My Biggest Score: a Thief’s Reminiscence

 

When people find out someone’s a thief, there are two general reactions. The honest people call the police. The less-than-honest people ask questions, the most common being “What’s your biggest score?” There are two general reactions to these questions. The “shady” thieves disappear or harm the questioner. The “show-off” thieves boast about their successes, making sure to exaggerate every detail.

 

I’ve never been asked these questions, but I would never answer them anyway. I guess you could put me in the “shady” category. There have been a few times, though, when I wanted someone to ask me these questions, when I wanted the recognition, but the fact that no one knows about me is the reason I’m so good. See, I’ve robbed plenty of small-time banks, but I’ve also done a couple high-level jobs and nobody’s found any evidence. I guess if someone called me the World’s Greatest Thief, they wouldn’t be too far off. I want people to at least know of my biggest score, though, so I wrote it down. This document is a copy of said story, and I can assure you, nothing is exaggerated.

 

My biggest score was in Colorado. I had a confrontation with this guy I’d apparently stolen money from and stress-ate my entire stock of candy. I needed more and “Kris’ Konfectionery” looked so undefended I couldn’t resist. It wasn’t a particularly large candy store, a bit bigger than your average gas station. Peering through the doors, I could see two cashiers and all manner of candy. There was even a section with small tables and chairs. This place was practically begging to be robbed.

 

Everyone knows you can’t rob anywhere without some plan or another. Thieves typically use the General Planning Process, or GPP. Nobody tells us the GPP, we just know it. It’s like some kind of code. It almost never fails too, unless you get careless. Then it gets you caught. Not everybody uses it, but us high-level thieves do. It just makes life easier. The GPP is as follows: take note of all security measures, then slip into the target at night and improvise. I’ve always been great at the second step, but the first step is so boring I almost fall asleep every time I do it. The GPP has never failed me before, however, so I endure the torture.

 

I waited until rush hour, then slipped in with all the other people. The store was packed, so there was no way anybody would notice the one guy who’s not buying anything. I headed straight for the chocolate section and started looking around. I couldn’t check the back room, but that’s where the improvisation comes in.

 

“You know,” said a voice behind me, “you’d look much less suspicious if you bought something.”

 

I whirled around. Standing behind me was the most beautiful man I’d ever seen. I mean, I’m a guy and I thought he was beautiful. He was wearing the Kris’s Konfectionery uniform with its white T shirt, dark denim waistcoat, and dark jeans. Usually that uniform makes the person wearing it look dumb, but somehow he made it look good. His hair was the color of caramel. It was pulled back into a ponytail that fell down to his waist. He was about my height, maybe a little taller. His eyes were green as mint ice cream and shaped like a doe’s. They had a sparkle of amusement in them.

 

“Who the heck-”

 

“Am I?” he smiled. “Just an employee.”

 

“Ah,” I said. “Well then you could tell me-”

 

“Where the security cameras are?” He laughed. It sounded like silver bells.

 

“What makes you so sure I’m a thief?” I asked.

 

“You haven’t denied it,” he observed.

 

“I was just taken off-guard,” I protested. “Of course I’m not a thief.”

 

“Oh,” he said. “That’s too bad. I was hoping for some excitement.”

 

“What?” I asked. “Hey, wait! Where are you going?”

 

“I have work to do,” he said over his shoulder. “I am on duty you know.”

 

One thing was obvious: something was going on that shouldn’t be. I decided to do some poking around. “Hoping for some excitement?” That was the beginning of a whole bunch of broken laws if I ever heard it. He might even be after the candy. MY candy. That was one thing I could not allow. I left Kris’ Konfectionery. The candy heist would have to wait. Right now, it was candy protection that topped the priority list.

 

The next morning, I walked into the store armed with one heck of a plan. I walked through the doors and headed to the chocolate section.

 

“You came back,” said a voice from behind.

 

“Heck yeah I came back,” I said to the man from yesterday because of course, it was him. “I want to know why you called me a thief and what you meant by ‘excitement.’”

 

“Spoilers,” he winked.

 

“What do you mean ‘spoilers’?”

 

“Do you really want to know?” He raised an eyebrow.

 

“Why the hell do you think I’m here?” I said.

 

“From the look on your face it’s not to buy candy,” he sighed. “All right. The reason I’m here is to break the monotony of my usual life.”

 

“By selling candy?”

 

“No, by stopping wannabe robbers.”

 

“Wannabe?!” I exclaimed. “Who’re you calling wannabe? I’m the best...damn.”

 

“So you are a thief,” he grinned. “Gotcha.”

 

This guy was clever.

 

“Don’t worry,” he said, “I won’t tell anyone. Well, I might have to tell someone if you end up robbing this place, but that probably won’t happen right?”

 

“Screw you,” I said. My amazing plan flew out the window. There was no doubt in my mind. This guy wasn’t just stealing my candy. He was stealing my candy from ME. I am a thief. I don’t get robbed. Especially when it comes to candy.

 

“Mm. That’s not very nice.”

 

“Screw you,” I said again and left. All I seemed to be doing was walking into the candy shop, talking to that guy, leaving, then coming back again. It was time to end this once and for all. You want me to be a thief, buddy? Fine then, I’ll be a thief.

 

I skipped the first part of the GPP. It was boring and I’d already gotten a somewhat clear map of the security systems. That night, I slipped into Kris’s Konfectionery with a bag over my shoulder. I avoided the cameras that I knew of and looked around carefully before coming around any corners.

 

“I must commend you,” a voice said. “You’re completely avoiding all security devices even though they’re supposed to cover the entire store.”

 

I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around to see the man that for the life of me I couldn’t shake.

 

“You didn’t count on human security did you?” he laughed softly. “Or at least, no human security as quiet as I am.”

 

“Why are you here?” I hissed.

 

“Because it’s my job,” he sounded surprised. “I thought you’d figured it out. I’m a detective.”

 

“You’re a what?”

 

“Detective,” he replied. “You’re really very good you know. Anyone else would never have caught you. It just so happens I have a natural talent for this sort of thing.”

 

“Go away,” I said. “I don’t want to hurt you, but if you’re going to turn me in, I’m gonna have to stop you.”

 

He cocked his head. “You would hurt me?”

 

“There are two things in this world that I value,” I said. “Candy and freedom.  Turning me in would go against both.”

 

“And you don’t want that to happen,” he concluded. “What’s your name?”

 

“Huh?”

 

“Candy is important to you, yes? You want to rob this place and you can’t do that if someone beats you to it. You want to protect your future score. So do I, in a manner of speaking.”

 

“In a manner of speaking?” I asked.

 

“I’m trying to keep this place from getting robbed,” he said. “Didn’t I tell you?”

 

“No you didn’t,” I said. I was confused. Wasn’t he the one stealing the candy? Wasn’t he the one looking for some “excitement”?

 

“Ah. Well, now I did. So what’s your name?”

 

“Juri.”

 

“Mm,” he arched an eyebrow. “ Mine is Shusuke.”

 

“Ok. Why-”

 

“Because I need the help of the world’s greatest thief.”

 

“Woah, woah, woah,” I said. “I don’t ‘help’ people.”

 

“Oh?” Shusuke asked. “Why?”

 

“‘Cause there’s nothing in it for me,” I said. “In my line of work, risking your neck isn’t worth the effort unless you get something out of it.”

 

“I’ll give you two giant bags of candy.”

 

“And I’m in,” I decided.

 

“That didn’t take much,” Shusuke observed.

 

“I get something out of it and ‘it’ applies to my first value,” I said. “There’s no downside.”`

 

“Mm,” he muttered to himself. “No downside. I haven’t told you the details of the job and you say there’s no downside. You’ve done this sort of thing for a while. One would think you’d have more caution, yet your caution seems to lessen as time goes on.”

 

“‘As time goes on,’” I quoted. “Just how long have you been watching me?”

 

“Oh I’ve been watching you for a while,” he said. “Back when I was a policeman I saw you go into that small bank in Charlottesville and I was going to arrest you, but then when you came out you were holding two bags. That bank only held enough money for one bag. There wasn’t anything else to steal, so what was in the other bag? Have you ever heard the phrase ‘curiosity killed the cat’?”

 

“Yeah,” I said. I was amazed. I’d robbed that bank almost two years ago.

 

“Well, my curiosity killed me that day,” Shusuke laughed softly. “When you dropped that bag and candy spilled out I almost laughed out loud. You fascinated me, so instead of turning you in, I followed you. Your style, your quirks, heh, I fell in love with them. Incidentally, how is it you came out with candy? There wasn’t any candy in that bank.”

 

“I made a last-minute deposit,” I replied. “Complete with a smoke bomb.”

 

“Ah, so your candy was a weapon,” he said. “But wasn’t using your candy bag kind of risky?”

 

“No, it was perfect,” I said. It was strange how easy it was to talk to him.“I mean, yes, if the police had been given the chance to look into that bag, I’d probably be behind bars right now, but it was one hell of a joke. ”

 

“Mm,” he muttered again. “Your caution really has quite a low level.”

 

“Did you see any of my other jobs?” I asked. I had to admit, I was enjoying this conversation.

 

“A few,” he said. “After I got promoted I quit following you.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because then I’d really have to arrest you.” He looked at me seriously. “When I saw you walk into this store I was overjoyed at first, but then I realized that unless something unexpected happened, I was going to have to arrest you.”

 

“Why haven’t you already?” I asked. “And why were you happy?”

 

“Well, for your first question, I’m waiting for the unexpected to happen. As to your second question, I already answered that didn’t I? I’ve loved you for a long time.”

 

“Wait,” I could feel my face reddening. “When you say ‘love’ do you mean-”

 

I was cut off by the sound of metal hitting the ground. We weren’t the only ones in Kris’ Konfectionery. I went into full-on thief mode then. What Shusuke had meant by “love” could wait until after I’d saved my candy. The noise had come from the “Employee’s Only” room. The room I hadn’t scouted.

 

“There aren’t any cameras in there,” Shusuke said.

 

I looked at him in surprise. He smiled at me and nodded.

 

“There aren’t any sound or motion sensors either,” he said. “Not in the whole store.”

 

For some reason, I trusted him. The problem was, the door was on the other side of the room and there was no way to get across without being spotted by cameras. There was, however, a way out of the store.

 

“Follow me,” I whispered.

 

We crept out of the candy store. As we were doing so, something caught my eye. Shusuke was moving exactly like I was. I narrowed my eyes.

 

“What are you doing?” I asked him once we were out.

 

“Following you,” he sounded confused.

 

“I know that,” I said. “I meant your style. Where did you get it?”

 

“Mm. I stole it,” he laughed at the look on my face. “Your style works well. As a side note, thank you for helping me pass my exam.”

 

“What?”

 

“I graduated top in my class because I got a perfect score on my stealth exam. Do you know how hard that is?”

 

“Of course not,” I said, annoyed. “Well, whatever. Just stop it.”

 

“Mm,” he said. “Touchy.”

 

We circled the building. At the back door, we found a crowbar and a cigarette butt.

 

“Amateur,” I said. “You never bring cigarettes to a heist. The smell takes forever to fade and really? A crowbar? How cliche can you get?”

 

“If it works, though,” Shusuke said. He handed me a gun. “Here.”

 

“No, thanks,” I said. “I don’t like guns.”

 

“Take it anyway,” he said. “You might need it.”

 

“No,” I said. Shusuke sighed.

 

“He came in this way,” he mused. “You say he’s an amateur? In that case, he’ll probably be easily startled. Juri, do you have any-”

 

“Way ahead of you,” I said, pulling several smoke bombs out of my jacket. “Let’s go scare this guy.”

 

“Full points for enthusiasm,” Shusuke whispered as he opened the door.

 

I had other reasons for bringing the smoke bombs. It was obvious the cameras were gonna see something out of the ordinary tonight, and to make sure it wasn’t me, I’d have to disable them without being seen. The shortest ways to do that were clutched in my hands.

 

The hallway we entered had no cameras, so I dashed through it, keeping on my toes to reduce the sound. At the end of the hallway I tossed several bombs around the corner. I heard a yell and smiled. It seemed Mr. Amateur had come out of the Employee Room. I rounded the corner where the smoke bombs had taken their effect. Following the sound of Mr. Amateur’s heavy breathing, I moved through the smoke. I didn’t actually see Mr. Amateur until I was right on top of him. Literally. He was crouched down by the gumball machine and I tripped and fell over him. I heard the click of a gun and bounced up on my toes, ready for anything. Or so I thought.

 

The smoke worked against me now. I couldn’t see anything. I heard a gunshot then felt a sharp pain as the bullet entered my left ear. I cried out and brought my hand to it. When I moved my hand away, my fingertips were colored a glistening dark red. I cried out again, only this time it was in anger. Mr. Amateur was so dead.

 

I lunged forward. By some stroke of luck, my hands met Mr. Amateur’s throat, and we both flew back over some tables. I watched as his face turned red, then purple. Two arms wrapped around my body and pulled me off of him. I could vaguely hear someone talking to me, but anger and pain had caused me to lose my senses. Suddenly, I felt pressure on my lips. I was shocked into reality as I realized Shusuke was kissing me.

 

“He’s unconscious, Juri,” Shusuke said as he pulled away. “I’ve called the police. It’s over.”

 

“The police,” I said thickly. My head was still trying to wrap around what had just happened.

 

“Don’t worry,” he replied. “I won’t let them take you anywhere. Let’s get you to a hospital.”

 

A few hours later I was sitting in a hospital bed with a bandage around my head. I had just told the police everything and was now waiting for their verdict. Shusuke was sitting across from me.

 

“Turns out he was connected to several open cases,” he said. “Given the fact that you helped with his arrest my captain should let you go, but you’ll have to give up your life as a thief.”

 

I said nothing.

 

“Mr. Juri I presume?” said a large, muscular man as he walked into the room.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“My name is Mo,” he said. “I’m captain of the police division handling this case.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“It is within my power to grant you clemency for your previous criminal acts, but you’ll have to give up your life as a thief.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Can you accept that?” Captain Mo asked. “The alternative is that I arrest you.”

 

I stayed silent.

 

“Captain,” Shusuke said gently, “may I speak with Juri privately?”

 

“Make it quick,” he said as he left.

 

“Penny for your thoughts,” Shusuke said to me.

 

“You kissed me.”

 

“Ah,” he looked embarrassed. “Yes, well, I couldn’t think of any other way to get you to calm down.”

 

“It didn’t feel weird,” I said.

 

“Mm,” he said. “How should I take that?”

 

“I’m gonna accept his offer,” I said. “I’m not sure where I’m gonna go though.”

 

“My door’s always open,” Shusuke said.

 

I said nothing.

We sat in silence until the captain came back. I promised to stop thieving and left the hospital. I ended up moving in with Shusuke and we’ve lived together ever since. I guess if someone were to call him my boyfriend, they wouldn’t be too far off. I became a best-selling author and made enough money to carry me through ten lifetimes. What was my best-selling book you ask? Well, it was It Just Happened, a book about a thief trying to steal candy and ending up with a boyfriend. A book about my biggest score.

The Red Carnation

 

    There is no sun today. It hides behind bland clouds and howling wind, it hides just like I do everyday. It doesn’t feel like the calm before the storm, but a disaster I can already feel.

    I put my hands in my pockets and shiver as I wait for the bus to come. I’m the only person at my stop, which is nice but also horribly lonely. I get my privacy,--meaning that no one will judge me when I hum the Bill Nye theme song--but it’s kind of scary waiting at a place all on your own, in complete isolation. I mean, every time I hear one slightly suspicious noise, I clutch my phone tightly so I can call 9-1-1 as soon as possible. This might just be me overreacting, but you get the point now.

    After what seems like hours of waiting, my bus arrives. It’s Bus #42, which smells really nice in the inside but is usually crammed tight with passengers. That’s okay, though, because most of the people are polite and don’t bother me.

    But none of them are nice enough to pay attention to me, the lonely girl who sits in the back (even though she hates the back of the bus) and is too shy to even make eye contact.

   

As I get on the bus, I see a vase of pretty, red flowers next to the bus driver seat. Everything else on the bus is dull and gray, but the flowers, I think, are a nice touch.

    For some reason, today feels like a good day to read on the bus, so I pull out my favorite book when I get to the last seat in the bus. Almost immediately, I feel the book being ripped out of my hands,

    “Hey!” I make a strangled sort of noise. “Give that back!” A high schooler has my book--she’s too pretty, I decide, and her hair is so seamlessly perfect, it makes my hair look like a bundle of straw.

    “I was just looking through it,” she gives me an annoyed look, and then tosses the book back to me. I run my fingers over it, making sure nothing’s damaged. The girl gives me a funny look, as though I’ve sprouted an extra pair of legs.

    “God, it’s just a book,” the girl rolls her eyes, but a smirk creeps onto her lips. “I didn’t do anything to it, trust me.”

    “Yeah, right,” I mutter under my breath, as my fingers find the flimsy, back cover of the book.

    Almost half of it is torn off.

    I turn to look at the girl, whose smile is sickeningly sweet.

    “Why...why did you do this?” I whisper, tears filling my eyes. I look down at my shoes so the tears won’t spill over, and I won’t be flooded like I usually am.

    She hesitates for a moment, then leans over the aisle as though she’s about to tell me her darkest secret. “The author who wrote that book ruined my life”, and that’s all she says.

    I just love the people on my bus.

 

    Finally, after a good half hour of waiting, the bus ride comes to an end. The Horrible Girl had already left when we reached the high school, but now that we’re at the middle school, I can finally get off.

    Just as I reach the door, I see the bouquet of bright, red flowers next to the bus driver's seat. The color pops out at me, but not in an unpleasant way.

    “I like your flowers,” I smile at my bus driver, Mr. MacNaughton.

    “Well, I needed something to brighten up this place, and these carnations do the trick,” he chuckles, but then his face becomes serious. “Do you mind staying a bit after everyone else leaves?” His voice is low, but I can hear it well enough.

    “Oh, uh, sure,” I say, confused. Maybe he’ll give me some tips on how to grow carnations or something. Or maybe I’m in trouble, which has never really happened before. I sit in the front seat as a few other people pass by me, and then the bus is empty. Mr. MacNaughton waves them all ‘goodbye’, and then he turns around to look at me.

    “What’s your name?”

    “Ellie.”

    “Okay, then, Ellie,” Mr. MacNaughton begins, “nice to meet you.”

    “Nice to meet you, too,” I grin sheepishly. It’s weird to think that even though Mr. MacNaughton’s been my bus driver for three years, we’ve never had a formal introduction until now.

    “Is that book of yours doing alright?” He asks suddenly, and I raise my eyebrows in surprise.

    “Oh, well, it’s...okay,” my voice comes out tinier than I expected. “How do you know…?”

    “I saw Grace take it from you,” Mr. MacNaughton explains, pointing at the mirror above us. I guess the Horrible Girl’s name is Grace now. “Next time, tell me about it, and I’ll hook you up with a seat up in the front.” He winks at me. “There’s a lot less fooligans up here.”

    “Oh, thank you,” I say gratefully. The seats in the front are usually filled, but I know I’d rather sit up there instead of in the back. “Uh...is there anything else you wanted to say, Mr. MacNaughton?”

    “Yes, indeed there is,” Mr. MacNaughton pulls a carnation out of his bouquet. “Here you go, just for you.” I take the carnation and stare at it incredulously.

    “Oh, Mr. MacNaughton, you don’t have to--”

    “I insist,” he says firmly. “It’s the least I could do.” He opens the door, and I gingerly walk down the steps.

    “You have a good day now!” He calls out to me, and I smile, walking to the front entrance of my school, smelling my red carnation.

    I expect the afternoon ride home to be boring, as usual. Instead, I’m greeted with a new bus driver, an odd smell in the air, and hardly anyone on the bus.

    “Where’s Mr. MacNaughton?” I blurt out. The red carnation is clutched in my hand as I face the substitute bus driver.

    She gives me a grim look. “Mr. MacNaughton has been relocated to a, er...a new position.”

    “What do you mean?”

    “Mr. MacNaughton is not a bus driver anymore,” the substitute says through gritted teeth. “My name is Ms. Campbell, and I will be your new bus driver from now on.”

    I open my mouth to say something, but no words come out. I simply walk down the aisle and find my seat all the way in the back. I don’t know why, but I feel guilty sitting in the front without Mr. MacNaughton. I pull out my book and glance around. Grace isn’t here (thank goodness), so I flip to the page I was on before my book was ripped:

 

    I am among many

    But my thoughts are alone

    I don’t live with plenty

    But I ignore hunger and cold

 

    I don’t like my life

    Or my friends

    Because I have none

    My acquittances are many

    But I only like one

 

    And they don’t know me

    I don’t know me

    Me

    Who is that? Me?

   

    I

    Am

    Nothing

   

    We are specks

    Of dust

    In a universe

    Bigger than we

    Could ever

    imagine.

 

    This particular poem, I’ll admit, is somewhat depressing. Actually, very depressing. But it’s my favorite one--not for any particular reason, except that it’s comforting to me on days like this. Maybe because the verses fit well together, or more likely because it’s reassuring to know I’m not the only person who thinks that at the end of the all, everything we’ve all done will have been for nothing. Once the earth has been completely destroyed and everything, there will be no one left to remember your legacy. No one will remember the most famous person that ever existed, and they certainly won’t remember me.

    But right here, right now, I can do something.

    Right before I get off the bus, I thank Ms. Campbell and then hand her my carnation.

    “I want Mr. Macnaughton to have it, if he ever comes back,” I explain, “can you put it back in the bouquet?”

    “Oh of course, dear!” Mrs. Campbell gives me a big smile. “That’s very thoughtful of you.” I smile sheepishly and when I get off, I sigh and look around my bus stop. There are no clouds today. They hide behind bright rays of sunshine and the chirping of birds.

It feels like the calm after the storm.

2030, Dearborn, Michigan

I open the garage door, and enter my house, glad to be home after a long, stressful day of work at my insurance firm near Dearborn, Michigan. I breeze through the house and pour myself a tall glass of ice-cold lemonade to cool me off in the hot, muggy Michigan summer. My father and I are alone in the house, my wife gone to Zumba class at the nearby Y.M.C.A and my mother at her daily physical therapy appointments for her arthritis. I walk through the kitchen and open the sliding door leading to the large, airy patio. There, I spot my father sitting in a lawnchair, staring off at the tall pine trees that rim our spacious backyard.

“How ya doin’ pops?” I say in the old American way that always makes him smile. No response from him; that is how I know that my father is in deep contemplation again. It appears that his memories of Syria and the conflict are clouding his mind. This is very common for my father. At least once every two weeks I come home from work to find my old, weary dad completely isolating himself from my mother and my wife, who both stay with him most of the day.

I soften my tone. “Dad? Is everything alright?”

My father’s large bushy eyebrows scrunch together like a pair of hairy brown caterpillars, as they always do when he is concentrating. He blinks fast and wipes his eyes with the back of one of his huge, calloused hands.

“Yes, son … I’m fine, really,” he says in his slight Arabic accent.

“Okay Dad … if you say so.” I give him one last concerned look as I shrug my shoulders and take a seat next to him, reading a newspaper.

Halfway through the front-page article, I sigh. My father wasn’t always like this; when I was younger, in my teenage years and early 20s, his job as a manager at a local supermarket served as a much-needed distraction from his past. But when he retired a few years ago, his memories began to come back to trouble him more and more. My father needs an outlet, someone to talk to. I know it is my responsibility to be that someone; after all, I am his son.

I sigh again and ask tentatively, “Dad … it seems like you’re thinking a lot about Syria and the war. Do you want to talk about it? It might help… ”

My father looks up, surprised that I read him so well and that I am so willing to discuss Syria, something that he knows that I prefer not to do. My father had sent me, my sister, and my mother to America in mid-2014, when he astutely observed signs of increasing violence in Syria. He was supposed to follow us to the United States in four months, but there was a delay and he was instead separated from us for eight months. I have never known why this was, or even what happened in those months.

“If you want to know … by all means … I would be happy to tell you” my father stammers. “But … are you sure you can handle it? I know that the move was rough for you, and …”

“I’ll be OK Dad, don’t worry.”

My father shrugs his shoulders, leans back in his chair, and begins his story.

Duma, Syria, 2014

 

I was sitting at the kitchen table in our small Duma apartment at the fringe of the city, my head in my hands. I had bid farewell to you, your sister, and your mother the previous night, and was all alone in our small, old, two-bedroom apartment. The city was completely quiet around me, no cars honking, people yelling, or young hooligans making noise. It seemed like the city was being quiet especially for me, so I could go about my thoughts without being disturbed.

I got up from my creaky wooden kitchen chair and walked across the scratchy rug on our living room floor to the two bedrooms of our apartment. I noticed that your mother had cleaned the entire apartment before she left and had made me a tray of baklava.  This made me long even harder for her presence.

I stopped and stared at the family photo on the wall next to your mother’s bedroom. The photograph was taken at the beach, in the summer before everything began to go bad in Syria. We were all seemingly locked in time, in a place where loss and atrocities did not yet exist. It was as if we were in another world. I stared at that photo for a while in deep thought, and then walked around the bedrooms, which were mostly empty. I sighed; I had not gone to America with you since I simply could not afford it at the time. We were supposed to wait until we had enough money to go all together, but things began to get so bad in Syria that I was forced to send you first, and come myself later on.

I sat down and sadly counted what little money I had. I found that I had 75,525 Syrian Pounds, or about 400 US dollars. That meant that I needed another 224,475 Syrian Pounds, which was roughly $1,190 dollars, to buy a connection flight from Damascus, Syria, to Detroit, Michigan.  I did some calculations and found that, minus all of my expenses, it would take me only four months to earn that money. This made me a little happier. I had always thought that I would be away from you, your sister, and your mother for much longer. With this in mind, I prepared for bed, ready for the long days of work ahead of me.

I worked in the bakery until I had about half of what I needed to get to America. I began to become very hopeful and excited about returning to you, your sister, and your mother. Sadly, I was only able to speak to your mother once—phones were expensive and were becoming harder and harder to find in the city. The Free Syrian Army, which was like the “rebel force” of the time, had just taken it over. Your mother told me that you were having a rough time transitioning to America and that you didn’t like your new middle school. This upset me very much. But I was delighted to know that your sister loved her new elementary school.

Late one night, long after our workers Hamdi and Khaled had left the bakery, Farid and I were sitting there, our heads poking out of a window. I told him about my feelings of hope and success. Farid was one of my best friends since high school. So, naturally he already knew about everything that had been going on, with my leaving Syria. When he heard that I was happy and hopeful, he grinned, took a long drag on his cigarette, and blew smoke into the cool night air.

“‘Well, Karam, I certainly am glad that you feel that way!” he said.

“Yes, me too!” I laugh, “But after my family left, I was not feeling like that at all! I was sadder than a cow that hasn’t been milked for ten days!”

Farid went quiet for a while, dramatically mimicking a wise man's concentration.

“My friend, borrowing the words of my blessed old father: ‘Hope … is like a fart, it will always come at either the worst of times, or the most unexpected of times,” he finally said, slowly.

“Mmm … powerful words, aren’t they,” I said, grinning.

And we both laughed the night away.

The following day, I was sick with a cold, so I decided that it was best to stay home. I called Farid at the bakery in the morning to tell him, but he wasn’t there. That struck me as rather odd, but I figured that Farid was with a customer and would call me back later.

 

But he didn’t.

 

Our bakery was Farid’s second home; if he wasn’t in his apartment, sleeping at night, he was at the bakery. I was becoming very concerned. I called him many more times from a nearby payphone, but there was no reply.

I waited a little longer, but at about three in the afternoon,  I couldn’t stand it any longer. I rushed out of my apartment, coughing and sneezing, and practically ran to the bakery. I frantically turned the corner across from it and stared. In the place that I would normally have seen our squat red-brick bakery, there was only a pile of rubble. It was gone. The bustling marketplace and city centre in which our bakery had stood was replaced by a pile of broken stones, lost lives, and sadness. I ran through the crowd of bystanders rushing to and fro, attempting to find loved ones amidst the wreckage, and knelt at the pile of destruction that used to be our lovely, beautiful bakery, and stared blankly. I had no tears.

2030, Dearborn, Michigan

 

My father stops talking and stares into the trees again. I did not know that my dad had to endure so much pain in his life. It is so unfair that my mind almost refuses to believe it. I reach my hand out to touch his shoulder.

“Dad ...“ I begin, but he wipes his eyes and speaks again.

“There’s more I must tell you”

“If you aren’t up to it right now, please don’t tell me, honestly ...” I plead.

“No, each story has two sides,” my father says with a shaky voice, “I have only told you the sadness of the story. If I do not tell you the hope, half of the story will be lost.”

And before I can say anything he continues.

Duma, Syria, 2014

 

The next week is a blur in my mind. I can only remember sitting in my apartment, sometimes crying, sometimes just blankly staring at the apartment’s crusty white plaster walls.The only thing that got me up was thinking of Farid and his silly quote. Imagine what Farid would do to you if he saw you like this, he would blow his top! I thought to myself. For some reason, instead of causing me to feel even more sad, this sparked something inside me. It was nothing big, just a tiny laugh, probably left over from when Farid was still there. But after that the sadness was not so bad; I finally had the energy to get up and think about what to do next. I had heard that there were still a few farmers near Duma that needed help harvesting their olives. It was mid-August, prime-time for the olive harvest.
So I packed a small duffel bag with the few possessions I had left, and was about to leave the apartment to hitchhike to the farms outside Duma when my eyes fell on the family photo next to your mother’s room. I quickly threw that in my duffel bag as well; the photograph would remind me of the life that I was trying to win back.

After a few days of walking under the hot sun, riding in the backs of vegetable trucks, and knocking on farmhouse doors looking for food and, whenever possible, work, I finally came to a large wooden farmhouse overlooking a massive estate of olive trees. I knocked on their oak door, weary and exhausted. The door was opened by a burly-looking man, with beady eyes and a thick mustache.

“What do you want?” he demanded.

“I am looking for work, sir,” I said meekly.

The man laughed, shook his head, and exclaimed “You could not possibly be of any use to us! You are so scrawny! You would only waste my time and money.” and with that he almost closed his door on me, but I held the door with my foot.

“Wait, sir! I may not look like much, but I am in fact very strong! I owned a bakery in Duma where I had to lift heavy sacks of flour every morning! I have done this work for ten years.”

The man fingered his mustache.

“Well… fine. But if you’re lazy and slack off even once around here … you get one chance, and then you’re out! I promise you that. You can sleep in the barn with the other workers. Work starts at six in the morning and ends at nine at night. Ask Hassan, the overseer; he’ll tell you what to do. I don’t want to deal with you now …”

And with that, the man slammed the door in my face. I turned around and walked towards the barn, shaking my head in disgust at the man’s greedy and piggish manner.

I worked on that farm for three months, until the olive harvest was over. The work was very hard and extremely exhausting. But, true to my word, I stayed strong and never slacked off. At the end of the three months, I anxiously took out my money from it’s hiding spot in the barn’s roof. I counted it, as I had done almost every night, and I was relieved and very happy to find that I had exactly 330,500 Syrian Pounds, or about $1,750 in American money— enough to buy a ticket from Damascus to Detroit. The sheer thought of being with my family again sent butterflies flying around my stomach! I repacked my duffel bag and left for Damascus without a second thought about leaving the olive farm.

I again hitch-hiked for another week or so to get to Damascus, where the nearest international airport was. Luckily, I didn’t have to worry about going through any of the U.S. Customs’ background checks because I had already gotten myself cleared for entry into the United States, along with all of you, back in 2011, when I saw that things were heating up in Syria. All I had to do was show that all my papers were in order, buy my ticket to Istanbul, Turkey, and catch a plane there for the final leg of my journey to Detroit, in America. The end of my fight to see you, your sister, and your mother again was a mere plane ride away.

 

After showing my passport and visa to the airport officials, I boarded a small Turkish Airlines jetliner to get to Istanbul. I had never been on a plane before in my life, coming from one of the poorer families in Syria, but for some unknown reason, I didn’t feel the excitement that I had always thought I would feel when on a plane. The idea of flying was just so insignificant compared to what was already going on in my life.

 

I sat in my seat for a little bit, just thinking about what I was doing. Soon I realized that I wasn’t quite happy. As I had envisioned leaving Syria in the past, I had always thought it would be a very exciting and happy time. While I was extremely excited to see you, your sister, and your mother again, I couldn’t quite place my finger on it, but there was something that was keeping me from enjoying that long-awaited occasion. As the plane pulled out onto the runway, I shrugged those thoughts away and closed my eyes for a well-deserved nap.

 

One hour later, as if by a miracle, I woke up for no particular reason. I was seated next to a window, so I had the luxury of being able to look from my seat at the ground below me. The view was simply astonishing- it was as if an artist had decided to draw a picture of all of Syria squished into a single small segment of land. Below the plane was a rolling expanse of farmland that appeared to be made up of soft green, orange, and yellow strips of fabric all sewn together into large rectangles, which were placed next to each other as if in a jigsaw puzzle. At the edge of the farmland were those low rugged mountains that are characteristic of Syria, connected to each other by a thin strip of earthy-brown land.

It was all simply so beautiful, I cannot even begin to describe what I was feeling as I saw it. Tears welled up in my eyes as I watched the landscape just float away from my plane. It was my life’s background: the mountains, the farmland, the baby-blue cloudless sky. And I was leaving it all. I lightly touched my window and whispered a quiet goodbye to my Syria. I hoped to God that I could return someday, when everything cooled down, and when Syria was a better place for the common people like me. I truly wished for that day to come soon.

Dearborn, Michigan, 2030

 

I sit silently as my father finishes his story. Hearing about his memories brings back storms of my own, and I am drowning in them now. My father and I both sit quietly as the bright sky of daylight is replaced by night. Both of us feel as if a weight has been lifted from our chests. We have opened the box containing all of our painful memories, and in doing so we have also released reminders that in the midst of pain there is still hope, that everything can turn out well in the end. Just as when Pandora opened Zeus’s box, containing all of the world’s evils, we released hope when we opened our own hearts. My father and I stare at each other without words; none could be adequate for this situation.

“Well … it’s getting cold. We should go inside,” my father says.

“Yeah … let’s go, Dad.”

 

And I help my father up from his lawnchair and together we go inside for the night.

 

 

Patterns. I’ve always loved them and always will. Without patterns I don’t know how I would survive life in the oasis of the Western SaharaDesert. Every day was a pattern to me. Wake up, do schoolwork that my dad/teacher gives me, do chores, play with my brother, go to bed. Every day the same, everybody the same, everything the same, and I love it.

 

            Oasis life is all I’ve ever known. The oasis I lived in is so small it isn’t on any map and doesn’t even have a name. The 100 or so people that lived there refer to it simply as The Oasis. I’ve lived at The Oasis my whole fourteen years of existence. My brother and I were both home schooled by my dad, who is very educated but will never give us the details of how. So yeah, life was good and very predictable.

 

            “We’re leaving.”

 

            “What!” I shouted at my dad who has just delivered the big news.

 

            “You’ve seen what is happening here, we have to go,” he stated flatly. I had noticed a change. Water shortages were causing friends to turn against one another and families to struggle to get enough to drink. Our once peaceful community was slowly becoming angry and, of course, thirsty.

 

            I tried to reason with my parents anyway.

 

            “We’ve been fine! There’s enough water for us.”

 

            “It’ll run out and you know it,” Dad countered.

 

            “But…”

 

            “Listen to your father, our minds are made up,” Mom said interrupting me and finally adding to the conversation. With that I stormed away, my eyes filling up with tears. No one tried to follow me even my brother who was taking the terrible news fairly well. Not a single person that passed by me as I sat under my favorite palm tree even acknowledged that they saw me. Just as well, no one really liked me anyway. They say my father taught me too many American customs. Left to my own thoughts, I did just that. I thought and thought. I don’t know how I didn’t see this coming. It really is changing here. Everyone is sad, frustrated, and scared. I guess I’d be I liar if I said I didn’t feel like that too.

 

            The next morning we woke at dawn all packed and ready to go. Dad told us that we would make it to the new oasis inside a month. This one was bigger and full of water apparently. He showed us on a map that I didn’t know we owned. We put all our things on the camels, including as much water as we could carry. We couldn’t bring a lot of our things, but we left them assuming someone would take them. All that time I spent thinking and it didn’t occur to me until I had started off that this journey would not only be dangerous but would also destroy the daily pattern at The Oasis.

 

            The first day was easy. We took a lot of breaks, probably too many, and ate a lot of food, probably too much. Mom and Dad said that we would come across traders where we would stock up on food. We brought Mom’s sewing kit, so on breaks she could make us things to trade. Anyway, the four of us agreed that tomorrow we would stop less and focus on getting where we needed go.

 

After a week I started to think about patterns again. My brother talked a lot during the day but it was easy to tune out his jabbering. I had plenty of time to think of all the patterns created and crushed by this journey. The walking, for example, was a pattern. When I put one foot in front of the other for hours at a time it would be apparent that the simple act of walking itself was a pattern. By the time I had thought about this concept until it was dry as a bone, three weeks had passed. Being able to think about one thing for that long is definitely a handy skill to have when you’re walking for so long,

 

My parents whispered softly to each other almost every night. I found if I focused on my breathing there voices were just part if the wind. Oh the wind! It blew sand everywhere, so much so that I completely abandoned covering up my face to block it. If only the wind was colder. I thought The Oasis was hot but without a tree in sight to offer any shade whatsoever, it was hotter than ever before.

 

It wasn’t all bad though. I mean don’t get me wrong, it was terrible, but at least the camels were holding up. They were better than to be expected considering the weather conditions and the harsh terrain. We had found a small pond at about two weeks and had taken lots and lots of water. It wasn’t the cleanest but it would do. It had been about a month since my family had left The Oasis and our food situation was dire. If we didn’t come across any traders soon then I don’t know what we would’ve done. Dad told me about a group of traders he met once. He said the ones he saw were rich and had their supplies shipped in on trucks or even small planes. Imagine seeing a plane or a truck!

 

“Look! Look!” my brother shouted out of the blue. His name is Akilah which means “intelligent one who reasons”. His name describes him perfectly because he is very smart and has a unique look on every situation. I was careful not to get too excited about his sighting because Akilah had thought he’d seen a palm tree quite a lot of times. A palm tree is what we are looking for because usually if you see one it means an oasis is near.

 

“Not again Aki” I said, annoyed.

 

”I’m sure this time, look!” I looked to where he was pointing and I saw what he was looking at. It wasn’t a palm tree, which would have been a welcome surprise. It was the next best thing though, a group of people. These were the first people we’d seen in a month so we didn’t care if they were traders or not, we just wanted someone other than each other to talk to. Looking back it was kind of dumb to go right to these people not knowing if they were good or not. For all we knew they could have been murderers! Thankfully, they weren’t. They happened to be exactly what we needed, traders!

 

            Dad had to do the talking because strangely they only spoke English and Dad was the only one who could speak it. I knew that annoyed Mom because she couldn’t make the decisions about what to trade for. Mom had made plenty of clothes and blankets so we could trade for another two weeks of food. We could have bought more, but the traders needed things to trade with other people. The best thing about the experience by far was that they had a car. It was a big truck with plenty of room to hold all the things they lugged around. It was a metallic silver and very intimidating. It was the coolest thing that I had ever seen. My brother was equally amazed and wouldn’t stop talking about it.

 

            We are two months into the trip. My calf muscles bulge from all the walking and I am noticeably thinner even with all the extra muscle. The camels are still doing just fine which is great because I’ve really grown to love those two over the course of this trip. It’s my brother that I fear is declining. He walks much slower and barely talks at all, which is crazy for him. We woke up that day expecting it to be like any other. Walk and walk until you can’t move another leg and then walk some more. It was midday when the sun was at is worst, beating down on us like fist. I heard a whimper and turned to see my brother collapsed on the ground.

 

            “Akilah!” I yelled as my parents rushed to help him. I learned later that he had a heat stroke and passed out. I sunk to my knees and turned away from the frightening sight. I squinted into the distance and saw something. I got up and moved a bit closer. I was the first to see it. I saw a palm tree.

 

            It’s been two years since we found this oasis. It’s wonderful here. It’s basically a small city with more people than I’d ever thought I’d see in one place. The water supply is huge and everybody is nice. Akilah is all healed and better. They have a school here, a real school with teachers and everything! Thankfully, there are a bunch of other kids here to play with. Akilah and I both have many friends. The whole community accepted my family as if we’d lived here our whole lives. I learn new things everyday here. I still like patterns, but not as much as before and I could definitely live without them. Best of all, everyday is different, everybody is different, everything is different, and I love it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

It knew instinctively that someone had opened a portal. Someone always did. It slowly drifted towards the opening.

 

He stared into the void, disappointed at his latest failure. The portal should have lead to the Astral plange, allowing him to finish his life’s research on the old gods, but instead it had lead to nothingness. He slowly headed to the controls to shut it off and looked at the portal one last time. It was then that he realized something very important. The void was looking back. He ran, trying to shut if off, but before he could reach the controls, something forced its way through. He looked at it and saw nothing but tentacles and eyes. It was then that he blacked out.

 

When he came to, everything seemed to have a green tint. “Is something wrong with my eyes?” he asked himself. He looked around and noticed that the green glow was emanating from the portal. He surveyed the controls, noticing that they were burned and charred. They weren’t doing anything anymore. Something else was holding the portal open. What had come through?

 

He left the room, pondering the fate of the other occupants of the house. Turning a corner, he came upon his servant, Gerald.

“Gerald,” he asked, “are you okay?”

“Yes,” Gerald said slowly, “Come over here.”

“Something’s wrong.” he thought.“It looked like Gerald, it spoke like Gerald, but…”

It took a step closer.

“What was that expression on his face?” he questioned himself. “It looks almost hungry…” And he then knew with all certainty that this wasn’t Gerald. It took another step forward.

“Stay back!” he shouted. “Don’t take another step forward!”

It kept advancing, seeming almost to slither toward him. He blindly reached behind himself, searching for something, anything, to defend himself with without taking his eyes of it. It suddenly burst into a spring, running towards him. He gripped the knife he found, temporarily pausing, but then attacked. Whatever it was, Gerald was gone. He stabbed the knife into the thing’s chest, slicing it open. The creature then fell to the ground with an unnaturally high shriek. From the wound, small spherical objects rolled out. Curious, he took a step closer and then realized what they were- eyeballs. Suddenly, it jerked. He realized that he hadn’t killed it, but instead had only stunned it. He muttered a brief prayer for his friend, and left quickly, carefully looking for other monstrosities.

 

After a while, he came upon a doorway and realized he was walking into his bedroom. His bed laid before him, a beacon of hope. It was certainly well past midnight at this point, and he decided that any risk he took in sleeping would be smaller than that of not. He quickly barricaded the door with some of the furniture and slept.

 

They had always opened portals, and they always would. It didn’t matter if they were shut sometimes. Sooner or later, one would stay open, and then they would escape.

 

He looked at the clock. It read 9:23 in the morning. Why had Gerald let him sleep in so late? It was then that he remembered. He quickly scanned the room, tightly clutching the knife in his right hand. The door was still barricaded and there didn’t appear to be anything inside the room. He relaxed and stepped onto the floor. “Perhaps this room is safe...” he thought. A tentacle shot out from under the bed, tightening around his ankle. He fell to the floor and the knife left his hand. He kicked at it with his other leg, until it let go. He then ran to the barricade and began throwing things off. He could hear it behind him. He resisted the urge to look back and finished taking the barricade down. He ran out of the room, lamenting the loss of his knife. “Had I really slept on top of that creature the entire night?” he wondered “Do I really want to know?”

 

He slowed to a stop, realizing that the creature wasn’t following him. Turning the corner, he thought of what he had done to his family’s mansion. “I’ve ruined the only thing that truly belonged to me, and what for?” he asked himself, “For the sake of idle curiosity? For the chance to be famous?” Still thinking of what he had done, he turned a corner and scanned the area. There didn’t appear to be anything there, but this time he was more cautious. There! The wall in front of him seemed to slightly shimmer. He slowly turned away and froze, noticing the shimmer on the wall where he had come from. The shimmering seemed to intensify. He froze, wondering how to escape. “The crawl space!” he thought, realizing his possible egress. Behind a thin layer of plasterboard was an access tunnel, used for maintenance. He purposefully kicked at the wall, forcing himself from looking behind. When he had kicked away enough, the tunnel exposed itself and he crawled inside.

 

He moved quickly, or as he quickly as he could in the cramped space. He could only barely force himself through, the tunnel was intended for much slimmer men. He listened intently for any signs of something following him. He realized then that there was a faint rustling behind him. He forced himself to move faster, hoping that the end was near, and soon he’d be safer, if not safe. “Ouch!” he thought. He had crashed his head into a wall. He felt blindly to his left and right and encountered only walls there too. The space was sealed shut. The rustling intensified and he frantically started hitting the wall with his fists. Eventually it started to give way, but the source of the rustling was right behind him. Something sliced his arm, cutting a large gash in his right arm. He used his other arm and quickly forced the wall down, ignoring the pain. He pulled himself through and quickly moved a bookshelf in the room he had come upon over the entrance.

 

He looked at the bloody gash. A major artery had been severed; he’d have to do something or he’d bleed to death. He tore a strip of his shirt and tightly tied it just below his armpit. It would stop the bleeding until he could do something else. He looked around, and realized that the crawl space had lead to his alchemy lab. Gritting his teeth, he picked up a flask of gunpowder, and poured some of it into his wound. Using a still-burning torch in the lab, he lit it. He gasped as the powder exploded, cauterizing the wound, and he felt his grip on reality slowly sliding away.

 

It had been many millennia since they had been trapped here. It had only taken twelve to do so, creating a new plane for them. The perfect prison.

 

He tried to get up, but his limbs felt like lead. He laid there for a few minutes until, with a sudden burst of energy, he flipped over and stood up. Running to the room, he viewed the melted control panel and started frantically pulling together the fused circuits. He glanced up at the door and saw a giant eye approaching, seeming almost to pierce him, understanding  all he was in an instant. With a shudder, he turned back to his work. He could feel a dark presence at the back of his mind, seeming to push and pull at its boundaries. The eye was nearly at the portal and he realized for the first time how large the eye truly was. The presence in his mind increased and he gasped in fear. The presence seemed to be adding facts and concepts to his mind, revealing dark secrets about how the universe worked. “It’s not just a beast...it’s conscious!” he thought and with that realization came more. He began to realize just how small the universe really was. “These realizations are fascinating, but…” he thought, increasing his pace. The eye was only a few yards away and was still coming ever closer. With a final connection, the controls were fixed. He sent a burst of energy snaking down the wires and when it reached the portal, it shut with a explosion of energy. Exhausted, he fell to the ground and pondered the ideas implanted within his mind.

 

It was then that he understood. He understood everything. The purpose of life, or rather lack thereof. The inevitability of death. That the work he had dedicated his life to was based on flawed principles. He had stopped them, but they would come again. He slowly lifted the gun in his hand, contemplating it. He couldn’t live his life knowing, understanding how the universe worked. Once you did, there was nothing to strive for. He lifted the gun to his head and fired once. The pain blossomed in the side of his head like a rose. He was all. He was everything. He was nothing.

 

They had always opened portals, and they always would. It didn’t matter if they were shut sometimes. Sooner or later, one would stay open, and then they would escape.

 

 

The hero walked back to his apartment that he shared with his girlfriend. He had just come back from another day of keeping his city crime free. Today’s job was difficult. His arch nemesis, Lotus, had been up to his usual tricks. The hero, a 24 year old man by the name of Nathaniel Wilks, climbed the stairs to his apartment door. He fumbled with the key in the lock, because it was a very foggy day, and was hard to see, but he eventually opened it.

 

“Hello?” He shouted. There was no response. Strange. Usually his girlfriend would have been home by now. There must have been some traffic on the way back from Mayton University, where she went to school. He knew she was in an accelerated chemistry course, but not much else. He decided to ask her about it when she came home. It was date night, and he was excited as always.

 

Settling himself on the couch, he flicked the TV on and changed the channel to the news program. His latest adventure would be on the news by now. Sure enough, there was a picture of his hero figure in action, punching Lotus’ arm hard enough to leave a bruise. The camera turned to a live feed of a newswoman, who began her report.

 

“Once again, our beloved city has been saved by Skryder, our beloved hero! Lotus attempted to cause mass destruction by repainting the lane lines on Malena Bridge to lead cars head on into each other. On a normally sunny day, this wouldn’t have done much, but with all the fog, disaster was inevitable. Only a few cars crashed before Skryder appeared and directed the traffic safely, allowing for time for the road lines to be restored. As soon as the coast was clear, he sprinted away to where he saw Lotus hiding, on top of a nearby building. They wrestled for a bit, and right before Lotus slipped away, Skryder managed to land a blow on Lotus’ arm.”

 

The screen cut back to the picture of him punching Lotus, then back to the reporter.

 

“Lotus is going to have a nasty bruise tomorrow. Even though Skryder scored this small victory, Lotus has still slipped away to his lair, where he will no doubt plan his next attack against Mayton. Stay tuned for witness interviews.”

 

Nathaniel turned the TV off and sat back on the couch with a satisfied sigh. He knew that, in a week or so, Lotus would be back with his next harebrained scheme, and when he came, Nathaniel would be ready.

 

        -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

The villain slouched back to her headquarters, her identity still hidden.

 

“Good, good,” she said out loud, even though she knew nobody was there. She pulled off her mask, revealing the lovely face of Veronica Shard. The world knew her as Lotus, the villain with the hidden identity. Many a hero before had tried to unmask her, but all were foiled, as Veronica managed to slip away every time. She was pretty sure that everybody thought Lotus was a man anyway, so it didn’t really matter.

 

Veronica led an active double life. She was a chemistry student at Mayton University. In her day life, she just wanted to get a good education in a subject that would pay well, so she could live well. Her night life, however, had a much more sinister plan. Veronica wanted to learn about different chemicals and how they worked in depth so that when planning something, she would be able to steal chemicals from her lab and put them to good use. For instance, creating a city-wide fog that would cause lots of car accidents!

 

Veronica laughed and started peeling off her black and grey body suit. Once she was changed back into her regular clothes, she picked up her phone to check for any text messages that might have popped up during her traffic fiasco. It was going perfectly, until that Skryder showed up, fixed the problem, and punched her in the arm! That hurt!

 

She wasn’t really sure why she kept doing bad things. She didn’t think she was a bad person, but then again, who did? There was just something about Skryder that really got to her.

 

Her phone beeped, and as Veronica picked it up and unlocked it, she gasped. The text was from her boyfriend. Boyfriend…. boyfriend…. BOYFRIEND!

 

“Shoot!” Veronica yelled while scrambling around her warehouse, hiding all her chemicals and her suit. He was probably worried out of his mind that she wasn’t home yet. She called his number, which was number 2 on speed dial, and slid into her car while waiting for it to ring. Tapping her fingers on the dashboard, she listened for the telltale click that told her the phone on the other end had picked up.

 

“Veronica, where are you? I’ve been home for a good 45 minutes, and I’m starting to get a little worried. Are you okay?” her boyfriend gushed through the phone.

 

“Oh, I’m fine. It was just hard getting out of the lab today,” she said, while starting her car. He laughed through the phone, and she gave an uneasy chuckle while rubbing the bruise on the side of her arm, where Skryder punched her. “There’s some traffic now, though. I think something big happened downtown, on the bridge it looks like. I can see a firetruck and an ambulance.”

 

The words slipped out of her mouth before she could stop herself. Stupid Veronica! Stupid! Why would she even bring that up? She could have revealed her secret to her boyfriend, of all people! Sure, she loved him and all, but he was a little slow, and she didn’t think he would be as understanding as she might be in that situation. Veronica forced herself to listen to the conversation she was having.

 

“Oh, yeah, I heard something about that. I think there was an accident and a fight. Some dude named Skryder was just on the news. What a name, huh?” The voice from the phone prattled on aimlessly, and Veronica nearly banged her head on her steering wheel, clenching her fist when her boyfriend said the name. She had to end this conversation before she really let something slip.

 

“Definitely. Anyway, I’ll be home soon. Bye Nathaniel!”

 

                 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

“Oh, yeah, I heard something about that. I think there was an accident and a fight. Some dude named Skryder was just on the news. What a name, huh?”

 

Nathaniel slapped his forehead after her said that. What an idiot, Nate! Why would you even say that? Might as well tell the world right now who Skryder really is! Veronica started talking again, so he figured he’d better listen, otherwise he’d be in trouble.

 

“Definitely. Anyway, I’ll be home soon. Bye Nathaniel!”

 

Veronica hung up, and Nathaniel dropped his phone on the couch, sinking down onto the pillows next to it. So close. He was so close to giving her an inkling of what he did, who he really was. She wasn’t exactly tight-lipped, if you get his drift. No way could she keep such a huge secret. The number of times he’d seen her gossiping with her friends was more than the fingers of all of them combined. Veronica was an open book, he could bet on it.

 

Nathaniel’s cover story was that he worked as a host in the fanciest restaurant in downtown Mayton, called Shadox. It was a perfect cover because he had a reason to be downtown a lot, which was a great thing because Lotus almost always struck downtown. It was easier to get from Shadox to wherever Lotus might be than from his apartment 2 miles from the Malena Bridge.

 

Of course, Nathaniel actually worked there most of the time, because he needed to back up his story in case anybody came snooping. It was mostly for Veronica though, because he really liked her and didn’t want to mess things up. Skryder had to stay a secret.

 

                   --------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Veronica parked in front of her apartment and got out of her car, closing the door and locking it behind her. After climbing the stairs to the apartment door, she double checked the armband that she had slid over her bruise. Didn’t want Nathaniel asking any questions. If he did happen to ask, though, she would say that it was from her chemistry class. He wouldn’t press the matter. Once she opened the door, she called out.

 

“Nathaniel? I’m home.”

 

There was no response.

 

“Nathaniel?”

 

Still nothing.

 

Strange. If he wasn’t here, he would have texted her. Or called. Or something. Veronica wondered if something happened, and if so, what. She decided to text him to make sure nothing was the matter.

 

“hey Nate, what’s up? Where r u?”

 

He replied in a couple of minutes.

 

“don’t worry Ronnie I just got called in for work. The host that was supposed to be here tonight got sick and the other girl is on vacation. It was an emergency, and I had to go. We can reschedule date night I promise. I’ll be home in a few hours. Luv ya”

 

“ok, bye. Love you too”

 

She waited for another response, but there was none forthcoming.

 

Veronica sighed. So much for stressing about getting home. She guessed she would just make some pasta for herself and watch some TV. She put the water on to boil and settled on the couch.

 

              ------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Nathaniel was thinking about his date night when his phone beeped. He reached for his cell on the pillow next to him, but then realized that it had been silent. It was his other phone. His hero phone.

 

He jumped off the couch and ran to his bedroom, where his other phone was. He could keep it in there because he and Veronica didn’t share a room. She had her own room down at the end of the hall. He was a firm believer in waiting until marriage, and Veronica didn’t object. They wouldn’t have to wait long, though. As soon as Veronica graduated, in a few months, he was going to propose.

 

Digging under his bed for his other phone, he unlocked it and read the report there.

 

“Alert. Alert. Skryder, the lair of Lotus has been found. Please report immediately in hero attire. Thank you.”

 

Oh shoot! Lotus’ lair! It had to be downtown somewhere. Nathaniel checked the phone, and sure enough, there was a GPS picture with the location pinned with a red dot. He committed the location to memory and began suiting up, completely forgetting about Veronica, and his date.

 

Rushing downtown, he sped past other cars and drove across the Malena Bridge, past the place of the day’s earlier disaster. He parked his car a block away and proceeded the rest of the way on foot. His phone dinged as he was walking, and as he looked down, he saw it was from Veronica.

 

“hey Nate, what’s up? Where r u?”

 

Oh shoot. Veronica. He totally forgot. What to say, what to say? Then he thought, and realized that he had a perfect cover.

 

“don’t worry Ronnie I just got called in for work. The host that was supposed to be here tonight got sick and the other girl is on vacation. It was an emergency, and I had to go. We can reschedule date night I promise. I’ll be home in a few hours. Luv ya”

 

He turned his phone off, no more distractions, and focused on the task that loomed in front of him. Going through Lotus’ lair, foiling anymore plots, and maybe even figuring out who he was.

 

As Nathaniel rounded the corner, the entire sight came into view.

 

Police tape surrounding everything, cops on walkie-talkies, people taking pictures, the whole nine yards. As soon as somebody noticed him, he was dragged through the passerby, under the police tape, and shoved in front of a camera.

 

The reporter standing behind the camera held up a microphone and said,

 

“Excuse me, Skryder, but I was wondering if we could have a quick interview for the late show tonight.”

 

Nathaniel looked around at the people before replying in the positive.

 

“Of course, fire away.”

 

              ---------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Veronica turned the TV on, reaching for the remote before realizing it was already on the news station. Why not watch the news, she thought. It might impress Nathaniel. She heard her water boiling from the other room, so she left for the kitchen. While stirring the noodles in the pot, she listened to the TV.

 

“I’m standing here on Depot Street-”

 

Veronica perked up, interested now. Depot Street was where her lair was.

 

“-in front of the abandoned, or so we thought, Cobet Warehouse.”

 

Veronica stopped stirring and listened closer.

 

“Just an hour ago, Cobet Warehouse was discovered to be the secret hiding place of none other than the notorious Lotus. I’m here with hero Skryder, who-”

 

Veronica dropped her spoon. No… it couldn’t be. How…? She had no time to waste. She had to get down there, but to go as herself or as Lotus? She didn’t know, but she did know that she couldn’t just let Skryder walk all over her work.

 

After turning the stove and TV off, she ran down to her car, locking the apartment door. Starting the engine, she tore down the street, headed downtown.

 

She couldn’t drive through the streets easily once she crossed Malena Bridge because of all the traffic, so she parked on a side street and trudged towards Depot Street on foot. There were a lot of people, but Veronica threw a few elbows and ended up in the third row of people from the police tape. It was as close as she could get.

 

The reporter was still talking with Skryder.

 

“So… I think I speak for us all here when I say that we want to know who Skryder really is.”

 

She turned to the crowd and motioned for the cameraman to do the same.

 

“Well? Do you want to know who Skryder is? Find out who this dashing man is?”

 

The crowd screamed.

 

“I’ll take that as a yes!”

 

She turned back to Skryder and held the microphone out.

 

“What do you say? Let Mayton know who you really are?”

 

Skryder looked at her, then at the crowd. His eyes scanned the people, and landed on her. Veronica’s eyes widened slightly, but then he looked back at the reporter.

 

“Yes.”

 

          --------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Nathaniel scanned the crowd after the reporter asked him to reveal himself. He saw a familiar head of blonde hair, and locked eyes with his girlfriend. He thought, and then decided, he was ready for her, and the world, to know.

 

Turning back to the camera, he took a deep breath.

 

“Yes.”

 

There was a large amount of cheering from the crowd. He raised his arms, and the people yelled louder. He moved his hands to take off his mask.

 

When he did, he threw his mask to the ground and looked at the reporter.

 

“Hello. My name is Nathaniel Wilks, and I am also the hero you all know as Skryder. I have lived in Mayton for my whole life, and I have a wonderful girlfriend named Veronica Shard. She is right there, and she is my inspiration.”

 

Nathaniel pointed to Veronica, and her face flushed several shades of red before ending up very pale. She gave a little wave before disappearing through the hundreds of people clapping and cheering. Nathaniel figured he’d see her at home soon, so he decided to stay a little longer and answer any more questions people might have for him.

 

              ---------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Veronica couldn’t believe it. Him? The person she’d been fighting, plotting against, hating, was him? Her boyfriend? Her innocent, dumb boyfriend? What was she supposed to do now?

 

Should she tell him that she was Lotus and possibly ruin their relationship forever? She liked him a lot, so she didn’t want to do that. But then she would have to keep her secret. Let Lotus die. Stop stealing from her lab, and work hard to pass her class and graduate in a few months. Yes, that was the only option. She resolved to act as normal around Nathaniel as possible, even perhaps a bit in awe from his august character. Veronica would just have to avoid talking about Skryder, or who she thought Lotus was, and try not to let anything slip. This secret would have to stay with her for the rest of her life.

 

           -------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Three months later, Nathaniel proposed to Veronica, and she accepted. They were married, and after their honeymoon, they returned to live in Mayton, where Nathaniel kept his job as a host and Veronica became a chemistry professor. Nathaniel was happy married to her, but something still bothered him. She had changed a little on the day that he revealed the identity of Skryder to the world, and he had never quite figured out why.

Thoughts, facts, ideas, all flow smoothly to my brain, dancing down, spirited and carefree. I wish the world was only made of them, but it’s infected with words. Words are shiny pearls on the outside, but up close are storms, torn and jagged, undecipherable by any but those who said them, so easy to mix up and confuse. Words drift away from me, and once I catch them they are cut by the sharp points of my soul. By the time they reach my lips, they are broken, indistinguishable from a soft moan. I hate words.

 

My mother is done making dinner. She calls to my father and brother, her voice sharp and clear, like fresh cut grass. She is crisp and efficient, doing three things at once and still able to make sure that everyone else is on task. My brother meanders down from his room, where he is holed up all the time. He is sixteen, and is starting to move away from our parents, and the only way he knows how to do this is to physically stay in his room, cut of from the rest of us. He doesn’t talk to them anymore, but he talks to me. His voice is deep and slow, like a lumbering bear, safe and calm for now, but ready to wake up at any time and charge. Then my father comes in from raking leaves. He greets me, ruffling my short hair, and murmuring something with his soft, dreamy voice, like a slow, calm stream, comforting me.

 

I am stuck in the cage. I try to break out every day, but to no avail. My body is the basic structure, but it would be easy to escape from. It is words that hold my cage together, spiky tendrils weaving themselves in and out, filling the cracks, and around me if I don’t stop them. Their poison is slowly leaking through my veins, numbing me, and they will suffocate me if I can’t get out soon.

 

They sit down to eat, and Mother starts bringing out the food. She has meatloaf, carrots, broccoli, and mashed potatoes. She says something, and then Mother and my brother start eating. It’s my father’s turn to feed me today. He fills my plate and starts carefully putting food in my mouth. I don’t like carrots, but he doesn’t know that, and they’re his favorite, so he gave me extra. He also completely skipped the broccoli, which is my favorite, but he doesn’t like. He thinks he’s doing me a favor.

 

Faces swirl around, twisted by the hurricane inside me. They help me escape from my prison, at least for a while, and with them I am free. I am ripping them apart with the storm, and they slowly disappear. They are the only ones who understand me, and without them I will be alone, all alone. There are very few left, from the many that were there in the beginning, and I am scared of what will happen when they are all gone.

 

It’s my bedtime, and my mother wheels me over to my room. She then picks me up with much groaning and puts me on my bed. Mother then picks a cheerful book from my shelf, and brings it over. It has a picture of a spider on it, along with some gold blobs at the top. She opens it and starts to read. I concentrate on the pictures. Her storytelling voice is neither loud nor soft, but just in the middle, but she reads books with the same sort of stark efficiency she uses when she cooks dinner. It doesn’t sweep me away, like my father’s voice does, or make me feel soft and warm like my brother’s, but it makes me feel safe, like nothing can change as long as she’s here. She’s already done with the story, and puts it away. She kisses me on the forehead, then leaves the room, shutting the door behind her. It’s funny, I’ve known my parents all my life, but they don’t know me.

 

A swirling face grabs me and turns me to dust, so I can go easily through my cage. Together we fly away, soaring high above the sky until I find the shape of the real me. It’s easy, because everything around me is gray and slow, but I’m a colorful masterpiece, twirling and dancing. I soar into it, and we merge perfectly, me as I should be and me as I am. Together we are whisked into a world where we can be free. A cloud of cinnamon tickles our nose and a shimmer of yellow bathes us in golden light. We burst a bubble of laughing, and let the happy sound wash over us. But it can’t last forever, and too soon a storm of gray washes over us, and covers the colors and tastes and smells and sounds and tears us apart, and forces me back into my cage.

 

My mother is waking me up, pulling back the curtain to let light flood into my eyes. She doesn’t work this morning, and slept in, so it’s a hour after when I usually wake up. It annoys me, but she doesn’t know. How could she? I’ve never had a real conversation with her. I probably never will. By now she has gotten me ready for the day, so she wheels me into the family room, where my brother is already watching cartoons, and sits me in front of the screen. Then she walks away, probably to get me breakfast. I hate cartoons, they’re blunt and bloody, with crude figures falling down and blowing each other up, and grating voices, like fingernails on a chalkboard, talking constantly. I try to turn away, but they surround me with their squeaky voices and violent endeavors. Luckily Mother comes in and wheels me away, shouting to my brother, who then follows. We go to the kitchen, where she has finished breakfast.

 

The faces come less and less, and without them there the monsters aren’t afraid to come. They come to torment me, swarms of them, swallowing me in a storm of claws, nails and fangs. These are just the scouts, though, and there is something terrible in the distance, crawling toward me, or is it pulling me toward it? All I know is that something horrible will happen if I let it reach me, and nothing I have ever done has stopped or even slowed it. In fact, it comes faster now, accelerating as the faces fade. They keep it away, but with them gone, it comes all the faster, closer and closer, and if I don’t do something, we will meet within a week.

 

Breakfast proceeds as usual, and then everyone goes off to their various activities: Mother went to work, my brother to his job, and Father takes me to my therapist. She annoys me with her constant whiny voice, like a leaky balloon, ceaseless in her own pointless talking. Her constant goal is to get me to talk, but I won’t poison the air with words like she does. Even if I wanted to I couldn’t, but she doesn’t understand that and keeps her pointless goal. After each session I have to get an appointment with the doctor that works next door to her, where he checks my heart and blood and reflexes before giving the same stamp of approval he gives every day. It’s pointless, but everyone thinks it’s important, so we keep going.

 

One sole face is left from the swirling cloud that always used to surround me, the rest have been torn apart and shredded by the storm. As each one left they took with them a layer of me, and now I am hollow, there is only one layer left. If this one goes, It will take with it the last part, and there will be nothing left. It is torn and battered, but it is the strongest and has survived. It can’t last forever, though, and I wonder what will happen when it leaves. Will I, too, become a face stuck in a hurricane, or will I simply disappear, my remains swept away, so no trace of me remains? What will come first, the Monsters, this last face leaving, or the vines, squeezing me until I’m gone?

 

Therapy passes in a blur; I’m not paying attention, so I get a little frowny face as my score for the day. Oh well, I don’t actually care. I’m just glad to get away from her leaky balloon voice, though I’m not sure if getting poked and prodded by the doctor is much of an improvement. Father wheels me in, and I get my daily check-up. My blood pressure, heart rate, brain waves… something’s wrong. Father and the doctor are clustered around the screen, along with two other nurses. More are swarming in right at this moment. They are all talking at once, and not happy, carefree talking but urgent, clammy tones all trying to be heard. I see Father pull out his phone. His face is white, and his hands are trembling as he tries to dial the number. Then he faints.

 

The vines’ poison has done its job well, and I have let my guard down for just a minute too long. They have worked their way inside the cage, and are heading for me now, with no cage bars to block their path. They are angry, like a hornet ready to sting. The vines are inching toward me now, taking their time now that they have worked their way inside. They are slow, but the first of them have already wrapped themselves around my arm, my leg, my stomach, with more on the way. Then they start squeezing. They are squeezing and squeezing and I can’t breath and they need to back off…

 

Mother rushes in, her coat on backwards and wearing mismatching shoes. My eyes start to droop and I can’t see her well. Then a light starts flashing and a siren turns on and I need more air and I can’t breath and I can’t think...

 

Then I see the last face and it lets me see something simple: the other me, lost and empty and afraid, and I know that I can’t let it down and I push the vines away and make them share and then breath, filling my lungs with the smell of the cinnamon that the face has given me. Now I’m mad, the vines are in my space, they are trespassers, and I swing my arms and they back off but I’m not done yet and I am kicking and biting and hitting and scratching. After a while I look down and see that they have all retreated, the last tendril is just now slithering through the ground. With them gone, my cage is simple and flimsy, and I walk out. I know the monsters won’t follow me now, now that I am free. I realise the face, and walk away. I am free. I am free at last.

My eyes flicker open and I am in a tiny bed and we are going fast on the road. I am surrounded by people, who all give a collective sigh, as though they are saying that everything’s all right now, but something’s not right. Then I realize that I haven’t breathed, and I fill my lungs  with the sweet air and breath out and in and out. I am happy now. I made it.

The phone rang in Richard’s office. He picked it up, simultaneously scribbling the new BetaFox password onto a pad of paper.

     “Richard Twillington.”

     “Hello, Richard.”

He knew that voice. It belonged to Scott Warden, chief of FBI special services in Southeast Michigan.

     “You’re one of our best agents,” he continued. “A few years down the line and you can expect Presidency of the county services. So when I saw this report, I immediately thought of you.”

     “Which country?”

     “If you would believe it, Peru. Can you be there in…” Richard heard rustling as the chief consulted his calendar- “On Thursday?”

     “Yes, sir.”

     “Richard, Richard. You know there’s no need to call me sir. I’ve known you for nine years now,” he reprimanded gently.

     “Yes- Scott.”

This seemed to please him.

     “Ok, let me send over the dossier. I’ll fax you the details of your flight and landing times. You speak Peruvian tongues, right?”

     “Well, yes. I trained in Peru and picked up some Aymara and Quechua, and I speak Spanish fluently.”

     “Well, then. Stay safe, Richard.”

 

The phone beeped and Richard set the receiver down. A moment later, his fax machine started whirring as the papers Scott mentioned spewed out.

Booting up his laptop, he entered the FBI international database and submitted to a spyware check. The system cleared him and he typed in a 20-digit password. He was rerouted to the second barrier, and the scanner on his desk pulsed with a blue light. He pressed his fingertips in a specific, precise order, and it flashed orange before splitting apart on a join and revealing a pane of glass. He leaned forward, lining up his left eye with the sensor, and it clicked before shutting down and folding back up. The computer allowed him to access the database, and he clicked on the most recent notification is his queue. Scooting his chair forward, he began to read.

 

      ‘Dear Richard. I have enclosed your most recent assignment. If all goes well, you will return within the week. Keep your priorities straight and DO NOT COPY OR RETAIN THIS INFORMATION. Best Wishes, Scott Warden.

AGENT SPECIAL ASSIGNMENT

 

Richard A. Twillington

Dated August 16, 2005

 

On August 11, 2005, the FBI national headquarters picked up on a suspicious radio signal from the Chi’Chacu temple in Peru. The signal was scratchy and contained pleas for help and a kidnapping accusation.

It was unregistered and couldn’t be traced to a sender or station. The only thing that HQ got was the location.

Of course, we’re suspicious by any means of a signal from an Aztec temple, but when the contents include criminal activity, we’re certainly inclined to call in ops.

 

This is your mission. We want you to go to the temple without being observed by anyone. Search for broadcasting equipment and detain anyone you find there. If you see fit, begin criminal interrogations, but be subtle and don’t reveal the purpose of the FBI involvement. Be sure you are fully armed during the mission.

If you find nothing before Tuesday, August 29th, go to the nearest town and signal. We’ll pick you up before noon on the 30th.’

 

Richard finished reading and closed the window. The notification below it had a heading for authorization of firearms, and he opened it.

 

Authorize Richard Twillington, Agent BC0287, to carry firearms throughout the continental Americas.

Authorized to receive two military grade weapons and one Hand Grenade. Signed August 16, by Scott Warden, Chief of Safety Services and Special Operations, FBI district SE MI.

 

He logged out of the database and closed his computer’s lid. Standing up, he stretched, then walked across his office to the printer. Scooping up the sheath of papers, he examined the top one. It was a notice allowing him onto an Air Force copter at U.S. Air Force ROTC Det 390 making a supply run, and notified that he must be at the base at 6:24 AM or the helicopter was no longer obligated to transport him. The second page contained details, including the location of the base and the aircraft’s ID number. He committed #541128 to memory  before flipping to the third and final paper.

It was a health notice explaining various diseases found in Peru and recommending vaccines, and on the back side was the office number of a staff FBI medical professional at the local FBI chapter and his name, John J. Herald.

Setting down the papers on his desk, he picked up the phone and dialed.

 

     “Hello?”

     “Allison, I have an assignment.”

     “Dear, I wish you would be careful.”

     “Sweetheart, it’s my job. I don’t have a choice.”

Richard felt a prickle of annoyance at having to explain this to his wife, but he brushed it aside, returning to the conversation.

     “When?”

His wife sighed on the other end of the line.

     “I’ll have to leave tomorrow evening.”

     “At least this time it’s not a rush job. You’ll be home tonight, right? You know it’s not necessary to stay overnight at the office.”

     “I’ll be back at seven.”

     “Honestly, Richard-”

He interrupted her.

     “I have to go, honey. I’m sorry, but I’ll see you tonight, all right?”

He set down the phone without waiting for an answer, swiveling his chair towards the safe set into the wall.

Before dialing the combination, he tapped the logo twice. The lock clicked and he and pulled out a folder labeled Police Fatality- Internal Investigations. He set it down and withdrew a stapled packet. Opening it, he began to read, marking comments on the left margin as he spotted points of interest.

Glancing at his watch a few hours later,  he shrugged on his jacket and flicked the light switch. Stepping out the door, he locked it and called out a farewell to the secretary.

He grabbed a root beer from the cooler and chugged it, draining half of it, before capping it and calling the elevator. The doors slid open and he tucked the bottle in his pocket before pressing the button for ground level. The elevator began slowly descending the shaft, and a few seconds later the doors slid open, revealing the lobby.

He stepped out, the doors closing after him, and walked out the door, taking a newspaper from the rack on his way.

Enjoying the summer breeze, he walking briskly down the block and stopped at a dark blue BMW SUV. Fishing the keys out of his pocket, he unlocked the car and slid into the driver’s seat, tossing the paper onto the seat besides him.

It landed with the front page up, and he saw an upside down image of a man’s smiling face as he left a bank. The headline read ‘Aran Noutcutalt Exits Chase Bank Monday Night After Signing Billion-Dollar Deal.’

Aran Noutcutalt was always making the news. He was a local billionaire who was involved in international and local affairs. Richard had read his extensive FBI files, and the man was painted as a highly intelligent philanthropist and businessman. He was similar to dozens of other men, the wealthy socialites happy to “invigorate the local economy.” It was well known they all simply wanted the media attention.

Richard turned his attention back to the wheel. Inserting his key, he rotated it in the slot and the GPS popped up. Lights blinked on and he steered the car onto the road, heading towards a suburban area of the town.

 

After 15 minutes, he pulled into a circular drive and parked the car in front of the garage. Getting out of the car, he grabbed the paper and tucked it under his arm. He climbed the steps leading to the door, and had barely inserted his key before the door swung open, revealing Allison.

     “Richard! Dinner’s just on the table,” she said, no doubt relieved that he’d kept his word and had arrived at seven.

     “I’m coming,” he said, following her into the hall.

He hung up his jacket while she bustled about the kitchen, setting hot dishes on the table and turning off the stove. She reached into the fridge and took out a large bowl, along with the butter dish.

Dumping the newspaper on the counter, Richard sat down at the table. Allison set a plate of steak, green beans, and a bread roll in front of him. She handed him a tall glass of beer, sloshing at the top, and went upstairs. She came back down with their 3-year old son, Jacob, in tow, after Richard had taken a large sip of beer, set the glass down, and spread his cloth napkin over his lap. She filled plates for Jacob and herself, and poured milk into a glass for Jacob and sparkling water into another glass. They sat down and the three of them began to eat.

     “Do you have anything to pick up tonight, before you leave?”

     “I have to stop by the offices for briefing and a medical.”

Jacob, who had been silent the entire meal, looked up inquisitively with his bright blue eyes.   

    “Daddy, are you going away again?”

This was the part of his job Richard hated most. He hated having to leave his child behind, he hated traveling, and most of all, he hated explaining his absences to Jacob.

     “Yes.” He cleared his throat, suddenly self-conscious. “I’ll be back before next Tuesday, all right? That’s only twelve days.”

     “Daddy, don’t go!” Jacob began to sob into his glass. Richard looked helplessly at his wife. She began to comfort Jacob, and Richard scraped his chair back, standing up abruptly. Draining his beer, he picked up his empty plate and deposited it in the dishwasher. He took his newspaper and left the house, calling over his shoulder “I’ll be back by 10!”

 

At this time of night, the streets were mostly quiet, and he had a peaceful drive downtown. He parked the car without bothering to put money in the meter, remembering his special plate and knowing no policeman would walk into FBI territory, where the most junior man outranked even a lieutenant. And every man in the FBI offices of Ann Arbor knew he drove a blue BMW.

 

He navigated the winding hallways to the doctor’s office at the far end of the building. Knocking on the door softly, he entered the office, where the doctor came out immediately and welcomed him into the examination room. Richard submitted to a brief examination and waited to receive the results.

     “Of course, the FBI stay in top physical condition, and are regularly checked for diseases and injuries. You’re in superb condition for a man your age, but I would still recommend getting vaccinations. Better safe than sorry.”

     “Certainly, whatever you think.”

Richard rolled up his sleeve and received two jabs in return.

Noticing the time, he stood up.

     “Goodbye, John.”

The doctor beamed. “Look after yourself, won’t you?”

     “I will,” Richard said, exiting the room.

 

He drove home and went to bed. The remaining hours he had passed in a blur, and before he knew it he stood in the hall of his home, clutching a suitcase.

 

     “Goodbye, sweetheart.”

     “Dear- I just-” Allison broke up and stood anxiously. Trying to cover up the silence, she picked up Jacob and held him tight. As Richard hung his jacket in the closet, knowing it would be unnecessary in Peru, Allison set down Jacob.

Richard leaned in and kissed his wife before bending down and picking up Jacob. He kissed him gently on the forehead and set him down. He nodded curtly and picked up his suitcase, opening the door before closing it behind him.

 

The taxi he’d called was idling in the driveway, and Richard strode down the steps, clambering awkwardly into the cramped backseat of the tiny Corolla.

     “Air Force ROTC Det 390, right?” asked the driver.

Richard nodded and the driver shifted gear, rolling down the bumpy brick drive.

 

They arrived at the base and Richard paid the driver, grabbing the suitcase and heading to greet the pilot who stood waiting for him.

     “You’ve got a room here overnight and then your copter is leaving bright and early tomorrow.”

     “Sounds good,” Richard said.

The young pilot started walking and Richard followed him, blinking in the bright lights that lined the runways.

 

They arrived at a small, cramped room.

     “There’s a bathroom down the hall. Let me know if I can do anything for you, all right?” Richard ushered the pilot out gracefully, and sat alone in relief on the cot. He flipped on the desk lamp which perched on the nightstand and turned out the overhead light. The lamp’s dim glow flicked, and Richard resigned himself to a miserable night. Fishing a novel about Peruvian natives out of his suitcase, he began to read, looking up only to check the time. At 11 o’clock, he closed the book and turned out the light.

 

Morning came fast and Richard was woken by the same man who’d shown him to the room last night.

     “It’s 5:56,” he said.

Richard clambered out of bed and pulled on a sweater.

     “Do you happen to know the way to the runway?”

The young man grinned. “Sure do,” he said. “As a matter of fact, I’m piloting your copter. So look smart.”

Richard shrugged, not caring either way, and they went back to the main runway where he’d arrived the night before. Besides the runway was a large bunker and a helipad, and the pilot lead him to a dark green helicopter. They both climbed on, the pilot sitting in the cockpit while Richard was left to make room for himself among the boxes filling the rear of the copter.

 

They rose into the air a few minutes later, and Richard stared dully at the labeling of the boxes until he drifted off. The helicopter landed a few hours later, and Richard was jerked awake by the heavy winds blowing across the helipad and making the helicopter swing around before setting down on the tarmac.

 

A customs official came for Richard, and he was led to a Jeep by the side of the runway. The security hut allowed them to leave the base, and they drove down a bumpy road for about half an hour before parking outside a dusty, muddy hotel.

The man took him to the desk, and a whispered, hushed conversation occurred between the clerk and the customs official before the clerk led Richard to a staircase. The official handed him a locked box at the bottom of the staircase, and Richard knew that it contained two guns and several clips of ammunition.

     “You know the code, and the Jeep’s for you,” he said, leaving the hotel as the clerk and Richard mounted the staircase.

 

After the clerk left him alone in his room, Richard spun the lock on the case and looked up to see a cockroach disappearing beneath the door.

He recoiled in disgust before returning his attention to the case, which clicked open and revealed the promised firearms. He loaded one of the guns and tucked it into a holster beneath his sweater before exiting the hotel.

He sat in the Jeep, rotating a map of the area in confusion for a few minutes, before he set off on a narrow road disappearing into the jungle.

Richard’s heart beat at nearly twice the normal rate throughout the drive to the temple. He parked the car where the road ended and trekked through the jungle for a mile, consulting a compass, before he arrived at a clearing.

In the center of the clearing sat the temple. Richard knew little about ancient history, but he could tell it had once been a thing of beauty. It was covered with gold designs, which showed the age of the temple clearly.

Richard approached the temple warily, looking around and absorbing every detail. He reached the temple and went around the right side, where he found a narrow passage leading into the heart of the temple. He entered it after a moment’s consideration and slowly walked towards a turn in the passage.

Suddenly, he stopped and felt inside his sweater. He pulled out the gun and clicked off the safety latch, aiming in front of him.

Only after he was positive of his ability to shoot anything or anyone that attacked him did he continue moving through the passage. He rounded the corner, feeling for a flashlight in the darkness of the bend.

 

Suddenly, the gun was pulled out of his hands, and a bullet slammed into the wall of the passage. He was hit over the head with something and collapsed on the ground, feeling himself being lifted and carried back the way he’d come before darkness overtook him and he lost consciousness.

 

                                                                           RECIPE FOR KINDNESS

There I was watching TV getting up to the sound of our door bell. I always know when our door bell rings instantaneously because of its instrumental musical sound. I sprinted down, turned off our electronic security system, unlocked the door and opened it. As soon as I opened the door my dad came rushing over. I saw a pale man along with who seemed like his son. The man had a small bushy beard, Pinocchio shaped nose but much smaller of course, and he looked like he was approximately in his mid-forties. The young boy looked like about my age and he was moderately tall with a pleasant smile on his face. They both struck me as being of Mexican descent. Curiously, I wondered who these people were. Right away my dad asked them to come in. They introduced themselves. As they walked in, I could not help but notice their worn out shoes and what looked like frequently worn clothes.

When they took their shoes off and sat down, my dad started discussing what he needed done in our garden. Then it hit me that those people were here for gardening. Although I knew our garden is in a messy unkempt state, I had no clue that gardeners would be coming to fix it at this time. In the garden, there were dead flowers everywhere with shards of pine trees on top of the already rotten mulch. To add to that, there were weeds causing rather large cracks on our driveway due to weathering. When we moved in to this new home about a year ago, my sister and I had asked if we could have landscaping done to the shabby garden.

I remember my parents saying “We will do it eventually. We just bought the house, let us first settle in and then think about the garden”. From then on I have been waiting for the day that our garden would be one of the greener and more vibrant gardens with abundant colorful flowers, beautiful maple trees and a mini vegetable plot. When the adult gardener and my dad finished discussing inside for what seemed like an hour, both the gardener and the young boy went around the house to inspect the condition of the garden. Afterwards, they suggested to my dad on what needed to be done and he whole heartedly agreed with most of their ideas.  The gardener seemed to be confident and experienced in his line of work. He along with the boy he was with went back outside to their truck. As they began to unload their vehicle, I saw just how bone breaking lifting a few heavy tools was. They were starting to dig out the old rotten mulch.

They began to load all of that old soil into a wheel barrow which they unloaded onto their truck. My dad asked me to go outside and watch what they were doing so I could learn. My guess was they would eventually dispose of the mulch and soil using proper state regulations.

As the young boy was walking towards the truck, I politely asked him, “What is your name?”

He calmly replied, “I’m Juan.”

        I asked him, “What grade are you in?”

He replied, “6^th grade.”  From seeing the look on his face, it made me think Juan liked school better than what he was doing now at our house.

Then I said jubilantly, “Me too. I’m also in 6^th grade.”

Gleefully, he said, “That’s very interesting. Although I like school, math homework is very challenging for me.”

My first reaction was that I should help him because I am doing advanced math and math happens to be my favorite subject. I told him “Maybe tomorrow you can bring your math homework along with you and I will try to assist you.” That short assurance made him smile as wide as he could. He then said, “Ok thanks. I will.” He then went back to his work diligently. They finished up their work for the day and took off.

As I was going to bed that night, I felt pitiful for him because he would go to school in the morning and then in the evening come help his dad do his job. But at the same time, I felt that I was becoming his close friend. The next morning when I woke up his dad was already working with some other helpers. I assumed this was because Juan could not come as he was about to attend school.

They started cutting out weeds and putting them into a machine that fills up a bag of miscellaneous objects to be trashed. Because it was a rather warm spring day, they were trying to get as much work done before it would start raining. I had to get ready and go on my school bus. After coming back from school I was hoping to relax by lying down and watching TV. However, all the shrieking sounds of wheelbarrows, shovels and metal tools kept distracting me from doing anything fun. As I looked out of the window I saw another car pulling into our driveway. It gave me the impression from a distance like someone was driving Juan here. I was right and upon seeing me, he waved at me and I waved back!

I invited him inside to do his homework but he politely declined for he wanted to first help his dad and then do his math. As I saw him begin the tedious job of shoveling out old mulch, I could not believe that he was doing such an arduous job at such a young age right after school.  And I felt ashamed that I was complaining about the garden noise being hard to deal with. After a couple more hours of strenuous work, my dad invited all of them in for a meal. We served them rice which I thought was a wise choice considering their Mexican heritage. Along with the rice, we also gave them yogurt and green beans. After they finished their meal, I thought they were all energetic to work again!  They all went back outside to recommence their work. Juan however stayed in and he requested me if he could now do his homework with me. I respectfully agreed and we started on the first part which was based on fractions. He worked on multiplication and division of fractions with my support and that boosted his confidence.

After we were done, I took him up to my game room and we played many games on my Xbox One. He faced some obstacles in controlling but it was a lot of fun. I then showed him my room. He remarked that his room was smaller than mine and he had to share it with two of his siblings. For the next two days we had this routine where he would work and then do homework and finally play Xbox. Eventually, the work was done and our garden was looking brand new with fresh flowers and brand new red mulch. While they were leaving, Juan asked me to come to his house someday so we could hang out. Although he seemed shy and timid to ask, I readily accepted.

The next weekend, I had my parents drop me over at Juan’s house. As I was pulling up to his house, it looked rather like a mid-century ranch style home. The outside had brick walls that were in relatively poor condition. From the outside, it looked like a small house for the size of his family. His garden was particularly small but very well maintained. As I walked up to his house, his family opened the door and welcomed me. Even though the house had some nice finishes, it was still cramped and I felt claustrophobic.

When he showed me his room, it was just like how he had described - just enough to fit two small beds and a desk with very little closet space. We spent some time talking and playing soccer outside. His mom called us in for dinner and she served tortillas with bean and rice along with some vegetables from their own garden. I willingly ate the authentic Mexican food hot on the plate which I was so graciously provided. As night was soon upon us, my parents came and picked me up. Juan’s family was happy and my family and I were very thankful to them for being such marvelous hosts.

               That night, the truth struck me like a bolt of lightening. Juan’s family may be poor but they are very kind hearted. Because of that visit I realized that everyone deserves to be given equal opportunities to prosper despite their living conditions. I did not count differences between our two families out of pride or arrogance but felt rather sorrowful and heavy hearted for how his family had to live on a day to day basis. I found that visit to his house to be an eye opener that would help me in my future endeavors.

 

 

 

 

 

It was 1998 and one of the biggest nights for the Tigers at Versailles Missouri High School. The Tigers were playing against the Eldon Mustangs. The Tigers won -20 to 3, they were so happy. The star Quarterback Drake Willis,and his girlfriend Jessica Smith, she is the caption of the cheerleading squad. They had decided to have an after party for the whole team and friends. Jessica and Drake we having a good time, until the Mustang team came along all of the football players got really upset. Drake stepped up to the mustangs caption and said “ What are you do here”. They were ready for anything the Mustangs had for them. The Mustangs said “ you guys played really good and is one of the toughest team we have ever played”. Everyone was really shocked they thought there was going to be a big fight. The mustangs had decided to stick around for the party. Jessica’s friend Kelly got really sick that night and needed to find the bathroom.Everyone said you don’t look so good kelly. She said “i know I think i’m going to be sick, I need to find Jessica”. She was able to find Jessica and on their way to the bathroom they heard something. They would of stoped and looked what it was but Kelly was sick. They never thought about this but the house they were in, there use to been a old couple that lived there. Of course the couple had died but still. They had found the bathroom and Jessica had decided to stay outside since the lock did not work. Jessica kept asking Kelly if she was okay. then Jessica said i am going to go down stairs and get something. Kelly had been in the bathroom for about thirty minutes, and Jessica had still not come back. Kelly started to feel better and came outside of the bathroom. she went down stairs to see if she could find Jessica. Kelly went to see if she was with Drake. She asked Drake if he had seen her but he said no. She also asked him where the mustangs went?She had had her eye on number twenty three. He said she might be in the kitchen she kept talking about how hunger she was,and the mustangs had left about 30 minutes ago. Kelly said that is the time Jessica had went down stairs to get something. So Kelly went in the the kitchen but Jessica was not there,  her phone was also gone. Kelly went running to Drake. She’s not there and here phone is gone to Kelly said. Drake got really nervous. He gathered everyone up that was at the party. He said “ excuse me everyone has anyone seen Jessica.” They all looked around at each other and shook their heads no. They decided to get a search party ready for if she did not come back in 5 minutes. Someone found Jessica’s car keys. That is what caught Drake”s attention. “ She always has her keys” Drake said. Five minutes had passed and Drake was really worried. He said  “I told her parents i would have her home buy 12:00”, Drake said. Drake finally gave the signal to move out and start searching. They all had their phones with them so if they found her. They also had fully charged flashlight. Thirty minutes went by and still no sign of her. Drake was really getting worried now. He had finally said “I think we need to call the cops”. One of Drake’s friends Cooper said he would call the cops also before the mustangs left they said that they needed to tell Jessica something so I told them she was in the kitchen. After Cooper got off the phone with the cops they said they would be there in thirty minutes. Everyone started to look in every room. One bot found Jessica’s jacket that she might of left. Another boy found Jessica’s phone case. One boy found a keychain with a mustang sigh then it was pretty obvious what had happened.  They even tried calling Jessica’s phone but she would not answer it would go straight to her voicemail every time. Drake thought that was weird because she would always answer her phone. The cop had finally got there and when they did they had asked Drake and Kelly when they had seen Jessica they had both said the same thing “One hour ago When the Mustangs went home.”They also asked them if they had tried to call her phone. They had said yes we tried before you guys got here and she would not answer her phone. Drake had also said that they had found her jacket and phone case. Since they Mustangs went home the same time Jessica went missing,They had finally decided to go visit the Mustangs. When they had went to number seventeen’s house his mother answered the door. They had asked her if she knows where jeffrey her son was. She said the last place so knows where he would be is at the school’s gym having a party. So when they left  the house they went straight to the gym and they found the boys and they were having a party . Guess who they had with them, They had Jessica. They did not hurt Jessica they had a snack table for her and everything she was partying to. When they saw Jessica like that they knew that it was just a joke so they decided that they were going to get them back. Then all of a sudden the cops started rushing into the gym. They were all yelling “ put your hands up”. All of the football player got all frantic and shit those hands up. One player  started to cry. The cops start to yell “ you are under arrest for kidnapping”. one of the players started talking in spanish because he wanted his mom. Another player started saying “ i want my mommy”.  Then Drake comes out laughing  and takes a picture of all of the sacred football player. Then all the cops start to laugh at the players. All of a sudden all the player’s phones start to go off.  There was the picture of the sacred player, they were so embarrassed. At the end of the night all of the night both of the teams decided that they would have one big party. everyone was dancing and having a good time at the party.Jessica and  Drake was able to see each other and have a couple of slow dances . Kelly was and to meet her number twenty three. they were having a good time until they ran out of snack and had nothing to eat. So Kelly and Jessica went to go get some more out of the cafeteria and everyone was happy.Drake was able to get Jessica back to her house on time but, her dad did not say which twelve o'clock he had to have her back by. Jessica  got home at twelve o’clock in the afternoon. After everything that night everyone decided to not talk about the party nor the when Jessica got kidnapped. Everyone ended up forgetting about the the whole party, and everyone stayed friends including the Mustangs.