Sailing Lessons

 It was a warm spring day and there was a gentle breeze down by the river. I navigated through the parking lot of the sailing club, pausing to look at some of the small sailboats stored in the yard. Then down the long ramp to the floating boat house, I followed the signs to my first sailing class. 

The clubhouse rocked gently on the water and took some getting used to. It rocked a little more whenever a motor boat passed by too close and too fast, as they often did. There wasn’t a marina or breakwater to shelter the dock and the Willamette River wasn’t very wide. There were coiled ropes hanging from the walls, photographs of racing boats and a pile of life jackets in the corner. I would later understand there was a difference between life jackets and PFD’s (personal flotation devices). What the club had were PFD’s, as life jackets were much more serious pieces of equipment. 

Students trickled in and settled down as it got closer to start time. The instructor spent the first few hours explaining the basics of sailing. She covered the different parts of the boat; the bow, stern, rudder, centerboard, which side was port and which was starboard. 

“You can remember there are four letters in port and four letters in left,” she said. Not quite a mnemonic device, but it gets the job done. She explained that starboard, which is the right side of the boat if you’re facing the bow, was a truncated version of the term steer-board, which was the side of the boat the helmsman steered. Over time, and once rudders were moved to the center of boats, the right side became known as starboard. Everything that exists long enough has its own lexicon that seems frustrating to learn for beginners. 

There was also the mast, boom, gooseneck, boomvang and the spreaders. Then there was the rigging. There are running rigging and standing rigging. Standing rigging is everything that keeps the mast and boom up, metal wires attached to the hull. Running rigging encompasses everything that controls the sails, which are mostly different colored ropes for different jobs. There was a lot to take in and we were only being shown diagrams at first, but it would all come together in the end. 

She set up chairs in the middle of the room and we all had the opportunity to mime using a tiller extension - a bar attached to the tiller that steers the boat - and the mainsheet, which is the line that controls the mainsail. Sitting in one chair we would hold a tiller extension in one hand and the mainsheet in the other. These were, in turn, held by students to simulate resistance and keep them in place. When the student was ready they would give the command to tack the boat, then push the tiller extension away from them, stand up from the chair while bending over to avoid being hit by the boom and move to another chair opposite the first, all while swapping which hand held what behind their back in, hopefully, one fluid motion. As I watched other students attempt it, it was obvious the club’s main student population were children. When it was my turn, however, I realized it was trickier than it seemed. The one thing this exercise was not able to simulate was that you would have to do this on a boat in the water while in motion. Tacking is turning the boat anywhere from ninety to one-hundred-and-eighty degrees, so getting some experience before actually being on the boat was very helpful.

There were moments during the class where we could chat among ourselves, at least the people who were more sociable could. I mostly kept to myself, as I tended to do. We were instructed to mingle and get to know someone in the class at one point. I’ve always hated this part of any class and I thought it would go away after high school. However, in college and any outside learning environment instructors feel the need to make people interact with others. There must be a trait in everyone who teaches that enjoys inflicting social pressure on everyone else. Or, perhaps, they are all just social people and think everyone wants to get to know everyone they come, even remotely, in contact with. Either way, it’s something I’ve never been able to avoid. I suppose this bolsters the sailing community. Single people can meet others who would like to go sailing with a crew. If you are a beginner it’s unlikely you’ll have someone to go sailing with.

“What got you interested in sailing?” Brenda asked. She was thin, maybe forty years old. Her husband, Clark, was the same. He quickly started a conversation with others in the class while his wife and I chatted.

“I’ve been interested for awhile,” I said vaguely. “I figured I’d start out on small boats,” I said. “It’s cheaper, for one. Both the boats and the lessons, and I think if I start on bigger boats with cabins and engines I probably won’t ever want to go back to smaller boats.” 

This reasoning has bore itself out so far. Since moving on to larger boats over a year ago, I don’t have much of an appetite for sailing small boats, or dinghies. I’m sure I’d still enjoy it, but the type of sailing I love you can’t really do on a small, open boat. There is also the issue of simplicity. Dinghies are smaller and less complicated than larger sailboats. There are more systems onboard larger boats; navigation, electricity, radio, head, anchoring, water and fuel storage, engines. Starting with a simple boat forces you to focus on the basic aspects of sailing. Harnessing the wind to glide across the water and changing direction without capsizing. This is the essence of sailing and I think it’s easier to learn the basics when you’re not distracted by all of the other cool stuff to do on a sailboat.

“What about you? What sparked your interest in sailing?” I asked.

“Well, we want to sail around the world.” 

“That sounds great. That’s a really fun dream to strive for.”

“We’re setting out in a little over a month,” she said as if that were a perfectly rational thing to say. “We’ve already sold our house and bought a forty-foot boat. Our kids finish school soon and then we’ll set off to sail around the world and continue their education onboard.” 

I stared at her, blank faced. I didn’t want to be rude so I nodded and looked away. “And this is your first sailing class?”

“Yes. We’ve never been on a boat until we bought ours.”

There were a lot of things I could have said. There were a lot of things going through my mind. The first was, simply, you’re going to die at sea. You have no experience on a boat large enough to sail you and your family across several oceans and the only preparation you’re taking is a beginners sailing class on fourteen-foot dinghies? There are so many systems on cruising sailboats to learn, so many things that she and her husband were going to have to figure out how to do on their own while on the water that I don’t see it ending well at all. These are the types of people who have children, I thought. My god, do they think anything through? 

During the class, there was only one sailboat that capsized completely. They had to use the motorboat, attach lines to the mast and have people in the water help flip the boat back the right way. The two men on that boat were Clark and a man I privately called Captain Willard. 

I named Captain Willard after the actor Fred Willard. He didn’t look much like him, but he resembled the clueless morons Fred Willard often portrayed in movies like Best in Show and Anchorman. Captain Willard was a tall, thin man with a George Hamilton tan. He wore a captain’s hat to a beginners level dinghy sailing class. 

“I’ve owned four boats,” Captain Willard told the people he was talking to loud enough for the whole room to hear. I watched him try to impress the ladies with his smarmy smile. I wasn’t sure if they were buying it or not, but he seemed to think they were. Clark made his way over to Captain Willard multiple times during the class. What kind of a person brings a captain’s hat to a beginner level class, I wondered. If he were self deprecating and didn’t take himself seriously, one could conclude he was being a clown. I could understand that. I could even get behind that. Portland is full of eccentric weirdos, why not at a sailing club?. He didn’t seem like he was joking, though. He was serious and his hat was serious as well, as far as I could tell. 

We moved out to the dock to get our first interaction with a boat itself. The first day there was no sailing, it was all instruction. We would end the day with an examination of the boats we would start sailing the following day. The instructor stood between the boat, which had been tied off to the dock, and us. She pointed out the various parts of the boat and explained, again, how the mainsheet controlled the sail and the tiller controlled the rudder. We all listened, excited to get out on the water and disappointed that we would have to wait a day to do so. 

Captain Willard, on the other hand, couldn’t wait to touch the boat. Surely a man who has owned four boats and a captain’s hat knew his way around a sailing vessel. While the instructor talked, Captain Willard put his foot on the bow of the small boat, and instantly regretted it. The lightweight craft tipped as soon as he stepped on to it, sending his foot straight down into the water. His body lost its balance and followed his foot downwards where his face met the starboard side of the deck as it rocked back into its natural position. The gasps were short lived and quickly gave way to snickering. I turned away to laugh quietly, as did others. The instructor helped him up and made sure he wasn’t too hurt. Just his ego.

“That’s why we don’t stand on the deck of these small boats,” she said. She was too professional to laugh but I’m sure she wanted to. “These boats are very tippy, as you’ll find out tomorrow.”

The following day we learned a few basic knots that everyone learns in the beginning. The bowline and the figure eight. The bowline knot is useful for rigging. Control lines for sails are almost always a bowline and the figure eight is a stopper knot to prevent a line from slipping away out of reach. Before sailing we were given a swimming test. To ensure we could keep ourselves up with a PFD and swim back to the dock if needed, we all went into the water one at a time and swam from one end of the dock to the other.

As Captain Willard could attest, getting into a dingy for the first time takes some coordination. They are likely to flip if you stand on the side so you have to step one foot into the cockpit and quickly follow it with the second. A second person holding the boat is helpful, or you can use a childs method of sitting on the dock and easing into the boat on your butt. We all looked silly as we made it into the boats, but we all made it.

We spent the day sailing in short, zigzag patterns in front of the clubhouse. There were two small motor boats with instructors to keep an eye on us and traffic. When a larger vessel came through they would shepherd us to one side while it passed. All of us went into the water at some point, which is completely normal for small sailing dinghies. They are designed to right themselves quickly and easily as spilling into the water is part of the sport.

The following weekend we sailed further away, tacking back and forth down the river to the Ross Island Bridge before turning around and lazily sailing downwind back to the clubhouse. The exhilaration of the wind whipping past as you coast across the water was magnificent. The lightweight nature of the boat means the occupants have to balance the boat as it heels over when sailing across the wind. With our feet in a set straps, the two person crews would practically stand with half of our bodies outside of the boat, leaning back towards the water preventing the boat from tipping over. You have the feeling you are speeding through the water, the wind shooting through your hair, but you’re really only going the equivalent of between five and ten miles an hour on land. Occasionally you would fail and get dumped into the water, but that was part of the fun. 

Docking the boats under sail was quite fun too, if a little intimidating. The maneuver is to sail towards the dock at an angle. Then, at the last second you drop your mainsail and push the tiller hard across the boat, turning the bow away from the dock and gliding within reach of a pylon or a cleat to hold the boat steady. Since those boats were so light, one person, even a child, could hold the boat steady against the dock. We practiced a few times before finishing for the day and it was the last bit of sailing we did for the class after racing on the last day. 

A few years later, after barely using my new found sailing skills, I went back to take a refresher class. The class consisted of only myself and one other student. The instructor, a kid of about twenty, just let us sail around while he and another instructor puttered around in a motorboat. They were always close by if we needed anything, but they were very hands off. 

We sailed up and down the river with no problems, having retained the knowledge we’d learned from the earlier class. It turned out I wasted my money on the refresher class, but I didn’t know until I got back out there. The wind had picked up and we were sailing along, hiked out as far as we could be, when I realized we were going to crash. I could tell by the resistance the boat had to flattening we would capsize. It’s the same feeling you get on a roller coaster when it feels like you’re turning too far before snapping back to a normal position. Only the boat wasn’t on tracks that would keep us upright. 

“I think we’re going to go over,” the other student shouted. 

“Yep,” I answered. 

Suddenly, the boat stopped moving. The mast had hit the water and the boat lay on it’s side. I heard the splash as the other student went into the river and I found myself still, technically, in the boat. I was hiked out so far I was standing upright. I didn’t really want to go into the water, so I didn’t. As he swam to the mast to lift it out of the water, as we were taught, I simply stepped over the side of the boat and put my feet on the centerboard. 

“Ready?” I called out. He replied and I stood on the centerboard as he helped to lift the mast out of the water and the boat righted itself. I managed to get one leg into the boat before it was upright and only got my foot wet as he swam back to the boat and I hauled him in.

“How’d you get to the centerboard so fast?” he asked. “Why aren’t you wet?” he asked before I had a chance to answer.

“I stayed in the boat,” I said. “I just stood there and got on the centerboard.”

The instructors arrived on the motorboat with huge smiles on their faces. “I’ve never seen a student do a walkover before,” one of them said to me. “Great job man!”

We continued sailing until our time was up and headed back to the dock. We parked the boat in the slip, removed the sails, folded and bagged them, coiled the lines and put everything away. In a rare moment for me, I was proud of myself. I had learned something and enjoyed doing it. I would soon disappoint myself by not doing much sailing for several more years before picking it up again. I’ve moved onto bigger boats now, and even bigger boats are on my horizon. Bigger bodies of water too. The rivers are nice, both the Willamette and Columbia, but they are limited by which directions you can go. I’ve been looking into buying a sailboat that I can start cruising to destinations more than a day’s sail away, and I’m looking forward to getting there.

The Garden

“Why don’t you use pills?” Frank asked as he laid the plastic bag and duct tape on the bathroom sink. “Seems less traumatic that way.” 

Alma slipped her jacket off and hung it on the door. “Pills mess me up. They take way longer to get out of my system than they used to,” she said. “Help me with the ice.”

They opened the six bags of ice they’d brought with them and filled the bathtub. They’d thought of everything, he’d hoped. Frank had never seen Alma work, but it seemed safer with a partner.

“You know what to do?” she asked.

“I do.”

“My instinct will be to fight, so don’t stop until it’s done.”

“I won’t let you down. Let me know when you’re ready.”

Alma stood in between Frank and the tub and placed the plastic bag over her head. He helped her tape it shut around her neck as she looked up at him, taking deep breaths. He tossed the roll of tape in the bag. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he looked straight at her to see she was indeed ready. Her pale face looked distorted under the plastic bag. She was breathing heavily. In. Out. Deep breaths to use the oxygen faster. 

He put his arms around her in a bear hug, trapping her arms at her side. He turned away from her as Alma buried her head in his chest. Her reflexes kicked in. She had a mighty fight response. Her body began to thrash wildly and she started screaming. Frank held her tight and lifted her off the ground. Her legs flailed, kicking his shins and the side of the tub. Her shoe flew off. She struggled against his grasp. This was always the most terrifying part, he hoped. 

Her body loosened and almost slipped out of Frank’s arms. He leaned her over into one arm and lifted her legs with the other. He laid her lifeless body in the tub filled with ice, removed the tape and plastic bag and laid her hands on her stomach. Her face was contorted by the agony of her dying breath. Frank closed her mouth and eyes and tried not to look at her face again. He was breathing heavily and shaking. He’d never seen anyone die before, let alone assisted. He took a few moments to compose himself. This was what he signed up for afterall. 

Frank sat on the bathroom floor with his legs folded. His back was straight. He rolled his head back and forth, loosening the tension. With his hands faced up on his knees, he began his controlled breathing and closed his eyes.

“Alma,” he said. “Can you hear me?”

“Yes,” said a whispering voice.

Chills ran down Frank’s spine at the sound of her voice from the ether. “What do you see?”

“What I always see,” she said. “Darkness. Let me concentrate.”

There was a noise from downstairs. Frank’s eyes shot open. “I heard something.”

“I’m working on it. Close the bathroom door.”

Frank leapt up and shut the door, meeting resistance as it was nearly closed. He leaned into the door and shut it. He slid down and sat with his back against the door. “He’s close. I’m going to try to make contact.”

Frank cleared his mind. His breathing was slow and deep. “Jacob, can you hear me?” The hair on Frank’s arms stood up something entered the room. He couldn’t see him, but he could feel his presence as well as Alma’s. “I can feel you, Alma. You did it!”

“Hello Jacob,” Alma said. 

“Who are you?” Jacob said. 

Frank grabbed the bag and retrieved the case file. The heading read Alma Investigations. Frank skimmed over the basic details of the address and contact information and went straight to the report. It was a haunting in a house recently purchased by a young family. Their research had found a man named Jacob had died in the house decades ago and there have been a few reports of strange phenomena over the years. They weren’t able to find many details other than the man had died as a result of injuries sustained during a robbery.

“We’re here to help,” Alma said. 

“What are you doing in my house?”

“Jacob, this hasn’t been your house for a long time. Do you remember what happened to you?”

“What do you mean?” Jacob asked. 

Frank felt the air shift and thicken. The lights over the mirror flickered briefly. “What’s the last thing you remember, Jacob?”

The room felt a little warmer and the lights brightened slightly. “I remember Jessica,” Jacob said. “My wife. We were happy. Our daughter was so small. So precious. This was her parents house, we bought it from them when we got married. It was a good neighborhood, quiet. Except for that night.” 

The room suddenly got cold again and the lights flickered on and off. Frank could feel Alma and Jacob in the room with him, but they were difficult to pinpoint. It was as if a fog had descended into the bathroom, or a memory he couldn’t quite place. 

“Focus on Jessica,” Alma said. “Tell us about her. What was she like?”

Jacob was quiet. Frank concentrated. He tried to find him. He closed his eyes to not be distracted by what he could see. He needed to feel around in the ether. There were no physical objects in the ether, just energy. “It’s like a garden,” Alma would say. “There is potential there, under the surface, but you can’t see it. What I do is tend the garden. I encourage it.” 

Jacob had gone dark. “Jacob? Alma?”

“He’s still with us, Frank. Give him a moment.”

Frank considered lighting a cigarette, but decided to wait until they’d finished. He checked Alma’s body temperature and moved some ice around. Holes were made as she melted the top layer. He wondered how long she had until she couldn’t come back. Her body was so peaceful, she looked like she was asleep, he thought. Frank knew better. He examined her leather bracelets she wore on her forearms. He’d never seen her without them. They were adorned with hand stitched skulls and exes in red against the black leather. She didn’t like to talk about them, but Frank managed to get the truth out of her one day. She was sixteen when she took her life for the first time. A razor and bathtub were her means. She entered the garden and didn’t like what she found. She was light on the details. Somehow she managed her way back into her body and lived again.

The resurrection was not without consequences, however. She never fully healed anymore, which is why she didn’t like making anymore marks on her body. She couldn’t gain weight and at thirty years old she still looked like a teenager, except for her white hair. She was generally pale and her hair follicles no longer retained any pigmentation, no matter how many times she dyed it. Then there were the nightmares. The feeling of existential dread that was more real than ever before. She’d gone over many times and she always came back a little worse. If Frank were a better man, he’d plead with her to stop. 

“She was the most beautiful woman I’d ever met,” Jacob’s voice broke the silence. “I never knew what she saw in me, but we were perfect together. She used to hum in her sleep. It was a peaceful tune. Always the same one. Her laugh was terrible. It was a big, loud laugh that always made me laugh. So I would try to make her laugh as often as I could.”

“Hold on to that, Jacob,” Alma said. “Hold on to the good memories as tight as you can. That’s what you need to move on.”

“I don’t want to move on. I want Jessica back. Can you give me Jessica back?” 

They were silent. 

“I didn’t think so.”

The room suddenly felt empty. The absence of sound was like static building in Frank’s ears. He opened his eyes. Everything was fuzzy for a moment. “Alma, where is he?”

“He’s on the move. Stay there.” Her voice was faint like she was far away. Frank sat in silence and meditation. He could hear the ice cracking under Alma’s body. He focused on the sound and let it fill his mind. There was a drip from the sink. He waited patiently for the next drip, trying not to guess when it would occur. His foot began to tingle. He sat with the feeling for a few moments before moving his foot to relieve the pressure and stop the sensation. He felt the hair on his arms rise and it traveled to the back of his neck. 

“It’s better for everyone for you to move on, Jacob. Trust me,” Alma said. She was much closer again, perhaps the hallway. 

“Where is Jessica?”

“If you want to be with Jessica again you have to move on. Your attachments are weighing you down and binding you here. This is no place to linger and you’ve been here too long.”

“I just want the pain to stop,” Jacob said. 

“One way or another, Jacob, you are leaving here tonight.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Jacob asked.

Frank felt queasy and light headed. The room began to tilt slightly from side to side. He felt like he was on a boat when the seas were starting to get rough. The bathroom mirror cracked and everything was still again. Frank stood up and examined the damage. The crack was small, only an inch or so long. “What the hell was that?”

“Jacob,” Alma said. “It’s time to move on. You have to leave your old life behind before you’re trapped here.”

“This place is so empty,” Jacob said. “It’s cold and empty, like space. There is nothing here but I can’t let go.”

“Think of Jessica. Focus on her smile, her eyes. The smell of her hair. The warmth of her touch.” Alma’s voice quieted as she spoke. It was not distance, but a gentle whisper. “Think about the quiet moments, holding her in your arms. Sleep, Jacob. Let the emptiness embrace you.”

The room was quiet once again. Slowly, Frank heard the crackling of ice and a gentle hum of the bathroom lights. 

“He’s gone, Frank. I’m coming back.”

The quiet was shattered by the gasping for breath from the tub as Alma came back to life. She sat up quickly, coughing and crying, sinking down in the ice. Her blood was beginning to pump again, warming her body. Frank covered her in a towel and helped her out of the tub onto the bathroom floor. She was breathing heavily. Frank began to rub her shoulders to dry her off.

“I’m ok,” she said. “Just give me a minute. I’ll change clothes and meet you downstairs.”

From the couch in the living room, Frank could hear the pipes pushing water through the house. He busied himself with writing a report of everything that happened, remembering the details as best he could. 

Alma descended the stairs, backpack in hand, looking tired but dry. Her white hair pulled back into a ponytail. Her jacket zipped up tight around her. She sat on a chair opposite Frank and sighed. 

“Everything alright?” 

“As well as it ever is,” she said. “Coming back is always the hardest part. It takes my body a little while to get going again. I’ll be fine.”

“Well, I’d call that a successful first case.” Frank finished documenting the evening. “I have some questions, of course.”

“Of course. He moved on, which is the best result. The clients won’t have anymore problems with this house, aside from mold I guess. The usual stuff.”

“He was alone then?” Frank asked, but he knew the answer already. “I didn’t sense anyone else, but I wasn’t on the other side.”

“It was just us. Then it was just me. We’ll deduct some money from the bill for the mirror. We’ll figure that out tomorrow.”

“What happened with that?”

“That was me. I had to show Jacob the alternative to moving on peacefully.”

“What was the alternative?”

Alma stared at Frank and Frank stared back. They were both stubborn. Frank was inquisitive, but Alma was rarely forthcoming. “Consumption,” was all she said. 

The drive back to the office was a quiet one. Alma rested with her head on the door panel as Frank drove through the empty streets, a cigarette between his lips. The windows were down and the cool, early autumn breeze was refreshing. The moon was hidden behind the clouds. It was a peaceful night.

Alma slipped into the office, which was a historical house just outside of Downtown. Office buildings and condos towered over it, but it had stood for over a hundred years. Alma had fallen in love with the house and spent years trying to buy it. She moved in when she bought it and they turned the downstairs into the office for her new business, Alma Investigations. 

She dropped her backpack in her desk chair and went to the kitchen. She pulled out enough food for three people; leftover lasagna, potato salad, bread, cold cuts and condiments and ate everything. She was always hungry and drained after visiting the garden, especially after battling and consumption. The truth was Jacob didn’t go easy, they never do. Alma found the best way to deal with hauntings was to distract them with good memories while she maneuvered into a good position to gobble them up. 

She thought about telling Frank the truth, but ultimately she knew that would be a bad decision. She wasn’t concerned with what he would think of her. What concerned her was that Frank might harbor the misguided impression that there is an existence beyond this life. The thought that we might have souls that could transcend this existence and traverse dimensions to a better place. She kept the truth to herself; ghosts are merely energy trapped between existence and negative space. At least, that’s how she understood it. She’d been beyond the veil and come back. There was nothing but emptiness out there. A void. If Frank found out, he might not be able to use his ability of communing with the dead, then he’d be no use to her.

She cleaned up the mess she made in the kitchen and then drug herself upstairs to bed. There was paperwork to do and a bill to finalize, but that could wait until tomorrow. She wanted nothing but to pass out and not wake until the afternoon. Maybe she’d get lucky and not wake up at all.

The Stranger

I knew the moment he walked through the door he didn’t belong. The way his eyes looked sunken and tired, he’d traveled a long way to get here, that was for sure. His clothes were not any fashion known around these parts. It was a silver, one-piece, almost jumpsuit looking outfit with bits of metal in no discernible pattern. He was short. His skin was an unfamiliar color. It was hard to tell if it was green or gray. It was unnatural, whichever it was. 

My aunt got jaundice once. Her skin turned a faint yellow, so I had seen discoloration of skin before.  I remember seeing her in the hospital and being scared to touch her. I thought she’d turn my skin yellow too. This guy didn’t look jaundiced. He looked like his skin was supposed to be the strange color it was. He stood in the doorway to my bar, taking in the surroundings. On top of his large, misshapen head was a shinny, domed helmet that rose up to a point. It made me think of the old German Pickelhaube helmets. My grandfather was in the Great War and he had one of those pointed helmets as a trophy on his mantle. He was fond of telling the story of how he smuggled the thing back to the States. All the trouble he had to go through to keep it hidden until he got home. He was always quiet, however, regarding the story of how he got the helmet in the first place. 

Claudia was wiping down one of the tables when he walked in. She caught sight of him in the doorway and froze. She was bending over the table and stopped mid wipe. Frank, who was sitting at the bar sipping whiskey, didn’t notice him when he walked in.  When he saw me staring he turned his head to look. His eyes landed on Claudia first, bent over and not moving. His gaze took the opportunity to linger on that sight and he paid no attention to the individual darkening my doorway. Just then, the music that was playing on the jukebox stopped. I took that as an ominous sign. Was the song over or did the thing just quit working? I had a guy in here a month ago to fix it so it should have been working just fine. 

It felt like we were in a scene from one of those low budget movies I’m embarrassed to admit I watch on television from time to time. Something from another world steps into an unassuming little establishment. It’s the beginning of a disaster movie. We seemed to be frozen in time, locked in a struggle to understand what we were seeing. Surely, time would start to move again and everything would return to its normal state. There was a cough from across the room from one of my patrons, but nobody moved. Was this some sort of power this stranger had? Were we trapped in some sort of time loop?

One by one people started moving again. They returned to what was occupying them moments earlier before we were visited by this strange creature. Claudia quickly walked behind the bar near me. I stepped one step to my right to get in range of my sawed-off shotgun I keep tucked under the bar. I’ve never had the occasion to use it, though I’d come close once when a few bikers decided to have some fun late one night. They started a fight with another patron but it ended quickly and they took off. I ain’t seen them since. 

The stranger finally started walking straight towards the bar, towards me and Claudia. My hand rested on the handle of the shotgun without my even thinking of it. It was instinctual. I really didn’t like that feeling. I’ve never been a violent person. I can be loud and imposing if I want too, but I’m not confrontational. I’ve certainly never used a gun against anyone else. I’m not even a hunter, which is a little out of character for folks who grew up around here. I was even a vegetarian for awhile, with my first wife. It didn’t last too long but we tried it out. We had seen some photos of animal cruelty and abuse on those big farms and we decided to change our ways. It was a personal decision that lasted a few years. Then we both started having cravings for chicken again. I couldn’t explain it. I would wake up with a hunger that could only be satisfied by fried chicken. She admitted she was feeling similarly so we started eating meat again. 

The stranger placed his hands on the bar and looked directly at me. I couldn’t speak or move. He must have great powers to immobilize me so. He leaned his big head in close and I could see his large black eyes. They didn’t have pupils. They were just large, black almonds on his face. Standing so close to me I could make out the color much better. It was more of a grey tone than green. I noticed his eyes didn’t close. He didn’t blink at all. There were small ridges above his eyes that gave him a look of sadness. I could see his helmet was pinned directly to his head.

“Excuse me,” the stranger said. It took a second to register that he was speaking English. His voice was odd, somewhat distant, and his mouth didn’t move at all. “I’m a little lost.”

That’s the understatement of year, I thought. “Where are you heading?” I asked, hopping to help him be on his way as quickly as possible.

“I’m trying to get to the UFO festival, but I think I’ve made a wrong turn,” he said. 

I sighed in relief. Was it November already, I thought? I had completely forgotten about the festival. It’s held every year and it always draws some strange people from all around the state and beyond. “Just get back on the highway and head south,” I said. My hand moved away from the shotgun. “You can’t miss it. It’s about ten minutes out of town.”

“Thank you,” he said and walked out of my bar. The next song started playing on the jukebox. Claudia poured Frank another shot. 

“Weirdo,” Frank said to his glass of whiskey before swallowing it in one gulp.

Girlfriend Experience

She did one more makeup check before her performance. Her eyeliner was a perfect foxy look; a thick black line thinning to a point just beyond the edge of each eye. There were no stray eyebrow hairs present, they were all covered by the wide black stripe of makeup. Her forehead was that perfect tanned look she wanted and her cheeks matched except for their hint of rosy. Her cheekbones appeared higher than they actually were and her lip filler was holding strong. She puckered her lips at herself in the mirror, admired the deep red shade of lipstick and bounced up and down a little. Then she pulled down her blouse, her favorite red lace, to reveal a little more cleavage, but not enough to show any nipple. Her green leggings were straight and she checked that her ass looked fabulous, which it did. She looked, in a word, flawless.

“Go get’em girl,” she said to her reflection and winked.

The stage was set. A small dresser covered by multi-colored fabric sat slightly askew to the right with a series of collectable figurines lining the top. A small pile of stuffed animals, which had nary a trace of use, sat comfortably on an impossibly pink bed. Everything was wrapped in LED string lights she could control from an app on her phone. On the wall above the desk, ‘Tally’ was spelled out in light panels. She set the temperature in the room the way she liked and sat in her “gamer” chair. One of her generous subscribers gifted it to her, but she’d forgotten which one. She pulled her microphone, which was attached to an articulating arm, close to her, then pushed it away to the perfect distance. Below her desk was a small fridge where she stored water and other drinks from brands she’d made deals with. She checked to make sure she had enough on hand and pulled out a water bottle, placing it on the desk so the webcam could pick up the label.

She checked that her camera was on but not recording yet. The preview page was broadcasting a photo of her sitting on her bed wearing a frilly, revealing outfit from one of her favorite anime series. Friendly text read “Stream Starting Soon!” at the bottom. She glanced at her screen to see the number of people waiting for her to start, it was under one-hundred. She opened her music app on her phone and selected random on her Christmas playlist. She scrolled through her typed notes and schedule while she waited for more people to start watching. Once the room peaked above one-hundred watchers she mentally prepared herself one last time for work before starting the stream. 

She’d been streaming full time, which constituted four days a week at about four hours each day, for over a year now. She had done her research and hired an accountant early on. Streaming is contract work, technically, and she had to pay taxes on the money made from subscriptions and donations she received. She’d heard about streamers who tried to do their own taxes, after they were informed that they, in fact, had to pay taxes on what they earned, and she didn’t want that to happen to her. With a lawyer and accountant she started her own business she named ‘Tally Ho Entertainment', after her screen name, Tally_Ho. Only her mom calls her Natalie anymore. She’s known online and off as Tally_Ho or, simply, Tally. 

She had a presence on all of the respected social media apps and she was looking into the more seedy ones. She had her favorite photographer, who she went to school with, taking her photos. Tally helped her start her own photography business doing weddings, graduations and modeling shots for a few magazines and websites. Tally believed strongly in bringing up those around her as she rose in the new industry of streamers. She was only twenty when she started as an outlet for her stress of going to college. She only dabbled then. At that time it was mostly boys pretending to be men playing video games and being annoying, in her view. As it formalized, there was a niche for models talking, somewhat, directly to a fan base. That’s where Tally fit.

She had a plan for that stream, as she always did. The first hour would be chatting with followers and subscribers. Tally tried not to separate the two, treating them equally so that followers would become paying subscribers. These chats would be freeform. She’d answer some questions, greet people who typed in the chat and say whatever would come to her mind. Usually she’d end up chatting about a television show, movies or games since most of her audience were male. Tally shied away from celebrity gossip as those streamers tend to have more drama. That could net you more money from fans, but the drama would keep increasing and it would become too much of a hassle for her. She liked to keep it simple. At twenty-five she’d paid off her school debt entirely, owned her own car and was paying off a mortgage on her condo. Her plan had her debt free in less than five years, and that included traveling. Of course, the pandemic slowed her travel plans, but that just meant she could pay off her condo sooner. 

“Oh my god, you guys! Merry Christmas everyone and thank you for joining me! Hi mike_abs_man,” she said as she read  the greetings from her chat window. “Hello wordsly, I haven’t seen you for awhile. Thanks for joining me.” She tried to verbally greet everyone who greeted her in chat, her fans didn’t like it when she skipped them. Their monetary investment through monthly subscriptions made some of them quite egocentric. She put up with them because the money was good and putting on makeup and chatting with strangers was the easiest way she could think to make money. The gifts were nice bonuses as well.

This was her Christmas Eve stream and she’d already spent most of the day in front of a computer. Tally’s family had their video chat earlier in the day followed by her boyfriend, Parker’s family. He moved in with her shortly after she bought the condo. They’d been together for over a year now and she wasn’t sure where their relationship was going. She kept that away from her stream and only confided in her actual friends. 

Tally had virtual snow falling on her in the stream, it piled up at the bottom of the screen. “I really want some elves at the bottom of my screen to make a snowman,” she said, then laughed at herself. “That would be so fun, you guys. Someone make it for me,” she teased. 

She was an hour into her stream when a familiar subscriber entered the chat and greeted her. “Hello DC_PandRIC,” Tally said. “I’m doing well, how are you tonight?” She read through and responded to a few other fans before he typed a message again. Without thinking, she read the message out loud, as she normally did. “Will you marry me?” Tally’s head jerked back with surprise and she covered her mouth. “Dude, PandRIC, no, I’m not going to marry you. What are you thinking? I mean, I’m flattered, but no.” 

Her chat window was a flurry of text from other fans expressing a mixture of shock, jealousy and pity. “I’d take care of you and you’d never have to work again,” she read. “I’m not looking for anyone to take care of me, I’m doing really great on my own, thank you. In today’s world a woman can make her own way and not need to rely on a man to take care of her.” She shifted her blouse, her breasts jiggling slightly as she did so. 

Immediately, two more proposals came in from subscribers. “You guys are so lame to propose right after someone else in chat. At least PandRIC was original, and totally out of line, by the way. But you two are just pathetic.” Tally scanned the chat for something else to talk about. “Where is your Christmas tree? It’s in the living room, there just wasn’t enough room in here because I got a tree that was too big. I should have gotten a smaller tree. I was thinking of the trees I used to get with my parents at their house, which is bigger than my condo and I went overboard. I love it though, there are pictures on my Insta. Check them out. Thank you for the sub! Thank you axelvis_firstofhisname. I love that name, thanks for the subscription!”

As she powered through another hour or her stream and a few glasses of eggnog, the chatter about the proposal died down. For having met her subscriber goal of fifty people the reward was set at five minutes of dancing, chosen by her current subscribers. Tally scrolled through her playlist for a song to dance to, saying aloud the names for her ‘subs’ to choose. Once chosen, she adjusted her camera so everyone could see her head to toe. The music started coming through the speakers and Tally imagined herself at a crowded club with the music flowing through her body. She moved erratically, doing parts of dance moves one after another. She hopped close to the computer when she heard the sound of a new follower or subscriber and thanked them by username, then continued to dance until the song ended. 

“Alright, that was fun! I hope you all had fun too!” Tally sat down, adjusted her blouse again and pulled her hair back over her shoulders. “That really got my heart pumping, wow!”

The next hour was much the same; thank people, answer questions and generally have a one sided conversation. In the quiet moments her thoughts went to places she’d like to avoid. She remembered learning about cafes in Japan where lonely men go to pay for girlfriend experiences. The women, mostly young women in schoolgirl outfits, would pretend to have a history with their, sometimes much older, clients. They’d drink tea and flirt with them. It seemed to her that was just a few steps from prostitution, but there were other cafes where a man would receive actual acts of prostitution with his tea or noodles. That disgusted her, at first. Slowly, however, she found herself in front of a camera showing as much of herself as allowed by not very stringent rules while, mostly, men paid her money to come close to pornography. Tally’s rules for the chatroom included no sexualizing the model, Tally, but she often wondered how many of her subscribers did just that while keeping it out of the chat. After a year of streaming that way she was now contemplating adding adult streaming to her repertoire. 

Tally’s phone made the little jingle notifying her of a new text message. She casually picked up her phone while finishing her thoughts to her fans. “That’s why I have a problem with the new update. It makes the healers almost useless in raids and,” she read the text message, then read it again. “What the hell? How did you get my number?” 

She scrolled through the list of users in her chat and found DC_PandRIC. “How the hell did you get my number, PandRIC? That’s private, how did you get it?” She scanned the chat to see if he replied, but instead she found many people asking for her phone number to be posted in chat. “The mods better be on their game or I’ll shut chat down entirely!” 

Several users posted numbers, some were long enough to be phone numbers, others weren’t. All of them were deleted within a second of being posted, none of them were DC_PandRIC. Then the chat window stopped filling up. One message was posted by the moderator in Tally’s chat. ‘Chat has been suspended due to spam posts of phone numbers, real or not.’ 

“Thank you,” Tally said. 

She looked at the text messages sent by DC_PandRIC. ‘Hello Tally, this is PandRIC. You are teh most beautiful woman in entire world! I love you!’  Then there was a picture of a ring box, followed by another picture of the opened ring box with a ring inside. ‘Will you marry me??!!??!!??!!’ 

“I can’t deal with this now,” Tally said. “PandRIC, no. No, I will not marry you. I am canceling your subscription and banning you forever. Do not use my phone number again. I don’t know how you even got it, but now I’ve got to change it. I am not happy about this at all and I’m done for tonight. The stream is over.” She shut down her stream, her camera and even her computer. Her phone rang displaying an unfamiliar number so she declined it. She confirmed it was PandRIC’s from the texts and put down her phone. 

She found Parker in the kitchen making dinner. She stood in the living room watching him for a few moments before he noticed her. There were pots and pans on the counter, dirty from his failed attempts to cook a meal. It was an ongoing mess. On the bar separating the kitchen from the living room, which served as their dining room table, were two glasses, a bottle of champagne and a small white box. A tear started running down her cheek, over her water resistant makeup and disguised cheekbone. 

“What is this?” Tally said, looking at the box. 

Parker turned around quickly. “Woah, you scared me babe,” he said. “I thought I had more time before you were finished. Is everything alright?”

“It’s been a long day and I had a terrible experience with the stream and now I just want to know what this is,” Tally said as she picked up the box. “Is this what I think it is?”

“Are those tears of joy?”

“No, they’re not. What is this, Parker? Tell me now, please.”

“Ok.” Parker walked away from the stove and around the bar, gently grabbing the box out of Tally’s hand. “I’ve been thinking lately just how much you mean to me.”

“Oh, god,” Tally said as a few more tears rolled out. “Parker.”

“Let me finish, please. When I look back on the last year I’ve been with you, and I think of how much I’ve changed for the better, it’s because of you. I love you, Tally.” Parker knelt down on one knee and looked up into Tally’s crying face. “Even with tears in your eyes, you’re so beautiful. Tally, will you-” 

“I can’t fucking do this,” Tally cut him off. She turned away and ran for the bathroom. “Bad timing, Parker!” she shouted as she slammed the door behind her.

After cleaning the makeup off her face, which took longer than she felt it should, she stared into the mirror, evaluating her life. Stripping away the paint from her face she looked upon her true self. The weight of the life she built for herself over the last few years, the sacrifices she’d made and the rewards of those sacrifices seemed imbalanced. She’d somehow given herself up for comfort and given herself over to men’s more base interests. They’ve seen her as owing them something she never offered. She really didn’t know how to feel.

“Tally, babe,” Parker said on the other side of the bathroom door. He knocked. “Tally, are you alright?” She didn’t respond. “Please explain this text on your phone, Tally. Who is this person? Is there something you’re not telling me?”

Tally slumped down on the toilet seat. She sat across from her pink shower curtain adorned with little anime characters in skimpy outfits. Her towels were also pink. ‘Happy’ was spelled out in light panels above the mirror. “Merry fucking Christmas, Tally.” She knew this was going to be a long night.

Alaska Air

Claressa was not an adventurous person. She hadn’t been on a plane in years and she had forgotten the feeling of her stomach sinking when the front of the plane suddenly pitched upwards and she was pressed back into her seat. She had a feeling of release when she thought, “If the plane crashes, I’ll certainly die.” She got this way on takeoff and landing. For reasons unknown to her, the flying part seemed the most safe. She wasn’t scared of flying, she just didn’t enjoy it. 

The flight was short, under four hours. Just enough time to watch a movie or read a book. She sat next to an older man who seemed friendly. He mostly kept to himself, but he did make polite conversation.

“Nervous?” the man said as Claressa released her grip on the armrest just after take off.

“No,” she said. “It’s just been awhile.”

“I used to be afraid to fly, but I had to get over that. I travel a lot for work.”

Claressa didn’t take the bait. Instead, she smiled and pulled her tablet out of her bag and brought up an e-book she was reading. She pulled her hair out of its ponytail and let her curly,  dark red hair hang down to her shoulders. She was almost thirty, but the freckles on her cheeks made her look younger. She’d seen videos online showing women how to fake the freckle look,  but she was always looking for ways to mask them.

As they neared Anchorage, they were over land again. Claressa peered out the window at the snow covered, mountainous landscape spread out beneath her. It was jagged, not uniform. Wild. She had never seen so many peaks so close together, from so high.

“First time in Alaska?” the man asked. She nodded in confirmation. “I’m coming home and it always takes my breath away. I know I’m home when I see that range. I once flew home from Asia and you could look out one side of the plane and it was bright and out the other side of the plane it was dark. We must’ve been flying over the north pole or something. It was pretty spectacular.” He paused for a moment before continuing. “Just wait until you take in that Alaska air. Are you here for business? Do you have family in Alaska?”

“I had family, I guess,” she said, still looking out the window. If she had to guess, she would say he was in his early fifties. He had a full head of black hair with a sprinkle of grey above the ears. He wore slacks and a button-up shirt and he kept himself fit. “I’m here for my great uncle’s will.”

“I’m sorry for your loss. Were you close?”

“Actually, I’d never heard of him until last week. He stopped talking to my family before I was born. I’m not sure why I was named in his will at all.” She withheld the fact that the inheritance was an island. That was better kept to herself, she thought.

“A mystery,” he said. “Sometimes we need a little mystery in our lives. Keeps it interesting.” She agreed and continued watching the ground beneath her get closer and closer. The hum of the airplane gave way to the screeching of the wheels touching down. The pulling force of braking sent her right back to gripping the armrests so tight her knuckles were turning white. The man graciously let her have both armrests, laying his hands in his lap while he closed his eyes and smiled slightly. The hum of the airplane came back then gave way to the sounds of passengers moving about, getting luggage from the overhead compartments and firing up their cell phones. 

Claressa made her way off the plane, through the terminal and found her way to a shuttle that took her to a different, smaller airport with smaller planes. There were only a dozen or so people waiting for the flight and Claressa was getting nervous. The plane didn’t look like it could hold more than twenty people, including the pilots.

“Excuse me,” Claressa said to the man behind the counter. “What is the capacity of one of these planes?” 

“This plane seats fifteen. I don’t believe this flight is full, so you should have some room,” he said. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

Claressa shook her head and found a seat with her back to the tarmac. She tried not to think about the size of the airplane she was about to board. She questioned what she was even doing in Alaska. She thought about forfeiting whatever the inheritance was and going home, but the hassle of turning around with nothing to show for it was a bit too much. The possibility of getting out of debt early was too much to pass up, so she waited. 

“All passengers boarding Flight 203 to Kodiak Island, we are prepared to board you now,” the steward said in a loud clear voice. He was not using a microphone, but was instead talking directly to the small group of people waiting near the desk. Claressa watched the handful of people gather their personal items and form a line. She watched them walk out of the terminal and on the tarmac where the plane was waiting. 

“Miss,” the steward said. “This is your plane.” Claressa was close to tears. She didn’t move. The steward sat beside her. “It’s okay that you’re nervous, or even scared. No one is going to force you to get on this plane. I can tell you they are very safe and the pilot is very good. You have a little time before everyone is boarded if you want to sit a little longer.”

“Thank you,” Claressa said. “I’ll be alright. I just need to psyche myself up.”

They stood up and the steward escorted her out to the plane, where there were still a few people waiting to climb up the stairway. Claressa held onto the handrail tightly as she ascended the stairs, with the steward behind her. The other passengers were seated and there were several empty spaces. She chose two empty seats together and sat away from the window. She pulled down the shade as soon as she sat down, holding her backpack tight against her chest. 

“The flight is about an hour from take-off to landing,” the steward said. “I’ll be close by if you need me.” He smiled and walked away as Claressa closed her eyes and focused on breathing. She had never been good at meditating, it always put her to sleep. She saw this as a good thing at that moment because the one place she absolutely did not want to be was in that moment. Screw being present, she thought. She wanted a cocktail and to fall asleep.

“One hour, Claressa,” she said quietly to herself. “You can do this.”

The size difference between the planes was very noticeable from takeoff to landing. The ride was more bumpy than the last and at least one squeal of terror escaped her mouth. She caught it quickly and she was too scared to be embarrassed. Landing was rougher too. As she stepped off the plane she noticed how wide the runway wasn’t. She was shaking slightly as she made her way down the stairway. The steward gave her a congratulatory expression, holding his arms up in front of him a little as she stepped onto the ground. The air was chilly, even though it was the middle of July.

Claressa followed the line of yellow cones to the terminal building. She was glad to be on solid ground and inside a building where she could stretch out her arms if she wanted to, not that she wanted to. She walked up to a short, lightly brown skin woman wearing a modest teal dress, sensible shoes and a jean jacket. She was holding a hand written sign that read, ‘Claressa Heartwood.’

“Ms. Heartwood?” she said with a smile. Claressa nodded. “Hello, I’m Malee Waska. We spoke on the phone last week. Welcome to Kodiak and welcome to Alaska. I hope you brought a jacket or a sweater, you’ll probably find the temperature a little cold for this time of year.”

“I really didn’t think this through,” she said.

“Don’t worry about it. We can pick you up something on the way. Are you hungry?”

“Quite.”

They stopped at a little boutique shop and Claressa found a simple, but stylish jacket to help keep her warm. Malee insisted on paying for it with her company card of the jacket and lunch.

“Why, exactly, was I named in my great uncle’s will?”

“I don’t know the exact reason, I wasn’t there when the will was drafted by my predecessor. From what I can tell, your great uncle did not get along with any of his family. No one came to the funeral or the reading of the will.”

“I guess that’s why he lived so remotely. I have to admit,” Claressa said. “I was really uncomfortable on that small plane. How much further do we have to go today?”

“Well,” Malee started to say before taking a bite of her fish. “Here’s the thing. It’s not very far and it will only take another two or so hours to get there. However, and you’re not going to like this, we have to take one more plane to get there. Have you ever been in a seaplane before?”

“A what? A seaplane?”

“Yes.”

“Like, a plane that goes on the water?”

“It’s got pontoons like a boat and it takes off and lands on the water. It’s pretty common here to travel by seaplane. There are a number of charters that run year round. It’s a little scary, but I assure you it’s safe.”

Claressa was really regretting not bringing someone with her. She was expecting planes, cars and maybe a ferry. But a seaplane? That seemed too much. “Can we just take a boat?”

“We can,” Malee said. “But, that would take some time to arrange and it would probably be nearly a full day to get to the island.”

“Really? A whole day?”

“I’d have to check, but yeah. Boats don’t really go that fast.” 

The seaplane was at a separate dock just for planes, a short drive across to another island. Claressa was nervous the whole drive over. Malee tried to reassure her as best she could by telling her it’s a way of life in the more remote areas of Alaska. They walked down the dock, passing a few nice looking planes floating gently in the water, tied to the dock like she’d seen with boats. The cool breeze from the ocean made her pull her jacket tight around her and she could smell the ocean.

“Mr. Catcher, hello,” Malee said to a tall man standing on the pontoon of an orange painted seaplane. The pontoons were white, and under the wing were the words Sea Duck. Mr. Catcher waved at the women and stepped off the pontoon onto the dock. “Hello, I’m Malee and this is Claressa.”

“Hello there, nice to meet you both. Call me Robert,” he said, shaking their hands with a firm grip. He was wearing a leather bomber jacket, blue jeans and aviator sunglasses hanging out of the front pocket. “Everything is ready with the plane whenever you’re ready.”

“Are you sure this thing is safe?” Claressa said, looking at the plane. She was in no position to judge, and the plane looked to be in one piece without any damage to it aside from some chipped paint near the door.

“She’s in tip-top shape, miss. She gets regular maintenance and I’ve flown this route before.”

“She’s had a long day,” Malee said. 

“I understand. First time on a seaplane?” Claressa nodded. “They’re small but not that complicated. They don’t have the weight of larger planes so that’s going to make the ride less smooth. It’ll get a little bumpy, but you’ll be alright.”

Not completely convinced, she watched Robert help Malee into the plane and then hold out his hand to her. She didn’t move. He smiled and motioned with all of his fingers for her to come closer. Malee was getting comfortable in the back of the plane and she looked out at Claressa and patted the seat next to her. 

“Would you be more comfortable up front, Miss?” 

What an absurd question, she thought. Her mind raced with the thought of smashing nose first into the water and if it would be better to see it from the cockpit or four feet behind. Either way it was a terrible thought. And the water would be so cold.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” she said. 

Malee got back out of the plane and walked up to Claressa, who was now further back on the dock. “We can cancel this flight if you want. I can start looking for a boat to take us the rest of the way, but that’s going to take time. Are you more comfortable traveling by boat?” Claressa shook her head. “I’ve done this many times, Claressa, and in an hour or so it’ll all be over.”

Robert helped her into the front seat of the plane. He wrote something down in a log book and flipped a few switches. The engine sputtered a few times before it completely engaged, sounding something like a large lawn mower or a small car. It was not reassuring for the prospect of air travel. She watched the propeller in front of the plane spin, slowly at first, then catch and pick up speed.

“Should the propeller spin faster than that?” Robert didn’t answer her and paid attention to the gauges on the dash. “Sea Duck,” Claressa said. “Isn’t that from the cartoon TaleSpin?” Robert smiled big enough to show his teeth. “Oh shit,” she said. He started to laugh. 

The plane glided across the water as they pulled away from the dock. Surrounded by bits of metal and sheets of glass, Claressa felt trapped. Her seat vibrated underneath her at a constant rate and she wasn’t sure if that was normal or if she was overly sensitive. Her stomach churned when she saw the water spread out in front of her. She’d only been on the ocean once in her life, when she went to the Oregon coast with her parents. They went on a whale watching tour and she spent most of the trip laying in the middle of the boat trying not to vomit. When the plane picked up speed, for a brief moment, she thought about saying a prayer, but she was too scared to let go of the armrests to make the form of the cross.

Her stomach sank lower than she’d ever felt before as the plane lifted itself off the water and they were airborne. She felt acute terror as she saw the sky in front of her in a way she had never seen before. The plane rocked back and forth a little as it gained altitude. She pushed her feet into the bottom of the plane and held onto the armrests as tightly. She couldn’t make herself close her eyes though; not knowing was far more scary. They leveled off and her stomach returned to its normal state. She released her death grip from the armrests and began to breathe again. Clouds appeared and disappeared as they careened straight through them. It was bumpy, but Robert was right; Claresssa felt much closer to flying that before. 

The thin metal frame of the seaplane was all that separated her from being a bird, soaring through the air. She was both afraid and elated when she looked out the side window and saw the islands and the water below. She didn’t feel like she was in an airplane. For one thing, it was much louder. Robert gave them each a headset so they could talk to each other, but Claressa didn’t pay any attention. She was more concerned with making the transition from flying to landing. Do they call it landing if you do it on water, she thought? Is it watering? Or, perhaps, gently crashing? 

The change in the atmosphere was palpable when Robert started to descend towards the water. He pointed across the cabin. “The island is just over there at two-o-clock,” he said. Claressa instinctively reached for her cell phone to check the time before she caught herself.

There it was. The island was round on one end and skinny on the other. She could see a house at the top of a hill and a small marina just on the other side. It had trees, empty fields of grass, some rocks and dirt; everything an island should have, really. It looked like it was just floating peacefully in the ocean from this altitude. It was getting closer, and bigger as they came in for a water landing. The change was more gradual than take off. On one hand that was better because it wasn’t changing all of the sudden, but on the other hand it felt like it took longer to happen. At least with takeoff it was over quickly.

The plane felt the resistance of the water as the pontoons made contact and she could hear water being sprayed up and out as the plane cut into the surface of the ocean. More and more of the pontoons pierced the water and the plane became stable again. Robert made a wide turn and the docks came into view. 

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Robert’s voice came through the headset.

Claressa was breathing heavily. “I don’t know if I’m an island person,” she said. “But I think I’m stuck here because I don’t want to fly ever again.”

“When you see the house,” Malee said. “You’ll never want to leave again.”

Edward

My shoes were covered in mud as I raced home before the rain got too heavy. I knew better than to come in the front door with those muddy shoes, so I ran around the side of our house, past the oak tree Dad and I planned to put a tree-house in one day. I lifted myself up on my toes to unlatch the wooden gate. Mom had told me I wouldn't be allowed to go out on my own until I could open the gate myself. She told me I was cheating when I showed her I could do it with a stick I’d found. I'm tall enough to do it myself now.

I opened the gate just a little before the end dug into the ground. I squeezed through the space between the heavy wooden door and the post and pushed it shut and it locked itself. Under the shelter of the covered patio, I kicked off my shoes and dipped them in the puddles of water that formed just beyond the concrete slab that extended off of the house. The mud got more wet but didn’t come off like I thought it would. I scraped the side of my shoes on the edge of the patio and it worked well enough. I left the streaks of mud to be washed off by the rain and headed inside, carrying my shoes. 

Standing in the dining room I could smell the chicken roasting in the kitchen. On the stove was a pot boiling over and my mom was not there.

“Mom,” I called out. “Mom, somethings boiling over.”

Coming in from the living room my mom passed by me and stirred the contents of the pot, looking a little strange. Her cheeks were pink and it looked like she was wearing lipstick. 

“Are you and Dad going out tonight?” I asked her.

“Don't be silly,” she said as she turned down the stove and covered the pot. “Don't go anywhere, we've got company,”
She wiped her hands on a towel, tossed it on the counter and fixed her hair with the aid of her reflection in the stainless steel range hood. She walked up behind me and compelled me forward by her own movement. 

Sitting in the living room was a man I had never met before, but he seemed strangely familiar. He had an uneasy smile as my mother ushered me near him. He was sitting on our couch with a drink in his hand, which he laid down on the coffee table. He quickly picked it up again and slid a coaster underneath the glass as he sat it down a second time. 

“Edward,” my mother said to the stranger, “this is my son, Eddie.”

Edward stood up and reached out his hand towards me. “Nice to meet you, Eddie,” he said to me.

My mother nudged me a little. “Be polite, Eddie.”

I reached out my hand and shook his. He pretended that I had a strong grip and I was hurting his hand, just like my father sometimes did. I smiled and laughed. 

“When I was a kid,” Edward said, “I went by Eddie as well.”

“Edward is going to be renting our extra room in the basement,” my mother said, still standing behind me. 

I looked up at her and saw her big smile and her eyes locked onto Edward. She looked down at me and her smile vanished and her cheeks got even more pink. 

“Go play in your room until dinner is ready, Eddie,” she said.

“Nice to meet you,” I said as I tore off towards my room. I heard my mom say Dad would help me with my homework when he got home. 

My room was my sanctuary. In it, I was able to create my own world. My seemingly endless war between the green and blue plastic armies needed to continue. I looked around my room and tried to remember where I had left off. The blue army patrol stationed on the edge of my bed reminded me of the imminent assault on one of the green bases. 

After many casualties, I was eating dinner with Mom, Dad and Edward. The chicken was almost burnt and the mashed potatoes were lumpy, but I ate them anyway. I looked up a few times when I heard the name Edward, thinking they were talking to me, but they weren't. Every now and then I would see Edward glancing at me sideways. Mom couldn't take her eyes off him. Twice I saw her bring an empty fork to her mouth, not aware the food had fallen off as soon as the fork was lifted. I couldn't figure out what the special occasion was, but Mom had brought out a bottle of wine. Edward looked very uneasy throughout dinner, and more so when my mom asked him to help her with the dishes while Dad and I worked on my homework before bed.

* * * * * *           *

The sun was in my eyes and I froze just long enough for Johnny Claremont to kick the soccer ball away from me and head down field towards our goal. He nearly made it when the coach's whistle told us practice was over. We cleared our stuff from the field so the older kids could have their scrimmage match. As I dragged the soccer balls I had gathered in a large net towards the coach’s car, I noticed Edward sitting on the benches. I looked around and I didn't see my parents anywhere. I wondered if my parents sent him to walk me home, but when I handed off the net to the coach, Edward was gone. 

Johnny came running up to me and he almost leaped on top of me, but I got out of the way in time.

“Was the sun in your eyes, Eddie?” he asked. “You’re usually better about guarding the ball.”

“Yeah, you came out of nowhere,” I replied. 

“We're going to be ready for the Eagles on Saturday.”

I agreed with him and then we raced to the corner store to get a soda. I beat him by a few steps and we caught our breath outside the door. Johnny was my best friend, ever since we got caught cheating off each other in math class. Neither one of us were any good at math, so cheating off each other didn't help anyone.

I looked up and saw Edward inside getting a soda from the fountain.

“What is it?” Johnny asked. He must have noticed my expression.

“That guy,” I said. “The guy getting a soda.”

“I saw him watching us practice.”

“Yeah. He's renting a room from us. He moved in last week and I keep seeing him around.”

“That's kind of weird.”

“Yeah. I don't think I want a soda today,” I said and walked away from the store.

We walked home and parted ways when we reached Johnny's street. I continued home and went straight to my room and continued the epic war.

It was late at night and I was startled awake by my door creaking open. My eyes hadn't had time to adjust to the light, but I knew it was Edward. I went numb and pulled the sheets over my head. A few nights before I had gotten up to pee and I saw Edward standing at the end of the hallway. I went into the bathroom quickly and then darted back into my room once I had finished, but he was gone.

I heard the door close and I felt him sit on the edge of my bed. He sat there in silence for a few moments, and I thought about screaming. 

“I know you're awake, kid,” Edward said. 

I responded by pulling the sheets tighter over me. 

“I want to talk to you,” he said. “Can we talk?”

“About what?” I said from under the sheets.

“It's complicated. Real complicated.” He paused and took a deep breath. After he released it he continued. “Have you ever heard of the Special Theory of Relativity?” I didn't respond and I still wanted to scream for my parents. “Of course you haven’t.” 

I relaxed slightly when Edward stood up and turned on my bedroom light. I peeked from underneath the covers and he was looking at my blue soldiers guarding an overturned truck. The battle had stopped on account of bedtime.

Edward smiled as he looked at the soldiers. He examined them carefully but he never touched them. He seemed very interested in the positions and placement of the troops. He surveyed the battlefield the same way I did. He waited until I sat up in my bed before he spoke again.

“They say you can never go home again,” he said, then he laughed a little. “You may find this hard to believe, but when I was a kid I had all of these army men. Some were blue and some were green. They would wage a war in my bedroom and it lasted for months.”

He sat down on the bed again. He was wringing his hands nervously. “This isn't how it happened to me. It was different. I was different. I don't understand it, but I don't know what I said. It was so long ago.”

I pulled my feet close to my body and thought about running. 

“Okay,” he said. “When I was your age I lived in this house. One day a man rented the spare room in the basement.” He looked at me and I thought, this was what panic looked like. “One night he came into my bedroom and told me a secret. The same secret I am going to share with you.”

I scooted myself all the way to the back of the bed and held on to my knees, never taking my eyes off of him.

“I don't want you to be scared,” he said. “I'm not going to hurt you, or touch you.”

He stood up and walked to the door. He pressed his ear to it and listened. He then turned his attention back to me. 

“I don't know exactly how it happened,” he said. “But you and I are the same person. That was the man’s secret, and that’s my secret too. When you grow up, you’ll know what I'm talking about because you’ll find yourself in my position, talking to your younger self. I know it sounds crazy.” I agreed with him, nodding my head. “It didn’t turn out this way when I was a boy. My older self, he seemed more confident than I am now. He, I, knew what to say to make me not feel scared.”

I felt like I was in the pool, having a hard time treading water. I couldn't tell if he was crazy or not, but I didn't understand much of what he said. He kept insisting he was the future me, and there was a cycle of us meeting ourselves over and over again. I never interrupted him because I felt more safe while he was talking. It was the silences that scared me. 

After ranting about time travel, someone named Hawking and something about worms, he focused his attention on one of the green squads who had recently fought their way across my dresser and were pinned down behind my alarm clock. He looked carefully at them and started smiling. Then he turned back to me in one of those scary silences.

“I did this all wrong,” he said. “I'm sorry I didn't do this better.”

He walked back to the door and knelt down. I heard something being unzipped. I craned my head over the side of the bed and saw him hunched over a backpack. He retrieved a brown book and zipped the bag back up. 

“I want you to have this,” he said. “You don't have to open it if you don't want to. It's yours anyway.” He laid it on the bed and walked out the door. Before he closed it he said good bye and apologized once more.

I waited until I heard our front door close quietly before I picked up the soft leather book. I flipped through the pages which were filled with familiar handwriting. The handwriting at the end was much better than at the beginning of the journal. 

* * * * * *           *

The boy didn't move as I sat on the edge of the bed. I had finished my story and was flipping through the soft leather journal. I didn't know if I did any better explaining the situation to Eddie than Edward did to me when I was a boy. All I could do was hope for the best. I laid the journal on the bed.

“This one is mine,” I said to Eddie. “Dad bought it for me a few weeks after Edward vanished. I filled it up over the years. This was my life, or, snapshots of it, anyway.  I still have the one I left myself when I was a kid.” 

I was just making it worse, I thought. I didn't know why I had come back to my childhood home. Maybe I would have been better off if I had stayed away. That goes for all of me. Every time this happens. The cycle of the adult me visiting the child me should probably just stop. At least I know now why Edward left that night. I stood up and said goodbye to Eddie, taking one last look at myself as a child. 

In the living room, my mother was sitting on the couch in her nightgown. She glared at me as I passed by. 

“What are you, gay?” she asked. 

“No,” I said. “I just don't like, older women.”

She scoffed at me as I headed out the door, leaving the house for the last time. I walked towards downtown in hopes of finding a hotel for the night. I didn't know where I would go after that or what I would do. As I walked the lonely streets that night I wondered where the older me went when he left that night, when I was a kid.

A Cure For Life

The mountain pass proves more difficult than Ihren imagined it would be. Steep inclines through a thick forest makes his progress slow. If there were ever a path leading to the temple it had been enveloped by nature long ago. The temple itself is long forgotten and he questions its very existence. Reaching a clearing near the top he finally sees the ruins of the temple and his heart sinks. Much of the temple’s walls had fallen away and the forest was reclaiming the stones. A tree had broken through the ceiling and now towered above. Doubts fill his mind. Could anyone really live up here? Was this journey, too, for nothing?

Ihren begins searching for an entrance and thinks of his sister. Had she made it this far? Did she see the temple and find a way inside? Or did she lose hope at the sight of the ruins and seek answers elsewhere, never returning home? This was her last chance, she would not have walked away, he concluded. This was never a journey Ihren thought he would undertake. He had given up searching for answers centuries ago. If she had not ventured to this place, he would not be here now. 

Pushing hard with his shoulder against the door, he forces it open enough to slip through. The door slams shut behind him sending a gust of wind through the small entryway of the ruined temple. He hears a windchime and the sound of papers rustling from the breeze nearby. Gazing around the dark, empty room he sees a dim light just beyond the antichamber he stands in.

    The interior of the temple is warm and almost inviting. The crumbling exterior did not give him a good feeling when he reached the top of the mountain after a long day of climbing. Sections of the stone structure had fallen away and it took him some time to find the entrance. He had feared it abandoned as he searched for a way inside.     Following the light within, he enters a small, open room with pillows and thick rugs scattered across the floor. A small windchime of old, hollow wood comes to rest. Sitting at the far end of the room, he sees an old man, covered in blankets, eyeing him as he makes his way across the room.

    “Are you Celon, the Mystic?,” he asks. 

The seated man nods and holds out his hand offering him a seat. “You look tired, friend,” Celon says. “Sit. What is your name?”

    “My name is Ihren,” he says, sitting on a small, faded rug. The two men look each other over. Celon is younger than Ihren, though both men’s ages are difficult to decipher. Ihren is thin and wrinkled but Celon looks more frail. “I seek your wisdom, old man.”

    “Of course,” Celon says. “You seek death.”

    “I’ve walked these lands over four thousand years. I’ve seen all there is to see, I’ve heard all there is to hear. I’ve grown weary but am not granted solace. I see my family continue to age, and suffer. Friends, strangers, enemies; their fates are all the same. We keep going with no end in sight.”

    “Tell me of your travels, Ihren.” Celon listens patiently.

    “I journeyed to the cliffs of Karlot, where the great beast Pulore was said to reside in the waters below. I climbed to the top on a clear day when the wind raced from the south, as the tale goes. I said the prayer of the sea serpent and cast myself over the edge three hundred feet below where the waters crashed against the rocks, but there was no beast. I waited at the bottom of the ocean but he did not come. I searched the ocean floor and the current took me out to sea. For two years I searched the ocean but never found death. The current took me to a small island where I found what I took for a lost tribe. They lived in small huts and danced under the moonlight. The inhabitants had all once looked for Pulore and been carried out by the sea, just as I had been. They had come to believe they had found death, and thus named the island Pulore. There was no arguing with them so I fashioned a small boat of wood and vines, sailed until I found land and made my way back to my home.”

“Pulore is a myth, my friend. It never existed, as you discovered,” Celon says. “That is the way of rumors. I too sought an end with Pulore, and I too found that island. I share your disappointment, friend. What else have you sought?”

“I traveled to a set of caves and followed them down to where it is said poisonous gases seep into the caverns. I breathed in the poison for months until I grew bored with the darkness and the smell. I’ve tumbled off mountains. I’ve tried the cleansing fires of volcanoes and buried myself in the unforgiving desert. Nothing can kill our kind. We are truly immortal.”

“How did you hear of this temple?” Celon asks. 

“Through my sister,” Ihren replies. He looks around the small room, devoid of even modest furnishings. It is clear Celon is a hermit with only decades old blankets and rugs to stave off the cold. If he had to guess the age of the temple it would have to be thousands of years old, given the state of it. It was crafted with great skill, no doubt, for it is still standing. Where are the rest of the people who built this place, Ihren asked himself. He knew for sure Celon could not have built it alone. 

“My sister made the journey here three years ago and never returned,” Ihren says. “At first I thought she found another false hope and decided not to return home. Or perhaps she heard of something else to try while she was here. Perhaps she never made it to this temple at all. My curiosity got the better of me and I decided to make my way here and seek out the old man on the mountain. You are much younger than I thought you would be.”

Celon smiles and pulls his blanket tighter around him. He shifts positions and

stretches out his legs. “I spent a thousand years searching, as you did, to find a cure to everlasting life. I nearly gave up as well, until one day I happened to find this place, quite by accident.”

    “You did not build this temple?”

    “I did not. I found it just as it is. I spent months searching and years understanding what it was I had stumbled upon, learning the secrets left behind by those who built this temple. These chambers and hallways once were home to hundreds of our kind. They examined the history of philosophy and studied life in all its forms. From the lower creatures whose life force fades to us, the immortals. They expanded their knowledge and developed ideas that unlocked the gates to what they called the afterlife.”

    “After life? What does that mean?”

    “They thought they had discovered an existence beyond this life,” Celon says. 

    “What happened to them? Where did they go?”

    Celon smiles again, this time a great big smile. He stands and beckons Ihren to follow him down a dimly lit hallway. “I’ll show you, friend.”

    They enter another chamber with a large in the middle and a stone staircase carved into its sides leading down into the darkness. There is nothing comfortable about this room and the staircase gives Ihren pause. Celon picks up a lantern, lights it and descends the stairs, imploring Ihren to follow.

    “This way to revelation, my friend.” Ihren follows him cautiously, running his hand along the surprisingly smooth rock wall of the staircase. Ihren thinks of his sister and wonders if she walked this staircase behind Celon as he now does. Did she even make it this far? What became of her? Each footstep echoes around them and there is a very unpleasant smell coming up from below.

“Now, this next part will be troubling,” Celon says. “No one is ever prepared for this part.” Celon hands Ihren the lantern and points down the stairs. “Take this and continue down a little further. After you find your sister, and when you are ready, return to me at the top of the stairs.” Celon walked past him up the stairs and Ihren watched him for a minute.

“My sister?” Ihren asks.

“Yes,” the old man smiles.

    “What’s down there?”

    “The dead, my friend. The dead.”

    Ihren stares into the abyss as Celon’s footsteps fade away. He holds the lantern out to see what is below him but sees only darkness. As he descends the smell grows stronger. Ihren covers his nose and mouth with the sleeve of his arm. He continued until something blocks his way. Lowering the lantern, Ihren sees a strange sight of multicolored fabric on the ground with no discernible pattern to the rug at his feet. Closer inspection reveals immortals laying haphazardly on top of one another. Their skin, covered in dirt, grime and bruises, is pale with green blotches. None of them move. 

    Ihren nudges the nearest person with his foot a few times with no response. He kicks it hard but still  there is no movement. He remembers his sister and the way she looked when she left for the temple years ago. Holding the lantern over them he searches for her. Carefully making his way onto the pile of bodies to continue his search. People do not make for solid footing; he falls and struggles to stand back up. 

    Something catches his eye and he holds the lantern out in front of him. Seeing a spark of light reflecting off of a necklace, he reaches out and lifts it up to get a better look. He turns it over in his hand. It is oval shaped with a flat back. The oval is light blue with gold trim and a symbol is carved into its face. He traces the symbol of his family crest with his thumb. He follows the gold chain that is still wrapped around his sister’s neck. Her eyes are closed and something looks off. Like the others, her face is discolored and her lips are severely dry. Her cheeks seem sunken, but he recognises her. 

    “Varine?” he says to her. “Are you sleeping, dear sister?” He touches her face. Her skin is cold and dry. “Wake up, Varine. It’s me, Ihren.” He sets the lantern down on the pile of bodies and grabs Varine by her shoulders. “Wake up, Varine!” he shouts as he shakes her. Her head flails helplessly. Despair quickly builds inside him like the raging of the ocean waves, crashing down over him with an unheard of force of reality. He drops his sister's body, grabs the lantern and scrambles over the pile of corpses desperate to get away. He runs up the stairway dropping the lantern along the way. Passing Celon at the top of the stairs, he heads directly for the entrance. The sudden realization of death overwhelms him as he fails to get the doors open. 

    After some time pounding on the doors, Ihren begins to think clearly again. He sits with his back against the doors, his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. He thinks of his family; his parents, grandparents, great-grandparents, cousins, aunts and uncles. Their importance to him suddenly becomes clear. The image of his dog appears in his mind. He had not thought of her in hundreds of years. Her death was an idle thought when it happened. Animals were on a lower order than immortals, but he did feel sadness when she died. Mortals live and die, that was natural. For the first time, Ihren equated himself with lower animals. Realizing they were now on the same footing, at least where lifespan is concerned, Ihren cried.

After a while, Ihren begins to regain his composure.  He catches the smell of food and follows it back into the main chamber where Celon is cooking. 

    “Do you feel better, friend?” Celon says turning over some meat in a pan. “Have a seat and we’ll share a meal.”

    “Thank you,” Ihren says as he begins to eat. “I don’t know what came over me.”

    “I do. You took the first step towards enlightenment today! You saw death for the first time. Now you know death is possible, there is no going back.” 

    “But, how is it possible?” 

    Celon pauses for a moment.  “I am not exactly sure of it myself, though I know it works. After we eat, I’ll show you.” They finish their meal in silence. 

    Across from the chasm is a small alcove on the far side with a table. On the table are small vials of liquid and a book. Ihren picks up one of the vials and examines it before putting it down and turning a few pages in the book. 

    “What language is this?” Ihren asks.

    “I do not know it’s name. The author refers to the people who founded this temple as Blathites. They followed someone calling herself Blath. She claimed to be in congress with supernatural beings who taught her their language. She, in turn, taught it to her followers who wrote that book.”

    “How do you know all this?”

    “There are many books in the library, some of them have copies in a language I can read. Through years of study and matching symbols, I pieced the language together until I could read this book. It contains the formula to ensure death. Something that has been promised for many millennia but only found here. This book was written thousands of years after Blath ascended into the beyond by taking the last of the elixir of death. One of her followers did not ascend with them, but instead stayed behind to spread death to everyone on the planet. He worked diligently to recreate the elixir, which he finally did. I’m not certain what his plan was, but he took his life and left the temple abandoned. The final page of this book has the last formula he attempted, which is what I use now.”

    Ihren picks up another vial. It is completely clear. He shakes it and the liquid settles quickly. He opens the vial and sniffs it. “It’s just water,” he says.

    “Far from it, friend. Drink from that vial and you will soon fall fast asleep. You will sleep, but you will never wake up.”

    “What is death like?”

    “No one living knows,” Celon says. “The Blathites imagined a land not unlike this one where everyone lives in harmony, and dies peacefully only to be reborn again in an endless cascade of life, death, and rebirth.”

    “That sounds tedious.”

    “I would have to agree. What awaits us after death we shall never know until we are there. And no one has ever come back to tell me what it’s like.”

    “How many have come here since you’ve been here?”

    “Dozens.”

    “Only dozens? Why have you not spread the word of this miracle of death?” Ihren says, looking into the vial again. 

    “My plan was to make enough vials for everyone who wants this infernal life to end. But, I’m running low on some ingredients. I’m going to have to find more. Soon I will have to leave this temple and find resources to make the elixir elsewhere. Until then, I will tend to those who seek death. Like you, my friend. Drink and it will all be over in a matter of minutes.”

    Ihren walks over to the chasm, holding the vial in front of him. He looks past the vial to the darkness below him. “When I stood on the cliffs of Karlot I did not hesitate to dive into the waters below. I had hoped that would kill me but I never actually believed it would. If you had told me this elixir would cause me death before you showed me the pit I would have drank it without question or hesitation. I would not have believed you. But now I do, and I hesitate. Why?”

    “This is something we have never experienced as a species,” Celon says. “Pain can be overcome, so we do not think twice about risking injury. What is a season or two of healing among the infinite seasons ahead. We are bold because there is no real risk. But now, you know it can end and for the first time you are frightened of losing your life. This is the ultimate risk. Now, finally, you are mortal.”

    “And you are sure it will work?”

    “No one who has drank the elixir has walked up those stairs in all the years I’ve been here,” Celon says, standing straight to his full height.

    Ihren removes the top of the vial and drinks its contents down to the last drop. It has no real taste to it, other than water. He rejoins the cork to the vial and hands it to Celon. They look at one another for a moment. 

    “Please,” Celon says. “Do me a kindness and stand at the edge of the stairs. This way you will fall into the pile and I won’t have to drag your corpse. Thank you.”

    “How long does it take?”

    “You’ll be dead before you know it, friend.”

    Ihren’s body suddenly feels heavy and he can not stop himself as he falls to his knees. The room spins and he loses feeling in his hands and feet. The numbness races through his body and he is incompaciatated.

“Farewell, my friend,” he hears Celon say. “I hope you find sweet oblivion.” 

Ihren sees the ceiling for a moment as he falls backwards into the pit. Through the haze of his blurred vision he sees a mural of the sun, moons and stars stretching out into a void of darkness. He lands hard on his back atop the pile of bodies unable to move. Though terrified, he is elated to finally be free of life. Comforted by the thought of drifting off to sleep, never to wake, he tries to close his eyes. To his surprise, they will not shut. The light above him goes out and Ihren is left in darkness. 

Hours pass and he is unable to move in the slightest. He has a violent urge to move his legs but he can not get relief. He screams without making a sound. ‘It’s not working,’ he shouts, though his lips do not move. ‘Celon, you fool! I’m not dead. Get me out of here!’ The despair is crushing as he realizes everyone in this pit is still alive. Thousands of years of internal suffering without end and no way to escape it. Eventually, he too might be covered by bodies and he will face eternal darkness. What will be left of his sanity by then?

Take No for an Answer

The place was sparsely populated when we walked in. A few people were playing pool on some of the many tables on the ground floor and a couple of tables were occupied. I frequented the Rialto over the years, it was my favorite place to play pool downtown. That day I  was with a friend of mine and a few of his friends. We settled at the far end of the bar and ordered some drinks and bar food.  

Along with the bar and pool tables, there were many television screens, each one bigger than the last, throughout the place. Each one was on a different channel, all of them playing a different sport. Opposite the bar, almost hidden, was the door that led to the Off-Track Betting room where people bet on horse races from around the country. I’d never been in there. It seemed like an even more desperate place than a pool hall bar. I’d been to a horse track once, years before, with my brother and sister-in-law. I lost a little money and didn’t really enjoy the experience. Movies like The Sting and Let it Ride gave me an unfavorable impression of people who bet on horse races. 

I was not seated long when I heard a woman’s voice behind me. 

“Is this seat taken?” she asked.

I turned around to face her. She was an attractive woman with long, wavy brown hair. She was wearing a blouse and jeans. She looked to be a bit younger than I was, maybe twenty-five. There were at least six empty seats at the bar between me and the next guy, an older man watching the basketball game while he drank. I wasn’t sure why she wanted to sit in the one right next to me. 

“I don’t think so,” I said, not confidently. I turned back to the group I was with. They mostly talked to each other, and I listened. I’ve never been very outgoing, and I come off as shy when meeting people. I think reserved might be a better word to describe myself.

I wasn’t paying too much attention to their conversation when I suddenly heard the young woman again. I didn’t catch what she said, so I turned back around to face her again. I wasn’t sure that she was even talking to me, but she was looking at me.

“I’m sorry?” I said.

“Do you know what quarter this is?” she asked, referring to the television screen above the bar with the basketball game playing. 

I never had any interest in professional team sports, especially watching them. I’ve never followed any of them and I do not watch them ever. I am quite sure that my father’s biggest disappointment with his children is that both his sons couldn't care less about watching or talking  sports. Any of them. I played soccer and baseball when I was a kid, but I stopped completely when I reached high school. That is when I discovered something much better than sports. Not girls, but role playing games and video games. My brother and our friends spent countless hours inhabiting different fantastical worlds with orcs, goblins, elves, vampires, elven vampires, magic, aliens and other assorted monsters. We would stay up all night exploring dungeons, fighting villains and hoarding treasure. We would take turns running games, but I was nearly exclusively a player, not a Game Master. 

I let her question sink in for a moment, and I looked up at the screen. Someone I would never recognize dribbled the ball past other people I had no interest in while people watched and made noise. I saw no beauty in basketball, or football or soccer. They could never hold my interest.

“I’m not sure,” I said. “I’m not watching it.” Thinking that was the end of the conversation, I turned my back to her again.

“I don’t think Shaw is at his best this year,” she said.

Jesus Christ, I thought. Why are you talking to me? I was certain she’d be able to have a conversation about this inane game with someone else. Couldn’t she see I was not interested? I’ve never understood how people could strike up a conversation with a stranger. Perhaps that’s a function of a bar I’ve never explored. People often start stories with, “I was drinking at this little bar on the coast and this guy was telling me…” I don’t have any of those stories, mainly because I rarely spend more than an hour at a bar and never alone. There must be entire swathes of human existence that I’m not aware of, and bar culture is certainly among them.

“He can do better, don’t you think?” she ventured further. 

“I really don’t know,” I said. Then, I decided to end it. “I don’t follow sports at all.”

I turned away from her again and scooted to the edge of the seat with my back squarely to her. I went back to vaguely listening to friends of my friend talk. The conversation was not much better, but at least they weren't engaging me. We played some pool and I noticed the young woman had moved down the bar and found someone else to talk to. She finally took the hint.

The Last Time as Children

There was a loud crash just outside his window in the early hours of the morning. The sun had not yet risen and he really did not want to get out of bed. It was cold and the blankets were the only thing keeping him, somewhat, warm. He listened to the sounds of his parents stirring awake. He heard his sister’s room door open and the muffled voice of their mother reassuring her everything was ok. The door closed quickly and her footsteps on the creaky floorboards signaled she was on her way to him.

    “I’m fine, Mother,” he said from under his blankets, but the door opened anyway. 

    “Son, son!” his mother shouted in a whisper. “Tell me you are alright, son.” He knew what would transpire if he did not answer her right away. Her panic would build and build until she could not stand it any longer and she would start screaming hysterically, crying and running around offering desperate prayers into the ether. She would pronounce him dead before she even touched him to make sure. 

    “I said I’m fine, Mother,” he said. “Go back to bed.”

    “Everything is alright, my precious child,” his mother said. “Father is taking care of everything. Would you like some milk? Should I sing you to sleep?”

    “Just let me sleep.”

    “I’ll bring you some milk and honey.”

    “I don’t want anything, just let me sleep,” he said as the door shut. He heard his mother dash off towards the kitchen.

    He really did not want to get up or be bothered at all this early in the morning. He really did not care what the noise was; it was probably a chunk of the neighboring building falling off from disrepair. The whole town was falling apart since the departure. Any second his mother would return with milk for him to drink and probably a small piece of meat “to help you grow strong, like your father,” his mother would say. He thought about blocking his door with a chair or his storage chest, but that would involve getting out of bed. It was just easier to drink the milk and eat the meat and get his mother out of his room.

    She returned with the milk and a small piece of meat. “There you are my sweet boy,” his mother said. “I brought you some meat so you can grow up strong, like your father.” He sat up in bed, grabbed the glass out of her hand and drank it down in one long gulp. Then he traded the glass for the meat, chewed it a few times and swallowed as his mother tried to brush his hair with her hand. She sat on his bed, smiling and humming as he chewed. “Would you like me to sing you back to sleep?” she asked. 

    “Good night, mother,” he said as he threw himself back down on the bed and covered his entire body with the blankets. 

    “Sleepyhead, close your eyes,” she sang softly. “Mother’s right here beside you. I’ll protect you from harm, you will wake in my arms. Guardian angels are near so sleep with no fear.” He grit his teeth and squeezed his eyes tight trying to force himself asleep or at least go unconscious. “Lullaby and good night, with pink roses bedlight,” she continued. 

    The sound of the front door closing distracted her and she stopped singing. She tried to kiss his head but only found his shoulder then dashed off again. She stopped at the door. “Sleep my prince, sleep,” she said just before closing the door. He relaxed and finally got back to the business of sleeping. Her singing had never been soothing and he always had to pretend to fall asleep so she would leave. No matter how many times he told her to stop she would not listen.

He could hear his parents talking beyond his bedroom door, but their voices were muffled. He knew she would check in on him at least once more before going to bed. She would not sleep, she never did after being woken up. She would lie in bed pulling on her rosary beads, touching each one in succession as she imagined the worst possible things were happening to her children, her husband, her town, her sister, her brothers, her parents. Eventually she would succumb to exhaustion. It was not entirely unwarranted. With the collapse of the state, they were put into a very precarious position as a part of daily life. When the economy collapsed and the money dried up, the soldiers and government officials departed, creating a vacuum that was filled with unscrupulous people promising a better way of life. His parents were on their own then with two young children to care for. The town started to fall apart once there was no one to do maintenance on the buildings and roads. The town was pretty run down to begin with because of being so far away from any city. Few came to the town before the collapse, and those that did were not welcomed. Once the town had thinned out, they moved into a better house in the small town proper, as did the few remaining families. They decided being spread out was not a good idea and thought they would be safer clumped together. Only a few dozen families remained of the thousand or so residents that once occupied the surrounding area. 

That was over fifteen years ago and his mother had become stuck in time. She simultaneously expected everything to go back to the way it was and feared for everyone’s safety at every moment. She was pessimistically optimistic about the future, as his father would say. When the sun rose, he crawled out of bed, put on his boots and jacket and helped Father carry in firewood, same as every morning. They did this with little communication, not even greeting each other. Mother was cooking breakfast and his sister was helping her. Mother was humming an incoherent tune and his sister was trying not to make eye contact, same as every morning. Across from their house he saw a fresh chunk of concrete had fallen off the adjacent building, just as he thought. 

It was just after noon when he saw them. He and his sister were wasting time out of sight of Mother when a black car drove slowly through town and parked in front of the old courthouse. They watched it from beside the empty building that used to be a salon. They saw several other residents watching from behind curtains and from entryways. Everyone was eying the car they had never seen before. It was several minutes before the car doors opened and the occupants got out. He thought that was a tactical mistake. It allowed the residents time to get very suspicious and arm themselves. 

The strangers were two men in suits, one black, one blue, and a woman in a red pantsuit. The man in black wore sunglasses and had a short, buzzed haircut. The man in blue had a full head of curly, well maintained hair. The woman was short and had long black hair and was a little older than the two men. They looked around and chatted among themselves, paying little attention to the people who had come out onto the street. Father was leading a small group of men towards the car. He trusted his father’s ability to keep calm, but he was concerned about the other’s demeanor. 

Father spotted him and his sister as they approached the strangers. “Go home, children,” he said to them. We’ll handle this.” Father gave them a look that concerned them. They had never seen him worried. Father was tall, broad shouldered and unnaturally aged beyond his years. He was unrecognizable from the photos before the departure. His enthusiasm and seeming good nature had faded quickly after the collapse and hardened into that of a man who stood between his family and death itself. His stride was less confident that usual as he led the men towards the car.

He grabbed his sister’s hand and they ran the short distance home. Mother greeted them with a panicked look and a huge hug, burying them both in her chest. They pushed her off of them and turned to the window trying to see down the street, but they could not.

“Stay away from the windows, children,” Mother said. “Let’s sing a song!”

“We’re not little children anymore, mother!” his sister shouted.

“We don’t want to sing a stupid song,” he added.

“What do you think is going to happen?” his sister asked him.

“I’m not sure,” he said. “But, I don’t think it will  be good. 

“Who are those people? Mother, do you know?” his sister asked.

She did not reply. She kept humming to herself as she wiped off the clean table. “Lunch will  be ready shortly, children. You need to eat so you’ll grow up to be strong like your father.”

It took everything he had to not smash the window. Will she ever see me as anything besides a baby who needs constant tending to, he thought? His sister placed her hand on his back as he leaned his head into the window. 

It was several hours before their father came back. He walked straight through the house and into the bathroom, closing the door behind him swiftly. After a few minutes, Mother knocked on the door before slipping inside. They talked in low tones and he thought he heard his mother gasp. Just as he decided he would sneak up to the door and listen, the door swung open and shut so fast he hardly saw his mother exit the bathroom. A few moments later she was back with some clothes in her hands. The door shut quickly behind her.

She emerged once more, calmly. “Dinner will be ready in a few moments, children. Wash up,” she said. Father walked out of the bathroom wearing a different shirt and pants. He looked distant, like he was consumed with his thoughts. He was carrying a bundle of clothes. He watched Father go outside and burn his clothes before joining them at the table.  At dinner, no one spoke. Father was always quiet, but Mother was quiet as well. Mother kept smiling at her food as if she were practicing smiling. Mother looked more frail than usual. She was unhealthily thin and wore many layers to hide it. Normally she would make eye contact with everyone and ask them childish questions, but that night she looked to be on the verge of tears.

This had happened once before, he remembered. Someone showed up in town and everyone was on edge. Mother and Father had conversations in hushed tones for a few days and no one ever told him or his sister what was happening. They were younger then, so he figured it was an adult thing. Something children need not worry about. This time, he thought, I’m not a child. I deserve to know what is going on. Just before he spoke he noticed how quiet it was. It made him hesitate. 

“Do you want to say something, son?” his father asked. His sister looked at him, fork still in her mouth, mid bite. Her eyes were wide. Mother was looking down at her plate and Father was carefully eating his meal. 

“I want to,” he started. That sounded too demanding, like he was asking for something above his station. “Who were those people?”

“It doesn’t concern you,” Mother said softly.

“Of course it does, Mother,” Father said. “They are not the babes you think them to be. Understand, son, that what you ask is of great importance. Upon knowing, you will be expected to act like an adult. Are you ready for that?” 

“Yes, Father,” he said.

“Are you ready for that, daughter?” She nodded, swallowed her food and put down her fork. “We are all adults here, is that what you are saying?” 

The children looked at one another for the last time as children. They guaged each other’s expressions trying to see if either one would falter. Then, in unison, they said yes.

“Do you hear that, Mother? Your children are ready to grow up.” She responded by continuing to stare at her plate. “Alright then. Those people were from the newly formed government. They have invited us to join them. They made us an offer, and we’re going to have to discuss it as a community, tomorrow. You will be a part of that discussion.” Father saw the smile on his daughter’s face. “This is serious, daughter. Either way, our lives will not be the same after tomorrow. We will either join them and likely be relocated closer to a larger population, or we will remain independent and likely relocate ourselves further away.”

“Why would we leave?” he asked.

“Because, if we become citizens we are too far away and too few to benefit from the state. And if we decline, we are too close to the border, which will eventually move to claim this territory. We have no hope of holding this land ourselves, so we must leave either way.”

“Why did you change your clothes, father?”

Mother stood up and hurried out of the room. 

“There was some disagreement about how we should handle the offer,” Father said. His voice was low. “Things got out of hand and I had a decision to make. I chose to protect the strangers at the cost of one of our own. This is an important lesson that I want you to understand.” Father leaned forward and held out his hands towards his children. They slowly reached out and held his hand.His hands were strong and rough from years of hard labor and stress. He looked each of them in their eyes before he continued. 

“Our actions have consequences, not just for ourselves, but for those we love. You must think carefully about what you do and how you do it. You must be ready to face up to what you’ve done. If you cannot stand by your actions, you are not ready to be an adult. Selfishness is what separates children from adults. You’re mother and I love you very much, and we will always protect you when we can. But, we’re going to have to rely on you more to do things and make decisions for yourself from now on.” Father sat back and continued eating dinner. “Eat up, so you’ll grow up strong, like your father,” he said. He smiled and gave his children a wink.

Cancer Cubbies

Since coming back to college, I have made it a point to be more social. I have decided to make an effort to not be so antisocial anymore and talk with classmates, especially when we are forced into groups for some project. I usually stay on topic, not straying to matters of opinion; I have only made so much progress.

On campus there are designated outdoor smoking shelters which are covered to protect people from the rain. The covering seems to defeat the purpose, in my mind at least. The smoke should rise up and not be collected where it can then be breathed in yet again. I suppose second hand smoke matters little to those who have already breathed it in first hand. In these little cancer cubbies, people gather and are compelled to chat while they smoke. I see them while I kill time between classes. I watch as they converse freely with little or no sign of knowing each other outside of their time smoking. They make it look so easy. I briefly consider taking up smoking just to mingle with them. I know they would see right through my charade. My coughing would give me away instantly.

I used to smoke, sort of. When I started, I would sit on the roof of my maternal grandparent’s house with my older cousin and smoke. I must have been thirteen or fourteen years old. I’m not sure I ever did it properly, though. I never felt the mythical “buzz” smokers talk about. I was quite wiry in my youth, and cigarettes certainly never calmed me down.

A few years later I aided a friend in his decision to quit by helping him smoke his last pack with him. It’s really a nasty habit: stained fingers, teeth and ceilings; if you are fool enough to smoke indoors. And the smell; the awful reek of burnt tar and nicotine that moves one to move away from the person who created the stench. Then there is the whole lung situation. There must be something to it because millions of people smoke. The fact that they are dropping like flies, year after year, does not seem to curb the number of people who pick it up.

In my life, I have only bought one pack of cigarettes, and it wasn’t for me. When I was in high school, a friend discovered I was eighteen and asked me to buy her pack. She was seventeen and cute; I didn’t want to disappoint her. Since it was her money, I suppose I did not truly buy them. I was a middle-man between her and the tightly packed convenience store she drove me to. I had never been inside and I had to pretend I knew what I was talking about when I asked for the pack of cigarettes. For some reason I was nervous. Thankfully, her brand was not one of the ultra-effeminate ones with words like slim, misty, or vogue in the title. It was awkward enough without that added inconvenience in that small, conservative town I found myself living at the time.

When I was younger, we would visit family in Georgia. While we were there, my brother and I would get our hair cut at the salon where my aunt worked. She would offer to cut my hair in the latest fashions of the rural south, which tended to be rat-tails, mullets, or something semi-permed. I would look at my cousins’ hair and opt for just a trim.

My aunt would chat with my mother while she brought sharp instruments close to my scalp repeatedly; all the while a cigarette hung from her lips. Occasionally the cigarette would rest between her fingers as she combed my hair, snipping away with the other hand. On one such occasion she let too much time pass between flicking the ashes and the “cherry” dropped on my neck, burning my young, tender flesh. After that incident, I objected to her cutting my hair altogether, but I was always trumped by her and my mother’s insistence.

As the rain begins to fall back in Portland, the students smoking under the shelter take no notice. I briefly think how unfair it is that smokers get a shelter from the rain while outside. I think non-smokers should have somewhere to go as well. Then I remember, we do. I stand up and walk back inside.