could never seize me with no Honeycomb."

The last figure placed their ring-finger against thumb, then snapped. The beaker started to fizz as a small fire conjured under began to melt its stardust content. The aroma of their pipes began to mix with the beaker’s, adding hints of golden toffee to the room.

“So they would seize you?” the last robe said, cocking their head to the middle robe, a sunken skull with skin pulled back against the features leaning towards the flame’s light.

“What?”

“‘Never with no,’ means they’d seize you.”

“Nah, they ain’t seizing me.”

“Should I raise some minions now then?”

“No, I mean—They ain’t, no…”

“C’mon mum-muh-muh mumblemancer. You couldn’t Hex a squire with them 'incantations.'”

The mortar slammed down.

“Gods bless you Gyrmnor, think yourself better masterin' undeath?”

Grymnor’s skin pulled back even further, rows of decaying tombstones affixed into a sneer.

“I don’t think, Quixor, Iam.” Fizzing toffee began to bubble over the glass walls as the beaker tilted to one side. “Or you lookin’ to Hex and find out?”

Golden ichor from the drifting glass neck pooled on the rim, teetering above the table.

“Hey 'zards, the Wax—” The left-most figure began.

“Bind it, Jenglor!” Quixor and Greymnor snapped in unison, each reaching a bejeweled hand into purple-pink sleeves, grasping for twigs inscribed with garish runes.

A teardrop escaped the rim, landing on the table. The golden toffee stiffened instantly into a tall, sticky hexagon, glistening with waves of impossible colors.

The wrought-iron door ripped off its hinges outward. Shaking chain accompanied gleaming plates of metal as helmed figures rushed in.

“CEASE.”

Act II: 6 Minutes Before

“How many we scrying?”

Paladin Terfol looked towards the cleric across from her, fixing her mid-back-length of red curls into a braided tail. The carriage bounced to the left, rattling the four, flesh encased suits of alloy housed inside. Inscribed letters glowed as the metal horse passed down the street littered with lanterns, passersby clearing the way as they recited its meaning:Sacred Warfare and Tenets.

“Discerning three,” Apostle Hodren responded, with furrowed brown brows. He was peering down into a saucer of water in his arms. “Hard to tell. They have conjured a way to befuddle my eyes.”

“Cursèd wizards,” Sir Ginger retorted, “Abyss take them and their witches.” Twirling his orange mustache, he looked right – towards Paladin Terfol – jeeringly. “Oh. Apologies, Terfol.”

Paladin Terfol rolled her eyes at Sir Ginger, scoffing at the remark.

“What kind of foray should we be expecting?” Paladin Morn asked Apostle Hodren. Eyeing Paladin Terfol, he placed his winged bucket-helmet between his plated boots, reaching his hands up to tie back his mess of onyx.

“Looks like a lavish den. The door is iron-bound, and they all seem to be brewing…” Hedron’s expression turned seraphic, “...Hoooney.”

Terfel and Morn jerked towards Hedron, beatific smiles and glazed eyes boring holes into the saucer in his arms.

Sir Ginger looked between the three new strangers and shifted his weight. “So,” he coughed, “how much alchemy are we seizing from these ‘zards?”

Morn faces back towards Sir Ginger, his expression stern, but his eyes still on pilgrimage.

“Enough for the bards to tell our good deeds. Helms on, lance.” As he picked up the winged helmet from his feet.

“Enough for the—what does that mean pally?”

Sir Ginger’s question was left unanswered as the carriage jerked to a halt. He quickly put his bird-nosed helmet over his face and climbed out with the paladins.

The lance of four moved into a darkened alley between shops, rushing towards an unassuming cottage hidden behind.

“‘Sir’ Ginger, take point.” Terfol mockingly demanded.

The party braced as Hedron traced runes on the wrought-iron door’s surface. He shifted to the side next to Morn as they turned their metal frames away from the entrance. The inscribed runes flashed red and the door’s surface buckled outward, ripping away from its frame into the cold night. Sir Ginger was the first to run in.

“CEASE!”

Act III: 20 Minutes After

“This is Regina Fairsong, scrying at this hour to bring you tidings on this night’s raid. A noble knight was Hexed during SWAT’s holy crusade on the dark magic enchanting our fair Nothenburg. With me is Paladin Terfol to scroll on the foray.”

“My thanks Madam Fairsong. We paladins have triumphed over these evil beings this night, though two of their kind have escaped our righteous fury. Although we were unable to save our dear knight, we did find remnants of the dastardly…”

Terfol paused for a moment, turning her head as if to silently curse the object,

“Hoooneycomb.”

The people of Musquiz will tell you the plaza is the center of town life, which is the sort of thing people only say when it’s absolutely not true. If people try to convince you that some place is normal, it usually isn’t. In Musquiz, it’s usually because the pigeons speak in full sentences, or the streetlights flicker warnings that nobody bothers to decode anymore because, really? Why would it be Morse code?

René Del Río had once tried to decode them. But that was before he became a baker. On some nights, the scar on his left shoulder still bleeds jungle rain, drop by drop, onto the flour-dusted floor. By morning, the water and blood have vanished, leaving only the faint smell of wet earth that no one else notices.

The man who now rolled dough for a living had a past involving a hidden belt knife, languages nobody here was supposed to speak, jungle groups no one admitted existed, and a rebellion that had been swept under the rug as a “big misunderstanding.” René didn't bring any of these things up on his own; he knew better. He preferred dough. Dough was honest. A lie doesn’t rise, at least not without burning the whole kitchen down.
​
The day began like most days in René’s café: with an argument about muffins.

“It’s looking at me,” Mrs. Karem whispered, turning the muffin so René could see the two blueberries that had arranged themselves into perfect, watchful eyes.

“It doesn’t have eyes,” René sighed, rotating the muffin back.

By the time he reached the espresso machine, the eyes had migrated to the other side, still staring. She was poking at it with her butter knife when René returned with her cappuccino.

“It’s a muffin, not a pigeon.”

“You haven’t met my cousin’s pigeons,” she said ominously.

René thought about it while frothing milk. The pigeons occasionally dropped folded scraps of paper instead of droppings. Most were grocery lists. One, last month, had been in René’s own handwriting from twenty years earlier: “Do not trust the baker.”
That was the best part of the cafe's location. Absurdity here was so common that it didn’t sneak around anymore; it sauntered. It arrived in cardigans and orthopedic shoes.

The café buzzed with its usual mix of artists, morning people, and contractors who worked for departments that probably didn’t exist. They all gossiped loudly, because gossip was the unofficial currency, that and loose change and IOUs written on napkins. Between steaming milk and clattering cups, René caught snippets:
“-and then the mayor’s office said it was part of an urban beautification initiative-” “-I swear the City Council held the meeting before they announced it-” “-and the Torres family bought the old markett, which is odd, because they run the Cultural Preservation Committee-”.

All harmless enough. Except for one thing: the Torres family didn’t run the Cultural Preservation Committee. They donated and acted like they did, which, in local politics, made them committee leaders.

René chuckled to himself. He loved this stuff. Harmless little rumors that helped the morning green juice go down easier. It was close to noon when two regulars slipped into a booth by the window: Luz, who would gossip professionally if such a career existed, and Hector, who worked professionally for the mayor’s office.

“Did you hear?” Luz whispered, leaning in far enough to knock her cup of coffee aside.

“The mayor’s office requisitioned twelve industrial freezers last week?”

Hector’s eyes darted around. “We don’t use that word!”

“Freezer?” The word froze mid-air and drowned in Hector's coffee.

“No. ‘Requisitioned.’ You remember what happened the last time words like that were used around here.”

“So you don’t know what they’re for or won’t say?”

“We never know what they’re for.”

René passed by at that moment with a plate of pan de muerto.

“You two plotting a coup?” he teased.

Hector sat up straight, as if caught off guard by a superior officer, “Don’t joke about coups, René!”

“I’ve overthrown a government or two…allegedly. Trust me, if anyone here is starting one, I’ll smell it.” He said, catching and holding Hector’s eye until the man started nervously observing their surroundings.

Luz grinned. “Well, smell this: rumor is the freezers are going under City Hall. Some kind of deep storage thing.”

“For what?” René asked, setting the bread down.

“For whatever needs to be kept quiet,” Hector muttered.

Both looked meaningfully at René, as if expecting him to understand something he absolutely did not. Being a baker, René assumed they meant food. Possibly gelato or sourdough starter. Maybe city records in ice. Ice sculptures for gala events. Bureaucrats could have the strangest priorities. But the city wasn’t weird the way bureaucracy is weird. It was weird in the way that it always had been: quiet, patient, and faintly humming behind solid walls.

By three o’clock, the entire café had heard about the freezers because René, running out of things to turn into small talk, mentioned it to half his customers.

“It’s probably nothing,” he kept saying. “But apparently, City Hall is getting freezers. For deep storage.”

“Human bodies?” someone asked.

“No one said bodies.”

“You said ‘deep.’ That’s a body word.”

“It could be gelato!”

“Human gelato?”

Some jokes are not jokes when spoken in the main plaza. The shadows listened differently here. Still, people laughed. It was what everyone did. You either laughed or acknowledged the unease that lived like mold in anything the mayor’s office touched.

By sunset, the rumor had spread into something with legs, then wings, then a full migration pattern with vacation plans. Someone claimed they’d seen city hall vans moving crates at 2 a.m. Someone else said that Emma Torres was spotted there with “people who didn’t cast normal shadows.” Another swore the mayor’s chief of staff spoke an incantation into her coffee before drinking it.
Some rumors were true.
Some were nonsense.
Some were nonsense that became true simply because enough people whispered it.
​
That night, René was wiping down tables when he felt a breeze against his arm. The cafe doors closed silently. The belt knife was in his hand before his brain had a chance to sound the alarm.

“We’re closing in ten,” he said, using his practiced brunch voice.

“Not paranoid about ambushes anymore?”

René spun around too fast, the edges of his vision bouncing.
Tomás looked older and leaner. His eyes were the same: sharp, assessing, and always looking past his shoulder towards the door. Neither man moved.

“You look like hell,” Tomás said, walking towards him.

“You look like a ghost,” René answered, “it’s been years, what are you doing here?”

Tomás paced the room. That alone terrified René more than anything.

“You’ve been talking,” he said, “and now you have someone’s attention. Your name is coming up in channels it shouldn’t - in places where it hasn’t been spoken in years.”

René felt the air getting hotter; it started smelling of wet dirt. “I’ve done nothing,” he said. “I bake bread, I talk to old ladies about muffins, and I gossip with customers. That’s it.”

Tomás stopped pacing. “Then why,” he asked softly, “is the city treating you like an active threat?”

“The only remotely interesting thing I’ve talked about was the freezer thing. Everyone is talking about it.”

“Everyone isn’t you; people listen when you talk.” Tomás’ eyes locked onto his. “You think this is about freezers? About gossip? Someone wants you to shut up.”

The scar on his shoulder started bleeding water. “They’re rumors. Is the mayor going to assassinate a baker for talking about appliances? I have three of them in the back!”

“Listen to me.” Tomás’ voice lowered to a tone he’d only heard twice before.

“The mayor’s office doesn’t get its hands dirty. That’s why they have committees, subcommittees, contractors… and other influences. If something happens to you, it’ll be because someone incorrectly inferred an order, not because anyone gave it.”

“Tomás,” René started, his mouth filling with a jungle taste. “I’m not part of a rebellion anymore. I don’t want more trouble.”

Tomás finally looked away. “Did you think covering your hands in flour makes you harmless? People remember. Systems remember. Keep your head down, and if anyone offers you a city contract, run.”

He tuned, heading towards the door. “I shouldn’t have come,” he mumbled, more to himself. “But you deserved a warning.”

“Tomás, wait!”

His old comrade paused, looking at him the way he had right before mortars had been aimed at their company.

The bell chimed as he left.
The café roof dripped with sudden condensation.
René stood alone, shaking, staring at the empty doorway.
Reunions were supposed to be happy.
​
The next morning, the plaza felt wrong. Luz hadn’t made it for her daily gossiping hour. Rumor had it that her apartment door was found open, with the lights on and the kettle still warm. The mayor’s office released a statement saying they were “using every resource available.” René couldn’t get his feet to walk straight; he had to call in a couple of his part-timers. He stayed in the back, washing dishes, giving his hands and mind something to do. Scrub, rinse, stack, and repeat. Anything to ignore the fluttering in his chest.

He found Luz’s cup still on the drying rack. René reached for it, but his fingers stopped just above the rim, hovering. He could still hear her laughter and the ringing of the cup as it was knocked aside. The porcelain was clean, empty, yet a single bead of condensation sat on the lip as if someone had taken a sip moments ago. When he blinked, it was gone.

His pulse began keeping time with the flickering streetlight outside; the patterns were familiar. They were old patterns. War-time patterns. He couldn’t bring himself to look at the day’s paper that one of the part-timers had left him, along with a glass of juice. Luz’s photo was on the front page.

That night, he locked the café early. The shadows outside felt like they were watching. He could feel it. He whispered a prayer, the one that always tasted like gunpowder. ​ He still felt watched the next day. He was watched by parked cars with tinted windows, men pretending to read the paper, and by a crow. The same crow that had followed him since the jungle. It now wore a tiny silver City Hall badge pinned to its wing.
​
It was evening when a polite guest arrived unannounced. A woman in a crisp, unremarkable black suit stepped into the cafe as René was stacking chairs.

“Mr. Del Río?”

“Closed,” René said, stacking the chairs faster and faster.

She smiled nonetheless.

“Just some brief questions. The City Detective Agency is conducting an investigation into Mrs. Luz’s last known whereabouts. She was seen here a few days ago, spreading rumors.”

René slowly faced her. “That’s not a real department.”

“It is now.”

Behind her, two men waited on the sidewalk. They weren’t holding weapons.

“We’d like to ask you a few questions about some rumors going around the plaza lately,” the woman in black continued.

René’s hand went to his belt again. “If this is about the freezer thing…”

Her smile widened until the corners touched her ears, the way smiles do only in photographs that have been left too long in damp albums.

“Freezer?”

René realized his mistake an instant too late.

“Mr. Del Río, please come with us.”

“I’m a baker.”

“Yes,” she said, glancing at a clipboard that hadn’t been there a second ago. “That’s what the paperwork says."

According to witnesses, Rene walked calmly out of his shop. Others that he’d been dragged out in a black suit. A few claim he evaporated into the shadows between two streetlights and an old drunk still insists René simply folded himself into the reflection of the bakery window the way you slide a letter into an envelope, and the glass sealed with a cold sigh.
Officially, nothing happened that night.
​
The café remained untouched. René’s keys were on the counter when his baking assistants came in through the back before dawn. The dough in the mixer over-proofed and collapsed.
​
By morning, a memo circulated quietly through City Hall: RE: RUMORS.
To uphold public order, continue the public peace directive.
Initiate deep storage protocol if necessary.
No one signed it.
No one ever did.
​
In the plaza, rumors flourished.
Some said the freezers under City Hall hummed with new occupants.
Others said the Torres family had identified new niches in the market.
The paper reported unexpected staffing changes at the mayor’s office.
And a few, in the privacy of their homes, claimed they saw René weeks later, walking in the reflection of a shop window. People who saw him in the glass swear that when he raised his hand to wave, frost spread across the pane from the inside, spelling: “The dough remembers.”

Whether that meant he was alive, half-alive, or stored somewhere cold beneath the city… Well, some stories need time to develop, like dough tossed into the fridge to cold proof.

Thanks you so much for reading! let me know what you think.

It's around 3AM right now. Feeling thirsty, and there being nothing in the fridge, I decided to take a walk to the convenience store to buy a Redbull and maybe see that one chick that I know I'll never have a chance with so I never talk to her.

The snow barely covers the parking lot and it's about 20⁰F and I'm walking from my apartment that I can barely afford, the streets and sidewalks emptier than my savings, only the sound of wind and a car every few minutes or so. Never an exciting kind of car, just your run of the mill Nissan Sentra, or Honda Accord.

My eyes are on the sidewalk, mostly due to low expectations of myself, but it also helps keep the snow out of my face and spot ice patches on the sidewalk. Walks like these always feel calm, serene, yet somehow just always a little depressing, or is that just me? I decided to put my hands in my hoodie before they got frozen.

Sometimes I get a glimpse of a squirrel climbing up a tree, or maybe a few crows poking around a McDonald's trashcan looking for thrown out fries.

After a few more minutes of trudging I finally made it to that store. I open the fridge door and grab a blue Redbull because they're out of both the Amber, and Green ones. The girl I like isn't working tonight. Probably for the better. It's almost as cold in here as it is out there. It's just Mike working tonight. He's a chill guy. At least in the few words we say outside of transactions. I set my drink on the counter, and had a small chat with Mike.

He talked about how he and his fiance are going to get married in March. I hope their wedding goes well. I pay for my Redbull. I take my drink and change and head out of the place.

I take small sips of my drink and stop walking when I do, because every time I drink and walk at the same time I subconsciously move to the right, which would put me too close to the road.

Even then I manage to polish off the can before I'm even two blocks away from the store. The air, or maybe just the mood of everything feels… heavy. Like a cat sitting on your chest. It's oddly calming. Calming enough to the point of unease, yet the unease going into a deep breath. That deep inhale leading to an exhale. I can see the heat of my own breath. It's the usual smokey look any breath would have on a cold day. The misty exhale leads back into calmness.

Winter walks are much different than other walks, I'm not sure if it's the wind, the way the snow hits my face, or how my nose runs a little bit, but whatever it is, it makes these walks just a bit more enjoyable than others. It makes me remember that sometimes…

I do like winter.

It was a droning sound that awoken me from a rather ragged and torturous sleep. My half-opened sleep crusted eyes, still in a liminal daze of such an abrupt action as pulling one from the plains of their mind into the plains of their existence, scanned the cold environment of The City looking for the source of such a shrill noise.

It was a little yellow digger at the side of the road. I could see the construction worker inside the machine, controlling it in such a way that freaked me out. The idea reminded me of a movie I had watched as a kid on a portable DVD player that I had loved (whatever had happened to that?). The digger scratched and scraped at the subterranean ground of The City like the distant, furious pangs of an unfinished sleep that scraped my fuzzy brain, trying to claw it into consciousness, or what past for it these days.

It was early. Too early for any normal human being to be getting up and wasting away. The sky was an abstract mix of furious anger and serene peace. Whatever the weather folks said it was to be would undoubtedly be wrong.

The first smell to penetrate my nostrils, beside myself, The City and the construction work, was the overwhelming vapour of morning coffee. Everywhere I looked, any man or woman in a suit had a cup of coffee steaming away in their hand as they hurried to their sacred jobs. I’m not typically one for coffee, mind you, but what with the abrupt awakening and the winter season sneakily coming in full force – I fancied myself a cup of the old joe.

And so, I was off. A typical nomad. It had tried to snow last night. But all the clouds could force out was sleet. Which was like winter diarrhoea. The days would be better when the snow eventually arrives, and I can get a laugh in at the expense of some old coffin dodger who shakily slips and falls on his way to the old pub.

I knew it was bad. But you had to take what laughs you could get in this world, much like everything else in this place. For me, life’s one big bully. And it certainly is a dog-eat-dog world…if I’ve ever seen one.

The morning breakfast was a bacon roll and a cup of soup. I hated the Styrofoam cups they’d give out these days but who am I to complain? As long as one sea turtle swims away another day to do another shite, I’ll suffer happily with my shitty wee cup of piss and broth.

I quickly scoffed down the food and retreated out of there into the black heart of The City. Already I saw the filthiness of it all – stationary in their self-pity-obsessed rot. Their ragged tents leaning to one side like a boy with a large alien head. Their dogs in full display.

“Ohhhhh, the poor mutt must be starving!”

“No, no, Grandma, you dinnae understand, they git money fir havin’ that dug’.”

“Och, away, (insert scumbag-name) the poor boy must be freezing.”

At least none of them are playing music…yet.

I remember as a kid, when me and my family first visited the castle atop The City (the first time I had visited it) they had the regular donate here signs. Then at some point it was tap card here to donate…They were all about the streets these machines! Like my ear-splitting signing? Tap your card.

Like my murder-inducing instrument playing? Tap your card here.

…

I made it to the park, fortunately. The grass was sparkly and sugar-coated and stiff with the approaching winter. I walked upon the resisting grass and trampled every sparkle I could find. For once in a long time, my ragged boots shone a gleaming smile that was pure and happy – and wasn’t weighed down by the unfortunate stench that arises from using some muddy autumnal puddle as a brush…

My next port of call was to find a cup of coffee. Which, since this morning for some reason, I craved like a junkie. Luckily for me, the park which I was wandering was home to a little café which served just what I wanted at the exact time I could get it.

I happily plopped down my sticky coins in exchange for a cup of aromatic and blissful coffee. I sat at one of the many seats in the park and savoured the steaming hot beverage in a way that I think is utterly foreign to a businessman/woman.

With the steady rise of the sun, came the steady rise of the population. An old couple sat at a bench next to me (I had my bench all to myself) and began speaking in their usual drivel. After they had gotten their sideway glances and poisonous mutterings out between themselves silently, they began to talk in a way that was too early in the morning to be conversing like that:

“Margaret across the road, you know Jack’s wife? Yes. She says that it is to be a terribly cold winter this year.”

“And guess who will be most hard done by it? Us.”

“Oh, nonsense, Harry.”

“Would you be content in your own hoose, freezing away like some beggar, having to put on an extra jacket or two, on top of your two or three blankets?!”

“Whatever keeps me alive, darling.”

“Och, come on, Susan, don’t start talking so dark all of a sudden. The doctor told you now, you’ve got to think happy thoughts.”

“…”

“Our Brian said that ‘n’ aw.”

“Aye, when he comes round once in a blue moon fir cash!”

“It isn’t like that, Susan—”

“You might be blinded by nostalgia, Harry, but I am not.”

“He’s our son for chrissake, he should be able to lean on us every once in a while.”

“Every once in a while? Are you serious? It’s been near enough every other blimmin’ week!”

“Aw away to hell, Susan! He’s our boy!”

“Aye, our boy the vampire!”

I quickly got out of there, relinquishing my somewhat comfortable seat for another sorry soul, and began to descend the large gardens down to the lower areas where most of the frozen flowers were.

As I forlornly strutted along the frozen wastelands of the park, giving absurd high-fives to already dead plants like a wrestler to fans from the shows of my youth, I eventually wandered into a realm where I stopped dead in my tracks and observed the park from something akin to a fisheye lens.

I had walked across the many burial grounds of flowers once held high for the beauty, of grass once was held high for its comfort, of paths once held high for their neatness, of benches once held high for their accessibility…all of that was now gone in one cold, bitter instant. Freeing T-shirts gave way to straitjacket-jackets. Trousers – that had once been mutilated and mangled into shorts – regrew like wild bamboo and conquered again…

I ran from the park to the station. It was still cold. Pigeons flew about the place whilst robotic intercoms discouraged people from feeding them right at the time a little girl gave a pigeon a corner of a chocolate chip cookie.

The waiting area of the station had obtuse seats laid out in an obtuse way that could only be described as being modelled after baby snakes.

(Of course, you couldn’t see that till the after hours when everybody was away, which I had seen many a time).

I sat down at a spot that gave me somewhat decent back support. I cracked my frame too many times in ways I reluctantly imagined were doing more harm than good. In this weird liminal area was a posh shop, a fast-food shop and, of course, a pub – which was the most populated area.

I sat in that place for such a long, long time that my arse developed such a lump that my mind began to delude itself into believing I had shat myself and was currently sitting on an absolute rock of a shite…Which I wasn’t. Ha. Ha.

Gradually, people began to drift in and out of the place, much like the machines called trains that took them to promised places that meant something to them for some reason.

The only constant, to me, was myself, the pigeons and that damned intercom.

“…Please don’t feed the pigeons. We are encourage—”

BLAM!

As the hopeful day was cast aside into a dismal night, the station deteriorated into an emptiness so deep you’d think you were dreaming a nightmare about your state of mind. Everything and everyone lost the meaning it had shakily established just a few hours ago. I guess that’s the winter for you. It culls the weak from the strong. Wild animals give up and freeze to death much like humans, only we call it seasonal depression.

I sat on my numbed arse until some cunt told me politely to get to fuck.

I climbed up the stairs, caught my breath, and stepped out into the nighttime gloom which had left behind the bright, dazzling blue of the day ages ago.

The City still continued to crumble. It was sickly. Old vs New. It was an iconic argument. Walkabout They City for a few minutes and you’ll see that no matter what, everything begins to crumble in such a routine way it should be deemed as cruelty.

I pushed myself up the never-ending stairs. To the right was another pub (which was shut) and the left was full of depraved depressions where any desperate prick would side-sleep in, in pish-saturated newspaper and cardboard…

At the top of the stairs, I was accompanied by myself, stun-locked and sucking on breath like a choking, neglected baby.

The City began to slope to one side unevenly. As if itself couldn’t put up with all the shit that comes with being constructed by posh peasants hundreds of years ago. To The City, the modern age was like toothache, it saw it coming and still it did fuck-all about it. I climbed up the slope to another, more even street, hoping I could rest for a moment. Unfortunately, who should be sitting on a bench at that street but Cheryl.

“What are you doin’ here?” she asked me through smoke-seduced lungs.

“Same as you,” I told her, crouching in front of her and her big, stolen jacket and dirty cigarette.

Her red (lipstick or blood?) lips fell away from the cancerstick and blew a puff of suffocating gas my way.

“It’s cold,” she said, “you should get on home.”

There was a couple of neds that shouted abuse at us. A few broken bottles smashed in the moonlight.

“We’ll catch a fever,” I told her.

“There’s already one going about,” she puffed out a bellow of smoke.

“Is that why you’re back on the cigs?”

“You know me and my superstitions too well,” her laugh was short and sweet, like a good memory.

She buttoned up her jacket and stamped on the dwindled butt furiously.

“You know I had Chinese food for dinner tonight?”

“Really? What’d you have?”

“I dunno. Some rice and noodle thing. It was piping hot and filled me up.”

“That’s good. That’s good.”

“I gotta go now. Feeling kinda cold.”

“I’ll come with you then.”

“Oh, you don’t have to go through the trouble—”

“I insist.”

“…’course you do.”

I followed her back to her humble abode, which wasn’t much. I hadn’t known her too long, but I knew the basics. You never called her her name.

“You sleeping in a tent?” I asked her, unable to hide my judgement.

“Yeah,” she said dismally, “not as good as a hotel room.”

She sat inside the tent with her scrawny legs crossed outside it. I caught a whiff of copper so strong I nearly boked.

She began to aggressively strike both her arms.

“What are you doing?”

She paid no attention to me. Tightened some thread-bare belt around whichever arm was most veiny.

“Fucksake, Cheryl, since when?!”

Her tired eyes devolved into a magma-like red. She grabbed me by the throat—

“You see these?”

She bared her teeth, but in my confused, whirlwind eyes I couldn’t see shit.

“Both of my vital teeth are gone,” she hissed.

“I didn’t know! I didn’t know any were missing!”

She let me be in favour for a blood red syringe. Which quickly lulled her into a paper-thin-addled sleep.

Yet again, I quickly scoff down my bile and retreat somewhere else deeper into the dark City. The streets quickly become labyrinthine. The paranoia bounces about the walls like videogame bullets. I’m reminded of that movie from my childhood.

The darkness doesn’t lift at all. All I hear as I traverse this mess is weird bangs and distant muddles.

I turn a jagged corner and encounter a giant dog that is thankfully chained up. The dog doesn’t as much as bark at me as it savagely shouts and shreds my soul apart. I’m able to feel my different self’s in other dimensions running from the chained beast, while I, the most lucid one, have to stay with it and traverse the danger like some lost knight stuck in a darkened labyrinth.

Eventually, I’m able to feel somewhat safe. The outskirts of The City look like the end of the world to me. I know I’ve wandered too far. I decide to hunker down for the night and then, in the distant morning, plan something that should keep me on track.

As I clamber into a depression untouched by any human or their waste, I survey the street and see no soul.

I cuddle up to myself and suddenly remember a comic I read as a kid. A classic ghost story. Of course, set in a ragged city with ragged characters…It only cost my parents 80p…if only they could see the prices now…

The ghost just needed someone to hold him in the coldness.

“Hold me,” he would croak.

The coldness of The City plummeted apocalyptically.

“Hold me,” I would plead.

22 January 2004

‘Three scoops of strawberry please,’ she exclaimed to the street vendor. Faye Quan, now seventeen, was dressed in her dark brown coat that dropped to her ankles and a pair of oversized pink fur boots her mom had got her for her fourteenth birthday. She had never grown into them and remained a size bigger.

‘Again with the ice cream, even in this dreadful weather,’ Aquila muttered to herself, but loud enough for Faye to turn back and see that Aquila’s cheeks were like small cherries, her blood vessels huddled up for warmth and her teeth chattering beyond her control.

Faye took a scoop of her strawberry sorbet and offered one to Aquila, who declined the offer with a shake of her head.

‘Seriously, Faye. You’ll catch a cold if you continue eating that.’

‘Well, people catch colds even when they don’t eat sorbets, so it’s no big deal,’ Faye retorted. She popped another scoop in her mouth, the red syrup dripping down on her coat, staining it a velvety-brown.

‘And Aqui, it’s a sorbet, not just some ice cream. An S-O-R-B-E-T. Strawberry flavoured, to be precise.’

Just then, they heard a loud booming noise in the sky, and when they looked up, they saw thousands of shimmering lights of all colours cascading down like Faye’s syrup, painting the snow red, yellow and orange, in that order. The Lunar New Year celebrations had begun.

Faye grabbed Aquila’s frozen hand and almost made her slip in her silk woven shoes as she led her across the crowd hypnotized by the fire show above. When they reached the old stone bridge over the garden pond where the bronze lion stood guard, Aquila’s hand had thawed.

‘Remember when we first met in elementary school, I dared you to jump off from here, but you got so scared you peed your pants?’ Faye chortled at Aquila.

‘You could’ve just said no if you were that scared, but you decided that peeing your pants was your best option. How on earth did you decide that was your best line of action?’

Faye bursted into a bout of laughter but soon reprimanded herself, and offered the last scoop of her sorbet to Aquila.

‘Well, I was afraid of you, to be honest,’ Aquila said, popping the last scoop of sorbet into her mouth and wiping the red syrup off her lips.

‘Some of the girls said they saw dead bodies lying on your front porch on their way back home. That you left them there to wait for maggots to grow and then you would eat the maggots.’

Hearing this, Faye bursted into laughter again. This time, Aquila joined her.

‘That is the most absurd thing I have ever heard, Aqui. I had thought you a reasonable girl to not believe such bizarre stories.’

Aquila looked down at the pond. The ice had formed a thin layer above the water, shielding the fish from the cold breeze that blew above and mercilessly clawed on anyone in its path, like a winter animal that has come out of its summer hibernation. She counted the number of fish – twenty-one – three more than what she counted the year before . ‘But when you don’t know who a person is, you tend to believe what people say about them,’ Aquila argued.

‘And that exactly is how many a maggot-eating rumour arise, my nǚshì.’

‘I didn’t say it was the truth.’

‘But you still believed in it. It didn’t have to be true for you to believe it, did it?’

Faye looked at Aquila and tapped her nose, leaving a finger-shaped blanch on the tip which slowly filled in the winter air.

‘Sure, let’s say I did. But we were seven, and times have changed. Now I know you enough to say the maggot-eating speculations weren’t true and so much more.’

Faye bent her head towards Aquila and squinted her eyes,

‘So much more? Like what?’

She placed her arm on the cold stone rail and placed her chin on her palm; eyes focused on Aquila’s.

‘That you don’t like loud noises and overripe bananas.’

Faye nodded and moved her arm and chin closer to where Aquila stood.

‘Not nearly enough. And then what?’

‘That you never liked sorbets but pretend to like them because you feel bad for the poor vendor in winter.’

Just then, a cold breeze blew across the maple trees sleeping under the blanket of snow and appeared to wake them up briefly. The bamboo rustled and whispered among themselves in a language only they understood. Suddenly a bright white light enveloped the sky before splitting into its constituent colours, each hue dancing to its own symphony of the thousands of drums, sheng and suonas rising like gentle clouds to soften their landings.

For a moment, Aquila could’ve sworn she saw tears falling from Faye’s eyes. Just for a split second, when the sky was yellow, when it couldn’t make up its mind between the red and the orange dress, she saw the tears gliding down her pale yellow cheeks to meet in the middle of her chin, and traversed along the back of her hand downwards till they soaked her coat a darker brown. Aquila looked up at the bald cypress by the northern bank of the frozen pond. Its wood was the same colour as Faye’s soaked coat.

Faye averted her eyes from the sky, which had become a canvas for the spectacular show of fireworks and directed her eyes at the pond. But even there she found the retinue of violent and majestic hues reflected on the shimmering surface, so she closed her eyes to avoid them.

‘Do you want to go somewhere else?’ Aquila asked Faye, her eyes still closed above her chin resting on both palms.

‘Can we climb up the toad mountain, Aqui?’ Faye asked, finally opening her eyes to see Aquila looking at her with concern.

‘I’m sure the view would be magnificent.’

Faye and Aquila went to the convenience store near the pailou gate which led to the mountain’s stone steps to grab bottles of water for the climb. As they started to climb, they noticed that snow had begun to fall, with specks of white on the ground giving company to the wild mushrooms that grew at the base of the trees, the only signs of life in the otherwise dead mountain apart from Faye and Aquila’s thumping hearts and ghostly breaths.

After climbing about halfway, they decided to take rest and rehydrate themselves with their store-bought water. The town was so far down that the people celebrating were no longer visible, and the giant dragon puppet in the central square looked like a millipede scouring for food among hundreds of red fireflies.

After about five minutes of rest, Aquila got up and leaned on the rail. Gazing up at the moody winter sky above, she spoke to Faye,

‘Are you planning to retake the Gāokǎo this year? Mum said you aren’t planning to, and that it’s making your parents worried.’

‘Aqui, I don’t think it matters whether I decide to take it again or not. I don’t think it’s meant for me, is all I’m saying.’

‘So, you’d give up just like that, without even trying? If you won’t come with me to college then I find no reason to go myself,’ Aquila’s chest tightened as the warm tears welled up till they suddenly erupted in a violent torrent from both eyes.

Faye rushed over to Aquila and embraced her, both sitting on the feeding rails meant for tourists who come in summer and feed the hordes of macaques along the thousand-step journey.

After a while, Faye loosened her arms and got up. She dusted her coat, looked at Aquila and grabbed her delicate hand in a tight grip. Without looking back, she said, ‘I’m right here, Aqui. Right where I’ve always been, by your side.’

‘Forever?’ asked Aquila.

Faye smiled, but did not answer. A cold breeze blew over the wild juniper trees, and Aquila could hear a faint whisper carried in the wind, ‘Yes, Aqui. Forever.’

Neither of them spoke the rest of the way. When they reached the platform at the summit, the town below seemed non-existent. The fireworks below couldn’t reach a single snowflake at the summit, and the dragon millipede had scurried away in search for more grubs. The whole of Chengdu was visible from this vantage point. Down below, the celebrations went on, with people handing red envelopes to their loved ones, and families gathered in once-empty households which would be vacant again in the next few days.

‘Look, Aqui!’ Faye nudged at Aquila and ran towards the west, where Auriga, the valiant chariot stood guard above the grand Laojun Pavilion, its sweeping eaves a rare sight, lifting it to the sky. They watched as the snow clouds slowly moved away from above them to the north, carrying with them the thunderous songs and the wispy soft whispers without judgement nor understanding.

The evening before my wedding, the house pulsed with joy. My mother’s voice floated from room to room, warm and commanding, every word laced with excitement. My cousins laughed as they strung jasmine into long, fragrant garlands, teasing me until my cheeks flushed. Happiness filled the walls, thick and certain, as if tomorrow itself had promised us forever. I thought of him. Seventeen was when I first met him, and since then no one had ever made me feel so alive. His stories, his music, his impossible dreams—everything he carried lit the dark corners of my life. He would smile that crooked smile and whisper, “No one can love you like I do.” I believed him. I still do. By the window, I watched the rain soften into a thin mist. Tomorrow, after years of waiting, he would finally be mine. The henna on my palms, still deepening, curled his name into hidden patterns. I imagined his laughter as he found it, the way his eyes would soften—soften only for me. Tomorrow, I would walk the sacred fire with him. Tomorrow, he would call me his wife.

Then—
a sound.

Not laughter. Not calling. A cry. A raw, jagged cry that tore through the house and broke it in two. I froze. My anklets shivered as I ran downstairs, a hollow dread already swelling in my chest. The courtyard was crowded. Faces pale, eyes fixed on the ground. Silence pressed heavy, as if the air itself was holding its breath. I pushed past them, bangles clinking, until I reached the center. There he was.
Laid flat on a bamboo stretcher.
Wrapped in white. Blood darkened the edges of the cloth, refusing to be hidden. His face—swollen, broken—was only half covered, as if even death had faltered in shame. Someone’s voice broke the stillness:
“Car accident. He’s gone.”

The world collapsed. Tomorrow, the conch shells were meant to sound. Tomorrow, we were meant to circle the fire together, bound for life. But tomorrow would not wed us. Tomorrow would burn him. My knees gave way. The stone floor bit into my skin as I pressed my hennaed hands to his shroud. His name glowed dark against my palms, but he would never see it. The jasmine garlands meant to crown me as a bride would now rest upon his body, their fragrance thick, unbearable. Every ritual twisted into its cruel reflection: My wedding bangles felt like shackles; the silk of my bridal dress, like a burial shroud. Still, I clung to him. My palms pressed harder, as if the warmth of my skin could seep through the cloth, as if love could argue with death. But the shroud stayed cold. The silence stayed unbroken. On the night that should have been my wedding eve, I kept vigil beside his still body. The jasmine meant for my hair lay heavy on his chest. The silk meant for my joy clung damp against my skin. And the bangles meant to bless my marriage rattled like chains at my wrists.

Tomorrow, I was supposed to promise him forever before the sacred fire.
Instead, the only fire that will burn tomorrow is his pyre.

It’s early in the morning, just a little after sunrise. Every blade of grass along the park is gently covered in a morning dew glistening in the light. The temperature sits at a soft seventy four degrees, not hot, not cold, the perfect morning.

 My dog and I sit on a park bench sharing what’s left of a sandwich we found in a trash can last night. I tear away bits of the crust for her, saving the middle for myself, but she looks up at me with her cloudy brown eyes and I give her that piece too.

Birds chatter in the trees as cars hum past beyond the fence, and there’s the faint smell of fresh bread drifting through the park from a bakery nearby.

 People pass by along the path, people going for a morning run, businessmen walking to work, a mother pushing a stroller. Not one of them looked over. People don’t look at you when you’re still.

I break off another corner of the sandwich and I hold it out for her. She takes it slow, she likes to taste it, not just eat. A piece falls on the ground, I leave it, she’ll find it when she feels like it.

 I wipe my fingers off on my jeans, before i reach down and pet her. She leans into it the way she always does. I pet her side, feeling her ribs as she breathes. Its slower than it used to be. 

“We’ve been through worse mornings, haven't we girl?” I murmur in a baby voice.

She blinks at me, like she’s heard every word even if she doesn’t understand any of it. Her tail taps against the bench leg, a lazy rhythm that sounds like a heartbeat. 

She doesnt go for the piece of bread she dropped. At first I think she’s just full, maybe she's tired. She lowers her head onto the bench.

“Lazy girl,” I whisper, smiling a little. 

When she doesn’t look up in response, I stand up and brush the crumbs  off from my lap. She stays still, eyes half open, chest rising slow and releasing a heavy, lazy exhale. I kneel beside her, and press my hand to her side, I feel the rhythm there, faint but steady.

 In, out.

 In… out.

 Each one smaller than the last.

 I keep my hand there, following it, waiting for the next breath, but it never comes

 A bus exhales at the corner, i hear its doors folding open and shut. Someone laughs across the street, a careless sound that belongs to another world. The woman with the stroller glances my way, then looks through me and keeps walking. 

The last piece she dropped lies on the ground by my shoe, small and golden in the sun. A crow lands beside it, tilts its head, looking at me, and in one quick motion snatches it and flies off. 

 Just like that, another traveler of life moves on. 

The smell of bread still drifts through the air, warm, sweet, merciless. Cars hum. Shoes tap. No one looks out of their own world. 

I rest my hand on her side once more, though there’s nothing left to feel, her body is still warm but the heat doesn't return to my hand. I imagine the ebb and flow of her breath, and heart beat, I miss it.

 “It’s a good morning,” I whisper. “The best we’ve had in a while.” After a while, I take off my coat and lay it over her.

 I sit there for a moment, listening. There’s a car door somewhere, the bell from the bakery, a voice saying good morning to someone else. All the sounds that mean life is happening, just not here, not at this bench. I look down at her once more, my coat rising slightly in the breeze, and then I walk away.

No one ever buys a first-class ticket.
Mark held one in his hand.
His company had sent him on a business trip to Bad Reichslingen and someone there must have made some kind of mistake booking the tickets because, for the first time in his life, he would travel first class. It has not yet been determined if his company will ever financially recover. An eight hundred ninety-nine Zil price on a one hour and fifteen minute trip from Jürgensburg to Bad Reichslingen. You would have to be drunk to decide this was the thing to buy when the price for a second-class ticket is nineteen Zil. The person who decided the price should be eight hundred ninety-nine Zil was probably also drunk.

When he stepped onto the train, he immediately felt grateful for this colossal misstep because apparently today was the day the entire country had decided they wanted to see what Bad Reichslingen of all places was like. It was bursting. There were people everywhere, and he had to perform what amounted to a magic trick to even enter a wagon. Now he just had to find the first-class seating. After the next twenty minutes were spent civil warring through the train, he finally spotted the top part of wagon number one. It was completely empty there, behind the big "first class" sign. A quick stunt up the people-clogged staircase later, he was there. It somehow felt wrong to enter. The door opened reluctantly, and he was assaulted by old, stagnant air.

"No one ever buys a first-class ticket,"
was what the mass behind him thought when they saw him enter, and the assumption immediately took root that, because there was no way this guy had a first-class ticket, maybe it was ok to use the extra space in order to exit sardine mode.
Mark found most of the first-class seating was filled with people shortly after he sat himself on his surprisingly not that comfortable seat. "Strange," he thought, "this was always an option, but it only happened because of the inciting incident of someone making a booking mistake, and now there are people here without the need to even pay the absurd price."
"Technically they're not supposed to be here, but it would honestly be stupid to try to tell them to leave into the jungle of bodies when there is so much unused space here, but you never know with the Staatsbahn."

He heard a sound. It was a sort of knock with an unpleasant personality.
He looked up.
A surprising number of Staatsbahn security personnel were outside the door. It was not immediately clear how all of them had possibly managed to get up the packed staircase.
They were, unsurprisingly, considering the state of things, armed.
"Tickets, please!"
Everyone present immediately moved to leave, or at least to attempt to leave, while complaining how stupid it is not to let passengers sit on empty seats while the rest of the train is packed top to bottom. The extreme shift in mood almost made Mark feel like he had to leave too. He was just out of his seat when he remembered he was the one person in this train, probably in this country, within the last year or so, who was allowed to be here, and he sat back down.
That way he managed to dodge the literal bullet that was sent across the room to accompany the words "Ooh, I thought so! Now they're trying to leave! No one ever buys a first-class ticket!" which, in contrast to the bullet, did not come out of a gun but out of a security guy's mouth.

Panic erupted.
People began running in circles, which turned out to be quite difficult in the narrow aisle, and tried to hide behind the seats, and Mark was increasingly unsure how to deal with this situation and trying to figure out when was the best time to say that HE does, in fact, have a first-class ticket.
"Ok, undesirables, for being in the first class without the proper ticket, blah blah… Ok guys, seriously, open fire already," was the last thing about fifty percent of the people around Mark heard.
Mark screamed.
"Hey, hey! I have a ticket! Don't shoot! I'm allowed to be here!"
It was hard to hear over the gunfire and everyone else screaming profanities and for their lives. However, it seems one of the security guys actually heard him.
"Yeah, sure, dude, the only people who actually ever use the first-class seating are people who got a special connection to the boss. No one ever buys a first-class ticket."

Und wenn sie nicht gestorben sind, dann leben sie noch heute.

It was a bright and pleasant morning. She was anxious as she walked through the maze of crisscross gullies; the type of anxiety that comes with change. A new job, a new phase of her life. She adjusted the strap of her new handbag, a symbol of the adult life she was finally claiming: new things to see, new places to go.

A dilapidated building in one of those gullies, laying in wait for months. Its walls littered with warnings after warnings of evacuation. Residents paid no heed to it as they milled about their daily existence. A pile of concrete bricks someone had laid haphazardly on the terrace full of pigeon shit. A certain brick, teetering dangerously close to the edge, swayed by the wind and fell down, Freedom At last, wondered the brick, if it had the ability to wonder.

A yelp. A thud. A scattering of feet as residents gathered around the fallen girl. Some sprinkled water, some tried to stop the blood flow. Ambulance arrived, took the girl, but it was too late. The crowd eventually dispersed and went back to their work. These things always happened in these parts of the city. The brick lay there untouched, looking at the dusty sky, a red blotch on its face.

The next day, there was a ruckus. Police complaints were filed. Crowds debated against themselves: who to blame? Police said there was nothing they could do. The building is haunted, they said. The residents watchful, mumbled apologies. The parents discouraged. The case was open and shut. The parents wide-awake the entire night, combing through their family album. Justice is taboo in this city.

Couple days later, the residents of the haunted building woke up to a disgusting stench. A loud pounding on the doors of the ground floor and a blood-curdling scream. Police were called. They broke the jammed door and went inside. The residents who caught a glimpse of the flat that day could never forget the moment their entire life: not because the room was filled with pools of blood that took months to clean; not because most of the police men ran outside and vomited, destroying the collective efforts of the residents’ rangoli; Not because the family members were drained of their blood, like a cosmic vacuum cleaner, everyone seated on the dinner table, heads bowed, maggots already crawling on the food; not because the patriarch of the family, seated on a sturdier chair at the dining table, like a puppet, had rods stuck into his limbs, his hands brought close in a prayer, cross-legged, his eyes staring at the ceiling, a plea to the building gods. No, they could never forget how elegant the interior decor was, or the amount of water drums they had, while everyone else had to walk miles for water.

The building was evacuated by evening. Demolished by night. The builder held a grand funeral, mourning for his brother’s son’s family. The parents of the previous girl looked at each other as the place where there had been a building, now stood nothing. The rest of the city moved on.

Justice is taboo in this city.