CURRENT2016

Editor-in-Chief:Nicholas Hartunian

Secretary:Kara O’Rourke

Champion:Matthew Mitchell

Staff:Dane CahoonNatalie ChristopherRia DhullCorey FrateOlivia FordyceJames Garijo-GardeAngela MehtaJulia Tong

Cover Design: Front cover by Nick Hartunian

Faculty Advisor: Theresa Vara-Dannen

Printer: Darien Executive Printers

An Ode to Robin WIlliams

The Party

Speak

Beating Procrastination

In Love with the Radio

Throughout This World

Come Home

Spirits I Didn’t Drink

BeccaRe

Song for You

Plus One

Prejudiced World

To Fear Success

Reincarnation

Collapse

My Brain

Colleen Brereton

Natalie Christopher

George Demopoulos

Sarishka Desai

Ria Dhull

Alysssa Farrell

Emily Findlan

Olivia Fordyce

Elisha Ghaloo

Isabel Hansen

Nick Hartunian

Angela Mehta

Andrew Orner

Will Ostrand

Katie Ramsay

Paul Ridder

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Table Of Contents

Poetry

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30

31

32

33

34

35

38

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48

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Poetry

Prose

An Alliteration Adventure

Only Love Can Conquer

No Good For You

A Day’s Season

Monday Mornings

Yesterday

Speak

The White Dress

I Face the Sun

The Creation of Adam

The Last Slice of American Pie

Women I’ve Never Known

The Expeditionist

A School Day

Inanimation

Gambit

Samuel Scott

Livia Scura

E’Sachi Smalls

Justin Van de Graaf

Alex Wang

Candice Wang

Quin Wolters

Thea Belak

Dana Cahoon

Breana Del Gatto

Mila Escarjadillo

Olivia Fordyce

James Garijo-Garde

Nicholas Hartunian

Kara O’Rourke

Julia Tong

PrefaceDo not go gentle into that good night,Old age should burn and rave at close of day;Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,Because their words had forked no lightning theyDo not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how brightTheir frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sightBlind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.Do not go gentle into that good night.Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

-Dylan Thomas, 1951

POETRY

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An Ode to Robin WilliamsColleen Brereton

The Best of his Many Characters

The human race is filled with passion,And love, dear... those are the ties that bind,Life exists!It’s Wonderful! Magnificent! Glorious!

But I wish for your freedom,For only in their dreams can men be truly free,You must strive to find your own voice,Such a thing would be greater than all the magic and all the treasures in all the world.

Welcome aboard, everybody,There’s a time for daring and there’s a time for caution,Carpe diem, seize the day boys, make your lives extraordinary.

The longer you wait to begin, the less likely you are to find it at all,What are doing up so late?Good Morning.

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The PartyNatalie Christopher

They started in the kitchen, Cackling and laughing. They danced and swirled around the room elegantly. They moved into other rooms in the house, bursting into the living rooms and dining room,Claiming the chairs and sofas. The party moved outside,The house was too full, Crowded and hot. They left a devastating mess behind them,Leaving the home’s owner a disaster to clean up.Now the the party really erupted.They climbed the walls of the house,They jumped on the roof.The roof collapsed, The walls tumbled down,The furniture was trampled,The possessions were ruined.

The firemen were called, But it was too late.

All the flames left was a pile of ash.

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SpeakGeorge Demopoulos

You speakNo one understandsYou’re quietpeople ask whyYou speakYour accent working as a wall between you and your friendsYou look towards your familyThey don’t understand your tonguePeople confront youask you to changeyou tell themYou understandbut they have no replywhen asked where fromjust because of your tongueYou grew up under educatedBut now everyone seems overeducatedbut still they can’t understand youBut from a 5 year old they doWhen trying to be niceYou sound meanUnable to put your point acrossUnable to speak

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Beating ProcrastinationSarishka Desai

I don’t know how it happens, but the seconds fly away“Not now, just a moment” I pleaThere just isn’t enough time todayBut alas, with a coy grin, homework menacingly beckons me

“Not now, just a moment” I pleaAs I let the euphoria of procrastination lead me astrayBut alas, with a coy grin, homework menacingly beckons meI begrudgingly fulfill my obligations, duties which once felt so far away

As I let the euphoria of procrastination lead me astrayI’d much rather be reading, dancing, or even watching TVI begrudgingly fulfill my obligations, duties which once felt so far awayThe red digits of my digital clock tick, a pitiful heartbeat– nine, ten, eleven thirty

I’d much rather be reading, dancing, or even watching TVTo the temptation of sleep my bloodshot eyes slowly fall preyThe red digits of my digital clock tick, a pitiful heartbeat – nine, ten, eleven thirtySoon, my soft incandescent lamplight flickers alone in the hallway

To the temptation of sleep my bloodshot eyes slowly fall preyThere just isn’t enough time todaySoon, my soft incandescent lamplight flickers alone in the hallwayI don’t know how it happens, but the seconds fly away

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In Love with the RadioRia Dhull

She hums to the drum of the faucet, the water streaming through her cuppedhands, her fingers running fast through sleep strewn hair.

Music.It surrounds her.

A glimpse in the mirror helps hermove faster, she can’t stay still for longnow; the grey at the edge is pressingcloser, she just hums louder.

Footsteps.Rushing in time to the pounding beat.

Her fingers tap the dashboard along to the radio; he sits in the back, quiet asalways. She turns the music upjust in case.

Radio noise.Crackling static turning into a jolly tune.

He was named James but she called him Jem. No, no she couldn’t let it returnagain, she fumbles for the radio dials before the light turns green.

Melody.It keeps her busy.

She types fast at her computer, music loud in her headphones, grey mist pooling in the corner. She turns and he is gone, glass pulled out of a papercut, strange that something so clear and pure could hurt so much.

Music.She is made of it.

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Throughout This WorldAlyssa Farrell

Throughout this world, everybody has felt misplaced or alone at times.Every person has felt strange,disconnected from an environment.Whether it’s a sports practice,the lunchroom,an unfamiliar house,a party.

This struggle is difficult,so hang in there.There are other ways of looking at this.

Perhaps it is a way of fate,leading you to another person who also searches for help.They also don’t know what to do.

You don’t have to continue hiding,You can work on finding your mutual half.Your other piece to your puzzle.

An ally, a friend.There is always someone out there who will help you.No matter the age,there will always be someonewho wants to help you.Who wants to guide you.Support you.

They are out there,don’t ever stop searching.

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Come HomeEmily Findlan

Twenty-four hours A weekA monthAnd now half a year

You miss so muchYet you don’t realize

Track meetsConcertsBirthdays

You say “I ’ll come back soon”When is this “soon”?This “soon” isn’t soon enough.

I miss, I care,I’m stressed

I’m worried.

I know you’re working.but everyday my life changes a bit.I want you to come home.Come home soon.Make soon now.Because, you’re missing too much of our lives.

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Spirits That I Didn’t DrinkOlivia Fordyce

How long, how long-- a day, a month, a--It’s better to be unhappy alone than unhappy with someone,So far, and I love I love I love I love silent snow upon a dark window.The image is one thing and the human being is another.I am very forgiving. It’s a bad habit of mine.Als ik kan, zal ik de heele wereld voor jou stelen.Wake up dear, you can’t sleep all day!

Lights up on a girl who has drowned for 6 months--today she takes her first breath. Rattling her bones like a jail cell she is unfa-miliar withcaptivityis startling to an entity that once settled on freedom.

The people of the room move slowly, tripping on sequins sequentially placed and feeling dazzle blow behind their eyes.

You can find the most access points by the water-- turning, spinning-- it burbled when it came. Humbled by sunflowers, it is silenced. And so it goes that my mind is painted as krokodillos in a surrealist fantasy. Let that world know, it’s a three ring circus and I am the bear.

“Do you think I know? I have my own thoughts-- of course.”

She did not believe in him. It wasn’t that she didn’t believe in humanity-- she had faith in the innovation of man.

Yet, candles burn slower than fires, and the warmest blues die with them.

Do you remember when we painted this house? Ah, it was so lovely warm. The room yellow, my insides yellow!

Daar is geen verliefde in een grote bed.

You wonder what happened to the strength of the plot as they do not pay attention to the foot that has stepped on her head so long.

I lost my teddy bear under my bed. He was always off rhythm, always two counts behind me, and yet I clung to the idea of him so tightly. I hope he finds a girl who claps offbeat or at least to whatever he calls his, and I hope she will never be me again.

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If Vincent can do it then so can I! You’ll find my ear in a shoebox in Haarlem, you’ll find my heart in a jail cell in Amsterdam. Scattered, shattered I am in the land and in the world, but you’ll find me mostly in you.

Do not become a monster to fight the monster.

How did it happen that she was on her own? She has more worlds inside her than an old bathtub (I can’t tell you that she is so fond of ivory). She looks up at the moon, and thinks I’ve become a slave to you. Nothing white can stay.

“I think I would like this room better if it would stop asking me how.” “It will pause with the rain.”

I have written a book of poems to recover you. I cannot do it any longer by building statues of pills or empty bottles-- a hundred years of solitude. I wrote every bit of you I can remember into it. It contains the crinkles by your eyes, the roughness of your hands, air melting between us, the way I looked at you when you were wrapped up in yourself. I left my book in a Common where tadpoles play alongside the music of the park. Maybe your new addiction will find it there, pick it up, remember me, and be sad.

I wanted you to love me back, and you wanted me to be more like her; and after you put out my torch I knew that this is why they name hurricanes after people.

Take notes, my dear, be efficient. It is just an interpretation, you are just a dream. Do not be frightened if I am king, I will hear a bird rustle if civil hands be unclean.

Her chips are on the table in a Native American casino, and she is losing. When she closes her eyes, the only memory she retains is a girl lying in a pond, dressed in white, surrounded by flowers that hang in the wind. Someone please save the girl.

Rise as high as a Lady Lazarus, taller than the sunflowers grow. Be see-through, become a transparent eyeball, live clearly. We would rather hear silence than the voice of a swan song.

She leans over the toilet and her friend holds back her hair, regurgitating ideas used countless times and words upon words upon words. After she and the toilet have finished their tête-à-tête, she sighs and turns blue.

Little nightingale, succumb to the Birdman. Let him seep through your bones, understand his motive. He calls through the street for people of your kind, with pearls in their eyes and coral in their bones. Disturbing the universe lies in the lotus souls of the ones like you.

My dear, I never sought to unwind you.I did not mean to leave you uncoiled.

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Ludduvuddu, ludduvuddu.

She talks like God, and it’s enough to convert me.

BeccaReElisha Ghaloo

I was hiding, reminiscing that night when I dreamt yet once again.Can I be found? Never.And so left unto you, is hidden, concealed, can not be found.What I met through closed eyes is lost.

Alluring lies are long to be told by transparency.Wistfully, seen through closed eyes were fallen dreams just as opaque.Will I be touched by those hidden souls? They claw away in frustration.What I met through closed eyes was left, undisturbed.

The degrading words I speak, and once spoke, bloomand my state of reminiscence withers.In slow notions the hidden souls were forgotten.What I met through closed eyes, can’t be recalled.

Now, from inside this hidden soul, what was transparent, became beyond recognition andWhat I met through closed eyes…

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Song for YouIsabel Hansen

Colors of the notes,pulsing in my veins.

The swirls of red and yellowstuckin between but not stopped. The trance-a spell to be lured inonly to be kicked out again.

Not the pain of a breakbut a crack in the granite,a foundation to build upon.

Fixated,on what cannot be obtained.What’s the point?Why?

Blinded by red.Bounced off the vortex. Only to reach further,further than before.

But there’s always a block.The grey in our red. Just to push me off the edge,and out of the redagain.

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Plus OneNicholas Hartunian

One plus one plus one,Plus one plus one plus one plus,One equals seven.

Seven continents,Seven days of creation,A lucky number.

Luck might not be real,But now a new abstract is,The Triple Haiku.

Wait, no, it’s been done,Guess it’ll be quadruple,Nope, this is taken.

And quintuple too,Who is doing this to me,Not fun anymore.

Professor Cactus,Middleman Conspiracy,Epic Pirateship.

Seven - full circle,Oh, but we can’t have nice things,The great ending lost.

Feb, Twenty-Sixteen,The First Octuple Haiku,Nick Hartunian

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Prejudiced WorldAngela Mehta

Two roads stood in front of meOne was used, the other one was notIt took time to understandBut it was too late to go back and chooseIt wasn’t my mistakeMy destiny was already writtenOnly I wished to go back and change it

I was given the other, not given to manyQuestions were raisedFingers were pointedComments were made, butI didn’t say a word or twoLater, realised

I could not take itIt came like a thrust of an ocean wavetook away all at onceI was all by myself, all by myselfMy anger filled the bathtubMy confidence slide down the drainMy courage disappeared in the sinkMy happiness evaporated, in the form of steam

Swirly clouds of depressing thoughtsSurrounded meI was inclined to go backSingapore- an unprejudiced WorldMade up of racial harmony, no discriminationIf God had not made us differentWhen creating us, thenWho are we to make it distinct?

My parents were my backbone,They helped me get out of all this messI hated going to schoolThey said, it wasn’t coolThey convinced me, thatI wasn’t different from others by skin’s colorAlthough, I could distinguish myself from othersIf I could do better than them

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In academicsIn characterand by helping those who need spiritual support

Soul is like a highway while the body is just a carBy doing good deeds, I can make this world a better placeBody is tangibleIt is today and might not be there tomorrowSoul is intangibleIt will last forever

We’re of different colorBut the soulWe’re from the same worldMy color and religion are differentAnd that has made the difference

To Fear SuccessAndrew Orner

There are many things to fear,war, poverty, corruption diseaseall reasonable to dislikebut to fear prosperitynow that is a strange proposition

Yet, here I am, I look upon the worldI see the green disappear andthe grey monotony of industry take its place

I fear success,because I am scared that the way I liveand the way we livewill destroy the world in our lifetimeand for those who come after us

I find no refuge in denying changeI see no value in pushing off our problemsAll I can do is fear, fear that my voice is not enoughthat we have gone too far and we can not save ourselvesMost of all I fear that our great strength is thegreatest weakness of humanity

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ReincarnationWill Ostrand

I thought life a puzzling thingBut in realitylife’s a simple thingand while it may be a cursejust like an old lady’s purseit’s full of mysteriesAnd one night I softlyStirred from mypathetic empathyFor the path to entropyis the one less traveled byBut sadly my prophecyForetold by the hypocrisyof a cynical bard who said…I’m sorry I wasn’t listeningto his scripturesI’m sure his lips ensured the hipstersbut my ability to picturea poet’s faded poetryIs like a phony phoning in apologya plea to be seen by the fatesWho wield my lifeMy heels will soon keel for strifeis a knife through your shield“why, is that howwe all go out?”The common lout will pout

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Well who’s the phony now?

CollapseKatie Ramsay

Each day that we stay hereThe days pile onAnd so does the pressure 10 pounds for how to dress30 for your grades15 for the everlasting struggle of who you are friends with Day by dayAnd week by weekThe pressure buildsCrippling us It’s hard to enjoy life with 80 pounds on your backNo more jumping or playing aroundBecause surely you would break your spineInstead every day is spent fighting the weightTrying to get the pressure to disappear The inhale and exhale for laughter is blockedby the 40 added pounds of pressure from your parentsYour tummy cannot jiggle with joyBecause there you will find more pressure One day you may find yourselfStuck to the groundUnable to move a fingerPressed into the carpet in your room by the pressureThe fuzz will indent your soft skin as the weight gets heavierNo longer can you turn your head to look at the doorThere is no way to escape the immense pressure you are trapped under But there are people who lift more than youThey can lift their own weights offAnd they will soon help you tooOne by one the right people will come byTo take the weights offAnd to the pressure you can saygoodbye

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My BrainPaul Riddler

A perfectionistWith lead in his fingers he’s dexterousSitting on his shoulder next to his head is a pessimistSecond guessing and living in resentmentHis regrets get the best of himIn his presence he’s hesitant

On the other shoulder sitting alone lies wisdomHe always tries to get him to make wise decisionsBut the pride within him that doesn’t abide by the systemDecides to get into the wrong kind of business

So then the opposites argue and rageStart a debate over what he should write on the pageThe devil says “your writing’s a shame”“Every forced and unnecessary rhyme is a pain”“You should give up trying today”“Throw out your pencil and make sure every line is erased”

The angel has had enough and finally steps in“All he’s doing is trying to entice you with sin”“Follow through and he’ll provide you with a life you resent”“He’ll disguise you and you’ll be despised by all of your friends”“You have words, you have thoughts that the whole world needs to hear”“So write before the end of your time is finally near”

The battle stirs his patienceHe’s frustrated and furiatedHow could they have the nerve to say whether or not his writing deserves its praisingAn eternal flame burns inside and disturbs his brainEvery single word he ate he’s finally about to regurgitate

The poet speaks“I’ve thought for months and wrote for weeks”“The two of you have been my mentors, supposedly”“It feels like I have frozen feet and nobody will notice me”“Why is my fate openly waiting to dispose of me”

The three of them fling words back and forthThis game of tug of war has shown that they lack remorseNot afraid to curse their names and spit at the floor

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Disastrous, but motivationally a fantastic source

After fighting for so long he says “forget it”No longer cares what everyone else thinks is patheticDraws from this experience and gets the messageComposed into a poem and you just read it

An Alliteration AdventureSamuel Scott

Abandoned and aloneBefore the beach’s boisterous breakers,Calmly collecting crabs’ carapaces.Deliberately denying doubtEmotionally encouraging elation.Finally feeling fulfilled,Gladness granted gloom a gap.Happiness hurriedly hit the heart,Igniting innervations in an instant.Jumbled jubilanceKept key knowledge:Live a long, lucrative life,Make many meaningful memories,Never negate nourishmentOr obstruct optimism.Perhaps people paint pitfalls,Querulously questioning queer quarrels.Real recklessness remains,Slowly sapping satisfaction,Though thousands tirelessly toilUnder unnecessary unawareness.Vexing vandals vanish,While the wholesome win.For xeniums and xenodochiumsYou’ll yearnZealously and zenfully.

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Only Love Can ConquerLivia Scura

Love is the only force capable of transforming an enemy into friend.I have decided to stick with love.Hate is too great a burden to bear.

Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that.Hate cannot drive out hate;only love can do that.

I refuse to accept the viewthat mankind is so tragically boundto the starless midnight of racism and warthat the bright daybreak of peaceand brotherhood can never become a reality.

I believe that unarmed truthand unconditional love will have the final word.We may have all come on different ships,but we’re in the same boat now.

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No Good For YouE’Sachi Smalls

You laugh when you both disagree,

but he’s choking your wrists.

You don’t differ from his opinion.

You always call to tell me all about him,

but he threatens to take your phone away.

You didn’t respond to him fast enough.

You want me to lie to your parents,

but you don’t see.

You deserve better than him.

Your parents don’t know about him,

but they need to know about the pain he’s causing you.

You are only hurting yourself.

I know he swept you off your feet,

but he’s no good for you.

You are better than you know.

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A Day’s SeasonJustin Van de Graaf

We awake from the nightthat becomes ever slimmerThe days are brightthe water begins to glimmer,Sunny days get longer but fly by ever fasterThe reeds and trees grow strongerThe sky shines like alabaster.

Before we know a cloud appears and comes down lowto shed its tearThere is no woeIt’s just that time of yearDawn was new, but noon is now The most intense it ever getsIt all flies by before a wowIt isn’t likely no one frets.

Dawn’s cousin on the horizonWhere we want is where we’ve beenThe air is cold and thinThere is still beauty now and thenTired now but ever wiseThe trees and bricks no longer rise The cloud no longer criesAfter all we have said good byes Until we wake once again.

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To the Weariness of Monday MorningsAlex Wang

On Monday mornings- eyes are in darkness I rise, yet fall, locked as captive of night Where energy drifts and soars, leaving me With my shut eyes, breaths- locked in tiredness. Fatigued, wanting bed’s warm great escape I’m work’s captive, forever trapped in its prison. My body scarred, bones shattered, heartbeat cedes. Unable to dress, unable to walk downstairs I flutter down, through clouds, and fall down. I’m ablaze- stress’s heat chokes, makes me drown. Fatigue moves in me, veins clog, flesh astray Above, bus’s rumble. I fight, stress pervades. He slays me with labor’s sword, throws me down. Forever, I shut my eyes, bus flies away.

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YesterdayCandice Wang

yesterday Iwatched you.watched you drink a glass of milk.you left foggy fingerprintsitchy wrists and an acrid taste on my tongue.

between the wet wets wet white steam streamingshins faltering and splinteringyou lay alonecalves damp against the breathing gravel streetlips pressed against the sidewalk foaming and freeingI let you lick the stamps onceletters unsent unfelt.

glistening bodies glistening under thesun.double abysses everywhere I turntrip over your nose,oh, I will,your ski jumps and little buttons sew your knees to your chestand rock away the rest of the afternoon.

there’s a little chocolate on your chin.

what chin?why have a chin if you’re going to let it fly awayunhinge and your teeth grow into fluttery white wings soar out away from here.

Don’t slamclick clickthe door clickonyourwayout.

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SpeakQuin Wolters

You take your blue notebook outNo.It must be the red firstorder is what keeps us alivewhat keeps us saneroutines keep us away from feelings of disturbanceof stressyou take your notebooks out in a certain orderyour order.whatever makes you feel goodthat’s how you should liveso what if they criticizethey don’t understandA habit that keeps you goingis a habit that you should cherishwho cares what they saythey don’t understandyou have a gifta gift of observationa gift of understanding in your lifeyou have orderyou have routine

PROSE

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The White DressThea Belak

The stench of the death boils in the hot sun. Corpses stacked and sprawled over each other, polluting the field’s soil. Patches of grass lie scarce, lose strands flutter in the breeze of the sooty air. Smoke as black as night folds a blanket over the dead, some not even old info to be categorize as men but mere boys dressed grandly in thereuniform. Blood that doesn’t belong to them splattered over their bodies and faces. Not all lie in one piece, tissue small as fingers and as large as torsos lie on there own, abandoned. Flies feast away at the flesh of the fallen, no arms swat them away, no nothing swats them away. Maggots relishing on the faces of the dead men, eyes and cheeks harvested. In a patch of untouched ground a young girl stands. No older then seven, she stands motionless among the troops, twiddling a poppy in her tiny hands. Her white Sunday dress brushed with red at the very bottom, as if someone had taken a paintbrush to it. Her long brown hair draped behind her shoulders and as a small breeze passes, it brushes a few strand loose. Letting them fly freely in the dusty air. In the far distance, she hears the shots of riffles and cannons, as more take their last steps. She kneels down and lays her pop-py on the chest of her father. Though no tears fall, her heart lies in a thousand pieces at the pit of her stomach. She stands there, as if lifeless herself until the color of the sky changes to crimson. Sunset, and her time to leave. She says the only prayer she was ever taught over her fathers remains, before turning and making her way back through the maze of the dead.

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I Face the SunDana Hamilton Cahoon

It rained that day. The dreary overcast sky cast its tears down to us, and some of us did indeed cry. Not me though. But others did. My mother did. But I stood there with my face to the rain. There was a sort of arrogance to it. I didn’t mind the rain. I face the sun.

People shed tears for things that they don’t understand. I guess they felt the same way about the women in black habits. But he deserved it, you know. Bomb throwers get what they deserve. My relation to him was inconse-quential. I face the sun. I guess there was a bit of sadness in me about it. The days of fishing by the creek were over. We didn’t comprehend. We didn’t really try either. They say ignorance is bliss, but I guess I disagree. Nostalgia is powerful though. How hard we may wish for a new beginning but it is in the past that we trea-sure. And the past shall inspire and the past shall invigorate. I will not dispute that. At age seventeen, I faced the sun. My friend walked the streets of red. His face at the ground, the same ground his new friends would bury our way of life in. I stayed his friend until the end. Even as his friends no longer had the names of Juan and Marco, but he knew the men with fur hats more and hung out with those from Casas Viejas. He no longer put his heart into the soil, while I faced the sun. It rained that day. The droplets gathered on our clothes and gave a damp smell. And when the last movement ceased on the grim stage, we wan-dered home, the rain stopped, and once again I face the sun.

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The Creation of AdamBreana Del Gatto

Surrounded by darkness I breathed in the fresh air and felt the cool green grass imprinting itself on my body. Looking up into the sky, I smiled at the dark blanket of stars. I curled up my toes inside my beat up sneakers and rolled onto my back, in a fetal position, my arms tight around my knees. I rolled back and forth, like a Rolly Polly, those wonderfully nostalgic brown summer bugs that were part of almost every one of my friend’s childhoods. I let go, and collapsed, letting my weight sink into the mattress of lush earth, the little bits of dried grass tickling my bare arms, and my bare legs. I had horse blinders on and I only looked up, at the twinkling sky that smiled back down at me. It looked like God hung up Christmas lights, I thought.

I heard rustling and had almost forgotten that Sophia and Oscar were next to me, their breathing slow and heavy. I was looking at the lights and they were looking at me, their head turned to the side while mine was turned up, slightly crooked smiles on their face.

I saw them out of my peripheral. They didn’t know what they were missing. “Just look up.” I told them, not even turning my head, my eyes, still fixed on the little dipper way up there in the galaxy.

They slightly groaned, and then turned their faces up, towards the ceiling of stars. “You see that?” I pointed up to a small figuration of stars making what looked like a spoon. “That’s the little dipper. When there’s lots of stars out, it’s always there. I don’t think I’ve ever not seen it.”

I heard a, “Hmph,” from Oscar, the husky older brother of Sophia with an ironically boyish attitude.

Sophia’s elongated, “Yeaa…Woooww,” stuck in my ear as I waited gid-dily for a shooting star.

“Yea. Wow.” I repeated, smiling up, not even being patronizing, just playing back what I heard, all of my focus on the sky above.

My smile was so big I thought my face was going to tear. This was the first time I felt unrelenting, unstoppable happiness. Happiness that flew over me like a tsunami and jerked with my emotions until everything seemed like a product of it.

Tears came, pouring down my face as I smiled wide, the warm drop-lets watering the grass under my cheeks.

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“Happiness crying.” A goal I had strived for since I saw a bridesmaid crying at a wedding when I was 6. I’ve always wanted to cry out of happiness and it came so unexpectedly, so easy.

In this moment, life was exactly what it should be. Everything was in its place-the dry grass that in any other moment I would think should be watered-my unappreciative friends that in every other moment I would be pushing to see what I was seeing. The lateness of the night that made me worry about calling my mom or getting home, the dirt underneath my legs that I would be concerned about staining my jeans. None of it mattered. Actu-ally, all of it mattered-they all worked to create the perfect moment in time that I was so lucky to be a part of. My light brown hair stretched across the blades, cushioned by the softness of the grass.

A head shuffled my way, a body sat up.

Oscar chuckled, and asked me, “Are you crying?”

I slowly turned my head his way. “Yes,” I said.

“Why?”

I sighed. “I don’t know.”

Sophia sat up as well. “You don’t know?” She inquired.

I thought about it for a second, and than I answered.

“I guess I do. Sitting here with you guys just feeling the earth… I feel like… well I feel like as simple as this is…. life doesn’t get better than this.”

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The Last Slice of American PieMila Escajadillo

My bright red sneakers are barely visible in the darkness, but I still look down at them as I sway to the melancholy guitar music that is filling the room. Tonight, I say goodbye to the people who dance with me. As we softly sing the song I have memorized in the form of feelings and memories of the past three years, I realize that this is the last time I will sing these words and chant the profanities we made up to go with them so loudly that I lose my voice. When the music picks up, I sprint to the middle of the gym. I am laugh-ing wildly, the same way I was when I first heard the song three summers ago.

I was a different girl the first time I heard the music – a little lighter, a little more naïve – but no more wonderstruck than I am now.

The first time I heard the music, I sang the words wrong and prom-ised I would not forget the way the music pounded in sync with my heartbeat, reviving me after the six months of endless gray that nearly crushed me. Tonight, I vow to myself I will not forget the way the raindrops felt on my face the night I fell in love under the Saratoga sky or the way she laughed when we skipped arm in arm across the dancefloor, kinetic and alive, ecstatic.

In every story the song tells, I am reminded of the summers I let every wall I built around my heart collapse in the name of allowing myself to be fearless, if only for the numbered days I was free in my safe haven. This is the last time I will swear I saw Satan laughing with delight as I revel in the knowl-edge that the confessions I make will be safe in this gym, hidden from the horrors of the outside world that will not rip me apart but instead slowly chip away at the happiness I have let myself build in these three weeks. Tonight is the last time my generation of forevermores will dance together before truly becoming lost in space, and I dread the day I no longer know every word of this anthem as surely as I know that this music saved my mortal soul.

The lump in my throat grows, but I cannot cry because as long as the song is playing; I am a young, foolish type of ecstatic, and I can swear I will never die.

When the song quiets down, I am desperately trying to block out the voice of reason in my head that is telling me that the music is almost over. Perhaps now is the time to cry because as I see the empty floor in front of me that seconds ago was filled with the people I love most I am shaken with terror that, no matter how hard I try to forget, I know that come morning I am leaving the only place I have ever called home.

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I swear, if there is ever a day I forget the feeling of being so shamelessly alive that this place ingrained in my spirit, I will consider the day I die.

The music swells dramatically, and I have one last chance to scream my favorite lyrics at the top of my lungs. People are running to the middle of the gym, but I hesitate at the perimeter. The energy in the air is palpable, and I feel it seep into my bones, strengthening me for the goodbyes that are to come, pulling me towards the center of the gym, where I first realized I had a place to belong. Eyes welling up with tears but laughing again, I sprint to the middle of the room for the last time, singing the words I know so well, and swearing this will be the day that I die.

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Women I’ve Never KnownOlivia Fordyce

I. Dragon Under the Streetlamp on 52nd and Broadway

She purses her red lips, a shape that once received kisses but now takes cigarettes instead. Smoke billows out of her mouth. It was so striking when she tipped her head all the way back and blew the smoke to the sky, as if asking- is there anybody out there?

Her sequin-scaled dress shimmers under the streetlamp. I swear she is made of magic. Her eyes flicker ice, her hair a deep contrast of bright red and unkempt. Her body swayed so coolly when she danced alone on those dagger heels.

At the parties, she could dance all night. Not pausing once to see who it was she was dancing with, she spun around until the dizziness con-sumed her. And yet, no one talked about the impossible way she glistened with anticipation for life and if eyes could see souls instead of bodies, how magnificent she would be.

She drank fireball like her life depended on finishing the bottle and she still tasted like cinnamon the morning after. The scent of smoke and those spicy cinnamon candies followed her wherever she went.

She grabs a cigarette from her little silver purse. To stop from sway-ing, she sits on the steps outside the concrete building filled with hearts.

She pauses for a moment, glitter hangs- suspended in the air as she exhales the smoke through the purple night.

She takes another drag, turns to ashes, wishes for a better light.

In the morning, when she wakes up, she laughs at my staring at her awefully. She rolls over, lights the first cigarette of the day and lies back down beside me with dewy eyes, “Lo siento mi corazón,” she says, “I am not made for love anymore.” She takes another drag, a step closer to turning herself to ashes.

I was taught that dragons were ferocious, their soul filled with anger. I don’t think they’d ever met a real one before.

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II. The Clubber who Passed Out Across the Street from the Macaroon Place

In a room with electricity running through the walls burns the wild ones. Hands running through hair, Glass kissing lips, Excess smoke filling lungs, Heat in every corner. She never intended to love it as much as she did. The dark glamour of leather and nights where you became sober by the time the sky grew lilac and nicotine running through you so you could breathe. She belonged here in this ethereal trap of neon signs and street lights saying “this way home”- yet stumbling back never seemed to get her there completely. The haze ate her head as she stared up at the shifting sky and saw your face in the moon and thought I’ve become a slave to you. Angel dust sparkled her skin as she lay amongst the scattered gar-bage bags on the street. Clear tall heels in one hand and a lighter in the other. Her hair straight platinum, her dress a silver hologram- she might’ve been an angel the way the sun shone around her head. She looked like a sugar skull, the way her black eyeshadow was smudged around her eyes. The tattoo on her chest is a needle with the cap-tion, “shoot it up to the heart please.” As I sat in the café across the street, watching her through the window, her big dark eyes opened finally- blood-shot. She turned to look at me, inclined her head a little, and then held her head in her hands.

I looked down into Plath’s grasp and read- “I talk to God but the sky is empty.”

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III. The Darling in Black who Sits in One Hundred Years of Solitude Tonight

Her eyes are filled with stars and if you’re lucky, you can see some of them tangled in her eyelashes when she blinks.

She’s wrapped up in a rough blanket, a dream upon her face. Her stare extends past a thousand miles. The beach is silent, encased by darkness. The air is not so cold as the scene. The wind likes rustling through her dark hair, and she loves to play with it.

Inside her palms are adventures with long summer sweat nights and a love so vast it can never be returned. Drunken sailors dream of catching tigers in red weather fill her lungs with air. Across the sea she will not dream of baboons and periwinkles, but she will be haunted by you.

You were built a Hemingway man, inhaling the sentences he wrote like lines of cocaine, you could never get enough. The author sat heavy in your heart- isn’t love any fun? No. Not any of it.

She watches the boats beat endlessly against the shore.

Plath had her entranced in a daze, she held the girl in her hands. She came to find you- a man in black with a meinkampf look, and a love of the rack and screw, a brute with a brute brute heart like you. She drowned in your voices. She came as Lady Lazarus, rose from her house in the cemetery.

A rush to the edge of the water.

The two of you were twirling with classic rock and shades of sunlight and nights she won’t recall. Pieces of you fluttered away on the breeze until you became an idea caged in her head. A tombstone over it reads, “Saudade, here lies the love that remains”- here lies visions of you and words left unsaid.

She will drown until disillusion wakes her.

Because I’d never dreamed that I’d love somebody like you. Because I’d never dreamed that I’d lose somebody like you. Let us go then you and I, Let us go then you and I.

I let us go.

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IV. The Pin-Up Girl who Looks as Though She has Given Up

There is no love in a large bed, she thinks and looks up at the ceiling to avoid meeting the glare of her boyfriend’s back once more.

She sits at the desk in their bedroom. He has already packed his bag. She begins a letter to no one in particular.

If you are reading this now-- know that I will be okay.

She throws it out the window, thinking nothing more, but-- I catch it.

Later, when I go up to her apartment, the man is not there. She is wearing turquoise kitten heels and a white circle dress. Her hair is made of long curly-cue strands of copper. Her bones are tired. A cat struts around the apartment and wraps itself around her. I do not fit in with her grace. She gives me a hug, although she does not know me. I show her the piece of paper, and she gets me a cup of tea.

I ask her if I can help-- she asks me if I want to hear a long story. The look in her eyes is something like hope. There is an emptiness here that I have not felt for a while. I nod, and sink deeper into her red chair. I lose myself amongst the leaving of the man, the 1950s, and her. There is a silence and an adoration that fills my mug as she smiles quietly over being alone again. We both know that if if’s and and’s were pots and pans there’d be no need for tin-kers, and if apologies were balloons we’d have been tied to them and floating upward by the amount we’d heard.

“Let me get us something to eat.” She fakes a smile and disappears for a moment. She is singing jazz to herself, and I wonder if that’s what holds her bones together. She brings teeny rolls with mango jelly on a tray, shaking.

“What’s wrong?”

“If it was as easy as wrong, then I could feel alright.” She grabs her ribs to encourage them to breathe.

She talks like God, and it’s enough to convert me.

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The ExpeditionistJames Garijo-Garde

He put the glass to his lips, drinking the cool water. It tasted of melt-ed ice. He rested the glass on its coaster. He always used coasters. He hated ring stains. He flipped through the pages of the book, but there was nothing there. Just words.

Years Earlier:

The thick air clung to him uncomfortably, even at such a high alti-tude. But famed explorer I.T. Williams was in high-spirits. He glanced at his Tag Heuer watch. He gave a laugh-like grunt as a smile bloomed on his face. He was blazing at a record-setting pace through some of the densest rainforest in New Zealand. But he wasn’t there to set records. This journey wasn’t happen-ing, or so the rest of the world thought. The government of New Zealand was up to something. They had designed some kind of secret weapon, and were rumored to be fitting it into unsuspecting penguins, of all things. Top secret satellite mapping and drone flights (carried out without the proper authoriza-tion of the President) had determined that penguins were being abducted from their natural habitats at the southernmost tips of New Zealand, tranquil-ized, and transported through conventional mail delivery to a manufacturing plant near the boundaries of the rain forest. The trees, however, formed a natural barrier obstructing photographic reconnaissance. This is where former Army Ranger, world-class hiker, and host of the competitive survival reality show “I.T. Can Be Survived” came into play. Precisely the kind of person you would expect to find deep in an isolated rainforest.

He felt around through the surrounding trees, hacking with his ma-chete at a weak point. He was near an elevated overlook of the surrounding area. He pulled out the map he had been given by the G-men at the begin-ning of the mission. It was a beautiful example of just how intelligent covert intelligence was. Designed to look like a worn copy of a civilian map available to civilians, it was patterned with small rips and tape patches in non-critical areas and what appeared to be water stains near crucial checkpoints. I.T. produced his canteen from his backpack and took a light swig. The water, as it turned out, was mission-critical. I.T. returned his focus to the map. He carefully poured water from the canteen on the water stain near where he was. Ad-ditional information was revealed. He flapped the map in the air to hurry the drying process and packed away the canteen. He would head further north from here.

*** He shut the book, tossing it aside. Lies can be written with ease, but they can’t be read with the same disregard for morality. He was a fraud, but the world would never know.

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A School DayNicholas Hartunian

The wispy grey light of a 7:04 sun struggled through the half-heart-edly blue sky and onto the study guide. A sleepy young boy sat at the edge of a long vertical window, eyes running up and down the sheet with a vague hope that proper illumination would engrave the notes in his memory.

Timothy was actually a junior, though often mistaken for a middle schooler. Every time he moved into the driver’s seat of a car, he had an un-nerving sense that he would be pulled over, mistaken for a joyriding child. It never happened.

Mark strode over from the library entrance, and Timothy offered a quiet greeting. Before Mark could open his mouth to reply, Owen shuffled over and took a third chair, smiling weakly.

The three shared a strange solidarity - they were the same height. Otherwise, they were hardly alike. Timothy wore spotless khakis and a well-to-do light blue sweater that most would reserve for Christmas. Mark, a quilted grey jacket over a red checkered flannel and black chinos. And Owen, a size-too-small royal blue hoodie and grey sweatpants. All acceptable high school fashions. All announcing completely different things.

Mark would have chatted but untangled his headphones instead, assuming Tim wanted to return to his studies and that Owen had nothing to say - he never did. So they were all lost, in world history, Instagram, and out the window, until the bell rang.

Spanish first.

*** Las clases de idiomas de todo el mundo han sido revolucionado por la llegada de traductor Google, para bien o para mal. Con una cultura miste-riosa empuje sobre ellos, los estudiantes de entender para cualquier tipo de celebración. Con un plan de estudios improvisada igualmente misteriosa, el deseo se vuelve aún mayor. Por desgracia, esta ayuda no suele estar dis-ponible en la clase, y cuarenta minutos debe ser gastado en un estado de confusión absoluta, abatimiento tensa, o mirando salvajemente gesticulando adulto hablando palabras extrañas, genuinamente tratando de entender. Más a menudo, el público está en algún lugar en el medio de los tres.1

And then Chemistry.

***

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Owen washed the glass beakers, imperceptibly trembling at the thought of one shattering. His mind shivered as drops of a diluted purple solution ran over his gloved hands under the running sink.

“Beaker,” snapped Mark, without turning from the salmon-colored powder he was measuring. He took the wide glass cylinder from the counter where Owen had left it and dumped the pink dust inside.

“3 milliliters of 3 molar hydrochloric acid and 30 milliliters of water,” instructed Timothy. “In that order, please.”

Mark swiftly transferred the liquids into the solution. Owen took a step back.

“What’s the temperature?”

“33.3 degrees Celsius.”

“Oh, it should be more around 31.”

“Well it can be 31,” murmured Mark.

“No, it can’t,” replied Tim, eyes shining full of righteousness - probably imagining his priest commending him.

They went to Gym.

***

Perpetually attired in loose sportswear as a lifestyle choice, Owen did not need to change for gym. He nervously waited beside the heavy wooden door that muffled crude laughter from inside the locker room. Some people he knew passed, but no one really said anything.

Timothy and Matt eventually emerged, and Owen followed them into the gymnasium and sat idly in the bleachers waiting for their track-suited teacher, always addressed as “Coach,” to show up.

Bursting through metal double doors with a gust of vitality, Coach ordered a two lap run around the large room with the command: “Warm up!”

Sprinting beyond his capacity to keep up with the other boys, Owen doubled over at the finish. He struggled to regain his breath, too exhausted to raise his eyes from the polished wooden floor. Evidently concerned that the panting figure might be identified as a tryhard, Matt walked over.

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Being weak is one thing, but being a tryhard is unforgivable.

“What are you going to do when track starts next week, man?”

He spoke loudly, granting his friend an acceptable public excuse for exerting himself: Last-minute Training.

Owen drew up his head, “Track?” He reared startlingly apathetic eyes, “That extracurricular with debatable status as a sport despite maintaining a distinctly masculine air characterized by a never-ending stream of physical competition and dirty jokes? I don’t know.”

Tim smiled. Mark frowned.

Their badminton partner was a nice girl named Samantha.

They did moderately well.

***

Coach had let them out a bit early, and the halls were still barren.

They listened to the militant student council leader on the loud-speakers, urging them to March on Washington.

Since his election, President Hansford had been fighting desperately to get the programs he promised implemented. However, he quickly discov-ered that he had no powers to do so.

First, he protested the Administration, boycotting school lunch. After a single, very confusing day for the lunch ladies, Hansford was directed to the Board of Education.

A panicked intern was sent to the town hall parking lot to confront a horde of students. He tried to explain the board didn’t have the funds for a taco bar.

“But what about the taco revenue!?” the boys and girls shouted back.

“It would require a massive initial investment. There’s no federal fund-ing!” the intern pleaded, dodging a fusillade of crappy school meatballs the lacrosse team catapulted.

Hansford thus concluded that he had to get a larger national subsidy for education. Unfortunately, his constituents were reluctant to follow him to the capital because of sports and homework and stuff.

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But even if they did go, wouldn’t they only find the same answer? The money could not be obtained without cutting something equally important to someone else. Everything was the same. Everyone was the same. When would he be disillusioned?

At the far end of the corridor, she appeared.

Tim, Owen, and Mark did not know how Samatha had gotten so far from the gym so quickly or why she was coming back this way. All they knew was that if nothing was said as she passed, levels of awkwardness unparal-leled in galactic history would occur.

Owen, paralyzed by the thought, froze up. Tim was too occupied trying to keep his friend off the floor to offer a good-natured greeting, leaving the task to Mark.

He said, “Hello.”

And that was it.

The two syllables hung in the air like big uncomfortable balloons.

There are plenty of more casual one-syllable greetings like “Hi,” “Hey,” or “Sup.” If you’re going to say “hello” at least emphasize the vowels, so it sounds something like “hulloo,” or follow it up with a name, for instance, “Hello, John.” Otherwise, it just sounds awkwardly curt and mechanical.

“Hi, Tom,” she smiled and kept walking.

***

Their English class was having a conference on William Faulkner’s As I Lay Dying. Between the three, Timothy spread out enough character notes on Darl to prove anyone was a WWI veteran. Once this task was accomplished, the discussion moved on to Vardaman:

“His train of thought always returns to bananas and trains.” “Maybe because he’s so young.” “When did he ever go to town to see them?” “It’s impossible, Doctor Peabody said the Bundrens hadn’t been to Jefferson in 12 years.” “They could have been avoiding him because of all their debt.” “But why bananas and trains?”

Mark chimed in, “Well, they’re definitely important and made a

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significant impression on him. There’s potentially a variety of reasons why he cares so much about them.”

Tim gave him a chiding smile and whispered, “You didn’t exactly contribute anything to the debate.” “Who cares? Extra participation points.”

The teacher spoke up, “Anyone have anything to add?” He looked around the room, stopping on a few faces, “Preferably someone who hasn’t spoken yet.”

Owen took cover behind a composition book until lunch.

***

They had a ham and cheese sandwich.

***

There was clearly something wrong when they walked into Math. Palpable despair emanated from the suppressed terror on the students’ faces. The teacher’s eyes rested high on the wall behind them, expression mixed with guilt and irritation.

Pop quiz.

They had done their homework, but it had been last Friday. It was Monday. Two blissful days spent ignorant of the terrible surprise meant their knowledge of logarithmic functions had deteriorated considerably.

The children sat, pleading eyes flashing from the strange symbols on their papers to the teacher, begging him to have some humanity. They also looked to the window, contemplating escape.

Maybe exiting through the window would get them labeled as “special.” Then they wouldn’t have to worry about grades. Having the option was reassuring.

Everyone in class claimed they failed, but this time they actually may have.

***

The boys had a free period next and returned to the library, Owen stumbling like a wounded soldier. He sat at the far side of the long room, took several tissues out of his pocket, and began repeatedly blowing his nose, as if

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the quiz had made him physically sick.

Tim and Mark sat across from each other at a table. As Tim spread out review sheets, Mark made a weak effort to unzip his backpack. He gave up and declared, “I’m getting a muffin. Want to come?”

Tim knew very well that a trip to the cafeteria and back would take half the period, and he already had his calculator out.

“Sorry, I’m busy.”

Mark watched with an expression of borderline disgust as his friend worked on the first problem. Typical: Timothy’s conclusion from the quiz was to work harder even though he had probably gotten them a B+. He was prac-tically at his limit, but he would work harder.

And when those last minutes of free time disappeared, what would happen to the them?

“Besides, I don’t think Owen wants to go.”

They both looked across the room where Owen sat with headphones in, watching a video on his phone or maybe just staring at his reflection in the empty black screen.

“He doesn’t have to come.”

Tim’s sympathetic smile slowly wilted, “You know that’s not how it works.”

Mark left.

***

Timothy sat, showered by mid-day sunlight through the towering window yet unable to learn. He thoughtlessly worked through the math, absorbing nothing.

The mental stasis was broken only when Mark walked back through the library doors, smiling and laughing with two other members of the Model UN club. Objectives flickered in his jovial eyes. Presidency.

Drawn back together by some invisible force, the three friends went to their last class.

***

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Tim finished the quiz quickly, but no one could have known because he spent so long looking it over. Owen did infinitely better than Mark because he had studied for 15 minutes at home, and Mark did infinitely better than he would have if it were a pop quiz simply because he wasn’t in that state of shellshock that even the most stoic of us can’t escape. It barely mattered. They passed in Tim’s paper.

They turned in their paper, and walked out the door into a wall of cold air. Crossing the fading black pavement layered over by a wintery scene, they entered the warm, crowded interior of a yellow school bus.

Socially obligated to sit in the back, he walked to the end of the aisle and joined the mass of tired earphone’d children on crinkly brown leather seats.

The engine rumbled to life and whisked him away to a moment’s repose.

1 Language classes around the world have been revolutionized by the advent of Google Translate, for better or worse. With a mysterious culture thrust upon them, stu-dents will grasp for any sort of holding. With an equally mysterious improvised curricu-lum, the desire becomes all the greater. Alas, this aid is rarely available in class, and 40 minutes must be spent in a state of absolute confusion, strained dejection, or staring at a wildly gesticulating adult speaking strange words, genuinely trying to understand. More often, the audience is somewhere in between the three.

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InanimationKara O’Rourke

I slide the metal key out of its slot and lean forward. No sooner than my boot touches tile does the security alarm go off; it’s a pulsing, disconcert-ing noise, and I can almost see red flashing lights in the corner of my vision. I set my duffle bag on the floor, intending to carefully set it down, but it slips from my grasp at the last second, landing with a muffled thump. My laptop is inside. “Stop screaming, I’m doing it,” I mutter angrily. My hands shake as I punch in the code, fingers inside synthetic woolen gloves slipping off the keys. The wall-mounted machine lets out an angry beep. “Incorrect passcode,” a metallic voice states, smugly. “No, no, no…” I rip off my gloves and try again, my movements this time deliberate and painstakingly slow. I am aware of my window of time di-minishing; eventually the police will be alerted that I have failed to break into my own home. Finally, it surrenders a “correct password” message in the form of a dying beep, and I let my shoulders slump. “Thank you.” This is not supposed to be a stressful experience. I stand in the open doorway, hot despite the cold at my back, and try to relish the state of being home. Most of home is here, anyway. Shadows loom from the end of the short hallway, the hum of machines and ducts with-in the wall ominous. Dust particles are suspended in the air, almost frozen in time. I breathe lightly, hesitant to disturb the stillness. I’ve never had trouble navigating my home in the dark. Like at night, when the light could not only hurt my eyes but possibly wake my father. But as I heave my duffle bag back onto my shoulder and make my way into the darkness, I am suddenly unsure of my steps. Both hands occupied by drag-ging my luggage behind me, I cannot feel my path and collide with some-thing hard, a stabbing pain in my side. “Ah! Sorry,” I gasp instinctively, then realize I have apologized to the table. I’m really out of sorts. It must be jet lag.I take my bags into the bedroom at the end of the hall. On my bed, William Wordsworth lies on his side, apparently dozing except for the swivel of his ears, and eye movements that track my passage across the room. I pull the chord of the window shade, letting light spill into the space. “You know, a dog would have at least pretended he was happy to see me.” Wordsworth lets out a meow, lifting his head off the duvet and yawn-ing. “It’s a little late for ’hello’.” The waning evening light through the shades is still rather dim, so I turn on the bedside lamp. Illuminated beneath it is a note from my cat sitter. “I’m glad to hear you’ve been a good boy,” I coo, reading over his

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Current letter. “Eating your meals… We wouldn’t want you to waste away from loneli-ness. Ha—as if you missed me one bit.” Wordsworth turns away from me and begins to groom his fur. His ears continue to point in my direction, so I’m comforted by the fact he’s listen-ing. “You would have liked California, Words. The sun, the seafood… but you would rather stay home, wouldn’t you? You don’t like change.” Almost in reply, he clambers to his feet, stretching luxuriously, lazily, before padding over and nudging my arm with his head. “Me too, buddy. Me too.” He follows me as I head back towards the kitchen. I pause for a mo-ment at the threshold of my room, staring at the door on the opposite wall; it’s closed. No light or sound comes from within; in fact, it is exactly as I left it, over a week ago. I am afraid to enter, for fear of stirring the dust. I surrender to an instinctive human fear of blindness and flip on the kitchen light switch. The light buzzes for a moment, a sickly yellow shade. Then it burns out with an audible blink. “Really?” I sigh, in the dark again after such a brief interlude in the light. Wordsworth meows in reply.

“Violet”, the man says, his demeanor changing almost immediately. “Real sorry to hear what happened. Can I get you—d’you need anything?” The yellow lighting of his apartment silhouettes his figure, makes his silver hair appear golden. “A- a ladder” I sputter, before his meaning clicks. “Oh, I mean—sorry. I’m good. Just—a light bulb burnt out, and I can’t…” I can’t seem to articulate anything sensible, so I stop. He waits. Finally, he blinks in acknowledgement. “A ladder? Sure thing, sweet-heart.” He steps back and lets his hand drop from the door. “Lemme jes get my keys… step inside, please, it’s so cold.” I nod once, and step across the threshhold into his apartment while he disappears around an interior corner. Our neighbor and friend for many years, local handyman and master chess player, he painted buildings in the suburban housing district across the bridge. When I was little, my father used to leave me in his care on occasions when his work in the ER kept him late. I don’t laugh at the irony.The air vent is directly above me, and warm air blasts onto my head even as the chill from outside tickles my neck. I push the door shut slightly but do not close it, and the evening traffic is slightly muted until he returns. With a keychain hooked over one finger, I let him lead the way to the garage. He un-locks the door and pushes it up, metal springs screaming. He peers into the dim light, then pulls a metal ladder roughly six feet tall from a space beside his van. “Thank you,” I say. “Ain’t no bother. Drop by anytime.” He reaches over and drops the

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Current keychain onto a hook protruding from the ladder. “Return these when yur done, if y’please.” I nod again, and can only manage another muttered “Thank you,” for lack of anything else. I make my way awkwardly back to my apartment, carry-ing the ladder, and he returns to his.

Kitchen bright once again, ladder and keys in the garage again, the subconscious reminder that I must get back to work again, I start a pot of water over the stove. My laptop boots up in the office. I untangle the cord of a headset from the drawer, not bothering to fetch my usual set from my bag in the bed-room. Wordsworth keeps me company in the corner. I load the media file, and open the last document I had been working on. I am lost in the words for several minutes, a fork in the river where one indistinguishable body of meaning splits into two distinct languages, until the timer from the kitchen startles my concentration. I slam on the space bar, but instead of pausing, it scrolls halfway down the page. I hit the mouse button hard to actually stop the audio recording. Angry red lines across the page catch my eye as I stand up, and I know I must fix the typos later. They’re only trivial things, in the big picture. I used to drink coffee black, but recently I’ve fallen back into my old habits of adding half-and-half and sugar. It feels immature, almost, but the heavy sweetness is also rather comforting. I drink from an old artisan mug acquired at a fair some time ago, blue and green glazed ceramic with a nick on its handle. Its twin remains unused in the cabinet. Moments after I return to my desk, a small notification appears in the corner of the screen. “PLUG IN OR FIND ANOTHER POWER SOURCE,” it reads. “Your battery power is low (7%). If you don’t plug in your computer soon, it will hibernate automatically.” I curse, and jump to my feet. I must have missed the first warning while I was in the kitchen… The first notification appears at 12%, when it claims to have 14 minutes of life remaining. At 7% battery, it claims 6. In prac-tice, they’re more like 3 and 2 minute warnings, respectively. My eyes dart first behind the desk, but a moment of confusion later, I remember my work supplies are still in my bedroom. Coffee forgotten, caffeine rendered unnec-essary by a surge of adrenaline, I scramble to the bedroom and tear open my bag without touching the light switch. This proves to be a mistake, because in the dark I cannot tell dark cable from dark cable. In frustration, I lug the entire bag into the office. The cord resists me, tangled with the others as I try to pull it out. I finally lo cate the male end and jam it into the socket, and fish for the other. Even once I locate and pull on the other end, it is so entirely entangled within the other contents of my bag that it does not reach far enough. I snatch my laptop from the desk onto my lap where I sit on the floor. “Don’t die on me, don’t you die on me,” I whisper. “Hang on just a mo-

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Current ment longer…” I have not saved my document. In a split second, I have two choices: my fingers can drop the cord and reach for control+s, or charge the battery and render that desperate action unnecessary. The computer blinks out a second even earlier than I had anticipated. My work is unsaved, lost. I sit on the hardwood floor, lifeless machine on my lap, belongings scattered and tangled on the ground around me. Alone, except for the cat, who remains in his corner looking on with only mild interest, as though I were an exhibit, the oddity. Though there is not another human soul in sight, I despair that I can no longer even take comfort in my father’s presence on the opposite side of the wall. I could not save my document. I didn’t have enough warning, my work was lost. It’s silly to be upset about, only fifteen minutes or so of transla-tion easily made up, but the syllables “too late, too late” pound in my head, guiltily. Between the drumbeats flash images of my father. He’s on the other side of the country now, far from my reach. My mother lives nearby his hospital, with her family… but he is my only family. How long can I put off entering his room? The entire apartment hangs on an intaken breath, waiting as though he will come back. Caught so late, not many with his condition do return. The phone rings. I don’t want to read the caller ID. I don’t want to see my mother’s name, or the hospital name. I stepped off the plane four hours ago; I don’t want a check-up call, or the only feasible alternative.The phone rings, and beneath its bubbling two-tone I sob, “Shut up, shut up, shut up.”

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GambitJulia Tong

That was the night everything began to fall apart. My partner, Hunter, and I were chasing a black car, likely governmental, likely stolen. How, I couldn’t guess. It wasn’t my business right now. The driving suggested a man possessed, swerving through all the turns as fast as they could, swerving down straights as if they were at a Grand Prix rather than a backwater city street. The rain fell in sheets, tires slipped on the wet pavement, and every time I had to hit the gas or brake or make a turn, I felt like the car was going to leap off the road and smash into a tree. Hunter swore under his breath; his face was white as ash and I could see him shivering in his seat beside me, verbally doubting the point of try-ing to catch the car if it meant a suicidal death trip. I told him to shut up and braked as we came up to a turn—and that’s when it happened: the driver of the black car just... lost it, and careened off the road, right into a tree, folding like an accordion as glass and bits of metal flew everywhere. I smashed the brakes and twisted the steering wheel. As our car slowed to a stop, Hunter and I jumped out, handguns at the ready. We ran to the wreck and, after breaking a few windows and tearing at metal, we managed to extricate a young man, maybe in his 20s at oldest, cut up and fading in and out of con-sciousness. We laid him on the grass and checked him over, but couldn’t find anything immediately potentially fatal—broken bones, cuts, the like. When he began to moan and stir and thrash, we handcuffed his wrists and put him in the cruiser to take to the hospital for a check over. It was one of our tamer arrests, really. No shouted obscenities or sur-prise knife slashes or gun threats. I suppose a bad car crash helps with those things.

*** “You’re here on account of robbery of a-” “I’m here on account of you bastards,” he said sharply, leering at me from across the table. “Keep going.” We were both stuck in one of the dull interrogation rooms, on either side of a cold metal table. He was chained to the chair but still managed to look perfectly relaxed. I had evidence to be confirmed and a confession to be signed, and a suspect completely unwilling to comply with anything. I suppressed a sigh and pressed on. “You’re here on account of rob-bery of a vehicle that was in governmental custody.”“In the interest of justice,” he said in a high, whining voice, “let us first consider the solid facts in this case and analyze them in a logical manner.” I felt my blood freeze. I recognized those words. “First,” he said airly, “the vehicle in question was not stolen by the suspect from the...what is it, plaintiff?” He broke his ‘character’ for a moment before quickly continuing. “The defendant questions the moral ethics of arresting the person who stole a car from thieves, thereby doing the prosecu-

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Current tors a favor.” My tongue felt tied up into knots but thankfully there was no need to intervene. He was doing my job for me, as long as I could get him to trip; under all the blather, he was only quoting me in the most nonsensical way conceivable. “The prosecutor stands up to cross-examine the witness,” he said, “and what does the prosecutor ask?” Whether the ‘defendant’ or ‘witness’ or whatever is fit to stand trial, I thought sarcastically. He didn’t continue the tirade, just grinned that crazy grin. “Listen,” I said, “you can talk like that all you want, as long as you’re comfortable, but let’s get the basic facts of this case sorted. You said you stole the car-” “Not quite, not quite! I said I stole the stolen car. I never perpetrated the initial theft, Madam. But the defendant was found at the scene of the crime with the ‘stolen’ car and running from the police. She- ahem, he- must be found guilty for his- ah, is stealing cars heinous now?” I took a deep breath. The defendant must be found guilty for her heinous crimes. God, I still remember it now. I pushed the memory away and focused on the case at hand. “I am, of course, particularly curious as to where the source of this car came from,” I said calmly. “Who was it?” “Very probably a deranged madman doing psychotic work.” He grinned again. I didn’t let his-my-words drive home. “The first question is whether the car was indeed a governmental car, and if so, how it came about in the hands of non-governmental people-” I said rapidly, but he was already drifting off. “Guilty until proven innocent, guilty until proven innocent, guilty un-til proven innocent…obstructions of justice...” He stared into space. I was not good enough an interrogator to deal with his crap, and especially if he knew this much about me.

*** Breaking news: arrest of man suspected of stealing governmental car and leading in chase throughout city. The team in charge of the investigation has yet to provide comment to the media. I stomped upstairs into headquarters where the four other members of Investigative Team 30 were hard at work, searching for anything that could give us a headway into the case. The walls were paneled with screens covered with faces of possible suspects and accomplices, surveillance footage, and an ever-updating stream of relevant internet data. Julien was motioning at a map of the city beside Angelina, probably trying to track the source of the car, and I went and examined the ever-narrowing list of suspects that grew and shrunk on the walls. I opened up the profile of one familiar face: Marisa Gaylie, the Edmont Street thief and killer. Brown hair, brown eyes, literal blood on her hands. I caught her five years ago and spoke against her at the jury. I told them that she had to have accomplices, that it wasn’t one “deranged mad-

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Current man” doing “psychotic” work. But she was the mastermind. She had to be. Bad memories. Maurice, our new assistant, waltzed in. “Coffee?” he said brightly. Fresh out of college, we could count on him to provide enthusiasm when we most needed it. “I’m fine, thanks,” I said, glued to the database screen. “How did it go?” “He has a mouth, to say the least. He’s hiding something, without a doubt. I want someone else to interrogate him, someone a bit more patient. Maybe from another team.” I raised my voice a bit as Julien and Angelina turned, curious. “He claims he stole the car from someone.” Julien, the agent with short brown hair and a proclivity for technol-ogy, motioned to me from behind a monitor. “I’m trying to pull up a list of registered government vehicles but I’m getting blocked. Permission to-”“Don’t bother trying to override security,” I said. “Someone should go check at the Center itself. Maurice, can you go down?” “Sure thing,” he said, pulling on a leather jacket and a baseball hat. I frowned in disapproval. He wasn’t the most professionally dressed person at governmental headquarters. “Just ask for access,” Julien said, “It must have gotten locked down after the crash.” “Okay.” I watched as he swept out of the room before I opened the profile of the person who had been bothering me so much. “Any of you remember this person?” “Familiar?” Angelina swept her black hair into a ponytail and watched me carefully with bright green eyes. “Big case five years ago. Edmont street murderer.” “You think there are ties to that?” “Oh, undoubtedly. The Edmont murderer used to do this sort of stuff- steal government cars, organize terrorist attacks, anything, it seemed, to vex the government.” “Wait a moment…” Angelina’s eyes was fixed on the wall behind me. I turned. There was chaos on one of the monitors. A road not far from here had been blocked off by the police. A figure lay in the middle of the road. “Guys…” A slam sounded from downstairs. Hunter ran up the stairs, two at a time, breathless when he entered the room. “Something bad happened around 123rd,” he said, “The police weren’t letting me through!” I ignored him and watched the playback closely. A thin trickle of people walked across a crosswalk. I picked out a baseball cap and leather jacket moments before a black car skids past the light and right into the crosswalk, smashing right into him and narrowly missing another pedestrian. I felt frozen, powerless as police descended onto the scene like a flock of black birds. The car by now was already far off. It didn’t even stop, just kept right on going, leaving Maurice helplessly in the middle of the road. “He’ll be fine, right?” I was vaguely aware of Hunter shouting at the

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Current screen. “He’s going to be just fine, right?” I watched blankly as hospital crews lifted Maurice and put him in the back of an ambulance. Moments later, they were gone.

*** All citizens be alert for a black car, license plate DKI-183. Contact the nearest police officer should you see it or possess any knowledge about it. Darkness had fallen. There was no point in staying any longer. All of us were jumpy and nervous. No one could concentrate. My team and I left the office for the hospital and melted into a stream of people. It was Friday night, always the busiest night on the streets. “Wanted” posters and advertisements for everything from clothes store to movie trailers flashed side by side on the huge television screens. I could see the cameras, perched everywhere, from streetlamps to the side of buildings. Police, some of them I recognized, stood at every corner, spot-checking ID’s, keeping an eye on things. All of them made me feel safer. Maybe Maurice would have done well to have waited a bit, or wore something that didn’t stand out as much. Or rather, I would have done well to tell him to wait a bit. Maybe that would have kept him out of trouble. Maybe. Who knows what could have happened. We kept walking. People were swarming the sidewalks like flies. I couldn’t shake the feeling we were being watched. Surely nothing was obvi-ously attention-grabbing about us. We were dressed normally. Even Maurice would have blended into the crowd in this sector of town. We were quiet, but so then were many other people. But I found myself glancing too frequently at the cameras or touching my handgun and reassuring myself that, surely, we all were safe. “Just got a text from one of my friends at the hospital,” Angelina said in a low voice. “She says that Maurice is dead.” “Dead?” Hunter said weakly. I stared off into the distance and tried to swallow the lump in my throat. So soon? He was so young, so full of life...“Dead on arrival,” Angelina said quietly, “He didn’t even have a chance.” We stopped in front of a restaurant and I made a show of reading the menu. Angelina’s eyes were glued to her phone. Hunter closed his eyes and breathed deeply, quietly. Julien turned away and I saw, momentarily, an utterly devas-tated look on his face. Then it disappeared almost as quickly as it had ap-peared. “Murder?” He asked. “Accident.” I said firmly as I scan the crowd. “These things happen.” “Bloody lucky accident, then,” Julien said. “The driver didn’t stop.” “Could’ve been scared, or drunk.” I tried to stay reasonable. “They’ll be caught soon.” With cameras and policemen everywhere, surely it wouldn’t take too long to find the suspect. Something grabbed my attention. Down the street. A few people in hats and long overcoats. Curiously, the group had stopped walking almost as soon as we did. “Come on. Let’s go,” I ordered. We melted into the crowd again and I resisted the temptation to look back. Instead, I opened my phone and picked us out of the crowd using a surveillance feed. Confirming my suspi-

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Current cions, the same group had resumed following us. “I’m pretty sure we have a tail,” I muttered, afraid they had already noticed my attention. “Calm down,” Angelina said, sensing my obvious discomfort. “I think all of us need to relax a bit. Maurice’s accident was just that. A tragic accident. Shit happens. We have better things to worry about.” “And a bar right across the street,” Julien said. “I mean, look at you. You’re way stressed out—we all are. Seriously, we could relax a bit before heading back.” “That’s a tad bit insensitive, don’t you think,” Angelina said, even as we changed course. Our destination lay ahead of us; a tall building with a mahogany-colored edifice on the corner of the square. The Foxglove Bar.

*** The place thrummed with the pounding of bass from speakers. It was absolutely packed. People were dancing, playing billards, drunkenly stumbling to the bathroom. The air was full of chatter and laughter. Tilting my head, I could see the stars through the glass roof. I put on a confident smirk and caught the bartender’s attention. “Four beers, yeah?” I turned around. “Whatever you have on tap—I’ll treat.” The bartender nodded. Minutes later, four full glasses of amber liquid slid across the table. Angelina turned on her seat, pretending to sip her drink casually as she watched the rest of the patrons. “There they are,” she whis-pered, nodding toward the door. “You were right, see.” Our tails had followed us into the bar. So it wasn’t just my own para-noia, then. She opened her phone. “I’ll deal with this,” she said. “Rather, I’ll call on the police to...ah, have a chat with them.” She sipped again and I forced another smile despite the nauseating heat. There was a bang like a firecracker, and then another one. The bass kept thumping. People glanced around. Maybe a circuit had shorted. Maybe there was a problem with the sound… Another bang. And another. Angelina and I jumped up, whipping out guns as people finally figured out what was going on. It happened all at once, too fast to comprehend. Screaming pierced the air. A tide of panicked people surged to the exits. I saw Hunter kneeling down next to a woman, stemming the bleeding coming from a bullet wound in her leg. Something heavy fell into my shoulder and sank to the ground. It was Julien, head bashed in by a bullet and his blood slowly coating the shoes of a panicked and trapped people, drunk off alcohol and pure fear. They were streaming to the exits, a thick stampede of human bodies. Another bang. I raised my gun to return fire in that direction and saw a figure twitch from a window right below the skylight. “They’re up there!” Angelina nodded. “Got it.” Then she was gone. Returning gunfire was just going to make things worse now. “Secure the perimeter!” I hear someone yelling over the clamor. Both

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Current police officers and black clothed soldiers swarmed around the building, block-ing off the exits. Voices commanded everyone to drop and put their hands up, here more quickly than would otherwise be possible due to Angelina’s warn-ing. I messaged my entire team--what was left of my team--to make their way back to headquarters as quickly and safely as possible. There was no doubt. Murder. Five years ago, all over again. Nothing less than a recurring nightmare.

*** Six people were shot, and one killed, at the Foxglove bar this evening. Af-ter interrogation of a prior male suspect, and the recent attacks on the Foxglove, investigators have pointed out connections with the Gaylie case, five years ago, when another investigator was shot at a busy restaurant and preceded another series of attacks. Citizens are advised not to leave their houses... And off. Silence. Murder. All the other five victims had been haphazardly shot. Julien had been taken out by a carefully aimed one to the head. Accidents happen. So do targetings. “It’s that bastard in the basement,” Angelina said, leaning back in her chair. “The killings and the crash happened in such quick succession, he has to know something.” “We made that clear already,” I snapped, watching the walls flicker. Possible terrorist attack at Foxglove’s on 142nd. All citizens return to your homes and lock your doors. A city on lockdown. “And he had accomplices. Do they want us to free him?” “No chance in hell we will,” I said. I had said the same thing about Gaylie, five years ago. “They’re sending a message.” “Or just demonstrating their strength. Typical of terrorist.” “Oh,” I said matter-of-factly, “I doubt they’re terrorists. Terrorists in the traditional sense if they’re being so...surgical with their targeting.” Terrorists in the sense that their goal didn’t seem to be blind chaos, or fear. She scowled. “Sure?” “They killed Maurice first,” I said. “He’s the lowest ranked of all of us. Then Julien, who’s right beneath you, Angelina. Which means, if my theory’s correct, you’re next.” She stiffened, but then nodded. “Makes sense.” She lifted herself off of the couch and slowly walked towards the door. “Makes sense in a twisted, maniacal way. Coffee?” “Yes please.” The adrenaline was wearing off and I needed something to get me through the night. “I’ll just make a big pot,” she said, walking to the corner of the room to where the coffee machine is. “So if anyone should go interview that ‘bastard’, it better be me, since by that logic they’re targeting me last.” I continued. “Or,” Hunter said, “you should stay with Angelina because they’re

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Current targeting you last.” “Would you rather interrogate the prisoner? That’s never been your strong suit, Hunt. Remember when you butchered the one with the Third Street murderer?” He grimaced and nodded. “You two better stick together, god forbid something else happens,” I said. “Keep in contact with IT29 and 31. I’ll stop by with Secretary Warren and make sure she doesn’t let anyone in. And also—you’re safer here than at home. Don’t leave.” “Understood.” I turned to leave the room when Hunter spoke again. “Hey. How about the coffee?” “Maybe when I’m back,” I said. I opened my phone, pulled up a surveillance feed of the floor, and slipped a small earpiece into my ear. “Shout loudly enough and I’ll be able to hear you, in case of anything... bad. Yeah.” “Got it.” I opened the door and ran down the five flights of stairs to the Main Office on floor one. Secretary Warren was an older woman with thick glasses, curly grey hair, and a sharp voice, who quickly made it abundantly clear that the building was on lockdown. Then I made my way down the stairs of the basement, with its constant hum of fluorescent light which replaced the sun, enough to drive anyone insane. I’ve never liked being down here; never had much reason to before, since interrogations are usually on floor two. But there was no time for formality now. I needed to know. The block of cells was eerily quiet. No scuffling of footsteps other than my own, no talking in low voices or slamming of doors. And there wasn’t a guard in sight. Where were they? Had they all been summoned to deal with the Foxglove crisis? The prison guards shouldn’t be assigned that. The hallway was ungodly creepy without the reassurance of their presence. I was alone with the buzzing lights and the prisoner in his cell, the prisoner which may have caused the death of two of my closest coworkers and friends. I could either turn back and ask Secretary Warren what was up, or get my work done first. Quickly. Succinctly. Nothing long and drawn out, I promised myself.My heart thudded in my chest. I turned up the sound of Hunter and Angelina talking five floors above to help calm down. Empty cell after cell passed by as I skulked down the corridor. I have consulted Warren about his cell number. I should’ve done a lot of things today. Couldn’t get distracted now…There he was. Cell 29. He was slumped in a sitting position, splotches of red splattered on the wall behind what remained of his head. I clapped my hand to my mouth and resisted the urge to scream. There were no guards. Undoubtedly they had to be somewhere around here, dead or unconscious or badly injured. Who could have maneu-vered around lockdown so easily? There was only one way into the basement. Secretary Warren hadn’t seen anything. Maybe the guards did it, but if so, why not in a more subtle way? The prisoner had been shot clean through the head,

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Current probably through the bars of the cell. I could see burn marks from gunpow-der on the remnants of his face. I would need plenty of time to conduct an investigation but—if the murderers were still here, there was no point in stay-ing any longer. What about Angelina and Hunter? Anyone in the building would be at risk. I didn’t hesitate. I turned and sprinted down the hallway, all the way to the stairs. Distantly I thought I hear someone shouting. I took the stairs two at a time, paused for a breath, and shook my head. Maybe I was sleep de-prived and hallucinating. Maybe… My phone started buzzing, loudly and obnoxiously, and I jumped. Shoot. I had completely forgotten about the earpiece. I opened my phone and returned the call. It was Hunter. “Sorry to interrupt, but we might have a lead on the Foxglove case. Pretty big one.” “You’re not interrupting—a what?” “A location. Can you get up here as soon as possible?” “Yeah. The prisoner is dead.” “Wha-” Hunter sputtered for a second. “Dead?” “Yes, shot,” I said. “After a word with Warren I’ll be right up.” “Alright, thanks.” He hung up. I went straight into Secretary Warren’s office—barged in—and an-nounced my discovery downstairs. She started when I entered, but didn’t betray any other feelings besides a professional indifference, before nodding and jumping straight to her computer. I took the chance to sneak out of the room and towards the stairs when I heard it again. The distant shouting. This time it sounded more frentic. I turned the earpiece up and heard, distinctly, Hunter screaming for help. In a burst of panic I leapt up the stairs and fumbled at my pocket, trying to pull up the surveillance feed of the scene.I burst into the room, gun up, but too late; already other ITs had gathered in the room. I pushed my way through the throng and saw Angelina lying on the ground, her skin almost rosy pink and flushed, eyes open but devoid of all emotion. The coffee mug was shattered beneath her hand. She had dropped it before she fell. “Poison?” I said quietly to Hunter, who nodded vigorously. “The...cof-fee… she drank it and then she collapsed...it was horrible…” They had it in the water. Or the coffee grinds. Either way someone managed to get in and kill. Twice. And if they managed to break into the wa-ter supply, God knows what could happen. The thought sent chills down my spine. I hugged him and he cried into my shoulder, but above his head I noticed on the wall a location clearly marked on the map. End of 2nd, inter-section with Muller’s street, a good half hour from here or so. And then, near the dot, the profile of a certain Marisa Gaylie. Determination swelled inside me like a wave about to crash. Enough of this nonsense. It was time to go.

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Current ***

A fully city lockdown is in effect after recent attacks on the Governmental Headquarters on 56th and West. No cars are allowed on the streets. “Come on. We’re leaving.” I dragged Hunter out the door and down to the first floor. His face was blank, shocked, barely capable of processing anything. I understood the feeling. Dull fear. Hunter knew he could be next. “Going where?” he said blearily. “Somewhere safer. Grab a gun. Not the handgun. The sniper rifle.” “Rifle?” “Yeah. Put it in that bag- good. Come on.” We hurried down the street. It was deathly quiet. I knew they wouldn’t stop us in full uniform, but that didn’t stop me from glancing at the cameras guiltily as we passed beneath. It didn’t take long for me to find a black car, in the make and model of the governmental ones, the only car that would be allowed on the streets during lockdown. “Was it you?” he said quietly some time later. I looked over. “No, I didn’t murder them,” I said exasperatedly. “Think, Hunt, think.” “No, in the Edmont case. It was you, wasn’t it? You mentioned it.” “The bastard brought it up.” I kept my eyes off the road and hoped the conversation died soon. “I remember it. I watched the trial. That guy knew.” “About Gaylie? She was guilty.” “She was a patsy.” He sounded unusually accusatory. “What made you think that?” I said carefully. “The prisoner. The guy quoted what you said at Gaylie’s trial, back at your face. He mentioned an obstruction of justice. You were aware there was a network. And she wasn’t even the head of it.” God, he knew more about this than I thought. Certainly worth his salt as an investigator. I grimaced. “Yes.” “But you lied. And you got promoted to supervisor after it?” I winced. That one hurt like a punch to the gut and I mentally scrambled to block the memories which threatened to stream back. “There’s lots that I regret. A lot of things can change after five years, you know.” “What did they have on you?” Less of a question, more of a flat, cold, demand. “My sister.” I bit the lip and turned. We were on 2nd now. “Shut up and listen. We’re going straight to the location you identified. I saw it on the screen. Good for you that I recognized it--I would never had imagined it was still active.” “The Edmont gang? Do you have a death wish?” “I’m not saying you’re coming down with me. I just need to know that you’ll have my back.”

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Current I pulled into a dirt parking lot in the shadow of a long abandoned building. Even from here I could pick out subtle movements in the windows in a nearby building. Our actual target. Parking a car- a bright red one, at that- right in their driveway would destroy any sense of subtlety. I stopped the engine and closed my eyes. My heart raced and my hand had jumped to my gun. I breathed. I will work everything out, for ev-eryone’s sake. For Maurice and Julien and Angelina, and now Hunter. I could change something. “Get the rifle.”

*** ALL CITIZENS RETURN TO YOUR HOMES. KEEP THE DOORS LOCKED. DO NOT LEAVE UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCE. I recognized the first person to step out of the shadows- a tall woman with long blonde hair tied back into a ponytail. She went as Raksy. Her face wore a knowing smirk. “We still owe you a turn for keeping the network free,” she said. “You owe me tons of ‘turns’,” I snap. “Especially when you kill people.” “And you’re here to make us to stop?” She approached me without hesitation. “I’m unarmed.” I still let her frisk me. “I have a compromise,” she said. “We’ll stay in the outskirts. We won’t even touch the government. We’ll find different wars to wage, there’s plenty out here on the fringe. But not a sound from you. Or we start again.” “Oh, no, that’s hardly fair,” I said. “It’s not anyone else’s fault they got caught in your antics. Like the rest of my team. Was that just to make a point?” I looked up at the building, sure that there were plenty of people looking and listening. “Let’s discuss further. Over there. I don’t appreciate having eyes and ears everywhere.” “Understandable,” she said. We made our way to the patch of trees near a neighboring building. Thank god Hunter had the foresight to move the car. “So what is it now?” she said when we stopped. Complete deadpan sardonic. “A sad sense of duty? Or a pathetic attempt to patch up regret?” “I’ll come clean, so you listen closely. You know what I’ve got on you?” I snapped. “The sworn testimony of a certain Marisa Gaylie, whom you so eagerly shoved under the bus. Investigative teams that are hungry for your blood or view you as a threat and would do anything to eliminate you, given the correct location. I won’t pretend I didn’t write this down. If you ever kill me, or if I want to, all that gets released, and no chance you’ll have time to prepare for what comes next.” She frowned. “If you shoot me, you’re done. And if you shoot anyone else, you’re done too. Don’t push it.” She nodded grimly. “Is that it?” “Is that what?” “The end of your terms. Because I have a gambit for you.”

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Current How curious. “Sure.” “Walk away.” What? I raise my eyebrows as she continued. “Both of us walk away from this alive. Like I said, we’ll stop. We stop the attacks complete-ly. You don’t say a word, but nothing about that ugly business from five years ago will be released. Anywhere.” She grinned as I nervously bit my lip. The desperate gambit, a loaded gun for the heads of both sides. The last thing I wanted to do was compromise. But there was nothing else I could do now without endangering more lives. It was time to take the gambit for once. mI nodded at her. “Deal.” Then I spun on my heel and walked back towards my guess at the car’s location, inhaling the crisp night air. Stars hung high above my head. Maybe this would be the end of it for now. Hunter was safe. No one else was going to die. For now. I would worry about cutting the head off the snake later. That’s when I heard the bang of gunshots and a thud. I jumped, thinking maybe Raksy had changed her mind and decided to shoot, and I ran for a nearby tree, building, whatever could hide where I was. “Hunter!” I yelled, panicked that they might have found and shot him. He was next, after all. “What?” I looked up and saw him perched in a tree, dressed in full combat gear, rifle at the ready. Something clicked in my mind. Behind me, Raksy la on the ground, shot. So much for walking away. I spun around and looked at Hunter again, mind whirling. He froze when he saw my expression. Obviously he hadn’t heard any part of what we were saying. “She had a gun, I thought it didn’t work out…” he said slowly. “No, no, no, Hunt. What the hell have you done?”