66

People always as me if I'm a model. Being a woman over six feet tall in stocking feet will do that. I know, it's also because of my long wavy auburn hair, penetrating grey eyes and porcelain complexion, but I don't think of those things. I will always think of myself as ugly; as I was before the horrific car accident.

It happened mere days before my high school graduation. I was happy to finally be done with all the horrid teasing, bullying, embarrassment, mockery, tripping in the hallways, snickering behind my back, drawings of my cross-eyed, pock-marked face on the blackboard. I did brilliantly in school, partly because of natural talent, but mostly because all I did was study; I had no social life. I was ugly and troll-like. Then I was hit by a car and it all changed.

I spent over a year in recovery, getting operation after operation. Now I'm hot and guys won't leave me alone. I'm also a shape changer. That came after the accident, too. Apparently, it was in my genes somewhere and being whacked by a vehicle at high speeds activated them.

Sometimes I wish I could have it all taken back. I don't like the way men stare at me. Women, too. Maybe I'll finally give in to Stephen and join his modeling agency. Maybe I'll mangle my face and try to be who I was: nobody. But until then, I'm tall and I'm hot, and I'm not used to it yet.

(**Thank you to Confessions of a Werewolf Supermodel for inspiration.**)

65

It's not easy to live a happy life when your name is an anagram for "stupid and ugly". Especially when it wasn't an accident. Sandy Dug Tulip. That's me: Stupid and Ugly. It was probably my parents' unusual last name that lead them to the anagram server. It was probably drugs that made them actually name their baby so horrifically. The worst part? When I found out my little brother knew about it and I didn't. He told everyone. Although they tried to hide it behind excuses made for my parents and fake sympathy, even adults thought it was funny.

My brother's name is Mike. Jerk.

64

Picture a house, on the small side, with a tidy yard. The house is red. The front door is dark wood and sports a fall wreath. There are large trees, still holding most of their leaves. A terracotta pot sits next to the door bursting with dark orange mums. Now go inside.

The foyer is tiny but equipped with a little hat rack and boot holder. There's a braided rag rug, mostly red tones. The hall goes straight into a bright kitchen at the back or up the staircase to the second floor. To the right is a small parlor. To the left is a library. This is no "Choose Your Own Adventure", so go upstairs.

The stairs are wood. Kick plates are off-white, treads and banister are dark cherry wood. There's a neat runner up the middle that continues in the upstairs hall, red tones and cream. It is only because of the cream that the bloodstain is noticeable.

63

An older couple was walking through Central Park on a bright, fall day. The sun was warm, the sky was blue and the trees were slowly releasing their brightly colored leaves around the man and the woman who were hand-in-hand. They strolled without seeming to see any of the beauty because they were too busy stealing glances at each other as they talked and laughed. They were so obviously in love you could practically see the cartoon heart sparkling candy red above their heads.

62

The clients watched the girl trail her fingers across the dead woman's china cabinet, then the buffet, then back again to the dining room table. The husband watched with detached interest, the wife with a tightness in her chest and hands clenched. It was the wife's mother who had died without warning, without illness, without closure.

The girl's hair hung in a neat, dark braid down her back and, compared to the clients, she was a girl, but she was really in her late 20s and not a girl at all. She always dressed appropriately for her work; she thought dressing like a slob would have been rude and unprofessional. Dressing like an old hippie would be disingenuous and it would make her seem like a charlatan.

Her fingers swept across the abstract blue painting that was meant to seem like a ship at sail, and she stopped short.

61

You ever look in your rear view mirror and see someone standing there with their mouth all in a little "o" and their eyes full of "what-the-frig" and a melting ice cream cone you just bought them dripping down their hand and onto their sneaker? No? Then you're not my dad.

Lucky me; I can move on to the next stranger of a certain age and wonder if that's him. Or maybe it's the guy who tried to hustle me into that alley that one time I was walking home too late. He had eyes that looked familiar. You know, never mind, because even if you'd answered "yes" the my first question, you're probably not him. He wasn't the kind of guy who'd bother looking back.

60

Wind that smelled of the sharp dagger of winter whipped the tattered banner and hail stung the stones of the castle. Sentries, men bundled against the cold and wishing they were inside by the fire, passed each other with a nod. The forests groaned far below and away for as far as the squinting, watering eye could see.

59

The following is a partial transcript of an audio tape found in a wooden box salvaged from the old State Psychiatry Hospital. Names and identifying remarks have been edited to protect confidentiality.

The beginning of the tape, Dr. M's description of G, was recorded before the patient was in the room.

Dr. M: Notes for patient G ---, Monday, May 3rd XXXX. Patient was admitted more than a week ago and has finally been cleared for sessions starting today.

My first impression of G. was that he was in his 50s, though we share the same birth year. His clothes are ill-fitting; obviously from a thrift store and not well-chosen. They may have been given to him by a shelter. His shoes are far too big. G. arrived without having had a shower in many days, and the nurses finally had to force him to clean up a few days ago, once he was back on his feet.

My initial feelings are that G. must have a history of untreated depression and perhaps a mild psychosis that is increasing in severity and preventing him from having a more meaningful life. I imagine he will be prescribed anti-depressants and sent back to whatever shelter he's using.

Dr. M sighs and his desk chair creaks as he leans back.

Perhaps services can find G. a nice factory job. He may even be able to have an apartment on his own someday.

Dr. M: The date of this session is Monday, May 3rd XXXX with new patient G ---. G, you understand this session is being recorded, as will all our sessions?

G: ---

Dr. M: For the recording, G. has nodded. G., if you would make all your answers verbal, it would help with our recording. Do you understand?

G: Yes.

Dr. M: G is a 35 year old unmarried white male who was admitted to the State Hospital on Friday, April 23rd, XXXX. This is our first session. The patient's chief complaint is that he feels depressed and separated from society. Is this still accurate G.?

G: Yes.

Dr. M: According to my records, you have never been admitted to the hospital before. Is that accurate?

G: Yes.

Dr. M: You also state that you have never been on psychiatric medicine, and, as far as you know, there is no history of mental illness in your family. Is this accurate, G.?

G: Yes.

There is a pause as Dr. M writes some notes.

Dr. M: Tell me, G., why do you believe you are depressed?

G: (long pause, a sigh, another pause) My dreams... they've gone.

58

It was my first trip to Europe, and it didn't begin quite how I had been picturing it since I was nine years old. I was currently eighteen, for one, and still traveling with my family. I really thought I'd be going with friends or maybe, if I had the nerve, on my own. I didn't think I'd be on a plane with my parents, my grandparents and my two little brothers. I tried to escape by wearing my shades and keeping plugged into my MP3 player, but, you see, it's my family. They cannot be unnoticed. They cannot seem to keep their cool. When my grandparents got busted joining the Mile High Club somewhere over the Atlantic, I knew I was doomed.

57

When a paperclip, even a paperclip that is holding papers, goes missing, it is not much noted, except with perhaps annoyance. When a sock disappears, the pairless mate is tucked into the sock drawer with a groan, hoping the other will show up inside a sweater. Years, even decades later, the pairless sock may be thrown away or recycled into a duster.

Other items' disappearances are more difficult to dismiss, but not impossible. The bar of bath soap, the new package of Oreos, one dinner plate: all chalked up to a scattered brain.

However: when the missing item is the living room carpet, all the jeans in the house, the television screen (not the entire TV, just the screen), the disappearances become inexplicable.

56

When I was ten my grandfather went insane and killed my mother. My father was some sort of transient who had raped my mother near the tracks. He was most likely insane, too.

At this point in my story, only three sentences long, you may be thinking, "Oh, her poor mother." Don't think that, because she was also insane. While most people truly aren't "asking for it", she was. Literally. She walked the tracks hoping to find a transient who would rape her. She knew my grandfather was unstable and continued to goad him. She even handed him the knife.

Now I'm on my third paragraph and maybe you're thinking, "Oh, that poor girl." This time you're right. Poor me. I'm only sixteen, and I am waiting for the insanity bomb to drop. Any second now. Genetics cannot be avoided. As sure as my eyes are hazel and my hair is blond and my knees are knobby, I will go insane.

55

"Marci," the voice whispered. "Marci?"

"Leave me alone."

"I just wanted to say I was sorry."

***

"Marci?" The voice was patient, but insistent. "Marci?"

"What?"

"I'm sorry."

"I don't believe you."

"I know, but I'm still sorry."

***

"Do you forgive me?"

"You don't want to be forgiven. You just want to make me forgive you. You are still trying to control me. You don't, so forget it."

"That's not what I want. I just want you to know I'm sorry."

"And that you won't try to scare me again?"

"Yeah. I'm sorry."

Marci straightened up. "No. Say it. Say that you won't try to scare me again."

"Now who's being controlling?"

"Don't turn this around on me. You're the one grovelling." Marci felt triumphant. "If you're really sorry, then you'd say you won't try to scare me again."

***

"Well?" Marci waited again, her confident smirk fading. Suddenly she was afraid again.

54

Never attempt to handle a ghost investigation by yourself. You can set up cameras, sure, but don't use a digital recorder or EMF detector.* We have seen time and again how the untrained use of these devices only strengthens the spiritual presence in the location. If you're already troubled by ghostly visitation, the last thing you want to do is make the rift to the spiritual world larger by blundering around with sensitive equipment.**

B.U.R.P.S. investigators are highly trained and spiritually sensitive individuals with years of combined experience. The following book is a compilation of some of our most memorable investigations and descriptions of our techniques: do NOT attempt these at home.

*"EMF" stands for "Electro Magnetic Frequency" and is commonly cited in ghost investigations as an indication of the presence of spirits.

**We have training sessions available to those who wish to become certified in ghost hunting techniques. Equipment is also available for a small rent-to-own fee. Call your local B.U.R.P.S. office for details and pricing.

53

After all that I've been though, you might think my advice about men would be: "Be suspicious." It's not. In regards to your love life, you should always love freely and with all your heart. Becoming suspicious will only make you miserable; you can always be miserable later. For now, enjoy the freedom and possibility of Love.

That does not mean: "Be stupid." There is room for whole-hearted love and independent thought. Loving freely should never mean losing your Self; it will only make you bitter. You don't want to hate the person you love just because you couldn't stand to love yourself, too. Love yourself freely and with all your heart: you deserve it.

Be honest, especially to yourself.

Have fun. If it's not fun and you can't make it fun, why are you doing it?

Love. Love keeps away wrinkles, lowers blood pressure, prevents irritable bowel syndrome and will make you lighter. What's not to love about Love?

52

Corey leaned back in his ergonomic, minimalist office chair and gazed at the computer screen without seeing. He had read the message, as clear as the black font on green. Terri was in trouble.

His hacker friend Terri was always getting in too deep. She was good, but the government was catching up, tech-wise. Even if she was beautiful, this was starting to get to be too much to put up with. After all, he had his position at Wachtell, Lipton, Rosen & Katz, the most prestigious law firm in New York, to consider.

The forward-thinking firm had hired Corey as their computer consultant three years ago, long before anyone else, and he was not about to lose his extremely lucrative job. His 1000 square foot loft apartment, unheard of for someone his age, was well stocked with the latest in computer equipment, parts and pieces. Corey was developing computer programs on the side and was even on the verge of creating a gigantic hard drive--an entire megabyte.

Corey slipped back into his signature red high top Reebok's and began shut down procedures. Terri was quite beautiful.

51

Among all the strange and unusual people in the city, he never failed to turn heads because he was a strange and unusual that didn't belong. Ducking under the lintel of the front door in the old brick building where he lived, he would lope in a slow, loose way to the market. He seemed to have more in common with the farmers selling their wares than the urbanites buying them, but even they looked at him as "other".

Clothes became merely draped fabric on him. Even when chosen correctly for size, they hung and flowed and didn't conceal the fact there was nakedness underneath. His body seemed to move independently of any outside influence.

His hair, dark where not struck with grey, waved, tousled, too long, not long enough, eternally windblown, never seemed to be newly trimmed or freshly washed.

Some would say he was old. Some would say he merely looked that way. Hardly anyone could tell you the color of his eyes.

50

In 1492, Columbus hid in a closet. It was his brother, Barry, who sailed the ocean blue and "found" the New World. Christopher was better with people, and better looking, so he got all the credit. Barry Columbus didn't mind because he didn't like attention, but he did love the sea, exploring, and danger. Christopher Columbus was a chicken and preferred predictable comfort as well as boinking Queen Isabella.

In 1492, Barry sailed the ocean blue. He was also turned into a pincushion by rightfully frightened Guacanagari in what is now Haiti. Barry's loyal sailors kidnapped a bunch of native "Indians" and dragged them back to Spain where Christopher took all the credit and began a search for his other brother, Irving, the long-lost black sheep of the family, to sail in his place just as Barry had.

49

When I was an infant, swaddled in my pink blanket, strangers would peek into my carriage, as their nosiness forces people to do. They would lean in, their faces all full of gooey happiness, coos and kissy lips. When they got a load of me, the phrase most spoken to my stone-faced mother was, "Oh, what a...a baby."

48

"It's a magic wand," Troy declared, holding the stick he found aloft so the other kids could see and appreciate it.

"It is not," griped his sister Athenea. "It could be a sword, though." Troy brandished it like a true swashbuckler.

"It's not a sword," piped up Luther. "It's a lightsaber. From Star Wars."

"I know what it's from," snapped Troy, who started making lightsaber swoosh sounds anyway.

"It's the bone of a child's leg." All heads snapped to Druelle. Dirty Stinkpants Druelle. Athenea was ready to retort, but stopped short at the way Druelle was staring, rapt, at the stick.

"It's a wand," Troy whined, going back to his original, and he thought best, assertion. Everyone else continued to watch Druelle, wondering what she would say next.

47

How could she have not known her friend was living like this? Val was horrified when she let herself into Halle's bungalow. Granted, Halle never invited Val in, but still. Still. There should have been signs. Val sniffed and wrinkled her nose.

Val and Halle had been friends since elementary school in their middle class suburban neighborhood. Halle's parents were tough, but they had seemed fair. There was a rough patch in high school where Halle seemed to have a hard time adjusting, but she had eventually pulled herself together and gotten her own place.

Halle's original apartment had been small and poor but neatly kept in a sort of shabby-with-cat chic. Val had been there many times, but then they had fallen out of touch. Now it was ten years since Halle had that apartment. She lived in this bungalow now. Val was afraid to walk in any further than the foyer.

The floors were immaculate. And white. Blazing white. The walls were blue Jamestown toile wallpaper. Toile! There was a highly polished antique table in the foyer upon which no key chain had ever sat and no mail had ever piled. Val peered into the living room to the left. The furniture and lampshades were covered in plastic. The floor was white wall-to-wall plush pile carpeting. Val felt the tears well up in her eyes and she involuntarily sniffed them back. Potpourri. Freaking potpourri.

46

Moscow talked in his sleep. He didn't know he did because it was a new phenomenon. He had never talked in his sleep when he was still living at home, but now that he was out and in his own place, he talked, yelled, whispered and sometimes screamed. Moscow found out he talked in his sleep after he picked up a part time job in the used bookstore.

45

The woman was obese and she breathed through her mouth. Her blue floral tank top and matching blue shorts were cheap but they looked clean enough. Her hair was lank and dyed an improbable shade of yellow. On the back of her flabby upper left arm she had a small mountain of cancer. At least, Susie thought as she looked at the woman ahead of her in the grocery store checkout line, it was what cancer was supposed to look like.

It was summer and all the fashion magazines had devoted at least one article to spotting melanoma, in between the ads and fashion spreads with healthily tanned models. Susie remembered melanoma had irregular shape and color.

The fat lady's arm had a misshapen hill on top of a misshapen mountain that were both black and purply-black. The lumps were as irregular as they could get and Susie felt a little nauseous. Did this woman know the lumps were there? She was so fat, maybe she couldn't reach to feel or turn to see them in a mirror. Maybe she had no one else to tell her about them.

Maybe they weren't cancer, but just moles. Yes, just moles, Susie told herself, but still she wondered if it would be considered rude to mention them to the woman. Maybe it was too late already. Susie watched as the lady huffed and puffed her way to the exit, clinging to the grocery cart full of cans and boxes and plastic bottles. Susie vowed to remember sunscreen every day.

44

Everyone had thought that science and logic and empathy and rational thought had finally triumphed over faith-based belief, blind patriotism, righteousness, and self-centeredness. It hadn't. The others were not converted, they were simply seething, steeping in their own closed-minded juices and plotting their return to power. They also were planning how they could permanently hold that power.

Secret militias formed in churches, basements, compounds, bunkers. Plots were hatched in those places as well as in marbled halls of justice, well-appointed DC offices, and in the homes of the rich and formerly powerful. God, Country and Freedom were mentioned over and over as these people armed themselves and planned to kill any fellow countryperson who didn't share their beliefs.

In shock and disbelief, the scientific, logical, empathetic and rational were plowed down by the combined force of inarguable faith and bullets, bullets, bullets.

43

They have told me that my mother is alive. My uncle said she is in hospital with me and consented that she is unconscious and badly injured, but I do not believe him. After all, he was not on the plane and he was not in the water like I was. He does not know what I know. I only nod, carefully, because of my fractured collarbone, and say nothing; I know he is only trying to make my recovery easier. No matter the superficiality of my body's injuries, it is not easy to be the only survivor.

42

Behind the brilliant green of the hills, mountain ranges of puffy clouds lit by the setting sun were all that was left of the day's showers. The summer air was still warm and damp, though cooling as the evening gathered.

The breeze smelled sweet and earthy, of the grass and the mud and the wildflowers that struck colorful swaths through the green. Birds chirped their evening songs as they flew home to their cozy nests.

Miles away, past the rolling green hills, past the deep-flowing creek moving darkly through the tall trees, past a marsh and a tumble of rocks was a marker: a ten-foot high plinth of granite thrust up towards the sky. It was not naturally a part of these woods, but there it stood, its top still touched by the sun, its bottom in cool stony shadow.

41

The round, wooden side table was very, very old and it was handmade. It was oak and its dark stain had gotten even darker over the years. The table's design was simple and useful: round top routed on the edges; a drawer cleverly curved to follow the table's lines, blending into the top's skirting; and a single pedestal with three simply curving legs at the bottom.

One of the legs had been ham-fistedly re-glued a few decades past. The top had a few rings where drinks had been set without the careful use of a coaster. The drawer's brass pull had come off and now rattled around in its empty drawer, which was never opened anyway because it tended to stick in humid weather.

The little round table sat in the sun next to a plastic folding table that held all $1 items. There was an orange sticker on the top that read, in black Sharpie, $25/OBO.

40

Shots echoed through the city streets at a quarter after three in the morning. Being so close to the Fourth of July, the majority of residents, if they heard the shots at all, attributed them to juvenile delinquents with firecrackers. Usually, the call center would be inundated with 911 calls, but there was only one.

Julie Robertoson was up at a quarter after three because her new baby son, just a week old, wasn't sleeping regularly. She didn't have any experience with babies and there was no one in her life to give her advice. Julie was walking him back and forth, back and forth in her studio apartment on the first floor of a building where social services said she could live with reduced rent. It was a bad neighborhood, and Julie knew it, but she only had a distant concept of what a "good" neighborhood would be like. Julie was the only one to call 911 that night.

The fifteenth time Julie passed by the window, infant son wailing in her arms, his head exploded.

39

Perro: The Ugliest Dog
(A Picture Book)

Perro the dog was sad, but not because he was ugly.

Perro was definitely an ugly dog. He even won the "Ugliest Dog Contest", paws down.

Perro the dog was not sad because people stared at him.

Perro only had fur on the top of his head, the tip of his tail and on his ankles. The patchy fur didn't make him sad, even though there were not many people who liked to pet him.

Perro the dog's tongue hung out of his mouth. It made him thirsty on dry days, but his tongue hanging out was not making him sad.

Perro the dog had short, skinny legs.

Perro the dog had a long, skinny neck.

Perro the dog had a big head with big eyes that looked everywhere but the same place.

These things did not make Perro sad, either.

Perro had a whole rainbow of homemade sweaters to wear on cold days. Being a dog in a sweater, however, didn't make Perro sad.

38

Once upon a time...

I hate to interrupt at such an early point in this story, but I know how you are, and I wanted you not to worry. You see, I understand how stories that start with "Once upon a time..." go, and I wanted you to know that although there will certainly be strife and uncertainty for the main characters, they will be okay at the end. Better than okay, in fact. They will be absolutely wonderful and giddy with the happiness that will follow them for all the rest of their long days. Starting again:

Once upon a time, there was a girl...

Sorry. Yes, it's me. I can tell you don't believe me, or, at least, you don't believe that you'll be worried, but I know you, and you will worry. You may even take it personally. If you have to pause mid-way through the story, you'll fret, but I want you to know, it will be fine. You're thinking that there's nothing in this story that will make you worry? Oh, but there is. It will start off okay, but, trust me, stories like this tend to veer pretty quickly. All right, all right. Enough. Here we go again:

Once upon a time, there was a girl who thought she was happy.

See? It's the word "thought" that brings it all down. I could change it to:

There was a girl who tried to be happy.

But really, that's the same thing. Swapping out a word doesn't make someone instantly happy. But I digress...

37

Louis was one of those people who never tried as hard as they could because if they did and still fell short, it would mean they weren't good enough. If Louis never tried as hard as he could, then he could always tell himself that if he had only tried harder, he would have succeeded. Berating oneself as lazy was infinitely better than being an actual failure.

It was during his late thirties that Louis realized he was one of those people. He was in the middle of berating himself for once again missing the deadline for a writing submission when his synapses finally let him know it was not laziness at all; it was fear of trying.

The knowledge hit Louis like a sidekick to the chest and he numbly thought it must have been what Adam and Eve felt after eating the Forbidden Fruit. He sat down on the floor of his one bedroom apartment and cried because this kind of enlightenment didn't go away.

36

As religious orders go, the Brothers of Peace were among the most devout. Unlike other famously hypocritical religious, those accepted into Peace were those who had proven themselves worthy, steadfast, hard-working, and truly peaceful. The Brothers of Chastity couldn't make those claims. Not after the string of scandals.

The Brothers of Peace had a monastery in the rolling foothills at the base of the Mountains of Forever. The woods were thick and teeming with wildlife that the Brothers never killed. In keeping with their peaceful nature, the Brothers were vegetarian, and some were even vegan.

Brother Augustine was just vegetarian, he loved a good omelet, and he had been with the order for ten years. Peace cloaked him, as it did all the Brothers who stayed with the order for any length of time.

35

The sewers were running full today meaning it's raining up there. I get good stuff when the sewers are fast. My net always comes back with something interesting. Already today I've gotten a chair, two books, four decent magazines, a Styrofoam head and, my lucky luck, a wallet with $54, some credit cards, driver's license and a family picture.

I'm drying them all out in my quarters. I have a great section of the tunnel--all to myself, too. Nobody goes out this far, only me. Just in case, though, I've set booby traps and signals to let me know if someone's coming and I managed to rig a door with a lock. I even figured out how to tap into the nearby subway's electricity. You can't believe the luxury you can make for yourself in the sewers.

I sit with the wallet under my red lamp. Though the money really will come in handy once it's dry, it's the family picture that draws me. Frederick M. Spalding stands with his family. Frederick requires corrective lenses to drive. His family is dressed for the 1980s and his wife grins gummily for the camera. His two children gaze slightly off to one side and are frozen mid-giggle at something the photographer is probably doing with a stuffed animal. Frederick is looking straight at the camera lens. He is not smiling. His face is smooth behind the oversize glasses. Frederick is staring from the Sears studio in 1988 through to me, still damp from my fishing expedition, in my sewer home, over twenty years later. Frederick M. Spalding. Can you feel me staring back through time at you?

34

The night was stifling hot and the air was so humid it had weight. No breeze stirred though all the bedroom windows were optimistically thrown open. Thunder rumbled in the distance, but did not bring cooling rain. Air conditioners had been rendered useless hours ago when the power grid slammed shut and would not re-open. The power outage also meant the night was black, black, black. No night light, no digital clock glow, no street lights and no neighbor's annoying motion floods. Blackness and silence.

33

INTRODUCTION

This book is divided into four sections:

Section I.--General Suggestions for Becoming a Wizard,
Section II.--Wizardry Self-Taught at Home,
Section III.--The Wizard at his Task,
Section IV.--Materials for Use in Wizardry.

It has been prepared chiefly for those who do not understand the Art of Wizardry.

The manner in which the book is prepared makes it possible for one to be his or her own teacher.

The emphasis is upon Section II, which provides Two Methods for learning, at home, how to bring out the Magic that is within the grasp of all reasonably intelligent human beings.

However, Sections I, III, and IV contain practical assistance, in Spell Advice and Advanced Material, for those already competent wizards.

Section IV is a Compilation, for ready reference, of Quick Spells and Hexes which are modern.

As to the method underlying all magic, it should be said that there has been no better statement given through the centuries upon the art of wizardry than the words of Merlinowski:

"The powers of the earthen magic, and powers from within my own consciousness and fleshly being, are, when drawn forth, fearsome and encompassing of all the elements and ought to be given the most focused study and nervesome majesty and are, in my observation, brought forth through three processes; the first, that of calming the random powers; the second, that of directing them; and the third, that of thinking of them when complete. None of this may be denied in any sensible fashion from reasonable minds or sane intellects, truly." --From Der Magicoriere, A. III, c. xxiv.

In order to learn the elegancies of wizardry one could well afford to give his or her days and nights to the counsel of Merlinowski.

(Acknowledgement to Edwin Hamlin Carr, author of Putnam's Ready Speech-Maker: What to Say and How to Say It, for my blatant lifting of words and form for this "Once Upon a Time" entry.)

32

Sadness doesn't just suddenly appear, like when you realize you have ants. You walk into the kitchen one morning and there's an ant crawling across the counter and you have to buy those little plastic poison roundhouses to put into corners and under the refrigerator. Sadness creeps up on you, and you do notice, but you ignore it, like when you get cancer.

You notice the spot on your arm, or the pain in your side, but it's nothing. Sure, it bothers you a little, but you manage to convince yourself there's no need to trouble anyone with it. Then the spot gets bigger, or the pain suddenly sharpens, so now you wear long sleeves or take an ibuprofen and you can keep on just as you have been.

But the cancer is still there, and it won't go away just because you ignore it. As a matter of fact, it will only get worse. If you hadn't ignored it, you might have gotten help. Yeah, it would have been painful, but not as painful as a slow death.

Sadness is a slow death that eats you from the inside out.

31

The old cobblestone house had fallen into disrepair somewhere between forty and fifty years ago. Without a swift and vast investment of money, the house would cease to be quaint and suddenly become a pile of stones at which people would shake their heads and say, "That is such a shame."

That is, if people ever saw it at all. The house was surrounded by overgrown bushes and self-seeded trees in what used to be a spacious, well-tended yard. The driveway was long and winding but was now nearly indistinguishable from the thick woods that surrounded it. The driveway ended at a gravel road, neatly kept by the town because it lead to an important cell tower eventually connecting to a better road, which connected to a yet better road, and so on until you hit the thruway ramps a few miles and one small town later.

No one could see the little cobblestone house to notice that it still had tatters of curtains in the windows. There was no one who might have seen the curtains to come up and peer through the glass to see that the house remained completely furnished as it was more than sixty years ago.

30

Dear Maria,
Sorry about the bikini girls on this postcard. Believe me, it was the least offensive one I could find in the tiny island gift shop.

I'm also sorry about how we last spoke. I know you don't believe in my "little adventure" and that I was a fool to leave the firm, but please try to understand that I never enjoyed being a lawyer and I am 100% convinced that this "little adventure" will prove to you, and to everyone, that I am right!

I have my cell, but I don't know how much of a signal I'll be getting once I'm in the jungle. I will try to let you know how it's going somehow. Please don't give up on me! I know I'm right!

Yours,
Leonard

29

I went to sleep with a gun in my mouth, and now that I'm awake I'm wondering what made me fail to finish the job. I don't mean in a "I'm such a puss" kind of way, but rather a serious, "Why didn't I?" kind of reflection. There must have been something I thought was worth living for, or some idea, a plan, a hope, a guardian angel; if only I could remember what it was.

28

Miss Dombrowski looked like she was trying not to look scared. She had been reading Edgar Alan Poe's "The Black Cat" to her sixth grade class, as a special October treat, when the fire alarm began to ring. The class, that had been enraptured by the first "adult" story most of them had heard, automatically stood, as they had been trained, but Miss Dombrowski froze, a crease appearing between her arching brows. She didn't let go of the book, but twitched her head towards the speaker grille next to the clock.

Though no one had told him yet in his young life, Mark was very good at reading people, and he read surprise, then realization, then fear in his teacher's face. Meanwhile, the class lined up and waited for Miss Dombrowski to lead them out onto the school's lawn for a few moments of outdoor freedom.

Miss Dombrowski, however, was not leading them anywhere yet. As the class was lining up, their teacher had put down the book and gotten her purse from the big desk, observed by Last-in-Line-Louise. Miss Dombrowski, her favorite teacher, had given her this nickname, smiling. It was true. Louise always hung back to be last in line and she always sat in the back of class, as long as alphabetical order didn't thwart her. Now, being last in line meant Louise noticed Miss Dombrowski wasn't expecting to return to the room. Her favorite teacher was also still watching the grille above the door, next to the ticking clock.

When the alarm stopped, it felt as if weights had been lifted off Mark's eardrums, and the whole class sighed. "Stay in line," ordered their teacher, "and stay quiet."

Louise backed away until she found her desk. She grabbed her own bag, a shapeless knit thing her mother had made. It was ugly, but it held a lot, and it was practically made out of rope. Louise crammed her lunch in on top of all the other items she had inside, then she shoved her sweater in on top of that. No one saw Last-in-Line rejoin her class except Mark, who stood second last.

Mark was about to risk a whisper when the loudspeaker buzzed an extra-long change of class bell, only it wasn't time to change class. Miss Dombrowski tightened.

"Attention classes. Attention. This is Principal Benson." There was a pause and Louise pictured Mr. Benson letting go of the microphone button and clearing his throat. The mic picked back up. "All teachers, please take your students to Stairway F. I repeat. All teachers, please take your students to Stairway F.

"This is not a drill. I repeat, all teachers, immediately take your students to Stairway F. Students are not allowed to stop at their lockers or in the restrooms. This is not a drill.

"Coordination Staff, please begin your sweep. Coordination Staff, please begin your sweep."

Now the students were beginning to look scared, and Miss Dombrowski seemed to come to herself now that she had something to do.

"Okay, kids. You lined up very well. Now follow me into the hall. Louise, you may turn out the light and close the door, just like our fire drills. Let's go."

27

The narrow passageway was never meant to be lit in any fashion, and the tiny blue magelight highlighted to Bern why. He already knew it was a tight fit because his shoulders brushed both sides of the passage, but seeing the inside of the plaster lathe on his left and the rough hewn stone of the palace wall pressing on his right, barely two feet apart, made him feel a claustrophobia he hadn't felt in the pitch dark. The air was stale but oddly dust-free. Bern thought perhaps it had been spelled against it in the very stones so anyone using the passage wouldn't show the signs once they popped out in the library, which he hoped to do, if Marijel ever finished with her scribblings.

It was Bern's magelight but it was Marijel who was Listening to the people in the parlor so she could Compose the piece she was frantically transcribing from her brain into her music-ruled notebook. Bern watched in fascination as the black specks filled the page. He knew Marijel was Composing as fast as possible, but he still willed her to hurry.

26

Cabot Geheim took a room at the boarding house in the broken town of Trostlos the day after the reading of his grandfather's will. A bored, stumpy woman showed him his room, but Cabot was too excited to even notice there was no private bath. Not that he would have complained; his stay was to be as temporary as possible. The Boarder's Haven merely provided convenient access to his inheritance: Geheim Manor.

25

"Why did you come here? To gloat?"

"No," he leaned against the door jamb and lit a cigarette. She pulled it out of his mouth, dropped it on the industrial tile and ground it with her heel.

"Why, then?"

He shrugged, "Because I wanted to see you."

Her eyes narrowed, "You've seen me. Now get out." She started to close the dented metal door, but he stopped it with one hand.

"And to offer you a proposition." He pulled out another cigarette and she let him light it.

"Which is what?"

"You can have back some of your old life."

She barked a single laugh and smiled with half her mouth. "Right."

"The money, at least." He smoked. She tried to read him, but couldn't. "You going to let me in?"

"No." She reached for her coat. "But I will come out. You're stinking up my hovel."

24

It was a ten-spot to rent a hygienic Pod for the night, and I was sick of sleeping in the filth of the street. You never really slept out there, anyway. Partly because you had to keep alert for thugs and cops (same difference, right?) but also because of the smell. It hadn't mattered I paid extra for a quality filtermask; I always ended up coughing and wheezing.

I chose a stationary Pod because I had a friend who had disappeared when a transit Pod went off course. Or somebody rigged it. It meant that I walked or took the train, awake, to wherever I wanted to go.

I lucked out when my ten called up one of the newer Pods. The cleaners still worked, all the lights still lit, and it smelled fresh. But what didn't, comparatively. I crawled in and the lid whooshed shut. Some people couldn't get over the coffin-like feel of them, but since when had they ever laid in a coffin, right? This was much better. I set the speakers to white noise, the cushions to extra soft, and the lights to their dimmest setting. I couldn't feel it, but the Pod should have been sliding into position among the other occupied Pods for my paid for up-to-twelve-hours. I figured I'd sleep at least nine or ten.

Not feeling the outside world in a Pod is usually a blessing. This time, it was a curse. I said my Pod should have been sliding into position; it wasn't.

23

The waitress looked tired and sad because she was. It had been a long, hot morning that was working its way into a longer and hotter afternoon. The diner's big metal fans blew the heat and smell of fry grease around the dining room without cooling anything. A single TV played cable news in the corner and it was quietly reporting about death somewhere in the world.

There were still four customers from the morning. Gus and Bob and Pat would stay right on through lunch, sitting at the counter, reading their papers or watching the news, occasionally talking to one another. The waitress refilled their coffees: regular, regular with cream, and decaf. A tough-looking trucker lady had come in at 10:30, parking her rig along the side, and ordered a late breakfast: eggs, toast, bacon, and coffee, coffee, coffee. Extra sugar.

The waitress wore baggy khaki pants and a tank top under a thin, blue, button-up shirt. A newly smeared apron was tied around her waist. She wiped the side of her brow with the rolled-up sleeve on her upper arm as she cleaned the last table. The bell on the screen door jingled, but she didn't look up until she heard the three regulars' conversation stop and she didn't hear the sound of the newcomers taking a seat.

There were three men. Men looking for trouble. Men who had found it.

22

All the presents had been opened and the living room floor was littered with torn paper and limp ribbons. The cake was a smear of blue frosting and stale crumbs on a circle of cardboard. The balloons that hadn't been inhaled for their helium lay on the floor, shriveled. A disemboweled pinata rotted in the backyard. Scavengers had already taken the pizza crusts and dropped Doritos from under the picnic table. The pony had long since trotted away and was spotted by a motorist on the thruway who called the SPCA and brought to pasture in their enclosure with the two old goats.

21

"Open your mouth, Michael."

"Nmm umm."

"Do you want me to bring your mother in here, Michael?"

"Nmm umm."

"Then open your mouth."

"Nmm umm."

"All I want to do is count your teeth."

"Mm-mmm?"

"Yes."

"Mmm..."

"See? All I have is a little mirror on a stick."

"Mmm.... Nmm umm."

"Michael."

"NMM UMM!"

"Michael, do you know what happens if you don't let your dentist count your teeth every six months?"

"Nmm."

"Do you know anything about sharks?"

"Umm hmm."

"You know they have multiple rows of teeth, and when one falls out, they all shift around and the next row replaces it, on and on and on. A shark may have up to three thousand teeth at one time. Did you know that?"

"Nmm umm."

"Human children are the same. You will grow more and more teeth. Rows and rows of them until they fill your mouth. You won't be able to close your jaw any more. They're sharp, too. Eventually, you'll have so many sharp, pointy teeth, that you'll chew yourself to death."

"!!!"

"Why do you think there are special dentists just for children? We're here to make sure your baby shark teeth don't grow and you don't chew yourselves to bloody pieces. I file them down and I take out the extras until all my patients have regular sets of adult teeth."

"!?!"

"I think I can see the lumps of your next row starting to form on your lower left."
"?!?"

"Unless you want to die, Michael, I suggest you open your mouth. Right. NOW."

"Aaaaahhhhh...."

20

In days of long ago and in the far away, there were heroes. Valiant, brave, pure of heart, trustworthy, brilliant, selfless, handsome, beautiful, perfect in form and superior in strength of all kinds.

At the time, however, they were just ordinary, plain, scared, bored, sometimes stupid, often selfish, usually self-doubting, frequently disheveled and in need of a shower, beaky-nosed, zit-riddled and sore. Heroes they were, nonetheless.

19

God, she had to pee. Lynn was sure whatever he still had to say was fascinating, but her bladder was too distracting. She had been trying to leave for the last hour, and she'd finally made it to her car door, but her boyfriend, Bob, trailed her, talking the entire time. It was too late to ask to go back into the house, and, really, all she wanted was to go home.

"Bob, it's so late. I gotta go," literally! "I had a nice time..." Lynn rolled her eyes as Bob's words rolled over hers. She seriously thought that maybe he had Asperger's Syndrome and couldn't read others' emotions or empathize with them. At all.

He reached to pull her into another too-tight hug (all his physicality was too tight or too rough--must be another aspect of the Asperger's) and she backed behind her now-open car door. "Bob," she said firmly, "it's 2:30 in the morning and I am leaving. I had a nice time, but I'm going because I have to drive and I'm tired. Bye!" Lynn swiped a peck on his cheek and slid, careful of her full bladder, into the driver's seat. Bob held onto the car door, leaning partway in, still talking.

Lynn wondered how difficult it was going to be to break up with him. He didn't seem to hear her, and she was finding it harder and harder to hear him. Her ears were tired. She put on her seat belt. She started the car. She shooed Bob from inside the door and finally managed to close it. He tapped on the window. Lynn blew a kiss, ignoring the twirling "roll down your window so we can talk" gesture, and drove away. She imagined Bob still talking as she reviewed the terrain from here to her house, wondering if there would be any place with a bathroom still open.

18

"I see...a man."

"Is he cute?" The three girls watching their friend get a psychic reading giggled.

"Shh! Don't interrupt, Denise," chided Allison, who was actually wondering the same thing.

The medium, Madame Fo, didn't seem interrupted at all. To Jessica, whose reading it was, Madame Fo seemed very far away indeed. Madame Fo continued, "This man is not good for you. You must avoid him."

Denise clicked her tongue, "Get thee to a nunnery, Jess. Or maybe to the softball team. That's rather vague, isn't it, Madame?"

Madame Fo still gazed into her crystal ball, a line creasing between her brows. "This man will hurt you." Jessica could feel the medium's struggle. Was she trying to see more clearly? Trying to find the words? Trying to concentrate over Denise's hostile posture?

"What does he look like?" Jessica breathed.

"He's...going to hurt you. He's difficult to make clear, but the intent is powerful."

Jessica could hear the candles sizzling and their flickering light was making her dizzy. "When?"

"Sssssssoooooooonnnnnn!" Madame Fo's prophecy seemed ripped from her, and the medium kicked out with her legs, knocking the table and making her crystal ball and two candles fall to the floor. The girls screamed, hands over their mouths, eyes wide in the increased darkness. At least Denise had the presence of mind to open the door and let in the light of the tiny waiting room.

17

I know it's a cliche, but seriously, Paris in the springtime really is beautiful. It's warm and sunny. Everyone seems to be carrying a bouquet of flowers and the city's famous cafes are ready and waiting with their little iron-legged tables draped with crisp white linens, waiters unobtrusive and poised to serve. I had ever been to Paris in the spring until the day I ran away from home.

It sounds like I'm some uber-smart teenager who secretly saved my babysitting money, figured out how to get a passport, and snuck off to the airport, ditching my parents and the remainder of high school just to live the life of a tragically misunderstood artist in France.

First of all, that never works; girls like that turn into tragically diseased prostitutes. Second, I'm not a teenager. I'm in my thirties, and I don't feel particularly smart. Especially alone in France. I did manage to figure out the passport thing, secretly save money and sneak off to the airport, but I was ditching my husband and the remainder of a flawed marriage to live the life of a... well, there's the thing. What am I? Tragically misunderstood, no doubt, by everyone I left behind. Except for one person. The one to whom I just sent his own one way ticket to Paris.

Hint: not my husband.

16

Jerome didn't find his grandmother fascinating. He found her old and smelly and boring. He hated visiting, but his mother always dragged him along. She even made him dress up. "What for?" he would ask. "It's not like it's church or something."

"Don't sass, just button your shirt right and tuck it in neatly." His mom was a stickler for looking neat when dressed up. He was afraid that someday she might make him iron his own clothes. He was, after all, twelve now, and she was already making him learn to cook.

"What for?" he asked. "Ain't I going to have a wife?" That earned him a slap. Despite the painful start, Jerome was actually becoming quite a good cook. His grandmother, however, was not.

"What if she tries to make me eat one of her sassafras cookies? I don't like those awful cookies. Can't I tell her no?"

"No. You cannot. You will eat two to be polite, and you will not attempt to feed any to Beautiful. That dog was sick for a week. Tie your shoes."

15

You know you're in a poor neighborhood when the front yards look dumpy. The lawns are patchy. The garden plots are weedy and bordered by cement blocks, or tires, or painted rocks, or plastic dividers or railroad ties. When the people living in a poor neighborhood try to garden, there are half a dozen wood cutouts, plastic animals, plastic pots and plastic pinwheels everywhere. There are rusty, bent garden fences or even string. There are twelve weak-looking impatiens planted six inches apart. Bushes are wiry and misshapen, or overgrown and covering the windows. Mulch? What mulch?

It does NOT have to be this way. I don't care if you are poor, you don't have to put up with an ugly front yard any more. I don't care if you've never gardened before, you don't have to put up with a yard that screams, "I'm trashy!"

It is the goal of this book to show you how to make your home, no matter how modest, look fabulous. I will show you four different levels of cost: Free, Nearly Free, Budgeted Expense, and Investment. I will show you four different levels of work: Twice a Year, Once a Month, Once Every Couple Weeks, and Gardening Is My Hobby.

I will show you where so many people go wrong, and how to go "rich" instead (without having to be rich!) I will reveal to you the mystery of a weed-free garden, a decent lawn, neat edging, and beautiful flowers. Don't let the people who can afford to hire landscapers have all the glory. Use this easy-to-follow guide to make your yard the envy of the 'hood!

14

I awoke with a throbbing hangover on the battered leather couch in my office. My shirt was buttoned wrong, so I knew I must have had a good time, but for the life of me I couldn't completely remember how. I staggered to the tiny bathroom and stared at myself in the dingy mirror. Hair: dark and disheveled. Eyes: a shade of green the ladies seemed to like, highlighted right now with busted capillaries and dark baggage underneath. Face: smeared with hot pink lipstick on one cheek and in desperate need of a shave.

I scrubbed my face with soap and ran a comb though my damp mop. I brushed the horrid taste out of my mouth, too, checking to make sure I hadn't vomited somewhere in the office, but apparently I had done that at some other location. I was just re-buttoning my shirt correctly when Coralyn knocked on my office door.

"Mr. Dirkson?" Coralyn opened my door just a crack and let herself slip inside. My secretary was always polite, and discrete. "There's a client here to see you. Shall I send her in?"

"What time is it?" I managed to croak.

Coralyn handed me a coffee, straight up and hot. Good girl.

"It's 1:30," she said. "This client was already by once this morning. I asked her to come back."

"Oh. Well, okay then." I was feeling much better for the quick clean up and the coffee. "Send her in."

Coralyn smiled her toothy smile and scurried out. Before the door even closed, the woman walked in.

"Walked" is far too tame for how she moved. This woman glided. She flowed. She shimmied. She pulsed with femininity. This chick had me before "hello".

13

You awake suddenly in the darkest depths of the night. You turn to look at your alarm clock, but the familiar red glow is gone. You glance towards the hallway where you should see the nightlight from the bathroom, but that is gone, too. You blink and rub your eyes, afraid for a fleeting moment you may have gone blind, but as you strain to see into the darkness, you realize it is not truly black. Far off in the distance, you see a flickering as if from a campfire. A breeze crosses your bed, and you shiver, not just from the cold but also because the breeze has made the leaves above your head rustle, and you definitely did not have any trees in your bedroom when you went to sleep.

Looking up, you can see the darkness of a canopy of leaves and as the breeze blows, the branches part and you can see patches of a star-studded sky. As a matter of fact, there are more stars than you have ever seen before and far more than you ever see from one of your city apartment's windows.

You pat your bed, assuring yourself that it is real, and it is. Your bed, however, is no longer in your cramped bedroom; it is now sitting in the middle of a forest. You take stock of yourself. You are in your pajamas: a pair of old workout pants and a t-shirt. You carefully lean over the side of the bed and reach down to find your slippers. Your slippers sit right where you left them, only not on your bedroom floor, but on this leaf-covered forest floor. You put them on, and you stand, pulling your fuzzy robe from the end of the bed. It is here that you hesitate.

If you crawl back into bed hoping this is simply a very vivid dream, go to page 5.

If you head off through the woods towards the campfire, go to page 25.

12

It was when Louise started to go deaf that the music began. At first, she thought it was coming from outside her bedroom window overlooking the rest home's northwest lawn. She mentioned to the day nurse about the wonderful big band she thought had been playing in the gazebo just beyond her view and asked why she hadn't been notified so she could have gone down in person, but the nurse insisted there had been no band of any sort.

The next day, when Louise was walking on one of the wide, well-manicured paths through the woods, the music came again. She froze, and the just-turning leaves shivered in a breeze. There was no band this time; it was a single voice. A sweet, clear, single voice she had not heard in twenty years singing one of the silly songs he had made up for her as they made breakfast together, or lunch, or dinner, or while they folded laundry, or as an ode to their pet fish, or an echoing song sung in the shower. He was singing to her now, after all these lonely, heartbroken years. Louise sank to the ground and listened and cried.

11

Bartholomew cut a fine figure on the dance floor. He was elegant in a dark blue suit, cut to accentuate his broad shoulders and trim hips. The man glided more smoothly than even my rotten cousin Melinda, who unceasingly bragged about her extensive dance lessons. Even while floating effortlessly across the room, he managed to remain the epitome of a man. It was at that moment I understood I needed to make him mine. The only trouble was, he was betrothed to another, and I to yet another. Small concerns, however, when love is involved.

I may have fibbed when I said the "only" trouble. The other trouble was that Bartholomew and I had never formally met.

If I gave the impression that not having actually met Bartholomew was the final trouble, I do apologize because there is yet one more, teensie tiny trouble: I was suspected of killing his grandfather, though I assure you that I did nothing of the sort. The elderly man simply died in my presence; I had nothing, directly, to do with it.

10

Evening
The monkeys were advancing, and I told James as much. He told me to relax, but there was no way I could relax before I gave the robots their briefing. The only problem was, I couldn't find the robots. I must have sent them to the front lines already. I shouted for my secretary until James came back and threatened to tie me into bed again. No, no, no; I could not be tied down now. Not when the monkeys were about to cross into what had always been my territory. I began planning a night mission.

Dawn
Breakfast was a mess. My scrambled eggs were overcooked and the toast was undertoasted. The butter didn't even melt. I complained to the waiter. Somehow the other patrons started a foodfight. James tied me into bed.

Dawn
Yesterday slipped from me. I managed to write my log entry before they retied me, but...whatever I keep taking takes from me, too. I lost a lot. I don't even want to know how much.

Afternoon
I promise to behave. I promise to behave. I promise to behave.

Unknown time
How can I be "good", if I, first of all, don't know what "good" means to them, and second of all, if the scratchings and chatterings of those stupid monkeys keep me from sleeping? STOP. IT.

Dawn
Someone new came to see me. He seems nice, but I can't tell yet what side he's working for. I will, as always, wait and observe.

9

The old witch died alone on the forest floor, clutching the only flowers that would decorate her grave, a small bunch of feverfew, not nearly strong enough for the pain.

A carrion bird found the witch's body and tried to feast on her eyes. The bird didn't have time to squawk before it died. Other animals happening upon her body turned and ran. The witch's body bled the remnants of powerful magic cast throughout her long life, but it also held a specific spell in its bones.

The flesh and clothes of the woman rotted and fell away as would that of the most common housefrau, or even the Queen, but the skeleton of the witch waited.

8

Peter firmly believed that nothing of consequence ever happened in the town of Hicksville, and he absolutely hated that he had to live there.

Being ten, he knew he had little choice in the matter. He went wherever his parents went, and they seemed to go a lot. This was the third move he remembered; there had been two others while he had still been in diapers, and Peter was thankful he had no memories of those days.

He remembered his first school, and his first day of school. He was a walker, and his mother walked with him on the first day, to make sure he'd make it. It was only three blocks from their little suburban ranch to Gwinnett Bierce Elementary, a slightly more sprawling suburban ranch. It was on that day that Peter first realized that his mother was...different. By seeing the reactions to his mother in the eyes of others, his own eyes were opened, and he could not, no matter how hard he tried, close them again.

Peter could picture how they had looked. Himself: slight, pale, with light brown hair and brown eyes. Dressed as neatly as ever in pressed khaki pants and blue polo shirt, an oversized Peanuts backpack pulled over both shoulders and holding his matching Peanuts lunchbox, a new box of crayons, school glue, and a lucky rock he had found the week before.

His mother: tall, thin, pale, with large brown eyes and dark brown hair carefully brushed into a bob. She was wearing a sunny yellow vintage dress with simple brown flats. Peter remembered his mother getting ready early that morning and checking her dress in front of the mirror. "How do I look, Petey?"

"You are beautiful, Mommy," he had replied, and she was. To him, his mother was the most beautiful woman ever, which made the reaction of his teacher extra baffling to him.

They had walked hand-in-hand right into the school and to his classroom. Peter knew now that it was unusual for crowds to part the way they always parted for his mother, but he didn't notice it just then. Groups would also silence upon their arrival; again, unnoticed at the time.

7

Sweeping away as far as the eye could see were Forget-Me-Nots. No grass, no other splashes of color in the purplish-blue and green, just Forget-Me-Nots. They swayed in the warm, gentle breeze, turning their faces to the golden late afternoon sun. In the fall they would dry and shed their seeds in the stronger, colder winds, spreading their delicate beauty to even further distances. Up and down the hills, to the edge of a stream, pausing only for the flowing water, continuing up the other bank and on and on and on.

They continued the way human memory couldn’t, replicating exactly and blooming year after year without change, only becoming more deeply entrenched. The tiny flowers never knew the reason for their planting, but they marked it all the same. They mutely marked a memory so powerful and so important it had spilled over into action uncountable years ago. But just as human memory faded, humans themselves faded, leaving only this sea of desire for a memory lost to time.

6

Nigel fell in, screaming. He obviously expected to be hurt badly, but his fall was really only about two feet. He lay there on the hay we put out for new arrivals, probably thinking he was shattered, or maybe he thought he’d died and this was the afterlife. Barlow disabused that fantasy in his own, coarse way.

“Hey, buddy, you shouldn’t lie there all night. There might be others coming through, and you don’t want to get stepped on.”

I was watching Nigel closely, before I knew he was Nigel, of course. I saw him stop breathing for two heartbeats, and I watched as Barlow’s words sunk into his brain. He turned carefully towards us, there were three at that time, and I saw his eyes were blue. I imagined I could see the wheels of his thoughts turning as those blue eyes scanned us, trying to make sense of what had happened to him. Sitting together, we surely defied all reason.

Barlow was massive and only half dressed. He had been the third through, and Cat and I had quite a shock when the giant, shirtless, sweaty man appeared, axe held high above his head. Cat screamed and the axe slipped through his shaking hands to drop behind him. We thought he’d brought us here to slaughter us, but it turned out Barlow had been splitting logs when he, himself, had been taken.

Cat was a tomboy whose boobs were an embarrassment to her and surely the talk of the town from which she came. She said she was fifteen and her clothes said she was a boy, but her huge rack disagreed with both. She had been the second through, so closely behind me I hadn’t had a chance to wander away.

And I sat between the two of them, on the log Barlow had dragged over so we could watch the entry point. Nigel’s blue eyes landed on me and stuck. I smiled and shrugged. I was, after all, quite a sight in my wedding dress.

5

“It’s not working.”

“What the hell do you mean, ‘It’s not working?’” Malek’s voice verged on panic.

“I mean,” Lorin said with patient frustration, “it’s not working. Nothing’s happening.”

“You reset?”

“That’s what I went over here to do, Malek, so yeah, I reset, but it’s not resetting.” Lorin straightened, shook her light brown hair out of its ponytail tieback and braided it deftly.

Malek stood in a slight crouch, arms and legs spread slightly, looking to Lorin like a squirrel frozen in traffic. He gaped at her as she pinned her braid into a tight loop on the back of her head.

She saw the question stuck in his frightened throat. “I’m getting ready to jump, Malek, and I suggest you get ready, too.” Lorin didn’t wait for his reply. She zipped her flight suit and checked that all her pockets were tacked shut even as she moved towards her storage locker.

“But…we can reset…the ship can…we can’t possibly…there’s no…” his hands made limp circles as he looked from the helm to the terminal screens and back.

“Listen, if you’re not going to finish a sentence, why do you even bother starting them?” Lorin finished securing her inter-space lifesuit and paused with the helmet in her hands. “I suggest you put on your lifesuit, too, Malek. Unless you’re planning on going down with the ship? The captain’s dead. There’s really no need for you to die, too.” The helmet self-fastened as soon as it touched the top of her suit, inner atmosphere initializing. She checked the stats on the visual screen superimposed on half the faceguard and noticed Malek still staring. She selected external audio with a blink. “Malek,” she spoke as if to a resistant child, “put on your lifesuit. Now!”

Any action Malek may or may not have taken was overridden when the port side of their ship peeled open and all the air, as well as Malek, were sucked into space.

Lorin swore once. She had about two minutes to save him before the effects of the vacuum were irreversible. Hopefully, he remembered to scream to help balance his internal lung pressure, or she’d have even less time. Lorin grabbed Malek’s suit from his storage locker, disengaged the magnetic coupling on her lifesuit’s boots and launched herself after her ill-chosen boyfriend.

4

Nora slowed as she neared the house, wishing the fan belt didn’t squeak at low speeds, but there was no need for silence; his truck was gone.

She killed the engine and fumbled for the house key, hurrying for the back door. He was gone, but she didn’t want to bank on how long. She sprinted up to the bedroom and flung wide the closet doors. One small carry-on suitcase, one backpack. Another pair of jeans, a few shirts, her two favorite sweaters, pajamas, random underwear, socks, toiletries, pillow, and her stuffed bear Beau who had always, always been with her.

He had once accused her of loving that stuffed bear more than him.

“Yeah, well, I’ve known him longer,” she said smiling. But he hadn’t smiled back. He really was jealous. And time was still ticking.

Underneath, she must have known for months, maybe years, that she’d have to leave in a hurry. She had a stash of about a thousand in squirreled away tens and twenties, her passport, the title to her car, and some bonds all in the back of her desk drawer. Her most precious notebooks and sketchbooks would fit in her backpack, but she’d have to hope the rest of her stuff could be gotten later, after the divorce papers were filed. She was out of time.